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Spooky Mittens

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  1. Cabbage was a simple creature. He enjoyed the finer things in life, such as nice damp soil, properly pH balanced nutrients, and the *sun*, which seemed to be wholly absent in this forsaken landscape. He conserved his energy by simply planting himself wherever his companion plopped him down, burying his tiny root arms and legs deep into the ground and taking what any onlooker might mistake for a nap. He bundled himself up in his own leaves, actually mimicking the tent structure that Arthur had made. When his companion spoke Cabbage barely stirred, but he replied all the same. "Eh behbeh, ebeh". A simple creature indeed. His language was, for all intents and purposes, vocalized emotive beeps. He didn't speak a language per se, but he spoke in feelings and sensations. After some time with the creature, Arthur would probably be able to suss out that what Cabbage meant was As long as you don't carve me into anything, who cares? Again, simple creature. It wouldn't be until the arrival of a third entity that Cabbage acted. She poked her head into the tent, and Cabbage immediately started shifting his leaves about, forming a canopy of leavy greens that made him look like a little merchant setting his wares out on a blanket. In fact, one leaf laid out in front of him, and he opened his unassuming slotted cabbage mouth. Three tiny stalks stuck out with three huge berries, one for each stalk, and plopped onto the leaf. Cabbage then went "Beh HEH". Arthur would understand this to mean he wanted Flesh Wench to buy one of his berries. Even though Cabbage really had no concept of money. @Voldemort @Akako Akari
  2. It didn't take any time at all for Tirkas to find some townfolk. They were within sight of the rundown old church after all, so he just toddled on over with Silus atop his shoulders. His ears were really quite good at hearing things, especially quiet things at a distance. In particular, he overheard the murmurings of the three brothers who say out in front of their building; something about other locals, probably some kind of warlord or other. To be certain Tirkas could not say one way or the other that their lot would not be accosted but he had to try and do something all the same. "Hail good fellows!" Tirkas called once he was within just a dozen yards or so of the men in question. "I'm looking for some information, and I wondered if you wouldn't be obliged to help me. You see, we come from Coth to the south. Our band travels in search of our prophet, Constans, but we have come to a bit of an impasse. Your town was the closest, and so we came here, but what a sorry state I find you lot in." As Tirkas spoke, he searched his belt for a coin purse and extracted a handful of gold pieces. It was easy for Tirkas to accumulate money, as he rarely ever needed to spend any of it on his own needs. What little money he did come by was often saved for moments such as this when people needed lubricating. "There's honest pay in it, if you would lend me your services." Even if these three weren't craftsmen of any sort, Tirkas would pay them all the same for information or just a few extra bodies to carry things. Back at the church, the people in Tirkas' lance had started to filter into the decrepit building to find a small bit of shelter and set up a base camp of sorts. They brought their carriages around to the front of the building and began to unload their kits. The first few men inside were men at arms that Tirkas trusted. The first was a man who simply went my the name Lummox. He had been given that name by his adopted father at the age seven, and since he didn't know his real parents he had just kept it. Even after he learned that it basically meant idiot, the offensive title didn't seem to bother him any. He was a huge man to say the least though, standing a full head higher than average. His build was fairly stocky too, like a tightly wound bundle of muscle. He was equipped in humble gear. A gambeson protected his upper body, a kettle helm protected his head, and thick padded breeches his legs. He wore greaves, but no sabatons, as well as some rather plain looking metal gauntlets. Lummox carried a poleaxe and a type 5c falchion as his backup. The next two were bothers, friends of Lummox and equally as trusted by Tirkas. One brother was an archer, and his name was Ash. He was a tad shorter than Lummox, but he was also very well muscled, specifically where it counted most for archery. Ash boasted often that he could fire a two hundred pound bow for an entire quiver and still have enough fight left in him to carry on with a sword. He carried one such bow, a thick longbow, with a quiver of arrows to hand. He carried a type 14 arming sword, and his armor was very similar to Lummox's. The other brother, shortest of the group, was also the eldest among them. He carried himself in a well fitted brigandine jack and he wore more complete metal armor on his legs and arms. His name was Fredrick, and though he carried no weapons he had an aura of confidence surrounding his every move. It would be these three that would find the man in the church cellar, calling out for help. A combination of Fredrick's healthy curiosity and Ash's exceptional hearing. They heard his cries and hurried below. They approached his cell all together, and Fredrick stood the most prominent. His salt and pepper hair could be seen in the barely lit confines. He didn't know a lick about the man imprisoned here, or why a church would have such a holding cell, but he placed his hand against the bars all the same. "Wot's yer name, son?" His voice came across like a crackling fire, hoarse with age and from shouting orders all day. @Better Than Gore @Witches Brew
