Berserker Captain and the Bandit Playa Haters
The berserker's blood boiled in his veins as crazed eyes glared at his target, living only to skin the whore alive before violating her family and loved ones in an orgy of death and pain. Teeth gnashed against the open air, biting and snapping as clear fluid splattered forward as the frothing visage of terror howled for gore and agony. The muscles of the hefty man rolled and clenched with the shaking fury that possessed his hulking frame as the guillotine of his axe was raised again for another, earthsplitting strike.
It impacted with as much brutal force as the mountain-bound killer could muster, sliding off the shield a burst of sparks, even as the rest of the man pushed forward and dove for Alice's free hand, using the lack of space to his advantage as he prepared to simply crush the woman under his girth to incapacitate her so that he and his men could kill her at their leisure later.
Faris
Faris flinched backwards as Barst rounded the corner, raising her still healthy left arm in a defensive gesture against the surprise attack that she thought was coming. After a moment of awkward silence, the mercenary relaxed when she realized who called out to her.
"Godsdammit, Barst, I thought you were a bandit."
From where the pegasus archer was standing, an observant eye could discern the bruising that already forming around her misshapen arm and her slender neck. She shuddered, nearly loosing her grip on the blade as the scarlet liquid that used to be inside the now very dead bandit's head trickled down her hand and face, remnants from the brutal beating that had transpired moments prior. Blearily, the mercenary blinked away the sticky blood that was now trickling from her hairline before continuing in a raspy voice.
"I was tracking a group of five or so. I ambushed the couple of the stragglers, didn't turn out so well." She shrugged her broken arm, wincing at the maneuver and grunting in pain. "As ya can tell. I think that the re-"
Faris' voice vanished as her hooded eyes suddenly shot open, mouthing a curse as glimmering light enveloped the mercenary. A sickening crack emanated through the alleyway as her injured twisted violently, the bulging bone vanishing back into place as the bruising around her neck and arm faded back into the pale flesh that covered the rest of the young Carthul's body.
"Urgh."
The mercenary shuddered, the disturbing feeling of the magical aftermath rushing through her body as she shot a glare around, staring at the walls and floor of the blood-soaked alley suspiciously.
A full minute passed before she continued, speaking excruciatingly slowly as she tested her fully healed arm by hefting the gore-splattered iron blade.
"...I think that the rest continued down the alleyway, and over to the-"
Faris pointed just as a horrible scream rent the air, obvious sounds of the bandits falling to the newest additions to the band of mercenaries.
Duraid
His breath came hard and fast as he ploughed into the surrounding bandits, being held from the berserking captain by a veritable tide of axe-wielding flesh. Hissing a curse against the breeding habits of the mountain folk, he began to smash the steel head of the axe into any bit of exposed flesh that he could, his wicked grimace hidden by the metallic visor of his helmet.
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I'll also post sometime tomorrow for at least the Berseker and his Merry Bandits.
In
Karstberg, City of Adventure: Freeform Fantasy City RP Interest Check and Signups
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Well, since it says that it's always accepting, I might as well try my hand here with Fred.
Name: Fred (Formerly Dreadlich Kar'Reic, Master of the Dead Land and Devourer of Souls, The High King of the Undying Horde)
Age: 1035 years exactly.
Gender: Probably Male. Probably.
Race: Human (Lich)
Appearance: A perfectly preserved human skeleton of about six foot even, with a wonderfully white polish to his bones and all his teeth set in place. He wears an aging floral nightie and a gloriously long nightcap that constantly slips off his polished bone noggin. He keeps his old skin around, to slip into when visitors come knocking.
Profession: Current owner of the Happy Hills Retirement Home, and professional retiree.
Personality: A jovial old chap with a forgetful streak.
Equipment/Weapons: His phylactery is(At least, what he thinks is his phylactery) a very old, unadorned ring made up of some blackish metal that he wears around his finger.
Abilities: None that he's aware of, save being a lich.
Brief Backstory: Originally, the Dreadlich Kar'Reic, Master of the Dead Land and Devourer of Souls, High King of the Undying Horde was a very, very bad man. He was a clearly evil man, swarmed in power and spite, that brought only ruination and death to his people and the land that lay around him.
