Original Submissions by FiveDisgruntledMonkeysWit of type 'Logs'
-
Ombaal
Added on Jul 28, 2009A Zalanthan murder mystery in the sands.
A Shady Oasis [NESW Quit]
Nestling within a natural depression in the barren landscape, this
oasis is both a change from the bleak surroundings and a haven for life. A
clump of yypr trees grows around the hot pool of water, the roots clinging
to the muddy banks as they support the straight brown trunks. Shrubs of a
few varieties grow around the pool as well, providing shelter for the
insects that live here. The blazing crimson sun hangs far above, the
fearsome heat absorbed and radiated by the pool, though the trees provide
shade all around it.
A grey stone monument of some kind has been erected at one end of the
pool, a sign that someone has been here before. The old remains of earthen
walls form slight ridges to the north, east, and south of the oasis, and
beyond them, the ground is barren.
A shadow falls over the area, driving off the uncomfortable heat.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf lies crumpled on the dusty ground.
A shimmering dusty hammer of white flame is floating here.
The body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf lies crumpled on the dusty ground.
A burned dusty backpack of leather lies here.
Stuck blade first into the mud is a durrit-claw skinning knife.
Sprinkled over the offerings, a sprig of aromatic leaves lies here.
A broken obsidian dagger is here , thrust into the earth.
A small red fruit is here is resting here beside a root.
Set atop the others, a pungent root rests here.
A pungent root is here before the monument.
A mangy hide lies here.
A couple of gith skulls are here.
Some gith skulls are here resting below the monument in a pile.
Left beside the monument is a large crock of
Silt Sea In the mud is a small stone shotglass.
A couple of short lengths of bone are here arranged around the monument.
A long length of bone is here arranged around the monument.
A piece of bone is here arranged around the monument.
A pile of bone lengths is here at the base of the monument.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>You pick up a shimmering dusty hammer of white flames.
It is very light.
>You start cleaning.
>
You brush the dust off of a shimmering hammer of white flames.
>
The sun reaches its highest point in the sky.
Lirathu slips noiselessly from the sky.
>Staring down at your shimmering hammer of white flames, you ask, in allundean:
"What happened here?"
>Looking at the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf, you say, in allundean:
"Asling..."
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap has arrived from the north, jutting through the trees.
>Looking at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask, in allundean:
"And who is this?"
>You look down at the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
The frame of the figure before you stands lean and slender, his body
supported by worn musculature. His skin is similar in tone to that of silt,
worn rough and thick by the sands and rays of Suk-Krath. Dusty grey hair
falls about his shoulders in a thick mane, grains of sand coating its wild
locks. Upon his face a deep, thick grey beard grows long, unkempt and
dusted. His features are worn and rough, bushy eyebrows lending a gruff
appearance. Large, oval orbs, mixed in various greys the colour of granite,
gaze out from wide cheekbones.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is in excellent condition.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap's head glows dimly red.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap's body is covered with a pulsing yellow aura.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap is using:
<worn on head> a dusty brown sandcloth turban
<worn on face> a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap
<slung across back> a dusty long bone-headed spear
<worn across back> a dusty leather backpack
<worn on left shoulder> a dusty golden-eyed, crimson-winged hawk
<worn on arms> a dusty pair of reinforced canvas sleeves
<worn around wrist> a dusty goudra-leather wrist-guard
<worn around wrist> a dusty goudra-leather wrist-guard
<worn on hands> a dusty pair of spiked climbing gloves
<worn around body> a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak
<worn on legs> a dusty pair of rough canvas pants
<worn on right ankle> a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on left ankle> a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on feet> a worn out dusty pair of carru hide boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap skids to a stop, pausing before the bodies.
>Pointing at him, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Qeyne, do you know what happened here?"
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in an unfamiliar tongue:
"nu, taou oue, i'du coev oiei oceh yiq priotex, e coioq oh zaer ocl y paou-vyeonej owa ceaj iaaen oy letecie ar uki jfogypuw, orq iufuhoayd"
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"No, pure one, I've just come from our grasses, a group af muls and a fyne-touched one laid waste to several of the children, and Razorleaf."
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap sighs deeply, gazing down at the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf and the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with a sigh.
>Furrowing his brow, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Muls?"
>Pointing at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Do you know this one?"
>
Crouching down near his dusty leather backpack, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Perhaps some fire-touched?--Aye stump-bzeeds, nearly killud me, but I fled into the thorns"
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap clicks his teeth, gazing down at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"I've seen him not."
>
Lifting his granite gaze, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks up at you.
>Holding your shimmering hammer of white flames aloft, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"I found this next to the bodies..."
>
The wind grows weaker.
>
Frowning deeply, extending a hand, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"May I see it? I shant hold it long"
>
Dipping his hand down, drinking deeply, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap drinks muddy water from the hot, muddy pool.
>
Clicking his teeth, gesturing to the fiery bludgeon, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"I've seen this hammer before."
>Dropping your shimmering hammer of white flames into the mud, where it begins to sizzle and hiss, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Very well. But I'll need to take it back to my people. There's much to be learned from it."
>You drop a shimmering hammer of white flames, which falls to the dusty ground. Shown to the room as:
A shimmering hammer of white flame is floating here.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grunts in mild surprise as a shimmering hammer of white flames begins to float, rising from the mud.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap crouches down, pursing his lips as he scrutinizes the hammer.
>
Tilting his head curiously, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"Did not Light Touch buar one of tsese?"
>Eyes darting from a shimmering hammer of white flames to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"This fiery hammer... the burned backpack."
>Speaking to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask, in allundean:
"Could you have been Bahak?"
>With a shrug, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"It's possible. The hammer, in and of itself, is nothing spectacular. It's just strange that it's here, is all."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf reaches down, scooping up a shimmering hammer of white flames.
You pick up a shimmering hammer of white flames.
It is very light.
>Squinting at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"I wish I knew who you were... everything would be much clearer."
>
Sighing softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Whisper will know, I'll seek him when he returns from txe womb."
>
The wind grows weaker.
>Arching a brow, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"The womb?"
>
The mighty sun begins to crawl across the western sky.
>
Nodding his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Where the children sleep in the grasses."
>Frowning, you ask the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"I wasn't aware that he left for the grasses. But he's returning, yes?"
