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  1. - Top - End - #91
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    After a gentle nudge Ithelus wakes from a light doze. Getting up he addresses Mils, 'Lord, I wonder if I could trouble you for an axe?' he gestures to the sickle in his belt, 'unfortunately there will be no crops to reap where we are going.'
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  2. - Top - End - #92
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Downstairs

    “I’m sure someone will be able to find you something,” said Mils. He had no answer for Sigurd, remaining stiffly formal.

    “If you’ll excuse me, I have preparations of my own to make,” he said. “I will meet you in the square.”

    OOC:
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    Yes, I think Lothar has all his kit. Aside from Ith finding an axe, does anyone else have any prep they want to do before joining the expedition?



    1

    The Tower

    Pieter ascended the stairs into the upper levels of the manor cautiously, keeping an eye open to see where the lord’s daughter had got to. The last time he had been up this way, they had been hot on Ribault’s heels – now, the empty, draughty corridors and their faded hangings seemed almost disquietingly still and silent.

    Esther’s door at the top of the tower stair was shut. Pieter gave a quiet knock, and there was a brief rustling from inside – after a pause of three or four seconds, it opened.

    “Mr Hagen,” said Esther, in a small voice. Behind the protection of her veil, Pieter could see her instantly composing herself at the sight of him. It didn’t do to show distress in front of a stranger, and the one thing the Verlorens still had was breeding.
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    The Hour After Midnight
    Threads: I, II, III
    The Lord of Lost Heart
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    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  3. - Top - End - #93
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Master Sigurd Waite

    Rebuffed by the lord, Sigurd bows formally and exits.

    Once they're out of the manor he inquires from Illiiya what happened in the cellar and what the doctor was like. After a moment of silence, some elven words and what sounds like lines from a nursery rhyme, he nods thoughtfully and directs further questions to Leopold.

    ((We don't strictly need to do that scene, just establishing that Sigurd knows IC what transpired down there.))

    He's careful not to intrude on the elder Faulebrand's simmering anger. In town, he parts ways from them and sits outside the Heartless Man with Indigo.

    He takes some woad-based dye from his satchel and sets to work on the hound. Soon he has applied a ghostly blue streak to her chest, one to her head starting between the eyes, and a little touch of the stuff to her tail and woolly paws. He murmurs to her as he works, and is quite enamored with the result.

    Indigo enjoys the attention. Once she's glamored up she goes for a run amidst the village to show off the new paint job. Sigurd smokes his pipe. Tonic for the heart and all. If Pieter comes by, he'll ask him about Esther.

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    Leaving an opening here so Pieter can report anything unusual to us, if there is anything unusual(er). Otherwise I'm ready to move on.
    Last edited by Another_Poet; 2012-05-26 at 04:14 PM.
    I just published my first novella, Lúnasa Days, a modern fantasy with a subtle, uncertain magic.

    You can grab it on Kindle or paperback.

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  4. - Top - End - #94
    Troll in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter pretended not to notice Esther's thinly-veiled (literally) distress. Was it her meeting with Ricard Talberg downstairs? Or had Illiiya told her something disquieting? Now was not the time to probe.

    "May I?" he asked politely, gesturing at the inside of the room. Without waiting for an answer, he let himself in.

    "I'm here to give this back to you," he said in an apologetic tone, showing her the pendant. "Remember, I said we couldn't keep it in good conscience if anyone got killed when we found the bandits. I'll spare you the details, but... let's say Shallya wouldn't approve of what happened back there."

    As he spoke he kept his eyes on Esther, trying to guess how nervous she was from her body language.

    If she has nothing to do with the knight, she still wonders what happened to the doctor's letter.

    "I mean sure, the Imperium of Man is a totalitarian, genocidal theocracy that routinely wipes out entire civilizations and suppresses all technological and social progress... but given the 40k setting, IT'S ALL TOTALLY JUSTIFIED"
    ^ Please, please, please don't be that guy.

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  5. - Top - End - #95
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter

    "I... um, thank you," she said. Beneath the veneer of high-born composure, Pieter thought he sensed that Esther was afraid. She took the necklace quickly, as if frightened he might bite if she lingered too near.

    "Is there anything else?"

    It was a little nicety of a question, but she seemed to hold her breath as she hung on the answer.
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    The Hour After Midnight
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    The Lord of Lost Heart
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    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  6. - Top - End - #96
    Troll in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter hesitated. He could not learn more without revealing what he knew, which might be risky if she was on the doctor's side. But she did look genuinely afraid. Unless she was the best actress ever, she did not have it in her to have people killed. Only her inaction made her a suspect.

    She's not an evildoer, just a girl who's in over her head. Better cross her off the list once and for all.

    The initiate took a deep breath. "Some of us, myself included," he said, his tone one of polite curiosity rather than accusation, "have been wondering why you told no one about the doctor's letter."

    "I mean sure, the Imperium of Man is a totalitarian, genocidal theocracy that routinely wipes out entire civilizations and suppresses all technological and social progress... but given the 40k setting, IT'S ALL TOTALLY JUSTIFIED"
    ^ Please, please, please don't be that guy.

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  7. - Top - End - #97
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter

    The strength of Esther's reaction was unmistakeable. She put the necklace down so quickly that she almost dropped it to the floor.

    "No," she said, stammering. "No, I - I think you must have... someone else."

    It didn't make sense, but she didn't seem to notice.

    "Please, go," she said with emphasis. "Your friends will be needing you. Thank you for - for returning this."

    An idea seemed to strike her. She picked the necklace up again, offering it back to Pieter.

    "Please, keep it a little longer," she said. "I have much belief in such things, but maybe it will keep you safe." She was speaking more calmly now, the shattered mask piecing itself back together. "Goodbye, Mr Hagen."
    Last edited by LCP; 2012-05-27 at 06:06 AM.
    Spoiler: My Games
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    The Hour After Midnight
    Threads: I, II, III
    The Lord of Lost Heart
    Threads: I, II
    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  8. - Top - End - #98
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter did not touch the necklace. His expression grew hard.

