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Thread: Hourglass in the Sky

  1. #1
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    Default Hourglass in the Sky

    ***

    Introduction

    Six months. It had taken Lanadon six months of too-precious time to copy the book six times. Six months of sneaking into the Library each night and taking the book - removing a book from the Library! - back to his cell. He remembered the first time he had read it, disbelieving the words before his eyes. But what if it were possible?

    Once he had read the book, he had known what he needed to do. Six times he copied the book. It went against everything he had ever been taught, everything the Aesthetics stood for, but he did it. He did it so that others would have the chance to decide their roles.

    As Lanadon waited for the ink to dry on the final page, he thought back to a year ago. He had been in the Library, doing his part in the endless duty of maintaining the books lining its shelves. Astinus the Chronicler, sitting nearby, had filled one of his voluminous tomes, a rare occurence. His aide Bertrem was ready with a fresh volume, and placed it before him.

    “We will begin preparation of the next volume immediately, master,” said Bertrem, noting the short stack of blank books beside the Chronicler.

    “That won’t be necessary,” said Astinus as he put his pen to the first page and began writing. Lanadon had been as stunned as Bertrem, who asked for an explanation. Astinus had merely gestured at a nearby shelf. Lanadon had watched as Bertrem ran his fingers down the spines, then drew out an ancient volume. When the aide read the first page he went white and thrust the book back onto the shelf as if it had burned him.

    That very book now sat before Lanadon, along with the six copies he had made. Lanadon’s hands no longer trembled when he stared back at what was called “The Triumph of the Twin” and began to turn the pages, but he still felt a chill whenever he read the words on the page before him - the last page...the original penned by the infallible Astinus:

    “As of Fourthday, Fifthmonth, Year 358, the world ends.”


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    Last edited by Bong Bellowsmoke; 10-18-2016 at 10:16 AM.
    The Red Condor shrieked at Sir Darvig in full wrath. Wings flapped storms of fire across the sky. "The Mage-God grows in power swifter than it appears to Paladine. This I know. A warning," Sargonnas told Darvigl, "for you to give to Paladine in your prayers."

    “I will,” Darvig uttered.

  2. #2
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    Default Third Day, Fifthmonth, Year 356

    * * *

    Chapter 1: The Battle of Palanthas

    Trumpets blared from the High Clerist Tower, blasting starkly across the still, solemn dawn. Knights of Solamnia thought of their loved ones, tightening their grips on the hilts of their swords, bracing for the dragonfear to sweep over them. The Blue Lady’s forces had been sighted in the skies to the south, approaching on the horizon. The city of Palanthas, the “Jewel of Solamnia”, was under attack.

    The High Clerist Tower was sacked in a single day. The outnumbered contingent of knights laid down their lives to defend it, a tribute to the hero Sturm Brightblade who had done the same, four years prior. Others retreated, galloping back through the city gates of Palanthas bloodied and with heads sagging in shame, raggedly leaning from their horses, the gates slamming shut behind them to make way for the hasty preparations of the city’s last stand.

    The Blue Lady’s army penetrated those gates the following morning, breeching the city proper. At the vanguard of the assault was Lord Soth. The death knight and his Reaper Army swept through the city gates and into the vulnerable heart of Palanthas, shriveling the souls of all who laid eyes on them. Livestock dropped dead where they passed. Veteran knights threw down their swords and shields and ran screaming for their lives. The Blue Lady’s secret weapon, Lord Soth and his Reaper Army had been - up until now - held in reserve, a testament to Lord Kitiara’s remarkable military command.

    Blotting out the sun, a flying citadel came to hover low in the sky over the city, its shadow creeping over the last rays of hope. Blue dragons spread panic, blasting the sprawling, majestic architecture to rubble with their lightning breath. Draconians rained from the sky, leaping from the citadel to glide down and form ranks of roving patrols in the city streets.