Then he went senile. As it turns out, over a thousand years of aging, even as an undying mage of unfathomable power, robs even the great and terrible Dreadlich Kar'Reic, Master of the Dead Land and Devourer of Souls, High King of the Undying Horde of his great and terrible knowledge. He's been loosing his memories for the past seven hundred years, and is now uncertain at what point in time he acquired the hundred room retirement home that makes up what's left of his great domain, along with the gold that he's been paying in taxes(Or that he was once a terror that brought fear and fire to all the small scum). Fred's the only occupant of the several thousand foot villa, and has been instead content tending to his zen gardens and carefully pruning his carpeting(grass).
Name: Fred (Formerly Dreadlich Kar'Reic, Master of the Dead Land and Devourer of Souls, The High King of the Undying Horde)
Age: 1035 years exactly.
Gender: Probably Male. Probably.
Race: Human (Lich)
Appearance: A perfectly preserved human skeleton of about six foot even, with a wonderfully white polish to his bones and all his teeth set in place. He wears an aging floral nightie and a gloriously long nightcap that constantly slips off his polished bone noggin. He keeps his old skin around, to slip into when visitors come knocking.
Profession: Current owner of the Happy Hills Retirement Home, and professional retiree.
Personality: A jovial old chap with a forgetful streak.
Equipment/Weapons: His phylactery is(At least, what he thinks is his phylactery) a very old, unadorned ring made up of some blackish metal that he wears around his finger.
Abilities: None that he's aware of, save being a lich.
Brief Backstory: Originally, the Dreadlich Kar'Reic, Master of the Dead Land and Devourer of Souls, High King of the Undying Horde was a very, very bad man. He was a clearly evil man, swarmed in power and spite, that brought only ruination and death to his people and the land that lay around him.
Then he went senile. As it turns out, over a thousand years of aging, even as an undying mage of unfathomable power, robs even the great and terrible Dreadlich Kar'Reic, Master of the Dead Land and Devourer of Souls, High King of the Undying Horde of his great and terrible knowledge. He's been loosing his memories for the past seven hundred years, and is now uncertain at what point in time he acquired the hundred room retirement home that makes up what's left of his great domain, along with the gold that he's been paying in taxes(Or that he was once a terror that brought fear and fire to all the small scum). Fred's the only occupant of the several thousand foot villa, and has been instead content tending to his zen gardens and carefully pruning his carpeting(grass).
Nope, the new king still flies the flag of Vinensia, so it's unchanged.
They're an elite force to a formerly purely defensive nation, so I doubt they'd be well known as an army unless they were fought directly.
MULTI_MEDIA_MAN said
Well, you didn't actually fix it, and you complained about a mistake YOU made. There's two reasons.
Double did actually did fix it, a while ago now. Dragging this on would be pointless, as the moment's already passed.
Double said
And I did the same, yet I'm still being harped on for it. Why?
MMM's right on the money with the complaining about a mistake you made. However, this is no reason to harp on you after fixing it.
Now then, let's all settle down.
Well, that's because this is OOC and Hark had just burst out of his villa in said armor.
Double said
The fighting got ... But before he did that, Kristoph made one more observation. From within the mercenary camp, a man emerged and began giving orders to the others. This, Kristoph presumed, had to be the leader of this town's defense. What he didn't understand was why the man was wearing Vinsenian colors... camp, "but that's not all, I caught a glimpse of the mercenary leader. He's a Vinsenian.""But that makes no sense! Why would the Vinsenian's attack a town defended by one of their own?" asked Simon, now thoroughly confused."I don't know," said Kristoph, "but I intend to find out."
But.... Duraid's not Vinsenian. At all. He doesn't even fit the stereotypical role of one, save being an archer and a big dude.
Faris
Faris, if nothing else, was a creature of opportunity.
For the young mercenary, the screams of fallen and dying bandits served as an alert, of sorts, to show where the now crippled bandits would be struggling and clinging onto life. While a rather obvious observation, the deviously-minded woman took that easy conjuncture a tiny bit further. If there were injured bandits, then there'd be non-injured bandits who helped said injured bandits up, probably when they've put down their weapons.
A smile placed itself upon her face as she heard the rebounding sound of an explosion that rocked the area, blasting away the screams of the ones caught inside. She caught glimpses of fighting as she paced closer to the sound, witnessing the fight between one of the new men and eight of the hulking bandits, whistling softly to herself as he took out two with ease, before watching the other one get in a wicked blow with his swordreaver. That had to hurt. The rest closed in, and followed the man down an alley that already looked like the fire and blood had spent time in it.