>
Nodding his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"He will, the journey is long for him, longer for me as ma feet are not as swift and I refuse to defile myself by riding a beast."
>
Lifting a hand, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"But he will return."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf nods once, taking a seat on the ground.
>You sit down and rest your tired bones.
>
Pursing his lips, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Perhaps the earth can speak of what happened here."
>Rubbing his forehead, you say, in allundean:
"Do you know how to get ahold of any Soh? They will no doubt want to recover Asling's corpse."
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>
Shaking his head, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"If you cannot find their mind, I'd not tread near their camps myself. I'll peturn shortly"
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap kneels down, resting his hands upon the earth, chanting softly.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap utters an incantation.
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap suddenly dives to the ground, and disappears.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grunts in response, rubbing his forehead.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You suffer from use of the Way.
You are unable to reach their mind.
>You stop resting, and stand up.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap pokes his head through the ground, and rises up to the surface.
>
You notice Sun Runner tattoos on the corpse of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
Shaking his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"The earth us quiet now, it suems."
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap kneels down before the monument, hefting his dome-shaped dorsal ridge above his head.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap arranges his dome-shaped dorsal ridge.
>
Plunging it into the soft soil before the monument, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap drops his dome-shaped dorsal ridge.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf frowns deeply.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap scoops up a handful of earth, chanting softly as he lets the soil trail through his fingers.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap begins a spell, and the earth trembles in response.
>You stop resting, and stand up.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf rises slowly from his seat, approaching the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf and kneeling beside it.
>In the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf (here) :
a dusty drab, weathered stormcloak
>
The wind grows weaker.
>
Canting his head aside, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"Do you need help, pure-blood? To cerry the body elsewhere?"
>Pushing away a fold of the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's cloak, you say, in allundean:
"Sun Runner tattoos... he is blood."
>
The late, red sun descends toward the western horizon.
In a sullen red glow, Jihae begins to slip from the sky.
>Feeling frustrated, you think:
"What happened here!?"
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap casts his glance aside, lips curling into a frown.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf smooths the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's clothing, hanging his head briefly.
>Quietly, you say, in allundean:
"I don't know this blood personally, but he is Sun Runner."
>Rising to his full height, you say, in allundean:
"I must take him back."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf has arrived from the west.
>
Nodding his head softly, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"We share blood, pure-cousin. Would you care for help?"
>You look up at the sinewy, crimson-locked elf.
Long dark crimson dreadlocks fall down against his shoulders. His face
is covered in large scars that form a -X- in the middle of his nose making
their way outwards. His eyes are slanted like all elves with black coloring
to them with silver specks. His ears are pointed slanting at angles against
his head. His body maintains a sinewy build to it and is covered in various
scars that make their appearance against it. His skin is leathery in
appearance but holding a dark bronzed color to it from the harsh rays of the
zalanthas sun.
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is in excellent condition.
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is using:
<worn on head> a bloodied beige dujat-chitin helm
<worn on face> a carved carru-skull face-guard
<worn around neck> a bloodied braxat hide collar
<worn about throat> a stained necklace of yellowed fangs
<worn across back> a gwoshi-hide knapsack
<right shoulder> a blood-red claw tattoo
<left shoulder> a blood-red claw tattoo
<worn on arms> a bloodied pair of carru leather sleeves
<worn around wrist> a spiked, chitin bracer
<worn around wrist> a spiked, chitin bracer
<worn on hands> a bloodied pair of gith-toothed gauntlets
<secondary hand> a large spiked wooden shield
<worn around body> a bloodied hooded, bamuk-hide cloak
<worn on legs> a bloodied pair of soft, carru-hide leggings
<worn on right ankle> a sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on left ankle> a sandcloth ankle wrap
<worn on feet> a bloodied pair of scabrous, jakhal-hide boots
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
>
The ground begins to rumble and shake.
>
Shifting his gaze, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks up at the sinewy, crimson-locked elf.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf runs west.
>To the west an old
Crumbling Road snakes slowly across the hot, rocky ground.[Very far]
Nothing.
[Far]
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is standing here.
[Near]
Nothing.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf glances at the ground, then looks west, confused.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap glances about, crouching down to touch his hands to the earth.
>Nodding once, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Yes. Help me. It is dangerous here."
>You lift the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with all your strength.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf half rises from the ground.
>
The air around the monument goes dense, then sputtering noises issue from the monument as the ground continues to rumble.
>You stop lifting the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf settles to the ground.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap lifts his gaze, granite stare rising to the monument.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf attempts to lift the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, then quickly drops it as the trembling worsens.
>This pyramidal monument, perhaps six cords in height, appears to have
been built atop an inlet at one end of the muddy pool. The surface is made
from unusually smooth, light grey stone. The only marks upon it appear to
be lines of dust left by the wind. The faces of the pyramid face the four
cardinal directions: north, east, south, and west.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap touches his hands to the earth, eyes drifting closed.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>
You have a startlingly clear vision of standing at this spot with the corpse you are holding, standing next to you is <sdesc redacted>.
>
Speaking softly, hands grasping at the soil, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"Mother, you trembme, what has transpired?"
>
The trembling subsides as the sputtering noises from the monument die.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grips his forehead suddenly, yelping in surprise.
>
Shifting his gaze, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap looks up at you.
>
Eyes opening, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What is wrong, pire cousin?"
>Mumbled, you say, in allundean:
"A vision... <name>."
>
Quirking his brow, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What of <name>?"
>The gaunt, white-haired elf glances around, peering into the underbrush.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap's granite gaze shifts from the monument to you, regardin you quietly.
>Excitedly, you ask, in allundean:
"<name>! He was standing right here... I saw him! Where...?"
>You ask, in allundean:
"What does it mean?"
>
Casting his gaze about the oasis, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"I saw him not, pure cousin. I saw the Soh run, but it was not <name>. Are you sure he was here?"
>
The wind strengthens a little.
>Harshly, his words practically a hiss, you exclaim to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Yes I'm sure!"
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap purses his lips, eyes travelling over the copses of yypr trees.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf falls silent, pressing his fingers against his forehead.
>After a moment, the gaunt, white-haired elf draws in a deep breath, then releases it.
>
Gesturing to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap says, in northern-accented allundean:
"Come, pure cousin. Let us lake his remains to your people."
