Soulriders 5.0: Legend of the Unending Games

Nathan: Following the directions that Radagast left you with, you plod through the hallways of the keep (this place is huge, inside) until you manage to find your way to the back door.  You see smoke, but don't hear the clanging metal that signals the location of a smithy right off the bat.

The courtyard is lined with straw, and chickens wander around, pecking occasionally at some thing or another scattered among the straw.  A few ramshackle wooden warehouses lie around the perimeter of the courtyard, probably housing tools, or something.  A stable is to one side, holding a few of those oxen-like creatures you saw earlier.

Opposite the keep, as you look at it, is a short stone building with a very tall chimney.  As you watch, it flares, as though some light within were flashed on, and you can hear the ringing tone of a hammer beating on something metal.

Rez walks towards the building, looking for a door - which he knocks on (assuming he finds one).

You do not, in fact, find a door.  There's an archway, however, and you can peer into it.

Inside, there is a shambling mound of stone perhaps as high as your shoulder, between you and the forge-fire.  This stone is wrapped in well-wrought metal, and after a second, you realize that it's not stone, it's the dwarf.

He's currently kneeling on the floor, and still as tall as your knees.  His hair looks like steel wires, and is actually rusted at the ends.  He turns to look at you as you enter, bushy steel-wool eyebrows rising for a second, while burning fire-emerald eyes study you, before he turns back to his work.

The forge-fire before him is burning hot, but hardly with any flames.  A piece of metal is laying on the coals, glowing cherry red, and as you watch, the dwarf plucks it from the fire with bare, stony hands, and pushes it with his fingers, like he was testing clay to see if it had softened.

A low grumbling vibration enters the room as he hums thoughtfully, raising the steel to his lips for a second and tasting it.  You don't think he actually ate any, but his granite teeth could probably tear through hot steel if he wanted to.  He sighs, and throws the hot metal into a bucket filled with similar scraps, apparently deciding it unworthy.

Another two buckets sit nearby, one nearly empty, and full of perfectly shaped ingots, the other with random bits of scrap metal.  "What do ye' want?" he grumbles after a second, his voice causing your teeth to vibrate together until you leave your mouth slightly open.

"Looking to get a sword reforged.  You're Ekim? Radagast told me to come and talk to you."

Ekim grumbles, raising one lip in a sneer.  "Go get your toys fixed somewhere else," he spits.  "I've worthy materials to forge."

"This wasn't a toy.  It belonged to Hadrick Shuker." Rez dips his hand into his gem pouch and pulls out the hilt of the broken blade, and a piece of the sword."

"Good for you," Ekim replies, tossing a scrap into the furnace and watching it heat up.  "Not so good for him to have it break.  Your own crafstmen do not show metal respect when forging their tools."

"I'm asking you to fix it.  And I have my doubts that any sword could have survived what destroyed this."

"That's a pity," Ekim grunts.  "Cheap swords break easily, but your fine swords are even more fragile."

Rez's deduction roll is successful.

It occurs to Nathan, listening to Ekim heckle and belitle 'common' swords and 'human crafstmen' that the sword of Hadrick Shuker was not forged by humans; it was made by the Archonae.  Liandral had called it 'The King of Swords' back in the wastes....

Rez rolls his eyes.

"This blade wasn't made by humans, it was made by the Archonae.  It's not one of those cheap human blades you're insulting."

"Oh, well..." Ekim begins, before his eyes burn bright blue with interest and he looks at you, ignoring the metal in the forge.  "A sword forged by the Archonae?" he murmurs.  "And you've broken it, of course.  Let me see it."  One massive stony palm reaches towards you expectantly.  As you watch, a tiny, loose flake of skin falls off ... but it flakes off like a chip of granite, silently shattering when it hits the floor.

Rez places the hilt and piece of sword onto Ekim's outstretched palm, then fishes the remaining pieces out of his pouch and does the same.

Ekim cups his hands delicately around the shards, frowning speculatively.  "This is fine work," he rumbles, obviously impressed.  "Very fine."  He starts laying the sword on a nearby anvil, piece by piece, as though assembling a puzzle.  "Mmmm," he muses rocking back on his heels.  "How could a sword of such craft fail?"

"In the pass, to the south of here . . . the thing the defenders of stormwall summoned.  I don't know exactly how, but . . ."

Rez trailed off.

"Can you reforge it?"

"A dark thing indeed," he says gloomily, narrowing his eyes.  "Something unnatural, it is.  Hmmm."  He runs his fingers through his beard -- stone scraping through a bale of steel wool.  "I might be able to reforge it," he says slowly.  "But this blade ... will require time.  And some of the metal is too tired.  The bad will need to be separated from the good, and then, there will not be enough.  It will take more ... and the metal I have will not be good enough without being fed of the earth."

"Without being fed of the earth? I don't understand."

"The earth ... has within it gems.  The concentrated life-force of the earth.  You humans recognize the difficulty in removing gems from the stone around them ... but do not realize that the stone around these gems bears stronger ore.  Purer ore.

"This is the onyl metal worth working with, if you wish to craft anything of value," Ekim continues, studying the sword fragments.  "This ore is the most well-fed, the strongest, and the most loyal of all ores.  Anything else ... is lazier, weak, and does not care to serve, only be."

"I do have some gems with me, and I also have a pearl, but I'm not . . . precisely . . . sure what you're asking.  Speak plainer," Rez looks faintly apologetic, "for I have little understanding of such lore."

"Hmmm," Ekim muses again.  "You have a gem of the sea?  For that ... and your other gems ... I cannot promise.  But I can try ... and for a chance to work on a blade such as this ... one which remembers what it should be, not what it is, I will do as you ask."

Rez pulls the emeralds and pearl out of his gem pouch, and offers them wordlessly to the dwarf.

"You have my gratitude."

"Ah, emeralds," he muses, nodding.  "The rock crumbles, because the ore draws together.  Very good, very good ... you will help."  He points to a bellows on one side of the forge.  "We need a hotter fire," he says, scooping the molten remnants of the metal he was looking over earlier out and flinging them into the scrap bucket without a second look.

With that, he slides his anvil to one side, and you realize it's not an anvil at all.  It's his shield, propped up on a massive slab of granite.  This sucker's pitch black, flawless, and has to weigh as much as about three of you.  It's a meter and a half wide, and a two and a half meters tall, shaped like a slightly cuved door.  The center of the shield is perfectly smooth, and flat.  It curves slightly away around that point, but it looks as sleek and perfectly machined as the nose of an aircraft, only without seams or rivets.

The outer borders of this shield are covered in intricate whorls and loops, things that bring to mind the detail on Bjorn's armor, only much better done, and lined with silver.  Your sword lies on the center of this shield, and Ekim produces his hammer from one side of the fire.

The hammer looks like another block of granite, this one carefully wrapped in steel, perfectly smooth on every angular facet, and with a handle of steel as solid looking as the stone it's build around.  You think, with a bit of effort, you could probably drag this hammer around a field.

Even he hefts it like it's got considerable weight.

"Now, we'll need a steady rythym," he murmurs.  "I will sing to the blade, and you should keep pace with my song."

"You want me to sing, or to keep the rhythm by clapping or some such?"

"You will make the fire dance to my music," he says, putting a hand on the bellows handle he gestured for you to take.  His stone brow furrowing in concentration, causing an unlikely twanging noise as the steel wool of his eyebrows shift about, he begins singing, in a low, deep voice.  You don't understand the words, but you suspect you're feeling some true fragment of the meaning behind it anyway.

It's a song of the earth.  Of continents sluggishly dancing.  Of stone breaking under the pressure, and of how natural this is.  Or threads of ore, squeezed out of and through seams of rock.  Of veins of mineral flowing like water beneath the surface of the land.

When you come to your senses, you've got both hands on the bellows, bringing it up and down in time with his slow, steady, never flagging song.

Dracos is sitting on an upturned bucket outside of the reach of the intense heat, though he's watching with some interest.  Ekim's hands guide yours for one last push on the bellows, surprisingly soft for raw stone, before he leaves you to keep time, and turns his attention to the blade.

Rez pushes aside his awe, and concentrates on keeping time with Ekim.  

In, and out.  In, and out.

The process is absorbing to you, entirely.  You watch, keeping the rythym, as Ekim carefully extracts bits of metal from each fragment, and sets them aside.  Now that you're part of this system, you can see that this metal is tired.

It's weak, and won't fight anymore, like it should.  Instead, he fishes some of the metal from the bucket at his feet you can tell is better ... but not as good as that tired metal had been.

This is then softened, like dough, and the gems (save the pearl) are folded into it, along with the tired metal.  This forms a lump that's even larged, and at the same time ... not as strong to your new-found smithing senses.

You continue working the bellows anyway, as Ekim allows this metal to cool a bit, to harden, and then refines it, right there, with his bare hands, the fire, and his shield, separating out the tired elements, and somehow, leaving only the original Archonae worked ore behind, the tired steel melting off the edge of the shield and laying on the floor, forgotten.

Then, all of the blade is removed from the hilt, and reworked into a single, massive ingot.  That ingot is slowly hammered into the shape of a blade.  You've read of Japanese swordsmiths folding blades hundreds of times to make the perfect sword, and of ancient smiths in the Arabian making swords stronger than any metal today ... and always their techniques were amazing and profound.

But with Ekim, it's not forging, folding, tempering, or crafting at all.  It's simply reminding the sword what shape it's supposed to be.

All too soon, his song fades to an end, and weariness seeps into your arms.  Phil has some time ago leaned back against the far wall of the forge, patiently waiting for you to finish.  The blade is still glowing slightly red, but Ekim makes no move to plunge it into the water barrel nearby.

And you can tell, even though that unity with the blade and the forge is fading, that this sword will not need to be sharpened.  Not now, and not ever.

But most importantly, when you look at the blade, you can see your lineage recorded on it.  And there, beneath the name of Hadrick Shuker, is Nathaniel Shuker.  It wasn't there when the sword was only shards.

And you know that Ekim didn't add it, either.

Dracos sits by, watching, impressed by the obvious craftsmanship being displayed, his eyes bright, even though he tends towards silence.  He listens carefully, vaguely memorizing the rhythm for later reflection.

