The Unknown: A Game of Fear, Ignorance, and Adventure
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There was a surprising lack of noise as Garril entered into the fight. Joining battle like a lazy breeze, not seen but felt by all. The glint of his axe blades twinkling as they darted through the air. The smell of strange brews and concoctions on his breath and his thick beard smelling similar. Everything was a flurry of steel, strikes lashing out with strong kicks and the axes hunting soft flesh like hungry dogs. A blur of violence the zip of metal slicing the air was then drowned out with a mighty bellow of rage, shouting curses and howling damnation. Unsure of where he was now and where he had been moments before he was only aware of the blood in the air and the desire to spill more onto the ground. Violence was the only thing he was able to excel at, and right now was a perfect time to prove it.
He sliced and cut, going for the already injured attacker pinned on the sword with one axe and the other seeking the assailants companion. He raged at his opponents, raged at the world he had woken up to, raged at his family and the betrayal he suffered at the hands of so many, but mostly he just raged. Screaming till it hurt the vocal chords of those who so much as heard it. He had gone without bloodshed for too long and it showed.
He sliced and cut, going for the already injured attacker pinned on the sword with one axe and the other seeking the assailants companion. He raged at his opponents, raged at the world he had woken up to, raged at his family and the betrayal he suffered at the hands of so many, but mostly he just raged. Screaming till it hurt the vocal chords of those who so much as heard it. He had gone without bloodshed for too long and it showed.
The voice faded away. The silence was echoed by those inside Keil's room. The doctors still worked over the boy, albeit they spoke in hushed voices now. Ticky looked to Derlan's ashen face and frowned. "Little to be done... unless..." He felt the gears begin to turn, heard the clink of knowledge sinking into place, and knew he had an idea.
"Derlan... give me your opinion. No normal person could shout that loud, correct?"
Derlan nodded.
"And the man said nothing about coming alone... Right?"
Derlan nodded again as realization dawned on his face. "You mean we're going to-"
"We might. I've got a trick or two up my sleeve. What was the name of that young mage fellow, the elf? Come, we must find him!" Ticky looked to the doctors. "Will you two be safe alone?"
"Derlan... give me your opinion. No normal person could shout that loud, correct?"
Derlan nodded.
"And the man said nothing about coming alone... Right?"
Derlan nodded again as realization dawned on his face. "You mean we're going to-"
"We might. I've got a trick or two up my sleeve. What was the name of that young mage fellow, the elf? Come, we must find him!" Ticky looked to the doctors. "Will you two be safe alone?"
A head sailed across the corridor, expression annoyingly serene. You'd expect someone who'd just had their neck parted by an axe would have more of an expression--of shock, perhaps, or rage, or pain. This pale-skinned face merely looked on as blandly as it had before.
The now headless body hanging from Marneus' sword reached out with one arm and tried to punch Garril, cracking a bloodless fist against the orc's arm. If the blow had been solid it might have broken bone, but as it was it skimmed off the scarred flesh and only served to bring Garril's axe crashing down into the arm, half severing it at the elbow. The limb flopped disturbingly about as it tried to strike again while lacking the necessary tendons.
The cloak of the second assailant tore massively all along its length as Garril's second axe ripped into it, revealing another bland-faced man, this time with blond hair and a ragged scar on his throat. He tried to catch the axe, unconcerned of the edges, and succeeded in knocking it aside moments before a third figure leapt from the hatch above, flying down to slam into the orc and send them both careening into the wall.
Meanwhile, in a momentarily more peaceful room, Jemalkin and Derlan's physician knelt on either side of Keil's body. They whispered to each other, too low for anyone else to hear: the human physician giving a professional opinion, the gnome doctor replying and taking out a small bottle, the contents of which he applied to the cloth he was using to clean the wounds.
"Will you two be safe alone?" Ticky asked.
Doctor Nexaddo took a moment to respond. "As you said, no normal person could shout that loud," he said finally, "and as such we don't know what else that person can do, yes? I doubt we'd be completely safe alone, especially if they're after your friend here."
After sharing that pleasant thought, the doctor bent back over his patient.
The now headless body hanging from Marneus' sword reached out with one arm and tried to punch Garril, cracking a bloodless fist against the orc's arm. If the blow had been solid it might have broken bone, but as it was it skimmed off the scarred flesh and only served to bring Garril's axe crashing down into the arm, half severing it at the elbow. The limb flopped disturbingly about as it tried to strike again while lacking the necessary tendons.
The cloak of the second assailant tore massively all along its length as Garril's second axe ripped into it, revealing another bland-faced man, this time with blond hair and a ragged scar on his throat. He tried to catch the axe, unconcerned of the edges, and succeeded in knocking it aside moments before a third figure leapt from the hatch above, flying down to slam into the orc and send them both careening into the wall.
Meanwhile, in a momentarily more peaceful room, Jemalkin and Derlan's physician knelt on either side of Keil's body. They whispered to each other, too low for anyone else to hear: the human physician giving a professional opinion, the gnome doctor replying and taking out a small bottle, the contents of which he applied to the cloth he was using to clean the wounds.