    "Esther, listen to me. By my count, nine people died over that letter, directly or indirectly. This is serious. Believe me, if I wanted to drag you out in public and accuse you, I'd go to your father, not you." He let it hang for a second. He lowered his voice: "I'm just here for answers. And I'll have them, one way or another. I'd rather hear them from you."

    "I mean sure, the Imperium of Man is a totalitarian, genocidal theocracy that routinely wipes out entire civilizations and suppresses all technological and social progress... but given the 40k setting, IT'S ALL TOTALLY JUSTIFIED"
    ^ Please, please, please don't be that guy.

    NaNoWriMo 2014 word count: 0

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  9. - Top - End - #99
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter

    Seeing her gesture had been ignored, Esther set the necklace wordlessly aside. She met Pieter’s gaze.

    “I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” she said, quietly. “Goodbye, Mr Hagen.”
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    The Hour After Midnight
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    The Lord of Lost Heart
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    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  10. - Top - End - #100
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter's jaw tightened. He exhaled and forced himself to speak softly.

    "You disappoint me indeed. Because, for lack of a better explanation, I must conclude that you acted - or failed to act - out of spite for Alexa. If your motive was anything else, no matter how shameful, say it now. People are dying right now from the doctor's poisons because you didn't warn us about him."

    He turned to leave. "It's too late to repair the harm, but you can still do the right thing and testify against the doctor. Just be quick about it. Goodbye, Lady Verloren," he said coolly.
    Last edited by -Sentinel-; 2012-05-27 at 11:10 AM.

    "I mean sure, the Imperium of Man is a totalitarian, genocidal theocracy that routinely wipes out entire civilizations and suppresses all technological and social progress... but given the 40k setting, IT'S ALL TOTALLY JUSTIFIED"
    ^ Please, please, please don't be that guy.

    NaNoWriMo 2014 word count: 0

    #stopgamergate2014

  11. - Top - End - #101
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter

    Esther suffered his condemnation in silence. Pieter turned to go, and she turned to close the door behind him. Her silence wasn’t at all like Reifennen’s brazen, bare-faced denial – Pieter couldn’t decide if she seemed ashamed or resigned. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but bit it down.

    “You can come to whatever conclusion you like, Mr Hagen,” she said. “It doesn’t mean you understand.”

    She looked down at the floor.

    “Please go.”
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    The Hour After Midnight
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    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
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    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
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  12. - Top - End - #102
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    It doesn't mean you understand. Pieter took these words to mean that Esther felt justified in what she had (not) done.

    "I don't know what's in it for you. I really don't," he sighed.

    He left, shaking his head regretfully. He had so wanted to tell the others to stop worrying about Esther, but her reaction had only confirmed his worst suspicions. Now the question was, would she help the doctor escape if she could? And what could they do about it?

    On his way out, he stopped to tell Lord Verloren: "M'lord, we think the doctor may have put... something... in the butcher's last batch of meat pies while he was residing there... Perhaps to have more paying customers, that's the only logical explanation I can think of." Besides the non-logical ones. "We have no material proof as of now, but if people start getting sick, please try to learn if they ate the pies. Mr Hofstadter certainly did."

    He inclined his head and left the house.


    At the Heartless Man

    The initiate walked back to the Heartless Man, his face gloomy, and tersely told Lothar, Illiiya, Ithelus and Mr Waite about his meeting with Esther Verloren.

    "So she had almost certainly nothing to do with the knight," he concluded, "but I'm afraid we must still consider her the doctor's accomplice. I don't know if she's repentant, but she won't cooperate."
    Last edited by -Sentinel-; 2012-05-27 at 12:30 PM.

    "I mean sure, the Imperium of Man is a totalitarian, genocidal theocracy that routinely wipes out entire civilizations and suppresses all technological and social progress... but given the 40k setting, IT'S ALL TOTALLY JUSTIFIED"
    ^ Please, please, please don't be that guy.

    NaNoWriMo 2014 word count: 0

    #stopgamergate2014

  13. - Top - End - #103
    Firbolg in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter

    To find Mils, Pieter had to leave through the back of the manor, where he found the older Verloren in the stableyard. Rodrik the boot-boy was with him, saddling the two aged coach-horses - the young servant still had a yellow, swollen bruise on his forehead where Ribault had knocked him unconscious.

    "M'lord, we think the doctor may have put... something... in the butcher's last batch of meat pies while he was residing there... Perhaps to have more paying customers, that's the only logical explanation I can think of." Besides the non-logical ones. "We have no material proof as of now, but if people start getting sick, please try to learn if they ate the pies. Mr Hofstadter certainly did."
    "I'll bear it in mind," said the nobleman. He seemed to be only half-listening - some of the frostiness with which he had addressed Sigurd hadn't fully worn off.

    Letting himself out through the stable gates, Pieter headed back downhill to see the others.

    OOC:
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    Breaking briefly to see if there's any responses to Pieter, and then I will move things along to the expedition setting off.
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    The Hour After Midnight
    Threads: I, II, III
    The Lord of Lost Heart
    Threads: I, II
    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  14. - Top - End - #104
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Outside the inn, Sigurd merely nodded slowly at Pieter’s words. At the periphery of his vision, Pieter could see the big grey blur of Indigo lolloping back and forth between the silent houses, her fur streaked with blue dye. Her prideful prancing seemed singularly out of place – Hohlesbruck was as quiet as the grave.

    Bit by bit, they watched the muster come together. Gerolf was striding between the cottages, hammering on doors with a gnarled oak cudgel as he turfed Mils’ makeshift militia out of doors. Beside the well, a pile of weapons grew as the men he called out pitched in, fetching and carrying. There were a few rusty spears and a couple of crude, battered crossbows, but for the most part the best they could find were agricultural implements – scythes, spades, sickles and hatchets, heaped up in ample numbers. While no-one was looking, Ithelus helped himself to an axe.

    Ernst and Mathias came down from the manor, leading one of the lord’s black mares and bringing a few dull old blades with them – a store kept specifically for the militia. From the direction of the fields surrounding the mill, other men went to and fro, bringing a pair of lumbering dray horses and rolling small bales of straw along beside them. Axel the blacksmith came with a sack of charcoal and a small keg of pitch, and slowly the gaggle of village men standing around the assembled materials grew. They looked cold and afraid in the morning light.