  3. [The Church On The Hill : Monday Morning] It began as a day like any other. Cool, only slightly overcast, with the sun just now creeping over the treetops in the distance. Tirkas "awoke" like any other. Since the warband departed he had taken to living in the basement of the old Church ruins, just in case the closeness to the place of Constans' awakening afforded Tirkas some kind of vision from god. No such vision ever came. He heard the people approaching the church. He had instructed them to do so a few days prior. The people grew restless and Tirkas could not say that he didn't understand. He wanted answers as much as anyone else, so he formed his own warband, a Lance of forty men and women, craftsmen and warriors alike. He could not address them as he was now, a nude elf with funny green veins on his arms and legs. He whistled quietly in the murk of the old Church and along scampered his newest companion. A Page, a boy named Silus, who had lost both of his parents to the Lizardmen. Tirkas found him cowered in the corner of his family domicile with a kitchen knife clutched to his chest. The knife had blood on it, and not his own, but that of one of the lizardfolk that snatched the boy's father and killed his mother. He had fire in his heart, and Tirkas took to him because of it. The boy would learn the ways of Knighthood, and as such he started with the lowliest of tasks. In this case, he was to assist Tirkas in donning his arms and armor. The boy couldn't have been older than six winters. He was a small thing with raven black hair and brilliant blue eyes. Tirkas quite enjoyed looking at the boy's eyes as he carried over some freshly washed robes and Tirkas' faithful boots. The elf ruffled the boy's hair as he took his garments and got to his feet to dress himself. While he did, Silas ran off for the next thing. He wasn't yet strong enough to carry all of Tirkas' armor, but he could manage the sword and the dagger spear. He helped Tirkas tighten the various straps and latches of his armor, from the sides of his brigandine, so the latches of his greaves and sabatons. The boy was especially useful when it came to the vambraces since those were always a pain to buckle one handed. When he was all set to head out, he took some dried fruits and a bit of cheese from a table and shoved it into the boy's hands. "Eat, boy, we've a long day ahead of us." Tirkas demanded as he took up a small clay jug of water and took a big gulp from it. He then put that too in Silas's arms. On their way out of the basement, Tirkas collected a few small things. A pigeon that he had helped Silas kill last night with a sling and a wreath of lilies, blackened with charcoal. He carried these things up with him and entered the sunlight for the people he had requested to finally see him. He stood in silence for a few moments while his page toddled up behind him. It had been too long now since the town had heard from Constans. Not one of their number had returned, not even Lady Ioreth who had been so charmed with God's light that she had seemed an angel in the flesh. It wasn't just Tirkas who assumed the worst, and he wasn't the only one wearing armaments this day. Among the crowd gathered was a Lance to accompany him to the north. A group of forty or so, consisting of men at arms and craftsmen. Among their rank were riders as well as wagons, and they were set to depart the village for the northern reaches. Silas took the offerings that Tirkas held, placing the pigeon upon a small flat stone in front of the church ruins. Tirkas placed the lily wreath around it and as he did Silas set the offering ablaze. No one spoke while it burned. Everyone held their breath hoping the flames would turn green but they stayed orange, as one might expect. Tirkas sighed. "God gifts us with many things." He began to address the crowd as he walked to his horse. "He once brought us safety, and he empowers you all to rule your own lives. However." He paused as he mounted a white mare while his page climbed onto the back along with him. "He will not do everything for us. We have to make the most of today, in this world we are given. His holiness, Father Constans, rode into the north. You all heard the stories, about what a catastrophe occurred there. We go, today, to see for ourselves." The crowd didn't exactly cheer at this. Their task was somber to say the least. Only Silas, among their group, seemed to retain the wonder of his youth long enough to whisper at Tirkas' feet. "He's with daddy now, I bet. Watching over us." [North of Coth : Wednesday Dusk] The warband had traveled for two and a half days now, and as the sun was beginning to set over the western hills, they laid eyes on the rumored site. A battlefield where a great cataclysm was supposed to have happened, only the sight they saw this evening was wholly different from what they had expected. To the warriors of the band, the tell tale signs of battle formations were clearly present. The ground was torn up and while there were some corpses strewn about it was and eerily barren battlefield. There