Die Shize

Sounds like a plan. Yeah Khrol is a walking flame lol I’ll plan on having Veron secure the hall in my next post. That’s as much my ideal scenario as it is Veron’s but honestly if Khrol beats him to it and decides to light it up then to me that’s just another avenue for some hearty storytelling! There are always other settlements and other slaves...

I mentioned previously that Kinsmeet has around 600 villagers (excluding the 200 Brave Spears). With Rabbit's ingenious idea to hoard many from the market square into the village hall where they will be "safe" we can figure that number to be within hundreds given the purposed size of the building and the number of villagers in the market square. As the armored wagon and the goblin warg riders go about attacking any village watchmen, and generally murdering anyone in their way, the Skaven can always take those corpses for food. Not everyone in the hall needs to be kept alive but when it comes to slaves then the hall is probably our best bet. So a question for Jot is what would be an overall good number of villagers to keep alive for slaves? What would Khrol figure and what would he approve? Food is still primary but slaves are a good secondary bounty.

OOC Music Vadrian smiled in agreement with his opponent’s words. Truly, only the best man would win this match, but besting one’s opponent didn’t necessarily make the victor the best. Vadrian was one warrior who had learned on the battlefield time and again that a missed meal or too heavy of one could cause even the greatest fighter to lose his life. As much as a stray arrow or sticky flame. Granting himself some calm before the storm, a breath before the plunge, he gazed up at a draping banner. On it was a figure in armor, what would be a knight, his gauntlets gripping the hilt of a sword with a red gem in the center of the crossguard. Like the sigil of the Order of the Force Majeure, the emblem of the Feast of Blades was adorned in gold and silver. What looked like a small sun sat atop the knight’s helm above the black space in his visor. Am I gazing into my own soul? What are you trying to tell me, sun above? What revelation do you seek to dawn on Vadrian Dawnwood? Perhaps that he was a lord no longer. That the seigneur who should by all rights and roles and responsibilities be sitting the noble chair of Dawnwatch was soon to reclaim his position. Vadrian would give it to him. That the head of House Dawnwood was coming home. Vadrian would let him. He had not chosen the chair. It was not yet his time. It had been forced upon him by the man who had taught him all about it. Where are you now, Fendrin Dawnwood? Where did you run off to? Where are you hiding? Where are you, Father? Taking a deep breath, Vadrian’s doubts escaped through his nostrils. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw his opponent. Dauner Light was younger, shorter and thinner, attributes that, isolated or grouped, did nothing to guarantee a win or a loss. He had no armor, which might prove to be a mistake, but the fact that this boy was lighter in body alone was not one that the Blade of the Dawn would overlook. And now it is time to do more than look. Vadrian gripped his halberd in both hands as he paced forward. His right hand held the weapon around its midsection, a little beneath the plated upper portion, while his left hand held the haft closer toward its base. The halberd was six feet in overall length. The axhead was about a foot long. The top spike was almost two feet. From where Vadrian held the polearm with his right hand, there was about four feet of free length above it. A detail that was key for what he was about to do. Pacing toward Dauner’s front until he reached about eight feet from his foe, Vadrian sprang into motion. His right leg carried forward, right foot stepping about three feet in front of his left, a position that would angle his right side closer toward Dauner’s front. This would also bend Vadrian’s right knee. Concurrently, he swung his halberd in both hands horizontally from his right to left. With his right arm extended, the arm’s reach of two feet would combine with the reach of his halberd so that it would strike Dauner even from the rough distance of ten feet between both combatants. Dauner, meanwhile, had no such luxury of range with his shorter weapons. He would have to get in closer in order to perform his own attack. The blade of the halberd’s axe was swung to connect with Dauner’s left side, at the unarmored elbow section of his left arm if it was leveled and into his torso either way. If Dauner stepped to his left then he could simply be stepping into the blow. If he stepped to his right then the blade could continue swinging into him via the same direction. If he stepped backward then the halberd’s top spike, two feet in length, could connect with him instead. If he stepped forward then the haft’s plated section behind the halberd’s blades could hit him. If he ducked then the axe could take his head off. If he jumped then the axe could take his legs. Dauner could use one or both swords to try to block or parry the axe but it would cost him a deal of strength, especially to parry. The halberd was no particularly heavy weapon, and Vadrian’s two-handed swing was not particularly powerful, but both were enough combined that the weapon might push past one sword or both if Dauner’s block was not strong enough.