Dracos

Youd guess it's now late in the afternoon.  No matter how you look at it, though, this took a while.  It didn't feel like it at the time of the reforging, but it's certainly a long time now.

"We let the blade rest until tomorrow," Ekim says, nodding at the still-glowing blade.  "I will watch over it until then."

Rez shakes himself.

"That was . . . most impressive.  Thank you, Master Ekim.  I will return tomorrow, then," and he turns to Drac, an eyebrow raised, "Hungry?"

"I'm italian." Dracos quipped back, rising.  "Shall we go ahunting?"

Dracos

Rez rolls his eyes at Drac, then gives a respectful nod to Ekim, before heading towards the door.

Dracos strides after him, eyeing the premises around them for anything particularly new of importance, though not really expecting such.

Dracos

From outside, you can smell whatever's being cooked up in the kitchen (and there's a lot of something being cooked up).  The keep is to the north, but from here you can see an additional gate opening up to the south.

When you peek through, you can see a massive field, almost entirely covered with pitched tents, thousands of men in various forms of army talking quietly, smoking around their fires, dicing, playing card games, and to one side, practicing in a strip of intentionally clear ground that runs the length of the pass, from what you can see.  In the rough center of this camp, a road runs from the gate off to the south, and out into the distance.

"Food, Training, and a good night's rest?"

"I propose a revision of that plan. Food, training, bath, more food, good night's rest."

"I LIKE THAT PLAN!"  Dracos booms, clapping Rez on the back and leading off towards the food halls.

Dracos

You wander into the hall, and are brought something to eat.  Both of you are hungrier than you had thought, but the food here is exceptionally hearty.

After that, you can train in the field out back, or you can try to find some other place to do so.

Dracos glances around as he steps out of the fooding halls.  "Hey Nathan, let's take a walk around and get a better feel for the place before practicing."

Dracos

"Fine, fine. I don't like working out on a full stomach anyway.  So what did you want to see?"

"let's check the battlements and just let our feet wander for an hour or so."

Dracos puts actions to words, leading the way and examining the castle, assuming no one stops him.

Dracos

Rez tags along, having little in the way of better to do.

The battlements are manned sparsely by about thirty archers.  Mostly, they appear to be just leaning against the rocks and yawning.  But then, they're expecting the battle to be later, not today.

You reach them by way of a wide ramp that goes up the wall, towards the cliff face, and then doubles back to reach the wall.  It's as wide as a city street, if not a bit wider at the top, and a raised ridge gives archers cover to fire from.  You can also see across the northern stretches ... there's a lot of movement out there, too.

Just before you think about mentioning it to the wall's guardians, you realize that the movement is nothing more than wild animals.  Some reindeer, a lot of wolves ... rabbits, barely showing up against the snow.  They seem to be beelining for the foot-hill like mounds of snow-covered earth that sit at the entrance to the pass, well away from the walls.

Rez blinks, and tries to see exactly what/where the animals are moving away from.

Dracos nods at the relatively pleasant landscape that belies the horror soon to come.  It was relaxing to see.  He examined the fields, more just marking in his head the general area on which the fight is supposed to be held.  After that he shrugged, leading them on a walk around the interior of the keep and then heading out to the practice area assuming nothing odd is spotted.

Dracos

Nathan: From what you can see, they're pouring in from the north.  Probaby from north of the wastes, even.

Phil: After surveying the site for a while (it's pretty level, inside the mouth of the pass), you go to the training grounds.

The other swordsmen and the spearmen all watch curiously, apparently not used to your style of swordsmanship.

Dracos thrives and enjoys, letting the sword guide him as he works through some forms, trying to give Rez some silent examples to help him out even if the last demonstration indicated Rez really didn't need it much.

Dracos

Rez finds an open space and takes a few practice swings with his own sword, again trying to get a handle on the balance . . . and tries out one of the drills that they'd been messing with back at the outpost.

After managing not to kill himself, he pauses and watches Drac a bit.

"Any pointers, oh master of the blade?"

"Follow the blade.  Both hands apart.  One for control, one for power.  Get attuned to how it flows and how it wants to move and then consider how to make it move where you want it."

Dracos swung about, spinning and stopping his blade, relaxing it over his shoulder.

Rez rolls his eyes dramatically and gets back to going through some drills.

This continues for quite some time.

After he eventually starts feeling tired and has built up the warm burn of a good work out with the blade, Dracos stops, checking his blade briefly before sheathing it.  "Up for seconds, Nathan?"

Dracos

The aforementioned Nathan stretches, then shrugs.

"Actually, I'm more inclined to see if there's somewhere to get cleaned up around here."

"Ah, good point.  Lead away, Navigator."

Dracos

Rez leads away!

And actually does stop to ask directions at some point, once they get out of the practice area.  From a servant, or at least someone who looks like they belong around here.

There are public baths in the basement.

You manage to reach them without too much trouble -- it looks like about eight giant (swimming pool sized, but not as deep) stone tubs filled with hot water.  There's even some form of soap in little hand-packed almost-spherical lumps by the doorway you enter from.  A few other men in this bath are off to one side, scrubbing themselves before getting into the water.

Dracos eyes rez, shrugs, and gets to looking for a place to drop off his stuff safely.  Once assured of that, he gets to getting CLEAN!

Dracos

Rez does the same, albeit feeling more than a touch awkward.

Following bathing, Dracos gets dressed and heads back out, waiting outside for Rez to get done.

Dracos

Rez follows him out not long after.

"OK.  Foodage calls, methinks."

"Food is good.  And we must place bets!"

Dracos leads away towards the eating halls.

Dracos

"Oh, god.  And what, pray tell, do we need to bet on?"

"Who takes the most points, me, you, or Bjorn."

Dracos

"We are not keeping a killscore."

This comment earns you a hearty jeer from the assembled warriors that now fill the dining hall.  "Who doesn't want to keep count?" someone asks from the crowd.

Dracos raises a fist in hearty agreement with the unknown soldier "It's the only way to go!  Ya got to do it!"

Dracos

A host of, "I'll drink to that!"s echo about the room.

Lord Markham and the other higher-ranking functionaries are absent from the head table, but there's room to find a seat, and servants bustling around to deliver food and drink to hungry warriors, and dirty dishes to the kitchen.

Dracos, in the manner of a man raised in an italian household, finds a seat and starts enjoying the repast.

Dracos

Rez smacks his head onto the table.

"Fine, fine.  I suppose, if you're going to be that way . . ." his grin turns decidedly evil, "what do you feel like betting, hmm?"

Dracos whispers conspiratorily, "You know that seven guy?  Whoever wins gets first dips on separating his skull from his head."

Dracos

Rez ponders, then responds in a low tone, "Nah, I more want Ceran's head on a stick, myself."

"Okay...  Leader of the point board gets to take Ceran's skull from his head.  But only the first five times."

Dracos

"Ceran doesn't have a skull, though.  See my dilemma?"

Rez looks sad.  Saaaad.

"how do we know that though?  Have we really checked?  We can have a doctor's examination!"

Dracos

"I'm pretty damn sure, more's the pity.  But nah.  Dibs on Ceran are mine regradless, and I don't much mind who else you take, so you're going to have to ante up something interesting to make me bother to keep a tally."

"Hmm...."

Dracos thought long and hard...

"IBC...Rootbeer...Floats."

Dracos

"I hate that kinda stuff."

Rez ponders.

"..." Dracos looks stunned.

Dracos

"Pfft."

Since DRac's mind seems to have shut down for the moment, Rez takes the opportunity to steal some food off his plate.

"Ye fiend!" Swipes some food back and continues eating, grinning goodnaturedly.

Dracos

"You know," Rez continues between mouthfuls, "I suppose the only fair thing to do is whoever gets the least kills is on dishes duty for a month or so."

"Dish duty?  I hate dish duty."

Dracos

"Exactly.  What, you're afraid of a few dirty dinner plates?"

"Deal then." Dracos grinned getting back to dinner.

Dracos

After getting cleaned up (well mostly, you are wearing the same clothes (and armor) after all), and having not one, not two, but three hot meals back-to-back, along with as much fresh water and or beer as you could ask for, both of you realize that there's another commodity this place might be able to offer that you haven't partaken in yet:

Real beds.  This place is pretty big, and defensive structure and intent aside, has room for many bedrooms.

"Let's go find some rooms." Dracos leads the hunt for 'real beds'.

Dracos

"So . . ." Rez speaks in a fairly low tone as they walk, making sure people aren't really in a position to listen in, "What's your opinion of Radagast, anyway?"

"Eh.  None yet."  Dracos shrugged.  "On one hand, he sounds legit.  But it's a touch too clean.  Either way, he's nicely situated and not worth tangling with in any manner as I see it."

Dracos

"Pretty much.  It's not like anything he said changes the plan anyway."

"Kill evil, eat good food, survive, understand our alter-egos, and get back home."

Dracos

"And eliminate targets of opportunity for bonus points. If you're going to do it, may as well get a high score."

Rez hums.

"I'm somewhat suspicious, though. Relm was pretty sure Pax Arcana hadn't cleared Gibraltar yet - I remember that because she thought Pax might be trying to put holes in the security, or some such."

"That's the thing though.  I'm almost certain that time moves quite faster in this world then our own.  7th was probably out of here around 300 years or so, their time.  Which would've been maybe a few weeks at most our time if my guesses are right.  If Pax slipped in since they told us, perhaps a number of days ahead of us, they could quite possibly have been here for eight-ten years ahead of time."

Dracos

"That's very, very true.  I didn't think of that at all," Rez blinks in surprise, then frowns as he starts to think the implications of this through, "I guess . . .  hm.  You know, you just neatly obliterated any speculation on that subject. I hate you."

"I'm an evil genius.  You're supposed to hate me."

Dracos

"Hardy-har-har," Rez keeps walking, "What's your read on Mirallia?"

"Scared and confused and a bit out of her depth."

Dracos

Rez raises an eyebrow. "She seems to be handling herself pretty well, considering."

"Well, duh."  Dracos shrugged.  "Not everyone's a little brat, no?  And in a world with regular wars like this, it's reasonable for a sturdier base setup."