were weapons, there was armor, shields, pavise; everything that might lead one to believe that there were once people here and that they planned on fighting each other in vicious battle. But. . . "Sir Tirkas? Where is everyone?" Silas asked his master from the back of the horse. Tirkas wracked his brain for an answer but it kept coming back blank. He was silent as he let himself off his horse and looked into the boy's wondering eyes. "I. I don't know Silas. Wait here." He motioned for some of the trackers in the group to follow him into the field at the foothills of the mountain. He needed to know, he had to search. Constans wore very unique robes, and his traveling companions were also similarly unique. If they were here, like all of these clothes and arms, then theirs should be within as well. The elf went over it in his head repeatedly as he searched, well into the evening with the sun retreating wholly below the horizon. Most of the warband had taken to helping in the search, carrying torches and reflectors. Tirkas needed no such assistance, and his eyes glowed a bright green in the dark. It had been long enough that all of the scents in the field had mingled, so he couldn't rely on his bear-like sense of smell. He relied on his eyes alone. Hours of scouring, hours of deep thought, and Tirkas had formed a thesis in his mind of what took place here. He could tell how the troops moved based on how the ground was tamped. He could guess their formations based on how their armor and weapons lay. Their bodies had vanished, leaving behind all of their earthly possessions. Apart from those who had clearly been slain and who's bodies remained where they lay there wasn't a speck of blood to be seen anywhere. He was just about ready to give it up when he came upon a familiar sight. He recognized that helmet. It belonged to Viscerex. A man whom Tirkas detested, but who had also been blessed by god. Tirkas ran over to the object in question, and laying nearby as Tirkas had hoped it would, a dark and flowing robe. He froze in place for a moment. He had hoped against hope that he would not find those robes. His lip began to quiver for the first time since his first night in Coth village. He could feel the emotions within welling up to the surface and he scrambled over to it. He dropped to his knees beside the empty garment, his quacking hands scooping it up as his vision went blurry. He is with god now, he's gone to a better place. He thought to make himself feel better, but it didn't stop the tears flowing down his face. The sadness that took him would be lasting and heavy, and once the others noticed they too gathered around to mourn, for this seemed to all to be confirmation that Constans was truly gone forever from their lot. Tirkas gathered the Robes of Constans, the Helm of Viscerex, and the Gown of Ioreth. The wanted to make sure these things were preserved, so that the people would remember where they came from. "A chest. The best one we have." [Temple City: Thursday Afternoon] Tirkas and his Cothite warband decided to make way for Temple City the next morning. It was, after all, much closer than Coth and many had never been before, including Tirkas. They all knew of the road that lead from Coth to the Temple City though. In fact, among Tirkas' Lance were a few of the honored Knights who lived in Coth. The warband had high hopes for this excursion, but they would quickly find their dreams dashed upon reaching the city limits. Chaos had befallen the region, it seemed, and the streets were largely empty. Asking about to some of the locals, it seemed that the leadership of the Temple just up and vanished one day. The people, left to their own devices, devolved into a state of anarchy. While the populace eventually got themselves into a controlled state (controlled enough that it wasn't an open riot) there were still signs of the previous state of unrest. A church, in one of the blocks near the south edge of town, seemed to call out to Tirkas in his wandering about the streets. Even Silas noticed it, which was promising. A broken stained glass window which had previously depicted Gaia had been smashed out, leaving behind only what looked like a green pair of eyes that the light shone through. "This wont do. If we leave them like this for long they're bound to upset the whole region." Tirkas mused to his fellows. It was a lesser chapel compared to the grand stone temple carved into the side of the cliffs off in the distance, but it was large enough and in well enough condition that Tirkas thought it would serve as a nice hub. He hatched a plan in his head on how to utilize the place, and he set about searching through the town for any skilled workers he could find. Masons, glass workers, silversmiths, and tailors would all be needed to achieve what he wanted to achieve. "We'll be staying for a while, everyone, so go ahead in and get comfortable." After all, they aren't using it anymore. Tirkas, in the meantime, took to his search with Silas in tow. The boy, weary from the day's travel and being young as he was, rode atop Tirkas' shoulders. Their first stop was to be at a masonry, which lucky for them was only a few short minutes away. @Witches Brew @Better Than Gore