    Leading the horse on which he had arrived, Leopold came out and stood with Pieter. He had borrowed a jacket from his father, and it showed – they had very different dimensions. Soon after, Lord Verloren came riding down the hill on the second of the old black coach-horses, a sword at his belt – to Ithelus’ eyes, it looked like the same blade with which the old nobleman had nearly taken off Ribault’s head, the night the Breton fell from the stable roof.

    “How many do we have?” he asked Gerolf. The bailiff looked out over the muster.

    “A score, all told,” he said. “Should’ve had more, sir, but there’s some sickness keeping folk indoors. Either the men are feelin’ it, or they have sick wives to watch over.”
    Verloren merely nodded, but Pieter thought he saw the old nobleman shoot a worried glance in his direction. He looked out over the militiamen they had managed to gather, and raised his voice to address them as a group.
    “You all know why we’re here?” he called. There was a swell of acknowledgement.
    “Aye, we all heard the noises in the night,” called back one of the villagers. “That fog weren’t natural. Something has to be done.” A murmur of assent. “Gerolf’s told us the plan. We should’ve burned that place soon as we heard the beasts were gone.”
    Pieter noticed Ellie and Abi watching from the sidelines. Sigurd, meanwhile, noticed Mathias among the mustered men, subjecting him to a suspicious stare at the mention of ‘unnatural’ goings-on.
    “Yilese always said we were best off leavin’ the north woods be,” came a more timorous voice – Hans Suster. Of all the men present, Suster looked distinctly the least comfortable with the idea of what they were about to do.
    “Didn’t stop you takin’ Mr Waite out there, did it, Hans?” asked Mathias. Hans shook his head glumly.
    “I wish it had. I know what I saw.”
    “Aye, you ain’t stopped tellin’ people,” rumbled Axel. The big blacksmith’s voice was calm and steady.

    “Last night,” said Mils, cutting across the chatter, “the Heartless Man was attacked.” The villagers fell silent. “The attackers were... creatures, that came out of the fog. The fog that came rolling out of those woods.”

    He looked around at the expectant faces.

    “We are under assault. Our ancestors cut this land from the dark heart of the Drakwald, and now the Drakwald wants it back.” His old horse whinnied and tossed its head, Mils having to tug on the reins to keep it still. “We left the woods alone when the woods left us alone. That time is over. Now, unless you want to see your families swallowed up by shadow, unless you want to see the house of your forebears stolen and desecrated, we must fight back. That starts at the beastmen’s lair.” He surveyed the crowd again. “I think the sons of Hohlesbruck can burn one black tree.”

    The swell of agreement was stronger this time, more emphatic. Mils at least had the villagers on his side.

    “Load up the horses,” he said to Gerolf. “As much fuel as we can carry.” The bailiff set to it, the big carthorses standing obediently still as bundles of straw were manhandled over their backs. Still looking ill at ease, Hans Suster looked up at the sky.

    “We ought to cover those bales,” the woodsman said, still as glum as a toad. “Weather looks like it might be on the turn.”

    Gerolf heard him and made sure. The horses were loaded and ready to leave, when another set of hoofbeats slowly approached.

    “Hullo,” said Ricard, a little cautiously. He was riding his own horse, a beautiful thing from the pistolier corps, tall and dark bay. Behind it, he was leading another – a pale chestnut mare that whickered and pulled uneasily at the reins.

    “Thought I could lend a hand,” he said. He could evidently sense the waves of hostile silence emanating from Mils and Leopold, but seemed to determine to soldier on regardless. “Damn silly carrying these pistols around for nothing.”

    He pulled the riderless horse forwards. “This is the doctor’s. Thought he wouldn’t mind if we borrowed her.” He shrugged. “And if he does, he can go sit on a pikestaff, eh?”

    “Very kind of you, your lordship,” said Gerolf – the villagers seemed to bow their heads to Talberg almost as much as to Verloren. “Glad to have you with us.”

    “Glad to be of use,” said Ricard. He seemed driven in a way that was new. Pieter was the only one who saw something familiar in it – it was akin to the keen curiosity with which Talberg had questioned him in the woods. Whatever this was about, the young noble finally seemed awake to his surroundings.

    “Right,” said Gerolf. “I think we’re set. Kaspar, Sepp, Werner, Ehrhart, Arne – you stay here, keep watch for us. The rest of you, with his lordship.” He turned to Hans. “Mr Suster, lead the way.”

    “We’re all goin’ to regret this,” muttered the woodsman, setting off north towards the bridge. “Just you wait and see...”

    OOC:
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    When taking an axe from the weapons heap, there’s enough choice that Ithelus can pick up either a hatchet (hand weapon) or a felling axe (Poor Craftsmanship great weapon).

    The two big draft horses are so burdened with tree-burning materials that they have no space for riders, but there is space for a rider on Mils’ spare horse if you don’t mind getting hay in your boots, and Ricard brings Reifennen’s horse at such a late juncture that it ends up almost cargo-free – if anyone wants to ‘borrow’ it, it’s up for grabs.

    In summary, you’re leaving Hohlesbruck with:
    • Mils, Leopold, Ricard, Gerolf and 15 peasant chums, including Axel, Hans and Mathias.
    • 7 horses (two big draft horses, two old coach-horses, two riding horses, one light warhorse)
    • Three crossbows and a boatload of rusty old spears/billhooks/axes/scythes/etc.
    • A barrel of pitch, a sack of charcoal and a shedload of straw.


    I hope you are psyched about this, because I am.



    1

    Crossing the gurgling river, they left Shallya’s roadside shrine behind, plunging into the depths of the forest until the last signs of Hohlesbruck vanished far behind them. The green buds of the days before were beginning to unfurl into a full panoply of leaves, filtering the white sunlight through a hundred dappled shades of green. The shadows were deep between the towering trunks of the gnarled Drakwald oaks, the last night’s fog still lingering in the hollows between their roots.

