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| Abductions and Lies; 1st RRDC, 3rd RRD | |
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| Topic Started: Oct 3 2008, 03:56 PM (3,420 Views) | |
| Ranger | Oct 3 2008, 03:56 PM Post #1 |
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Previously Nex Terren
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Welcome to the first RRDC, and the third installment in the RRD series. I encourage you to review the Rules for a final time before beginning, as I will not cover them all here. Rules of Godmoding still apply here; do not control one anothers character. You're all by now well used to this rule, however, this rule will now extend to the story; please treat the story (and, the characters of the story) as other Player Characters (PCs). If I state something, please treat it as fact. If I seem to be purposely leaving you in the dark concerning something, don't artificially enlighten yourselves. This being said, feel free to add any detail that you can not see interfering with the plot. I want to give you freedom; just having enough control to carry through with this plot. This RRDC has the possibility of four moonberries, although most likely only two will be given out. The first three are: 1) For the last remaining contestant. 2) For the best RolePlayer of the final three contestants (decided by voting, after ending) 3) For the last remaining contestant if they win without a single strike Clearly, #3 will be a very, very difficult one to achieve, as even choices you make during the RRDC may give you a strike, though these won't be often. The fourth and final one requires that you pay very careful attention to the writing of my DM posts. I also may contact Crawlers privately and secretly, asking them to insert details into their next post, so watch out! So, what is the fourthmoonberry for? 4) For the first member who tells me every mystery found in the RRDC, and provides the solutions for each. Yes! Mysteries, although I use that in the loosest terms for some of them. You may contact me through the board's PM system, or MSN to give me your answer, however, unless your answer is entirely complete and entirely correct, I will only tell you that your answer was "Incorrect," and provide no clues as to how close you are. At an undisclosed point in the RRDC, the fourth berry will be rendered void. As discussed, each member has from 12:01 AM (This would be in the first hour of the morning, after midnight), to 11:59 PM (the last hour of the night, before midnight) Central Standard Time, North America to make their post. I will be using the board's clock and time stamp to determine this. Any late posts will count as one strike. Three strikes, and you're out, and the next Crawler gets theopportunity to write your character's death. If you have any questions about the rules, the storyline, or my posts, please do not hesitate to contact me. Please keep in mind, however, in interest of the mystery I will not necessarily be forthcoming on some plot/post details that may, or may not be important. With that, let's begin! Calender: For this first round, Crawlers will be each given a chance to post. Remember, to read my posts carefully, and treat the facts found within as the facts they are. You're encouraged to use creativity, and to make your posts as interesting as you like! I will be making a DM post after this. The turn order will remain the same. If ever I interupt you in the middle of a 'round', after my DM post, continue on from where I stopped you. Necromancer Sargoth 0/3 Saturday, 10-4-08 BearofGlacia 0/3 Sunday, 10-5-08 PG 17 0/3 Monday, 10-6-08 Nex Terren 0/3 Tuesday, 10-7-08 Solstice 0/3 Wednesday, 10-8-08 Gordreg 0/3 Thursday, 10-9-08 You awake, unable to clear your mind. A blurriness cling to your thoughts, and something intangible and nameless is resting lightly on your mind and body, refusing to allow you to awake fully. Is it a spell? Drug? The lingering effects of a blow to the head? At that moment, you can't be for sure. As your mind begins its slow path to awareness, you finally question where you are. You try opening your eyes, and only see dark, eyelashes brushing against cloth. Trying to sit up, you find yourself already in such a position, but with your movements bound. After this realization, it only takes you a moment to put together the last few facts you can determine about your surroundings. Your hands, wrists, and ankles are securely bound with strong cloth and what seems to be fishing line (and for some of the stronger of you, chains); too secure for you to hope to overcome. A gag keeps you from speech, tied tightly, and tasting of purple moonstone discharge, which is the work of Sylenis, you decide, as you don't feel panicked (at least not in the magical sense), and neither does your mouth feel cold. Wet wool packed in the ears, and a blindfold over your eyes are the final pieces, and like the rest, have been done securely and carefully. Those are, indeed, the last pieces; besides your clothing everything entirely is gone. You can feel none of your personal possessions on you whatsoever; any tools, weapons, trinkets, and your gold are no longer on your person. Whoever did this to you knew very well what they were doing, and were set on having you trapped, and completely unaware of the world around you. Where are you? Why are you here? What happened? The answer to that last question comes rushing back to you; the last things you remembered before awaking just now. If even you didn't get a chance to see them (as some of you didn't), your attackers were Valuan born men of a younger soldier's age and manner. You fell victim to their trap--whether you walked right into it, or they ensnared it around you. Looking back, you realize that their work was truly efficient, quick, and professional, and even their brash actions their methods were still surprisingly discrete, using speed to finish the task seemingly before it had begun... besides these things, you realize, you know nothing useful about your intruders; they were careful to reveal nothing. Your fist post will have your character awakening to this completely unknown world in which you are bound, and without aid of your senses. After you write your awakening, flashback to when you were captured, and detail the event. While making sure to follow the previous description/restriction of the event listed above, you're encouraged to make the event as creative and interesting! This is one post that doesn't have to connect with the other Crawlers' necessarily, however, if you think of a way to make a connection, feel free to do so! Please write all of your posts in a third-person past tense, despite what you may see in some of my DM posts. PLEASE NOTE. EDIT MADE TO SECOND STORY PARAGRAPH AT 7:20PM, CST October 3, 08 EDIT MADE TO ORDER OF TURNS; due to Bear leaving, Colaya will be joining us, however, due to this being a last second thing, FOR THE FIRST ROUND ONLY, he and I will change order. This will GO BACK starting the second round. Once more, Colaya will be posting TUESDAY for the first round, I will be posting SUNDAY. Edit at 8:30 PM, CST October 3, 08 Edited by Ranger, Oct 4 2008, 01:30 AM.
