Of course, Illiiya is now convinced that Shallya saved Lothar. Second she gets the chance, she's gonna go make another offering or three and ask that he and Ith dodge the bullet that is sickness. More blood may be involved.
Blood sacrifices. Is there anything they can't solve?
Apart from blood loss, I guess. That's probably just making the problem worse.
Of course, Illiiya is now convinced that Shallya saved Lothar. Second she gets the chance, she's gonna go make another offering or three and ask that he and Ith dodge the bullet that is sickness. More blood may be involved.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Exeson
Ithelus's face falls as the implication of that hits him; that she was once again not his. Truly the gods were cruel to give him such a fleeting moment of hope.
...Ith is really starting to worry me.
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
I wonder how Shallya feels about blood sacrifice to her. I wonder if that's what old traditions of blood-letting were? I wonder if I am just talking at you so that you don't notice how lax I've been in posting?
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
Don't make me NPC Lothar, Brenton. I will just have it turn out that he was a bunch of Nurglings, standing on each others' shoulders and wearing Lothar's skin like a coat.
I wonder how Shallya feels about blood sacrifice to her.
As long as it's not someone else's blood... I believe Rhya, whose sphere of influence overlaps with Shallya's in some ways, is often worshipped by spilling your own blood on the earth, but I really don't know what Shallya thinks about it. She's probably more pragmatic; sacrifices that actually help people, like charity.
Quote:
Originally Posted by LCP
Don't make me NPC Lothar, Brenton. I will just have it turn out that he was a bunch of Nurglings, standing on each others' shoulders and wearing Lothar's skin like a coat.
Illiiya won't take it well...
@ Frankie: You there?
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Lothar is cut up all over the shop; he has a deep (but non-fatal) gash in the side of his abdomen from the knight's sword, a ton of scratch/bite marks, and of course, a lovely bitten eye.
I'm never quite sure what standard Pieter's healing skills are supposed to be up to (background-wise, that is - obviously mechanically he just has the Heal Skill and that's that). Regarding the eye, there's a lot of clotted blood and dirt mucking up Lothar's face which needs to be washed off to get a good look; once that's done, you can see that the eyelid is torn and the eye beneath is punctured. It's no longer spherical and it's dribbling fluid from the wound; this fluid is cloudy with blood. Needless to say, touching it (or the skin around it) is extremely painful for Lothar.
Mostly I'm describing this just to give you roleplaying cues, but the problem of a dead eye is also a real one and you'll have to decide on a course of action. Removing the eye is probably the best option, but that is delicate surgery; I don't know how comfortable Pieter (or Lothar) would feel about just rolling up his sleeves and giving it his best try.
I'm never quite sure what standard Pieter's healing skills are supposed to be up to (background-wise, that is - obviously mechanically he just has the Heal Skill and that's that).
That's an interesting question... He didn't receive much of a formal training. His knowledge is probably much more practical than theoretical; I just don't imagine his mentor making him study books. He must have learned the "art" by watching and helping the Thieves' Guild's back-alley surgeons.
I'll roleplay it a little bit later. First because I don't have much time right now; second because it'll involve a lot of pain and screaming on Lothar's part, and I want to hear his story first. One thing is sure, the eye-removal thing will have to be done by Pieter.
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Well, here's a spoiler for you. Any elves that pass the test can open it too.
Spoiler
Quote:
Lothar struggled out of his soaked, torn, bloody shirt. He shrugged off a tattered riding cloak and managed to get his battered chain shirt over his body.
Lothar never owned a riding cloak. Despite how muddy and ripped it is, you recognise that this one is the same dark green colour and thick woollen weave as the knight's.
In other news, removing the eye without making a godawful mess will be a Heal test at -20. If you don't secure Lothar so that he can't move his head, -30.
I'll keep the consequences of a failed test to myself; that seems more in line with Pieter having to try this for the first time than me just laying everything out
In other news, removing the eye without making a godawful mess will be a Heal test at -20. If you don't secure Lothar so that he can't move his head, -30.
I'll tell the Elves to hold his head.
Target 37: (d100)[16]
Pieter's a champ!
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Also, Ith has gotten very dark. The RP is excellent, so long as it's not indicative of some horrible, dark, brooding awfulness from poor Frankie. I know he was depressed a while back. I'd like to think everything's fine and he's just a magnificent roleplayer who's taking his character in a very dark direction.
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I think if the behaviour of characters in these games were an indicator of mental health, I would be in need of serious psychiatric care.
I am greatly enjoying Ithelus' journey to the dark side. And, of course, am standing by with a cup of tea, a comfy chair and a catalogue of great-value Marks of Chaos for when he finally decides to abandon you suckers
Also, Ith has gotten very dark. The RP is excellent, so long as it's not indicative of some horrible, dark, brooding awfulness from poor Frankie. I know he was depressed a while back. I'd like to think everything's fine and he's just a magnificent roleplayer who's taking his character in a very dark direction.