    The light did not last long, as Suster’s first prophecy looked to be coming to fruition. Dark clouds were gathering in the north, heavy with the promise of rain – the villagers checked the coverings of their flammable cargo, and soldiered on as the sun hid its face behind a veil of grey. It was a long march to the barrow mound, and many of them had not gone this way before. Even Lothar and the others found it hard to recognise the landmarks they had passed the last time. The horses picked their way warily between the trees, all but the plodding carthorses seeming skittish and nervous.

    Sigurd and Ithelus found it hard going. Their stomachs gurgled emptily, but the prospect of food seemed almost worse than the nagging hunger, a light-headed queasiness dogging their steps. The villagers were already giving Ithelus and Illiiya a wide berth, some of them whispering to each other about Illiiya’s hands – Sigurd tried not to give them anything more to talk about by falling behind, although he could scarcely hide the pallor of his face. At least Ithelus had elvish mystery to hide behind.

    After what seemed to Ithelus an agonising eternity trudging between the endless trees, they came to a landmark he remembered – the Watchers. The squat stones stood as unchanging as ever in their cloak of brambles, three ragged crows watching the passers-by from the trees overhead. Thinking back to the chanting daemons of the night before, Sigurd couldn’t help but see the rotund, antlered figure on the foremost stone in a more sinister light.

    As they crossed the unseen boundary into the northern woods, the complexion of the forest changed. Though the leaves had budded here, they were worm-eaten and sickly, blotched with the dead brown tracks of parasites. The dark clouds had pooled like ink across the sky, and sudden squalls of rain gusted down through the twisted branches, soaking into the rotting leaf litter of the forest floor. The far-off croaking of crows was a constant companion, carrying across the rustle of the wind and the listless patter of the rain like solemn bells in the distance.

    The mist hung thicker here, as if it had never truly left. Men pulled their cloaks tight around them, or buttoned their jackets shut, boots squelching in ground that had never been far from being mud in the first place. The inconstant rain came rattling down through a lattice of black branches, the great trees looming larger and larger as they travelled deeper into the forest’s heart.


    With Mils’ permission, Gerolf broke open Axel’s keg of pitch, lighting a trio of torches to guide them where the fog was thickest. More and more frequently, Hans had to stop to get his bearings, leaving the rest of the militia waiting behind him. Waiting at one such stop, Lothar wrinkled his nose in disgust as he noticed a huge slug creeping across the top of his boot, leaving a thick silver trail behind. He used his other foot to kick it into the thorny undergrowth.

    Each time Hans would return, and they would press further ahead until another stop was called. Pieter had begun to wonder whether their guide was lost when there came a cry from up ahead – one of the villagers had found something.

    It was the rotting bones of a horse, still caged in the rusted remains of heavy barding. Hurrying to the scene, Hans knelt beside it, gauging the slope of the ground – he seemed almost excited as he led the way forwards. In less than fifty paces, the trees began to thin, and the ominous outline of the clearing took shape ahead.

    Alone on its hill of bones, the barrow stood bare and ancient against the wet grey sky, the great tree arching its tortured back over its sealed stone gate. Behind it, a black squall was looming across the horizon, the cold wind gusting at its back as it bore down to turn the forgotten battlefield into a sodden mire.

    The three crows seemed to have followed them, cawing down at the torch-bearing trespassers in this ancient place from the tops of the surrounding trees. Up in the bare branches of the barrow tree itself, four more joined their croaking chorus...
    Last edited by LCP; 2012-05-29 at 06:34 PM.
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    The Hour After Midnight
    Threads: I, II, III
    The Lord of Lost Heart
    Threads: I, II
    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  15. - Top - End - #105
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Lothar glanced up at the crows, muttering. "...seven for a secret, never to be told." He fingered the copper ring he wore, rubbing at the twin-tailed comet pressed into the cheap metal.

    Straightening, the old soldier stepped up. "Right. Uh. Those of you who're fair shots, load up some pitch on the bolts, an' we'll see if we can't light up that soddin' tree like an' old boat in a big storm.

    "I'm bettin' that it'll start to put out any fires that manages to start, so I'll go in with any sturdy lads who're willin', see if we can't lop off some o' them pokey bits. Those of you who're bigger, grab one o' them billhooks or halberds, an' you can keep us close-in types covered. Once the thing is calmed a bit, we can pile on some straw and whoomp! Done and dusted."

    Lothar looked around, scratching his still-new beard. "Sound fair? Unless anyone else's got a plan." He looked up at Verloren, bobbing his head. "M'lord?"

    Spoiler
    Show
    Want some kind of tactics/leadership/what have you test? Here is a dice roll.

    (1d100)[85]

    It is a bad dice roll.
    Last edited by goblinpaladin; 2012-05-30 at 05:49 AM.
    Games:

    [WFRP] Ill Met By Morrslieb, as the increasingly-scarred Lothar Fischer.

    [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer.

    [WFRP] The Hour After Midnight as Lothar Fischer, former soldier.

    =

    January 19-25 2014 is GOBLIN WEEK!

    I did writings for it! Read them here!

    =

    sext: take my hand as the bombs fall. we will engrave our affectionate shadows on the walls in dush and ash, to last a thousand years. [my twitter]

  16. - Top - End - #106
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Pieter was in rather low spirits since leaving Esther's room, and his mood did not exactly improve during the trek through the forest. He was not used to walking in the wilderness and it did not take long for his boots to be muddy and his face to be scratched in a hundred places by branches. But he did not utter a word of complaint; Ithelus and Mr Waite looked worse off than him.

    Did... did the wizard actually paint his dog blue?

    He shook his head.

    The site of the battle made him shiver. The twisted tree did not need to move to look menacing. In normal times he would see the crows as a lucky omen, but there was starting to be enough of them to remind him of the rat infestation in Delberz.

    As long as they're not spies for the enemy this time...

    Lothar began to give orders, but even he sounded rather uncertain.

    "Uh... yeah, what Sergeant Fischer said," added Pieter. He had made up the Sergeant part, but as long as it told people who was the most experienced here... "We start cautiously. Take all the time you need."

    OOC:
    Spoiler
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    I believe seven is Nurgle's sacred number.

    Slaanesh's is six, Khorne's is eight, and Tzeentch's is nine.

