Our new Indie Games subforum is now open for business in G&T. Go and check it out, you might land a code for a free game. If you're developing an indie game and want to post about it, follow these directions. If you don't, he'll break your legs! Hahaha! Seriously though.
Our rules have been updated and given their own forum. Go and look at them! They are nice, and there may be new ones that you didn't know about! Hooray for rules! Hooray for The System! Hooray for Conforming!

[D&D 4E - IC] Silent Horizon

13»

Posts

  • HacksawHacksaw J. Duggan Wrestler at LawRegistered User regular
    edited August 2008
    "I have no sympathy for mercenaries," grunted the paladin, freeing himself from the dragonling's grasp. "I can respect a man who fights for what he believes in, even if his beliefs are counter to my own. But mercenaries believe in nothing. They fight only to expand the breadth of their own coin purses." Tor looked back at the wererat with disdain before speaking again. "Filth like him is responsible for a great many tragedies in this world." He looked back to Magnus. "Do not ask me to abide his company on our journey, for I will not."

    Hacksaw on
  • Zen VulgarityZen Vulgarity What a lovely day for tea Secret British ThreadRegistered User regular
    edited August 2008
    "You forget that we, in our own stead, have provided ourselves as mercenaries to another group. The question is a manner of intent, not of your title. Whether a sellsword be of merit is key- one that has principles, no matter of what, is key. What say he thought us as an enemy, clearly it would be bad for business. He could have attacked us outright. He didn't. So, instead of being the defender of aggression, you would rather slaughter him and his party and desecrate a temple further in blood? I thought anyone who was at least once your profession would know how impudent that sounds. So, as a matter of speaking, he is our ally for the time being. He is, in fact, helping us. And, with words instead of swords, he may listen to reason if you let him open his furry ears."

    The young dragon would begin to head back to the party. "Remember. I was of mercenary blood. If you think of us as just those who wish to sow our purses, you know nothing of what it is to be one."

    Zen Vulgarity on
    oVSbgTI.png For more artwork like this, check out Jakub Rozalski's imgur
  • HacksawHacksaw J. Duggan Wrestler at LawRegistered User regular
    edited August 2008
    "This temple was desecrated long before either of our parties arrived," Tor shouted to the retreating dragonling. "And do not conflate fighting for the sake of one's own survival with the pursuit of avarice. You would do well to remember that you did not kill simply to fatten your purse."

    Hacksaw on
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    *rise from your grave!*

    Yay, not it's easier for everyone to find to start posting in for shopping after the last session.

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    Finwe, after exiting the tower bows his head slightly to his comrades. "Excuse me for a moment, I have a few supplies to procure." He turns and walks off, rounding a corner. Once out of sight he sits down at a nearby bench and opens his coin purse, musing over each coin, running the numbers around his head and he runs the coins between his fingers.

    "Damn it all," he curses in his native tongue, "it's not nearly enough. But, it will get me started. Oh sweet gold, why can I never seem to keep your company for long." He sighs and stands, heading off towards the nearest weapons shop. Entering he hails the worker behind the counter, greeting them.

    "I'll need a well crafted, concealable dagger. A matching long sword and short sword and a glaive please. Maybe you could throw in a sturdy (read, heavy) shield on the house? You know, discount for buying in bulk?"

    (I'll roll a diplomacy check if you want me to, but his diplomacy sucks, also if the weapons are available in a more western flair ie akenshi's naganita style I'd like them that way.)

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • Goose!Goose! That's me, honey Show me the way home, honeyRegistered User regular
    edited August 2008
    (You could've just let me do a streetwise check)

    Goose! on
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    Goose! wrote: »
    (You could've just let me do a streetwise check)

    (Where's the fun in that!)