"Will you two be safe alone?" Ticky asked.
Doctor Nexaddo took a moment to respond. "As you said, no normal person could shout that loud," he said finally, "and as such we don't know what else that person can do, yes? I doubt we'd be completely safe alone, especially if they're after your friend here."
After sharing that pleasant thought, the doctor bent back over his patient.
"You mean we're going to- Wait... I don't understand what we are doing, Ticky, what exactly is your plan?" Derlan asked but by this time Ticky was lost in his mind, his plan was assembling in his head, Derlan shrugged, "Whatever the case I am by your side, because I sure as hell ain't gonna let my buddy fall into the arms of that... thing. I am under your command my vertically challenged friend." Derlan curtsied and kissed Ticky on top of his head.
Marneus growled, ripping his sword from the mutilated horrors body. How was it still alive? No matter, he would stand and fight until either he or these abominations fell.
"By the Emperor, YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"
He lunged, attempting to stab the cloaked monstrosity through the heart.
Die, foul demon spawn!
"By the Emperor, YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"
He lunged, attempting to stab the cloaked monstrosity through the heart.
Die, foul demon spawn!
Marneus' sword tore through black cloth and pale flesh, the entire chest caving in and shattering. Red mist floated to the floorboards from where the blow had struck, staining the woodwork dark crimson and making footing treacherous. The ruined, headless body tried to attack Marneus again but managed only to splash a long line of thick, congealing blood across the knight's breastplate.
Nearby, Garril Rasput slammed his head into the wall in a partially-successful effort to dislodge the black-cloaked creature clinging to him. The orc's filthy dreads were spotted with rotting blood, which didn't actually change their overall appearance or smell too much, but the figure was still tearing at him with white hands. Red blood oozed from the orc's flesh as well as other, more foreign substances in a multitude of colors, mute testimony to the strange alchemies running through his veins.
Up on the deck, the remaining two in black leapt down into the hatch, landing behind their reeling comrades and advancing with the inhuman menace of a puppet moving on its own.
Nearby, Garril Rasput slammed his head into the wall in a partially-successful effort to dislodge the black-cloaked creature clinging to him. The orc's filthy dreads were spotted with rotting blood, which didn't actually change their overall appearance or smell too much, but the figure was still tearing at him with white hands. Red blood oozed from the orc's flesh as well as other, more foreign substances in a multitude of colors, mute testimony to the strange alchemies running through his veins.
Up on the deck, the remaining two in black leapt down into the hatch, landing behind their reeling comrades and advancing with the inhuman menace of a puppet moving on its own.
Ticky frowned as Derlan chattered on. He was... eccentric, to say the least. Ticky raked his mind for the wizard's name. Reeko... Marneus... No. A flash of inspiration "Raven. Get me that Raven fellow, Derlan. I'll explain everything then. No... No, we'll have someone else find him. You and I have a job to do. One almost as important as his!"
Ticky turned on his heel and headed for the deck with a brisk stride, almost breaking into a trot. His mind was reeling, and he could hardly walk for the thoughts that swirled through him. By mixing... with a parry, thrust...
Impatience finally taking him, he broke into a swift trot and quietly explained his plan to Derlan.
Ticky turned on his heel and headed for the deck with a brisk stride, almost breaking into a trot. His mind was reeling, and he could hardly walk for the thoughts that swirled through him. By mixing... with a parry, thrust...
Impatience finally taking him, he broke into a swift trot and quietly explained his plan to Derlan.
"So!" Raven muttered emerging from thin air suddenly. "A little birdie told me about your plans regarding our visitors!"
The figure of Tickyvanillius Leviticus the 3rd stood before him
"I must say that I am not surprised by this revelation but this is hardly the time nor place for such talk. As for here and now, I'll go along with the plan but I have my reservations, especially considering the role I am agreeing to play. Though it's the only plan I have heard thus far so, any port in a storm, as they say."
Raven paused to stroke his chin.
"Alright, just give me a few seconds to gather my energy and when you're ready give me a signal. If all goes well, I will be waiting on the main deck. Good hunting, master Gnome!"
Raven turned and made a brisk sprint towards the aft section of the ship which housed Keil's quarters. With each step he took he heard the sound of the enemy moving about engaging in bloody hand-to-hand combat. He could only hope that the crew and the expedition would live to see another day.
Raven quickened his pace, eventually storming through Keil's door and slamming it shut behind him. "Are you the new doctor?" he asked the man leaning over the boy's body.
"Never mind I don't have time for conversations. Are you good with a sword?..excellent!. I want you to guard this door and don't let anything through till I am finished. It's important that I am not disturbed till the incantation is done."
Raven turned towards the motionless body on the ground. There was no apparent change in Keil's condition, not even a sign of conscious awareness as Raven knelt besides him with a hand over the boy's forehead. The wizard paused for a second.
I don't know if you can hear me, Raven whispered close to Keil's ear. I just thought it's fair warning to tell you that this.. might feel a bit weird.