  4. [ CoTH: Village Outskirts] As a microcosm of battle unfolded near poor Dale Thimmick's farm, a platoon of twenty Lizardfolk made their way across the fields. They were good at sneaking, the Scalebois, with their clay painted bodies and their human skin cloaks. Not all of them had such cloaks of course, as they didn't allow one to wear a skin unless it was their own kill, and what with their lizard frames being so large, it took an awful lot of skin to cover. So some of them just wore human skin scarves. Their lot was mixed, arranged as one might a Lance. Five of their rank were ranged specialists, equipped with rope slings around each wrist and thrown implements. A few crude javelins with antler tips, throwing knives of knapped shale, and satchels of smooth stone pellets. Five more were the sort of monsters that mothers tell their children about to scare them into acting right. They had the attributes of crocodiles with the size of their muscles and the silence with which they moved. Their arms were outfitted with bands of sinew with sharpened bone slivers laced into them so that if they got their big burly arms around some poor victim the bone shards would slice up their skin in no time. These larger warriors carried heavy spears and short hafted axes. The remaining ten were snatchers; lanky, stealthy, but strong as a bear. Rather, it was five pairs of snatchers, as hauling people was a two lizard job. These ones were equipped with heavy weighted nets designed for catching prey, or in this case villagers, and crude battle forks. They lurked in the grass, slithering low, to and fro. They could see the village from where they rested and started to hatch their plans. "We takes the big ones only. More skins for makes the goods." Said one of the snatchers to his fellows. He wore the largest skin cloak of the bunch, so clearly he knew the best way to make one and they listened to him. "We find Conshans first!" Peeped one of the rangers at the back of their line, a little too loudly. He caught a lump for being too loud and several quiet hisses to shush him up. "Yess, whelp, Conshans. We finds him, buts we gets the skins or he no likes us." The largest in the group persuaded. "We gets the skins of peoples he likes, so he likes us bests." The first snatcher added. They were done talking, and they prepared. There were only a few scant moments more before the Aldermen would pass again, so they had to make their move now. They burst fourth from the brush and sprinted for the village across the short grass at it's outskirts. Their main goal was to snatch as many men as they could and escape, but there was an ulterior motive to this attack. They had been convinced that this was the best course of action, but really Zanzarog had needed a distraction to make it easier for him to slip in and out of town in broad daylight. So here they were, about to unleash as much mayhem as they could. Twenty strong, they were quickly spotted when they came out of hiding. It would do no good though, as these lizardmen could scamper across the earth at several times the speed of a man over short distance. The pounced like wild animals on the few towns folk who were unfortunate enough to be lingering about. The Scalebois were vicious and a wave of shrieks washed over the area as several were slain . It only took ten minutes or so for the alarm to be raised. @Opaquely Translucent @Better Than Gore @Witches Brew @Revvys
  5. Sounds great to me, I'll be able to get started after work tonight
  6. But of course! Religion is the obvious starting point. My character, Tirkas, would likely encounter the city on his way North to investigate the disappearance of Coth's prophet. His first goal would be to establish a place of worship, followed by a new knightly order within the city to cement it's relationship with Coth.
  7. It's such a nice puzzle piece, it fits right in without any wiggling or forcing. It just makes sense for a Coth citizen to move on in. I'd like to take it.
  8. One of us! One of us! One of us!
  9. The threat was very serious, and Tirkas didn't doubt that Arturo would have tried if Tirkas had indeed intended on tricking him. There was no trick here, but traveling down the thought path made the elf laugh out loud. "For what little good my assurances will do you, I assure you this is no ruse.". He chuckled out before a deep breath killed his laughter. He breathed it out slow and smooth while Arturo drank and cleaned himself. He would need some of Tirkas' medicinal salves later to actually clean the wounds, but clearing the dirt out for now would help. "I can use someone with your. . ." Tirkas paused mid-breath as he watched his new companion assess a Gnoll corpse, and then dislodge it's canine teeth from the skull. "Constitution.". He finished, quirking a brow as Arturo dropped both fangs in his pouch. A fan of trophies, I see. Tirkas proceeded to lead Arturo out of the swamplands and toward the township of Coth. It would take them a couple of days at least, and alomg the way, Tirkas did indeed dress Arturos wounds, applying a curative paste to keep them from festering. Back in civilization they'd be able to see an actual healer. The whole way Tirkas said very little, but he hunted for Arturo and provided shelter by way of lean-tos. @Opaquely Translucent
