Today was a mud-soaked hell that I honestly wasn't sure I'd survive.
No posting for me tonight. I need a beer, and to stop thinking about runaway bulldozers.
EDIT : And for this job to be over. That'd be nice...
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Loker jogged forward, the aventail of his war helm jingling against his mail and leather tunic. His breath steamed and when they turned toward the road that lead to the healing house, he could see the black smoke. It billowed up, growing quickly and soon the orange glow of flame could be seen.
“Fire!” he shouted, “Move now!”
They ran forward, shields held up, weapons banging against legs and their breath held as they rounded the corner. There before them the healing house was engulfed in flames. In front there was a mass of warriors around a familiar stocky figure. Beyond them he could see Hallerna, her lovely face flushed from the heat and anger. His storm blue eyes caught sight of the pale seidrmadr tending the monk, then turning on Harald, Haakon beaten and held at knife point and the rest of the people unarmed and standing aside, confused and afraid.
He and Ragnar lead their men up, organized in a line to face Harald’s men. The numbers were still in his favor but not by much. Loker trusted his guards, they were mostly seasoned veterans, retired from raiding and used to facing armed men during the times of unrest or if someone dared tried to raid the stronghold. He also had many young men who volunteered, they were green and stayed at the back with long spears and shields. They would come forward if needed but Loker hoped to do things peacefully.
He stepped out front and glanced toward Ragnar. Now was the time for Loker to make his move and show his allegiance. Word would be out soon enough that the Jarl was proved to be dead and the sight of Harald, the burning healing house and the frightened people was enough to push his hand. The housekarl stood aside, giving the thegn the position of leadership over him and his men.
Ragnar walked slowly to the front of the group, radiating confidence and authority. With his fine clothes and neat braids, he looked every bit the politician; the gleaming length of steel he now drew, the rings adorning his arms, and the hard set of his eyes clearly bespoke his warrior nature. Statesman and warrior; the voice of reason in peace and the voice of authority in the shield wall; this was a Thegn. Ragnar Ragnarsson embodied both in the flickering flames of the burning hall.
“Form up,” he growled. He spoke softly, but his words carried over the hungry crackle of the blaze behind him. With a thunder of wood and iron, the shields behind him slammed together, forming a nigh-impenetrable wall of shields and weapons. Grim, helmed faces peered over iron-ringed shield rims, a forest of shining blades held at the ready, as the veteran soldiers bunched together in preparation for battle. Ragnar moved forward, his shield held casually in his left hand, Hausstaka gripped loosely in his right; the Thegn gestured with the blade towards the man pinning Haakon, his eyes never leaving Harald.
“Boy, unless you want your head to grace my hearth, I’d suggest you release him. He’s a real warrior, sworn to and under the protection of a true Thegn. Otherwise, I’ll be taking compensation in your blood.”
The man looked from the hulking thrall to the ferocious warrior and decided the odds were too great; cursing, he sheathed his seax and stood, backing slowly towards his own group, and allowing a dazed and bloodied Haakon to climb slowly to his feet.
Ragnar waited until his loyal warrior had recovered his footing, then watched with solemn pride as Haakon spat blood, retrieved his sword and shield, and stumbled past Vigi, Svala, and the others.
Haakon nodded once to his leader as he passed, then tapped his sword against the rim of Ivarr’s shield. The younger man chuckled and moved aside slightly, allowing Haakon to slide into the gap and slam his shield viciously into place in the wall, a ferocious smile peeking through the mask of blood on his face as he locked eyes with the man who only moments before had held a knife to his throat.
“You could probably sit this one out, Haakon,” Ivarr said quietly, nudging his comrade with his elbow. “You’re not in any condition to fight.”
Haakon laughed, his eyes dancing with the prospect of vengeance. “All men die, Ivarr,” he said calmly, ignoring the pounding in his head and the flaring pain from his broken nose. “Ragnar needs me, so here I am.”
The battered raider shrugged, spitting another string of bloody phlegm into the snow. “Besides, it’s been a good day. Why not end it in the arms of a Valkyrie?”
“Fire!” he shouted, “Move now!”
They ran forward, shields held up, weapons banging against legs and their breath held as they rounded the corner. There before them the healing house was engulfed in flames. In front there was a mass of warriors around a familiar stocky figure. Beyond them he could see Hallerna, her lovely face flushed from the heat and anger. His storm blue eyes caught sight of the pale seidrmadr tending the monk, then turning on Harald, Haakon beaten and held at knife point and the rest of the people unarmed and standing aside, confused and afraid.