Dracos

"Well, I think we have different base values for scared and confused. But anyway . . . we probably need to go and talk to her tomorrow and get a bit more background info on this whole situation. As in, exactly what's expected of us, and if we can a little more information on just what happened eight years ago."

"hmm...  Fair enough.  Anyhow, let's get some sleep."

Dracos continued the hunt for good beds and clean rooms, and assuming he finds some, heads to bed.  A good nights sleep is most important!

Dracos

You find your rooms eventually.  Phil has a room on the second floor, that seems reasonably sized, like a small appartment, and Nathan has a room on the third floor, adjacent to Paul and Parthipan (though, their rooms are empty at that point).

"Sleep well."

Dracos glances about for something knock overable to be put next to the door.

Dracos

The closest thing you find is a chair.  After activating your imprompteu security measure, you doze of for a bit in the really comfortable bed.

You are woken by the sound of your chair being knocked over as someone enters the ante-chamber to your room.  While you get to your feet and reach for your sword, you realize it's a servant bringing you (yet another) tray of food.

Dracos shakes his head, yawning and gesturing the servant to put the food on the table.

Dracos

She puts the tray on the table and nervously scurries out.  Mmm.  Eggs, bread, and cheese.

Rez heads up to his own room to, well, get some sleep.

Sleep goooood.

Dracos ate breakfast.  Then got up and did some morning exercises.  Then headed off to try and find the others.

Dracos

You find your way to Nathan's room easily enough.  You remember where that is, anyway.  This place is big enough to be annoying, really....

Dracos...knocks.

Dracos

There was a terrible ghastly silence.

Dracos...Knocks twice.

Dracos

There was a terrible ghastly noise.

Drac hear's Rez's voice from the other side of the door.  "Enter!"

Dracos enters.  "Up and at-em, sleeping beauty."

Dracos grinned, glancing around Rez' room.

Dracos

"Shut up. Too early in the morning."

Dracos snickered and in the manner of completely sadistic morning people everywhere, gently opens the window and lets the sunlight make it's presence known.

Dracos

Rez is, in fact, awake.

"Bah."

And not that pleased about it, either. He looks like a mess, as is typical for a Rez at this time of day.

Dracos laughed.  "Ah, at least some things never change, eh?"

Dracos

Rez gives Drac a flat look, then stretches and yawns.

"Breakfast first.  Now get out of here while I get dressed and stuff."

"Sure."  Dracos heads outside and waits.

"Think we should hunt the others down and see what the heck they've been up to?"

Dracos

"Mm, sure. In a while," Rez calls through the door, "First up, we have to get breakfast, clean our armour, get some new clothes, head back and see Ekim, and then we can catch up with the others and go information hunting.  Sound fair?"

"Works for me.  Lead away."

Dracos

After getting himself dressed in his gear (and armour), Rez is struck by a thought and checks his pouches, specifically the odd roots he found, which he pulls out and examines, trying to work out what the heck they are.

That done, he heads outside, picks up Drac, and walks off to the food hall.

OOC: Six points of influence into survival for that check?

Your intuition tells you that eating the roots wouldn't kill you.

It also tells you that gnawing on random roots without knowing what they're for is probably a Bad Idea.

Hmm.

That done, Rez heads (with Drac in tow) down to the food hall, where he eats breakfast - and starts feeling sorta semi awake. Finally. Goddamn mornings.

Dracos, meanwhile, in a pleasant mood, does not jab at the ever morning weak Rez.

Dracos

And so it happens that Rez gets to the food hall, where he is fed a hearty breakfast, and a good time is had by all!

He even wakes up. Somewhat.

Dracos looks about to see if there's a place for getting clothing clean.  And tries to remember the general facets about expected levels of cleanliness here.

Dracos

Nothing comes to mind about cleanliness, though you're a fair sight better than a lot of people here.  There were basins to one side in the baths, presumably for the purposes of laundry washing.  Most likely, the higher ranking minions of the court and Lord Kevin (people granted sizable private apartments) can ask/order a servant to take care of it for them.

Other than that, the best bet is probably the baths.

Finding a tailor, though.  That would be a challenge.

Dracos, considering the general work of the place, shakes his head.  "Let's just deal, Nathan.  We can manage and we're not about to stand out like this.  Let's go see if Ekim is awake yet and your sword is ready."

Dracos heads off with Rez to go find Ekim at the forge.

Dracos

Rez mutters a few annoyed things, but nonetheless nods and heads off towards the smithy.

The forge has gone quiet, but not cooled much since the night before.

When you enter, Ekim is humming to himself, and polishing the sword with some cloth.  It's uncertain if it needed to be polished, of it Ekim was just amusing himself, but it looks less like polishing, and more a thorough medical examination, to ensure that the patient is in good health.

The hilt has been re-worked, slightly, the copper grips being treaded over with a cross-cross pattern of thin strips, made of some sort of dark cloth.  After examining in detail the spot where the tang enters the hilt (now, turn your head and cough), Ekim nods in satisfaction, and sheathes the sword in a simple, durable looking scabbard.

"It is done," he announces, his humming coming to a halt as he surveys both of the smithy's entrants.  "Now, perhaps, I will make some other blades ... to see if the artistry of that can be matched.  Mmm."  Reverently, like he was offering you his firstborn child, he presents the blade to Nathan.

Dracos watches, jealously.

Dracos

Rez takes the sword, equally reverently.  

"This is . . . very fine, Master Ekim," he bows, "My thanks for your labor."

Rez promptly puts on the scabbard (being that he left his old sword back in his room), and meets Drac's look with an amused one.

"Mmm," he rumbles, shaking his head.  "This sword knew its own shape better than me."

"Be that as it may, it could not have remade itself without your assistance." Rez gives the dwarf a grin.

Ekim smirks, which seems nothing more than a rugged face smacked out of a boulder, then nods.  "We will meet again," he says thoughtfully, turning his attention to the bits of metal he was apparently tooling with last night.  "Ah, a day this fine seldom comes about," he muses, one hand running through his steel-wool hair, sending a few flakes of rust raining down.

Rez chuckles and heads out the door, with Drac in tow.

"OK . . . next on the list of Things To Do Today . . . was find the others and go information hunting. Or something. Alrighty. Bjorn's most likely to still be hanging around Mirallia, so we'll go after him first."

And so it is that Rez heads back into the castle proper, questioning a couple of servants as to where he might be able to find the lady Mirallia.

If they don't know, well . . . the plan is to wander randomly until finding something/someone interesting or useful.

The Lady Mirallia is not in her rooms, you find out that much pretty quickly.  Other than that, no one's actually certain where she is.

As far as 'interesting' things going on, there's a bit happening, but nothing really holds up to 'titanic dwarf reforges blade of legend!'

Dracos decides to continue the relatively relaxed hunt for the rest of the group.  In the worst case, at least they are getting a damn good feel for the castle.

Dracos

From the rear battlements, you think you see Paul walking along the southern training field, though he's some distance away.

Dracos tries to ascertain where he's headed, and heads, at the same relaxed pace, in the same general direction, not making a ruckus about it.

Dracos

Well, it's a pass, with pretty much sheer cliff walls on either side.  It's pretty easy he's going in one of the two directions that it's possible to go in.  Catching him will be a different matter.

Either way, you and Nathan set off across the field, heading south and keeping your eyes peeled for Paul.

Paul appears to see you, and turns around to meet up with you.

This thread temporarily joins Secret Game (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33508#33508)

Your search for Bjorn is interupted almost before it begins as, ahead of you in the corridor, you hear a door shutting heavily.  When you look up, a pair of guards look astonished to see you, then salute Phil sharply.  "Sir Bloom," the one on the left calls, gesturing to the door.  "Sir Lammermore has requested your presence, along with Lord Kevin and Madame Mirallia."

Rez turns his head, and raises an eyebrow at Drac.

Dracos instantly went into command attitude.  "I see.  Where is he now?"

Dracos

The soldier points at the door directly behind him.  "This way, if you don't mind," he says, opening the door.

This thread temporarily joins Stay (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=33654#33654).

Bjorn walks away, leaving the pair of you in the corridor in front of Lord Kevin's chambers.

Dracos heads inward to Lord Kevin's chambers.

Dracos

Rez tags along, a couple of steps behind and to the side of Drac.

The guards halt you, announce you, and then usher you in.

Lord Kevin and Sir Lammermore are there, though Mirallia is gone at this point.  "Ah," Lord Kevin asks, "and, did you have any luck with your Lorekeeper?"

"He's currently speaking with Radagast.  He seemed to have had some fortune, but wanted to ponder it more with the older wizard.  I could not get more out of him."

Dracos

"I see," Lord Kevin says, frowning.  "And ... is there anything else?"

"I am...slightly worried over my kinsmen.  I am going to take Nathan and scout out and make sure they arrive here without trouble."

Dracos

Lord Kevin looks surprised at this, but nods.  "Very well, then.  Go, and good luck to you, Sir Bloom."

"Thank you, Lord Kevin."


Dracos headed out, Rez in tow.  Once they got a sufficient distance away he paused.  "Okay, first off we should get a bit of supplies before we head out.  I doubt we want to waste time hunting even if the whole concept seems more natural to me at the moment."

Dracos

Nathan bows, and follows Drac out.

"Provisions sound good. Then we'll stop by our rooms and pick up the rest of our gear, and . . ." Nathan pauses, "What the heck should I do with my old sword?"

It takes you only a moment to visit the kitchens and get restocked on provisions.  Liandral meets you there, looking slightly ruffled.  "May I acompany you?" he asks stiffly, almost, but not quite looking over his shoulder anxiously.

Dracos raises an eyebrow, glances at Rez, and nods.  "Sure.  Though we intend to try and move fairly swiftly."

Dracos

Rez chuckles. "We both know he can keep up.  Shall we get our gear and get moving, then?"

"Right.  Let's meet near the front gates in thirty minutes?"

Dracos

"I will be there," Liandral promises, quickly vanishing towards what you assume is his quarters.

After gathering the suplies you needed (Nathan leaving his old sword behind in his room), you meet up with Liandral at the gate.  He looks like he absolutely can't wait to leave, nervously looking around like someone he's trying to avoid will show up at any moment.

Dracos, sensing the mood, sees about securing an exit to the place.  If he can just walk straight out without trouble, he does so.