  10. It was clear he was weary and slow to trust. Who could blame him? After all, the swamp was hot and full of hostiles. For all he knew, Tirkas was about to skin him and eat him raw. It seemed, perhaps, a little naive that he wasn't more hostile. Tirkas certainly would have been. "My name is Tirkas Leafglint.". He began as hebstarted to trudge towards Arturo. As he walked, he gripped his spear in his left hand and rested it across his shoulers, with his right hand draped over the other side in a lazy fashion. "I see you are wounded. I am skilled in dressing wounds, and I have medicine to fight infection.". He offered as he grew nearer. Tirkas reached down when he was only five paces away and pulled a water skin from his harness. He took a drink from it first, then corked it and offered it to Arturo. "Drink, and clean your wounds. I'll dress them properly when we get safe. There are more of this pack lurking these swamps, and they are soon to come hunting for this party." @Opaquely Translucent
  11. The recent happenings in Coth's territories had been troubling Tirkas for some time now. He spent much of his time casting as wide a net as he could, trawling the furthest borders of his domain. The swamps were one of those places. With the sharp rise in heat and the oppressive humid atmosphere, Tirkas had taken to wearing much lighter garb than he normally did. As in, almost nothing. For days now, Tirkas had been on the trail of a vision. It had come to him in a dream; a stranger from the heavens, fallen to earth in a fetid quagmire. He was wreathed in snakes, though none touched him. He was surrounded by blood and destruction, but at the fringes there was all of creation folding in on itself. Tirkas had taken this vision to the priestesses and they gave him a number of interpretations. This traveler might be a man of god, sent to rend the foes of the church into nothing. Or, perhaps, he was a calamity here to tear Coth to the ground. Either way, he was someone Tirkas had to find. So here he was. He had nothing worn on his torso, and his legs were garbed in tight fitting hose. He wore some supple leather boots and a cloth tasset with his harness. Dressed a she was, Tirkas' arm markings would have been visible, were it not for the mud he smeared over his flesh for camouflage. His spear served him well in the swamplands, as it doubled as a walking stick that he could use for support and to test the depths of the murk. Days had gone by, and still he persisted, until fate struck. The man he had come here to find awoke in the distance, and Tirkas remained well hidden in the mud. He knew these grounds to be a frequent haunt for things that went bump in the night, so he was cautious. Just as he had suspected, it didn't take long for a pack of Gnolls to descend on the scent of fresh man flesh. They accosted Arturo and the warrior fought back valiantly, but not without incident. Tirkas had taken to a particular group of black ash that just now provided the Gnoll archer his cover. His muddy coating and elvish deftness allowed him to remain undetected, even with the creature's superior sense of smell. An arrow nocked, aim taken, and Tirkas would answer it with a sudden snikt. He thrust his spear, the tip caked in swamp mud, from a knotty hole that Tirkas had been laying in until just then. His spear found the Gnoll's jaw, and the long leaf-like blade pierced clean through the neck, slashing across it's spine from the inside. The Gnoll's shot fired, but not on the course he wanted. The arrow sailed high into the distance, and shortly after it's body would run limp. Tirkas emerged from his hiding spot shortly thereafter, dislodging his spear with a boot to the creature's head. He turned to look for the wounded fighter, and whistled loudly to alert him. @Better Than Gore @Opaquely Translucent
  12. He thrashed and he bucked, and several dead trees lay flat tha ks to Black Philip. A veritable warpath had been carved into the grove as the Springjack tried to dislodge this freeloader, but when all was said and done he knew that he had failed. Zanzarog still held fast, though his body had been beaten and bruised. He showed determination to match Black Philips. Too tired to keep up this game of whack-an-orc, Black Philip's breathing became heavy. He trodded weakly for a time, but soon he lay in the underbrush, placing his chin flat against the earth and letting his powerful hind legs sprawl out behind him. He let out a bleat in protest, but you could tell his heart just wasn't in it anymore. Fine, manbeast, slay me if you will. He thought. I'll haunt your whole lineage. Zanzarog, however, would find himself in possession of the largest Springjack, and if he let his mind wander he might even see visions. As Black Philip began drifting off a strange fey magic took hold of the woods. Fleeting visions of Black Philip's past brought to light in the waking world. If he paud attention, Zanzarog would see a simple tale of court intrigue. A prince, proud and ambitious, set his sights on a maiden. He took her as his own, only nights before she was to be wed to another. The jealous fiance, a foreign king, forced him into cruel ultimatum. He was cursed into this form, to live as a Springjack for one thousand years, and his unborn son would be spared. The visions ended, as that was where Black Philip ceased to be anything more than a vicious beast. @Better Than Gore