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| Necromancer Sargoth | Oct 5 2008, 04:33 AM Post #2 |
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Affably Evil
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The world swam. Nothing seemed tangible. The first real sensation to return was pain, shooting from Melissa Vander’s neck, down her hunched back, and into the very tips of her limbs. Her head throbbed, and the ethereal world she awoke to kept spinning. She would have retched, had not the sudden awareness of being gagged made the prospect too deplorable. She allowed a deep, agonized moan to escape instead. She only heard the sound in her head. She felt as if she were in an existence unto itself; for a brief moment, she knew only her body. Then Melissa opened her eyes. That is when the panic began to set in, when the sick realization of Melissa’s situation began to slither into her consciousness. The sack that met her gaze alarmed her more than words can describe. It put her aches into context. Bound like an animal, she sat in darkness. Her breathing quickened, filling her lungs with the dank, moldy smell of the burlap sack tied over her head. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She began to struggle against her bindings, which caused a more acute pain to assail her senses. The wire binding her hands and feet cut into her wrists and ankles. Her frenzied efforts for freedom cumulated with her falling over, and unable to break her fall, smacking her head on the hard ground. A bitter pain exploded upon her mind then. Certain her ear, wrists, and ankles were all bleeding, Melissa ended her wild thrashing. Her breathing slowed. She began to remember what had happened. She had decided to take a walk to clear her head. There had been an argument, with who seemed to matter little now. Her stroll took her far beyond the shattered battlements of Vander Rock and far out into the Tartan Hills. It had been a beautiful night. The sky had cleared somewhat, bathing the land in pale, yellow moonlight. The air was cold and crisp. The normally violent Valuan landscape felt at peace. The air and scenery had done much to improve Melissa’s disposition, and she was about to turn back when a sudden skittering of rocks to her right put her on guard. She turned to confront the noise with her walking staff raised in meager defense; she had left her good weapon back at the castle. She stared defiantly at the low ridge in front of her, and had nearly given the disturbance up for a lone animal when a shuffling of feet from behind her caused her to spin round alarmed. Her staff cracked against the helmet of a man, denting it slightly, but the impact of polished wood against steel caused the weapon to crack and splinter. The man staggered backward from the impact, shouting for others that surprise was lost. Melissa recognized him as a Valuan soldier, but had no idea to whom he swore allegiance. Not caring to find out, she delivered a strong blow to the man’s gut with the butt end of her broken staff. A third strike would not be permitted as he grabbed the poor weapon and tried to wrest it out of Melissa’s hands. His strength was great, but Melissa’s grip would not yield. Her heels dug into the ground and tore along as he pulled at the shattered staff. The staff finally slipped from her grasp, and the soldier tosses it away. It clattered along the rocky terrain and was lost in the distance. Meanwhile, Melissa felt the steady stream of failed spells assailing her from somewhere. The caster remained hidden, but she fought the effects valiantly. Slipara, Sylenis, Driln, all failed. She began to break into a sweat from the mental effort of resisting the effects. She needed to find the attacking mage before he could succeed. She would not be permitted to search, however. Another man grabbed Melissa from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground with ease. Alarmed, Melissa kicked wildly, landing a solid blow on the first soldier with the heel of her boot. The kick knocked his helmet clean off his head. Covering his face, he ran after it. The spells mysteriously stopped at this point. The second solider threw Melissa to the ground violently and drew his weapon. He cussed loudly, their plan obviously not proceeding exactly as they had planned. She slid along the ground, gravel and dirt tearing her robes and digging into her flesh. She cried out in pain as the rock tore her skin. The soldier swore at another companion, urging him to hurry. Furious, Melissa called on the blue moon as she scrambled to her feet. Her voice cut through the night as blue light enveloped her. The other soldier, panicking, tried to duck back behind the ridge, but it was too late. A blast of wind hit him squarely in the chest, denting his breast plate with a sickening crunch. The spell, like a superhuman uppercut, sent the man sailing into the air, flailing helplessly. He landed in a riverbed some forty feet away and remained peacefully still. Anger continued to burn in Lady Vander’s veins as she turned on her original attacker. He had reclaimed his helmet and drawn a sword, but quickly ducked for cover behind a ridge when he saw the blue mage circled with magical energy. A more frightful sight did not exist in the Tartan Hills this night. Haggard, blooded, and angry, with blue magic gushing from her being, Melissa was an avatar of rage and power. Wind lashed at the ridge, slowly tearing away the stone. She increased the spell’s intensity, intent on killing the now frightened man, when suddenly she felt a sharp blow to her back and her power faded away. She recognized with horror the kiss of Sylenis. The winds died, and the upset stone and dust began to settle. Melissa spun to meet her new attacker, but met only the blunt end of a sword to her forehead. She crumpled to the ground in a heap. All faded to black. Now she sat, tired, afraid, and in pain. Alone in the dark, her mind began to work itself from panic into a dread, wondering to whom her attackers owed their allegiance. Were they pirates, assassins from a rival house, or worse? Had the Emperor found out about the plot? That last thought sent Melissa into a cold sweat. She would spend what would seem like an eternity contemplating this new fear. |
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| Ranger | Oct 6 2008, 01:30 AM Post #3 |
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Previously Nex Terren
