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Jotnotes

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Jotnotes last won the day on August 12

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    Jot Notes #6666

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  1. Great post, fam! Could you post it in the other thread, though? 😮
  2. Priscilla, embarassingly, was out of breath before she rejoined the party. In her defense it was a long run. She needed to leap down from the roof, dash on over here, about....not very many feet....and even then the fighting was really close to the mouth of the cave, so it totally was too far for her to sprint without getting winded. She got into range of the fight, but paused, winded and helplessly panting, watching the chaos unfold. As she traveled their way, Torie had gotten herself stuck in a rough tumble with another one of the Salamanders. Shank was still being tended to, and was moving to act, himself. Once she paused to catch her breath, he leapt into action, hurling a series of....oh! She gasped, which kind of sucked because she hadn't caught her breath yet and so it sort of hurt, but she ignored it. He had smoke bombs! She watched, almost entranced as he hurled a series of black beads at the Salamander still standing. He dashed through the smoke clouds and before too long emerged on the other side. Were Priscilla not so entranced by the sight, she might have missed the splatter of blood that struck the walls nearby as a blade sliced across something. She huffed and puffed, and stood up, blood pounding in her ears. She still gripped her knife tightly as she watched, looking to see what he could do. Aaric immediately moved into combat with the Salamander attempting to strangle Torie, and did so zealously. It swayed away as he went for a slash with his weapon, and went to bite at his wrist, breaking her concentration as Aaric suddenly roared in pain. Soon after, however, he quickly shot it in the head with...whatever, and it flopped down, dead. Aaric's smoke bombs had vanished by now, and Priscilla could see that Salamander she'd shot at still standing. She was impressed, really; either she was a lousy shot (she wasn't) or these guys were tough as nails! She was still out of breath, but the Salamander had some distance to close. She figured getting close enough to stab it with her knife would be foolish, given that it had a spear. So on a lark, she decided to hurl her knife at it. The blade slipped through her fingers as she flicked her wrist forward, and the knife sailed true, into the Salamander's long, easy to strike neck. The creature hissed unexpectedly, and collapsed, thrashing as it tried to clear the blood from its throat, and then its lungs. Eventually, it gave a last, desperate death rattle, and stopped moving. Priscilla gave a whoop of victory and clapped her hands where she was, still a bit red in the face! "Hell yeah! I almost never throw knives that well!" She declared. Her companions were all in various states of bloodied and bruised, with a few possibly dying. So she stopped celebrating as loudly, and instead wandered on over to help. Along the way, she yanked her knife out of the monster's neck, and wiped it off on her fingers, which she dried in the dirt. "Great work, guys! We killed all...like, six of these guys, I guess?" She glanced back towards the tunnel, suddenly aware. "How many do you suppose are inside?" She inquired.
  3. Congrats, m'dude! Holy heck!
  4. The city of Kinsmeet was all but destroyed. Khrol and Skarr Clan had seen to that, with heaps of help from Veron and his Scions. Homes were smashed into by blood-tempered clanrats, vying for their own trinkets and meat to drag home. Here and there, several Skaven had caved to their hunger, and abandoned combat altogether in order to gorge themselves on whatever they could fine. The streets reeked of smoke and spilled wine, and blood. The Seer watched as his wagons piled high with loot, regardless. Each trip from the houses yielded more and more valuables, as well as a smattering of less useful things. Iron and bronze locks were bashed out of doorways and off cupboards. Shards of glass, bagged in burlap. Undamaged planks of wood and farming tools and strips of cloth amassed in sturdy, man-made vessels. The meat wagons piled high, and not long after had a tarp thrown over them. These were the first to be hauled from the city, under official instructions to send it all home quickly. Ideally, the meat would make its way back to Nesthome before daybreak. It would feed the rats, at the very least. Other wagons also grew overladen with loot, and the Seer strolled by his own personal vehicle to investigate. The books within were slick with blood and grime, from filthy paws clutching them and carrying them away, but they did little to stymie the striking colors and craftsmanship of each take. He reached in, ears twitching, and pulled forth a slim, leatherbound piece, with a tiny lock, which he broke easily. He flipped it open, and peered through the pages curiously. Alas, for all his vocabulary, the Skaven could not read the markings within. No matter; there were plenty of words here, for him to ingest. He'd learn, one way or another. He returned the book to the cart, and walked past the rest of