    And the number ten often appears in Ranaldite lore and rituals. If three more crows joined these seven, I'd be happy.
    Last edited by -Sentinel-; 2012-05-30 at 07:27 AM.

    "I mean sure, the Imperium of Man is a totalitarian, genocidal theocracy that routinely wipes out entire civilizations and suppresses all technological and social progress... but given the 40k setting, IT'S ALL TOTALLY JUSTIFIED"
    ^ Please, please, please don't be that guy.

    NaNoWriMo 2014 word count: 0

    #stopgamergate2014

  17. - Top - End - #107
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Ithelus looks over the pile of weapons, a glint in his eye as he iagines chopping the tree down. With a grunt he hefts the largest axe he could find, the weapon almost dwarfing the slight elf.

    ***

    Stopping at the edge of the clearing Ithelus drops to one knee, resting the axe on the ground and shrugging his backpack off his shoulders. After taking a moment to collect himself he goes through his ever growing arsenal of weapons. Dagger in boot, check. Brace of throwing knives, check. Sickle, check. Crossbow, check. And this nasty piece of work, check.

    'Watch your backs, this thing is going to call for help when we start hurting it.'

    Ithelus also pulls his rope out of the bag, and coils it next to his climbing spikes and hammer, just in case it's needed. He looks to Mils to see if the man agreed with Lothar's plan whilst setting his crossbow.
    Last edited by Exeson; 2012-05-30 at 07:20 AM.
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  18. - Top - End - #108
    Ettin in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Master Sigurd Waite

    As Lothar and his company plan strategy, Sigurd puts a hand on Indigo. She seems strangely ready for a second bout with the tree. She had done pretty well last time - like it's all a game to her.

    "Easy girl," he says. "Not this time."

    He starts to walk away from the group of militia, then pauses. He thinks to last time he slunk off in these woods, not telling anyone. Accounting for himself isn't his style, but...

    "Illiiya," he murmurs. "Let's stand apart from them... in case one of our spells..."

    He keeps that last part as low as a whisper, but nods meaningfully to her hands. If he miscasts today, he'd rather it not turn thirteen peasants to eunuchs or swap Mils' soul with that of his horse.

    Sigurd goes some thirty paces away from the group and removes his hat, hanging it from the strap of his satchel. Indigo takes up a place halfway between him and the tree, nowhere near its reach but ready to defend her master if it walks.

    Stop thinking, Waite. Heavy breath. Your meditations.

    He's almost glad for the lightheaded feeling of fever. It makes it all seem like a dream.

    "Heh."

    His throaty laugh echoes that of the crows, and turns a few peasant heads in the direction of Yilese's unwelcome replacement.

    ((OOC: when they start their volley of crossbow bolts it's Magic Dart time. He'll chant one every time they fire. I may have a hard time checking in here to post, to feel free to roll for me if it helps. He'll Channel if possible.

    And just for kicks, switching to Witchsight.))
    I just published my first novella, Lúnasa Days, a modern fantasy with a subtle, uncertain magic.

    You can grab it on Kindle or paperback.

    Proud to GM two Warhammer Adventures:


    Plays as Ulrich, Student of Law

  19. - Top - End - #109
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Mils was simply staring. Like most of the others, he had never seen the abandoned battlefield before. His eyes wandered slowly across the mouldering bones of the beastmen that lay littered and overgrown across the muddy ground.

    Several of the peasants made the sign of the hammer, while Ricard’s fine horse snorted and pranced agitatedly. Neither Sigurd nor Illiiya needed to gaze deeply to sense the stagnant magic in this place – as before, it hung thick and oily around them, sullying the air they breathed. The rarefied winds that Sigurd’s College training had taught him to harness seemed lost and polluted, their separate colours mingling in darkness.

    Gerolf drew his breath in through his teeth, like a stonemason being asked to set a price.

    “That’s a big tree,” he said, doubt written across his words. “What d’you think, Hans?”

    “Old oaks don’t burn easy,” said the woodsman. “A burnin’ bolt ain’t going to trouble it none.”

    “Might get it agitated, though,” said Axel.

    “We ain’t got long afore this gets a lot harder,” said Gerolf, looking north to where the rain was sweeping in. A thin vanguard of falling water was already driving near-horizontally in their faces, borne by the wind in intermittent gusts. Axel nodded. “Let’s get to it!” the blacksmith cried, his voice carrying over the windy rustling of the forest.

    The three villagers who claimed to be the best shots – including a reluctant Hans Suster – were brought forwards. Behind them, their comrades shared out billhooks and axes, ready to follow Lothar’s lead. In front, the crossbowmen lit their bolts. Raising their weapons to their shoulders, they let fly with a first, ragged volley.

    The burning bolts flew up over the grassy mound, driving into the blackened bark of the tree with a drumroll of dull impacts. Startled by the flaming projectiles, the crows flapped noisily up into the air, retreating to the surrounding forest with indignant caws. Iron heads buried in its bark, the crossbow bolts flickered like candles, their flames refusing for the moment to spread.

    “It ain’t moving,” muttered one of the crossbowmen, watching the silent, motionless shape up on the mound. A gust of wind made the branches of the surrounding trees sway, as the crows set up another furious croaking. “Ain’t it supposed to move?”

    Spoiler
    Show
    I believe seven is Nurgle's sacred number.
    Pssht, you’re reading much too much into this. Next you’ll be pointing out that one of his symbols among the men of the North is a carrion crow.

    For Sigurd and Illiiya’s benefit: the mechanical effect of all that localised dark magic swilling about is that spells cast here are going to pick up a Chaos Die. If you don’t remember what that is, it’s an additional casting dice that doesn’t count towards your casting total, but does count for the purposes of doubles/triples. So Drew, I'll wait for a confirmation from you before proceeding with that conveyor-belt-of-Magic-Darts plan.
    Last edited by LCP; 2012-05-30 at 03:37 PM.
    Spoiler: My Games
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    The Hour After Midnight
    Threads: I, II, III
    The Lord of Lost Heart
    Threads: I, II
    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  20. - Top - End - #110
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Lothar drew his old regimental sword. "It'll move soon as we get in there, lads."