    The army of the Blue Lady was fiercely loyal to its commander, and fought as such. Well-paid and highly disciplined, its ranks were made up of experienced veterans of the former Blue Dragonarmy, with many victories under its wing. Residents of Palanthas cowered in their homes and prayed, or ran wildly through the streets trying to reach the docks. Others weeped in alleys. Small contingents of Solamnic Knights made stand after stand, forced to retreat again and again. Soon, all that would be left at their backs was the sea.

    A lone Solamnic Knight rushed through an alley in the chaos, searching for allies. A blasted tower, blown apart by blue dragon breath, had rained down marble boulders on the rest of his contingent, decimating it, trapping his fellow knights under a ton of rubble. Whether by sheer chance, or by will of the gods, Sir Darvig Squireson was still alive.

    There are times when retreat from battle is, in the very end, the wisest choice. If there are no more knights left alive to fight, then the war is lost!

    The words of his father, Lord Knight Dero Squireson of Solanthus. Sir Darvig remembered those words now, as the prospects of defending the city grew bleak. The young Knight of the Crown had been present at the city gates, just hours ago, when Lord Soth had broken through, a scene that would forever haunt his days as well as his nights.

    Lord Soth, Knight of the Black Rose, mounted upon a nightmare with flaming eyes and hooves, rode straight for the gates...then stopped before them.

    “Lord of Palanthas,” called the death knight, voice hollow, as if it had just leaked out of the nearest coffin.

    “Surrender your city to Lord Kitiara. Give her the keys to the Tower of High Sorcery, name her the ruler of Palanthas, and you may live on in peace. Your citizens will be spared their lives, and your city will be spared destruction.”

    Lord Amothus stood upon the wall above. Few present could bear to look upon Lord Soth, eyes averted at their feet. But the Lord of Palanthas met the gaze of the Knight of the Black Rose, though his mouth was parched. He cleared his throat, and swallowed dryly.

    “We will buy neither peace nor beauty at the price of our freedom,” he called, mustering conviction.

    “Then buy it at the price of your lives!” Lord Soth ushered words of magic. The city gates froze over with a sheen of ice, and brave men shriveled. The gates blasted open in a wave of cold from beyond the grave. Lord Soth’s minions materialized, seemingly from thin air, charging into the city.


    Sir Darvig had run for his life, as many knights had. His contingent had regrouped shortly after, mustering in the Temple District near the Great Library, before the blasted temple had fallen and crushed them. The immense blue dragon responsible stuck around, circling for another pass. Darvig hustled across the open square, making for an alley, calling and rallying a few others caught out in the open, calling on them to take cover from the marauding dragon. One of them was striking. When he first saw her, Sir Darvig thought her to be the Golden General herself. She wore gleaming dragonmetal armor, and possessed the sort of ethereal beauty only attainable by elves, who were said to live for all eternity, their beauty everlasting. But when Darvig saw that the elf was alone and not accompanied by twenty gold and silver dragons, his hopes sprung a leak, deflating. She was alone, like him.

    The two had retreated into the alley together, followed by a dwarf and a kender that had fallen in behind them. The dwarf had been cursing loudly, swearing various oaths to Reorx that I have to leave out because they're mostly unprintable in a respectable, family tale such as this. The kender, looking to enter the Great Library, which seemed to be closed today for some reason, had been waiting nearby for a blue dragon to come and blast open the sealed doors. Why the Great Library was closed today, Echo could not imagine. Finally giving up since there were so many other exciting things happening, the kender quickly tagged along with the knight, elf, and dwarf running into an alley.

