Ghorroj

The trees didn't give away their secret places easily. Still, Fiji reflected to himself as he parted a curtain of ivy and looked into the revealed stone hollow, at least they weren't giant, purple-capped psychotropic mushrooms. That had been a bad world and, afterward, apparently a bad lifetime. The ivy fell back into place as Fiji turned away and wandered through the woods, his pointed ears swivelling and shiny black nose twitching. His glacier blue eyes were half-closed, his posture relaxed and his stride was more of a sleepwalker’s stagger that nevertheless kept his feet on rocks or exposed and semi-rotten logs. He paused suddenly, mid-stride, his foot still raised, as his head turned and his ears focused on something. His foot lowered as he listened intently, and then he stalked through the shadowy woods with a new purpose. He stumbled a few times. The darkness of unmanaged woodland hid moss-covered logs and submerged stones where they could not be easily seen. The few anaemic shrubs that tried to grow in the leafmould were easy to rip out and place, roots pointing the way. If he got his own way, Fiji decided as he clenched his lacerated fist to cover his lacerated palm, he’d turn the entire forest into an open mining pit. That’d teach nature not to mess with him. He grinned, fangs gleaming against the darkness, as he imagined the reacion of the emotionless popinjay in his Tower, and then huffed out a breath. He’d never go for it. Not for a few decades, at least, and the entire idea was a short-term fancy anyway. Sunlight glimmered through the trees and the breeze brought with it the scent of flowers. “I still think it’s pretty odd.” The wargs rolled, cuffed at each other with their immense paws, and play-bit, their black-spotted, coppery hides covered in dust from the road. “Yeah. They’re pretty odd, alright.” Tats pulled another one of the long pins out of the cart and started wiggling the other wheel free of its axle. “But they’ve done their bit, at least until-” “Not them!” Blondie straightened a little from levering the other wheel free and levelled a glare at his twin brother. “I mean that new guy. Dogface. If I could travel like that, Nisnav would never find me or my family. Makes you wonder what he’s here for.” “Maybe you could try asking.” The growly voice made Blondie flinch, and the cart suddenly tipped towards him. Fiji’s clawed hand caught the top of the cart bed before it could fall very far. “So. Who’s this ‘Dogface’, and am I going to have to savage you over an insult?” “Don’t mind my stupid brother.” Tats leaned on the top of the cart as his brother backed away from Fiji with his hands up. “I’m Tats. That’s Blondie. Fish is the four-armed guy sorting the weapons and shit. You’re Dogface. No names, see? Keeps our... work from getting back to our families.” “I do see.” Fiji’s pointed ears flicked down briefly; a Ghor apology that he knew quite well that the humans probably wouldn’t even notice, let alone understand. He set the cart down gently on the road. “I found a clearing. Far enough from the road so we can’t be seen. Close enough to get to easily in a hurry.” He paused. “Do the savage, terrifying, exceptionally fierce and modest beasts have names?” It was Tats’ turn to flinch. He turned slowly to look at the Wargs and relaxed visibly when he saw that they were still play-fighting. “You don’t. Ever. Name the wargs that you take with you. If they don’t like something you call them, they tend to tell you off.” He looked at Fiji. “It’s very painful to get told off by a Warg. Blood everywhere.” “Sshow me thiss clearing.” Fiji turned to look at Fish, who was walking towards them and wiping a clear film of grease from his hands with a pair of rags. The black-scaled fishman’s tail thumped the ground behind him once or twice, the delicate-looking fins on the end throwing up rainbow hues. “Of course,” said Fiji as he started walking towards the trees. “This way.” Once more, the cool darkness of the woods swallowed him. @Spooky Mittens @ViverFever

Woo! I must have stolen the right raffle box this time. Although it was in the same pub as last time, and had a lot more tickets than I was expecting. Apparently one of the prizes for the title-raffle is a barrel of beer..?