    He hefted the weapon, old steel gleaming dully as it reflected the rain-soaked light, and stared at the hilt a long moment. The soldier soldier looked almost wistful, and then raised his face and stared at the tree.

    "Right then. Let's burn it out, then we can go have a couple beers, eh?"

    "On me."

    Spoiler
    Show
    Not goin' to risk Marius' sword on an old tree. I realise there is no mechanical difference, but that's not the point, is it?
    Games:

    [WFRP] Ill Met By Morrslieb, as the increasingly-scarred Lothar Fischer.

    [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer.

    [WFRP] The Hour After Midnight as Lothar Fischer, former soldier.

    =

    January 19-25 2014 is GOBLIN WEEK!

    I did writings for it! Read them here!

    =

    sext: take my hand as the bombs fall. we will engrave our affectionate shadows on the walls in dush and ash, to last a thousand years. [my twitter]

  21. - Top - End - #111
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Master Sigurd Waite

    Spoiler
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    So Drew, I'll wait for a confirmation from you before proceeding with that conveyor-belt-of-Magic-Darts plan.
    Oh HELL YEAH.

    Rolls:

    (1d10)[3] + (1d10)[1]
    evil die: (1d10)[8]

    for: (1d10+4)[14] damage with MM



    The wizard starts to murmur his chanting, standing off apart from the others; the first of his deluge of darts arcs toward leafless branches.

    Indigo barks once, loudly, at the tree, as if daring it to test them out.
    Last edited by Another_Poet; 2012-06-06 at 06:53 PM.
    I just published my first novella, Lúnasa Days, a modern fantasy with a subtle, uncertain magic.

    You can grab it on Kindle or paperback.

    Proud to GM two Warhammer Adventures:


    Plays as Ulrich, Student of Law

  22. - Top - End - #112
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Illiiya Jaelrae

    The air felt thick and heavy, in a way she swore she felt creeping into her as she breathed. Illiiya followed the mob in wary silence, trying and failing to keep an eye out despite the constant distraction of the mist, the mud and the long, spindly branches that kept catching her long, wild hair.

    As they approached the tree, she glanced back for what she could see of the sky, and scowled. Perhaps the storm was sign that they were close to success... that the dark gods were scrambling to halt them. Or perhaps it was simply another way to dash their hopes and drink of their misery. The screeching cry of the crows cut into her ears as she watched the tree grow closer. She considered for a moment, cutting one down with sorcery just out of spite... but with chaos hanging so heavy here she dared not toss her spells about so frivolously.

    Death... She muttered to herself absently, though whether it was a statement or a prediction she did not elaborate on.

    If you hold any power here at all, human god... protect them.

    OOC:
    Spoiler
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    Holding action for now, and keeping a paranoid eye out for daemons or other threats. The fire will probably do more damage than I can with a dart, and at less risk of a horrible miscast.
    Anyone looking for awesome art, look no more! Check out my stuff here! I do comissions, for those interested. Catch me at this site: http://www.furaffinity.net/user/rukis/

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  23. - Top - End - #113
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    Ithelus joins in firing flaming crossbow bolts, Leaving his great axe lying on the ground beside him.

    Spoiler
    Show
    OOC aimed shot

    Attack roll (1d100)[46] vs 57

    damage roll needed? if so
    (1d10+4)[13]

    Ithelus will fire three such bolts if he gets the chance/nothing interesting happens, feel free to roll the other two if he does fire them.
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  24. - Top - End - #114
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Ithelus’ bolt slammed in alongside the others, the flames behind its head flickering fitfully. The tree remained still. Sigurd’s spell sparked through the clammy air of the clearing to send a spray of broken twigs from its upper branches, and still it didn’t stir.

    Advancing very, very cautiously, Lothar led the villagers forwards, their axes and billhooks in hand. Reaching the foot of the ancient barrow, the Nordlander paused with his hand on the grassy slope, watching the leafless thing above as if daring it to move. Around him, the villagers began to clamber up towards it, Mathias leading the vanguard with a flaming torch held high.

    Scrambling onwards with them, Lothar straightened up as he made the roof of the barrow, stepping carefully over tangled roots. The crooked trunk of the oak leaned silently over them, its upper branches swaying soundlessly in the wind.

    “It ain’t doin’ nothing,” said Mathias, pausing where he stood. Drawing back his foot, he kicked a thick root with a solid thud of rotten wood. “It don’t move at all.” The torch still crackling in his hand, he looked right over his shoulder, back to where Sigurd and the others were waiting. “This is all that warlock’s trick...”

    The end of his sentence was interrupted by a sudden slithering from below. The surrounding villagers looked down to see the earth bulge and shift, clods of grass rolling away down the slope of the barrow’s sides. Trailing a crumbled spray of black soil, a swarm of twisting roots lashed up towards their prey.

    Throwing up their arms to shield their faces, the villagers stumbled back in fear, those with polearms jabbing frantically at the seething viper's-nest confronting them. Axel the blacksmith cried out as a whipping tendril snapped around his arm, breaking the skin in a long coil of blood as he wrenched it free; Mathias staggered away, sweeping his torch around him to keep the things at bay.

    From overhead, there came a great groan of old timber, like the hold of a galleon in a heavy swell. Branches now moving in no earthly wind, the trunk of the great tree was flexing, bending slowly towards its would-be attackers. Heavy boughs creaked, thickets of black twigs reaching out like talons over the writhing carpet of roots below...

    OOC:
    Spoiler
    Show
    As soon as 5 of the logging party are within its reach, the tree goes nuts. Roots and branches, go! As before, their attacks are always All-Out.

    vs. Lothar: (1d100)[68] - missed
    Parry - (1d100)[84]
    Damage - (1d10+3)[9]
    Ag - (1d100)[11] (against being Snared)


    vs. Axel: (1d100)[14] - hit
    Damage - (1d10+3)[6] - 2 wounds
    Ag - (1d100)[1] (against being Snared) - evaded

    vs. Mathias: (1d100)[98] - missed
    Damage - (1d10+3)[4]
    Ag - (1d100)[60] (against being Snared)


    vs. First Villager: (1d100)[88] - missed
    Damage - (1d10+3)[11]
    Ag - (1d100)[79] (against being Snared)


    vs. Second Villager: (1d100)[71] - missed
    Damage - (1d10+3)[11]
    Ag - (1d100)[79] (against being Snared)
    Last edited by LCP; 2012-06-02 at 12:29 PM.
    Spoiler: My Games
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    The Hour After Midnight
    Threads: I, II, III
    The Lord of Lost Heart
    Threads: I, II
    Ill Met By Morrslieb
    Threads: I


    Threads: I, II, III


    Chapter I
    Chapter II
    Chapter III
    Chapter IV
    Chapter V

  25. - Top - End - #115
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    "Right, lads," Lothar cried. "This is it. Get in there, clear off them branches, an' then we lay down the fire."