them. THey were beginning to run out of means of carrying supplies, he found as he counted the carts they'd pilfered. The rats, as desperate as they were, might have bitten off more than they could chew; a few trips might be necessary for some of the carts. He followed the road downward, and eventually came across a few familiar figures encircling an unfamiliar building. Veron, among others, appeared to be waiting for something, but turned to see him as he approached. "There is no place for cowards or traitors in my ranks." He replied plainly, if a bit coldly. Veron gave him a little grin at that, but moved on. He turned to regard the building, now. The prospect of taking slaves wasn't something the Seer had anticipated, in truth. He understood the concept, but the Skarr clan hadn't had slaves since as far back as he could recall. He wasn't that old, mind, but the Skaven were all on equal standings (save for him and the other Seers, put above the rest by virtue of birth). Similarly, the humans, loud and confusing as they were in Tradetown, were just as free-willed. He stared hard at the wall before them, in conflict with his own mindset. If there were people within, Man-things or otherwise, then they had not fought and died for their belongings. These people were cowards, and deserved to be crushed beneath the Skaven's feet. However, Veron hadn't made that point on a lark; these were unarmed man-things, after all. It wouldn't be sporting, or exciting, to slay them outright. They'd be fine meat, if he so chose, as well. Around that point, one of the raiders arrived. The masked figure they had encountered in town, as well as his newfound shadow, that Gutter-Rat he'd met earlier. She was adorned in plenty of shiny things, jewelry and baubles and rings. They stood in stark contrast against her otherwise dark clothing, to his great amusement. The Seer raised a hand. "Hold." He replied simply. He took another precious minute to investigate the building. How many people were inside? How much meat was that worth? What valuables awaited them within? The Seer had a cruel, cavernous hunger to be seen not as a simple Seer, but to be upstanding in his position. If there was enough meat in the building, he could return home a hero of the Skaven people. However, Veron's talk of slaves, owning people and keeping them for oneself, was an alien concept to him. He held no great dominion over a person's ability to live. More still, they didn't have the food to look after another hundred man-things. "I don't know what to expect within," He said slowly. "But I know that Skarr cannot return home with more things to feed." He looked to Veron, and Vito, and whomever else was assembled. "Go, and see if anything of value stands to be claimed. If you must, take those you need from the huddled masses. Then turn the rest out; we'll use them to spread word of Skaven deeds, and little else."
  5. Post up sometime today. Sorry for the delay friends.
  6. From the rooftop, Priscilla's vantage point afforded her a good view of the fleeing kobold. It sprinted well past the mine's entrance, and further and further from the battlefront like the devil themself was chasing after it. Priscilla watched, disbelieving, as it dashed further and further away, and before she could decide to shoot it down for deserting them it was gone. In the time it'd taken her to watch this unfold, the kobolds had all fled the mine, and were standing to fight. Priscilla glanced back and flinched, looking just in time to watch Torie bite into one of the strange lizards--the salamanders--and have a spear plunged into her flank. She raised her crossbow, but Aaric stepped in to take action, coming to Torie's assistance. He seemed to be competent enough in melee to keep her safe, which gave her a window to look elsewhere. The kobolds had hurled stones at the salamanders at first, getting their attention, but now that they were in melee, they'd resorted to their weapons again. Shank, notably, was the closest to the fight at all times, and she couldn't help but find his demeanour encouraging. He was very clearly putting himself at risk, but for who? 'Trashkill?' His friends? His honor? She couldn't guess. Regardless, the runesmith lined up a shot, using the ornate crossbow's sights to good effect. At this range, it was no contest; she lined 'em up, and pulled the trigger. The weapon jolted in her hand, and the bolt sailed true, sinking between one of the salamander's ribs. The monster hissed in pain, and Shank saw an opportunity. He leapt forward with a shout, and jabbed his weapon deep into its soft underbelly. He pulled it out, and plunged it in again, and again, and again, before pulling away again. It was certainly hurt, but it remained standing, and one of the other salamanders swung a spear in his direction. Priscilla watched, totally detached from the violence, as the spear slashed across Shank's face. He reeled back, away from the blow and clutching his eyes, and his companions circled around him. Many of them didn't have their weapons up at all, but a few up front continued to brandish their blades in the direction of their foes. They were brave, certainly, but those spears would prove deadly, Priscilla decided. She took aim again, sighting up one of the salamanders bearing down on the