    Cariannan Oakleaf, the wearer of the dragonmetal armor, had finally reached Palanthas a few days ago. The elf, having come all the way from Silvanesti, had come for a singular purpose - and that purpose had nothing to do with being caught in the middle of a war of humans. She had been seeking her brother, an Aesthetic of the Great Library. She had traveled all this way to tell him that Silvanesti was free of Lorac’s Nightmare. He could come home. Cariannan had spoken to one of the Aesthetics...Bertrem, was his name. Bertrem had turned white as egg when Cariannan had mentioned her brother’s name to him. She soon learned that her brother had fled a month prior, after committing some sort of unthinkable and outright criminal act. No one knew where he had gone. Furious, Cariannan had demanded to see Astinus, but was declined by a meek but resolute Bertrem. Astinus had sealed himself into his chambers. He was not to be disturbed.
    Last edited by Bong Bellowsmoke; 03-15-2016 at 07:20 PM.
    The Red Condor shrieked at Sir Darvig in full wrath. Wings flapped storms of fire across the sky. "The Mage-God grows in power swifter than it appears to Paladine. This I know. A warning," Sargonnas told Darvigl, "for you to give to Paladine in your prayers."

    “I will,” Darvig uttered.

  3. #3
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    “Palanthas burns,” said Par-Salian, his face worn with worry, but it wasn’t the city that worried him, or its inhabitants. Some might say, that it was a rather suspicious attitude, had anyone known about it, for one who wore the White Robes.

    Highmage of the Orders of High Sorcery, Par-Salian watched the battle from hundreds of miles away, peering into a crystal ball in a candlelit chamber in the Tower of Wayreth. At his side was an old friend, Antimodes, who also wore the White Robes. As wizards, the stuffy air of the claustrophobic chamber didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest.

    “And Tarsis is there, my apprentice,” Antimodes added, after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps I should fetch him?”

    The old friends exchanged glances, a quirked eyebrow and a hint of a tired smile on each of their faces.

    “On Jenny?” Par-Salian asked, incredulously. Jenny was Antimodes’ donkey. “Won’t the battle be over by then?”

    Antimodes’ wise blue eyes sparkled with humor, warming his aged but handsome face. For a man of his years, he was said to still be quite popular with the ladies. At least, Antimodes thought, Par-Salian had not become wholly overwhelmed by the events happening, and was managing to retain some sense of humor, despite the fact that it rarely manifested even in normal, plain old regular times.

    “On second thought,” Antimodes mused, scratching the grey-white hairs of his short and neatly trimmed beard, “perhaps it is better that Tarvis is there. He might learn something we cannot see.”

    Par-Salian frowned at this, his expression a dark glower, his wrinkles thickening and weighing down his face. The two wizards turned their troubled expressions back to the crystal ball, its misty glow illuminating their visages like the skulls of ghostly ghasts. Both were silent, except for the small slurps of Antimodes sipping at his tarbean tea, which had grown cold after hours of scrying. The wizard's greatest fears were coming to pass. Tarvis Winterborne was not the only wizard in Palanthas on this fateful day. That was what haunted them. Slowly, the scrying eye drifted across the city and over the accursed Shoikan Grove and to the Tower of Palanthas, its spires of doom foreboding. But the magic eye could not penetrate the tower’s darkened walls, or even discover a tiny crack, or any other means to enter the cursed tower. Only the Master of Past and Present could do that. And that he did.

    Tarsis Winterborne stumbled over a broken barrel in an alley, his newly earned white robes stained with the retaliating splash of an inconveniently placed mud puddle. The young mage had come to Palanthas to get his quarterstaff repaired by an expert craftman and, by some twist of fate, found himself in a battle zone. Though many wizards (especially old ones, which most seemed to be these days) leaned on staves for walking sticks, Tarsis needed his crafted to perfection for another purpose. It was the focus of one of his most powerful spells, and he had formed an arcane bond with his staff years ago, around the time he had learned to cast his first cantrip. To Tarsis, his staff was priceless, nearly as valuable to him as his spellbook.