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The first feeling wasn't of the strips of cloth that tied Henry's arms and legs. It wasn't an ache in a back long since stretched, or darkness of sight, given by blindfold. It wasn't the taste of magic, or the murkiness of thoughts. Henry's mind didn't initially detect any of these things, instead he felt only a unmistakable sense of loneliness. He felt as though he was truly, and entirely alone. It didn't take long, however, to discover these other things, and panic crept in alongside the idea of having no one. Squirming, he fell over on his side. He fought the strips. They refused to move. He jerked, bit, and shook his head violently. He was trapped. He was alone. He was going to die. With a conscious effort, he forced himself to stop working at them; he wasn't going to break them. He was neither strong, nor talented at such things. He was just... Henry. Just Henry. Whimpering softly, he curled up, and shut his eyes so he could no longer see blackness. Slowly, he tried to force fear and empty solitude away. He wasn't that strong. He couldn't do it. What was going on? What had happened to him...? Under their blindfold, his eyes widened in remembrance. Henry walked down the hallway, lost in his world of make-believe war, not unlike many-a-boy's game. However, instead of challenges of 'I hit you!' and 'Did not!' there were hundreds of calculations and arguments of logic, and instead of two players, there was only one. Ships fired cannons at each other, dancing invisibly and intangibly around Henry, and he commanded them with impartiality impossible by most men and skill equally difficult to find. Strange perversions of classic Valuan assaults combated pirate boarding tactics, and the ships who fought were an odd mixture of Valuan, Nasrian, and pirate. “Excuse me,” A man apologized, tipping his many-times patched hat. “I was just fixing that board in your room.” Henry absentmindedly nodded, a puzzled look flashing across his face as he attempted to circumvent the man. It wasn't what the man said, but rather that the man spoke at all. He let the man—a young Valuan dressed in overalls, Henry absently noted—pass by, and Henry advanced into the room. While simultaneously calculating engine damage of twelve different ships and resultant performance thereof, he locked the door behind him. He commanded the invisible ships into a frontal assault, using the nearby mountain as cover. A counter attack was issued, It was a small room; mirrored desk with wash basin, hard boarded bed, and chess all fitting in an allotted area not large enough for ten grown men to stand up in. However, Henry wasn't a man to concern himself about size. The room was clean, new, functional, and above all, cheap. Sitting himself down at the desk, he looked up into the mirror. He found himself looking away from his reflection. His image reminded of himself of a storybook king, except meek, drawn inwards, and disheveled. It reminded him of a mouse, but what mouse looked so awkward in its own skin? Cupping hands, he lifted water from the washing basin to his face. The cold water splashed over him, and he precoded to rub his eyes. What was he? He was... he didn't know how old he was, but he was too old. Too old to be nothing. Too much of his life was gone to—in shock, he realized that he had forgotten one of the angular positions of the ship. Was it 25, 18, or 18, 25? Or wait, it had turned more than that... 25, 20...? How could he have forgotten...? He felt... tired. Inquisitively, he looked up, wonder now his only thought. Tired? It wasn't even noon yet. Looking down in the bowl, he noticed fine brown and lavender granules at the bottom of the washing basin. Poison? Drugs? “Mellintrin.” He quietly murmured in surprise, wondering how he knew the name of the substance. He looked down. Blinked. "Huuuh..." He murmured, mouth refusing to work properly. And with that, the drug waited no longer. The world spun into darkness, and the last thing he remembered was wondering if anyone was going to take his head out of the bowl before he drowned. |
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| PG 17 | Oct 7 2008, 04:02 AM Post #4 |
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Uber Monk
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Mikeil woke slowly, forcing his brain to turn back on. His body ached, and the position he was in was uncomfortable. He tried to move, but found he was bound securely with chains. His eyes were covered as well, as he opened them and looked at the blurry image of a cloth. His ears seemed to be plugged as well, and this unnerved him. He relied on the sense of sound to tell him about his surroundings in a strange place. His sense of touch still seemed to be fine and he could feel a wall to his back. He moved himself, trying to get his mechanical arm between him and the wall. Finally, after a bit of manoeuvring, he wedged his arm against the wall. He moved backwards slightly, and then shoved forward, trying to break the chains. He did not know how much noise it caused, but it must have been a fair bit. He leaned back, and tested the chains. Not even a dent, it felt like. He smashed his arm against the wall a few more times, and finally gave up. Obviously, whoever had captured him had known what they were doing. He fidgeted back to original position, and began to think back. He closed his eyes as he thought. Mikeil was once again wandering some burned out street, rubble strewn here and there. He had recently joined a police force of sorts, to try and restore some kind of order. Their efforts seemed to have slowed down the rampant crime, but not enough to really stop it. As he turned a corner, He noticed several men, sitting on the rubble. They turned and looked straight at him. Mikeil could feel the menace, and his hand went instinctively to his sword. The men jumped off their respective piles, and advanced, drawing Rapiers as they went. He drew his own sword, and held it horizontal. He took a step back, and then charged, bringing his sword up. He met his first opponent quickly, and brought his sword down in a great heave. The man easily side stepped, and slashed at Mikeil. Mikeil spun using his sword, and ripped it from the ground, spraying dirt. The man dodged again, and stabbed at Mikeil. Mikeil tried to bring his sword down, but only just caught the man’s Rapier. It rasped along the edge, and sliced along the inner part of his arm. Mikeil gave a grunt of pain, and felt something warm trailing down his arm. The man pulled back to stab again, but Mikeil kicked out, catching him in the shin. He fell back a step, giving Mikeil room to breath. Knowing that these soldiers were far too fast for his large sword, he stabbed it into the ground, and grabbed his Shock Rifle. The soldier who he had just been fighting moved around sword, and came at him, sword held over his head. Mikeil brought his own Shock Rifle up, and the two clashed. He moved back a step, the shock hurting his injured arm. However, he used this tense moment to grab the man’s rapier, jerking it from his hand. The man stepped back, surprised. Mikeil brought his Rifle back, and focused his energy to cast Electri. But before he could finish, something smashed into the back of his head, and blackness took him. So. Those men had captured him, for reasons he did not fully understand. Or understood at all. One thing was for sure, though. He was going to get out of here. The only problem was how. |
