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Rise of the Runelords / Re: A tense exchange
« Last post by BioSpark on Today at 07:47:10 AM »
*Trigger warning for severe ocular trauma, folks!*

Chopper's Isle, on the outskirts of Sandpoint.  A lone orc, a species seldom found this near civilisation, kneels in the grass.  He is tired after carefully scaling the cliffs to reach this place but the solitude is important enough to make the effort.  He meditates, concentrating on the smell of the earth, the breeze on his skin, the roar of the ocean, the place of all living things in this natural world.  The first stars of the evening are barely visible.  He wonders if those mysterious points of light watch over him as he rests.  That would be nice.
He would feel relaxed if he weren't, desperately, trying not to think about someone.
A harsh, deep voice resonates within his fragile mind.  It is time.

"Ah, the haunted island where a loner began his path to the infamy of serial murder.  Very dramatic, very appropriate.  Well done, Tung!  Now, fifteen minutes remain."


"Why fifteen minutes?  Why is it dramatic?"

Why the ritual?  What purpose does it serve?  You gain no benefit from me injuring myself.  It will not make me a better fighter.  I will not worship you with more sincerity.  If anything, it will only serve to foster resentment.

"Resentment?  You think I have concern for your resentment?  No, Tung, I cherish it.  May it blossom into hatred.  Hate me, Tung.  Fear me.  Fear your god.  A fearful worshipper is one who will not stray.  This excercise serves a fine purpose, it proves your unwavering loyalty.  A lasting reminder of the time you pledged yourself, your entire being, to me.  Surely only a truly devout soul would go through with such a traumatic experience of their own free will?"

Free will!  You have never offered me such a luxury!

"But you do have a choice, dearest Tung.  Serve me or perish in confusion and despair, this was made abundantly clear.  I do not offer all my worshippers such mercy, o privileged one."

I... lack suitable tools!

"Tools?  I look upon an orc seeking excuses!  Tell me, what items do you carry now?"

My rope.  Bedroll.  An axe, club, gloves-

"Well there you go!  You have spiked gauntlets, have you not?  Consider yourself lucky, Tung!  Ha, why, many of your ancestors had to rely upon fingernails!"

I feel faint.  I... I can't...

"Ten minutes remain."

Will it hurt?  Do such organs have feeling?

"That depends on your stamina.  You surely have felt worse pains in your sad life.  Compared to some you have endured, it will be nothing."

Not every orc in the Serrated Fang tribe lacked an eye.

"Not ever one was equal.  Not every one expressed the venom.  Not every one was a warrior."

I was not a warrior!  I was an artist!  You drove me to it!

"AND I LACKED FOR A BETTER CHOICE!  They all perished, Tung!  You are all that is left of their proud legacy, this is why I have chosen you!"

I do not want to continue this tradition!


They would not want this!



Grant me your rage, Gruumsh...

"It will be done."

Tung's descent into mindless fury was always a complicated experience.  Usually it manifested as a loss of most senses.  It was simple to call upon, just focus for a moment upon injustice, upon sadness, upon the constant storm of repressed emotions within and let it all go.  Less an actual effort, more a cessation of effort.  This time was different.  He went back.  Back to a time many years ago when he first experienced raw, strong emotion.  The first day that Man visited the settlement.  He saw the pitchforks and the torches.  He saw hundreds of peasants, gathered from every village around the Devil's Teeth, arranged into a rough fighting force.  Utterly incompetent but strengthened by weight of numbers and whipped into a frenzy by righteous fury.  Not one of them had been so much as inconvenienced by the Serrated Fangs before.  This attack was inspired by fear and intolerance.

Tung was back in his childhood home, curled in a ball on the pile of animal skins he used to call a bed.  Men stood over him.  He could see the still-warm bodies of his mother and father by the door, their last acts in life to defend him as best they could.  The men laughed, they knew this one was small enough to overpower and to take.  He felt the ropes being tied around his wrists.  He felt himself being marched out of his home, still in shock.

Another place.  A village.  Tung never learned its name.  Locked in stocks in the village square in the cold and the rain, his only food was what he was pelted with by the braver youths.  Not fear within him this time but confusion and anxiety.  He didn't understand a single word that any of these people screamed at him but the intent was clear.  One word was repeated, the first he ever learned in Common.  Monster.

Nearer now.  Jimmy's circus.  Back in his cage, his home of more years than he could remember.  The actual days and weeks blurred into one indistinct mass but at least he was usually dry.  His once strong body now permanently altered by starvation and atrophy.  Would that he'd ever seen his reflection, he wouldn't have recognised himself.  There was Jimmy, the worst human he'd ever met, regarding him critically along with his aloof wife.  They were discussing how best to get a performance out of their strongman.  Jimmy suggests they cut his food allowance, reduce him fully to muscle and bone, move him to the freak show.  His wife argues that they already painted the "One-Ton, the living muscle" banners and it would be too expensive to rebrand him.  Besides, they already have an ape-man.  Jimmy reluctantly agrees.  No concern that his performer is clearly on the edge of starvation, just concern for money.  This was it, the first time that Tung felt the rage.  Not the first time he gave in but the first time he felt it.

