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Ederan

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  1. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    Barivam had stepped away from the others, as the remainder of the group dispersed to make ready for the trials to come. He had lost what little he owned in the struggle, and so he contented himself with a drink by the bar, paid for by the generosity of the people he'd fought for on the pier. Whether they were aware of the favor or not wasn't much his concern. He downed the liquor from the bottle and wondered what price might be worth his life if any. How much was the world itself worth? He made a face and drank some more. No answer came to him, but what selfish thoughts he could muster, he entertained as he ran the drink over his tongue over and over, until it had lost all flavor. Barivam had killed for gold, silver, and jewels. He'd risked life and limb over things as petty as animal pelts, insults, and perceived slights. Now some captain spat forth from the sea asked him to risk it all once again, for gold and silver, for jewels and glory, and life itself. Barivam pulled one of his bolts from his quiver. 'I suppose I've risked more over less,' he thought to himself, as he toyed with the enchanted projectile. In the end, he took a second bottle from behind the bar and was surprised to realize that the thought of saving the world slowly became less foreign in his mind.
  2. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    Barivam emptied his drink and raised his eyebrows; his eyes were on the captain's, a mock grimace on his face. He shrugged. "How many hands do you reckon will do?" he asked, as a smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. Yellowed teeth peeked from between his cracked lips. "Captain, you can talk money all you may, but it don't change this," Barivam pulled at his own cheek. "Fleshy, tender and chewy. I'd know. I've bitten myself often enough. You're talking islands of undead. You're talking more of those things out there, more of that bleeding 'aura'. "I ain't no scholar, but I was raised as no one's fool. Beg your pardon," he nodded to the ladies, to the gentlemen, "but I figure us few here won't do. Unless you've got yourself a plan, Captain?" Barivam asked. "Some reassurance that these hands will get to feel that gold you mention? That the proposed deed of valor won't become a cautionary tale for would-be adventurers?"
  3. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    I should be able to post Sunday night without too much issue.
  4. I'm a simple man. I see cultist-chan, I say hello xD

    1. Ederan

      Ederan

      Hwee kaptoored eet fohr kay-ohss!

  5. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    Any doubts could still be cleared through this thread, so I agree. One post would be best.
  6. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    Barivam felt renewed, stronger, as though some terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Gradually, slowly, but certainly he felt his strength return. His sword once more felt light, if still awkward in his grip, and his haubergeon no longer seemed as heavy. He smiled and drew in a deep breath. 'I'll be damned,' he thought. 'I just may have to return to the temple after all.' He raised his guard, with the edge of his blade aligned to the nearest undead skull. A woman, trailed by two more of the creatures caught sight of him and lunged. Barivam did not retreat, and where before he would have considered himself at a disadvantage, he felt so full of vigor the thought of flight made him physically repulsed. It was no longer the time to turn and flee for safety. It was high time to break some bones. He slashed at her, a downward strike that caught the beast between collarbone and neck; it tore through cloth, flesh, and muscle to splinter and break bone down to the marrow. The creature gave not to him so much as the courtesy to grunt in pain, but he no longer cared. Anger and excitement flooded him. The beasts had put him on the run, and by whatever it was that watched over him, his mother had raised no coward; so he kicked the undead woman to the ground as he yanked his steel free, and hacked at her again, and again, until her face was naught but red, dripping ribbons. The next two of the creatures tried to bite him, but the maille haubergeon did not let them so much as scratch him. He shoved one to the ground and caved-in the second one's face with the pommel of his sword. The woman was back on her feet, clawing at him, blind but determined. He kicked her down again and returned his attention to the one beast he'd shoved aside. With a savage sweep of his sword, he ruined the creature's forehead. Brains splattered the ground. Barivam sighed contentedly and pressed his boot down against the woman's chest. He'd asked for a minute, and to him, it seemed he'd been given a century. He raised his knee up to his chest and brought his heel down hard against the woman's bloodied face. Once, twice, until nothing was left but a pulp. He'd have to congratulate the fellow who'd made his boots, he decided. They were good stuff.
  7. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    Barivam was breathing hard, covered in gore, and exhausted; though he'd not been at it for more than a few minutes, the fight had drained him. His muscles ached, his arms trembled and his legs threatened to give way with every second that passed and every movement he made. His every breath came and went heavy and drawn out, more a growl than a sigh. He raised his sword once more, perhaps for the last, and advanced. A man who no longer lived, lightly dressed, who more likely than not had once been a fisherman, came at him hard and fast; arms swinging wildly, without care or worry for his own well-being. The dead thing lunged forth, intent on slamming against his midsection to send him sprawling back. Barivam struck; a downward slice, devoid of grace or technique, that was more suited for a butcher's cleaver than a swordsman's tool. Still, the blade cut and the gore spilled onto the ground and drenched his trousers. The edge had met flesh above the undead's left temple, where it split the skull and spilled its brains out for the world to see. It fell and rolled off to the side. Hands tremulous, knees buckling, Barivam watched the corpse; he allowed himself to scan his surroundings but never lost sight of the fisherman. Drool seeped from between his teeth to mix with the heavy sweat he'd worked up during the fight, but he did not dare drop his guard to wipe it clean. The dead man stirred. His arms pushed him up, and his knees held his weight; pink innards spilled from the gaping gash his sword had hewn into his head. But he still moved. His head still turned, and the one eye Barivam's sword had not ruined in the strike focused on him. He rose, and as the others before him had done, he came on, relentless. 'Dumb bastard that I am,' he cursed himself in his thoughts. 'Too close. Too many. But you had to see up close what the matter was, did you not?' His crossbow remained slung over his shoulder by its leather strap. His snapsack was lost. The bag with the dead lizards had begun to move and writhe, and so he had dropped it. It was a lucky thing, he thought, that he'd quartered the things before leaving the jungle. Who knows what mayhem they could have caused had they been reanimated while whole, being so small. The fisherman charged again. Barivam swung his blade and caught him in the neck, beneath the chin. The blade bit deep into the flesh, blood spilled, and the undead man was swept aside to fall once more to the ground; his head now hung freely, loosely attached by a strand of flesh and a half-cut trachea. No screams but those of the living could be heard, and the dead man did not so much as grunt when hit. It unsettled him deeply, how silently the dead fought. The cries of men, he could stand. The whines of beasts, he could endure. The silence of the dead, however, set the hairs on his back on end and made his guts feel ill. He advanced and grasped the fisherman's head by the hair, matted with blood, brains, and sweat. With one strong pull, he fully separated the severed head from its body, that still writhed beneath his boot. "I have to get out of this melee," he muttered between breaths and looked around. The dead were busy with the living, taking their pickings from the nearest targets, and so by sheer luck, they avoided him. But not for long. The crowds were fleeing, and in the open, he stood vulnerable. The crossbow was his thing, never having been much use with the great war bows his father had favored; his sword felt clumsy in his hand, and he doubted his strength, that had so suddenly and rapidly begun to desert him. Fire roared from somewhere behind him, its source obscured by a mass of bodies; dead or alive, friend or foe, horror or not... he may not be cautious, but his mother had raised no fool. Barivam drew in a deep, long breath and stepped away from the inn in the distance from whence the flames had soared. To the center of the commotion he limped, where a ragged group had decided to make a stand. 'A minute,' he pleaded to whatever powers in the universe there might be to lend an ear. 'It's all I need. A minute and I can load this crossbow.' At his hips, his fiery bolts seemed to murmur to him, pleading to be allowed into the battle. But around him, the dead grew in number as the living were slain, and over his body, a terrible exhaustion had fallen. Dead things set their sight on him, and as they advanced, that minute seemed to him as distant as the sun.
  8. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    @Jotnotes Is there a way to permanently put down the undead? Because the halberd strike to the giant bird's skull didn't end it. Also, I have a question regarding the extent of our control over the narrative here. How much are we allowed to influence the results of our actions? When I've played PBP before, we basically told the GM what we planned to do, omitting the results, and he would narrate the effectiveness of our actions to us in his next post; we'd adjust our strategy accordingly then. What I mean is, can I kill enemies, pass obstacles, perform spells/skills, within my post without it being considered god-modding? To what extent can I negotiate obstacles within my own narrative?
  9. The Lich Isles: Necropolis Rising