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| Colaya | Oct 8 2008, 04:06 AM Post #5 |
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<__<
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Colaya awoke to feel a strong gust of wind blow over his body. “Huh?...” Colaya opened his eyes to meet the lovely sight of the Silver Moon. He gazed at it, appreciating its beauty for a moment, feeling as though he was completely weightless. He felt comfort sweep over his body from the sight. Unfortunately, this feeling was seized from him all too quickly and was replaced with panic. A shadow began to slither across the sky, until everything was consumed by darkness. Even the moon, that once emanated its alluring light, now became dull and depressing. It was at this moment that he realized that he was falling. He was falling, and was drawing closer and closer to deep sky with every passing moment. His clothing and hair whipped around violently, as he furiously tried to think a way out of this situation. But it was too late. Colaya fell below the lower clouds, and he could feel the pressure increasing against his body. He tried to let out one last scream before his demise, but not even a squeak could escape his throat. He couldn’t do anything. The only thing he could think about was the complete and utter darkness. The only thing he could feel was the sense of terror. Everything was entirely covered by the shadow now, even Colaya himself. He was one with the darkness. This was the end for him… --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Ahh!” Colaya let out a shriek as he jumped up out of his chair. Well… At least, he WOULD HAVE jumped out of his chair if he wasn’t strapped into it. Huh? What’s going on… Colaya wondered to himself. He tried to move his arms and legs, but to no avail. He blinked a few times, and for a moment thought he had gone blind, but realized that his head had been covered. What happened…?-- This was only one of the many questions that was going through his mind at the time, unfortunately, none of which he knew the answer of. “Wait…….. Now I remember……...” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Colaya let out a long yawn as he rubbed one eye with his hand. It had been a long day for him, and he was really anxious to get to the pillow that was resting on his bed. He increased his walking speed just as could see the Inn just a few blocks up ahead. “Help!! Please, someone help me!!!” Colaya stopped for a moment and looked down a back alley. He saw an individual slumped against the wall, covered in a ragged brown cloth. “Hey, are you alright!?” Colaya shouted to the person. No response. Colaya started walking down the lane, repeating “Hey… Are you alright?” There was still no answer. He continued walking towards the person, once again asking “Are you okay?” He now stood over the seemingly lifeless person, asking a final time “….You alright?” Colaya reached his arm out to touch the person’s shoulder, but it was intercepted by the persons own arm. “Whoa!” Colaya tried to jump back, but the man tightly grasped his arm. “Hey, let go!!” Colaya struggled to pull his arm free, but the cloaked stranger wouldn’t release his grip. A large screeching noise captured Colaya’s attention. He turned his head to the beginning of the alley to see that there were now three more covered men. They were heaving something that seemed like a tall portable wall. They blocked off the entrance to the narrow street. By now, Colaya knew that something was up. He refocused his attention to the man who was holding him, and raised his leg to kick the man in the side of the head. This caused the man to loosen his grip on the boy. Colaya pulled his arm free, and began running towards the other men. They took their stances, ready to grab Colaya as soon as he got to them. Quicka! Colaya cast a spell on himself that increased his quickness and agility. He was only a few feet in front of the men now. Wevli! Colaya cast another spell, only this time, directly underneath him. The burst of wind propelled him up into the air. He pressed his feet against the alley wall, and he jumped upwards onto the top of their “makeshift wall.” The three men were flabbergasted; they never expected that anyone would do something like that. Colaya stood at the top of the wall, and looked down to them and gloat. “Heh… Well, nice try guys! Maybe we can do this again someti-“ Colaya’s sentence was struck short by a burst of electricity. The original man that grabbed Colaya casted an electri spell to strike Colaya. Colaya’s body went numb and he began to pass out. He wobbled from side to side, until he fell off the side of the wall. His body looked like a ragdoll as he fell through the air. The men down at the street caught Colaya, and began binding his body. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Ugh… Never get cocky, Colaya…” He told himself as he shook his head. He tried to pull his arms and legs free a few times, even though he knew it was pretty much useless. He sighed and gave up. Instead, he decided to try a spell, however, he just couldn’t seem to focus. “Sylensis….” He sighed again. He thought to himself for a moment and realized that they could be watching him right then, anyway. ”I guess there isn’t much point in trying to escape…” “Wait…. They kept me alive and kidnapped me… So they MUST need me for something…” Colaya wondered what they would want him for, but it was only one more question he couldn’t answer. “I guess all I can do now is wait…” Colaya tried the best he could to relax and did just that; wait. Edited by Colaya, Oct 8 2008, 04:15 AM.