OOC Music The Black Captain Two hundred mercenaries had once come to Kinsmeet to protect, police and preserve it. Exactly when they had come, none among the Skarr force or that of the Lost Scions could care to query. Today, however, is when they would fall—in one way or the other. Brave Spears, they called themselves. Bravery is exactly what all of them needed if they were to be thrown upon their spears. Veron had not been particularly anxious to give them that end. They were sellswords and sellswords sold their swords into service. They were soldiers and soldiers fought. Troops were what the Skaven of Nesthome could have used. A fodder force, a cleanup crew, a foraging party; a tool to continue the campaign both in Kinsmeet and beyond. They were not many and they did not need to be. If Skarr was to take slaves then why not let those slaves be soldiers? Veron might have probed Khrol’s mind with one eye ogling into two with such a question as the Seer smiled wickedly at his guest captain. All in all, if Skysplitter didn’t want the sour bunch of grapes then Veron had been ready to take the Brave Spears under his personal responsibility. That was the point of it. Khrol, however, had other intentions, and his decision did not go overlooked. Still, that was well and good. The choice was his. Ultimately, the Black Captain had been ready to crush the enemy since setting forth for conquest, by keeping them as an enemy or making them a friend. Their souls are ours to serve or to slay. Veron let a raised brow serve as a response to the Grey Seer’s grin, more curious than concerned as Khrol unleashed a volley of murder. Two hundred would have been a good number but even fifty would be fine. Veron had closed his estimation around less that figure for those who fell from the axes and the arrows and the bolts that flew. However, it was known that these Brave Spears were less about range and more about melee. To that end, they were proven practitioners of the shield, so that as the surge of battle waved over them they had responded in kind. They kept their loose formation to minimize the number of projectiles that would find success, and they raised their round shields of wood and leather and steel to the hail that rained upon them. Helmets were grazed, pauldrons were scraped, and overall the circumstances had created only a relative handful of corpses by courtesy of probability. The Brave Spears’ front line had taken the brunt of the assault to in turn impede the back ranks, the mass of spears and shields still advancing toward the Skarr in some desperation to reach their foe before the cavalry could reach the sellswords from behind. Meanwhile, once the first barrage had come and gone like the early gust of a storm, the Brave Spears had acted in the best way they knew how to in the distance between their spears and their enemy. Few in number were their archers and that meant that sure in surprise they had been. They came to life at the backmost ranks to release fingers from bowstrings. Arrows soared over the heads of their comrades to exchange greetings with the advancing Skaven. At once, the magic-users sprang into motion. A handful of battlemages armed with spear-staves pointed their orbs forward to send a sudden gust of wind rushing toward the Skaven just as they charged, enough to push them back even for a moment, potentially returning the favor of toppling into each other. The spellswords amongst the sellswords enveloped their spears in flame or ice or lightning. Such combined efforts had led to a stalwart defense for the Brave Spears. This had not surprised Veron in the slightest. He had factored these elements into his strategy and had concluded that, just as reality was proving, the odds were yet still stacked against Kinsmeet’s defenders. Khrol’s Plague Fire burned death that wrapped itself around the fields like a rotting cocoon. Horses that had taken the Brave Spears into Kinsmeet for the very first time were now burning in the stables within the village that screamed defeat behind them, which meant that their enemy had more numbers. Surprise riders came charging toward the mercenaries’ backs with the clear intention of pushing them into the ranks of the invading force before them, and a great orc led them. For a sellsword, these were not favorable circumstances. Veron watched it all unfold from the comfort of his saddle. Any moment now. Any moment. The Brave Spears of Kinsmeet, fearless bastions just before, were seizing the seconds to realize that their game was up, and one by one they began to break. Not so brave after all. There in the fray was what half of Veron’s eye had been focusing on the whole time: a rider with a golden helmet and an orange beard, brandishing a