The figure of Tickyvanillius Leviticus the 3rd stood before him
"I must say that I am not surprised by this revelation but this is hardly the time nor place for such talk. As for here and now, I'll go along with the plan but I have my reservations, especially considering the role I am agreeing to play. Though it's the only plan I have heard thus far so, any port in a storm, as they say."
Raven paused to stroke his chin.
"Alright, just give me a few seconds to gather my energy and when you're ready give me a signal. If all goes well, I will be waiting on the main deck. Good hunting, master Gnome!"
Raven turned and made a brisk sprint towards the aft section of the ship which housed Keil's quarters. With each step he took he heard the sound of the enemy moving about engaging in bloody hand-to-hand combat. He could only hope that the crew and the expedition would live to see another day.
Raven quickened his pace, eventually storming through Keil's door and slamming it shut behind him. "Are you the new doctor?" he asked the man leaning over the boy's body.
"Never mind I don't have time for conversations. Are you good with a sword?..excellent!. I want you to guard this door and don't let anything through till I am finished. It's important that I am not disturbed till the incantation is done."
Raven turned towards the motionless body on the ground. There was no apparent change in Keil's condition, not even a sign of conscious awareness as Raven knelt besides him with a hand over the boy's forehead. The wizard paused for a second.
I don't know if you can hear me, Raven whispered close to Keil's ear. I just thought it's fair warning to tell you that this.. might feel a bit weird.
In the dark corridor, floor slick with darker blood, Marneus' armor provided the only light. In the reflected shine of stars and glowing seals could be seen ragged black cloaks filling the hall, and one burly orc amid a whirlwind of axe-blades moving in harsh symphony. Into that mess of steel and flesh Marneus reached with his sword, slashing above Garril's head and through the arms of the figure attacking him, sending limbs flying, trailing thin lines of blood through the air. The figure clinging to Garril tried to strike out at the blade that had so wounded it, only to receive a mighty blow from the orc's right-hand axe that sent it cartwheeling through the air to strike the opposite wall with a crunch that dented the woodwork.
The other figures in black came on, faster now, arms cocked back to land their unnaturally strong blows.
The other figures in black came on, faster now, arms cocked back to land their unnaturally strong blows.
Reeko's eyes slowly peeled open. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and looked around adjusting himself to his new surroundings.
Definitely on a boat... or a wooden building... probably a boat. Oh wait! That's right there were assassins! I must be on the ship... I sure hope I'm on the ship.
He rubbed his head, which was pounding like the war drums of a thousand orcs, he cursed under his breath, "Siek di'e." He looked at his arm; his skin was slowly changing back to purple, it would be back to normal soon enough. Finally he checked his pockets, making sure he wasn't robbed in his disadvantageous state, "All seems to be accounted for." He slid his hand into his vest and pulled out some small berries, he proceeded to pop them into his mouth while listening to the sound of fighting from the next room.
Definitely on a boat... or a wooden building... probably a boat. Oh wait! That's right there were assassins! I must be on the ship... I sure hope I'm on the ship.
He rubbed his head, which was pounding like the war drums of a thousand orcs, he cursed under his breath, "Siek di'e." He looked at his arm; his skin was slowly changing back to purple, it would be back to normal soon enough. Finally he checked his pockets, making sure he wasn't robbed in his disadvantageous state, "All seems to be accounted for." He slid his hand into his vest and pulled out some small berries, he proceeded to pop them into his mouth while listening to the sound of fighting from the next room.
In the dark corridor at the base of the ladder, Marneus heaved his sword in a wide arc through the oncoming limbs of his black-cloaked enemies. One fist struck him in the shoulder with a sound like a hollow gong, and sigils flared as the force was redirected. The enchantments woven into the armor were meant to redirect the force from explosions: the fact that the mere fist of one of these men was enough to activate them served as disturbing evidence to the power of the blow.
The air shuddered as kinetic energy was vented away from the armor, and Marneus responded by taking off the offending arm halfway above the elbow. He continued his swing through the outstretched limb of another assailant before the blade shuddered to a halt against bone in the opposite arm. A third figure leapt over the knight and the now-armless enemies facing him, coarse black cloth fluttering through the air, before coming to an abrupt halt directly on Garril's upswing, which launched the figure in the general direction of the ceiling, sans jawbone. The mutilated creature landed in a crouch and leapt again, punching Garril in the gut, pale fist disappearing almost completely into the mess of hardened leather and metal studs. The fist withdrew with a wet sheen of blood coating it, blood that fizzed like acid in spots. Garril fought on, regardless of any wounds he received.
Deeper in the ship, in the Expedition's quarters, the last of the masked men slipped through the porthole. There were twenty of them in all, making the normally-spacious VIP stateroom cramped and uncomfortable, all of them armed with knives and other vicious-looking weaponry. Barbs and cruel spikes were much in evidence. Needless to say, they were having a hell of a time trying to give each other the space they needed to not kill one another.
At the door someone listened, hearing footsteps moving quickly past as Ticky and Derlan moved away, the gnome muttering to himself and Derlan dispensing cheerful witticisms that were being completely ignored. He listened closely as the footsteps moved away, faded, and vanished all together. The man at the door listened for a moment longer, hearing the sound of the fight between the Expedition's heavy-hitter's and the five in black, and nothing else. He nodded once over his shoulder and turned the doorknob.