>Nodding, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Yes. Here, help me."
>
Slipping his hands beneath the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's shoulders, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap strains as he lifts the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf half rises from the ground.
>You lift the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with all your strength.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf lifts off the ground.
>
Something doesn't feel right about moving this corpse.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap falls in behind you.
>
The sun sinks into the rocky terrain to the west.
>
It seems somehow linked here.
>Quietly, you say, in allundean:
"Wait..."
>
Tilting his head curiously, shifting under the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's weight, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What is it?"
>Sharply, you say to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"Off! Off! Don't touch it."
>You stop lifting the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf half rests on the ground.
>
The very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap stops lifting the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
The body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf settles to the ground.
>
Eyes wide, casting a curious glance, the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap asks, in northern-accented allundean:
"What of it, pure cousin?"
>The gaunt, white-haired elf shakes his head, clasping a hand over his mouth as he regards the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>Shaking his head helplessly, you say, in allundean:
"Something doesn't seem right. Something isn't right."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf paces around the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, looking aggravated.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf has arrived from the west.
>You think:
"I know I should bring this Runner back to my people... but..."
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>Anger filling his voice, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf exclaims to you, in allundean:
"What have you done!"
>Simply, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I haven't done anything."
>
Eyes filled with rage gesturing to the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"Why is he dead?"
>Quietly, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I... I don't know."
>
Pacing back and forth along the grounds near the hot, muddy pool, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"My cousin is murdered and you have nothing to do with it?"
>Gesturing toward the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"This one is Sun Runner. We have both lost kin today, Soh."
>
Gesturing to the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks, in allundean:
"How come the earth shook? Were you not planning on using your taint against me?"
>
The night has begun.
>You don't see that person here.
>Darkness
Total darkness surrounds you, preventing you from seeing anything
at all. You have trouble telling where to put your feet when you walk.
>Flames erupt in response to your summons.
>
With a snarl and a low guttural growl, a male voice asks, in allundean:
"What has taken place?"
>
You utter the incantation.
Ok.
You open your hand and conjure a shimmering ball of red light.
You toss a shimmering ball of red light into the air, where it assumes orbit around your head.
The area is filled with a red light.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"If you know what has happened, tell me! "
>A flare of red light from his hand illuminating the area, you say, in allundean:
"I do not know. All I know is that I came here, found these bodies... and then had a vision."
>
Circling around you and the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"Then tell me why the ground shook when I first came?"
>Twisting his neck to look directly at the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I do not know why the ground shook. But as it shook, I had my vision. I saw <name> standing beside the bodies here."
>
Waving a hand absently in the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap’s direction, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"He had nothing to do with it?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf looks down at the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf starts cleaning.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf dusts himself off.
>Nodding gravely, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"If Qeyne had done it, I would've sensed it. And besides, Qeyne came here even after I did."
>Gesturing toward the monument as he trails off, you say, in allundean:
"I believe it came from..."
>
Eyes filled with rage as he still continues to circle, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"You were both here, Runner, when I came... I found my cousin dead. What is to make me believe that you did not kill him and the White Rantarri?"
>Blinking, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"W... wait."
>Pointing at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"This is the White Rantarri?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf breathes heavily and turns to you, his lip curling upwards into a sneer.
>
Walking about with quick movements, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"It is..."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf crouches down and looks for tracks.
>Laughing abruptly, you say, in allundean:
"Then there is your answer! I could not have killed the White Rantarri even if I wanted to. I would be turned to dust."
>
Yelling loudly, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf shouts, in allundean:
"WHAT IS IT THAT YOU SAW THEN? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY COUSIN?"
>Shaking his head as he looks down at the ground, you say, in allundean:
"You must believe me, Soh. This was not me, but something greater."
>
Your ball grows very dim, its energies ebbing.
>
Breathing heavily as he walks around you and the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"What does your friend have to say for himself?"
>Shaking his head, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"He is no friend of mine. Qeyne can speak for himself, if you put questions to him."
>
His lip curling upwards, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap, in allundean:
"What did you see?"
>Feeling annoyed, you think:
"Stupid, shouting Soh..."
>You think:
"What happened here!? What killed the White Rantarri?"
>
A tear falls down from the sinewy, crimson-locked elf’s eye as he continues to walk around you and the very short male wearing a dusty thin, grey-sandcloth facewrap in a quicker, more aggresive manner.
>
Water bubbles up through the mud, adding to the pool.
>
A whining noise issues from the vicinity of the monument.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf makes his way over to the monument.
>Watching the monument tensely, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"See? Watch and listen, Soh. Something greater than us is at work here."
>
Calling over his shoulder, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"What is it though?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf draws a bloodied short, barbed zerka.
>In a mystic, quiet tone, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I do not know. But it is trying to tell us something."
>
Calling over to the monument, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks, in allundean:
"Who goes there?"
>
Your ball goes out.
The area is enveloped in darkness.
>Flames erupt in response to your summons.
>
You utter the incantation.
Ok.
You open your hand and conjure a shimmering ball of red light.
You toss a shimmering ball of red light into the air, where it assumes orbit around your head.
The area is filled with a red light.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says, in allundean:
"Something has been done here. Blood has been shed and I mean to find out the meaning of it."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf walks over toward the monument, the red glow of your shimmering dim ball of red light's washing over it.
>
You have a vision of yourself cutting out the heart of the corpse of the ritually-branded blonde-dreadlocked elf and eating it, then setting the corpse on fire.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf begins to walk with you over to the monument.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf gasps suddenly, clutching his forehead.
>
Calling over loudly to monument, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks, in allundean:
"Who or what goes there?"
>The gaunt, white-haired elf's steps slow, then stop, his attention drawn to the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>Reaching toward him with a trembling hand, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Soh... what is your name, Soh?"
>
Pacing back and forth before monument, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"Slaa Imbia... the elf you see there is my cousin..."
>Nodding, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Yes... I knew Asling. Killed many gith... strong against the Dark Spirits."
>Urgently, imploringly, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Listen to me, Slaa. I did not kill anyone here today. You must trust me in this."
>Speaking quickly, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I've been having visions ever since I came here. I can't explain them."
>You say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"But I know what I have to do, and I may need your help."