    He hefted his regimental sword, and leapt in. "For Sigmar, an' Taal, an' Hohlesbruck, an' for clean-limbed children inna future!"
    Games:

    [WFRP] Ill Met By Morrslieb, as the increasingly-scarred Lothar Fischer.

    [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer.

    [WFRP] The Hour After Midnight as Lothar Fischer, former soldier.

    =

    January 19-25 2014 is GOBLIN WEEK!

    I did writings for it! Read them here!

    =

    sext: take my hand as the bombs fall. we will engrave our affectionate shadows on the walls in dush and ash, to last a thousand years. [my twitter]

  26. - Top - End - #116
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Illiiya Jaelrae

    Let no fear take root in your heart, and chaos cannot touch you! Illiiya called out, channeling a rarely used but potent spell.

    She had used it once before in Delberz... during a time that she had nightmares of even now. But fear was not something she needed now... She trusted little in the human's will to see this through.

    OOC:
    Spoiler
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    I don't recall the name of it, but casting the spell of fearlessness, to make our make-shift posse hold no dread of death. Also, in case demons arrive.

    Channeling: (1d100)[50] Needs a 61
    Casting Roll: (1d10)[8], (1d10)[3] + channel, if any.
    Chaos Die: (1d10)[8]

    No dark magic die... yet.

    Edit: Crap.
    Last edited by BloodyAngel; 2012-06-03 at 02:36 PM.
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  27. - Top - End - #117
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Ithelus winces as the tree come to life. He looks to the others with crossbow, 'This is it, a couple more bolts each and we start piling up the straw.'

    He reloads his crossbow and takes a bead on the tree once again.
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  28. - Top - End - #118
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    Pale corposant crackled around Illiiya’s nail-less fingers as she spoke, and the wind keened in the trees as unseen forces reacted to her call. Around her, the horses reared and whinnied, flashing the whites of their eyes. Peasants struggled and shouted, boots slipping in the mud of the clearing – ignoring their yells, the two great carthorses broke free, their hooves throwing up a spray of earth as they turned and galloped for the treeline. Mils cried out as he was thrown to the ground, his own unburdened horse joining their terrified escape.

    “Gods damn it,” said Ricard, pulling his own horse around through a tight turn. Riding a few paces forwards, he handed the reins of Reifennen’s animal down to one of the reeling villagers. “Take hold of this one,” he said. “Faulebrand! With me!”

    Kicking his heels against his horse’s flanks, he took off after the fleeing beasts, hooves drumming against the wet earth. Only barely having kept his own mount under control, Leopold wrenched the recalcitrant creature around, thundering off in Ricard’s wake.

    “Come on!” said Pieter, gesturing to the others left standing with him. “This tree won’t burn itself!”

    Downing their crossbows, they pitched in to lift the bales of straw down from the horses they still had. Hefting the dry bundles in pairs, they began hauling it towards the barrow, where Lothar’s assault was swinging into full flow.

    ~

    Lifting his sword as a bolt of magic from Sigurd slammed into the tree’s mottled bark, Lothar led the charge into the thicket of grasping roots. Around him, the villagers let out a desperate roar, lifting their weapons and plunging in.

    Scythes and sickles flashed, ripping the tree’s writhing tendrils from the earth in sprays of sap and rotten splinters. Hefting a hatchet in one big hand, Axel the blacksmith laid in alongside Lothar, ripping through python-thick roots that came twisting up out of the ground towards them. Over on the left, Mathias swept his torch left and right with rushing whooshes of flame, burning back the claw-like twigs that came reaching down from overhead.

    Rushing through the centre, two villagers charged towards the trunk of the tree itself, lifting double-handed felling axes in their hands. The blades swung round, burying themselves in the oak’s gnarled bark with heavy thuds of iron biting wood – when they pulled back, they had cut a pale chink in the creaking thing’s lichen-mottled skin. It was a valiant charge, and a cheer went up from the men behind.

    There was a rustle of shifting branches, and a great bough swept down from above, crashing into the first of the men to try to fell the tree. The force of the blow smashed him sideways, the axe falling from his hands as he rolled across the tangled mat of roots. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, he reached for it again – but the roots were knotting themselves around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the ground.

    Pushing off as hard as he could, the man tried to stand. Half a dozen more tendrils of vegetable matter lashed out to stop him, wrapping themselves like snakes around his waist and abdomen. They forced him to his knees, then down onto his face. As he struggled, a root as thick as his thigh came snaking up out of the shifting loam, curling slowly around the back of his skull. With a crunch of cracking bone, it twisted tight – the man’s legs thumped spasmodically then fell still, dark blood pooling out between the still-tightening coils.

    Staring in white-faced horror, the man beside him hardly noticed as the branches above him reached downwards. They raked his back and he cried out, staggering from the blow – looking down, he swung his axe in time to sever the creeping tendrils that had begun to coil around his ankles. A few feet to his left, the body of his friend was beginning to be dragged under, the roots of the tree enfolding him like an octopus enveloping its meal...

    Another flaming bolt arced overhead from Ithelus’ crossbow, burying itself in the upper reaches of the tree. Down beyond the barrow gate, Sigurd lifted his hands to cast again, calling up the same rolling incantation. The poison in the air leached into his words, and he cried out in pain as an agonising cramp shot through his hand, locking his fingers into the shape of a contorted claw.