I'm actually doing pretty well now considering, although I won't deny that there is an element of method acting (method roleplaying?) involved.
Quote:
Originally Posted by LCP
I am greatly enjoying Ithelus' journey to the dark side. And, of course, am standing by with a cup of tea, a comfy chair and a catalogue of great-value Marks of Chaos for when he finally decides to abandon you suckers
As stated before, the fear of the Knight is one of the only reasons why Ithelus doesn't just cut and run right away. I'm glad that you guys are enjoying Ithelus's character, I was slightly worried that there was too much of an abrupt change from 'slightly sullen and sick' Ithelus to 'He's being a bastard' Ithelus.
After the grisly act is finished Ithelus sits down by one of the tables. 'Do you think we can trust the soup? Lothar looks like he really needs some food.' He couldn't help but catch Pieter's eye, the initiate seeming intent on staring the elf down.
'We'll need to hear the whole story too,' Ithelus continues, 'Starting with the part about how you died but then didn't.'
I can't really 2-day you guys here. Replies please!
*pokes with a stick*
If we can get things moving at a decent rate here (i.e. replies within 1 day of being given a cue), I will post up some unseen* sketches from THAM. Here is the first one.
There are several more, but I demand IC posts in exchange for their secrets.
*At least, I think so. I might have shown them and forgotten.
I'm also waiting on Lothar's response... also, I'm gonna be out for the rest of tonight and probably tomorrow for Thanksgiving, so please don't worry if you see me inactive in the near-near future. I don't see anything coming up that will require immediate attention unless we get invaded by daemons again though.
She won't leave Lothar's side though, regardless.
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I return! And... still nothin. Ah well, I guess I'll check in again tomorrow.
How are you guys doing? Anyone but me just celebrate Thanksgiving? I'm inclined to think no, but I've been wrong before.
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The soldier crouched in the field. He was younger then, although still bearded, and his fingers had a slight tremble in them as they loaded his gun. He could not smell the scent of the river where he grew up, and the forest was oppressive. The long fingers of the forest curved overhead, sharp and cruel. The sky was grey.
Before him opened a wide clearing, where the road had withered away. Traces remained of what had once been a village, deep in the Drakwald. Uneven lumps lurked beneath the pale, pale grass, sharp corners that were once walls and deep pits that had, once, been long houses. Now all was faded grass and fallen leaves and tumbled clay, long overgrown with moss.
All, that is, save for the carven lump of black rock, looming in the centre of this pace. The soldier was no local, but he did not need to be, to know that there was no stone such as this for leagues in any direction. The monolith was alien to this place, as alien as men. The jagged cthonic phallus was as unnatural as the creatures across the field belonged here, their smooth fur and ragged faces matching the gloom of this place as well as the soldier's father's hands on a line.
The creatures bellowed, waving hooks and iron blades. They had no even lines, no disciplined ranks of men with swords and spears and halberds, no lords astride nervous destriers who patted their animals with mailed hands. The animals bunched together in packs, grinning feral grins and running their iron over the tongues of their lessers, cowering at their greaters and bellowing at the alien men who dared to enter the forest.
The soldier licked his lips, and his fingers shook. Around him, prayers were given to the gods, but he had no voice, no breath to give to the Daughter, no fire for the Hammer. He could just focus, and found himself wishing for the salt of fish instead of the aftertaste of yesterday's rations between his teeth.
Then it began.
oşer
Spoiler
It was red, he remembered later. Red and bright and clean and sharp, thrown into relief against the pallid nettles, matted by sturdy leather. The patterns were the whorls and curves of his fingers, the ripples from that stone sinking into the sea, the lines of his mother's resigned disappointment. Red, sticky and arching, a vermillion rainbow paused in a perfect chill sky.
The axe had sheared through Alex's throat, Alex who always lost at dice, Alex who had a sister that curved like that, Alex the man always next to him in the training. Alex who had not even raised his gun before the little scout-goat had thrown the spinning, iron-carved hatchet that ended his life.
Somewhere to their left, the scions of richer men, clad in the winter colour of the lupine god, had hefted their hammers and were thundering across a row of house-impressions. To the right, swordsmen were bringing up too-thin wooden shields and bracing, teeth bared for a charge of sweaty iron and horned fur. Here, the thin line of yellow-and-blue raised their rifles, and fired as one.