>
His breathing still heavy, his voice beginning to show pain, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"I do believe you...."
>Sighing in relief, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Good... good. Here is what we must do..."
>
Your ball grows dim.
The wind strengthens a little.
>Gesturing toward the darkened oasis, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"We must not move the body of the White Rantarri. It is linked to this place, somehow. I believe the White Rantarri awakened this monument. Whether that is good or bad, I do not know."
>
Looking over his shoulder, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"The White Rantarri will return... do not doubt that. He is not meant to be slain until..."
>Furrowing his brow, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Until what?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf bites his lip, shifting his gaze back to the monument.
>
The immense sun rises up over the Shield Wall in the east.
Jihae rises, its red light gleaming above the sands in the southeast.
Lirathu rises, its pale light gleaming above the sands in the southeast.
>Watching him intently, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"What? Did you have a vision, too? What did you see?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"I saw a vision of you performing a fire on the bodies... did you not see it as well?"
>Nodding emphatically, you exclaim, in allundean:
"Yes! Yes! I saw a vision of me performing the Ombaal!"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf paces back and forth, his eyes narrowing as he turns his head to the monument.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"The what?"
>You say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"A ritual. Returning their bodies and souls to the sun."
>Pointing at the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"I must build a pyre for the White Rantarri. I must do it here and now. I must eat his heart, and put flame to his body."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf jaw clenches as he looks over to you.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf asks you, in allundean:
"What of my cousin?"
>Shaking his head, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Your cousin was not in my vision. Was he in yours?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf shakes his head at you as he looks over to the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf. His eyes fill with tears briefly.
>
Your ball grows very dim, its energies ebbing.
>In calm, soothing tones, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Then that means you should do with him as the Soh do. Mourn over him in the Soh way."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"Do what you must with the White Rantarri... I will take my cousin afterwards..."
>Nodding, you say to the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"Thank you, Slaa. Thank you for your wisdom and understanding."
>Turning to face the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"Now..."
>Shaking his head solemnly, you say, in allundean:
"I've never performed an Ombaal before. And certainly not for one like the White Rantarri."
>
Calling over his shoulder as he moves to take a seat next to the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"Do what you must... I saw you burning his body with your flames."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf sits down to rest.
>Nodding, you say, in allundean:
"Yes... but I must first eat his heart."
>You unsling a sapphire-set, obsidian short sword from your back.
>Mystically, holding his sapphire-set, obsidian short sword from over the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"White Rantarri's heart, on Many Faces Sejah's sword."
>You say, in allundean:
"I do not know why I was chosen to consume your flame, Rantarri, but I am honored."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf grabs the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf resting his body onto his lap.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf plunges your sapphire-set, obsidian short sword into the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>Calling over his shoulder, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"A knife, Slaa. Do you have a knife?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf gets his dusty durrit-claw skinning knife from his gwoshi-hide knapsack.
>
Your ball goes out.
>
Tossing it over his shoulder, the sinewy, crimson-locked elf gives you his dusty durrit-claw skinning knife.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf grunts, shoving your sapphire-set, obsidian short sword through the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf's ribcage. Bone and flesh breaks before the blade, opening up the chest cavity.
>
Someone gives you his bloody heart.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf pries the heart free from the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf with your dusty durrit-claw skinning knife, grasping it with bloody hands.
>You are carrying:
a bloody heart
a dusty durrit-claw skinning knife
a shimmering hammer of white flames
a triangle of rough red sandstone
>This used to be the heart of a living being, but it has now been torn from
the creatures chest.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf opens his mouth as if to say something, but then simply shakes his head, and begins eating your bloody heart raw.
>You eat your bloody heart.
>
The sun begins its long voyage across the heavens.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf chews the heart slowly, reverently, blood dripping onto his bare chest with each grisly bite.
>You sling a sapphire-set, obsidian short sword across your back.
>You drop a dusty durrit-claw skinning knife, which falls to the dusty ground. Shown to the room as:
A dusty durrit-claw skinning knife is here stained with blood and gore.
>You stop using your leather waterskin.
>To the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"Rantarri, I have no liquor here, only ale. I know no stories from your life, only legends."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf dribbles brown ale from your leather waterskin onto the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf as he speaks.
>Quietly, you say, in allundean:
"I feared you, yes. The entire 'Pah feared you. But you gave yourself for us. You sacrificed everything, and it is an honor to bring you back to the purging light of Sejah. The brilliance of Bahak. The peace of Situn."
>You pour a leather waterskin into the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
The wind strengthens a little.
>You hang your leather waterskin on your thick leather belt.
>Waving his hands over the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf, you say, in allundean:
"I give to you, then, the only gift I have. My fires. Farewell."
>The gaunt, white-haired elf chants mystically for a few moments. The air around him grows hotter and hotter.
>Suddenly, twin jets of flame erupt from the gaunt, white-haired elf's palms, slamming into the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf.
>
Three brilliant blue rings of flame jet out of the monument towards the red orb of Suk-krath.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf turns his attention suddenly to the monument.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf continues to chant, walking around the body of the ritually-branded, blonde-dreadlocked elf in slow circles, scorching it again and again. As he completes one revolution around the corpse, he turns to watch the monument.
>Smiling with bloody, gore-caked lips, you say, in allundean:
"It is done. The White Rantarri has returned to the sun."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf rises from the ground, and clambers to his feet.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf says to you, in allundean:
"For awhile at least, Runner. He'll be back. No one can slay him except..."
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf stops using his large spiked wooden shield.
>Turning to face him, you ask the sinewy, crimson-locked elf, in allundean:
"You keep saying that, Slaa. Except what?"
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf sheathes a bloodied short, barbed zerka.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf strains as he lifts the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf.
The body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf half rises from the ground.
>
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf stealthily moves west, dragging the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf behind him.
>To the west an old
Crumbling Road snakes slowly across the hot, rocky ground.[Very far]
Nothing.
[Far]
The sinewy, crimson-locked elf is standing here, lifting the body of the charcoal-skinned, male elf.
[Near]
Nothing.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf stares west, his brow furrowed.
>The gaunt, white-haired elf watches the remnants of the corpse smolder for some time.
>
The burning sun rises high into the sky, searing the earth.