    Tarsis heard rushed bootsteps. He saw a Solamnic Knight round a corner nearby, accompanied by a woman and a dwarf, both armed to the teeth. A kender tagged along after them. The four then turned down another alley, having never spotted Tarsis, as if his muddy white robes had provided suitable camouflage. Tarsis thought for a moment, but made his decision in the blink of an eye. There was little love between the Knights of Solamnia and the Wizards of High Sorcery, but now was not the time for such petty concerns. Alone in a city under attack, Tarsis ran after them.
    Last edited by Bong Bellowsmoke; 10-18-2016 at 10:00 AM.
    The Red Condor shrieked at Sir Darvig in full wrath. Wings flapped storms of fire across the sky. "The Mage-God grows in power swifter than it appears to Paladine. This I know. A warning," Sargonnas told Darvigl, "for you to give to Paladine in your prayers."

    “I will,” Darvig uttered.

  4. #4
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    Over the harbor at the north end of the city, a fierce battle for aerial and marine dominance raged between bronze dragons and black. Lacking the discipline of blue dragons, black dragons were often assigned to marine assaults, where they had certain advantages. Lord Kitiara had directed her black wing to take the harbor, due to the black dragon's ability to breathe water. Unfortunately for some of the black dragon wing’s riders, they could not.

    One rider, a Dark Knight, fired an arrow from his bow from the back of his mount, piercing the chest of a Solamnic Knight riding a bronze dragon. The rider slumped dead in the saddle, too secured in place to slide off. As for the Dark Knight, it wasn’t the first time he’d killed a Solamnic Knight with a single arrow. In recent months, some of his fellow knights, noting his deadly accuracy with a bow, had stopped using his real name. As a gesture of fondness and respect, they simply started calling him "Killer".

    The bronze, with its rider flapping limply around on its back, roared in anger, swooping after Killer and his black dragon mount. Refusing Killer’s commands, as black dragons often did at the most unfortunate of times, the unreliable black dove for the cover of the sea. Killer braced himself, cursing. The dragon crashed into the waves of the bay at high speed, sending its bow-wielding rider into a desperate scramble for survival. There was no telling how deep the dragon would go, or if it would ever surface for that matter. The shock of hitting the water nearly tore Killer’s bow from his grasp. Using all his effort, he somehow managed to hold on to it, but swallowed copious amounts of sea water in the process, all the while consumed with struggling and fighting to stay in his saddle. His most prized possession, Killer would sooner drown, than let the sea claim his bow.

    Suddenly the black veered straight up, whooshing out of the bay like a gnomish 21-B Hex-Seeker Model II Torpedo, flapping its bat-like leathery wings with all its strength. The bronze, much larger and loftier, resumed pursuit, but had lost ground during the black’s underwater manuever. The black flew higher and higher. Killer was choking up salt water and regrouping from the wild ride, which was getting wilder by the second. Killer and the dragon - who mortals knew by the name Pitslang - had not been given much time to train together before the battle. Killer had been a last minute replacement for a bozak draconian, who had been mauled to death by Pitslang for some petty, unknown offense. Lord Kitiara greatly preferred humans to draconians, despising the latter. As such, the young Dark Knight was assigned to his first battle on dragonback. The problem was, from the first moment Killer had met Pitslang, the dragon had made one thing clear - it hated him.

    Pitslang fled upwards for the cover of a low cloud. But now, the bronze was gaining on it, pumping its much larger and more powerful wings. The bronze got close enough to lash out, latching its jaws onto the black’s tail and heaving. Pitslang was thrown into a tailspin, flailing down fifty feet or more before regaining control of its flight. The bronze had won the highground. It came roaring down in a dive of teeth. The dragons clashed violently, tumbling and plummeting. The bronze’s jaws had nearly swallowed the black’s head, and Pitslang couldn’t get it out. Ropes snapped as claws thrashed wildly. Wings buffeted Killer, knocking him around. The bronze thrashed and writhed more, when suddenly, more ropes snapped, flailing wildly in the sea wind. Pitslang rolled and squirmed to escape, and did, just as Killer was suddenly thrown from his dragonsaddle when the bronze pummeled him with its wing. In free fall, Killer plummeted downwards, down, down, hundreds of feet, crashing into the sea and vanishing beneath the waves.
    Last edited by Bong Bellowsmoke; 10-18-2016 at 10:06 AM.
    The Red Condor shrieked at Sir Darvig in full wrath. Wings flapped storms of fire across the sky. "The Mage-God grows in power swifter than it appears to Paladine. This I know. A warning," Sargonnas told Darvigl, "for you to give to Paladine in your prayers."