The soldier knew that he killed one. Not the one that murdered Alex, dancing an obscene parody of a jig as the skirmishers moved around the line of civilisation, taunting and hurling missiles. Others were closing on those, local mercenaries, bearded types in rough wool and carrying yellow bows. Afterwards, he'd find the needle-toothed thing, and spit in the remaining eye.
Right now, he stepped back, tasting Alex on his lips, and tried to remember how to make his hands move. The new line fired, and there was red among the incoming tide of fur.
şridda
Spoiler
It was chaos. Blood matted the grasses, soaked the fur, even as ichor sprayed across Teutogen flesh and Nordland steel. The wave of grey-furred monstrosity had crashed against the shore of men, and their swords cut into gnarled flesh and severed limbs from outstretched necks. The iron fish emblazoned on wood slammed against writhing steel limb-faces, splintered under bronze fangs, tumbled to the ground as men and thing writhed across one another, stabbing and braying and grinning, bloody-mouthed and victorious. The line wavered, fluttering flag twisted around a trembling flagstaff.
Away, the soldier's detachment held their line, the shouts of months-gone drill sergeants pounded into their bones. Step forward, fire. Hold, reload. Step forward, fire. At each step, halved yellow-blue trousers creased, and the fire of civilisation was brought to the Drakwald woods. Alien things died, gleaming imperfect roses blossoming in the untilled fur. Somewhere behind them, mercenaries and skirmisher things played with each other's knives.
The tide of spawn was not endless, and even as it washed upon imperial steel-and-shot it was thinning; isles of wintered grass appeared here and there, some mutant thing with a face of teeth and limbs of eyes would fall, and not be replaced. They came on, desperate to defend their twisted tower, and the host splintered like a shaft against a tower. Shards came forth, slender packets of angry beastmen.
The soldier stepped forward to the new line, knelt and raised his gun; and spear-carriers were nearly upon them, neutered horns gleaming in the weak light, followed by heavier fellows with axes and great scimitars in their ungulate grasp. His eyes widened at the haste of their approach - the shot misfired, and he cried out as the burning earth, angry and hot, burned into his cheek like a wasp.
Other musketeers slid steel from scabbards.
The scent of his beard aflame followed Lothar to the ground.
feorşa
Spoiler
Later, he would claim that he had fallen. That the tramp of boots and cleft feet had stomped upon his head. He remembered nothing, he would later say, except the misfired gun and then a pain behind his eyes. Later, he would lie.
It was not a whole lie. As the faces of the things that assailed his brothers, his friends were nearly human, so too would his claim be nearly truth. The ground was chaos in microcosm. Every blade of grass was spattered with reddish mud, every moment a wriggling, writhing, wretched attempt to escape the treading thud of blackened hoof and peeling boot.
Other bodies covered him. Some wore the blue-and-red-and-yellow of the soldier, others the decorated-in-scarlet furs of the halfman savage. Under these, the mortared bricks of skirmish, the deserter wriggled.
The lie is better, for all that it sears the tongue. Better a lie that turns cowardice into ill-luck than a truth which transforms a brave son of Nordland into a wriggling, corpse-hidden worm. The one is merely an accident of war. The other is worthless even as bait for fish.
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
How are you guys doing? Anyone but me just celebrate Thanksgiving? I'm inclined to think no, but I've been wrong before.
Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated in October and isn't such a big deal.
Quote:
Originally Posted by goblinpaladin
Pretty sure it's just you - I don't think anyone else here is from the US.
The four of us are each from a different country and come from three continents and both hemispheres. It's easy for our generation to get jaded about that, but I think it's still something, if you think about it.
Quote:
[dude, you fed the eye to the CAT? the HELL]
Oh sorry, did you want to keep it?
Quote:
Originally Posted by LCP
Double bugger. Have you seen this one?
Spoiler
No, we hadn't. I like it!
Nice hat.
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Seriously though, I've heard of more disturbing things taking place during old-time surgery.
Oh, and I like the story! Makes me want to give Lothar a hug. Well, MORE hugs.
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The four of us are each from a different country and come from three continents and both hemispheres. It's easy for our generation to get jaded about that, but I think it's still something, if you think about it.
It is SUPER COOL. THE FUTURE IS RAD YOU GUYS
Quote:
Oh sorry, did you want to keep it?
It was just deeply, deeply creepy to be so cavalier about pieces of your friend.
Quote:
Originally Posted by BloodyAngel
Oh, and I like the story! Makes me want to give Lothar a hug. Well, MORE hugs.
I felt bad for makin' you guys wait on me, so I wrote a few more sentences la la la
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
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Re: [WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart OOC (II)
I believe Rhya, whose sphere of influence overlaps with Shallya's in some ways, is often worshipped by spilling your own blood on the earth, but I really don't know what Shallya thinks about it. She's probably more pragmatic; sacrifices that actually help people, like charity.