A Shady Oasis [NESW Quit]
Nestling within a natural depression in the barren landscape, this
oasis is both a change from the bleak surroundings and a haven for life. A
clump of yypr trees grows around the hot pool of water, the roots clinging
to the muddy banks as they support the...
Continue Reading...Mercenaries
Added on May 1, 2007When is a mercenary not a mercenary? When he works for Kurac, apparently.
A young man in dire need of food and 'sid makes his way to Luir's Outpost, following rumors of military work to be had with House Kurac. Unfortunately, he's not the brightest fellow...
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, watching you:
"So yer name's Rilath. What brings ya ta lookin fer work here wit Kurac?"
>Feeling glum, you think:
"Desperation."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, with a shrug:
"I've been in a bad way recently, needing work. And I heard you were hiring. Simple as that."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, taking a deep breath:
"Well. Workin fer Kurac ain't just some job. We dont hire hunters, we don't hire mercs."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"We hire soldiers fer th'army what's called th'Fist."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, lifting a brow:
"You don't hire mercenaries? Most everyone's been telling me you do..."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, shaking her head:
"Most everyone been tellin ya wrong."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Merc is a rank in our units."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Mercenary is what ya kin be, after yer promoted from bein a Recruit."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"But it ain't like a Byn merc, cause yer expected ta still do yer chores, and be available while yer on contract wit us."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Also when yer a Kuraci Mercenary yer allowed ta ride on yer own on yer days off."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, to you, sternly:
"But while yer a recruit, that's yer first two months. And durin that gime, ya ain't allowed ta leave th'Post without a officer takin ya."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Except ta git t'the
>At your table, you say in sirihish, blinking:
"So what makes the mercenaries not mercenaries?"
>At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, watching your expression as she continues:
"Cause a mercenary's a sellsword, who takes contracts fer jobs from outsiders who pay'em ta do whatver th'sids pay fer."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"A Kuraci Mercenary don't take outside jobs. They work fer Kurac, and Kurac don't take outside jobs. We work fer th'House."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Military Operations pays us, not some noble or templar or grebber lookin fer escort."
>At your table, you say in sirihish:
"Can Kurac mercenaries ever leave Kurac?"
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, inclining her head:
"Sure, long as they git permission. We've had a couple do that. Ya kin also be a merc short-term, and come back if ya left on good accountin wit us."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Merc's just a halfway mark ta movin up in th'ranks though, yer still just a tick away from bein a grebber if yer a Merc wit us."
>You think:
"Krath, this woman's an idiot."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, to you:
"If it turns out yer doin good, showin innerest, helpin out, stayin busy, not bein a pest, we offer ya a life-oath ta promote ta Regular."
>You think:
"What makes a Kuraci mercenary not a mercenary? Sounds like a feckin' mercenary to me..."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, scratching his cheek:
"Okay, I think I'm starting to understand."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, glancing at you:
"How's that sound so far? Ah'm more innerested in how ya feel about bein stuck in th'Post fer two months, cept when a officer takes ya out fer field trainin or patrol."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, tapping the table a few times:
"In order to merc for Kurac, you first have to go through a training period. Then you're a mercenary."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"If it don't suit ya, or ya think ya kin't handle that, we kin end th'innerview and yer welcome ta hang out, do business, trade, buy yerself some firebreather, that kinda shit."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"If ya pass th'trainin period, yeah."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, chuckling and shaking his head:
"You seem to be saying that a Kuraci mercenary is somehow not a mercenary... but, ah, alright, I'm not arguing with you on that..."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, scratching his brow:
"Fact of the matter is, I spent my last 'sid getting down here. I need work."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, chuckling back at you:
"It ain't. Th'Byn, they're a Mercenary outfit. They take jobs from whoever pays'em ta do a job. Escort duty, helpin this or that Templar do this or that thing.."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"And whoever they're escortin, or the templar, they're th'ones what pay the Byn unit."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"When yer a Mercenary fer th'Kuraci Fist, yer not gonna be takin jobs fer people what ain't wit Kurac."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"We escort Kuracis. We do this or that or the other thing fer Kuracis. And we git paid salary, plus bonuses, from Kurac. Not from no one else."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, leaning forward:
"I know, but... listen. If a merc takes a job with, say, Salaar, then he's working with Salaar -for the time being-."
>At your table, you say in sirihish:
"Isn't it the same way with Kurac?"
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, shrugging:
"Ah din't know Salarr hired mercs."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"But If they do, they don't spend two months trainin'em. The merc works fer hisself."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"If yer a Merc wit Kurac, ya ain't workin fer yerself. Yer employed by Kurac."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, scratching his head:
"Yeah... and a merc who takes a job with the Templarate is working for the Templarate. And a merc who takes a job with Nenyuk is working for Nenyuk."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"And ya kin't just ride off any time ya like, go wherever ya like, do whatever ya like, and not worry about gittin yer pay from us."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Ya gotta do afternoon chores, ya gotta come on patrol when we're goin on patrol, gotta run escort wit us, and ya don't leave th'Post if ya ain't got a day off on th'schedule."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Ya still stick wit th'schedule, and yer days off are th'days off we tell ya they is."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, grumbling:
"Ya know, ya ain't answered ma first question, and yer hemmin and hawin over a fuckin word."
>At your table, you say in sirihish, some amusement creeping over his features:
"I'm just trying to figure out what makes Kurac mercs so special."
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish:
"Ah'm thinkin..if ya kin't figger it out, maybe ya ain't right fer us. Look fer one o'the Salarris, see if they're innerested in hirin a independant. We ain't."
>
The slender, crooked-nosed woman stands up from a small table near the stairs.
>
The slender, crooked-nosed woman grumbles and moves back to a long, carved wooden bar, shaking her head.
>
The slender, crooked-nosed woman sits at a long, carved wooden bar.
>You think:
"Ah... feck..."
A young man in dire need of food and 'sid makes his way to Luir's Outpost, following rumors of military work to be had with House Kurac. Unfortunately, he's not the brightest fellow...
>
At your table, the slender, crooked-nosed woman says in sirihish, watching you:
"So yer name's...
Continue Reading...Helmet Repair
Added on Mar 22, 2007A Kuraci saves a friend from a (probably well-deserved) beating by fixing a half-giant's helmet.
The scene begins in the training yard, where a sparring session has gone horribly, horribly wrong...