"This is your weakness, Tung.  It is also your strength.  Use the experience.  Use the anger.  Let the anger use you."

He stood alone now.  The rage built.  A familiar battle cry, sad but defiant, emanated quietly from Tung's jaws.


"That's right."


"Let go!"


The world was reduced to shades of red and black, soundless and tranquil.  A fist, desperately seeking the enemy, drew forward.  There was no pain in this state, no fear, just a terrible duty to be fulfilled.  He was dimly aware of the fist, now proceeding toward him at speed.  A sharpened metal point caught the last light of a setting sun.  That point filled his entire world.

"But what would be the point of the sacrifice if it were easy, Tung?"

The rage fell away, was pulled away, colour and sensation returning to the world.  He couldn't stop his attack in time.  Tung felt everything just for a brief but all-encompassing moment.  There was a sudden crack of bone.  There was a quiet, wet sound.  Mercifully, he blacked out.

Some time later, he had no means of knowing how long, he awoke alone.  There was no pain but the world looked different.  Flatter.  He carefully reached to his left eye.  Nothing remained.  He'd done it.  He threw his head back and bellowed to the skies, consumed by fear and bestial anger.

"This is what it means to serve!  Arise, Tung!  ARISE, MY EYE OF GRUUMSH!"

For out of character info, Tung is now missing his entire left eye.  He does not want to talk about why but assures anybody who asks that he is fine.
The cavity has been cleaned by somebody but he does not remember tending to the wound.  He will buy an eye patch or glass eye if prompted but unless anybody mentions it, does not personally see why having a missing eye should be any kind of problem or anything to hide from polite company or even children.
This, again, probably isn't helping his natural lack of charisma.
Revolution / Re: A Doctor's daybook
« Last post by PaperWitch99 on December 11, 2018, 05:00:08 PM »
Friday 28th of August 2105

The more and more I look into this the more I sense something ary. I canít shake this feeling that David Harcroft is more than a servant for the Smedlingtons. From observing the smedlingtons at the docks, they donít seem to be the sort to conduct these kinds of experiments. However in my case anything is possible. Their social standing was poor indeed, only speaking to others if they had to. Even the man who was supposed to be under them was speaking down to them. Richard did say they were in desperate times, trying to convince people of the inheritance they were entitled to.

We need to try to uncover more about David Harcroft. It might lead to more answers instead of more questions for a nice change.

Our little group of revolutionaries made it back to the George Inn. Both Mouse and Richard donít seem their usual selves. Richard seemed lost in his own mind tonight, not like I have seen him in the past week where he seems to be watching our every move. I believed more happened tonight than they are both letting on. Maybe they will open up as time goes on.

Letís hope for a brighter tomorrow,

The Throne of Thorns / Re: Fireside chat
« Last post by The Dan on December 11, 2018, 04:59:48 PM »

Beat a dog enough, and it will raise its pups to bite at everyone, that's what I know. Someone came and wrecked their land and drove them out... So here they are, forcing their way into Davokar, killing clans and raising up towns and cities, adventurers and queens. Wrecking ours. Maybe. I don't know.

Makes me wonder who these dark lords are. Were they too driven out by a bigger dog? Is it all a great dance in a circle, and in time the clans will be forced on and drive out the dwarves, or whoever - or did Ambrians go delving after a Davokar of their own; trying to tame the earth and chain the wild; waking some buried god up, or pulling treasures from the earth, until the earth spewed up the dead to teach them a lesson.
The Throne of Thorns / Re: Korik Kalatra: Bio and Opinions
« Last post by Belzera on December 11, 2018, 04:56:06 PM »
Current thoughts on Characters

Gob: "Have to give the guy credit, he managed to murder the templar and even managed to frame him, impressive, smarter than he seems."

Ulavan: "He needs to shut his mouth before I shut his preaching lips up permanently, if he wasn't surprisingly useful right now things would be so much easier"


Mare-Cat: "Heh heh, stronger than 2 humans and a Changeling but still no match for me"

Mayor Nightpitch: "Seems like a no-nonsense sort of guy, although is he ill?"

Gadramon: "Which one was this one? Oh the talky one? Its fucking hard to get a read on someone who isn't speaking a language you understand, ask a better question! bah fine, seemed earnest enough and could talk for days, poor Crack-bones translating all that talk."

Eferneya: "So the Crazy herb one? really, she seemed alright, I guess she knows her shit."