Leading the way silently, he marches in the generally northern direction they planned to go for several hours, getting a good distance away from the castle, following his instincts and the map largely to determine the route.

About five or so hours later, whenever they reach a decently safe looking and semi-comfortable area...

"Let's stop to rest and eat for a bit."

Dracos

Rez sits down and starts munching, then turns to Liandral curiously.

"So, why so eager to get out of there, anyway?"

Around you is pretty much nothing but snowy waste, with small hills.  Your tracking skills are picking out the multitude of animal tracks heading further south through some patches of snow.

"My father-in-law reminds me that I have not been home for ... some time," Liandral says, looking southward.  "Also, I wanted a chance to be away from the oppresive building for a bit before the battle begins."

The sun hands half-hidden on the horizon, looking like it's going to set any minute.  The glowing sprite still bobs over Liandral's head, only now it's actually providing some light, instead of just hanging there.

"Your father in law? You're married?"

"Yes," Liandral says quietly.  "A long time ago.  Will we rest here for the night, or press on?"

Nathan shakes his head.

"I vote we press on," he says, and then looks over at Drac questioningly.

Dracos brushed his beard with a hand, considering deeply.

"I think we shall rest here, at least for a bit.  I believe there is something that we should talk about and here, away from the castle is perhaps best for it.  I am aware you've...noticed some things off about myself and Nathan."

Dracos

Liandral shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably.  "You've changed," he says, staring at the ground.  "You'ce changed ever since you've lost your kingship.  I realize now that you're changing back ... and that's probably a good thing.

"But at the same time, you must understand that my kind is ... slow to change at best.  And thus, we often have trouble adapting to change in those close to us.  I was unhappy to see you, as a friend, drown your sorrows in drink.

"I should be happy that you're getting better."  Looking up, he sighs, and meets your eyes.  "Please forgive me my impertinence, my liege."

Rez chokes on his bread and almost falls off the rock he's sitting on.

Smacking himself on the chest a couple of times, he grabs a waterskin and gulping some liquid down before calming down slightly, trying to get his breath back.

Dracos brushes his hair back a bit in a habitual slightly nervous gesture.

"There is nothing to forgive.  And...I've changed more than you know.  I am going to say a few things that...might sound a little crazy here.  I ask you to hear me out and decide calmly.  Your eyes and your wits will likely bear out the truth of what I will say."

Dracos

"Very well," Liandral says, looking at you curiously.

"Hum...where to start.  Perhaps best from what you've seen.  As I am told, you watched us fall in the ambush with the orcs.  Moments later, we stirred, apparently unharmed from the battle.  Both of these cannot be true at once though, as dead men don't generally walk about.  The fact of the matter is that, for better or worse, Sir Bloom, died there.  At the same time, he did not.  Through the intervention of powers well beyond my comprehension, I, was brought into him.  As were my friend Nathan was brought into Nathan."

Dracos hummed.

"You see, we were on a quest to protect our world and the people that lived in it.  In order to achieve this, we were told to brave several ordeals.  One of which was entering the depths of Hades, legendary realm of the dead, guided by a wizard of our own world.  While in the depths of Hades, he cast a spell to send us to face the trial of that realm and we awoke well...as Sir Bloom, confused and slightly disoriented surrounded by dozens of bodies."

Dracos paused a moment, observing Liandril's reactions.

Dracos

"I see," Liandral says slowly.  "That's ... very strange."

Dracos shakes his head glances at Rez.  "No kidding."

Dracos

Rez continues.

"We . . . well, we are those people, and at the same time we're not.  They're were our . . . counterparts, I guess, in this place.  And now that they've fallen, right now, we have to take up the mantle and . . . well, become them as much as we can.  To take them into ourselves."

"And right now, for us, this means we have to beat back the dreadmarch."

Liandral stares at you like you've cut his legs out from underneath him with an axe.

"Ah," he says after a moment.  "Are you sure it wouldn't be safer to go back to the Keep?"

Dracos laughs a bit.  "No, he doesn't mean me, you, and Nathan.  He means more in general.  How we see it is that in order to survive and accomplish what we need to do, our trial is to see to it that the dreadmarch does not succeed.  On top of this...we believe others have seen fit to sabotage it so they will.  That's why we're headed out to the storm-riders.  To make sure they arrive and help."

Dracos

"Ah..." Liandral says more quietly.  "Well ... then what next?"

"Well, first...what are you going to do?  You have the information to reveal us as not who we are.  Are you willing to help us out in making sure the Storm-Riders come and driving back the dreadmarch?"

"If so, we'll need your knowledge.  While we have the skills to imitate who we are, we don't know enough about what happened and who we will interact with.  Knowledge of the storm-riders and specifically my own fall would help greatly in the worst case."

Dracos

Liandral sighs.  "I'll help you," he says, shaking his head.  "As best I can.  That is my duty here."

"Thank you.  As you have already noticed, neither of us really knows what a torc is and what happened following the loss of mine.  Could you please tell me what happened there in detail?"

Dracos

"Hey, I do know what one is . . . and how about we talk while we walk?"

Liandral frowns.  "Your torc," he says slowly, as though sifting through a great many memories, "was golden ... two wolf-heads....  It was stolen when you were sleeping one night, but a woman, I suspect, though you never said specifically."  He shrugs.  "That's the best I can remember."

"That was exactly as Parthipan described.  Hmm.  It clicks more thoroughly together.  What happened afterwards?"  Dracos rose, nodding to Rez.  "Walking while talking would likely be wise."

Dracos

"When you didn't have it, you were called upon by a cousin of another family to display it ... to prove yourself," Liandral says slowly, squinting as if that helps him remember.  "Uh ... then ... when you didn't have it, Lord Markham took over, as the head of the second strongest family at that time."

"Where did he get the torc he wears now, or was another made for him?"

"Each of the six houses had its own torc at one time," Liandral says.  "Ah ... the Eagle torc was lost in the depths of a forbidden pass through the mountains by Hadrick Shuker."  He frowns, sorting through more of his memories.  "The Bear torc was lost in a siege a long time ago, when the clan leader was slain by soldiers of the dreadmarch, his torc stolen before it could be recovered.  Now, Lord Markham wears the torc of the Caribou house."

"Can you describe the torc of the Caribou house?"

Dracos

Rez grimaces at the mention of Hadrick's torc, but stays silent.

"Yeah.  It's two reindeer, hooves outstretched, charging towards one-another," Liandral says, nodding.

Rez hums.

"Liandral, who among the storm-riders would be wearing armour that's worked in gold and silver? I don't imagine there'd be many."

"That ... I don't know," he says, shaking his head.  "Storm-riders value functionality over presentation, traditionally."

"Can you describe lord Markham?"

Dracos

"I'm afraid not," he says, shaking his head.  "My memory in that area is a bit more vague...."

Dracos nodded, thinking aloud.  "We know there is someone wearing that type of armor who has my Torc who is among the storm-riders.  We also know that among them there is treachery afoot, but not by whom or how.  We'll have to keep our eyes very open when among them."

Dracos shook his head, continuing on.

Dracos

Liandral nods.  "I understand," he says after a moment.

You walk on, into the deepening darkness.  It's twilight when you decided to stop and rest, still not able to see the Storm-riders or the Dreadmarch yet.

"We want to get moving early.  So if there isn't anything you guys want to talk about, I'm just going to eat and get to sleep."

Dracos sat down, pulling out the rations they'd gotten and starting dinner.

Dracos

Yum.  Dry rations.

It's a sad, sad change after the comfortable beds you've left behind, but your cloaks do keep you warm.  Liandral ops to watch over the camp for the night, and wakes you up seconds before sundown.

You're rested, but the sight of the sun, nearly setting, puts you on edge.  You think that this land has strange things going on between it and the sun, and whatever's going on here, the loss of light will be a very bad thing.

"We should move," Liandral says somewhat anxiously.  "I do not think it will be wise to remain here much longer."

Dracos nodded, getting up, smacking himself a few times to get to full wakefulness, and getting the recaltriant rez up.

"Don't think, just move."


Dracos took a moment, glancing around and checking the map before continuing along their path, asking in a low voice to Liandril.  "What is it with the sun here?  Why does it stay up so long and why do I feel a slight chill in my bones at it setting."

Dracos

"That's beyond my means to know," the elf says with a shrug.  "But darkness brings ill tidings.  We should hurry."

With that, you set out in the fading light.  Just as the sun is setting, the final hints of the fiery orb passing beyond the horizon, you see a glimmer of reflecting sunlight ahead of you.  It looks like something metal.

Dracos blinks, focusing his eyes on where he saw the reflected light and heading towards it for a bit, trying to see what it was.

Dracos

As you get closer, you see exactly what it is; a whole bunch of guys in armor just like yours jogging through the snow.  They're headed approximately towards you.

Dracos quickly eyes them over, trying to estimate their hostility from their stances and facial expressions.

Dracos

They look pretty hostile, at a glance.  Generally, a living tide of men with an average height of six plus feet, armed, armored, and bearing down on you does not cause one to think, "Cuddly".  For what it's worth, though, none of them seem angry.

Dracos makes a guess and takes a risk, raising his arm in greetings, "Hail Storm-Riders."

Dracos

The entire group draws to a halt -- this is not an army, at a glance.  This is about twenty well-armed men, used to traversing this environment easily.  Behind them, you can see the bulk of the actual army, probably a good half a kilometer behind.  There, thousands more men are running, raising a cloud of powdered snow, like dust in a cold, white desert.

"Hail!" one of the men says, separating himself from the pack, and standing in front of the others.  He raises one hand in a fist, and smacks it into his chest, holding it over his heart.  "Sir Bloom?" he adds a moment later, squinting.

This particular warrior's armor is darker than your own, and you think that's significant of something, but you're not sure what.  His hair is actually short, but very, very, very curly, resulting in a nest of little coils that poke out from beneath his helm.

Dracos gestured to the others behind him to follow as he headed closer towards the warriors.  "Aye."

Dracos

"What are you doing here?" he asks, uncertainly.  "Is something at the keep amiss?"

"An treacherous wind blows.  Someone has been moving to sap the strength from our forces, to cut off those coming.  I decided to ascertain that nothing had befallen the storm-riders on their way here."