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • OboroOboro __BANNED USERS
    edited August 2008
    Goose! wrote: »
    (You could've just let me do a streetwise check)
    (did you just ... did you just pop in to suggest min/maxing a shopping trip in the in-character thread? get the hell out of here)

    Oboro on
    words
  • Goose!Goose! That's me, honey Show me the way home, honeyRegistered User regular
    edited August 2008
    Oboro wrote: »
    Goose! wrote: »
    (You could've just let me do a streetwise check)
    (did you just ... did you just pop in to suggest min/maxing a shopping trip in the in-character thread? get the hell out of here)

    (Its what the damn skill is for! That and factfinding).

    Light from the window shone over the room, right in the face of Maserati Andrast, and grumbled with disgust. It had been a long time since he'd been able to sleep in comfort. Even if it was a foreign inn, he was glad of it all the same. He rose from the bed reluctantly, and stretched with a yawn, taking a look around. It was early morning, about an hour after dawn, he thought as he noted the sun's position in the sky. He reached for his pack and removed his clothing and armor from it, redonning his adornments, and then leaving the room quickly.

    He began his search for the day, an attempt to find the merchant with the best prices.

    Goose! on
  • OboroOboro __BANNED USERS
    edited August 2008
    On this morning in Bellhaven, Elisaan was greeted threefold -- there was sunlight and this is Pelor; this was beautiful and there was Corellon; and with a knock on the door, that was the call to breakfast.

    The morning routine did not change overly much in an inn versus a bedroll. Tables were wood whether carved or still-growing, and water was clean whether you drew it out of buckets or streams. Elisaan knew, in some ways, this was heretic thinking; by appearance and trade she was a ranger, a lieutenant of Melora, deigned to be critical of mattresses and silverware and silvered words. Taking comfort in human comforts was the kind of ill graces that goaded gods into snapping the span of your longbow.

    "Dawnsup is whites and browns, missus, the masks have paid you forward so don't think none on the tab," a stocky woman announced-as-by-script while placing a plate of ... whites and browns ... before Elisaan. The morning routine, Elisaan agreed as she fingered the browns with a fork, did not change much. She continued the observations, she maintained her list -- Pelor had greeted her today, and Corellon was with her as-always (so long as the hair remained on her head, humans often jibbed). She would make homages to these two, for sure.

    The occupational grief was more delicate. Elisaan soothed this over the way she usually did, remembering that Melora honored doers and not thinkers. Not going to bother with the rites there, she finally settled, still jabbing half-heartedly at her mash with a fork. Not worth the trouble being ritualistic for a goddess that's probably lounging naked in a forest with a bear for companionship. What's a prayer worth against that?

    "Missus, it not to your liking?" the waitwoman spoke, but Elisaan's eyes were just about glazed over. Maybe it was proper to honor Erathis today? She'd just pooled arrows with a new quiver and ended up in a proper town to boot; there was definitely the elements of Erathis there, Elisaan nodded. The waitwoman bent over and took the plate of food away, as Elisaan stammered, at first confused, but then --

    "Oh," flatly, "I nodded."

    She went back to her mental inventory.

    She'd hit up Erathis first, for sure; this was the most important one, since she'd found herself in Erathis's lap. That one, she couldn't budge on. Pelor'd come after that -- time was of the essence here, since if she held off on the giving-of-thanks too long there was a chance-proper that the sunlight'd fade and then she'd have nothing but grief and a once-prayer. Corellon came last; Elisaan wagered she'd get to that one around noon. She'd go over her hair with a brush then, too. ... maybe find a change of clothes at market. Something suitably beautiful, maybe, if Moradin saw fit to place a fitting artisan here in Bellhaven.

    Wait -- maybe a prayer to Moradin too, before she left shopping?

    ... most of those rites were similar to the rites for Erathis, she realized, ... a lot of the same implements ...

    Elisaan shook her head once, vibrantly, and then buried her face in her arms. She wagered it best, at that point, to return to the start of her mental inventory -- the morning routine -- to discern this time with perfect accuracy! which gods truly required rites this morning in Bellhaven.

    The mess hall was already emptying of anyone else. The waitwoman sat behind the sanded-and-lacquered counter, eating from the blue-haired-woman's plate while watching the blue-haired-woman sit lost in thought.