kobolds. Its spear was at the ready; the quivering kobold would stand no chance of striking first. However, movement to her side caught her attention, and she shifted. Aaric had stumbled and fallen, and Torie was recovering from a serious blow still. A salamander towered over him, weapon at the ready. She hesitated. She couldn't shoot both of them, could she? The salamander made a move to strike Aaric, and she took the shot, on reflex. The weapon pointed at it, the trigger collapsed, and the bolt surged forward. It struck the animal just below the jugular, critically wounding it, the shock of the impact toppling it over. Not wanting to break her stride, she fired again, shifting her weight as she sent it out, just in time to watch the salamander stab at the kobold. Priscilla watched, as the bolt sailed through the air pathetically late, and the spear surged forward. Damn it. Then, she watched as Shank shoved his companions out of the way. Almost as if in slow-motion, he grabbed the other 'bold by the shoulder and tugged them back. An ugly, bloody gash across his face from being struck once was coupled, then, with another, more grevious wound just above the hip, as the spear sank in deep. She could hear Shank scream as the blow likely grazed against bone before sinking in deep. Then, things seemed to return to normal, as Shank took his shank, and jabbed it into the salamander's arm, causing it to jerk back. Behind him, several other kobolds pulled on his tail, yanking him away from the salamander, and taking the spear with him. Shank stumbled over and fell on his back, staring up at the sky. His companions gathered around him, suddenly forgetting there was a fight. Priscilla hadn't forgotten, yet, and emboldened by Shank's display, decided to rejoin the fray. She stood up on the rooftop, to make a better shot. She took it, and the bolt slammed into the offending salamander again. She reloaded, and fired again. And again, firing at anything she could aim at. Her aim was good, mostly. She missed maybe twice, she counted. But the fight wasn't over by a long shot. She slung the weapon over her shoulder, and climbed down from the roof, eager to get into melee. But she wasn't too eager to get into melee to ignore proper safety, and took her time getting back down from the roof. Once on the ground, she brushed herself off, huffed, clearly satisfied. Then she pulled her combat knife and rushed towards the fight.
  7. The tension in her reply was palpable; M'yr could feel her unease, like the pallid skin of his own frail failings. He was just as easy to read, of course; the worry that washed over his features afterward was plain to see. The buzzing in his brain, and the distant fog of inebriation seemed irrelevant, compared to the creeping dread he felt. Slake was his rock, after all; what could possibly perturb the thing he continued to cling to for comfort? She reached out and pinched his cheek. Both of them appeared a bit relaxed, by the breaking of whatever spell had fallen over them. M'yr exhaled, and gave a soft sound. A guffaw, maybe? A laugh, definitely. She coughed, and flashed him another grin. It felt false, somehow, but he knew it wasn't. "I.....yeah." He didn't find the words to say before she stood up and stepped away from the bar. Her words stung; bitter truth cut deeper than any lie. He didn't let it show; couldn't, let it, show. He reached for his mask, and slid it back into place. It blacked out the rest of the world, except for right where he needed to see. With the world blocked out, there was nothing for them to see, and nothing for him to see anymore, either. He checked his bindings again; his arms seemed fine. Muscular, in fact, with body hair he wasn't used to. The arms of a swarthy sailor at sea, except they vanished soon after, replaced with his thin, pale limbs. His hands were clenched tight, enough so to leave marks in his palms. He uncurled his hands as Slake bade her goodbyes. The sluggish bartender shrugged, and said "It's fine; this isn't actually a bar." M'yr looked on as Slake walked away, sashaying some as she did. Her helmet was on once more, and he already missed her face. He wasn't sure just why; was it her natural beauty, or was it M'yr's misery clinging to a known painkiller? He was pretty sure he knew the answer. Around them, the swirling bar faded easily, and before long, they were standing alone in a cold, dank cave. Far from any mountains or tunnels to speak of, the cave was dark and cold and abandoned. The way out was still a comfortable, fashionable glass and oak door. The busy street beyond was slick with rain and bustling, and otherwise ordinary. And with that, Slake was gone, leaving M'yr to wrestle with himself again. Just as soon as she'd left, things stabilized once more, and he turned back to see the 'bartender.' He was still there, of course, his slug-like face still squirming and writhing as it pleased. He wiped the counter down casually, their glasses already gone. M'yr stared in silence, before, just out of curiosity, elected to ask. "So what did you see?" He gestured at the restaurant. The bartender chuckled softly. "Prison cell filling with sea water." "Oh."
  8. Post is up. I've refrained from writing about Thril's perspective for now, just to give Rabbit some time to post as well.