Screaming out, the bald, four-fingered man exclaims, in sirihish:"HELP!!"You fail the rescue.The enormous, weathered half-giant parries the bald, four-fingered man's attack.Yelling at you, the bald, four-fingered man exclaims, in sirihish:"Get over here bud!!"The screw-bearded man tries to dart in between the bald, four-fingered man and the enormous, weathered half-giant.Angrily, the enormous, weathered half-giant says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"You hurt my helmet."You fail the rescue.The bald, four-fingered man swiftly dodges the enormous, weathered half-giant's hits.The bald, four-fingered man bludgeons at the enormous, weathered half-giant's shield, nicking him.You heroically charge into the fight!The enormous, weathered half-giant hits at you, but you dodge out of the way.Looking up at the enormous, weathered half-giant, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Oh shet...I pissed him off."You lunge at the enormous, weathered half-giant, but your blow is deftly deflected by a mantis-shell breastplate.You exclaim, in sirihish:"Okay, break!"The enormous, weathered half-giant parries your attack.The bald, four-fingered man stumbles back against a mud brick wall.The enormous, weathered half-giant panics, and attempts to flee.The enormous, weathered half-giant runs east.The enormous, weathered half-giant has arrived from the east.The enormous, weathered half-giant turns towards the bald, four-fingered man, his expression full of rage.With a shake of his head, you say to the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"Well, that's what you get for taunting 'em. Krath's blazing balls, man."With a concerned look, you ask the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"Hey, Wind. Take it easy. It was just a game, remember?"Standing up from a mud brick wall, smiling nervously, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Uh...Wind. I was only messin' around man."His fist clenching tightly, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to the bald, four-fingered man, in tribal-accented sirihish:"You broke one of the horns."Holding his arms out wide, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"We're all friends here."Positioning himself between the bald, four-fingered man and the enormous, weathered half-giant, you ask the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"Easy, Wind. Easy. I'll fix it for you, okay?"Stomping his foot down hard as he feels to the broken horn on his bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns, the enormous, weathered half-giant exclaims, in tribal-accented sirihish:"This was a gift!"Frowning slightly as he shakes his head a bit, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"I didn't mean to Wind. I'm sorry, big brother."You begin guarding the bald, four-fingered man.You say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"I used to fix helmets all the time. That's no problem."Shrugging his shoulders a bit, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Wind...seriously, I don't know what to tell you."Raising both hands up, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"It's training, man. A game you wanted to play. Shet happens. Please, I'm sorry."Looking down as he removes his bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns, the enormous, weathered half-giant asks you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"You can fix it?"The enormous, weathered half-giant stops using a bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns.With a nod, you say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"I sure can. If you promise not to hurt Mosiah."The enormous, weathered half-giant expression calms visibly as his posture loosens, watching down at you.Shaking his head firmly, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"I won't hurt Mosiah. I think Mosiah is a bad person though."The bald, four-fingered man stands quietly off to the side.Eyes on the enormous, weathered half-giant, you say to the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"Recruit, find the piece of Wind's helmet your broke off."The enormous, weathered half-giant extends his bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns out towards you with a hopeful smile.The bald, four-fingered man gets on his knees, running his hands over the ground.The screw-bearded man reaches up for the enormous, weathered half-giant's helmet, inspecting it carefully.The enormous, weathered half-giant gives you a bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns.The dome of this anakore skull rises into a sharp slope, beset with two,large horns that shine dully in the light. Two beady eye sockets glarebalefully into the distance, their sight gone long ago. Two rows of long,curved teeth hang down to frame the wearer's face, a stark reminder of theiruse in life to capture hapless victims in the dunes. Above, you can seewhere the horns have been affixed post-mortem to the skull as they complementits curvature and spiral out to either side of the wearer's head ina blue-black luminosity.It is stained with blood.The bald, four-fingered man frowns as he picks up a broken piece of horn and hands it up to you.Softly to you, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Sorry, man. Like I said, it was an accident."Idly, taking the horn-piece from the bald, four-fingered man, you say, in sirihish:"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to Wind."The bald, four-fingered man sits back on his knees.Adding darkly, you say to the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"If you don't want to end up like Vaeth."Glancing over at the enormous, weathered half-giant, softly to you, the bald, four-fingered man asks, in sirihish:"I already did. What else is there to say?"The enormous, weathered half-giant stands firmly as he stares down at you hopefully, ignoring the conversation.Tinkering with your bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns and the horn-piece, you say to the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"Tell him you're sorry you broke his helmet, and that you'll help me fix it. Which you will."Standing up as he walks up by you, to the enormous, weathered half-giant, the bald, four-fingered man asks, in sirihish:"Yeah Wind, I'll help Daktep fix it for you, how's that sound?"The bald, four-fingered man glances up at the enormous, weathered half-giant, then back at the helm in your hands.Bobbing his head once, not turning his gaze from his helmet in your possession, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to the bald, four-fingered man, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Okay, I guess."You say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"You're in luck, Wind. Only a little piece broke off."Softly to you, pointing towards the broken horn, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Yeah, that goes right...there."The crimson sun sinks into the west, as the desert darkens.Holding up a chunk of horn about the size of a human thumb, you say, in sirihish:"See?"Looking the enormous, weathered half-giant over briefly, the bald, four-fingered man asks, in sirihish:"Wind, you wearing anything else that's a gift?"Motioning to his back then to his crude bone club, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to the bald, four-fingered man, in tribal-accented sirihish:"My shield and my club."Concentrating on your bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns, you say, in sirihish:"What I think we can do is tie it back on with a bit of leather. And then add some sort of adhesive. Maybe wood resin. Or some clay. Or even a bit of Odrean's gruel..."Chuckling as he looks up at you briefly, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Always knew that stuff wasn't real food."The bald, four-fingered man snickers as he looks back down at the helm.The screw-bearded man laughs weakly, then tucks your bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns under his arm. He holds the broken-off bit of horn in his other hand, clenching it tightly.You stop using a wooden training longsword.You stop using a cracked curved agafari shield.Pointing behind