View Full Version : Welcome to Fallhaven
Kulture
2010-03-09, 09:40 AM
The heady scent of incense and mulled wine hits you before you can even open your eyes, but already you can tell the winter festivities are in full swing.
The soft, crisp crunch of conjured snow beneath your feet is welcoming, and already you can feel a clarity in the evening air.
Drunkards laugh amongst themselves. Nobles are quick to falter under the intoxicating influence of the spirits that stick to their chilled palms.
The guard posted as your escort for the festivities turns to you with a dry smile, betraying his inexperience and young age, for an elf.
"I think you'll find Fallhaven's high society has a lot to offer you."
Looking about it appears as if every edifice was bulging with the local aristocracy, ranging from humble and dower upper classmen to decandent, arrogant upstarts.
The refreshments tables replace each alleviated glass with a dull spark, with no glass ever cooling, even on a night such as this.
"So," Begins your escort, "Where to?"
The festivities don't please her at all. One might even be brought to the conclusion that this whole celebration is nothing more than an annoyance to her. Fools drinking more than enough of that wine and bumping into eachother, acting merry. Stupid people. They should all just-- she sighs, uncomfortable. As always.
"Straight to where the most powerful wizards, sages and clerics reside." she demands of the elf. What would he know about what this place has to offer her? Ugh. This place isn't for her. She's destined for a quiet library where the most noise comes from two mages barking at eachother about the purpose of particular reagents in certain spells. Neither book nor scholar has been able to help her condition thus far.
Great. With the celebration, their casters might be busy, be it with unimportant things like getting drunk or helping make the festivities more interesting. Vanessa grumbles.
Kulture
2010-03-09, 12:42 PM
The young guard nods to one of his compatriots behind you, a taller, obviously elder human with blue tattoos covering what his plate armor does not.
"Corporal Greggs." His voice like granite slabs, matching his face, helm at his side, sitting on his belt beside a longsword.
"If you'd follow me, please."
He leads those willing to follow to a small enclave within the festivities, a heavy set figure in modest fullplate sits playing chess with a robed figure, and it is noteworthy that they play not with pieces but with tiny constructs, each whirring or grinding as it moves under its master's control.
The armored figure is in fact a warforged, and a rather archaic model at that, though it shows signs of heavy customisation and anyone with a keen sense for merchandise can tell that the construction was performed by one of the early pioneers of mechanisation.
The figure in burgandy robes is an elf, and is rather more chipper than most of his compatriots, purveying a sense of comeraderie and playfullness, a perpetual smirk on his features.
besides the pair, there are another 2 people within this area, one is a younger elf with long red hair and matching robes, he also wears a pair of spectacles through which he scours an obviously arcane text, making notes in the margins with a pen.
The final figure is the only female of the 3, again an elf, but appears to be the elder elf's bodyguard, judging by her stance and weaponry.
Dressed in tough, alchemically treated clothes in a militaristic camouflage pattern, she eminates no smell and takes in her surroundings with obvious ease. On her back she wears a long bow and quiver, both of fine quality.
She also wears a thin, elven blade of ornate design.
Upon your arrival all bar the young elf reading the book turn to you, the elder elf male quirks an eyebrow, still smiling while the female merely looks at you, completely neutral.
"Can we help you, Miss?" his words are sincere, though his eyes dilate slightly as he looks at Vanessa.
nysisobli
2010-03-09, 01:01 PM
Esalis, a tall man in golden robes looked upon the motley assorment of people here. He began scetching pictures of each person here and began numbering them from 1-100 based on some unknown scale. Looking at the town his voice rings out.
I am Esalis wishing to breathe the sweet air of your people, perhaps you can take me to the person who is in charge of you guardsmen, i have urgent matters to discuss with them.
Strange people around her. Strange guards she would rather not talk to - which she doesn't, thankfully. No need to respond to someone who doesn't ask questions. Still, it makes her uncomfortable. She doesn't have any guards. Catching view of the two playing chess, Vanessa isn't surprised at all. Best not to stare: they might catch her watching them. "I'm looking for a way to strip someone entirely of their magical abilities, or find a charm of immense power that blocks magic entirely. It has to be much, much stronger than the typical anti-magic charm."