Dracos

The main body of the army is approaching, but slowing to a halt at the sight of the stopped advance party.  The guy you were talking to looks over his shoulder, and frowns.  "We should discuss, then," he says, turning back and nodding.  "Lord Markham will be interested in what you have to say, I've no doubt.  This way."

He strides through the ranks of Storm-riders.  There are several thousand men here, now that the army is close enough to be seen properly.

Dracos follows, showing no sign of hesistation.

Dracos

You're led past countless men in minute variations of your own equipment, all of them lugging heavy packs on their backs.  A few wave, or call out (not your names, just a general greeting) but your usher herds you past them as people begin to sit down and rummage for dry rations.

Once people begin to break, you can see further, and see that the rough center of this army is occupied by a number of wagon trains, the wagons heavily laden with other goods, the women, and the children.

Before you can investigate that further, however, you're led to a largish brooding man in darker skins than most of the others.  He wears a torc with two rabbits reaching towards one another, as though to grapple, about his neck. The armor he wears is of a higher gauge of steel than your own.

He blinks when he sees the pair of you, and his jaw drops before his expression melts into a boyish grin.  "Cousin Bloom!" he yells, running for Phil and attempting a bear-hug.  "All went well?"

Dracos grinned and reactive with instincts from a long time of dealing with family he didn't recognize within a first glance, grappling the man in a fierce bear hug for a moment before releasing him, "All went well indeed, better than expected.  How have things gone since I left?"

Dracos

He slaps your back companionably a time or two before he releases you, and then he sobers.  "We've been slowed ... foul weather at the outset.  We should have left sooner, we should.

"But, no use complaining.  We can use this moment of rest -- what news have you, to come meet us here instead of waiting in the warm comfort of Stormwall Keep's walls?"

"The dreadmarch is moving fast, and according to a lorekeeper there is treachery afoot meant to prevent you from arriving."

Dracos

Rez just stays quiet, slouching a few steps behind and to the side of Drac, casting his eyes around and getting a feel for the area.

"Treachery?" the man asks, as another man draws near, this one the same height, but in golden and silver armor.

"Indeed," this newly arrived personage says, frowning.  "I would know of this ... Sir ... Bloom.  You and Shuker were given a duty, and now strayed from the priestesses side?  I would know more of this."

This man wears a torc, as well, though his is two reindeer, charging towards one-another.

Dracos' voice was calm as he turned to the new figure, cooly taking in the armor. "Certainly, ... Lord Markham."

Dracos

"Yes, my Lord. Treachery," Rez looks contemplative, "Our own group was ambushed by orcs on our way to the keep.  Other groups, I hear, have been attacked in the same way and not all have prevailed."

"And from where Sir Bloom and Liandral" Rez indicates the elf, "saw the Dreadmarch, it appears to be early. We wanted to make sure they weren't in a position to cut you off, and perhaps to see just what force they bring to this battle before it arrives."

"To cut us off?" Caribou-torc muses quietly.  "This would be an ill thing...."  He eyes you with re-evaluating eyes.  Turning about, he snaps, "Find Tomas!  He said he'd scout ahead.  He will know if the Dreadmarch is out there."  A few Storm-riders scurry off to hunt down this Tomas character.

Turning back, he says, "Tell me of these others, while we eat."

"I am not even certain of names, just that several who should have arrived . . . haven't, My Lord.  Lord Kevin could give you the full picture better than I."

Markham looks unsettled at this.  "More of what we need," he replies sourly, as another man rushes up to meet the group, this one dressed identically, save, without a torc, and with long blonde straight hair.  Markham's is shorter and slightly curly.

This newcomer (Tomas, you guess) says, "My Lord?"

Markham gestures to the horizon, and says, "Have you seen any sign of the Dreadmarch while scouting?"

Tomas blinks.  "Of course not, My Lord," he replies, bowing.

"Well," Markham says.  "That settles that.  Have some food, some drink, then follow us to the keep.  You can take a wagon, should you wish it."

With that, Markham appears to consider the matter dismissed, and crouches next to Tomas, the two sharing out some dried meat and bread.

Dracos creaked his neck a bit, not liking this turn of events.  "I think I'm going to take a walk."  He glanced back to his, well, retinue, shrugging slightly and heading towards the outskirts of the camp, intending to scout around the place.

Dracos

"I'll keep you company," Rabbit-torc decides, pacing along with you, Nathan, and Liandral as you head towards the outskirts of the army.

There's not much to see, other than hundreds (thousands, actually -- probably about seven thousand fighting men, all told) of Storm-riders rubbing at their feet, and tossing small flasks of what's presumably alcohol around to one-another.  Beyond the perimeter of the army is just plain snow, unmarked, and unremarkable.

Your visibility is fading, along with the setting sun, though.

Dracos rubs his beard, heading towards the snow, eyes scanning for anything off, even the slightest bit.  Specifically looking to see if he can spot people hiding nearby.  He is a bit silent, but focused about his actions.

Dracos

You don't see anyone hiding on the horizon.  Chances are, of course, that if someone was out there, they'd be spotted by one of the other three or four thousand eyes nearby.

Dracos shook his head, glancing at his cousin.  "Probably just nerves."

Dracos

Rez raises an eyebrow.

"Nerves? You?"

Dracos laughed, "True, True.  Still I think we should be on guard tonight most especially."

Dracos

The guy with the Rabbit torc frowns.  "I'd say we should press on to make it in good time ... but Lord Markham has decided that we shall wait a while yet, instead."

Dracos frowns.  "I agree with you.  There is time enough for rest in the castle."

Dracos

"But, we don't make the choices," Rabbit-torc sighs.  "Well, I'll be with my family -- ask for me if you want anything."  With that, he gives you a wave, and then starts to wander off.

Dracos frowned, calling after him "Be on your guard tonight.  Just in case."

Turning to the others once he was certain that Fox-Torc was out of range, "I'm pretty certain there will be an ambush tonight.  The question is when and where along the camp.  I don't know the camp well enough to guess the best places to hit, something that'd slow down the storm-riders, take advantage of the fact most will be resting or asleep, and reduce the potential carryover to the fortress.  Someone should also keep track of that man...Tomas?  Hmm...If I was planning from that side, I'd have someone near the leader to kill or wound him early on and add to the confusion of a night strike.  Tomas would be in excellent position to do that, and should be watched."

Dracos hummed.

"So...Two of us scout around the perimeter, keeping an eye out for areas that would be easiest to hit and stopping where we find the best area to attack, as that will likely be the hardest.  Another stay near markham and tomas and keep an eye on the two."

Dracos

Rez also makes sure nobody's in earshot, then lowers his voice in reply. "I'm not certain, for the record, although it may well fit. Just remember that Tomas may not be the only guy with golden armour and matching hair.  Also, I don't know if I like this, it's a big freaking camp, and . . . well, if they do hit, it could be anywhere."

"I understand you not wanting to take this upstairs, but three people to stop an ambush that you suspect is meant to take out an army . . . that's pushing our luck a little far."

"That's not really as important.  I more think we should have someone near Markham anyway.  And I don't intend to be able to stop it...I think with what Parthipan saw, we're not looking at overwhelming numbers, so much as just enough to do a lot of damage with the storm-riders mostly resting.  If so, then stirring the storm-riders to action by providing notice that the ambush is starting could take a fair bit of the bite out of it.  I could possibly do that with my horn."

Dracos shrugged.  "Hmm...other ideas then?"

Dracos

"Yes. We go and try and convince Markham to continue moving tonight."

Dracos nodded.  "That should be tried first at least.  Liandril, sorry but...who is the 'cousin' we've been being friendly with all evening?"

Dracos

"I don't remember," Liandrall says apologetically.

Dracos nodded.  "We'll then, I'll just continue to wing it.  Nathan, I'm going to try something for a bit."

Dracos sat down, folding his legs and meditating, focusing on the feeling of telepathy and the general hint of power.  Reaching out with his mind he attempted to grasp it and send a message outward, ~Creatures of the forest, if you hear me, I request your aid.  Please share with me what you see around the forest and snow-fields.  Is there another group of men nearby?~

Dracos

You find the effort of reaching out with your mind leaves you reeling, and the only non-human beings nearby are the oxen-like creatures that pull the carts.  Evidently, Liandrall is close enough to human to render him invisible to your telepathy.

Dracos breathes, eyes widening slightly at the effort as he rests for a bit, giving his body and mind a few minutes to recover before standing up.  "Well...that didn't work.  Let's try convincing Markham to move."

Dracos, assuming there is no objections, starts heading back into the camp.

Dracos

Liandrall and Nathan follow you wordlessly, as you head back towards the center of the camp.  You wend your way between the wagons, where women and children tend cookpots and ladle out stew to the warriors, until you find Markham.  He's skipping the option of stew for the dry rations he ate earlier, and is speaking with Tomas in a low voice.

Their conversation stops when you come into view, and they both look at you expectantly, saying nothing.

"Greetings Lord Markham.  I am... concerned that it is a bad idea to camp the night here."

Dracos

Markham rolls his eyes.  "Since you're so worried, I'll scout," Tomas says dryly.  "I'll sleep when we reach the keep."  He turns to walk away.

Markham shrugs.  "As you wish," he mumbles, to no one in particular.

"I'll join you."  Dracos answered calmly, following Tomas.

Dracos

Tomas looks back at you, and shakes his head.  "No thanks," he says dryly.  "You'll serve better left behind."

Dracos raises an eyebrow, "You surely jest.  If what you said earlier is true, there is no harm in having a spare set of feet traveling beside you.  The only reason I'd be better needed here is if it is about to be under attack."

Dracos

"I can protect myself admirably without the need to babysit a drunken man, and a fallen king," he spits.  "Stay where you will cause the least harm, Phil."  With that, he whirls, and stomps away, shooting a glare back over his shoulder to make sure you're not following him.

"Protect yourself from what?  You have a sharp tongue for someone who should have absolutely no fear of a companion, but if you wish to play games, petulent brat, then Nathan shall accompany you."  Dracos' eyes were narrowed, slightly daring him to try and offer insult twice.