  9. Combat had been swift and bloody; it was nearly over, now. It had taken minutes--not hours--for the Iron Spears to crumble under the twin strike. The Skaven horde before them, soft as it might have been, had pushed back ruthlessly. Their numbers suffered, but they'd held. Then, Veron's calvary surged in from behind, hacking the remainder of their kin to pieces. In a frothing mess of hair and blood, they'd broken the defenders. The Grey Seer approached then. His garbs were, unsuprisingly, unbloodied. He'd never made it to the front line, or the back line for that matter, remaining by his siege engine. Now, that Veron had taken helm again, and the enemy had broken, he saw fit to move forward, and address the situation. Bodies would pile high like sandbags later that day, he was certain. Even now, the fractured earth was littered with the dead; a haphazard scramble of bloodied, beaten soldiers, and slaughtered Skaven. His men, those rats under his authority, were harder to seperate from the battle than the man-things on the other side. He intervened on that regard, by approaching one of them in particular, and yanking the standard from his hand while the bloodlusted rat tried to spur himself to greater violence. Khrol hoisted the flag above his head. Behind him, green flames danced in the dying daylight, as ugly dark smoke billowed into the horizon. "Clan-rats of Nesthome, hear me!" He cried into the wounded sky. They mostly listened. The scent of blood permeated the senses. He lowered the flag slowly, and glanced at the rat that had held it prior. He reached down, and yanked him up by his wrist. Zhot yelped, and dropped his glaive, glancing around as if he'd been caught in a trap. "See this rat?" He intoned, holding him higher. "This is what we need! This is what your King-King wants! What we want! Skaven are the strongest, the boldest and deadliest! Our resolve never fails!" He thrust the flag back into Zhot's hand. Zhot stumbled a bit, confused. The Seer leaned in and sneered at him. "Wave at them, idiot-rat." Zhot blinked and, did as he was told. Khrol held his hand into the air. "I tell you this now, clans-rats! Rats like this are the backbone of our army! As long as this one does not die, we can never lose!" That was stirring enough. Even through the blood-drunken stupor they'd whipped themselves into, the Skaven responded positively to this declaration. But the Seer wasn't done yet. He let his arms drop, and glared over them all. "Now, we must make good on our promises. Look at your weapons." He shouted a bit louder. "Look over your neighbor's weapons, your family's weapons. If they did not draw blood, drag them forward! We have no place for cowards in our midst." He let them deal with that for a moment, and only a smattering of Skaven were dragged forward. He hadn't anticipated too many to be pulled forward; either his kin were more bloodthirsty than he'd expected, and were more willing to betray each other at his request, or the combat had involved more of them than he'd expected. There were still many of them, after all. Nearly three quarters of their kin had survived. That made it easier for Khrol to pick up a foreign blade from the ground--some heavy, ugly thing the man-things had dropped, and use it to efficiently murder those brought before him. When the bloody work was done, he tossed the weapon aside. His robes were stained an ugly mud-red, now. "Clan-rats! To the victor, the spoils!" He declared, pointing towards the town. The rats picked up on his intention immediately, and made their way over. "Take everything we can!" He shouted. "Burn everything else down! Leave nothing behind!" Under Khrol's direct instruction, the Skaven horde made their way into town and, with some help from the Scions, began a deliberate and brutal clear of every building they came across. The Skaven trashed houses looking for food, and those they found in their way were often slain where they stood, unless otherwise stopped from doing so. Food supplies were raided, but other things of value were found, too. Over time, the wagons they used to pilfer goods were stacked high with salt, seeds, implements and whatever else they could get their hands on. At Khrol's demand, they also saved books, which were graciously stowed away upon another wagon, for his own use. Beyond that, houses began to burn not long after. An estimated thirty skaven perished during this raid as well, from the remnants of the defenders, or simply poor timing and mistakes on their part. They, too, were added to the meat pile.
  10. Post will be up later on today. I need time to review where we are, and produce a proper and important post. There might even be two of them.