Following closely, the mercenary turned into the alley as the first three men vacated it, one barking orders about staying put to the duo that left behind.
Faris' slight smile of pleasure grew into a sickeningly sadistic grin as the prey she had stumbled upon appeared to be distracted with something else entirely(Perhaps the remains of his comrade, splattered all over the walls and ground). Additionally, the gore-soaked alley was narrow enough to make swinging an axe difficult,
She allowed herself a giggle at the perfection of it all, before taking a mighty, two-handed, overhead swing at the closest bandit's skull.
Two unexpected things happened(For Faris, it was a rather disorienting feeling of deja vu) very, very quickly.
First, the man she targeted started to speak. The resulting crunch and immediate termination of his words caused his sole partner to spin around, eyes widening at the graphic image as the crushing sword tore the unsuspecting man's head in two.
Secondly, the jarring impact of blade on bone sent a shockwave rippling down her arm.
Her injured arm. The arm that she'd already fractured, and that shock had been keeping numb for her.
A bright flower of pain erupted in her forearm, tearing a breath from the now regretful young woman who's fingers slipped off the thickly-bound handle of her heavy metal blade. Her eyes crossed as she staggered back, barely noticing that her prey had fallen and that the second target was now charging her.
Moments later, a second burst of pain clouded her vision as the still-living bandit brought his fist around, smacking into her jawline and knocking Faris backwards. She toppled, extending her still injured arm to catch herself, immediately regretting the instinctual decision with every fiber of her being as it collapsed with a sickening crack.
Blackness and sweet release of consciousness followed. The mercenary had no way to gauge how long she lay there, only praying that the return to life wasn't as horrible as she was expecting.
The cold, enveloping blackness faded as quickly as it came, dragging Faris back into the world of the conscious as heavy, calloused hands wrapped themselves around her throat.
She groggily flailed about, every one of her weak attacks missing the mark as the man's grip tightened, intending to send her to the grave without even giving her the decency to end her with his axe.
This sucks.
Faris Carthul was going to die before her journey had even started, and it was all because of an exceptionally simple mistake.
.......
......
.....
....
...
..
.
Bullshit.
Her arm snapped out in an open-handed grab with the last of her strength, darting upward toward faint cloud of darkness and flashing teeth in her blurry vison. The impact was, for some reason, rather squishy, and she jammed her thumb into what she assumed was his nose or mouth.
In the next fragmented second, the weight that was crushing her throat and holding her body down was gone, screams of rage and pain floating in and out of her flickering reality.
The next breath was both sweet and pure agony, her bruised throat trying to expand to catch as much of the life-giving air as it could. Faris lapsed into a coughing fit, curling into a fetal position as her body was wracked with the unavoidable consequences of being nearly killed. The tears in her eyes hadn't faded as she rolled over, and suddenly was confronted with the surprising truth to why she was freed.
From what her shaken vision was telling her, the man had collapsed by her side, clutching his head and writhing in pain, dark crimson splatters leaking across the pavement as he whipped the injury back and forth. His writhing motions had dislogded the shiny metal of her erstwhile iron blade from his companion's skull, and the gore-soaked object lay fallow just out of Faris' reach.
Twisting, she extended her left arm and grabbed the offending weapon as yet another burst of pain shot from her right. Grunting a curse with the breath that still wasn't coming, the mercenary hefted her blade(What was she thinking, making the damn thing so heavy?), turned, confirmed her target, and brought the hilt down as hard as she could.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
After giving herself a minute to recover from the sudden violence, Faris began to follow the way the rest of the bandits had gone, stepping over the fresh corpse of the man who's head had been caved in, splattering the alley with a fresh coat of gore and bone fragments.
Bandit Captain Berseker and the Merry Men of Banditland
The bandit leader, a berserker, lay on the ground and contemplated his life choices that had lead to this moment. He'd been a good enough leader to his men, letting them have the pick of the towns they'd looted, all the women they could carry and all the crops they could burn. He'd even offered to take care of their families should they fall in combat. It had been a good life, that, even as Vinsenia had suddenly begun an extermination campaign of his kind as their territory increased.
But then everything changed the day he was captured, and brought before the little snot that had suddenly changed the defensive nation into one of oppressing war. Even the beserker would admit that the man was beautiful, a flowing example of regal elegance and casual charisma. If that's all he was, the captain would have accepted his death right there, knowing that the king's purge with iron and fire would not spare one such as him.