  13. [Territories of CoTH, Afternoon Woods] The pair had spent the better part of the day traveling without pause, save for a few moments here or there to share a word or gather their bearings. As Demi began to speak at greater length, Tirkas decided that now was as good a time as any for the pair to have a bit of a break. They had wandered far enough now that the geography of the forest had shifted some. They broke into a brushland, an area where trees had either burnt or fallen away which was now blanketed in shrubs and bushes that rarely grew taller than a man. It was still fairly sunny here, and so it suited Tirkas' needs perfectly. Tirkas kept walking until Demi finished speaking, looking all the while for a suitable place for them to pause. He remained silent for a few moments longer before he found a nice mossy spot to sit, and there he would drop the sack he had hoisted over his shoulder. "You needn't worry so much Demi. I didn't find your reaction offensive." Tirkas finally replied as he took a seat, cross-legged, in a nice sunny spot. "Come, let's take a break. We've been walking since morning." He finished, patting a hand on the clear spot beside him. As he waited for Demi to take a seat several small twigs would appear to sproute from around Tirkas' head. They took to curling clockwise, almost like a crown, and finished by sprouting many tiny leaves. He followed this development by taking a drink from one of his water skins. Once Demi finially sat herself down, he would answer he question. "Well, now, there's an interesting question indeed." He started, rubbing his chin and looking out across the brush. "I suppose it's both. If you think about it, that is. To work for The Father is to work for The Church. I guess that answer isn't satisfying. You probably want to know where my loyalty lies, who I actually want to work for. Unfortunately the answer tot hat is also quite plain, it's both." He thought back to the small events that had occurred since his arrival in the village. Everything had led him to his current point of view. "God has shown himself to us all in some small way, and as far as I can tell, Father Constans is some sort of prophet. I didn't used to put much stock in gods, since they all seemed to willing to sit by and watch the world burn. Our god changed my mind, back when Viscerex and his bandits raided the town. I. . ." He hesitated, the words dying on his lips as he furrowed his brow. He put the thought on hold for a moment as he opened his sack and pulled out a neatly folded cloth. In the cloth was a handful of Tirkas' personal blended trail mix. A nice fatty cured meat, cut into small pieces, mixed with various nuts and dried fruit. He handed it off to Demi, since he didn't actually need to eat for at least another week. "I lost a boy that night. I'd only just met him. When the raid broke, I tried to usher him to safety and took him into town to find his lady love. She was in a shack, and it was on fire, searching for her cat. He ran in after her, and I stood by and watched, like the same gods I once scorned. I could have helped him, I know I could have, but I didn't want to take the risk." His voice trailed off a bit, growing quiet as he turned his eyes down. "So, looking to the future, when I can help, I must. That's what god showed me. That's why it could be said I serve both. Constans needs someone with my skills, and Coth needs Constans." @ViverFever @Ghorroj
  14. He tumbled and fumbles and ripped up the ground, tearing a path as he tried to right himself. The manbeast beside danced around him with care and boldness. Most men ran in fear from Black Philip, but not this creature with sharp lower tusks and dark skin. He had the audacity to rope Black Philip by the horns. Needless to say, the springjack was pissed. Black Philip tore his horns out of the ground as he flopped and wiggled, finally he got his feet back under himself and he shook the dirt from his head, but where did the manbeast go? Philip turned left, and he turned right, but Zan was nowhere to be seen! And then he felt something. Zan had climbed onto the Springjack's back, using his rope as reigns and grabbing a tuft of curly fleece. He let out a shriek of fury and started to thras about as strongly as he could. He kicked this way and that, tossing dirt and grass in every direction. If that wasn't enough to do it he would take off running as fast as he could. To say that Black Philip was fast was an understatement when it came to the animal kingdom. Gazelles had nothing on a Springjack of his size, and he bolted into the forest at fifty miles per hour. He was swift as an arrow, but he had such maneuverability that he could turn rapidly even at speed. He would dart through the branches and the bramble, tearing a path of carnage through the wood. Every bird for miles would scatter as Black Philip knocked over several trees. Such a rampage was taxing, so he couldn't keep this up for long. If Zan could manage to hold on for just one minute, Black Philip would tire himself out. @Better Than Gore
  15. Black Philip was swift and strong, but luck was on Zan's side. He managed to get to his saddlebags, he whipped up his lasso, and as the springjack leveled his head down and primed his hind legs for a powerful thrust of his horns, a fibrous appendage wrapped about his head. The twisting and angled horns atop his head made a perfect target for Zanzarog's toss, and even if he had flubbed it a tad he would still land true. With a powerful yank, Zan directed Black Philip into the dirt just a few feet in front of him. The mess of black fleece and grassy turf barred towards Zan, flipping heels up across the ground. His body threatening to flatten Zan in the mext moment. @Better Than Gore