    I think I will just sweep the entire pantheon once, to be sure, Elisaan finally resolved, suddenly rising to her feet ... and then dropping back onto the bench, realizing she likely did not have time for such brazen broadness.

    Back to the start, then ...

    Oboro on
    words
  • GreeperGreeper Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    Lekiun finds a quiet place to write in his journal some.

    Greeper on
    Greeper is now Minister Of Communication in my new regime.
    BeNarwhal wrote: »
    Syndalis, if you knew anything about Greeper, you would know Greeper is never not field dressing a stag.
  • Goose!Goose! That's me, honey Show me the way home, honeyRegistered User regular
    edited August 2008
    Greeper wrote: »
    Lekiun finds a quiet place to write in his journal some.

    (The artistry of that journal is something to be revered.)

    Goose! on
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    (Greeper that was bloody awesome and I eagerly await the next entry)

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • GreeperGreeper Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    As Lekiun writes in his journal, he laments all the skill points he spent on Knowledge: Arcane, he could have been spending on Profession: Artist.

    Then he remembers this is 4th edition, and he has no one to blame but himself for his lack of drawing ability.

    Greeper on
    Greeper is now Minister Of Communication in my new regime.
    BeNarwhal wrote: »
    Syndalis, if you knew anything about Greeper, you would know Greeper is never not field dressing a stag.
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited August 2008
    (Well since jewcar still hasn’t posted in the IC thread I’m assuming the diplomacy check failed, that I got no free shield, and that the guy didn’t sell a glaive as per what he mentioned in the chat thread)

    “No glaive? Eh, no matter. I’ll just take the others weapons then.” Finwe sets the 26 gold pieces on the table, letting his hand rest on them briefly before slowly letting his hand move away. His eyes linger on those glittering coins for a moment longer before he looks up at the shop keep and receives his weaponry. “Many thanks, give my compliments to the smithy and may Avandra’s luck be with you both.” Finwe gives a quick nod and then turns, exiting.

    Once outside he darts down the nearest alley to figure out how to accommodate all these new blades. Perhaps the dagger in the boot? An old stand by of many an adventurer. By the gods that’s uncomfortable. Still, it needs to be somewhere discrete. Finwe tucks it under the sash tied around his waist. Hm, still noticeable by a keen eye, but easy to access and much more comfortable than before. Now for the swords, one on either hip perhaps? Hm, no, I can’t draw nearly as fast with my left hand. Both tucked into the belt at the left hip then, but not too tight. Ah, that’s nice. The falchions got to go somewhere else then. On the back with the hilt jutting over the left shoulder? Yes, yes that’s the way to go. Now there’s still that matter of the glaive. I hate to seem like I’m dependant on them but, maybe one of Akenshi’s warriors will sell me one. Finwe squats down in the dark alley, staring up between the crack between the buildings and up at the blue sky, watching the occasional cloud roll over ahead. Many minutes pass in this fashion before he screws up his courage and suddenly stands and heads towards the tower.

    Upon arriving at the tower Finwe approaches the first guard he sees, boldly striding up. “Excuse me. I hate to intrude on your business but, I need to procure some weapons and provisions for the battles ahead and this town is sorely lacking in proper weaponry. I’ve noticed the glaive that many of your warriors carry. They are of fine craftsmanship. I am skilled waging war with a glaive, but I haven’t had the pleasure in wielding one for years. Would you perhaps be able to part with one of yours?”

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • OboroOboro __BANNED USERS
    edited September 2008
    (Two nights have passed. Two attacks by the Silent Ones have been rebuffed by the unnamed mash of companions. It is the dawn, then, of a third day, and as all myths and legends belabor -- there is a peculiar magic to threes and thirds ...)