    “I will,” Darvig uttered.

  5. #5
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    The group of five, consisting of Sir Darvig, the elf, the dwarf, the kender, and Tarsis, stuck together as they navigated the treacherous allies of the city. Suddenly they exited an alley to stand on one of the main thoroughfares leading through Palanthas. Heads darted to the right, in response to a strangled cry turned gurgle. A lone draconian had just slain a wallowing fat man too exhausted to run any further. The draconian hastily darted off into an alley. As the man sighed his last ragged breath, and passed on to the River of Souls, the street became quiet. Too quiet. Deathly quiet. All up and down the war-torn street, windows and doors of shops and homes were nailed shut or shattered apart. There was wreckage and the corpses of the dead littered and strewn. Some of the dead clutched at their sword wounds, even in death, as fresh blood still pooled around them. Others were impossibly sprawled in various mangled postions. The eerie silence continued to reign. Not even a bug stirred.

    There was suddenly no breeze. A shivering, awful feeling, like the one that strikes the gut when an unfathomable and unthinkable truth has been realized, shrank the souls of all five persons present. There was a sound from behind them, like a bleat, and heads whirled to see nothing but a stray goat, confused and terrified, crossing the street to get to who knew where, but as if its life depended on it. Then suddenly and without warning, it dropped dead. A chilling breeze swept down the street.

    Lord Soth was waiting at the other end of the street, mounted upon his nightmare, which glared with hot red coals for eyes, stomping with its smoking hooves that never really seemed to touch all the way to the ground. Halted, the death knight’s purple-plumed helm slowly swiveled, until Soth gazed down the street toward the five individuals caught standing in the center of it. Hearts stopped, then beat three times faster as the death knight clearly took notice of them. Lord Soth’s eyes blazed with twin pinpoints of red-orange light, smoldering brightly from the darkest depths of his helm, seemingly from a place so far away as the Abyss. His ancient helm completely covered the rest of his face, if he had one. He wore a royal purple cape that flapped in the wind, even though there was no wind (something Echo found quite remarkable). The death knight’s armor was the style of the Solamnic Knights of old, except that it was tarnished and scorched, cursed by the gods. The rose that adorned his breastplate, long ago red when Soth had been a Knight of the Rose, was charred black. As such, the death knight had become known to all who feared him as the Knight of the Black Rose.

    Lord Soth’s ghastly entourage was at attention, in the wake of their lord. Thirteen skeletal warriors, once the most trusted of the Solamnic Knights under Lord Soth’s command, were clad in the same ancient armor, and held swords dripping with fresh blood, gripped by skeletal fingers. Their armor was rusty and rotting so that glimpses of yellowed bones could be seen through the gaps and chinks. Their helms had no visors, revealing expressionless skeletal faces. They had flickering eyes that glowed with the same ghastly light as their lord for all eternity. All thirteen were mounted on what could only be described as dead horses, yet, the mounts moved swiftly with surprising agility as the skeletal warriors shifted into rank and file - rank and file drilled and perfected over hundreds of years, as it would always be, until the end of time.

    Lord Soth paused in appraisal of what he saw, spotting the symbol of a crown. His gaze stayed fixed now on the one who wore the armor of a Solamnic Knight. Sir Darvig felt his soul wither to dust, scattering to the winds. The death knight dismounted, drawing his sword. In accordance with long-standing Solamnic tradition, it was dishonorable for a mounted knight to attack another knight who was without a mount. Lord Soth, his ancient armor wheezing and scraping as he clanked, took a few steps forward up the street, standing in front of his nightmare. As he spoke, his voice was gravel, seemingly issued from someplace far, far away. Somwhere like the Abyss, to be precise.