    Another day, another haul. Barivam Sott sidestepped a pile of dung left to gather flies mid-street, as he made his way past the crowds and wagons folk hauled to the harbor in what was to him a day like any other. Voices and sounds rose to the air about him as he went, alongside busy cobblestone paths that shone beneath the sun's glare. Beneath his arm was a bundle of cloth tied up at both ends by a rope; the smell of blood hung about it, and so did the flies. Dead lizards from beyond Hodra's outskirts, they fetched a fair price at the market. His forehead glistened with sweat from the heavy jungle heat, but it did not bother him; he'd sweat through the padded shirt he wore beneath his haubergeon already, to such a point that even the lightest breeze felt to him refreshing. He smiled as he went, nodding at every other random passerby, unaware if they acknowledged him or not. He felt good, and the world around him did too, for all he cared. Barivam turned a corner and strode down another busy street, loaded with carts and stands, people from distant places and nearby ones; at its end he found the mouth to the harbor, and there he allowed himself a breather. With a sigh he let the sack hit the ground. A great, wet splat it made, and the stones beneath were colored a deep, crimson red; the kills were fresh as one could expect. He had, after all, traversed the length of the city. He slung from his shoulder a heavy crossbow, made from stout wood cut from the surrounding jungle. The bag of bolts at his hip carried thirty shot, all with runes etched into their arrowheads that spoke words of magic and flame, for the game he hunted did not often fit within a sack he could carry beneath his arm. At his hip, on the left of it, hung a scabbard with a broad, rounded shortsword. He sat down on the steps to a great building that he did not know, and waited for the breeze to cool him down. Absentmindedly, he scratched at his face, running the length of the pockmarked flesh with his dirty fingernails; scars, cuts, and scabs all adorned it, on top of the heavy abuse the sun's rays had laid on him. He waited with one hand on his crossbow, the other on his kill, and both feet over his snap sack; it was mostly empty, but for a few supplies and tools he used in his travels. And there he waited, until commotion struck. More like, he realized it had already struck. Barivam glanced at a gathered crowd, all close together and gawking at one thing or another. What it was, he did not know, but it wasn't any man that took to the jungles to make a living, and it certainly was not a cautious man who did. Barivam stood and slung crossbow, snap sack and his kill over his shoulder; he made his way to the scene. He made his way past the crowd, to its center, where he watched as a great, dead thing was hauled off by a man. 'My,' he thought to himself, as he pulled at the corner of one of his coarse, black whiskers. 'Day by day, this town only seems to get weirder.'
  10. Necropolis Rising

    Hi! I'm interested in joining as well. Do you need me to fill in a character sheet? I'm not all too sure of site etiquette just yet, so I wouldn't want to start off on the wrong foot. :P
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