  16. Interesting. . . Black Philip could almost feel the fear pourong off Zanzarog at this point, and yet despite that fear he stood his ground for a time. If the springjack had wanted, he could have bounded down the hill and tossed the half-orc like a ragdoll for hours of fun. The more he watched, though, the less he wanted to play. Do you think yourself my equal? He thought as he watched Zan draw a dagger. Black Philip knew what those were, they never managed to pierce his thick fleece. Then Zan started to shuffle towards his mount. Or do you think you are superior? Black Philip chuffed loudly as he beat his forelegs through the air. The sudden swift movement made a noise like soft thunder. The movement agitated him, and he took off down the hill. Of course, with forelegs so short and hindlegs so long, traversing a grassy hill downward was a bit of a task. He would stumble more than once, and switch to a rapid side-to-side movement to compensate. Zanzarog might just have his chance now, and Black Philip let out an angry bleat. "BAHHH" @Better Than Gore
  17. He could feel the muscles on the horse's neck ripple and shift as the weighty springjack threw his considerable strength into the beast. It only toom three mighty leaps, and in the blink of an eye he sent the horse tumbling with a sickening SNAP Followed by a crunching sound as the beast went limp and rolled down the hill. The rider followed, casting himself free just in time to avoid breaking his legs. Black Philip watched him roll down the hill, bouncing over a few stones and roots on his way. The sight pleased him. The limp horse pleased him. That snap pleased him. He looked on with his dim red eyes until Zan came to a stop. He let out a loud bleat and started to binky on the top of the hill. He bounced about in a circle, kicking his hind legs this way and that, in celebration over his victory. What fun it was to unleash his strength in this way. Soon the rider would rise again, and Black Philip would only stop his celebratory binkies when the man found his legs. Then they'd have a staring match. @Better Than Gore
  18. Zan crested the hill and observed the springjack's destruction. The creature observed Zan now as well, from the confines of the trees and the underbrush. A strong man, tusks in his lips, riding atop a horse beast. Black Philip knew these well, and he didn't mich care for them. He especially didn't like it when they had riders. He wasn't like other creatures, Black Philip. He had existed since a time when men and beasts were not so far apart, when these monkies hadn't yet dreamed of taming nature to their whims. Perhaps the black springjack would show Zan and this horse what it meant to be truly a beast of the wilds? With a powerful leap, and the sound of earth hollowing and upturning, Black Philip burst through the treeline, clear over the branches, like a streak of dark night careening towards Zan and his horse. He landed with a thump, and yet this did nothing to slow him down, his claws drigging deep into the earth of the hill and carving huge gouges into it's greenery. He peered with beady red eyes up the slope at Zan's horse, his horns leveled low with sinister intent. He was gonna break that horse's neck if he was given half a chance. @Better Than Gore
  19. CRACK! The sound resounded through the forest and over the hills. A loud thunderous crackle, as if a tree had just fallen from a great and mighty gust. The birds scattered far and wide, while critters of all shapes and sizes hid in their holes. A sense of dread thickened the air as though a storm was brewing, though the sky was clear as a bell. Black Philip. It was a nickname the locals had given this creature, said to be an incarnation of some otherworldly fiend. His fleece was black as midnight, and his horns were wild and twisting. Two sets sprouted from his head, one curved only slightly, the other curled like a ram around his ears. To the uninitiated he looked like nothing more than a fat ram, but on closer inspection it would be plain that this creature was peculiar. The head of a goat, the body of a sheep, and the legs and feet od a rabbit, all packed into a frame that was only slightly larger than a mule. One honker of a Springjack. Black Philip could be seen bounding to and fro, and every now and again he bounced himself full force into a tree. CRACK! Now he was at the edge of the clearing, and he struck a tree with a mighty blow, throwing his whole body off the ground and kicking two foot deep holes into the turf. This tree was old and dry, mostly dead wood, and as his thick black horns struck the trunk, the tree came cashing down at the botton of the hill. @Better Than Gore
  20. Cabbage, The Cabbage From atop the cat girl's shoulder, Cabbage wiggled his little spindly root arm like one of those whacky flailing inflatable tube men. He sang as the two newcomers made odd expressions and gestures to him. Alice even said Cabbage's name, though he didn't ever tell it to her. Rather, he couldn't, at least not in a language she understood. Luckily Cabbage was named after what he was! "BehhEH!" He beeped, pantomiming with his little limb as though he were pulling a hat off his head and placing it back. "Beh beh beh." He continued. Maybe he was trying to say Hi pleasure to meet you, I am Cabbage, supreme leader of all things vegetable and you will bow before my greatness! Or maybe he just wanted to make some noise. Alice chatted with the pair of other fleshy beings, and Cabbage soon lost interest and turned his attention back to the thing he was really after. Would he be able to grow into a big beautiful tree? Or would he always be a tiny little Bok Choy? Such existential desires hurt Cabbage's crunch-water brain, so he started to shudder which made his leafy bits flap about. @Lawman @vielle @supernal