spear and shield and galloping about his troops to whip them onward and regroup, regroup, regroup! He was not spared their folly. When some men broke on any battlefield, they fled. When others broke, when they were forced into a corner like a terrified animal, their courage became like a rock surrounded by a violent sea. With nowhere to go they let their despair become their defense. The Captain of the Brave Spears was a rock. If a broken one. Veron smiled at the commander’s terms. As placated as the Grey Seer had become, annihilation apparently had room for exception. ”You can reason with sellswords through coin or carnage,” Veron declared to Khrol while watching the battlefield. “Your carnage will buy me less, but I suppose at a discount. For that I should thank you, Skysplitter.” Slipping gloves on, his gaze locked with the golden helmet turned his way. “Now, with your mercy, I shall buy their surrender and their souls, and before we leave these lands not one Brave Spear still living will not have bled.” With that, Veron gripped his reins and walked his horse forward into a canter. On his way, he gripped the haft of his glaive in one hand and in the other a banner of the Lost Scions. The latter he hurled through the air like a spear. It landed before the hooves of the Brave Spears’ leader, stopping horse and rider on the spot. When the captain looked up from the banner he saw another captain staring at him from the other side, waving. Veron watched his rival spit into the wind, cradle his spear, and charge. The mighty warhorse thundered across the field with a purple cloak trailing behind, the wiry tendrils of a thick orange beard curling in the wind. Now. Veron braced his glaive against himself, pointing its blade forward like his opponent's, fingers curling into the reins and pressing against the haft. His free hand did the same as his courser charged forward. The two captains were bound for one another. “BASTARD!” The Captain of the Brave Spears cried across the field. Moments later and the two mercenaries met one another in arms, their horses almost touching as they galloped past each other. The Brave Spear captain braced his shield against his body while his spear angled toward Veron. Jerking his free hand off the reins, Veron quickly found the hilt of his scimitar and swung it from its scabbard. The blade knocked the spear aside before it could reach him. Meanwhile, Veron angled his glaive in like manner, but its blade was brushed aside by his opponent’s shield. Neither warrior’s weapon had struck true in the fractioned seconds that ensued, but that was well and good. Veron had a third weapon that his opponent had overlooked. Just as the horses passed each other, the Shkei’s barbed tail whipped from beneath his red cloak. A cruel blade tore across the belly of the Brave Spear’s war horse, dragging to its hind legs to cut across the knees. The beast shrieked in agony as it lurched and staggered, taking itself and its rider to the ground in a moment. Veron veered his own horse around, Blade not even whinnying at the sudden chaos while its master watched his work. OOC Music The Captain of the Brave Spears had fallen from his horse which lay bleeding out, its body draped over its rider, pinning him to the earth. Veron afforded himself a moment to look upon the battle just behind him. His enemy’s troops were giving up; some had even paused to play audience to their master’s duel. Veron smiled from his saddle and walked his horse toward his fallen foe. “Bastard, my mother called me before she ate her tongue.” The Black Captain dismounted his steed and stood looming over the Brave Spear for as long as it took to kneel. Baring his teeth, Veron pinched the man’s tongue by the tip. The defeated foe gagged as his muscle was pulled out between his teeth. “But I say BLACKTEAR!” At that name, Veron punched his fist up into his enemy’s jaw. The tongue broke off between teeth and the hand that snatched it. Then Veron silenced the bloodied gurgles of the Captain of the Brave Spears with a dagger across his throat. Rising in victory, he turned to behold the outcome of the battle. Under one hundred Brave Spears were still standing. Seventy. Ninety. Eighty. The number would be better ascertained as their betters began to separate them into a group of submission. Those who had seen their captain fall had pleaded for what comrades hadn’t already yielded to hurry up and do so. Veron sized up the losers as he paced before them, counting on Khrol to honor his own decision to preserve alive those who had forfeited this game of swords. Slayer and his handful of hobgoblins remained mounted on yak and horses, forming a circle around the Brave Spears’ backs. The Skarr force would do well to