He and Ragnar lead their men up, organized in a line to face Harald’s men. The numbers were still in his favor but not by much. Loker trusted his guards, they were mostly seasoned veterans, retired from raiding and used to facing armed men during the times of unrest or if someone dared tried to raid the stronghold. He also had many young men who volunteered, they were green and stayed at the back with long spears and shields. They would come forward if needed but Loker hoped to do things peacefully.
He stepped out front and glanced toward Ragnar. Now was the time for Loker to make his move and show his allegiance. Word would be out soon enough that the Jarl was proved to be dead and the sight of Harald, the burning healing house and the frightened people was enough to push his hand. The housekarl stood aside, giving the thegn the position of leadership over him and his men.
Ragnar walked slowly to the front of the group, radiating confidence and authority. With his fine clothes and neat braids, he looked every bit the politician; the gleaming length of steel he now drew, the rings adorning his arms, and the hard set of his eyes clearly bespoke his warrior nature. Statesman and warrior; the voice of reason in peace and the voice of authority in the shield wall; this was a Thegn. Ragnar Ragnarsson embodied both in the flickering flames of the burning hall.
“Form up,” he growled. He spoke softly, but his words carried over the hungry crackle of the blaze behind him. With a thunder of wood and iron, the shields behind him slammed together, forming a nigh-impenetrable wall of shields and weapons. Grim, helmed faces peered over iron-ringed shield rims, a forest of shining blades held at the ready, as the veteran soldiers bunched together in preparation for battle. Ragnar moved forward, his shield held casually in his left hand, Hausstaka gripped loosely in his right; the Thegn gestured with the blade towards the man pinning Haakon, his eyes never leaving Harald.
“Boy, unless you want your head to grace my hearth, I’d suggest you release him. He’s a real warrior, sworn to and under the protection of a true Thegn. Otherwise, I’ll be taking compensation in your blood.”
The man looked from the hulking thrall to the ferocious warrior and decided the odds were too great; cursing, he sheathed his seax and stood, backing slowly towards his own group, and allowing a dazed and bloodied Haakon to climb slowly to his feet.
Ragnar waited until his loyal warrior had recovered his footing, then watched with solemn pride as Haakon spat blood, retrieved his sword and shield, and stumbled past Vigi, Svala, and the others.
Haakon nodded once to his leader as he passed, then tapped his sword against the rim of Ivarr’s shield. The younger man chuckled and moved aside slightly, allowing Haakon to slide into the gap and slam his shield viciously into place in the wall, a ferocious smile peeking through the mask of blood on his face as he locked eyes with the man who only moments before had held a knife to his throat.
“You could probably sit this one out, Haakon,” Ivarr said quietly, nudging his comrade with his elbow. “You’re not in any condition to fight.”
Haakon laughed, his eyes dancing with the prospect of vengeance. “All men die, Ivarr,” he said calmly, ignoring the pounding in his head and the flaring pain from his broken nose. “Ragnar needs me, so here I am.”
The battered raider shrugged, spitting another string of bloody phlegm into the snow. “Besides, it’s been a good day. Why not end it in the arms of a Valkyrie?”
Nice post guys. I can dig it.
Strangely many? There are two. And there are only three of us total. Also, the Delirium bit was settled, Fallen Muse already ruled on that.
“Runnin’ my rig around ninety-five...Rockin’-and-a-rollin’ in overdrive…”
The driving guitar of George Thorogood and the Destroyers pounded from the battered speakers of David’s F250, competing with the roar of the diesel engine to shatter the midnight silence as he put the pedal to the floor, grinning as the needle climbed past 90. He’d been driving for a few days now, stopping along the road to sleep whenever fatigue overtook him, and was now tearing up the highway outside Williamsport, Pennsylvania, bound for Haverton, Massachusetts.
The hunting had been good out in Washington, but a week before he’d received an email from an old Massachusetts contact by the name of Robert Chandler, and what he’d read had worried him. After wrapping up business in Spokane, David had packed his gear, changed his plates, and hit the road.
The Militiaman-turned-Hunter fired up his phone, opening his email to read the message again.
"Mr. Connally,
I don't know if you remember me at all, but you did some freelance work for my friends a while back up here in Massachusetts? Things have gotten pretty Bad up here lately, and I could use the help; truth be told, my sponsors are kind of insisting. I'm pretty Forlorn. Hope to get as many folks up here as I can, things are that bad, but I'm starting to doubt too many will show given the state of the rest of the world. If you can make up here, let me know and I'll send you my address in Haverton. If not, or if you're already Dead, well then don't worry about it.
- Robert Chandler
Mundus vult decipi."
David turned the email over in his mind, thoughts drifting back to the “freelance work” mentioned in the message.The more he thought about it, the more he seemed to remember who he was dealing with; a bookworm type who’d stayed mostly in the background, compiling intelligence for the rest of the group he’d been assisting at the time. He’d departed without leaving his contact information, so the fact that the guy had managed to track him down spoke volumes about his research skills all by itself. David Connally wasn’t an easy man to find, and he liked it that way.