himself, the enormous, weathered half-giant says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Lets go back and fix it."The enormous, weathered half-giant gets an ornate, red and white patterned shield from a leather backpack.Striding over the training yard, you say, in sirihish:"Aye. Let's see if there's anything we can use here in the Fort."The enormous, weathered half-giant holds an ornate, red and white patterned shield.The enormous, weathered half-giant stops using an used bloodied kank-shell hoplite shield.Scrub Plains [SW]A vast rolling plain unfolds in all directions, endless reaches of dryand dusty land, dotted with clumps of brownish grass and small stands ofthornbush. Here and there, a stemwood or ocotillo moves with each whim ofthe winds, or a whipleaf scores the earth with its long, sharp needles.Throughout the plains, spires of sharp stone jut up from the earth likemighty reptiles, ringed by steppes of splintering red rock.To the north and east a towering wall of glazed mud bricks has beenconstructed, blocking any hope of travel.A squat grey adobe building extends from the northern wall.The enormous, weathered half-giant has arrived from the west.You enter a squat grey building.A Crowded Storeroom [NES]Clusters of green glow crystals suspended from nets in the ceiling casta dubious green tint over everything in this crowded room. Wooden shelvesline every wall, leaving only space for a narrow doorway set into each wall.Stacked in the center of the room are crates and sealed bags from whichemanates the heady smell of unrefined spice.The enormous, weathered half-giant has entered a squat grey building.The enormous, weathered half-giant puts an used bloodied kank-shell hoplite shield inside a large hanging net.The bald, four-fingered man has entered a squat grey building.The screw-bearded man sets the helm on a nearby cot, then begins rummaging around the storeroom, digging into already-opened crates and glancing under cots.You put a bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns on a small leather cot.The enormous, weathered half-giant stands back as he watches you anxiously.Muttering quietly, you say, in sirihish:"Mostly spice in here... but if they store the training shields here, I figure they'd have something to repair the training shields..."To himself as he rubs his hand up and down the front of his ornate, red and white patterned shield, the enormous, weathered half-giant says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"I don't duck anymore. Getting hit in the head is bad."Glancing over, you say to the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"Help me out, here. I'm looking for some leather scraps, and some baobab sap, ideally."The bald, four-fingered man sits down on a small leather cot and unshoulders his backpack.The bald, four-fingered man sits on a small leather cot.The bald, four-fingered man gets the disembodied head of a gortok from a rough canvas backpack.Holding up his disembodied head of a gortok, the bald, four-fingered man asks, in sirihish:"Think you can use anything off of this?"The screw-bearded man glances over at the bald, four-fingered man, his eyes widening with alarm and mild disgust.You ask the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"Krath's blistered balls, man! What are you doing with that in your backpack?"Reaching behind himself, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"I have a flower and some meat."Chuckling a bit, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Feck, don't ask me."Shaking his head and returning his attention to his rummaging, you say to the bald, four-fingered man, in sirihish:"I mean look around the storeroom. Krath, man."The bald, four-fingered man stands up from a small leather cot.The bald, four-fingered man walks east.Discovering a refuse bin full of leather scraps, you say, in sirihish:"Ah. Perfect."The screw-bearded man glances east, clearly annoyed.You shout in sirihish:"Hey! Hey! Mosiah! We're not allowed in there!"The bald, four-fingered man has arrived from the east.Pointing northwards, the enormous, weathered half-giant asks you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"I can go cut down a tree for you?"You say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"Nah, Wind. Your helmet isn't hurt that bad."The bald, four-fingered man walks south.The screw-bearded man pulls a long, thin strip of leather from a refuse bin.Nodding to himself, you say, in sirihish:"Yes, this'll do."His expresion and voice calm now, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"I used to cut trees down for Edrel's da, and he gave me fruit."The screw-bearded man moves over to a large hanging net, peering under and around it.Absently, you say, in sirihish:"That's nice."The screw-bearded man picks up a jar from underneath a large hanging net. He lifts the top off the jar and gives it a sniff.The bald, four-fingered man has arrived from the south.The bald, four-fingered man walks north.You shout in sirihish:"We're not allowed in there, either! Krath!"The bald, four-fingered man has arrived from the north.Gesturing to the room at large, you exclaim, in sirihish:"Look in -this- storeroom. This one. It's a big room! Look!"Shrugging his shoulders as he holds up a couple strands of wicker, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Well, if someone would feckin' tell me these things before."The screw-bearded man grunts quietly, snatching the wicker from the bald, four-fingered man.Shrugging his shoulders, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Feck man, you act as if I was given a proper tour or some shet."The screw-bearded man stows his training weapons before heading over to a small leather cot.You put a wooden training longsword inside a large, wooden crate.You put a cracked curved agafari shield inside a large hanging net.Holding up a finger, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Be right back."The bald, four-fingered man leaves a squat grey building.The enormous, weathered half-giant steps anxiously back and forth, glancing every so often towards you.You sit on a small leather cot, picking up the helm.You get a bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns from a small leather cot.It is no problem.Shaking his head as he paces, the enormous, weathered half-giant says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Mosiah is a bad person."Motioning him over, you say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"Aye, but not the worst. Come over, and I'll show you how to fix it."The enormous, weathered half-giant bobs his head as he moves over to your side, looking down at his helmet.You stop using a water gourd.Before taking a sip from your water gourd, you say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"Now, we got some clay, some wicker, and a bit of leather. Not ideal for fixing horn or bone, but it'll work."You drink the water.You are carrying:a water gourda bloodied anakore skull helm with black hornsWiping his mouth, you say, in sirihish:"First thing to do is to get the clay wet. It's the only way you can work with it."The bald, four-fingered man has entered a squat grey building.The bald, four-fingered man's torch flickers feebly.Shaking his head, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Hard to see out there."The bald, four-fingered man stops using a dim large wooden torch.The bald, four-fingered man extinguishes a dim large wooden torch.Looking over at you as he walks up, the bald, four-fingered man asks, in sirihish:"So how's it going?"The enormous, weathered half-giant stares down at your hands, his head moving up and down in a constant nod.The screw-bearded man pulls a small dollop of clay from the jar. He then wets the clay with a few drops of water from your water gourd, massaging it into a workable consistency.The bald, four-fingered man strokes his chin as he watches you work.Adding dabs of wet clay to the broken off end of your bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns' right horn, you ask, in sirihish:"Now, we use the clay to attach the broken tip to the rest of the helmet, see?"Mostly to himself, you say, in sirihish:"Not too much, now..."The