If you're still open for curse suggestions: The Duck Curse. A perfectly ordinary waterfowl* flies over from somewhere nearby and lands on the cursed character's head. Said character cannot see, feel or hear the duck, and will be unable to believe anyone who points it out to them. The 'duck'* will immediately start quacking loudly and randomly during conversations, and will certainly be able to cover the conversation with incessant noise. If the original 'duck' dies and the curse hasn't run its course, another waterfowl will fly over and land on the cursed characters head, only this one will be a lot meaner and far more aggressive. This second 'duck' will actively attack the characters it isn't using as a perch. The third duck will also be aggressive, and will have the temporary ability to breathe fire when threatened. It should get much, much worse from here. Possible suggestion: DuckZilla. *Any waterfowl will do, as long as it is relatively light and can make loud and obnoxious noises. This curse is a reference to 'The Duck Man' from the novels of Terry Pratchett

Location: One mile from Blairville First Day (Mid-Morning) It was a lovely day for a stroll. Birds sang, bees buzzed from wildflower to wildflower, and small animals dived for cover and trembled as the cart rumbled along the road at the same speed as an enthusiastic jogger. Occasionally, the four-armed fish-man on the carter's seat twitched the reins he held in to of his hands, only to be completely ignored by the large, wolfish Wargs who pulled the thing along. Jogging next to the smallish cart were two men who were dark-haired and fairly well-muscled; both had stripped to the waist, although that didn't stop one of them from jingling with every step from the sheer amount of chains and apparently ornamental keys hanging from his belt and a collection of thin, white scars that covered every inch of bare skin. He was the normal-looking one. Someone given to understatement would have said that his companion was covered in tattoos, except that would have completely missed the opportunity to use the phrase 'walking carnal instruction manual'. Every arm movement, muscular twitch and deep breath caused by the light exercise he was taking resulted in something explicit and R-rated happening somewhere on the man's torso. Someone given to distraction would have tripped over their own feet; indeed, the man's scarred companion had distinctive marks on his hands where he'd presumably saved himself from greater injury while falling over, and was avoiding looking in the direction of the pornographic display. Loping a fair distance behind the cart was a tall, wolf-headed beast-man. Thick, light blue fur covered him from head to toe and his hunched, muscular shoulders flexed with every one of his own footfalls. His tongue hung out as he panted under the far-too-cheery sun, until he stopped, bent over and put his clawed hands on his knees. "Screw this," he muttered under his breath and stalked to the side of the road. He straightened and looked further ahead, and then he crouched and drew something in the soil with his foreclaw. He looked at the line of peculiar symbols, frowned, counted on his fingers, and then added a few more symbols underneath the row he'd already inscribed. He looked up and a patch of blue flame burst into being in mid-air and completely failed to burn any of the thorned hedgerow that hid the view. The flames widened, with a distinctive, slightly threatening hum, and hung in the air like a panel showing a view of a blue inferno. Abruptly, the view within the square patch of flame rippled from the centre and cleared until it showed the image of a road surfaced with white limestone next to a set of fields. The still-panting beastman stepped into the panel. The image didn't ripple or make any other movement; it looked exactly the same as if he'd stepped into a completely normal doorway. On the other side of the flame-edged portal through space, the wolfman looked around, stepped further into the centre of the road, took note of the cart way in the distance, then wandered back to the edge of the road and settled down in the grass to wait. He didn't look behind him as the panel he'd stepped through snapped shut with a pop of displaced air. Location: Six Miles from Blairville First Day (Midday) The cart rumbled slowly up to Fiji, who looked up from making a daisy-chain and squinted at the fish-man as the vehicle stopped. The two dark-furred Wargs in the traces were panting heavily and looked thoroughly displeased with their lot as Fiji carefully placed the flower crown he'd made on his head, so that it dangled over his ears. "What do you think, guys?" Fiji said, tilting his head from side-to-side as the human bandits collapsed at the roadside. "Does it suit me?" "How?" croaked the fish-man. "I gave you the letter from Nisnav." Fiji's rumbling voice held a note of mild reproach. "I told him my abilities, demonstrated them even, and he said I'd be useful to this team. And you didn't even bother finding out what I could do." He squinted, then shielded his eyes to look at the black-scaled fish-man. "If you give me parchment and ink, I can make doors. They lead to places I can see. If you don't give me parchment and ink, I'll have to make the door in the soil here and you'll have to turn the cart around." "I vote... water." The voice belonged to the intellectual Porno-Bandit who'd read the letter in the first place. "I suggest watering yon wolf-beasts first." Fiji stood and brushed a few leaves off his furry behind. "Actually, I'll do that while you all get your breath back. Maybe pass out some water skin-" He stopped as he looked into the back of the cart, and then levered a greenish-tinged corpse with a leather hat on its head out of the way. "Beats me why you guys put the party-snacks on top of the water. Surely being underneath would keep them fresher?" As he talked, he pulled a leather waterskin from the cart and tossed it to one of the men on the ground. He tossed another one negligently to the fish-man, and then pulled a larger sack from underneath another corpse. It sloshed gently as he lifted it one-handed and without visible effort and walked to the front of the cart. "We have party snacks?" As if in answer, a long, drawn out moan followed by a death-rattle came from the back of the cart. "Wait. Zombies?" "Zombies are the best party-snacks," said Fiji levelly as he set the large, leather water container down. "They're carrion, but you can chase them. My people hold parties in haunted places that are full of walking carrion, and confused people usually pay us to do it." He grasped a deep wooden bowl from the back of the cart and put it down for the Wargs, before filling it from the container. Both of the Wargs stuffed their faces in the bowl and made noisy drinking sounds, clearly not caring when they got splashed. "No downsides whatsoever, especially when they're aged to perfection." Location: Forest (near Coth) First Day (afternoon) The gentle fizz of crickets gave way to a menacing hum and a ball of blue flame formed in midair over the road. It lengthened until it was a line of blue fire eight feet tall, and then widened into a mirror-like pane that was eight feet across. What the flame-edged panel showed wasn't a reflection; rather, the Warg-drawn cart exited the image without even making a ripple in the surface of of the picture. The driver, a four-armed, black-scaled fishman grimaced as he passed through the peculiar mirage, his sharp teeth making the expression disturbing and semi-threatening. Two men, one on either side of the cart, crossed next; each of them had one hand on the wooden vehicle, while the other hand held a bared short-sword. The last through the portal was a blue-furred beastman. He had a sheet of paper held between two hands and was murmuring something that could have been an incantation under his breath. His ears were flat against his head, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration, as he stepped through the flame-edged doorway. The second both of his feet were on the road, the portal moved back, away from the group and snapped shut with a faint pop. "Where are we this time?" "Looks woody. Is that a signpost? Go and have a look." "How far have we come?" "That's it for today." Fiji rumbled, as he rubbed one of his bloodshot eyes with the knuckles of his left hand. "I'm out. No more hops until tomorrow." "Eight miles from Coth!" called the bandit who'd gone to look at the signpost. "Not bad," murmured the other bandit, as he gave Fiji an appreciative look. "Thirty miles in a few hours, and I don't think we even got over a gentle stroll." "Close enough." The fish-man clambered off the cart. "Find a clearing so we can make camp. You know the drill." @Spooky Mittens @ViverFever