Yagaba: "Gotta admit was surprised to see her in the flesh as it were, not as ascary looking as I expected."
Revolution / Re: All the news, that's fit to print...
« Last post by Captain Shortworth on December 11, 2018, 04:07:04 PM »
The Times, continued on page four

Multiple deaths at family home

Although the Metropolitan Police are not drawing any correlation to the death by smoke inhalation of Miss Hortencia Smedlington, two other deaths, only a couple of streets away, on the same night, has neighbors concerned for their safety.

Mister and Missus Hatch were found dead around midnight, as the police conducted their investigations by sending officers and constables to make enquiries with nearby residents. When they called upon the Hatch household, they report that only after sustained knocking was the door opened by Master Warren Hatch, the only child of the family, aged thirteen.

When asked about his parents, he lead the constable up to their room, inside of which was a horror show that the young lad may never recover from witnessing. Both of his parents had been brutally rent apart by many blades. Their faces, necks, and chests were covered in wounds, crisscrossing each other with ferocious abandon.

The Constable, himself a young man, was ill at the scene, and his superior officer spoke for him, describing a charnel house, with blood sprayed up against walls and even on the high ceiling and light fixtures, such was the violence of the attack.

At this time, they are looking for any witnesses, but with another investigation in place, hopes are dimming for any additional information.

Master Warren, though a minor, will look to inherit the family business; a glass blower and lens crafting warehouse that has been in the same family for several generations.
Revolution / Re: All the news, that's fit to print...
« Last post by Captain Shortworth on December 11, 2018, 03:58:40 PM »
The Times

Saturday, August 29th, 2105

Death and Destruction at the Smedlington's Manor House

Last night, when most folk were preparing for an evening in front of the fire, or already at one of the City's numerous and well appointed eateries, one or more shadowy individuals were abroad in one the more exclusive districts of London. Late evening last night, alarums were raised as smoke was seen pouring from the second floor of a well appointed manor house.

The staff remaining on hand were quick to rush to the defense of the other residents, with almost everyone escaping to safety. The oldest daughter of the house was rescued by a lady's maid, and although the son and parents were out of the house, the youngest daughter succumbed to the smoke and was pronounced dead at the scene.

Upon returning from a night of pleasure, Sir Reginald Smedlington and his wife Lady Katherine, were inconsolable. They heaped praise and promised due rewards for the staff that had rescued Angela, aged 14, but were in tears when presented with the body of their youngest, Hortencia, who was just seven years old when she passed away.

As well as promising a rich reward for any information that would lead to the capture of the arsonist, or arsonists, if more than one had worked together, they were pleased to say that there only son, Philip, aged 17, was still about on his apprenticeship, taking part in a "grand tour" of the myriad businesses that operate in London.

The Metropolitan Police were quick to the scene, and although the local Death Watch battalion stationed on the local walls had quickly brought the fire under control, severe damage was reported on both of the upper floors, and with risk of collapse, the family would be housed elsewhere until a full investigation and set of repairs could be carried out.

Initial findings seem to suggest two individual flash points for the blaze, with a home invasion being the supposed method of access. Detective Constable Briggs went on the record to say that while it was unusual for arsonists to work in pairs when setting fires for the thrill of it, if there were indeed two or more individuals involved in this crime, that there could be a different motive.

When questioned as to whether the murder of Hortencia could be a possible motive, Briggs was effusive in his mockery at such an idea, and refused to be drawn into continued conversations.

Sir Reginald, whose family own several properties in London, offered a reward of one hundred guineas for any information that led to an arrest and an execution.
Revolution / Re: The George Inn
« Last post by Captain Shortworth on December 11, 2018, 09:47:23 AM »

Right then, ya hoodlums, I've got a wife at home who hates me, but still expects me back. One more beer, then you're off!

[Like last time, you've got until 1600 to post last things in here, then I'm closing the bar, and we'll pick the game up tonight, starting on Saturday morning]
« Last post by Ant on December 10, 2018, 09:57:16 PM »

The problem is we have to sell any option twice, once to the robots and once to the humans...selling the war is easy, default almost.

After that it gets more difficult and frustratingly, the best to do it is Hernando but we need to keep him hidden...though if we can get some kind of portable Tri-D kit we could take him with us in that fashion maybe?

But whatever else we need the option we like so we can sell it. What do we want. What do they want. Where do we meet and how do we make it work?
Revolution / Re: The George Inn
« Last post by PaperWitch99 on December 10, 2018, 07:18:13 PM »


All we know is that they think they are being watched. Another group might be investigating them as well. All they should know is someone has been in that Lab. We have done nothing so far that should lead them back to us.
Revolution / Re: The George Inn
« Last post by Hunk of Huddersfield on December 10, 2018, 06:42:25 PM »


Well every building that we've stepped in so far has burnt. The warehouse, this house tonight maybe this is what our revolutionary tag is we burn everything we touch.
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