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| SummerRayn | Oct 8 2008, 08:48 PM Post #6 |
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A.k.a. "Sol"
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Geraldine Blitz woke as suddenly as she always did, wasting no time on drowsiness. But this time in contrast to other wakings, felt less like kicking open a door than fighting to the surface of swampy water. The violent effort of waking made her gasp—through her nose instead of her covered mouth—and the intake of breath made her choke. Her throat and lungs felt like they were covered in wax. Geraldine was seized by the desire to cough, but she certainly didn’t want whatever it was coming up through her nose. If only she could get this gag off! But wait, that was interesting. What was this about a gag? This needed explaining slightly more than the unpleasant feeling in her lungs. Why was her mouth covered? Purple moonstone. Huh. Sylenis? So somebody was trying to keep her quiet. On second thought, she wasn’t sure what else a gag was for; she supposed she’d vaguely figured they were trying to keep her from coughing. Maybe, it occurred to Gerrie, she wasn’t waking up as quickly as she’d assumed. This hypothesis was confirmed when only after she thought to look around did she realize there was a blindfold around her eyes. Then only when she tried to reach up and remove it did she realize her hands were tied. By the time Geraldine noticed that her feet were tied as well and her sinuses were plugging up from something stuffed in her ears, she had given up on figuring out whether she was even awake at all. The one thought now floating through her murky mind was how much she needed a smoke. Wait… ------- It was an awfully late hour for a woman to be hanging around a tavern without expecting trouble. But Geraldine liked to think that she was imposing and Amazonian enough to discourage bullyish inebriates, and smart enough to avoid the con men and cutpurses. The slavering dolts she could put up with, and sometimes you met some nice folks at these odd times of night. Miss Blitz didn’t have anything to worry about. She thought. It wasn’t even the first time she’d had loqua spilled on her that night; the fact that this slosh soaked her cigar pouch didn’t make it any more suspicious or alarming. She flung a cuss at the man in Valuan clothes who was already staggering away, but only because she was pretty sure he was too plastered to swing a punch. Geraldine fished the couple of cigars out of her dripping pouch and regarded them with dismay. They were hopelessly damp, and the one she was smoking was so burnt down as to threaten scorching her fingers. Gerrie stared dismally at the orange-papered stub in her hand and tried to decide whether to save a puff for later, or finish it off right then. “Ah, moons, did that clown wreck your smokes?” asked the man sitting at the table beside her—another Valuan. “They’ll dry. It’ll take a while, though.” She glared at her stub. Eh, to Deep Sky with it. She sucked it down, belched the smoke, and dropped it in a glass ashtray. “I’ll get itchy before ‘a while.’ ” “Here.” The man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a slim, brown cigar. “A gesture of apology on behalf of my countrymen.” Geraldine laughed a loud, braying laugh, cheered immensely by the appearance of dry tobacco, even if it wasn’t peach-flavored. “No apology needed. I know you’re good sorts—Daddy was a Valuan. Won’t turn down the gesture, though.” She gleefully bit the end off and pulled out her lighter. “What sort? I don’t usually try any other than my favorites.” “Yes… this is my own special brand,” said the man. “I think you’ll like it.” Despite the pungency of Gerrie’s peach cigars, the smell when she lit this one brought tears to her eyes. “Woah. That thing’s like a ton of bricks.” It didn’t stop her from getting it started with a healthy puff, although it probably should have; the inside of her mouth suddenly felt a little numb. Her eyes hadn’t stopped watering, either. She coughed on the smoke, and took a drink of loqua. The room was teetering like a spinning-top winding down. She peered at her mug uncertainly (focusing her eyes took a little work). She’d never found a loqua that could turn her head before, and this watery brand didn’t seem like a likely candidate. In her wonderment, she took a long, absent drag on the stranger’s cigar, and choked on the strange, waxy smoke. After a moment of gagging, she took a deep, gasping breath—which was pretty much the worst thing she could have done. The thick smoke was pulled into her lungs. It felt like her chest was full of bread dough. Her fingers quivered as her vision blurred, and the cigar dropped from her fingers, to smolder on the bartop with a thin blue plume. She was barely aware of falling off her bar stool. She always knew it would be the smokes that got her in the end. |
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| Gordreg | Oct 9 2008, 04:48 PM Post #7 |
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Administrator
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One eye inched slowly open as she stirred, but it made no change whatsoever to her view. Dark cloth as opposed to the darkness of a closed eyelid, obscuring both sight and the possibility thereof. She could feel the slight scratchiness as her eyelashes scraped against whatever cloth it was that covered them, her muggy mind slowly rousing from passiveness toward a state of alert and alarm. Where was she; and why was there cloth above her eyes? "Mgggrrurrfl!" It was only when she tried to shout that Eleanor's swimming thoughts recognised the obstruction in her mouth. Something hard and wooden pressed between her teeth, preventing her mouth from closing when she tried. It tasted of sour wood and vinigary Loqua... no, not Loqua. But there was the flavour of Loquat there on the fringes of the wood... the taste of crushed moonstone, perhaps? Or perhaps of moonstone-paint? Eleanor gargled again as she tried to think, and as the panic started to set in she tried to move, finding only then that she couldn't. Her limbs only moved a little no matter how she tried; was something binding them together? She swallowed; gulping down a mouthful of collected Saliva with that same strange aftertaste. Where on Arcadia was she? Despite the rapid beating in her chest Eleanor tried to calm herself down, trying to sooth her panic with self-reassurance, trying to slow the rate of her breathing despite the muzziness in her head. But even then, she realised suddenly, there was nothing outside that she