@jaistlyn To add a little more detail: the snowmen have makeshift capes made out of trousers (stolen from staff while everyone was sleeping) and are armed with mops and brooms. They're not animated: just ordinary snowmen.

Awesome! Thanks.

Talking of which: is it okay if I put up an exit post in that particular thread? I can't remember whether I'm still allowed to post there, or if my time's up yet.

Raffle ticket you say? Gimme!

GAH! I must have stolen and replaced the wrong raffle box. ... I should have suspected something was up when I found it in the local pub, of all places.

Epic and hilarious. Have you based a character on them at all yet?

You already know my interest, and we've already talked about the basic concept of the character I'll be using. I'll run the character sheet by you when she's ready. ...now I just have to make her. ._.

Favourite name? Lord Touch-Me. I think it's pretty self-explanatory. Other names include: Fairy Poopsie, Whirligig, and Buku-Buku Chagama. That last one apparently means 'bubbling teakettle', but I honestly prefer the almost-poetry of the untranslated name whenever the characters in Overlord say it.

@The Rabbit Emperor Like Supernal, give me a mention when Akhenaten Iwijecht takes his mech out for a spin in wider Valucre. I wanna see what happens.

Okay. Work every thread like a traditional mecha-vs-kaiju story? Check. Have a very positive (or very disturbing, depending on which Court) personality, that could change if the pilots switch? Check. Be able to inject technobabble and shout out incomprehensible moves prior to causing a lightshow, or having the mech's fists pop off, rocket down a hallway and punch someone in the gut/face/elsewhere? Check. Have scenes where the mech is being upgraded/maintained? Check. I honestly can't see any drawbacks. But the main argument for it is that you want to do it. Now punch the part of your brain that is calling the idea 'stupid' in the face, and do it. I'd watch the hell out of that show.