    (What follows is fluff and not at all pertinent to any person or any gamemaster, and likely only to Melora, and Pelor, and the other host of gods that are presently watching the progress of one Elisaan'hae with great interest.)
    The firing has ceased. The fire is being ceased. There has been a cease fire. There is a column of smoke, a cool northwesterly breeze, and an unusually clear night sky. The moon is pale.

    -- The light seemingly emitted from our moon is not emitted from it, and our moon is not a star, but it is starlight nonetheless, and presently Elminster relates his journey to and discovery of --

    Elisaan flexes a muscle, a two-muscle, a three and a knee and a leg. She wants to move east -- this is against the wind, she dryly notes -- and she begins to move east. When she has reached the end of one rooftop, she jumps to the next. She does not pause, there is no break in the gait, and there is no indication of hesitation, doubt, or that there is even a single possibility that she might not make the leap as reality insists she will.

    -- ... from the east, on horseback and mounted, one hundred counts of six-manned spears of cavalry; presently Malir gave her shout to the spearmen, and the entirety of the embankment stepped back twenty feet, and onto mounds of dirt raised overnight. Shakur's cavalry reformed a line, and wheeled northernly, into Malir's hidden but waiting palm ... --

    Elisaan is standing at the easternmost point of the ruint village and is beyond the veil of the smoke. The voices of her companions behind her are muted. She is listening to the night. She is counting imperceptible hoofbeats in the distance, dividing by four, and summing three elk. She is briefly scoffing at the summation, because she is well-read and knows that the elk is not native to this land, and that she should have instead thought deer -- but Elisaan does this only within the span of a moment. Elisaan is standing at the easternmost point of the ruint village, because previously the smoke obscured her sight towards this cardinal.

    There is nothing to see.

    She begins moving south-southwest, and images of clocks flicker across her eyes as she effortlessly leaps from one building to the next. She is moving clockwise. Her hair is blown by the wind, and she instantaneously computes the advantages of removing it against the disadvantage bought by no longer being an exotic beauty. She entertains the idea that a bald-headed woman may still be an exotic beauty in these lands. She smirks at the idea, which occurs to her mid-stride between two rooftops and ten feet above the ground -- she has finished smirking by the time she has again lighted.

    -- This was, and well as it was, the method (and the madness) employed by that creature, who was called Puck. Bounding and leaping and masquerading and dancing with wine on its lips b'neath moonlit nights, --

    -- "The landscape was barren, but not destitute. There was a richness of craven places. It was not as if the surface was war-torn, but as if the surface itself had fought and lost an innumerable count of battles against something that could stand foot-to-foot with a planet such as she. There was a somberness to it, and in that somber solitude, I found my epiphany as I saw our star with my right eye and our firmament with my left," --

    -- Malir's skirmishers leapt from the bush, and were upon Shakur's cavalry, and had speared many horses and beasts-of-war before the opposition was able to hoist eyes, let alone steel. The battle was at last joined, and Malir's infantry abandoned the raised earth that they would never fight from, and only had postured from, and Shakur's cavalry was splintered and unable to align itself for a charge. It is said that Malir walked among her soldiers, hefting two axes with the ease of knives, and slaying Easterners with great cleaves that were simultaneously cruel and merciful, for how quickly they took life ... --

    And presently, Elisaan wept.

    Elisaan, for all the information coursing through her head and her veins and her shaking, shaking hands, could not discern absolutely why it was that she wept. Elisaan was unsure if she wept because they had fought, but had not won anything; if she wept because she had fought, but not fought her best; if she wept because she had fought, but the Silent Ones claimed victims elsewhere; or, even, if she wept simply because it was now a time to weep, in the form of 'a time,' as the gods are wont to declare.

    She was sure of many other things. She was sure of both the speed and direction of the wind, and just how many hogsheads of water the fire had been doused with to produce steam (and not smoke) in the quantity that it had; she was sure, also, and unfortunately, of the fact that their aggressors had not left a trail and that there were no other trails 'round the ruint city in any direction, on any heading. She was sure that her companions were talking, and somehow -- though she could not make out the words -- that there was no need for her to worry for the fact their words were indiscernible. She discerned only the important fact -- "is what they say important" -- and knew that, presently, it was not.