Out in the hall, Jonas Thrace frowned as the door to Deslock's cabin opened. He'd thought the Expedition leader was out in the city somewhere, enjoying a few drinks before embarking into the unknown.
From the door stepped a man wearing black, black shirt and black trousers and black belts crisscrossing his chest and black boots and a black-hilted dagger held loosely in his off hand. He was bald, with a hard-edged face and a tattoo, inked in purest jet, of a pair of hands clutched around his throat.
The man's expression did not change when he saw Jonas. "Step aside," he said, and stepped forward down the corridor, towards the door that the one-armed swordsman was guarding. Behind the bald man other men emerged from the stateroom like a hideous carnival trick, pacing evenly behind the man in the lead, hands holding gutting blades and barbed knives. All wore black masks except for the man in the lead and three others who walked in lithe formation behind him.
There would be no mistakes this time.
The air shuddered as kinetic energy was vented away from the armor, and Marneus responded by taking off the offending arm halfway above the elbow. He continued his swing through the outstretched limb of another assailant before the blade shuddered to a halt against bone in the opposite arm. A third figure leapt over the knight and the now-armless enemies facing him, coarse black cloth fluttering through the air, before coming to an abrupt halt directly on Garril's upswing, which launched the figure in the general direction of the ceiling, sans jawbone. The mutilated creature landed in a crouch and leapt again, punching Garril in the gut, pale fist disappearing almost completely into the mess of hardened leather and metal studs. The fist withdrew with a wet sheen of blood coating it, blood that fizzed like acid in spots. Garril fought on, regardless of any wounds he received.
Deeper in the ship, in the Expedition's quarters, the last of the masked men slipped through the porthole. There were twenty of them in all, making the normally-spacious VIP stateroom cramped and uncomfortable, all of them armed with knives and other vicious-looking weaponry. Barbs and cruel spikes were much in evidence. Needless to say, they were having a hell of a time trying to give each other the space they needed to not kill one another.
At the door someone listened, hearing footsteps moving quickly past as Ticky and Derlan moved away, the gnome muttering to himself and Derlan dispensing cheerful witticisms that were being completely ignored. He listened closely as the footsteps moved away, faded, and vanished all together. The man at the door listened for a moment longer, hearing the sound of the fight between the Expedition's heavy-hitter's and the five in black, and nothing else. He nodded once over his shoulder and turned the doorknob.
Out in the hall, Jonas Thrace frowned as the door to Deslock's cabin opened. He'd thought the Expedition leader was out in the city somewhere, enjoying a few drinks before embarking into the unknown.
From the door stepped a man wearing black, black shirt and black trousers and black belts crisscrossing his chest and black boots and a black-hilted dagger held loosely in his off hand. He was bald, with a hard-edged face and a tattoo, inked in purest jet, of a pair of hands clutched around his throat.
The man's expression did not change when he saw Jonas. "Step aside," he said, and stepped forward down the corridor, towards the door that the one-armed swordsman was guarding. Behind the bald man other men emerged from the stateroom like a hideous carnival trick, pacing evenly behind the man in the lead, hands holding gutting blades and barbed knives. All wore black masks except for the man in the lead and three others who walked in lithe formation behind him.
There would be no mistakes this time.
Jonas turned to meet the man and his cadre. He drew his sword and set into a hunched defensive position, best for closed surroundings, such as a corridor, or a pitched battle. His eyes met this black clad man's own. In the off-white robes of his nightwear he seemed a shabby saviour - but set against robes of blackest night...
"You will not take this boy until the breath is gone from my body. And I assure you, if you step any closer, many of you," his eyes flicked from mask to mask, "will also breathe your last tonight."
"You will not take this boy until the breath is gone from my body. And I assure you, if you step any closer, many of you," his eyes flicked from mask to mask, "will also breathe your last tonight."
The bald man's eyes burned with a weird, fanatical light. "A death has been spoken," he said, "And a death shall be carried out. Stand aside, man, and live. Stand fast, and die."
Behind him, another man with black tattoos on his throat drew a stubby, ugly little pistol and pulled back the hammer with his thumb. The tiny click echoed in the corridor.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then Marneus, intent on the destruction of his black-cloaked foe, slammed his sword through the ribcage and heart of the man standing before him, folding the body sideways into the second figure facing him, which sent the lot of them into the wall with a tremendous thud that could be heard throughout the ship. Garril Rasput, not to be outdone, brought both axes together in the body of the figure who had hit him, rending his enemy almost in twain with a sound like a wet sponge being swiftly torn in half.
And in the cabin beyond the guarded threshold Raven del Cid narrowed his eyes, and the light falling across his face began to change as he spun magic out of the air...