Dracos

Tomas stops, then turns around and glares at you.  "I won't have you or your madman dog follow me," he growls.  "I'm not so weak and infirm as to need your assistance to walk across the ice."

Liandral puts a hand on Phil's shoulder and murmurs, "It might be best to let this go."

Tomas spits again, glaring at you as though to dare you to press the issue further.

Dracos shakes his head, calmly gesturing to Nathan.  "Obviously you are hiding something.  There is no other reason to lose your temper so easily.  The reason you don't want to be followed is obvious and it has nothing to do with who does it.  And only a coward would badmouth the man who slew the beast that took down Hadrick Shuker."

Dracos

Tomas cracks his neck, and clenches his hands into fists, as though to reach for his sword.  "You have a big mouth," he says.  "The better to drown your sorrows in ale with, no doubt."  He looks like he's about to say more, but cuts off with a look over your shoulder.

Lord Markham stands there, arms crossed, and looking unimpressed.  "This is futile," he growls.  "Bloom, Shuker, go stay with the children, and stay our of the way of proper warriors.  You've brought enough shame upon yourselves by abandoning the priestess you were supposed to be protecting already; this is just foolishness."

"Does he look drunk? Do I look insane? It's a convenient reason to ignore the people who are talking sense, isn't it?" Rez snorts, "I retrieved my ancestor's blade, thank you very much.  The priestess is safely at the keep, where she is ready to perform her duties . . . unlike you."

"You both look madmen," Markham says succinctly.  "Now stay out of the way or I'll have you chained up like the beasts you act the part of."

Dracos shakes his head, leaving without comment.

Dracos

"Ha!" Rez snorts derisively, and walks after Dracos.

The pair of you walk away from Markham and Tomas.  The sun is ever-closer to setting, without completely immersing you in darkness.

All of the men immediately around you watch you, jaws slackened with surprise over what they just witnessed.  What they found amazing specifically, you're not actually sure ... but they look away when they realize that you are aware of them.

You walk until the men (and since you're at the border of the inner/outer camps) and women don't look at you with the same slightly disturbed expression.

When the party halts, Rez queries the other two in a low voice: "So what's the plan, then? I'm . . . sorta . . . tempted to follow Tomas on his scouting tonight and see if he does anything unusual . . . maybe I'm just being paranoid here."

"I think not," Liandral says very quietly.  "We're being followed ... and watched.  If we'd arranged things in advance, this would have given us an awesome advantage in terms of a distraction from the real scout.  I don't know what's going on, but I don't think I trust Tomas."

"You're right.  We should've planned better.   Being watched following him out would be worthless.  Leaving now would ...hm...  Start the hike back now perhaps?  Swing around in front of the group.  But even that would be watched."

Dracos

"It's hard to say ... pushing on leaves us tired, but with more strength than the rest, I gather.  We can rest, and be ready for what happens next, I suppose."

"We can't very well leave, and you're probably right," Rez nods to Liandral, "In that we can't really go and scout.  Best thing to do here, probably, is get some sleep . . . and deal with what happens, when it happens."

You find a spot to rest, and sleep like you did on your trip to the Keep the first time.

You wake up to the sounds of loud yelling from one edge of the camp, Liandral on his feet, bow in hand before you can finish opening your eyes.  When you stand up, you can't see what the source of the clamor is -- a lot of men near you have hands on sword-hilts, but left their weapons sheathed.  It doesn't appear to be an attack at least ... with the ever-dwindling sun about to set, it's hard to see that far, though.

Dracos quickly smacked himself awake, getting up and turning slightly to Liandril, "What's going on?"

Dracos

"So," Rez asks conversationally, as he sits up and shakes himself awake, "What are the bets that Tomas has, er, somehow failed to detect the dreadmarch and they're somewhere we weren't expecting them?"

"It sounds like there's a fight," Liandral says slowly.  "I'm not sure who with, though."

You proceed to the scene, and the men in your way move aside to let you through.

When you reach the center of the circle, you can see what was blocked from view before.  There's a small woman wearing a green robe with a blue hem, attended by three guards who are dressed rather similarly to how Bjorn was when you first woke up.  In front of her, bleeding and looking fairly wounded, is your cousin, the rabbit-torc guy.  Opposite him, Tomas is looking frustrated and angry.  Both men have swords drawn, though only Tomas's bears any blood on it.

As soon as Rabbit-torc sets eyes on Dracos, he relaxes, dropping his greatsword with one hand and letting the tip fall to the ground.  "Cousin," he calls weakly.  "I need your aid!"

Dracos doesn't delay, drawing his blade and getting between his cousin and Tomas in a defensive stance, "What is going on here?"

Dracos

Rez places his hand on his sword hilt, but stays on the edge of the circle - looking quickly around the circle to see everyone's reactions to the scene.

Tomas swears, and backs up a step, then throws his sword at you, turns around, and runs like hell.<@Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> {13}
<Dracos> roll 3d6 for luck Chibi-suu
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 {8}
Dracos deflects the sword out of reflex, but there's no real chance such a clumsily thrown sword would cause serious damage.

Stunned, the other storm-riders part to give Tomas room to run -- Liandral quickl steps up, nocks an arrow, and then turns to look at you quizically.

Rez doesn't hesitate, he immediately dashes after Tomas, drawing his sword as he starts moving.

"Take him down."  Dracos starts running after him, though trying to stay a bit to the side so not to block Liandril's shot.

Dracos

Liandral growls, as Nathan already got in the way of his shot, and throws his bow to Rabbit-torc, unsheathing his sword and following.

While he's running away, he fumbles in his belt pouch for something, and clutches it in a fist, and flings it off into the darkness to one side.

It takes you only a few minutes to run him down, not far outside of the camp, and take him to the ground; through the light of Liandral's fire-fly companion, you can see the reflective metal glinting of whatever he's thrown.

Tomas says nothing, lying face-town in the snow.  "Well," Liandral muses.  "That was interesting, wasn't it?"

A sizable contingent of Storm-riders (probably about sixty of them) comes after you, bearing torches so they can see.

"Hah. Yes."

Rez, leaving Drac and Liandral to keep Tomas pinned, goes over to pick up whatever it was that Tomas threw.

It's a torc -- actually, two of them.  They look solid gold, and like they're nice quality, too.  One depicts a pair of rabbits (you're pretty sure that the rabbit-torc guy was wearing it yesterday, come to think of it), and the other has a pair of wolves on it.

Rez hisses in surprise.  Not at the wolf-torc, which he expected, but the fox-torc.

"Sir Bloom?" he calls out to Drac, turning and walking back towards Tomas, "Why, this man seems to have had something that belongs to you . . ."

"Oh?"  Dracos looked up, spotting the wolf torc in Rez's hands and then promptly smacking tomas hard across the back of his head with his fist with the intent to knock him unconscious.  Standing up on top of the thief, he reached out, taking his torc, examining it, and slipping it on, breathing in.  Turning to the watching warriors, he considered.  "Take this pathetic wretch away.  I must see to my cousin."  Dracos took the other torc.  "Come on, Sir Nathan."

Dracos

They stare at you numbly for a moment, then nod, dragging the K.O.ed storm-rider away.  By the time you get back to your cousin, he's fine, apparently tended by the priestess.  "Ah, you got ... wait."  Dracos's cousin blinks in surprise.  "Your torc?" he asks in surprise.  "So he was the thief who stole it!"

Dracos nodded, turning to the priestess for a moment, "Thank you for tending to my cousin, mistress."

Turning back to his cousin, he handed him back the Rabbit-torc, "Indeed.  He will have much to answer for.  But now we must move.  It is not safe to stay here.  We must get back to moving to the keep.  Get everyone you can moving."

Dracos

"Well," a voice interupts, before anyone can do your bidding.  "This is ... an unpleasant surprise."  Lord Markham approaches the group, and frowns.  "My own brother a thief and a traitor to our people.  I think I was wrong ... but at the same, I am still king, now.

"But ... I would also be a fool to deny sense.  If the way is clear -- and I have no respect for Tomas's report, now -- then I concur, driving on would be for the best."

"The way is not clear," the priestess says, shaking her head.

"Explain," Lord Markham says flatly.

Rabbit-torc grunts, putting his torc back on.  "With pleasure," he says dourly.  "After the scene from last night where you called my cousin a drunkard and a madman, I decided that your brother was untrustworthy.  With your watchdogs' eyes on Phil, it was a small matter to slip into Tomas's footsteps."  Lord Markham's face tightens into an angry grimace, but he says nothing, allowing Rabbit-torc to continue.

"He walked out some miles from the force, and then stopped.  As you know, cover is scarce in this land ... but it was dark, and his armor -- gilded, to compensate for something else, I'm sure, reflected much more light than mine.  I couldn't discern his reason for stopping ... but I could see something in the distance that worried me greatly.

"The Dreadmarch is ahead of us, Markham.  They've cut us off, and we've no chance to reach the keep, now.  I watched the priestess here, and her entourage, come into sight, to where they could see the Dreadmarch.  We ... both Tomas and I ... know how to hide in the snow from the evils that lurk in the dark.  But she and her soldiers did not.

"A group of scouts, a good twenty strong, came away from the main force, towards the priestess ... why so few, I can't know, but that they were so few, I was greatful.  The priestess and her warriors fought as they could, a running battle in retreat.  I, as any man, could not stand by and watch, so loosed a battle-cry and drove after them.

"This startled Tomas, and I thought perhaps, perhaps he was merely stunned by the Dreadmarch, and that was why he said and did nothing.  I was sure when I heard him follow me that it was the truth.

"And yet, he did not go to aid the priestess, he cut me from behind, and then left me for dead, stealing my torc away in the process.  Luckily, for all of us, I think, Wardmaster Mattias was with them.  With his aid, they fought off the foe, reached me as Tomas vanished towards our camp again, and then caused all of us to vanish from the eyes of the Dreadmarch.  Thank you again, Wardmaster Mattias."

There's a shimmering in the air, and a man looking much like Parthipan, only perhaps in his late thirties, appears.  "You're welcome," he says quietly.  "We would not have been caught unawares ... yet, I detected some ward over the Dreadmarch itself concealing them from our sight.  And thank you, Lord Farwell, your aid was appreciated in leading us back here."