    Elisaan also knew that she would soon rejoin them, because the topic would become more productive once they had finished quibbling over goldpence. Elisaan also knew, dimly, that she was weeping. She knew, even more dimly, that she had been mentally reciting passages from at least a dozen separate texts as she moved about the city.

    She knew, with increasing clarity, that she had been moving about the city by effortlessly leaping from rooftop to rooftop and with an unpaling fervor. She knew that the texts she had recounted most were Elminster and Our Moon, An Art to War, or Malir's Movements, and A Midsummer Night's Dream, though the lattermost in an abridged prose retelling.

    With a howl, Elisaan wept harder. Her head ached. She knew now why she wept -- it hurt, and frightened, and hurt, and frightened her to be so acute. She was, now, sharp. She was right. She was agile, and of guile and not guileless, and she was strong. She was smart beyond imagining. She was educated to the best of Eladrin standards, and recalled her education beyond the capabilities of the best of Eladrin.

    Elisaan bowed her head, and in a flurry of Feylight magicks, appeared at the foot of the building she had found herself paralyzed on the surface of. She realized the length of her hair was sufficient to hide her tears as she walked to the place she had dropped her bow -- and drew her twinned axes, as legend described Malir Mourrinkai did on the windswept plains of the Esterflood. Elisaan retrieved her bow. Elisaan dried her eyes, and her nose.

    Elisaan rejoined her companions, irritable and incensed, and offered only one contribution, oft rephrased but yet ad infinitum: "I will not suffer skirmish any longer, but only war, and only victory, and only conclusive victories, and only ends to suffering."

    Elisaan, in the jagged shadows cast by the rubble-built house, saw Malir, and Puck, and Elminster huddling inside her mind, just as her future now seemed to huddle in the shadows of theirs. Elisaan was now cognizant of a 'higher-purpose,' as Melora would want her to call it; Elisaan was now cognizant of the fact that she, too, was hero.

    The wind changed hands. It blew westernly. Elisaan shuddered, not at the cold, but at the fact that she knew the way the wind blew even while she sat indoors --

    and that the first application that came to mind was, and now I will nock my arrows a finger-length aftways, because otherwise they will hook.

    Elisaan, tonight, thirsted for blood.

    She shuddered again.

    Oboro on
    words
  • GreeperGreeper Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Lekiun's eyes roved over the malformed dead that he and his companions had just slaughtered with nary a reservation.

    "Finwe." He said, taking a seat at a table to wipe ash from his soot-coated gloves. "If I may have a word with you..."

    Greeper on
    Greeper is now Minister Of Communication in my new regime.
    BeNarwhal wrote: »
    Syndalis, if you knew anything about Greeper, you would know Greeper is never not field dressing a stag.
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Finwe glances up at Lekiun as he yanks his glaive out of the corpse of the last flesh weaver, can never be too sure with these things after all. Shrugging his shoulders slightly Finwe saunters over and seats himself across from Lekiun at the table. Finwe unclasps his helmet and swings one leg up to be on top of the table, nonchalantly he begins to clean his helmet of the ash and gore and then glances up, letting his eye meet Lekiun's. "I'm listening..."

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • GreeperGreeper Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Lekiun raised his hand, leaning forward to emphasize the significance of this act. The extraordinarily long, pale fingers had uncomfortably claw-like nails, just another reminder of his demonic heritage.

    He began counting down. "Magnus, Tor, Maserati." He held only a pair of fingers now, representing the two of them. "We were five when we set out for Bellhaven. True, our numbers are now superficially larger, but..."

    He seemed to trail off, but he waved his hand and Finwe heard a whisper only he could hear: "I trust neither the shapeshifter nor the dwarf, the halfling may prove too mercenary, and that pious drake is too cunning for his profession..."