  21. [Territories of CoTH, Afternoon Woods] Tirkas stood in silence and listened as his companion explained. He held no skepticism in his face, and he patiently awaited the end of her speech. As she came to a close, Tirkas bowed his head a bit. He knew battle well, and he knew that for most it was never something that left you. He would hesitate to call it traumatic but that was probably the closest word to fit how he felt. When he finally spoke, his voice was softened and carried no judgment. "It eases my nerves to hear you say that. Let's hope we don't have to fight." He replied. "And, it's just Tirkas, if you would. I gave up my title to devote myself to the cause." Like Demi, Tirkas also had a past life. He was still known to some as The Green Knight but the moniker was just a nickname now. Tirkas no longer owned land or titles in any other territory. With this awkward conversation out of the way, Tirkas turned and continued on into the wilderness. The pair would travel at as close to a set distance away from town as they could manage using primitive methods, attempting to establish a perimeter. They would be on the lookout for anything suspicious, which Tirkas would be able to pick out quite readily since he was very familiar with the area. Above all else, they were on the lookout for people. Tirkas wasn't much for idle chatter, so he couldn't think of anything to say to Demi besides the occasional warning that the terrain ahead was knotty and rough, or overgrown and thorny. @ViverFever @Ghorroj
  22. HNGFFF Memorial Day week is always the fukken worst >:C I can finally pull my head up for air, I'll be slapping up a Cabbage post before the night is out~
  23. [Coth : The Laughing Springjack : A Song of Wine and Cheese] The Laughing Springjack. It was the most popular tavern in the village, attracting both locals and travelers at all hours of the day. It was named for a peculiar creature that looked to be a cross between a rabbit and a goat, sporting a goat's head and a rabbit's legs. Even the sign out front was in the shape of one with its mouth agape as if amused. Naturally, being the most popular, this tavern had access to some of the best products around. In particular, a particular kind of wine that Tirkas found to be eerily similar to the sort his family made back home. The Green Knight found himself sat at a table somewhere in the middle of the room. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to the elf, or to the three empty bottles on the table before him, or the half-empty one in his hand. He had given up on cups entirely and took to sipping directly from the bottle. It took almost as much drink to get Tirkas drunk as it took for a dwarf, but even with his heightened self-healing, he couldn't keep up with the stout mountain folk. Tirkas was, truly and utterly, plastered as he could be. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes were droopy. He seemed to be having some difficulty holding up his own head every now and then, but with the way he glared at the platter of cured meats and cheese in front of him he clearly had something on his mind. He started speaking, to no one in particular. "It may be all that is available." He started, hiccuping at the end. "B-but it just doesn't compare. Is this really hic all we can muster? Am I hic doomed to quit my life of hic adventure and swordfights to become a damned hic cheese farmer?" He was getting louder as he went. His brow pinching into a scowl as he took another long drink of his wine. "At least you don't disappoint me, wine friend. At least hic you don't leave me feeling empty and soulless like this poor mold. Hic he doesn't even realize how mediocre he is." Tirkas was now talking to his food items like they were people.
  24. Cabbage, the cabbage. Oh what joy! The fleshy thing with the fluffy top had understood Cabbage's inane and repeated beeping! What a smart, good little fleshy thing, the best, a good companion. "Behbehbeh. Beh. Beh." He made a bunch of quick, soft beeps as the catgirl extended her arm. Cabbage would waddle right over to it and quickly extend the length of his spindly little root appendages. He draped them over the girl's arm at first, but then wrapped them under and lifted himself up. In total his little Bok Choy body weighed about two pounds. She scooped him up and lifted him to her shoulder, where he would sit happily. He transferred his right spindly appendage to Alice's head, wrapping the limb around to the other side where the tip rested at the corner of her forehead opposite to Cabbage. It wouldn't do to be falling off, but he was careful not to block the fleshy creature's vision bulbs. He understood her questions, but he wasn't sure exactly how he was supposed to articulate his desires to her. "Bhhhhh." He started as though he were going to beep, but instead he just let his head split open and puffed out a wheeze of a sort. Such deep thought did not suit his crunchy plant brain and it gave him a headache. He started pointing at the trees, especially trees with fruit. Then he pointed to himself, back and forth, rapidly. "Beh!" @Lawman
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