Behind him, another man with black tattoos on his throat drew a stubby, ugly little pistol and pulled back the hammer with his thumb. The tiny click echoed in the corridor.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then Marneus, intent on the destruction of his black-cloaked foe, slammed his sword through the ribcage and heart of the man standing before him, folding the body sideways into the second figure facing him, which sent the lot of them into the wall with a tremendous thud that could be heard throughout the ship. Garril Rasput, not to be outdone, brought both axes together in the body of the figure who had hit him, rending his enemy almost in twain with a sound like a wet sponge being swiftly torn in half.
And in the cabin beyond the guarded threshold Raven del Cid narrowed his eyes, and the light falling across his face began to change as he spun magic out of the air...
Tiber straightened his tuxedo as he marched through Tyb. He tried to remain calm, he tried to look at the situation like a professional, but somewhere in the pit of his stomach frustration leaked into his thoughts, tensed his muscles and made him feel sick.
"He got away. That soulless bastard got away."
He remembered the chase in vivid detail and kept reminding himself he'd done everything imaginable. He'd played his hand brilliantly but the cards were stacked against him and at times that's all that matters. He hadn't been prepared. The bastard got away.
These were the thoughts that echoed in his mind as he found himself drifting aimlessly toward the dock and the Cepoloda, determined to enjoy what little sleep could still be acquired from the night. He'd had to pass through a veritable ocean of sailors heading back to bars after some commotion. They were talking about elves and the deadlands and rape and beer. It seemed to Tiber only one of those was normal fodder amoung sailors.
"Elves? We can assume their talking about one of our painted elves. They do have a way of drawing attention to themselves. The Deadlands? I sincerly hope Deslock has no intention of going there; though I can hardly think who else would bring it up. Rape? ... Something isn't right."
Tiber slowed and croached and approached the dock as though his approach mattered. He was slightly more nervous now, but years of experience have a way of tempering your reactions. He was anxious, but it didn't show in his movements. Because, in addition to being anxious, he was trained.
And then the voice rumbled from the roof-tops, louder than any human voice should be.
[h4]"Minions, servants of the Black Hand! Obey the call of the Tikoloshe!"[/h4]
[h4]"You may feel safe in your cots on the pathetic vessel known as the Cepolada, but that is a terrible mistake, for I have already captured one member of your crew and slain others. The one known as Mark Resdian is held in my lair, contemplating his hideous demise, and will be utterly destroyed unless you give to me what I desire."[/h4]
[h4]"I want the boy known as Keil. If given the boy, I will leave your ship alone, and generously permit you to leave Tyb."[/h4]
The noise was nauseating, disoreinting, Tiber held both hands over his ears but he could still hear the man's words like an explosion. He couldn't find him, not in this darkness coupled with his own watering eyes, be he knew what they were after now. The boy, Kiel. Tiber suspected that they would succeed too. His ship-mates were a viscious bunch but he doubted they were merciless. The men they were fighting would require a creulty of combat to best Tiber himself had never managed to possess.
So, he did the smart thing. Hid. Tiber abandoned the ship. The fight to keep Keil from leaving the Cepolada was lost, or if it wasn't his presence wouldn't help. All that remained was the fight to keep him from falling to the enemy. A little preparation can go a long way. Stack the cards in your favor and it doesn't matter how your opponent plays his hand. A professional can deal with anything thats thrown at him. A master knows how to avoid dealing in anything but perfection.
Tiber ducked into a storefront adjacent to the docks and looked to see what he could find. After breaking the door to the back, he discovered twelve-odd barrels of whiskey.
"These will do."
"He got away. That soulless bastard got away."
He remembered the chase in vivid detail and kept reminding himself he'd done everything imaginable. He'd played his hand brilliantly but the cards were stacked against him and at times that's all that matters. He hadn't been prepared. The bastard got away.
These were the thoughts that echoed in his mind as he found himself drifting aimlessly toward the dock and the Cepoloda, determined to enjoy what little sleep could still be acquired from the night. He'd had to pass through a veritable ocean of sailors heading back to bars after some commotion. They were talking about elves and the deadlands and rape and beer. It seemed to Tiber only one of those was normal fodder amoung sailors.
"Elves? We can assume their talking about one of our painted elves. They do have a way of drawing attention to themselves. The Deadlands? I sincerly hope Deslock has no intention of going there; though I can hardly think who else would bring it up. Rape? ... Something isn't right."
Tiber slowed and croached and approached the dock as though his approach mattered. He was slightly more nervous now, but years of experience have a way of tempering your reactions. He was anxious, but it didn't show in his movements. Because, in addition to being anxious, he was trained.
And then the voice rumbled from the roof-tops, louder than any human voice should be.
[h4]"Minions, servants of the Black Hand! Obey the call of the Tikoloshe!"[/h4]
[h4]"You may feel safe in your cots on the pathetic vessel known as the Cepolada, but that is a terrible mistake, for I have already captured one member of your crew and slain others. The one known as Mark Resdian is held in my lair, contemplating his hideous demise, and will be utterly destroyed unless you give to me what I desire."[/h4]
[h4]"I want the boy known as Keil. If given the boy, I will leave your ship alone, and generously permit you to leave Tyb."[/h4]
The noise was nauseating, disoreinting, Tiber held both hands over his ears but he could still hear the man's words like an explosion. He couldn't find him, not in this darkness coupled with his own watering eyes, be he knew what they were after now. The boy, Kiel. Tiber suspected that they would succeed too. His ship-mates were a viscious bunch but he doubted they were merciless. The men they were fighting would require a creulty of combat to best Tiber himself had never managed to possess.