She reaches into her bag, trying to find something to show him. She continues to try, and... well, with her inability to find the object she's looking for, it's becoming slightly strange. Upset at this, she sets the bag on the ground and kneels down, digging. She sets a broken talisman to the side, followed by a journal. The journal's cover looks like someone tried to draw something on it, only to become upset with the art and try and scribble all over it to make it disappear. Eventually, she stands, presenting the talisman to him. Obviously an anti-magic charm - a strong one, at that - and it's broken. Whatever tried to cast magic in its presence simply sheded all protection it would offer clean off of the thing, rendering it of no use other than a paperweight.
Soon after follows the journal, as she flips it to the back pages: a long, long list of common methods for breaking magic, ranging from rituals to runes to incantations. All of them are crossed out. She flips page after page, method after method having proved to fail. After presenting these objects to him, she simply remains silent, offering him time to think over the things presented to him. She keeps the story vague - there's no need to tell him her life story. All that has ever succeeded in doing is wasting people's time.
nysisobli
2010-03-09, 01:27 PM
What are you looking for? Esalis looks at the person digging into the bag, He has issues telling gender from just looking.
Vanessa is a bit... uncomfortable. This person just yelled out and brought a bunch of attention towards himself - and perhaps to her as well. "I was, umm... just looking for my journal and charm..." she barely squeaks above a whisper.
Kulture
2010-03-09, 02:51 PM
Corporal Greggs, The elves and the warforged exchange looks as if deliberating something.
Greggs turns to the man in Gold robes and answers mechanically.
"The Captain is out on business, of which I'm not under any circumstance to discuss."
The elder elf, on the other hand examines the trinket and scans the journal briefly.
"If these methods have failed you, I may have a source for something alittle more potent, but it may cost you dearly when you reach him."
With that the elf hands you a small piece of parchment, already magically inscribed with a map leading to a small tavern on the edge of the Festival's perimeter.
You remember the tavern as one known for its interesting clientelle, normally aiming towards a mix of mercenaries, would-be warrior poets and the odd charnal hound. It goes by the name "The wanderer's rest."
"You'll know him when you see him. Tell him Dardioc sent you."
PW={3000}
It'll cost her - as it always does. Wonderful. She should begin another list: 'Things that I bought that were supposed to work, then they broke immediately when I wore them.' She looks at the map - did he just carry around things like this? Maybe the young elf had lead her directly where she wanted to go - someone of such skill at this craft that simply touching a page created the map. "I see... umm, thanks." she nods and quickly turns around, walking off. Not towards her destination, just away from everyone: great. He told her 'you'll know when you see him.' - "I'm certain I won't." she tells herself aloud. Talking to herself.
She finds a bench to simply relax alone for a moment. Mercenaries. They're dangerous people who will do anything for money, and they'll even do certain barbaric things without need for coins at all. She has to go into the heart of them all. "Why? Why do I have to do this? What did I do to deserve this?" Reaching into her bag, she finds another small book, which she begins to write in.
A couple angry pages of text later, she folds it up, puts it back in her satchel, and begins her journey through the streets, following the map. Maybe the place wasn't as intimidating as it sounded. The scary thing wasn't the mercenaries inside, but the fact that it's mixed between many people. She's trying to find one person between everyone there.
"I hope this ends well."
Kulture
2010-03-10, 04:01 PM
Before you is a relatively small tavern, looking to be barely 2 floors in height.
Despite its reputation, The Wanderer's rest is a rather tastefully decorated establishment. Even just looking at the storefront, you can see deep tones of good quality hardwoords winding through the building, and brass fittings where appropriate.
There is the quiet, graceful tones of a bard's guitar, played in a finger style.
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cW82NEivjo)
The smell of the festival fades into the ether as you approach, replaced by the smells of metallic tinged oils and alcohol strong enough that the vapour alone picks at your nostrils.
The occupants of the bar vary greatly.