    “I have seen nothing but disgrace. The Solamnics flee and cower. They fear battle, as they fear death.”

    Lord Soth’s flickering eyes blazed brighter.

    “Cowards, all - a mockery of the knights of old, imposters clad in a knight’s attire, with helms crafted to mask their fear.”

    Unexpectedly, Soth bowed low, then raised his sword in a unique posture that followed an ancient Solamnic code still used in present times. The gesture was displayed before entering a duel to the death, against a foe presumed to be an honorable opponent.

    “Who will face death with honor?”

    Lord Soth pointed directly at Sir Darvig.

    “You! Announce your name, and face me. And die with honor, as a knight."

    OOC
    Lord Soth is 60 feet away from Sir Darvig. The rest of you are just behind Darvig. The nightmare is right behind Soth. The skeletal warriors are back about 20 feet from the nightmare.
    Good times!
    Initiative: Soth is holding. Its the party's turn.
    Last edited by Bong Bellowsmoke; 10-18-2016 at 10:14 AM.
    The Red Condor shrieked at Sir Darvig in full wrath. Wings flapped storms of fire across the sky. "The Mage-God grows in power swifter than it appears to Paladine. This I know. A warning," Sargonnas told Darvigl, "for you to give to Paladine in your prayers."

    “I will,” Darvig uttered.

  6. #6
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    The day had been one tragedy followed by another for Darvig and his fellow knights. He had seen too many innocent citizens fall this day, as well as countless brothers in arms. He had watched countless atrocities committed in the city of Palanthas while he fought to stop them, but had only been beaten back, unable to protect those in need. And when he had first laid eyes on the Knight of the Black Rose, he had felt the first pang of hopelessness of the battle. He had fled, on feet that had a mind of their own, only to find himself standing directly before that very same knight. It had become a waking nightmare.

    “I have seen nothing but disgrace. The Solamnics flee and cower. They fear battle, as they fear death.”

    Lord Soth’s flickering eyes blazed brighter.

    “Cowards, all - a mockery of the knights of old, imposters clad in a knight’s attire, with helms crafted to mask their fear.”

    Unexpectedly, Soth bowed low, then raised his sword in a unique posture that followed an ancient Solamnic code still used in present times. The gesture was displayed before entering a duel to the death, against a foe thought to be an honorable opponent.

    “Who will face death with honor?”

    Lord Soth pointed directly at Sir Darvig.

    “You! Announce your name, and face me. You will die with honor, as a knight."


    Sir Darvig glanced at the others near him. For some reason they had followed him during his exodus through the city while trying to regroup with his fellow knights, and he had led them to this very spot, putting their lives in extreme jeaopardy. And all because he and countless others had been unable to do anything to stop Lord Soth at the gates. Bowing his head in prayer momentarily, pleading to Paladine for forgivness and guidance, he stepped forward, finally ready to meet his fate, drawing his swords in answer to the Black Rose.

    Echoing Lord Soth’s salute with his own bastard sword, he stared directly ahead, meeting the horrifying gaze of the death knight before him. “I am Sir Darvig Squireson, Knight of the Crown, and loyal servant of Paladine,” he stated slowly, trying desperately to keep his voice from wavering and crackling with the fear that oozed from every pore of his body. However, at the mere mention of his sovereign deity, Paladine, his soul seemed to grow warm again, and his mind eased just slightly. “I will face you, if that is how it must be,” he finished, lowering his sword, his resolve as solid as the stone beneath his feet. He knew he would likely die this day, which he had known before the battle had begun, he just didn’t think it would be in such a manner.

    Looking over his shoulder to the others who were gathered with him, he smiled the smile of a man who was prepared to die so that they may live. “When the battle begins, run…I will do what I can for as long as Paladine sees fit,” he said, then turned to face Lord Soth, Knight of the Black Rose.