screw-bearded man mushes the broken tip of horn into the rest of the helmet's horn. Reddish clay oozes out the sides, and the tip remains only loosely attached.His free hand opening and closing nervously, the enormous, weathered half-giant says, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Please be okay helmet."Glancing up toward the enormous, weathered half-giant, you ask, in sirihish:"Don;' worry. We're not quite done yet. See how it's crooked?"Taking a closer look at his helmet, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Ya. It is still broken."With a nod, you say, in sirihish:"Aye. But we can fix that with the leather, and with the wicker Mosiah found."The bald, four-fingered man glances up briefly at the enormous, weathered half-giant, then back at the helm in your hands.The enormous, weathered half-giant grins as he claps a large meaty hand to the front of his ornate, red and white patterned shield.The screw-bearded man wraps the thin length of leather around the horn, centering it at the fracture. He winds it tightly, forcing it to hold the horn-tip upright.Holding the leather in place with his thumb and index finger, you say, in sirihish:"Now, obviously, you need to do this part while the clay's still wet and malleable."You say, in sirihish:"Now that we got the leather to hold the horn in place, we're going to need the wicker to hold the leather in place."The screw-bearded man dips the two wicker reeds into your water gourd, softening them with water.Grinning wide as he watches, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"Your very smart, like Sha."With a rough chuckle as he squints at the horn, you say, in sirihish:"Perhaps not that smart. This is just what I did before becoming a Kuraci, that's all."Turning his head to one side, to you softly, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Thanks."As he winds the reeds around the leather binding, lashing them tight, you say, in sirihish:"Now this is the tough part. You need a real steady hand."The screw-bearded man uses the two reeds to tie the leather tighter to the fractured horn. The reeds overlap on each side of the horn, forming a loose X-shape. He secures them by lacing them together, like one might lace up a boot.The enormous, weathered half-giant watches nervously down at you, his teeth clenching tightly.Holding up the massive helmet, you say, in sirihish:"And there you go. The horn's back, straight and true."You say to the enormous, weathered half-giant, in sirihish:"Now, you'll have to be gentle on it while the whole mess dries. And it might be better not to remove the wicker or leather at all. But if you simply must, and the clay doesn't hold, you can always bring it back to me."His eyes wide in surprise as he reaches out, the enormous, weathered half-giant says to you, in tribal-accented sirihish:"You';e amazing, Daktep. You saved my helmet, you're a very good person like Sha."Pulling out a brush from his hooded, dun-colored dustcloak, the bald, four-fingered man asks, in sirihish:"Might wanna scrub off some of that blood, eh?"The bald, four-fingered man gets a stiffly bristled wood armor brush from a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak.Shaking his head as he tucks his stiffly bristled wood armor brush away, the bald, four-fingered man says, in sirihish:"Nevermind. Let it set, like Daktep said."The bald, four-fingered man puts a stiffly bristled wood armor brush inside a hooded, dun-colored dustcloak.The screw-bearded man hands your bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns back to the enormous, weathered half-giant gently.You give a bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns to the enormous, weathered half-giant.The enormous, weathered half-giant takes his bloodied anakore skull helm with black horns, looking close at the fixed horn, his lips curled into a very wide grin.The scene begins in the training yard, where a sparring session has gone horribly, horribly wrong...
Screaming out, the bald, four-fingered man exclaims, in sirihish:"HELP!!"You fail the rescue.The enormous, weathered half-giant parries the bald, four-fingered man's...
Continue Reading..."You could call it that..."
Added on Mar 22, 2007Be careful who you mug.
The scene begins in the twisting alleyways of the ‘Rinth, where a rag-clad beggar has run afoul of a rather imposing elf…
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak looks down at you.
The mangy, scar-laced man gives his head a slight shake.
You look up at the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak.
Ebon skin, highlighted by a multitude of pale scars in deliberate
patterns encase the frame of this sturdy, thick looking elf. Long, pointed
ears and proud almond shaped eyes couple with a somewhat abnormally lengthy
nose to give him an almost avian appearance to the casual onlooker.
Muscular arms, attached to broad shoulders, end with exceptionally nimble
looking hands which are a hallmark of his race. The pinky on his left hand
is half missing, leaving only a healed over stub in its place. Bushy hair,
twisted and tangled into dreadlocks drapes over his face and shoulders.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak is in excellent condition.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak is using:
<worn on head> a bloodied ancient, battered surmac
<face> a few faint, crossed scars
<neck> several puffy lines of scarred tissue
<worn across back> a bone-studded backpack
<right shoulder> a splotchy burn scar
<worn around body> a dark, hooded cloak
<worn on right ankle> an orange bandana
<worn on feet> a pair of footpads
He is carrying:
nothing obvious
Inclining his head, the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
"Whats in the pouch?"
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak points at your neck.
Shrugging, you say, in sirihish:
"Nothin' for you."
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak eyes you a moment.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
"You sure? Cause you's dressed like you's ain' worth a shit... all except that pouch o' yours..."
Sighing heavily, you ask the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
"Look, it's where I keep my 'sid. It ain't much, and I need it to feckin' eat, alright?"
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak blinks.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
"That where you keep your sid?"
Flatly, you say to the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
"Aye, that's what I said."
Nodding once, the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
"How about you hand that fuckin thing over then, eh?"
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak beckons with his hand and then holds it out, palm up.
Shaking his head, you say to the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
"Look, you don't want to feck with me."
The mangy, scar-laced man begins twitching, his fingers tightening then relaxing rhythmically.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
"An' why that? You got some fuckin disease or some shit?"
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak eyes you a moment.
Eyes narrowing, you say to the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
"You could call it that."
An inky wreath of tentacle-like shadows suddenly surrounds the mangy, scar-laced man.
Voice low and dark, you say to the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak, in sirihish:
"So. Feck. Off."
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak blinks and steps back.
The area dims as you begin your summons.
You utter an incantation.
You glare ominously at the tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak, sending frightening images into his mind.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak attempts to flee.
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak runs east.
The scene begins in the twisting alleyways of the ‘Rinth, where a rag-clad beggar has run afoul of a rather imposing elf…
The tall figure in a dark, hooded cloak looks down at you.
The mangy, scar-laced man gives his head a slight shake.
You look up at the tall figure in a dark,...
Continue Reading...