brace the front, driving the message home that one party had won here and the other had lost. As the Black Captain stood in front of his prize, some of the faces turned to his own. There were unsure murmurings amid the dying gasps and moans of creatures all around. Khrol might have decided to silence the dying or eat them living or do with them as he pleased, friend or foe. “Brave Spears!” Veron held up his trophy that was claimed from their captain’s mouth. “You heeded your master’s tongue. Now heed mine. Surrender and serve your new master, or be slain where you stand. The choice is yours.” They stirred and they shared looks, and in the end they nodded heads like good little sellswords. An older one lifted his helmet to show white hair. “We yield to those who have bested us. We shall lay down our weapons...and hope that you do not pick up your own to us.” “Good choice.” Veron smiled. A choice that one seer might have pushed for from the beginning. But I shall take what he does not want, for now or forever. “Keep your weapons. You will need them. Now, tell me. What is the name of your captain?” “Alyn Marmot,” the old man affirmed. “Wrong. Veron Blacktear.” Veron felt his eyes sting as they widened. "Here!” He tossed the bloody tongue toward the Brave Spears’ new lieutenant if ever he was not. “A taste of things to come.” All said and done, the Black Captain called Blade to him and mounted his horse. He looked from face to face, Brave Spear to Lost Scion to Skarr, to the virgin blood of Kinsmeet, and back upon his quarry. He sought Khrol's gaze, looking for hesitation, listening for question, and quite ready to move on with his own assault team if the need arose. “Come with me and take this village!” Veron Blacktear roared. He couldn't prove it but he was sure that the scorched skies above him had heard his call. OOC Music The Lord of Kinsmeet Fire and rock. Boulders of flame and tentacles of stone. Everything was in chaos. The whole village was one mass of mayhem. Agents of death skulked the streets beside the forces of destruction that tore them apart. Snarling wolves with riders that bit just like them prowled amid an iron behemoth on four wheels. It was all too much. Too much. Iggo Richmond hadn't a clue where to begin, where to start, where to dive in and stop and fix and defend and assess. Who to save, how to reassure, with whom to plead for mercy and from where to seek aid. This cannot be happening. Not this. Not now. This cannot be happening. His fingers hurt. He caught them between his teeth where he was supposed to be gnawing fingernails. Without to do he held the railing of his balcony and scanned the horrors of his Kinsmeet. One of them had taken to the sky. A drake and two figures who rode it. Iggo's eyes threatened to bulge from their sockets as he observed in terror. Where were the monsters heading? This cannot be happening. He had not the time or freedom to find out. While the winged beast took to the air, the armored wagon had taken to the northern road, and the wolves disappeared into narrow streets or toward the west, two other figures had returned to the market square. The riders and their mounts took position by the fountain, idling and observing the slaughter. The yellow rider upon the camel took a wineskin from his saddle and tipped it down his throat. He offered it to the one beside him, a creature of darker skin on a panther, who shook his head in response. Though it wasn't these two who had stolen Iggo's attention. It was the third figure who had erupted from beneath his very balcony. The doors of the hall house had burst open. A woman came running out, toward the two riders. Her hair was long and cherry blonde, her garments were silky white, her skin as warm as the heat from a fireplace. Iggo had fallen asleep and woken beside it every night and day. Maria? This cannot be happening. What on earth was she doing? Maria! He tried to call down from the balcony that was no feat of height from the ground. She would have heard him amid the fires and screams, but her name would venture no further than his mind. “STOP THIS MADNESS!” Maria Richmond pleaded. The two riders turned their heads to receive their visitor. The one in yellow guffawed in an uncanny way that made Iggo’s stomach turn. “Madness!?” He walked his camel toward her, the blade of his spear toward the ground. “Madness is the name of the GAME!” In one fell swoop, his blade took her head off at the neck and blood pumped from the wound. As her body crumpled to the cobblestones, her name exploded from Iggo’s throat like lava from a volcano. "MARIA!" He saw her headless body. He saw the yellow rider wave up at the balcony. Then he saw his wife at the back of his eyes. This cannot be happening.