    OOC
    Move forward 30’ to address Lord Soth, taking full defense as a standard action.
    Last edited by Dorgyn Angylaxe; 08-18-2010 at 10:24 PM. Reason: Finally figured out the correct font!
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  7. #7
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    Bhatair Splitstone knew fear. Mind-numbing, cold, heart-stopping fear. It was a new sensation for the cleric and one he'd be happy if he never felt again. Never before had an armor-clad figure made it impossible for him to reach for his trusted warhammer. But this particular suit of armor was too much for Bhatair. A single tear ran down Bhatair's cheek and into his immense beard, a tear shed for the countless lives claimed by this monstrosity and a tear shed for the dwarf's own failing.

    For he had failed. Lord Soth had by virtue of his mere presence reduced Reorx's servant to a statue composed of terror. Bhatair fought through the haze of fear that had imprisoned reason and instinct. He battled for control over his own mind. He won. Raising a hand to the soothing cold steel of the hammer hanging from a chain, his fingers closed around the medallion and the haze was lifted, the god's presence felt by Bhatair.

    "The suit of armor's baitin' ye, lad. Don't throw yer life away like this. Live to fight another day!" the cleric shouted. Like the sensation of fear that still stabbed at his mind and heart, the notion of running as a new one. But the knight was a fool for thinking he could somehow delay the monster. Better to retreat and live to fight another day.
    Heine Kim Stick

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    Cariannan Oakleaf knew no fear, or least she knew no panic, but even her god granted courage was being streched thin by the black abomination that was before her. A single drop of cold sweat ran down the back of her neck even as she drew up her shoulders and stood tall in defiance of Soth's reign of terror.

    "You've proven your courage, Sir knight," the elf maid stated stiffly. "Now prove your intelligence. There is no dishonor in a tacticle retreat. The greater shame lies in offering up your life to one who can hold your soul in thrall!

    E'li's chosen warrior spoke to the other unfortunates now, her eyes never leaving the death knight and his minions.

    "Run for the alley and make for the harbor, if you can," she hissed. "I'll take up the rear."

    OOC:
    holding for now
    "Argent and Rukin would fight over a goblin turd if they thought it was important to the other one." ~ Tauren Kai-Jere, Chatzy, 10/6/11

  9. #9
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    "Woah." Echo, being a kender wasn't often speechless. But this. This looked pretty serious. Echo knew that Palanthas was in trouble, but if no one was there to write down the story, then no one would know it. This guy with the glowing eyes, he looked like a pretty tough cookie, and Echo wasn't particularly interested in being made dead by this guy, but he was also pretty fascinating. Echo reached into the pouch in which the special pen and inks for the Storykeeper Family's Official Kender History lived and pressed fingers to glass to revel in their coldness. This had to be written down if these two guys were going to fight at the very least. Echo would take arm notes again, and write it down later if necessary.

    OOC
    Knowledge (history):1d20(1)+10 = 11
    Knowledge (nobility & royalty): 1d20(5)+10= 15
    Knowledge (religion): 1d20(2)+10= 12
    Will use 2 moves to pull pen and inks out if things turn to battle!

  10. #10
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    "I don't... what are yo... ARE YOU MAD?! HE'LL ANNIHILATE YOU!"

    Tarvis looked around at the people who were standing here, most trying to convince the knight not to fight. For Tarvis, this just made no sense. Throwing the knight's life away wouldn't do any good. Soth had a nightmare and they couldn't outrun that, so he could easily catch the rest of them after he dealt with the knight. Running together had a little better odds... not much, but a little. Maybe they could stay alive until he got bored...

    Tarvis' mind started rushing through the possibilities, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do as a Wizard of the White Robes in this situation.

    ---
    OOC:

    I want to know if, should it come to it, "buffing" the Darvig would be considered dishonorable.

    Knowledge(Nobility)

    1d20(17)+13 = 30
    "The sword said nothing, but it brought out everything in him. All the hatred for being trapped in this time, the desire for vengeance..." -Antog Wolfherder, Key of Destiny, ICRP Forums

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