"Regardless," the priestess says, her voice soft and musical, but penetrating, "we are here, now, and without a way to reach the Keep.  The Dreadmarch is vast, and Gatemaster Eske has not appeared to evacuate our temple.  All who remain in this waste will likely fall, trapped as we are behind what is likely the greatest army of dread that this world has ever known.

"More pertinent than simple thievery is what we shall do.  We've no time to kill one-another, when there lurks in the darkness things all too willing to do the job for us."

As she finishes saying this, the last glimmer of sunlight vanishes behind the mountains to the south, and everything is abruptly plunged into darkness.

"There must be a way," Rez states flatly, "Mistress, Sir Loremaster, Lord Markham, do we have any way of contacting Lord Kevin?"

"Mmmm," Mattias muses.  "I can send a message," he says slowly, "to Radagast.  He'll know something is wrong by the fact that we're not there.  If Eske were here, we'd have far less of a problem ... but Eske is still missing."

"Hm. Wardmaster . . . forgive me for asking, but how many people can you hide from the view at any given time, and how close could those people come to the dreadmarch before they were seen?"

"The greater the distance, the more people I could hide," he says slowly.  "I don't think I could get everyone through the Dreadmarch, but if we were to stay a few miles distant, I could hide us."

"And there's no way we can move an army through the mountains," Rez muses, then looks up, "Are we surrounded by the dreadmarch, or are they between us and the keep?"

"They don't surround us, they're only ahead of us.  We've the freedom to hide anywhere in the wastes," Mattias says slowly.  "The ... the temples await Eske.  We could go there, and gather the remaining priestesses and warriors.  Also, they might have some supplies ... but I don't know how long we can survive out here."

"We've survived for ages without too much trouble," Farwell chuckles, before he sobers up.  "More to the point, though, we've got to figure out what we can do.  I've no qualms about throwing myself upon an endless sea of foe, if I can at least lessen their number.  But I don't wish to leave my wife and children undefended."

Markham nods thoughtfully at this.

Rez taps his belt.

"Have we got anywhere we can lay out a map?  Easier to work these things out if you can visualize them, I always thought."

Markham grunts.  "A map," he agrees.  "Let us go to the center of the camp.  Behind the shadow of the wagons, we can have torches lit."

After navigating through darkness (for most everyone else) you reach the center of the camp, where a few torches are already burning.  The priestess and her guards are following Farwell like puppies, stopping only when they reach the light.  They're already wearing their non-ceremonial gear, it appears.

Wardmaster Mattias follows a short distance behind.

Someone has set up a tent, which has a table and some chairs in it.  "Didn't think we'd be setting this up here," Markham grumbles, lighting a pair of lanterns inside.  There's enough room inside this tent for everyone to stand, including the priestess's retinue.

"It could be worse.  Hmm...there is something we're forgetting.  Pardon, but allow me to elaborate on just why we came out here initially.  We had successfully escourted the priestess Mirellea through to the keep and had been involved in attempting to figure out the numbers of the dreadmarch.  Our lorekeeper, Parthipan, had managed to cast a spell to listen and see upon the wind, intending to scout out the dreadmarch and where they were and their numbers.  Instead he happened upon a meeting between a storm-rider in golden and silver armor with blonde hair and another man in steel gray armor with flecks of flour in his hair speaking about hiding an army from the vision of the storm-riders.  The storm-rider was seen during this wearing my torc openly.  After hearing of this, we rushed over here to find him and attempt to prevent the treachery.  Unfortunately, it is already too late for that.  I think we should attempt to extricate the plans and arrangements Tomas had made with the man in gray armor from him.  Information about our enemies and any planned meetings could be useful."

Dracos rubbed his beard, looking over the map Rez had set down while he was speaking to see if he noticed anything they could take advantage of in terms of slipping past the dreadmarch.

Dracos

The terrain is not helpful.  The approach to the keep is essentially a funnel, and the Dreadmarch is blocking your approach.

"We could have Tomas questioned," Markham agrees wearily.  He steps out of the tent and barks a few questions.  Shortly thereafter, Tomas is brought before you, his hands bound together behind his back, and his feet bound together as well, limiting his pace to a very slow walk.

There's a cut on his face, and it looks like he's going to have a nasty bruise in the morning, too.

He says nothing, while Markham turns to Phil expectantly.

"This will be short Tomas.  Within the last two days you met with a man in gray armor out in the snow fields, planning what has happened.  I want to know who that is and what you arranged with him.  Everything you arranged with him."

Dracos

Tomas spits at you, and glowers.  Markham cuffs him, and he flinches, relenting.  "I had agreed to stall the Storm-riders until the Dreadmarch was in place," he says sullenly.  "Once we were cut off, we'd turn away from the Dreadmarch, which we couldn't hope to defeat ... and we'd retreat to the dark citadel, abandoned with all of the Dreadmarch out in force.  We'd make that our home, and there, I would slay my brother to claim the right to rule the Storm-riders," he growls, glaring hatefully at everyone, Markham in particular.

"Who was it that you made the agreement with?"

Dracos

"I never knew his name," Tomas admits.

Dracos stared a bit, stunned at the comment.

"...  You made an agreement to betray the storm-riders, steal my torc, Farwell's torc, and eventually your brothers torc, abandon the forces at the keep to the dreadmarch, kill your own brother in cold blood... and you did not even get the person's name to whom you were arranging this with?  How did you know to meet with him?  How did you arrange your meetings with him?  It can't have just been now.  How long has this been going on?"

Dracos

"Farwell's torc was lucky happenstance," Tomas says, causing Farwell to roll his eyes.  "He met me beneath the dancing lights a night after I stole your torc, and told me I could have more than trinkets ... if I was careful."  He shrugs.

"I've heard enough," Markham grumbles.  "Tomas!  I cast you aside.  You are a Storm-rider no longer.  No weapons, no food, and no friendship will be given to you.  Now get out of my sight, and never let me set eyes upon you again."

He blinks, as the guards cut his bindings, and hesitate, looking at Phil to make sure there's no more questions before they haul Tomas off.

"I have a couple more questions about this man, Tomas.  How did you know where to meet him, and were you going to meet him again?"

"Not until we reached the citadel," he says, shaking his head.

Rez growls in annoyance, and shakes his head to the men holding Tomas.

"Well, there goes that plan," he sighs after the men have taken Tomas away, "whoever his contact is, he's a cunning bastard."

Makrham grunts, and broods.  "What to do," he muses.  "We cannot take the enemy.  The keep is lost to us.  Have you any ideas?"

Farwell shakes his head, as Tomas is lead off.

"No simple solution presents itself, my lord." Rez cocks an eyebrow at Phil, then shrugs, "Myself, all I can suggest is to consolidate what we can, by going and emptying the temples as Mattias said . . . and hoping for an opportunity."

Markham grunts.  "The citadel," he muses.  "It's likely empty, now.  It's defensible, though.  Storm-riders have lost their lives for centuries, trying to breach its walls.  We could go there, and steal it away from the Dreadmarch.  Then, no matter what happens, we've somewhere safe to leave our children, and our women."

He rubs his chin, unhappy with the situation.  "If the defenders of the keep are successful, then we can remain in the keep, and destroy the remnant that attempts to flee there, thus ending the tyrany of the dreadmarch forever.

"If they are not, then we can remain alive there forever.  I do not think that the defenses of that place can be breached."

Dracos rubbed his beard, glancing over the map and seeing if he could see anywhere conviently labeled the citadel so that he could get an idea of where it was relatively without asking and giving away that he doesn't know.  "We need to coordinate with the forces at the keep.  While I agree, destroying the dreadmarch utilizing their own fortress is a good plan, but leaving those at the keep without our aid at all lessens their chances notably.  If though we can coordinate and have a group or two of us act as a rapid strike force along their flanks in concord with attacks from the keep on the front, we should be able to weaken the enemy lines."  Dracos shrugged.  "It would be extremely dangerous for those who stayed, and many of us, particularly the women and children, should still go to be safely ensconed at the citadel, but I think it would be better then simply abandoning the keep in it's entirety."

Dracos

No citadel appears on the map.  Presumably, it's somewhere further north.

"The citadel is a bad idea, a last-ditch plan," Farwell agrees.  "We need to find somewhere to take our women and children, somewhere safe, though.  Then, we need to find out what we can do against these bastards."

Rez hums. "Do we know just how many troops the dreadmarch has, by any chance?"

"A thousand thousand, and that times three," Mattias says, suddenly.  "I have informed Radagast of our situation ... and while contacting him, I became aware of something else.  Gatemaster Eske is near.  He is trapped on the border of a seal that encompases the entire mountain range that surrounds this place."

Rez's jaw drops and he just stares at Mattias for a second, before shaking himself back to alertness.

"Well, that changes things a little," he murmurs quietly.

Dracos raised an eyebrow at the number of soldiers, calculating.  "Is there any way we can disrupt this seal?"

Dracos looked about the map.  "What about the mountains?  Surely they could hide up there for months safely.  Do we have anyone who knows their paths and landscape well?"

Dracos brushed his beard.  "With those numbers, they couldn't have been bringing enough equipment to move how fast they were.  Either much of the food and siege wagons are still on the way or they intend to simply swarm over the keep in a day or two, thus not needing it.  In either case, it is good for us as it leaves a weak point to be exploited.  A swift moving party could strike, set fire to siege engines and food stores and disappear back towards the mountains, disrupting morale and weakening their food stores.  If it is extended logtistical lines, then we should find where they are coming from and cut them off."

Dracos

"The seal ... if I could be taken to the border, I may be able to break it," Mattias says.  "I know I could free Eske."

"None of us know the mountains well," Farwell says slowly, "but there ... there would be a good place to hide."  He nods at your last assement, but says, "And a larger party could overwhelm them powerfully, leave no survivors to spread the word, and steal what could be used elsewhere ... for ourselves, perhaps.  Our own stores of food are not much better than what we required to reach the keep, and perhaps a week beyond that."

"We will offer what aid we can," the priestess volunteers.  "However you decide that we may be of service to you."

"Thank you, that will be much appreciated."

"Loremaster, do you mean the border of the northern mountains?"