Nah. Both the Star Wars comics and novels have always been those things that I've always wanted to dig into but never made the time for...

All good. You are playing Khrol exactly as I understand Khrol. I was actually anticipating him to attack haha. Veron wants more minions. Khrol wants to eat them! And now we are seeing clearer that Veron is not as ‘Skaven’ as his tail might seem... This is what I enjoy about getting into character and keeping the story integral. What Veron wants trumps what I want, and what Khrol does to disrupt Veron’s plans—that I of course created for Veron—is as fun as it is loyal to the character. Really it’s all about the roleplay for me. I only pick at things that might cause particular narrative conflict, like firing the trebuchet with Veron’s mooks under its fire lol

Yaaay the Die vs Dauner fight shall officially commence tonight!

Excellent. Just wanted to be prepared for the possible. Unfortunate reality is that people bail from threads or the site altogether without any notice. I’m sure I’ve been guilty of that before. Hopefully everyone posts in a timely manner and as often as they might in a regular roleplay!

Well what is a “month” in our case? My thread started around mid-September. Are we averaging it as 31 days?

@Fierach My thread has only just begun so this question is in general— What is the time limit for someone to post, if there is one? Or is there not a time limit except when one “month” is over? So like if I post an attack and my opponent doesn’t reply after three days then it’s an auto-hit, as a bare example of what I mean by ‘time limit’. Or they don’t reply after a month...

@Dauner Light So I usually handle fights where the second person who posts makes the first 'action'. In a melee fight (as in no magic/special abilities), which doesn't necessarily but does usually disregard the presence of 'preps', the first action is typically the first attack. However, if you don't want to attack first, I am quite content with doing that in my next post. As long as we get the ball rolling as soon as possible!

@Dauner Light Vadrian Dawnwood's Gear OOC Music The Blade of the Dawn Vadrian's long black hair had been gathered into a bun to keep it out of the way. Standing at 6'2" and sporting 200 lbs of muscled mass, he gazed ahead at his opponent who stood at the other end of the arena, a contestant introduced as Dauner Light. Vadrian enjoyed his own introduction without much ceremony, keeping things short and simple. It was no mystery that an Orisian of all foreigners had elected to enter the Feast of Blades and its Trueblade. Here stood the Regent of the Northeast of Orisia, the Earl of Tryhold, the Provost of Damorton, the Lord of Dawnwatch, the Seigneur of House Dawnwood, the Grand Master of the Order of the Dawn. The Lord of the Dawn and the Captain of the Dawnmen. The Protector of the Hold and the Defender of the Trinity. The Word of Dawn and the Iron Wolf. Formalities that, for all their garnished and garnered number, would mean little and less to most people within Predator's Keep and Terrenus at large. Vadrian had yet reassuringly settled for having his introduction announced simply as "Lord Vadrian Dawnwood, the Blade of the Dawn". His identity was indeed no secret, and certainly a small thing on so grand a continent, but he would leave to others to ascertain his status and position within the island he hailed from without going out of his way to tell them with a hundred titles. The Blade of the Dawn is what he was as the wielder of Daybreak, the ancestral sword of the Order of the Dawn. Other noble houses, both within Orisia and without, tended to have their ancestral weapons passed down from lord to heir. Daybreak, on the other hand, was given only to the most worthy of Dawn Knights. The Order's Savant had named Vadrian thus, even before he had taken up the chair of Dawnwatch in the absence of his father. However, the longsword was for now sheathed in its scabbard by his left hip, leaving only the hilt protruding. At his right hip was sheathed a dagger. The only weapon that wasn't was one far too big for any scabbard. Gripped in the gauntlet of his right hand was a halberd, the base planted upon the arena while the spike pointed upward. Vadrian flexed his fingers around the upper haft, the wood here being covered in a sheet of steel as it led up to two spikes and an axhead. His left hand held nothing as he let the arm hang at his side. Draped over armor was an orange surcoat. The sigil of House Dawnwood was centered at the chest. It depicted an orange wolf's head before a golden tree, a grey castle behind. The wolf's eye was gold and grey. It looked out beneath a pair of amber eyes from a living face, ones that watched the opponent. "May you fight well today," Vadrian called across the arena, dipping his head in as much greeting as salute. "May both of us."