could hear. Her ears felt as though they'd been stuffed with packing-wool, or some sort of blockage at any rate. She swallowed again, again tasting that bitter flavour that clung to the wooden gag. How had she gotten here? Her mind still swam, but she tried to remember. To remember before the darkness had fallen and the room had spun, to a quiet breakfast room on the ground floor of a Sailor's Island guesthouse. She has been sitting by the window; seated in a wicker chair as she watched the soaring skygulls against the sunny backdrop of a freshly dawned day. Her notebook had been with her, Eleanor could remember that. It had been there on the table in front of her, her right hand lazily scratching out a penciled sketch upon the topsheet. The seat had been comfortable and cushioned, and she had reached out to take a sip from the warm Mug that the waiter had just bought her... ...And then the room had spun, and the darkness had loomed all around her. She mumbled again and tried to shake, but her binds gave no relief, and Eleanor only eventually stopped after a few minuites growing fear and anxiety. It was only now, now she thought back about it, that the presence of a waiter had seemed at all odd. Before that last remembered morning, there had only ever been maids serving at the breakfast tables... |
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| Ranger | Oct 10 2008, 03:25 PM Post #8 |
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Previously Nex Terren
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Darkness and obliviousness. That was what the world was to you; a place of uncertainty, and no explanation. You were given no indication that anything was going to change, and then everything did just that. Rough, large hands grasp your head, handling it rudely as light was returned to eyes, sound to ears, and speech to mouth. Purple magic and restraints alike are left in place, allowing little taste of returned freedom. As your eyes begin to adjust to the sudden--if not bright--light, you get the first sight of your captors... A well built, hearty man, appearing a mix of the four corners of Arcadia, pulled on a pair of fingerless, worn out gloves. His crooked nose, scraggly unkempt beard, and hard eyes were hardly visible beneath the mass of filth and grime which covered him. One might have thought him a man long weathered and used to the seas, if not for the stiff-legged walk which he used to balance himself on the bucked and tossed craft. His gaze danced about the collection of men who hurried themselves about the deck. All Valuan; pure blooded born if even there wasn't a single drop of noble blood between them. Half of them were young, fresh men; strong, fearless, loyal, and with a certain measure of grace about them. The other half... well, didn't fit such a description. Of various ages, builds, and general dispositions, they were more like a collection of a small town than what purpose they were serving there. 'Well,' the man gave an inaudible sigh, 'This is my crew. This is what I have to work with...' "Alright me, let's get this ship a-going! Hoist the sails, man the wheel! You seven!" He pointed towards some of the younger men; the younger were the only ones that were armed or trained, and so they were the natural choice. "It's time to come'on down, like you were told. They should be a-waking up by now." Scratching at his dirty, oily, half-shaved beard, he led the way, off upper deck, and down the small schooner's only flight of stairs. The sea-wood steps creaked and groaned, threatening to give way after so many years of rot and wear. They didn't, however, instead allowing another eight men to pass over it. Subconsciously checking his eye patch, the captain of the vessel approached the six tied and bound figures. Gags, ropes, chains, blindfolds... the works. They had taken every precaution with these half-a-dozen victims... He licked his lips in nervous anticipation, and then nodded briskly, grimly towards the seven men. He didn't seem ready to waste any words. They divided into two groups--one of three, the other four--and began addressing each prisoner in turn. Leveling shotguns, the three stood ready, while the other four drew short, but fearsome looking knives. The group of four first dealt with the noble lady, next the whimpering autistic man, removing cotton, gag, and blindfold, then giving the captor's heads a rough, if not harmful, shove to the side. They came to the man with mechanical arm, and two of the strongest took him by the artificial might, another by the opposing arm, and the fourth--quickly--removed the three items. Next a young man--with strange foreign features--was taken care of, the only one the captors tested the bonds that held him down; he was the only one tied to a chair. Then the four advanced to the navigator (who still stunk of cigar smoke), and lastly the youngest woman there, dark hair disheveled by being roughly handled in her capture, and then more by the men's rough grasps. And what did those prisoners finally allowed see? A rotting, weathered inside of a ship; seeming dug up from some wreckage of a fisherman's boat, repurposed for use beyond it's natural lifespan. Wide cracks above filtered down harsh, mid-day light. The glimmering moats slashed the scene of rot, barrels, and minimalistic bedding. That light was broken in a random, shifting nature, by shadows of men hurrying above. How many were up there? It was impossible to tell, except that it was a good many more than were down here. Those who were down here all appeared well built, battle hardened, and quite skilled with whatever weapon they carried--the only exception was the greasy captain, unarmed, but appearing ready to take on the best of them with his bare hands. An air that said they were quite able at what they were doing, but not necessarily experienced hung in the air. All of the seven wore Valuan armor, although the dirt and grime, and rudely torn off rank knots suggested them to have been stolen. The eight--captain and armored crew--now laughed at the six without abandon, seeming quite pleased with their catch. "Oh, look at 'em, will ya?" The captain guffawed, slapping his knee. "Look at 'em! You won't be gettin' out of those bonds, and there isn't a curia crystal on board, so don't think you're going to get your spells back, miss." He winked at Melissa, "Oh, yes, the lot of you are going to make fine ransoms and slaves! Ooh, all of our catches combined won't amount to this lot!" "Mostly because of that 'Vander, isn't it, boss?" The Captain threw back his head and laughed. "Aye! Yes, yes she's a catch. What