So, he did the smart thing. Hid. Tiber abandoned the ship. The fight to keep Keil from leaving the Cepolada was lost, or if it wasn't his presence wouldn't help. All that remained was the fight to keep him from falling to the enemy. A little preparation can go a long way. Stack the cards in your favor and it doesn't matter how your opponent plays his hand. A professional can deal with anything thats thrown at him. A master knows how to avoid dealing in anything but perfection.
Tiber ducked into a storefront adjacent to the docks and looked to see what he could find. After breaking the door to the back, he discovered twelve-odd barrels of whiskey.
"These will do."
Tiber has returned. I'm incredably sorry for not posting and I hope you'll accept me back into the RP. I'll understand if you don't though.
To explain Tiber's absence, he's been chasing after someone. Hasn't been back to the ship since it landed in Tyb and, since we haven't left yet, that means he could theoretically be considered to have been active this whole time. Just not in the view of any of the members of the expedition.
To explain Tiber's absence, he's been chasing after someone. Hasn't been back to the ship since it landed in Tyb and, since we haven't left yet, that means he could theoretically be considered to have been active this whole time. Just not in the view of any of the members of the expedition.
Were he not currently running on adrenaline Garril might have found some odd kinship with the . The seething wound in his gut caused only mild discomfort. Blinded by rage and incapable of retreat. He could barely distinguish between friend and foe at this point. He descended upon the corpse, hacking away with incredible speed, turning the blades of his axes into streaks of light and spattering everything within a ten foot radius with thick gore and slippery blood. Kneeling over the pile of meat and shattered bone know lying under him he came down from his anger with the foe dead before him. Coming to stand with a suddenly disturbing calm demeanor he pulled one of the many well polished long necked steel flasks from where they jingled on his belt and drank deeply from it's hefty reservoir.
It was by the effects of his new found calm that Garril recognized the click of hammer bouncing down the corridor. Then the sound of a humans voice far away but not outside the range of his keen ears. Glad for a moment that he wasn't yet finished he poured some of the liquid in the bottle over his wounded gut and dropped it to the floor with a loud clang. It was at this point he began to draw pieces out of the leather back strapped across his back. Assembling each one with practiced precision until the unidentifiable jumble of bits and odd ends was turned into a crossbow. No to call it that doesn't fit the bill. It was a ballista, just small enough to be held yet big and bulky enough that only someone of Garril's strength could manage to lift it.
The humans voice was calling to him. Begging to be silenced. He made his way out to an appropriate place on the deck. Striding out like some vengeful god of war soaked in blood and grinning, pulling back the metal string of his weapon with just one hand, a feat that would take any normal human a goats foot and a friend to help them. A quiet click came from the weapon when it was finally locked into place. He loaded what appeared to be a javelin with explosive tied to it and spied the source of the irritating noise where he stood on the roof tops. With a voice loud enough to carry the distance between them Garril shouted back at the oddball as he leveled the weapon, bracing it against a guard rail. "Your generosity is appreciated! I'm embarrassed though, I can only offer this in return!" The pull of the trigger sent the butt of the weapon back into Garrils shoulder, nearly knocking him over, yet it still sent the javelin sailing into the air.
It was by the effects of his new found calm that Garril recognized the click of hammer bouncing down the corridor. Then the sound of a humans voice far away but not outside the range of his keen ears. Glad for a moment that he wasn't yet finished he poured some of the liquid in the bottle over his wounded gut and dropped it to the floor with a loud clang. It was at this point he began to draw pieces out of the leather back strapped across his back. Assembling each one with practiced precision until the unidentifiable jumble of bits and odd ends was turned into a crossbow. No to call it that doesn't fit the bill. It was a ballista, just small enough to be held yet big and bulky enough that only someone of Garril's strength could manage to lift it.
The humans voice was calling to him. Begging to be silenced. He made his way out to an appropriate place on the deck. Striding out like some vengeful god of war soaked in blood and grinning, pulling back the metal string of his weapon with just one hand, a feat that would take any normal human a goats foot and a friend to help them. A quiet click came from the weapon when it was finally locked into place. He loaded what appeared to be a javelin with explosive tied to it and spied the source of the irritating noise where he stood on the roof tops. With a voice loud enough to carry the distance between them Garril shouted back at the oddball as he leveled the weapon, bracing it against a guard rail. "Your generosity is appreciated! I'm embarrassed though, I can only offer this in return!" The pull of the trigger sent the butt of the weapon back into Garrils shoulder, nearly knocking him over, yet it still sent the javelin sailing into the air.
I get the impression that this guy is an enemy. Garril has been in a coma for a little while so he's not completely up to date. If I'm doing something stupid, I apologize, but using only the information I've managed to gather so far I'm just playing the character.