One man sits at a large round table with his back facing the entrance, he is in his forties and wears armor made from a mix of fine cloth, scaled, studded leather and metal plates over which he wears a fine, brown cloak, now slung over the chair.
Another man, this time a young elf, sits playing a guitar, and is the source of the music.
He sits across from the armored man, clad in fine vestments, though they are entirely unremarkable in design.
The instrument he holds is well worn, and is likely an old work-horse instrument.
Neither pay much attention, both more content by themselves.
a female elf tends the bar, wearing a mid-drift baring cotton shirt and long twill dress.
The final occupant is a warforged, who is strangely obvious in his origins, due in no small part to the flesh still incororated into his design. You have already heard of this individual as Thorre, a rather infamous rogue tinker and excommunicated mechanist, thrown out of the union for self experimentation.
He sits by himself, adjusting a small mechanism, occasionally giggling to himself.
The bartender smirks as she notices you,
"Fresh one, eh?"
Her voice is like tainted honey, with obviously self-centered amusement offset by the tone, painting it with strangely compelling sincerity.
"Name your poison."
It smells of alcohol in here. Disgusting. Thankfully the bartender is... well, she's prettier than her. She'll hopefully distract the drunk men who are looking for someone to sleep with. The bartender asks her if she would like to purchase any poison in the world - to kill people with? No, wait, she asked her if she has any poison. Perhaps she wishes to purchase some. The result has her standing there staring at the elf, dumbstruck. Trying to form an conclusion - her thinking of the matter can be visibly seen.
"I don't... really... want poison... nor do I have any..."
So, she begins to sneakity sneak off to the other end of the bar, to an alone little place that she can spy from. Daltron. Dalrog? Dugald? Damnit. The name - the name of the elf she was supposed to present to the strange person! She didn't write it down! Please be somewhere on the map... she reads over the map, praying to whatever god above or below that it might be somewhere on there. Glances change from the audience to the map... that annoying music wasn't helping. The strings are plucked and leak beautiful, relaxing tunes into the air - tunes that interfere with her thoughts.
Sigh. She should have asked for a description. "I am never falling for that again." she softly mutters to herself. Sure. Yeah. I'll absolutely be able to find someone in a tavern amongst all these strange people.
Gauntlet
2010-03-11, 08:09 PM
In a shady corner of the inn, a bulky Warforged leans back against the wooden wall (which is bending visibly). In his hand he holds a heavy ceramic mug, filled with a substance which seems to be glowing a pale blue. He nods at Vanessa when she glances at him, and returns to his drink. His other hand holds a quill, with which he occasionally seems to make notes or draw something. The paper he writes on appears to be floating in midair, but is apparently solid enough to support being written on.
Gauntlet wears a tool belt and a long coat (mostly just for the pockets). He left his glaive at the door- he's a regular here and doesn't feel he will need it.
Kulture
2010-03-12, 01:06 PM
The middle-aged human drains the last of his crucible's contents and breezes from his seat fluidly.
The man is physically imposing at a rather substantial 6'7, a knee length surcoat criss-crossed with varied armor types, crude in design but adept in manufacture.
His hair is dull, premature grey and his pale skin shows signs of scarring.
His eyes are hidden behind a pair of goggles with expertly cut gem lenses, arranged in an array of magnifications on different rotating, modular swivels.
You see no weapons as he approaches the bar, though you feel ill at ease.
"Same again, Asula."
His voice is low, controlled and precise.
The elf merely nods and reaches below the bar, revealing an insulated copper flask.
What flows from it brings with it a horrifying, unworldly stench, as if the phlegethon itself flowed from the opening of the flask.
The fluid resembles rotten mercury,exuding a dull glow as it hits the crucible.
The human takes his seat, this time on a stool at the bar, sipping the deadly-looking brew with the ease another would water.
"Don't know how you can stomach that swill."
The elf's nose crinkles at the words, as well as the smell.
"Honestly, Wyatt, that stuff'll kill you one of these days, then Dardioc'll have my arse on a platter if things all go vertically south."
Wyatt shrugs his shoulders, eliciting an angry muttering from Asula, a lock of dye-black hair springing out of place.