her brother won't give to see her back!" "Oh, but can't we have a lil' fun with her first?" One of the soldiers cried, motioning towards the nobleborn with his gun, "Shame to give her back before we--" The Captain jerked his head about, unpatched eye flashing with rage and his hand dancing to his side, where they found no sword hilt. Practically in that same instant that had seen the anger grow, it faded, his face returning to lines of unbridled amusement. "Oh, not yet boys; but I promise you can have at her soon. And the other girls." The armored man, who had a second ago hate flashed at him, seem to have recovered well enough. "Oh, maybe that one," He nodded towards the young biologist, "But not the other. Smells worst than any tavern I've been to..." "You!" The Captain shouted, apparently ignoring such comments about his prisoners. He pointed a large finger--marred by tan lines--at one of the men, following this by an exaggerated motion of becoming. "Get our cargo something to eat! And the rest of you lot, keep careful watch over them, and make sure none of 'em get even a chance to escape." Without another word or bark of scoundrel mirth, the seven men hurried to their assigned tasks: six setting up a guard, and the last marching through the only bulkhead that cut off this room from the rest of the inboard. In a moment, he came out with a large cast-iron pot of steaming something, a wooden dipper, and several tin bowls. Tossing down the bowls (either before the captives, or on their laps), and slopping an ashen colored stew into them. He advanced down the line, making no effort to untie them, instead allowing the six figures to figure out how to eat the meal. As the man slopped the stew in the second bowl, the captain leaned against a far wall. Pulling down his large-brimmed hat over his patch and eye, be began to breath heavily, slowly, as if already asleep. Challenge! Your situation has changed--in part. Perhaps, just perhaps there is a way for you to escape; a difficult proposition considering that you're still bound, silenced from magic, and have six armed, and armored guards watching you. If you can think of a way to escape, you are free to try it, and if you escape you will be rewarded with -1 strike! Be forewarned, however! If the DM (myself) feels your method either unrealistic or simply impossible, you will receive +1 strike. I will by no means be easy with this challenge, and I will NOT evaluate your ideas or plans outside of in-thread responses. You have two (2) rounds to attempt to escape in. If you are aided by anyone else in your escape, you will not receive your -1 strike, however, if you escape on your own you will still receive your -1 strike bonus. Once again; you have to escape on your own to receive the bonus; being helped will void it, but not offering help, UNLESS it is unrealistic, or dangerous to offer said help. Use your judgment! You will be rewarded for creative, feasible ideas, and be punished for being unrealistic, or by putting your character in realistically unavoidable danger. You will see this repeated during the course of the RRDC. If you do plan on attempting to escape, please read carefully this, and the previous DM post to ensure that you understand all the aspects of your situation full-well. Naturally, escaping your bonds is a reward in-and-of-itself, although not necessarily possible... Necromancer Sargoth 0/3 Saturday, 10-11-08 Nex Terren 0/3 Sunday, 10-12-08 PG 17 0/3 Monday, 10-13-08 Colaya 0/3 Tuesday, 10-14-08 Solstice 0/3 Wednesday, 10-15-08 Gordreg 0/3 Thursday, 10-16-08 Necromancer Sargoth 0/3 Friday, 10-17-08 Nex Terren 0/3 Saturday, 10-18-08 PG 17 0/3 Sunday, 10-19-08 Colaya 0/3 Monday, 10-20-08 Solstice 0/3 Tuesday, 10-21-08 Gordreg 0/3 Wednesday, 10-22-08 Unless I post a new schedule, follow this one until two rounds. I may have to make a DM post during this two-round section, but unless I say otherwise, continue on with it. This may mean that you will post the same day as a DM post. Edited by Ranger, Oct 10 2008, 04:11 PM.
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| Necromancer Sargoth | Oct 12 2008, 04:38 AM Post #9 |
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Affably Evil
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Only the brutish touch of her captor broke Melissa’s nightmares of being in the Emperor’s hands. This was it; now she would know. She felt the steel grasp of an armored hand enclose around her arm and was roughly pulled back into a sitting posture. Her heart raged in her chest, beating so fast she thought it would surely burst. Her blind was torn from her head, taking a few bits of her matted tresses with it. She winced from the sudden light and the latest injury. By the time her eyes adjusted to the change, sound had also been restored to her. The groans of the derelict ship met her ears along with the loud footsteps overhead and the gruff mutterings of the guards. For the first time since she had blacked out, her gaze fell upon her captors. For a moment, she felt relief. These men, if they could be called such a thing, for they were barren of honor, did not represent Enrique. Of this, Melissa was certain. She glowered at the man attending her. However, eyes of ice did not daunt him. He continued to go about his work and removed the gag from Vander’s mouth, a thin stream of saliva tagging along as he pulled the gag away; drool covered the noble lady’s chin. Her mouth half full of magic-tinged mucus, and anger biting at Melissa’s mind, she spat at her captor. He flinched, but could not avoid getting a shirt full of viscous spit. The other men chuckled and a smug, half-grin spread over Melissa’s face. He backhanded her suddenly, knocking her to the floor again, but Lady Vander regretted nothing. Her pulled her back up and left her sitting, her cheek already beginning to swell, while he moved on to the next unlucky prisoner. So, she was not alone. She began to take in her surroundings just as the man who Melissa presumed to be the captain began to speak, ignoring her rough treatment by his man. There were six others bound with her in the dank hold, a place most unfit for a drunken beggar let alone a trueborn Vander. The captives were a strange assortment indeed, seemingly plucked at random. The man next to her seemed to be somewhat touched and she couldn’t get a good look at the others yet. They still had their faces covered. There were other women though and one seemed vaguely familiar, possibly another noblewoman. To them, Melissa must have been a frightful sight. Her cheek had turned red by now and she had a deep purple wound