Could be a trap, he thought to himself, then shrugged and dismissed the idea. Chances were slim that a bunch of Vampires would bother sending an email and inviting him out for a beer. If they knew where he was, he’d be dead already.
As the song ended, David reached into the cooler in the passenger seat and fished around for a moment, groping through the ice until his fingers wrapped around cold metal. He popped the tab on another can of Coors Original and took a long swig, his blue eyes narrow as he pondered what he could be driving into. After another sip he stuck the can in the cup holder and tapped out a quick reply to Chandler with one hand.
Robert,
David here. On my way, 5 hours out. C u soon.
Foghat’s “Slow Ride” fired up on the iPod plugged into the stereo system, and the Arkansas native grinned again and edged the accelerator up to 100, the rumble of the diesel engine bellowing his presence into the night.
Better make that three hours…
The driving guitar of George Thorogood and the Destroyers pounded from the battered speakers of David’s F250, competing with the roar of the diesel engine to shatter the midnight silence as he put the pedal to the floor, grinning as the needle climbed past 90. He’d been driving for a few days now, stopping along the road to sleep whenever fatigue overtook him, and was now tearing up the highway outside Williamsport, Pennsylvania, bound for Haverton, Massachusetts.
The hunting had been good out in Washington, but a week before he’d received an email from an old Massachusetts contact by the name of Robert Chandler, and what he’d read had worried him. After wrapping up business in Spokane, David had packed his gear, changed his plates, and hit the road.
The Militiaman-turned-Hunter fired up his phone, opening his email to read the message again.
"Mr. Connally,
I don't know if you remember me at all, but you did some freelance work for my friends a while back up here in Massachusetts? Things have gotten pretty Bad up here lately, and I could use the help; truth be told, my sponsors are kind of insisting. I'm pretty Forlorn. Hope to get as many folks up here as I can, things are that bad, but I'm starting to doubt too many will show given the state of the rest of the world. If you can make up here, let me know and I'll send you my address in Haverton. If not, or if you're already Dead, well then don't worry about it.
- Robert Chandler
Mundus vult decipi."
David turned the email over in his mind, thoughts drifting back to the “freelance work” mentioned in the message.The more he thought about it, the more he seemed to remember who he was dealing with; a bookworm type who’d stayed mostly in the background, compiling intelligence for the rest of the group he’d been assisting at the time. He’d departed without leaving his contact information, so the fact that the guy had managed to track him down spoke volumes about his research skills all by itself. David Connally wasn’t an easy man to find, and he liked it that way.
Could be a trap, he thought to himself, then shrugged and dismissed the idea. Chances were slim that a bunch of Vampires would bother sending an email and inviting him out for a beer. If they knew where he was, he’d be dead already.
As the song ended, David reached into the cooler in the passenger seat and fished around for a moment, groping through the ice until his fingers wrapped around cold metal. He popped the tab on another can of Coors Original and took a long swig, his blue eyes narrow as he pondered what he could be driving into. After another sip he stuck the can in the cup holder and tapped out a quick reply to Chandler with one hand.
Robert,
David here. On my way, 5 hours out. C u soon.
Foghat’s “Slow Ride” fired up on the iPod plugged into the stereo system, and the Arkansas native grinned again and edged the accelerator up to 100, the rumble of the diesel engine bellowing his presence into the night.
Better make that three hours…
Agreed. On both counts. Expect my first post shortly... I don't anticipate much action for a bit, but I plan to open things up for interaction between at least my character and Justric's.
--------------------- I hit the wrong button. Ignore this.
These are not the droids you are looking for.
These are not the droids you are looking for.
Truth. Group play is happening. I can get down with this.thanks Muse.
That's all well and good, but it still really impacts our character's effectiveness in the story as a whole. Garou pay a major role, and we can't interact if we're having to go fetal every time someone shifts into Crinos form.
I understand how this works in regards to average Joes, but I think it's something Fallen Muse needs to make a judgement call on. It really limits those of us playing Hunter characters.
After all, these are people who know full well that werewolves exist, and it creates a major unfair situation if we have to curl up and scream every tinge a Crinos arrives on the scene. It also makes no sense that an experienced Hunter would try and "rationalize" a werewolf sighting.
It may work within the context of the original game, but I think it really messes things up for a written roleplay.
After all, these are people who know full well that werewolves exist, and it creates a major unfair situation if we have to curl up and scream every tinge a Crinos arrives on the scene. It also makes no sense that an experienced Hunter would try and "rationalize" a werewolf sighting.
It may work within the context of the original game, but I think it really messes things up for a written roleplay.
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