    Lekiun adjusted the specifics of his hat, and made a show of taking a lock of red hair he'd plucked from the scalp of the Priestess. "Considering, in our own way, we're both men searching for the moment of our death... how likely do you truly think it is for both of us to survive our quest?"

    Lekiun's temperament seemed to have cooled from the beginning of the fight, but within his eyes, now and since they'd fought the warforged plant golem, there was a fire burning. Insanity raged within him.

    Greeper on
    Greeper is now Minister Of Communication in my new regime.
    BeNarwhal wrote: »
    Syndalis, if you knew anything about Greeper, you would know Greeper is never not field dressing a stag.
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Finwe takes his foot off the table and stays silent cleaning his helmet until he is satisfied and puts it back on. Leaning forward Finwe places his elbows on the table and folds his hands in front of him and lets his eye lock with Lekiun's from behind his armored mask.

    Finwe responds in a low voice, "Our chances of survival are a lot lower if we're going around not trusting the men who fight alongside us." Finwe shakes his head slowly, "Yes, we've lost many, and we'll lose many more. But this such is the nature of our work. The dwarf still must earn our trust but the others have not acted to betray it. I know these have been tough times but calm your nerves."

    Finwe leans back in his seat now, watching Lekiun, slightly worried for him. Finwe knows that Lekiun is fresh to the business of war and knows the toll it can take on a man. Finwe will have to keep a closer eye on Lekiun, to let such a trust comrade crack under the stress of combat would be quite the loss.

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • GreeperGreeper Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Lekiun 'tsked' audibly, like Finwe trusted anyone. He summoned fire to his hand and lightly tossed it up and down.

    "My only point is, the group of ne'er-do-wells and would-be 'adventurers' who eventually put a stop to the Circus, the Silent Ones, and the House may not include any of its original members, or even a single one of us here. It's a dangerous business we're in, the business of world saving."

    "On one level, who cares, right? As long as the job is done, you and I can rest in peace in our respective hells, but it certainly seems reasonable that they know the entirety of why they fight, and what they fight against. Our knowledge may yet outlive us. There are things you and I know that assures our death could cripple the mission. I propose we keep track of various important facts. Chronology, dates, faces, names, etc."

    He looked away for a moment then back again. "And, should our mission fail utterly..." He was unwilling to go on.

    Greeper on
    Greeper is now Minister Of Communication in my new regime.
    BeNarwhal wrote: »
    Syndalis, if you knew anything about Greeper, you would know Greeper is never not field dressing a stag.
  • InquisitorInquisitor Of mercenary mind. Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Finwe cocks his head to the side and cracks a bemused smile. "What is this? Some kind of fear your own mortality? Hoping your legend will outlast your mortal shell? Record what you wish my friend."

    Inquisitor on
    QnIYGGT.jpg
  • GreeperGreeper Registered User regular
    edited December 2008
    Lekiun waved the one-eyed man's comments away with his hand. "Nothing more than a practical primer on adventuring with the Defenders of Light, Life and Sound is what I plan. No embellishment required... or necessary.

    So, let's quickly jot down the necessaries..." He whipped out a book that wasn't a spellbook from somewhere, or was it? Just what was this slim volume...?

    "Allies: None. Enemies: House of the Distant Shore, Flesh Circus, Silent Ones. Former Members: Magnus, Tor, Elisaan(? Possibly fictional construct and/or mass delusion). Deceased members: Maserati. Current: Rass, Lekiun, Finwe, Vincent, Smaug.

    "What'm I missing?"

    In truth, Lekiun had forgotten much, the madness that ravaged his mind took its toll on his memories. Some events he had witness had been eroded by the all-consuming flame of his own mind. That burning fire that wished only for the destruction of all it witnessed. A fire that blazed gloriously forever... was that the legend Finwe spoke of?

    Greeper on
    Greeper is now Minister Of Communication in my new regime.
    BeNarwhal wrote: »
    Syndalis, if you knew anything about Greeper, you would know Greeper is never not field dressing a stag.
13»
Sign In or Register to comment.