    Shouting defiance, Lothar laid about himself, his old regimental sword scything through rearing roots and keeping the wooden daemons at bay. For every one he slashed through, however, seven more would come uncurling out of the earth around his feet. The others were experiencing the same problem, their momentum spent – stumbling through the grasping thicket, one of them seized up the dead man’s axe, turning his eyes on the hacked body of the tree itself.

    Timber groaned, and a branch the size of a cannon crashed down into the first axeman, snapping his femur like a twig. Snapped stubs of bone protruding from the mangled ruins of his leg, the man fell back, too stunned even to scream. He was dead even before the roots came coiling up to embrace his corpse.

    To Lothar’s left, Mathias cried out, the torch falling from his hands – long branches had stretched down to wrap around his arms, hoisting him up into the air. The man who had retrieved the fallen axe gave a shout, keeping hold of his weapon as the rustling twigs tried to pull it from his grasp – as he struggled with them, a thicker branch came coiling silently down from behind, yanking him up into the air. Right behind Lothar, Axel began to stumble and stagger, hacking wildly at a clinging web of roots that was beginning to inexorably weave itself around his shins and ankles...

    ~

    Hefting a bale of straw between himself and Gerolf, Pieter could hear the shouts and screams coming from the direction of the tree as he hauled his flammable cargo towards the barrow. He could feel the flecks of rain on the wind, coming more frequently now. With the straw they had brought uncovered now, they had to get it lit before the oncoming squall could arrive to soak it through.

    Feeling the slope of the barrow starting behind him, Pieter motioned to Gerolf to stop, dumping the bale they were carrying onto the grass. The two teams beside them stopped as well, looking up at the scene before them. Perched on top of the barrow’s gate, the black tree swayed and writhed like a vision from a nightmare, a thousand twigs and branches rippling and swaying as its great boughs swept violently through the air.

    Running up alongside them, Illiiya leant against the side of the barrow, looking up at the battle raging at the monster’s base. Stretching out her hands, she cried the words of another spell – unseen blades ripped at the bonds encircling Axel, but failed to break through. From behind, Pieter heard Sigurd cry out a command, his hound bounding forwards into the battle in a streak of shaggy grey – moments later, another of the wizard’s magic darts slammed into the tree with startling force, striking home in a blossoming spray of broken branches.

    It wasn’t making a difference. The great limbs of the oak still swept hungrily down at the human insects attacking it, and without the other horses, their supplies of fuel were looking worryingly paltry.

    From behind the lichen-blotched stones between them, Pieter could hear the yells and roars of the militia with Lothar turning into screams.

    ~

    Hacking desperately at the roots encircling the blacksmith, Lothar heard an agonised scream somewhere over his head. There was a noise like a side of meat being torn in half by horses, and a sudden rain of red spattered over the ground behind him. A second and a half later, a felling axe dropped from the wildly undulating branches onto the same spot.

    Their charge transformed into a desperate retreat, the villagers rushed to help their trapped friends. One of the militia billhooks let them cut Mathias down before he could share the last victim’s fate, the man crashing back to earth in a cloud of splintered twigs. Others chopped and sliced at the writhing roots enveloping Axel, but there were too many – it was only the blacksmith’s strength that had prevented them from crushing the life out of him already.

    Snaking up in a corkscrew coil, a root much thicker than the rest wrapped itself around Axel’s body. Dropping his hatchet, the blacksmith tried to prise it free to no avail. It twisted tight, and there was a crackle of breaking ribs – air expelled suddenly from his lungs, a trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of the big villager’s mouth.

    Lothar tightened his grip on his sword and began raining down blows on the constricting root, blunting good Nordland steel against the fibrous wood. Dark sap spattered his mail, but still he could not cut even a quarter of a way through its dense girth – the thing was still tightening its grip, breathless choking sounds gasping from Axel’s throat.

    Stepping back to deliver another blow, Lothar felt something rough squeeze against his ankle. Looking down with a sense of inevitable dread, he saw the three-inch root that was coiling up towards his knee.

    ~

    Hesitating at the foot of the barrow, Pieter heard a thunder of hooves from behind. Mils had mounted one of the free horses, riding off after Leopold and Ricard – but Ricard was already returning, leading one of the heavily-laden carthorses back towards the barrow at a canter.

    The big animal whickered and pulled at its reins, ears flat against its head as it tried to shy away from the sight of the monstrous tree thrashing above the tomb. Ricard kept a firm hold on it, reining in his own horse and trotting to a halt a few yards away from where Pieter and the others had downed their load. One of the men who had been holding the horses came running up, trying to calm the big dray.

    “Help me get this one unloaded!” called Ricard, swinging himself down from the saddle. The carthorse tried to take the opportunity to bolt, flailing its front hooves in the air with a terrified scream – darting around the front of his horse, Ricard helped the villager seize hold of it, pulling it back down onto solid ground.
    Last edited by LCP; 2012-06-04 at 08:00 PM.
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    The Hour After Midnight
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    Ill Met By Morrslieb
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    Chapter I
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  29. - Top - End - #119
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    BloodyAngel's Avatar

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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    Illiiya Jaelrae

    Chaos is too thick here! Illiiya shouted over the din of the fight, The winds do not respond as they should!

    Hunching low as the carnage raged on, Illiiya tried her hardest to focus. Magic was all she had, but it was a severe risk. The tree was huge and strong, and they small and frail. It would not be long before the humans lost their nerve.

    Enough protecting the chaff. End your foe and it will be over!

    NO! I won't abandon him!

    Steeling herself, Illiiya pressed the attack to where it mattered most.

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    The villagers can choke. New plan of attack is to dart the snare if any of OUR PARTY is snagged or hurt. Otherwise, darting the tree itself. It's not fire, but maybe I'll get "skaven-crit" lucky.

    So, darting to free Lothar. I'll have to roll it in the OOC channel.
    Last edited by BloodyAngel; 2012-06-04 at 10:24 PM.
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  30. - Top - End - #120
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    Default Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

    With a snarl, Lothar stomped down on the root wriggling towards his leg. Old Nordland leather creaked, green wood shivered, and the soldier was able to continue chopping at the oak branches ensaring the blacksmith.

    He was unsuccessful.
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    [WFRP] Ill Met By Morrslieb, as the increasingly-scarred Lothar Fischer.

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