IC Music The Blade of the Dawn Roaring fires, malt beer and red meat off the bone. Inside the great hall of the Komturie was spread a bounty of food and drink, warmth and shelter, music and conversation, and the hosts and guests to partake in every revelry. Local and foreign dishes were sampled at will, wine was poured by the jug and goblets and glasses clinked as forks and knives clattered against plates. As the festivities ensued, with strangers getting acquainted with one another and with what they put inside their bellies, a group of four individuals sat watching them from a round table near a corner of the hall. These ones had known each other for years. “It is hard not to admire the might of this place and its people,” came a gravelly voice. The speaker cut his steak with aging hands that did little to hide the might of their making. Ser Benjamin Oakheart, Master-at-arms for the Order of the Dawn, was in his sixties. Those who knew him, however, knew that such age only meant that he could kill six men a minute every six minutes. “Then don’t make it hard, Oakheart,” spoke Ser Matthew the Merry, his words carried as casually and boyishly as his shrug. He tipped wine down his throat and smacked his lips, his long, ginger hair brushed back before a female looking at him from an adjacent table. “Nothing wrong with appreciating a great thing. This Keep has it. The curve of its glass, the figure of its steel, the forest beneath its bosom like the hair beneath a wo—” “Great this Predator’s Keep may be.” It was a third voice who had cut the Cinnamon Knight off, deadpan and bereft of amusement. “Mighty this Order of Force Majeure may be. Great and mighty this Terrenus may be.” Ser Victor Maylong stopped turning his mug upon the tabletop and lifted it to gulp back ale. He set it back down with a thud. “But none so greater or mightier than one Orisian for every one thousand Terrans.” Those words had evoked a passage of silence until the table gave way to chuckles. Victor didn’t need tone in his voice to offer humor. Yet, as the men laughed, all of them knew that this was no joke, and that even the truth could be amusing. “Almost makes me want to offer my sword to this tournament in place of our lord.” Oakheart followed up while chewing on steak. “I don’t know what it is but these Terrans can rub me the wrong way, size and splendor aside. I do wonder how well they fight. I’d just as much watch you in the ring with them, Victor.” The Knight Commander returned to absentmindedly turning his mug, staring into its depths. “Maybe one day.” He cleared his throat and looked up. “But the day on the morrow belongs to none of us, and rather to our Blade of the Dawn.” At that moment, three pairs of eyes were looking one way—toward a fourth that was instead held with a figure who had just walked up to the charismatic Master Knight James Eredas, the host of hosts for both this feast of bellies and the Feast of Blades. The armored figure had greeted him where he sat toward the other end of the hall. The individual was just as much helmeted, which seemed unusual enough, and their heraldry offered no familiarity to their observer, though that was unsurprising since he was himself a foreigner within strange lands. “I could always take your place, Lord Vadrian,” Matthew suggested with a smile. “Though I guess that I wouldn’t quite be a direct representative of either the House of Dawnwood or the Order of the Dawn…” Amber eyes shifted from the soul covered in metal and mystery to the rest of the hall, dancing across dancing flames and dancing figures, musicians and singers, the feast tables and the dining tables, the other guests and participants and the servants who served them, and finally Vadrian Dawnwood’s gaze landed on a banner that hung from the ceiling; the sigil of the Order of the Force Majeure. It showed an ornate blue shield rimmed in gold and silver. What looked like an emerald was centered at the top, a smaller one at the bottom upon a lion's head. On the shield's face were three suns of yellow and black and white, with an eye in the middle. The longer that Vadrian's eyes went without blinking, the more that the lidless eye seemed to stare right into and through him. “Is it coincidence, I wonder?” Lord Vadrian Dawnwood mused. “Is what coincidence, my lord?” Ser Benjamin Oakheart asked for all three men. “That the dawn is under my command in the land we hail from,” Vadrian blinked. “And yet here I am in another land inside the hall named for someone else who makes that very same claim.” The truth is amusing, Vadrian smiled. He looked at the faces of the men whom he had long since learned to call his friends. “Perhaps tomorrow I will find out if fate has led us here after all. Come the morning, when the blades of the sun pierce this Keep that stabs the sky, you and they shall both see the Blade of the Dawn.”

Ahh, no I had read "participants are allowed to wear no armor" as in "participants cannot wear armor" instead of "participants don't have to wear armor" lol

"Participants were allowed to wear no armor" Is that an oversight?