Jonas Thrace wasted no time on pointless speech. The men before him, with their vicious weapons and black masks, had not been deterred by his pronouncement: thus, it was foolhardy to believe they would listen to further threats.
He charged, shouting something that started off as a coherent war-cry and ended up as a guttural scream. The eyes of the bald man standing before him widened, and he brought his black-hilted knife around to deflect the incoming sword. Jonas' blade crashed past the knife as though it wasn't even there. The hardened leather armor beneath the man's shirt held for a moment before splitting, dulling the force of the blow enough that the sword didn't go completely through his abdomen, a fact that he didn't appreciate in the slightest.
Only now did Jonas give any attention to the man with the pistol. He heaved on his sword, trying to knock the impaled man into his gun-armed comrade, with very little success: the bald man growled through the pain and stood his ground like a rock. The pistoleer aimed carefully at Jonas' head, steadying his weapon with his other hand, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet carved a bloody run along the side of Jonas' skull, blowing off a portion of his ear and quite a bit of hair. If the bullet had struck one small inch to the right, it would have been over for Jonas Thrace.
The man cursed and tossed his pistol aside in favor of a short, leaf-bladed sword, and the impaled bald man leaned in over the sword in his stomach, face hideous in its joy, and said: "Death is not so easy."
A ringing crash echoed through the ship from the corridor where Marneus stood alone amid the blood of his enemies. Moments before the knight had looked around the corridor, which had the appearance of an abattoir, at the mangled bodies trying to stand back up, and the severed arms that were trying to reach him to strangle and gouge.
He stepped forward, intent on utterly finishing his enemies. One of the figures lurched to its feet, swaying, and provided just enough of a distraction for the other one to hit Marneus a heavy blow to his helmet that sent him stumbling back. The enchantments in his armor sputtered, and a small dent appeared where one rune failed to move the force in time. The edges of the metal plate glowed dully red, as force that could not be rerouted was converted into heat.
And up on the roof of a warehouse across the street from the docks, Garril's shot crashed through the shadows like the wrath of gods, rending roofing tile and sending a parapet or two thundering to the ground. It was a good shot, aimed precisely at where a man had been standing to shout threats at the Cepolada: whether or not that man had still been standing in those shadows when the bolt hit, none could tell.
He charged, shouting something that started off as a coherent war-cry and ended up as a guttural scream. The eyes of the bald man standing before him widened, and he brought his black-hilted knife around to deflect the incoming sword. Jonas' blade crashed past the knife as though it wasn't even there. The hardened leather armor beneath the man's shirt held for a moment before splitting, dulling the force of the blow enough that the sword didn't go completely through his abdomen, a fact that he didn't appreciate in the slightest.
Only now did Jonas give any attention to the man with the pistol. He heaved on his sword, trying to knock the impaled man into his gun-armed comrade, with very little success: the bald man growled through the pain and stood his ground like a rock. The pistoleer aimed carefully at Jonas' head, steadying his weapon with his other hand, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet carved a bloody run along the side of Jonas' skull, blowing off a portion of his ear and quite a bit of hair. If the bullet had struck one small inch to the right, it would have been over for Jonas Thrace.
The man cursed and tossed his pistol aside in favor of a short, leaf-bladed sword, and the impaled bald man leaned in over the sword in his stomach, face hideous in its joy, and said: "Death is not so easy."
A ringing crash echoed through the ship from the corridor where Marneus stood alone amid the blood of his enemies. Moments before the knight had looked around the corridor, which had the appearance of an abattoir, at the mangled bodies trying to stand back up, and the severed arms that were trying to reach him to strangle and gouge.
He stepped forward, intent on utterly finishing his enemies. One of the figures lurched to its feet, swaying, and provided just enough of a distraction for the other one to hit Marneus a heavy blow to his helmet that sent him stumbling back. The enchantments in his armor sputtered, and a small dent appeared where one rune failed to move the force in time. The edges of the metal plate glowed dully red, as force that could not be rerouted was converted into heat.
And up on the roof of a warehouse across the street from the docks, Garril's shot crashed through the shadows like the wrath of gods, rending roofing tile and sending a parapet or two thundering to the ground. It was a good shot, aimed precisely at where a man had been standing to shout threats at the Cepolada: whether or not that man had still been standing in those shadows when the bolt hit, none could tell.
The sword was almost unseen in the darkness, a mere suggestion of weight and edge hidden by the shadows. It flickered through the moonlight pooling beneath the hatch, shining dull with the gore, stained almost black by rotting blood, hilt clenched in a hard crimson gauntlet.
Marneus roared, and his sword broke through flesh like a ram through the gates. The mangled creatures facing him were cut almost in half, falling to the ground in pieces that still tried to make their bloody way to the knight so they could continue attacking him. Marneus slashed them to ruin as they came, hacking at them until their attempts to move became utterly useless. They were still moving, still seeking his life, but they could not stand on rended legs and could not strike with shattered arms.