But then the king had stepped off his throne, paced forward, and asked the lowly bandit if he'd work with him to provide crushing defeat of his enemies. The king had smiled as he described the slaughter that the beserker could bring to the towns and villages in his way, explaining in gruesome detail every blow and crushing smash.
That was the moment that the beserker had decided he'd live his life for the king. The lovely way his eyes glimmered, the vigorous excitement in how he spoke of the beauty of blood and gore, the sadistic smile and the cherubic laugh, all dragged at his haggard soul in ways that the hulking man had never felt before.
And now these incompetent little scum-sacks were taking that away from him.
First his prey had been taken from him, and then that bitch of a supervisor had attacked him without warning.
He'd show them.
The berseker shot bolt upright, his body twisting and rippling as saliva dripped from his jaws, a crazy light burning in the depths of his eyes. He tossed his body forward with a demented roar of pure fury, smashing the axe that he held toward the least mobile of his two targets, the fiflthy whore who had betrayed him and the king.
Duraid
Duraid's hulking form made a distressingly silent appearance in the fray about the front gate, seemingly ignoring the fragmented bandits that had already begun to scatter, running for the hills and the edges of town. Instead, his target was the steel core of the looter's forces, the collection of men around the berseking captain and hapless do-gooders who got in his way.
He impacted like a tidal wave, the warning of his approach masked by the smashing sounds and screams of rage and anger that emanated from every crevice of the rapidly escalating slaughter. The warrior's steel axe buried itself in the nearest enemy, nearly tearing the hapless man in twain as it continued on, crushing the next one's skull without much issue.
Faris, if nothing else, was a creature of opportunity.
For the young mercenary, the screams of fallen and dying bandits served as an alert, of sorts, to show where the now crippled bandits would be struggling and clinging onto life. While a rather obvious observation, the deviously-minded woman took that easy conjuncture a tiny bit further. If there were injured bandits, then there'd be non-injured bandits who helped said injured bandits up, probably when they've put down their weapons.
A smile placed itself upon her face as she heard the rebounding sound of an explosion that rocked the area, blasting away the screams of the ones caught inside. She caught glimpses of fighting as she paced closer to the sound, witnessing the fight between one of the new men and eight of the hulking bandits, whistling softly to herself as he took out two with ease, before watching the other one get in a wicked blow with his swordreaver. That had to hurt. The rest closed in, and followed the man down an alley that already looked like the fire and blood had spent time in it.
Following closely, the mercenary turned into the alley as the first three men vacated it, one barking orders about staying put to the duo that left behind.
Faris' slight smile of pleasure grew into a sickeningly sadistic grin as the prey she had stumbled upon appeared to be distracted with something else entirely(Perhaps the remains of his comrade, splattered all over the walls and ground). Additionally, the gore-soaked alley was narrow enough to make swinging an axe difficult,
She allowed herself a giggle at the perfection of it all, before taking a mighty, two-handed, overhead swing at the closest bandit's skull.
Two unexpected things happened(For Faris, it was a rather disorienting feeling of deja vu) very, very quickly.
First, the man she targeted started to speak. The resulting crunch and immediate termination of his words caused his sole partner to spin around, eyes widening at the graphic image as the crushing sword tore the unsuspecting man's head in two.
Secondly, the jarring impact of blade on bone sent a shockwave rippling down her arm.
Her injured arm. The arm that she'd already fractured, and that shock had been keeping numb for her.
A bright flower of pain erupted in her forearm, tearing a breath from the now regretful young woman who's fingers slipped off the thickly-bound handle of her heavy metal blade. Her eyes crossed as she staggered back, barely noticing that her prey had fallen and that the second target was now charging her.
Moments later, a second burst of pain clouded her vision as the still-living bandit brought his fist around, smacking into her jawline and knocking Faris backwards. She toppled, extending her still injured arm to catch herself, immediately regretting the instinctual decision with every fiber of her being as it collapsed with a sickening crack.
Blackness and sweet release of consciousness followed. The mercenary had no way to gauge how long she lay there, only praying that the return to life wasn't as horrible as she was expecting.
The cold, enveloping blackness faded as quickly as it came, dragging Faris back into the world of the conscious as heavy, calloused hands wrapped themselves around her throat.