Location: Blairville: On The Road. Grassy cobblestones raced past Fiji's peripheral vision in a blur of green-and-brown. The scent of magic, specifically the reagents that made potions work, mixed with that of perfumes and animals in the Market square. The yells of people diving to one side or another to get out of the way of the large, blue-furred wolf who bounded through the crowd added a patina of minor slapstick to the entire affair, but was swiftly left behind as Fiji turned down another street and raced onwards. About halfway to the gate, Fiji slowed, rose up onto his feet and then tried to rub some feeling back into his fingers. All-four running was fast, no doubt about it, but it was absolute murder on the hands. He walked onwards, then took the plain leather scroll-holder out of his mouth, focused on his destination and lengthened his stride; The giant gates of Blairville loomed ever higher in front of him. Just beyond those elephantine and overly grandiose symbols of of the city, and barely visible around one of the gateposts, was a simple cart. 'the leader is a four-armed man who reeks of fish' Vert's parting words, delivered with a grimace of distaste, came back to Fiji as he looked at the cart and the various Wargs, Orcs and humans milling around it. He saw someone with four arms, right enough, but that person was more 'fish-man' than 'man'. Either the hideous little homunculus had a wonderfully hidden sense of humour and mischief, or he was far more partisan and inclusive than he realised; Fiji resolved to inform him of both options at the earliest convenience, just to see the somersaults Vert's adorably-ugly little face went through. The smile that the thought evoked lasted right up until the fish-man spoke. "You! Dog-face! What are you doing here?" The shuddering breath that the black-and-grey mottled creature took through his gills translated themselves within Fiji's mind into racist swearing that mostly involved Fiji's mother. "My mother was lovely. I assume." Fiji let his nostrils flare briefly, before he handed over the sealed, leather scroll holder. "Here. Orders from someone who told me to look out for you." The fish-man stared at the ornate wax seal intently before cracking it away from the leather and unfurling the single-sheet contents. He stared at it blankly, and then handed it off to one of the two humans with a stern bark of 'Here! Read!'. If Fiji was any judge, the man, who looked like a bandit and smelled like a bandit, would most likely have the same reading ability as a bandit. "Too... ooo Whooo. Um. Whooomeeev-" began the painful dissection. "What are you doing here?" The words, rather faster than the ones that the fishman had been speaking previously, were aimed at Fiji. He looked at the piscine, sharp-toothed face, smiled and pretended nothing was wrong. "Special assignment from Nasniv. I think you're supposed to watch me, make sure I don't do any funny-business." "...iiiit. Con. Cooonceeeer..." "Of course," Fiji continued, ignoring the way the fish-man's eyes were closing more with every word, and the way his teeth were being gradually more bared, "he implied something about wanting to torture and kill me himself if I am disloyal. So your bonus is still on the line. On the other hand, my abilities should be useful, should you want me to use them." "...thiiii- thiii- the pee- per- pers- persimmon..." The brief hiss from the fish-man sounded like a kettle at full-boil and the bizarre fin-like appendages on either side of his face fanned forward. "Fine. Go. Load the cart." The fish-man waved one hand dismissively in Fiji's direction. "Try not to fall over and impale yourself on one of my spears, language-lover." "iiis. Is. Reeee-" "And you can stop that too," added the fish-man, snatching the scroll from the bandit. "Give that back!" Rather than watch the inevitable argument and posturing, Fiji looked around at the motley group. Two Wargs, intelligent, black-furred quadrupeds who resembled large wolves, stared at him intently and ignored the human who was tightening the leather harness on one of them. A skeleton, dressed in sparse, rusted armour, grinned at him from the other side of the cart. Its twin, this one wearing a leather hat but very little else, stood up from where it had been crouched next to the vehicle and stared back at Fiji. The delectable scent of carrion wafted over when the breeze suddenly shifted direction, and the nearby figure that Fiji had assumed was human turned. For a moment, just a moment, the beastman had to hold himself back from leaping at the leather-clad warrior whose face had clearly been gnawed half-off. It was difficult, very difficult, but breakfast had been only ten minutes ago; there was sure to be other things to chase and eat along the way, although it was unlikely that any of them would be as fun to subdue and crack open as a zombie. Two zombies. There was another one standing a little way up the road from the cart, or Fiji's nose was a damned liar. In order to distract himself from potentially eating valuable assets, Fiji looked at the crate that the intellectual bandit had returned to loading onto the cart. He stared for a moment at the mismatched collection of weapons then sighed, wandered over, grasped the crate with both hands and picked the entire thing up. He noted the disbelieving look from the bandit as he simply slid the entire crate onto the back of the cart, then stepped back and dusted his hands off. "What?" he said, innocently. "Bet you won't be able to pull it back off there when we stop," said the bandit, confidently, the scar on his mouth crinkling as he grinned. "Really?" Fiji flicked his ears down. "Want to bet your left forearm?" "Fuck off!" A few minutes later, Wargs tethered to the cart and pulling for all they were worth, they set off. More or less. @Spooky Mittens @ViverFever