on her forehead from the butt of her attacker’s sword. Her auburn hair was matted down in spots with dried blood and the same crusty residue was streaked down her face. Her wrists and ankles were cut from her futile struggles against her bindings, and her robes were ripped and stained with dirt and drops blood. Anyone could see that drugs had not taken down Melissa Vander. Her attention snapped back to the captain as she heard mention of her name. She sneered at the guffawing captain, who appraised her as if she were a prize animal just brought in from the wild. Her sensibilities were enraged. "Aye! Yes, yes she's a catch. What her brother won't give to see her back!" the captain bellowed. “You will regret this,” Melissa growled, perhaps too low for the captain to hear. She watched the scene play out between the captain and the crewman who so idly suggested her own rape. Melissa studied the captain’s rage with curiosity and noted how it subsided. She wondered if his command was absolute. "Oh, not yet boys; but I promise you can have at her soon. And the other girls,” replied the captain. Melissa was about to reply, but she was not certain she could bear another beating. She bit her tongue for now. The expression she wore spoke her feelings far better than any words could. When the guard arrived with the food, she could hardly believe her eyes. It looked like a steaming tin of dhabu spit. Before he moved away, she called out for him to wait. “You cannot be serious,” she replied, her offense clear in her tone. “You drag me off the moor, beat me, bind me, and expect me to eat this... this... whatever this may be!?” She laughed derisively. “Are you completely mad? Moons above I cannot even take hold of my bowl! My hands are awash with my own blood! Take pity on a woman of noble birth and respect her station.” She stared hard at him, her eyes pleading. “Just my hands, by the blessed moons. At least grant me that! Shame me no further!" |
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| Ranger | Oct 12 2008, 05:32 PM Post #10 |
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Previously Nex Terren
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Dungeon Master: The Soldier glowered down at the woman, not seeming entirely convinced of his own animosity. “What, I thought you didn't want to eat it,” He sneered. Then, the soldier visually recoiled, eyes looking over the wounds of the woman. The dried blood from wounds and bindings alike, crusting hair, covering face, binding writs, ankles. He seemed to have forgotten that he was the one who had just suggested 'having fun' with the woman, and now appeared regretful—no, rather appalled—that any harm would have come to her. He bit his lip, sadness overtaking the disgust, and then, with a jerk of his head, shook all such emotions away. “Maybe later,” He smiled, life removed from that expression. Nex Terren (player): Henry gasped in terror as the armored hands began to handle him roughly. Fear jerked his heart in arrhythmic fluttering. His body seized up with frost. Gagged on his own unresponsive breath, his mind tried to shut off reality. It all just wouldn't go away... Light. Sound. Voice. They returned to Henry, and the overwhelming sensation launched him into a fit of coughing. The hands rudely jerked him about, forcing him against the ship's wall. A cry of pain escaped Henry at the impact, his face contorted. No, it didn't hurt that badly; he was just that afraid. “Oh shut up,” the shiphands told him. Henry's eyes shot back open. Men in armor. Another man, captain? Old planks. Barrels. The smell of sweat and dirt. The sound of men running about—overhead? Slashes of light. Knives. Shotguns. But... but... where...? What...? And then, with a since of complete horror, he realized that the air was empty. The air was completely empty. “My ships...” He whispered, “My ships... where are my ships? My ships? Where are they?” His voice rose to a loud cry. “My ships! Where are my ships?!” “Oh quit your babbling,” One of the men said, lightly kicking Henry. Silence rested over Henry for his part, but eyes still jerked about the air around him, looking for something that had not been lost for over ten years. No cannon fire. No discharge of moonstone. No screaming crews, attempting to outlive their destinies. No attacks. No flanking. No grand strategy. No great command. No defeat. No victory. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing... He shook his head again, tears in his eyes. “Let me go,” He whispered softly; too quiet for the four armored men who had moved on. “Just... please...” Letting out a final whimper, he began to look around him, no longer for impossible ships, but at the very possible one that he was in. It was old, worn down... he had fished on a boat, much like this once. Before his days at the academy. He had never been good at it; never been able to keep up with the large, bawdy, hearty men in their back-breaking tasks. Henry remembered being pushed, shoved, and laughed at until one day he was lost in a bet. The man never remembered agreeing to any such thing, but nevertheless, he had gone along with it. Moved on to a world of slender, refined, cultured men and their mind-challenging tasks. Had it been worth it? No, not especially. No, not really. Well, he had gotten a friend—an actual friend—out of it... and his ships. Now he had neither. “Three-hundred and forty nine nails...” he muttered under his breath, finishing tally of the world around him. “You cannot be serious,” A voice beside Henry scoffed. A pleasant voice, besides hostility. “You drag me off the moor, beat me, bind me, and expect me to eat this... this...” Henry began to ignore the words she spoke, instead examining the woman. Kind lines, a beautiful face, sophistication... hurt, wounded, pleading... who was she? Oh, that didn't matter. What had they done to her? She was a lady, an aristocrat; even Henry could tell that. Even Henry knew that wasn't how a lady should be treated. No one should be able to do that, and live. “And now the half-brain dead fool,” The armored man laughed hatefully, moving on from the woman. “Come on, eat up.” Henry leveled his gaze at the man, venomous gaze overpowering and overwhelming the sight of his bindings; anyone looking at him would have had trouble assuring themselves that he was, indeed, captive, and thus harmless. Hatred was the only thing his expression conveyed; a cold, simmering absolute hatred. “You will be sorry.” He said flatly, gaze impossibly still. “You will be very, very sorry.” |
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2:37 PM Jul 11