She groggily flailed about, every one of her weak attacks missing the mark as the man's grip tightened, intending to send her to the grave without even giving her the decency to end her with his axe.
This sucks.
Faris Carthul was going to die before her journey had even started, and it was all because of an exceptionally simple mistake.
.......
......
.....
....
...
..
.
Bullshit.
Her arm snapped out in an open-handed grab with the last of her strength, darting upward toward faint cloud of darkness and flashing teeth in her blurry vison. The impact was, for some reason, rather squishy, and she jammed her thumb into what she assumed was his nose or mouth.
In the next fragmented second, the weight that was crushing her throat and holding her body down was gone, screams of rage and pain floating in and out of her flickering reality.
The next breath was both sweet and pure agony, her bruised throat trying to expand to catch as much of the life-giving air as it could. Faris lapsed into a coughing fit, curling into a fetal position as her body was wracked with the unavoidable consequences of being nearly killed. The tears in her eyes hadn't faded as she rolled over, and suddenly was confronted with the surprising truth to why she was freed.
From what her shaken vision was telling her, the man had collapsed by her side, clutching his head and writhing in pain, dark crimson splatters leaking across the pavement as he whipped the injury back and forth. His writhing motions had dislogded the shiny metal of her erstwhile iron blade from his companion's skull, and the gore-soaked object lay fallow just out of Faris' reach.
Twisting, she extended her left arm and grabbed the offending weapon as yet another burst of pain shot from her right. Grunting a curse with the breath that still wasn't coming, the mercenary hefted her blade(What was she thinking, making the damn thing so heavy?), turned, confirmed her target, and brought the hilt down as hard as she could.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
After giving herself a minute to recover from the sudden violence, Faris began to follow the way the rest of the bandits had gone, stepping over the fresh corpse of the man who's head had been caved in, splattering the alley with a fresh coat of gore and bone fragments.
Bandit Captain Berseker and the Merry Men of Banditland
The bandit leader, a berserker, lay on the ground and contemplated his life choices that had lead to this moment. He'd been a good enough leader to his men, letting them have the pick of the towns they'd looted, all the women they could carry and all the crops they could burn. He'd even offered to take care of their families should they fall in combat. It had been a good life, that, even as Vinsenia had suddenly begun an extermination campaign of his kind as their territory increased.
But then everything changed the day he was captured, and brought before the little snot that had suddenly changed the defensive nation into one of oppressing war. Even the beserker would admit that the man was beautiful, a flowing example of regal elegance and casual charisma. If that's all he was, the captain would have accepted his death right there, knowing that the king's purge with iron and fire would not spare one such as him.
But then the king had stepped off his throne, paced forward, and asked the lowly bandit if he'd work with him to provide crushing defeat of his enemies. The king had smiled as he described the slaughter that the beserker could bring to the towns and villages in his way, explaining in gruesome detail every blow and crushing smash.
That was the moment that the beserker had decided he'd live his life for the king. The lovely way his eyes glimmered, the vigorous excitement in how he spoke of the beauty of blood and gore, the sadistic smile and the cherubic laugh, all dragged at his haggard soul in ways that the hulking man had never felt before.
And now these incompetent little scum-sacks were taking that away from him.
First his prey had been taken from him, and then that bitch of a supervisor had attacked him without warning.
He'd show them.
The berseker shot bolt upright, his body twisting and rippling as saliva dripped from his jaws, a crazy light burning in the depths of his eyes. He tossed his body forward with a demented roar of pure fury, smashing the axe that he held toward the least mobile of his two targets, the fiflthy whore who had betrayed him and the king.
Duraid
Duraid's hulking form made a distressingly silent appearance in the fray about the front gate, seemingly ignoring the fragmented bandits that had already begun to scatter, running for the hills and the edges of town. Instead, his target was the steel core of the looter's forces, the collection of men around the berseking captain and hapless do-gooders who got in his way.
He impacted like a tidal wave, the warning of his approach masked by the smashing sounds and screams of rage and anger that emanated from every crevice of the rapidly escalating slaughter. The warrior's steel axe buried itself in the nearest enemy, nearly tearing the hapless man in twain as it continued on, crushing the next one's skull without much issue.
As it stands, I think Hark and Alice are around the same place, with Nialas acting as backup for Alice and Alika providing some sort of magical protection for the entire group. Duraid is en route, and the back streets are all but clear save for the two groups that Ereshk's group and Simon's group have encountered.
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