A severed hand clutched his ankle and began to squeeze, sending flickers across the surface of the armor where enchantments redirected crushing force. The knight cut the hand in half with a single blow and it fell away, fingers twitching, leaving behind fingerprints embedded in the metal.
Further into the ship, in a corridor reeking of gunsmoke and blood, Jonas Thrace planted his foot somewhere soft and kicked the bald man off his sword. The man fell back, blood bubbling from his mouth as he laughed, and the man with the leaf-bladed sword leapt over his body and made a decent attempt at surgically removing Jonas' heart. The one-armed swordsman parried and riposted, and the black-clad man swayed out of the way and counterattacked, and then things started moving too fast to follow.
A frenzy of blows, and then a pause--the black-clad man with a neat cut across his off arm where he hadn't dodged fast enough, and Jonas with a bruise spreading across his chest where he had been caught by the flat of his enemy's blade, an attack that had been meant to kill but had hit at the wrong angle.
The man raised one hand and gestured, and behind him the wall of black masks advanced. He closed again, and Jonas' sword slipped around his parry and slid through the shoulder of his sword-arm, then flicked across the jet-tattooed throat. The man didn't make a sound as he fell.
And the black-clad men surged forward, blades out, and the mass of blades flowed around Jonas like a bright and shining sea...
Marneus roared, and his sword broke through flesh like a ram through the gates. The mangled creatures facing him were cut almost in half, falling to the ground in pieces that still tried to make their bloody way to the knight so they could continue attacking him. Marneus slashed them to ruin as they came, hacking at them until their attempts to move became utterly useless. They were still moving, still seeking his life, but they could not stand on rended legs and could not strike with shattered arms.
A severed hand clutched his ankle and began to squeeze, sending flickers across the surface of the armor where enchantments redirected crushing force. The knight cut the hand in half with a single blow and it fell away, fingers twitching, leaving behind fingerprints embedded in the metal.
Further into the ship, in a corridor reeking of gunsmoke and blood, Jonas Thrace planted his foot somewhere soft and kicked the bald man off his sword. The man fell back, blood bubbling from his mouth as he laughed, and the man with the leaf-bladed sword leapt over his body and made a decent attempt at surgically removing Jonas' heart. The one-armed swordsman parried and riposted, and the black-clad man swayed out of the way and counterattacked, and then things started moving too fast to follow.
A frenzy of blows, and then a pause--the black-clad man with a neat cut across his off arm where he hadn't dodged fast enough, and Jonas with a bruise spreading across his chest where he had been caught by the flat of his enemy's blade, an attack that had been meant to kill but had hit at the wrong angle.
The man raised one hand and gestured, and behind him the wall of black masks advanced. He closed again, and Jonas' sword slipped around his parry and slid through the shoulder of his sword-arm, then flicked across the jet-tattooed throat. The man didn't make a sound as he fell.
And the black-clad men surged forward, blades out, and the mass of blades flowed around Jonas like a bright and shining sea...
Ticky and Derlan moved silently through the Cepolada. Darkness shrouded them, and their footsteps seemed silent despite the hard wood. As they walked, the sounds of war rattled through the ship, although they maintained their course. "We're wasting time..." Ticky muttered, increasing his pace to a trot.
They finally reached the rear of the ship and clambered through the hatch at the aft of the ship. Ticky went first, a chill running down his spine as the gargantuan (at least to him!) Grummond wheezed, slowly loading what resembled a fist-sized cannon. Or maybe it was a big pistol; Ticky was a bit more concerned with completing his plan. Derlan climbed out right behind the gnome and followed him off the gangplank.
They made their way through the chattering crowd quickly, eliciting more than one purse check and offended shout as they made their way behind the warehouse. Towards the far side of the warehouse, they sighted a ladder, only slightly out of Ticky's reach. The gnome grit his teeth and nodded to Derlan. "I swear, if you tell anyone about this..." Derlan couldn't help but chuckle as he lifted the gnome onto the ladder.
Atop the rusted structure, Ticky frowned. Sometime between the formation of his plan and the execution, an explosion had rocked the rooftop. A thin wisp of paper blew by Ticky as he muttered a curse.
"Derlan. We seem to have hit a bit of trouble."
They finally reached the rear of the ship and clambered through the hatch at the aft of the ship. Ticky went first, a chill running down his spine as the gargantuan (at least to him!) Grummond wheezed, slowly loading what resembled a fist-sized cannon. Or maybe it was a big pistol; Ticky was a bit more concerned with completing his plan. Derlan climbed out right behind the gnome and followed him off the gangplank.
They made their way through the chattering crowd quickly, eliciting more than one purse check and offended shout as they made their way behind the warehouse. Towards the far side of the warehouse, they sighted a ladder, only slightly out of Ticky's reach. The gnome grit his teeth and nodded to Derlan. "I swear, if you tell anyone about this..." Derlan couldn't help but chuckle as he lifted the gnome onto the ladder.
Atop the rusted structure, Ticky frowned. Sometime between the formation of his plan and the execution, an explosion had rocked the rooftop. A thin wisp of paper blew by Ticky as he muttered a curse.
"Derlan. We seem to have hit a bit of trouble."