Dracos

"No," he says, shaking his head.  "It's south of here ... the great ring of mountains that encircles this place.  I don't know where Eske is trapped, but I only need to reach any edge of the seal to free him."

Dracos looked at Markham, since he was nominally in charge.  "Shall we split into two groups, Lord Markham?  One lead to the mountains with the women and children and a small group of warriors, the rest to stay here, organized to strike along the fringes of the enemy as we head generally south to the seal in order to free Gatemaster Eske?"

Dracos

"I'd rather we all proceed to the citadel," Markham says slowly, drumming his fingers atop the table.  "There, we can depend on the safety of its walls, without risking our lives needlessly.  And, of course, it's build into the very mountains surrounding us, so I've no doubt that Eske could be freed from there, as well."

"And what would we do when the dreadmarch returns successful?  Do you really thing we can handle such a gigantic force with all other allies already crushed?  Even if it is secure for us, it would be abandoning those at the keep to death."

Dracos

"But there would be no risk," Markham counters.  "What have those at Stormwall ever done for us?"

"Well, off the top of my head, they are about to sacrifice their lives in giving us the option to prance back like children and hide away from the dreadmarch.  Seriously, what brings such words from you?  If that was your mentality, why even begin a march to fight against the dreadmarch in the first place?  If those who fight against it are not considered our allies, then why are the lot of us out here in this dark place at all?"

Dracos

"We marched for one, very good reason," Markham says, looking at your sternly.  "For the protection of our people.  Staying still would have left us as nothing more than sitting ducks when the Dreadmarch approached.  We'd be slain, and our legacies destroyed.

"I've no great desire to see the people I rule crushed beneath the fist of any being so vile as those in the Dreadmarch."

"Neither do I.  But fighting a force that big entirely by ourselves is not wise, Lord Markham.  Sitting in the citadel would leave us well defended sitting ducks, but still sitting ducks.  Think about it, could you take the fortress with a thousand times our number here?  How about a thousand thousand times our number?  Even if all of us were there to defend it, it would merely be a holding measure.  Split in fragments, the dreadmarch would merely roll over us piece by piece and crush us individually.  If we are to have a hope at all, we cannot act simply out of fear for ourselves."

Dracos

He shakes his head.  "I will not condemn our people to an easy death.  I am still king, not you.  We set out for the citadel in two hours," he says, as though the conversation is over.

"I don't believe what I'm hearing.  A king guards the well-being of his people, but not just for the next season!  You would doom the rest of the world so that you can go and hide behind some large walls? HAH! You're doing exactly what your brother wanted the stormriders to do!"

Rez glares, visibly seething.

"Let me also point out that you're only king because your brother stole Phil's torc."

Dracos frowned, eyes narrowed.  "While I bear you no ill-will from that, as it was your wicked brothers doing, I see your course as madness.  If you seek to hide behind the title, then I see no other choice.  I challenge you for command.  I shall not let the storm-riders bury themselves in a vault and hide from the world until they die, alone and cowardly."

Dracos

"I don't have time to fight you," he says.  "You may run off and die however you wish."  With that, he strides towards the entrance to the tent, Mattias giving him a wide berth, and one of each of the three vassals conspicuously between the priestess and every storm-rider except for Farwell at all times.

"Oh, aye, you're more than welcome to be a coward, Markham," Farwell warns.  "But make no mistake, we'll not let you damn us all to a doomed life when we can still fight for that dim hope.  Your madness ends here, I think," he says, one hand on his blade.

Mattias blinks, and vanishes from sight.

Dracos shakes his head, thundering as he follows, his hand grasping the hilt of his blade in preparation. "HALT MARKHAM.   You cannot simply flee.  I will not stand by and allow your cowardice and foolishness to doom our people."

Dracos

Markham whirls around, just outside his tent, and draws his sword, backing away to give himself room to manuever.  Everyone outside of his tent clears out of the area, giving him space.

Farwell steps down to allow you to challenge Markham.  "Fine," Markham growls.  "Time is short, and you'll waste it with games, when we should be working to save our people, not chase some stupid heroic dream of conquering the inevitable."

<Brian> Okay.  You're currently standing in the snow outside of Markham's tent.  It's dark, but not too dark to see him and his sword, which glows in the reflected light from in the tent.  "Why do you persist in your foolishness?" he growls.
Dracos draws his blade. "It is not foolishness to choose a path of small hope over a path of certain death."
<Brian> "You seek to end life, when you should be saving it," he says.
<Brian> It's currently phase 0, you're both considered to have held actions.
<Dracos> "Wrong.  I seek a path that gives us a chance to live, instead hiding in fear until we are cut down like dogs."
Dracos prepares to defend, sizing up Markham, getting a feel for his movements, his general speed and flow of motion, his skill with the blade.
<Brian> "Enough of this!"  Markham moves to attack you.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=14 ]{14}
<Brian> You are missed.
Dracos swiftly moves to strike at Markham, swinging his blade hard and fast at the other storm-rider.
<Dracos> Roll 3d6 for I want blood!
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 for I want blood! --> [ 3d6=18 ]{18}
<Brian> Your sword flies out of your hands, and vanishes into the tent.
<Brian> Markham rolls his eyes.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=9 ]{9}
<Brian> The point of his sword is at your throat.
<Brian> "This game is over."
Dracos narrows his eyes, leaping backwards and to the side as fast as he can move. "Not yet."
Rez tries not to laugh, and begins to draw his sword. "Phil, you're never living this down."
<Brian> Please make a dexterity check.
<Dracos> Roll 3d6 for I miss my old dex.
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 for I miss my old dex. --> [ 3d6=10 ]{10}
<Brian> roll 1d3
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 1d3 --> [ 1d3=3 ]{3}
<Brian> You get a nasty cut that just misses your jugular as you roll away.  You think you can see your sword in the tent, though.
<Brian> Rez: Farwell grabs your arm and holds you back.  "Wait your turn, my friend.  Wait your turn."
<Brian> Markham scowls.  "I'll let you conceed here," he says, lowering his blade and watching you scurry into the tent.
Dracos moves backwards for his sword, grabbing it and calming himself, breathing hard.
<Rez> Rez puts his sword back. "Yeah, I know . . . dammit . . ."
<Dracos> "I refuse to bend to that, Markham."
<Brian> You're bleeding across your armor, but it doesn't affect your movement, at least.  Inside the tent, the vassals all have their swords drawn, watching you warily, and crowding around their priestess.  They don't stop you from getting your sword, though.
Dracos lifts his blade and prepares to have another go at Markham, making sure his grip is firm on the hilt so he doesn't have another embarassing and nearly fatal incident.
<Brian> Markham doesn't even raise his sword, merely waiting for you to approach him.
Dracos moves forward, striking swiftly downwards towards Markham's shoulder.
<Dracos> Roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=12 ]{12}
<Brian> You miss.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=16 ]{16}
<Brian> So does Markham.  "Maybe you won't drop your sword this time," Markham says in a bored voice, "but you'll still lose."
<Dracos> "Don't be so cocky." Dracos holds his ground, slashing horizontally at Markham.
<Dracos> Roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=11 ]{11}
<Brian> You miss.  Barely.
<Brian> "You're one to talk," he snorts.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=12 ]{12}
<Brian> He also misses ... barely.
Dracos doesn't even respond, focusing on following swiftly the attack and giving Markham little breathing room.
<Dracos> Roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=11 ]{11}
<Brian> You miss again.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=14 ]{14}
<Brian> As does Markham.
Dracos continues his attack, bringing his blade back in an upwards diagonal strike at Markham's torso.
<Dracos> Roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=13 ]{13}
<Brian> Miss.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=5 ]{5}
<Brian> roll 2d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 2d6 --> [ 2d6=9 ]{9}
<Brian> roll 1d5+2
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 1d5+2 --> [ 1d5=4 ]{6}
<Brian> Dracos, you take four body (after defenses) and 39 stun.
<Brian> The armor across your chest is broken open, you're on your knees, and you're DAZED.
<Brian> Markham waits for you to recover enough to climb to your feet before continuing.
<Brian> "Had enough?" he asks in a bored voice.
Dracos takes a second to recover before standing up, glaring something fierce at Markham as he lifts his blade, continuing the fight.
<Dracos> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=14 ]{14}
<Brian> You miss.
<Brian> Markham rolls his eyes again.
<Brian> roll 3d6
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Brian ... : 3d6 --> [ 3d6=11 ]{11}
<Brian> He misses ... but you think if he were paying full attention, he would have hit you.
<Brian> "Does this really need to go on?" he asks.
<Rez> Rez shakes his head and mutters to Farwell, "He's better than this, dammit, what's wrong?"
<Dracos> roll 3d6 for god dammit
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 3d6 for god dammit --> [ 3d6=10 ]{10}
<Brian> You hit.
<Brian> Roll your damage.
<Dracos> Roll 2d6+1d3 for I need some good news
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 2d6+1d3 for I need some good news --> [ 2d6=7 1d3=3 ]{10}
<Brian> Please roll 1d5+2 for your stun multiplier.
<Dracos> Roll 1d5+2 wipe smug grin off face please.
<Chibi-Suu> Them bones was tossed for Dracos ... : 1d5+2 wipe smug grin off face please. --> [ 1d5=5 ]{7}
<Brian> It'd take a lot more armor than he has to stay up after that.  Your attack cleaves through his breastplate, dealing a total of 5 body, and 54 stun (after defenses).  Markham goes down.

Farwell looks down at the fallen king, his blood spilling across the snow.  "Well," he says finally.  "I think we can agree that a man who loses his sword and keeps fighting is better than the one who goes down in a single blow.

"I find it symbolic, actually.  Markham wants us to hide, and we'll be crushed ... but Bloom, Bloom says if we lose our weapons, we don't give up, and we keep fighting, and by doing so, we win!"

A ragged cheer comes from the onlookers around you, waving their swords in the air.  Nodding, Farwell says, "I stand before him, and call him Lord Bloom, once more.  No more of the treachery that has brought us this far to carry us further!  Instead, we forge a new destiny!"

Rez joins in the cheering and sword waving.  'Cause, you know, he CAN.

"HAIL!"

Rez's cry is echoed again by more warriors.

This thread closes, and we move on to World Revolution (http://pishoque.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=34141#34141).