  11. His labored breathing steadied after a short while, but he refused to make eye contact following that. He's never had that happen to him before. Seeing...himself? Seeing what, exactly? Was that him? An illusion? Vision? Warning? He couldn't tell beyond the fact that it'd never happened before. He could feel his touch on his flesh, still. Where he'd rested his hand on his hand, and whispered words of comfort to himself. Was he losing it? Well, yes, but was he losing it more so? The thought of beginning to lose himself, finally succumbing to the rising tides terrified him. He shakily reached for the table and gripped it. He didn't want to overreact, he didn't want to have an anxiety attack. Even now, tears threatened to invade his ducts. His mask was close by; could he reach for it? Should he? He might have to. In that moment, he envied the bartender, who returned with his order. The bartender took note of him reaching for the bottle of juice, but didn't stop her. Instead, he put M'yr package before the unhappy mess that was M'yr, and turned away, as if he hadn't seen anything yet. M'yr wanted to reach for the clapper and be gone, but Slake slid the glass towards him, directly in his way. He paused, his hands trembling. He was already a drink deep; would another hurt? He carefully accepted it, taking it in his hands--both hands. One of them had no flesh on it at all anymore; just an odd jumble of salt-encrusted bones interlaced with bits of seaweed and barnacles. He lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed the contents whole. The juice was tart and sour, and refreshing. The rum hiding in it hit home. He hiccuped, but his breathing normalized. Things weren't much better, but he wasn't about to lose it. He was aware then, of Slake's fingers playing with his hairs. He could feel as they wrapped around dried, healthy strands, gentling pressing and tugging at them, as if trying to straighten them with her thumbs alone. Her fingers were, as to be expected, softer than one would think. The gentle noise of her fingers scraping against his skull from time to time mingled with the gentle ocean waves lapping against the barcounter beneath them. As the world grew wavy and uncertain, and it became slightly harder to find purchase on the stool, he leaned against her, neglecting the object on the counter for now. He was unhappy, M'yr decided. He wanted everything to go away. He wanted to undo his life, and everything that had transpired, and just cow to his parent's demands all that time back. Dream smaller; do his best in class. Get a normal, well-paying job. Make his parents proud. His thoughts lingered on that. Would his mom have been proud of him, now? Slake's words washed over him, like a siren's song. It pulled him away from his bitter fantasies, and dashed him along the rocks of the Now. He was silent, and did his best to simply enjoy her attention as long as he could. Then, when her attention was divide, he eventually sat back up again. Things were no better, but they were less unpleasant, he supposed. Was that the same thing? It was not. The bartender was busy elsewhere. M'yr turned his attention to what he'd come here for. Resting on the counter before him was a large chunk of pearl. Originally it'd been a supermassive thing, hauled from the sea unexpectedly. After a series of horrible visions, he'd taken it to a craftsman in town, and paid him in the remainder of the pearl in order to have much of it sheared off, and the remainder fashioned into a clapper. It was a beautiful thing, with swirling tones of pink and grey and white mingling within it. It was large, too. Big enough that M'yr would need to carry it in both arms, like a heavy club, when he left with it. He examined it closely. This was what this was all about; once the clapper was installed in the bell, the toll of that great artifact would tell him what needed doing next. He wanted to take it and leave, but caught Slake looking out the window, first. They all did that, but she seemed to see something that caught her interest. He'd been quite moody up until then. Maybe it was time for a small bit of humor. Maybe that was the drink talking. "You see somebody out there that's paler than me?" He suggested. "If fishbelly skin tone is your thing, I can get into another scrap for you."
  12. I return from my lovely weekend getaway with the family. Now that I don't have to interact with the family, I can get posts in.
  13. That was reassuring, Priscilla supposed. If the explosives were in good condition, perhaps they'd be safe for use, or at the very least safe enough to throw before they exploded. She set the box aside for now. Nearby, a few of the kobolds eyed the box curiously, but didn't move all that much. They stood where they were, eyeing everybody. There was also the matter that the kobolds weren't really that armed. Would Shank and his merry crew be safe if things turned ugly? Did she have an obligation to make sure they were protected? Torie had already laid out a plan for resolving this issue as safely as possible, but there were always drawbacks. The kobolds seemingly took this into consideration, and moved far enough away to talk in their gravelly, gutteral tones. She didn't understand any of it, but they seemed animate. Following that, they gave a fierce, if small battle cry and brandished various weapons. Priscilla blinked. Were they carrying those the whole time? She didn't recall, but hey, at least they were armed. That was good. Torie turned back to Priscilla. "Right. I don't know what you're up to, but I'll keep an eye on you if I can." She promised. Priscilla turned back towards the other building, the one Aaric had entered prior. She darted on over to it, the weight of her crossbow slapping against her back, a familiar pressure that was equal parts comforting and distressing. The weight would be lifted, and her skills put to the test, most likely. She'd need to shoot true, if she could. The runesmith climbed to the top of the roof easily enough, and walked over the crest of the roof before laying down. She unslung the weapon, and steadied her hands against the point where both roofs met. It was a good spot to watch from, and it hid most of her. She didn't have terribly much ammo, but if she was a good shot, it might last her until this entire ordeal was over.
  14. I return from my weekend, and am posting now. Expect something very soon!
  15. Heading to BC for the rest of the week. Probably gonna avoid posting til I get back.

    1. Die Shize

      Die Shize

      Bistro of Columbia?

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