A small smile plays upon Wyatt's face for a moment before it passes.
Huh. A psychotic warforge-engineer who is laughing at his own work, a strange warforge who is writing on floating paper, an elven barmaid, a bard, and a simple man who is drinking at the bar. Take your pick, none of these seem to stand out - except for the warforged maniac, but she isn't stepping within ten feet of that... thing. Reaching into her bag, she plucks from it her own flask - one might confuse it for alcohol, but it's water. Paranoid? Yes. But she also won't be the first one on the ground if someone decides that poisoning the drinks is a fun idea.
Darlock. Darson. Dangleton. "Dardioc." she overhears. That sounds strikingly familiar. No, that's definitely the name - she might not have the best of memory, but hearing it twice, she's sure of it. Her attention shifts to the goggle-wearing patron.
He towers over her in size. He wears armor. Those goggles probably served a purpose for being worn. He's scarred. All of this combined has her sitting on the barstool simply staring at his direction, intimidated. He doesn't sound or look like the cooperative or nice type. "No, now's the time - if you wait any longer, the conversation will shift, and entrance to the conversation will become more complex." she thinks to herself.
So, standing and dragging herself over towards the man, she begins to speak.
"I was sent here by said elf." she states.
Kulture
2010-03-12, 02:22 PM
Wyatt turns slowly in his seat, the man lightly sniffing at the air.
"I thought I smelled a mage."
The man's words are an equal mix of intrigue and understanding.
A trio of viewing lenses rotate over Wyatt's right eye before he nods lightly.
"Powerful, very much so. but lacking in finesse."
Before he can utter another word, Thorre makes his presence felt as a hand resembeling a spiked gauntlet thuds into the Mahogony counter, hissing with a strange blue aura.
The tinker stands in at a mere 5'11, but his rather crude mechanics increase his bulk dramatically. A shallow, sharp elven face sits atop a mountain of cogs, hydrolics and adamant plate armour.
A wide rictus stretches painfully across his features.
"Your boy Dardioc's sending pre-gnostics here?"
Thorre's demeanor quickly changes in demeanor from manic to crudely spat words like broken glass.
"Are you trying to get us all killed you useless old Hasbeen!?!
"May I remind you that you are merely tolerated, not welcomed, Thorre."
Wyatt's gaze doesn't even stray from Vanessa and the space around her.
His expression relays analysis and calculation.
She seems frightened by everything happening. "Smelling" a mage isn't something she's ever heard come out of the mouth of... well, anything. He continues to judge her, as if she had some sort of value standing before him. The planet-cracking fist of Thorre collides with the bar - it makes her jump slightly, as she was focused on the man before her before her up until that moment. The maniac remains a maniac - he is simply a rude one.
However, one thing confuses her. "Get them all killed?" she softly mutters, thinking over those words a bit too much. No. Her ability wouldn't kill them - she'd die before them, definitely. However, this elf-affiliate may have considered her a mage before considering it a curse - as most do. Great magical abilities are supposed to be a blessing, after all. If only they knew...
"I need a way to stop the magic. Forever. Some sort of magic-blocking charm, or being stripped of it entirely." she includes to his analysis, which to this moment continues to make her feel strange.
Kulture
2010-03-12, 04:25 PM
Wyatt furrows his brow.
"Child, you've got talent most would kill their own grandmothers for."
Wyatt's words are somewhat fatherly and world weary, he doesn't seem disappointed and merely chuckles softly to himself.
"You just need to learn to control it, and I have methods for that."
"Don't you EVER Ignore me, you insolent, bloody wretch!!"
Thorre swings his clockwork fist with force enough to throw a carriage across a road, but it lacks a certain something.
Finesse.
Particularly when the contents of a crucible, tossed absent-mindedly over a shoulder, crashed across his eyes.
The contents splash across his flesh and armour, corroding both with equal ease, like a glutton at a buffet.
The screaming and howling that follows cuts through the miasma filled air like a cleaver.
Wyatt stands, unmoving and maintaining his calm demeanor, shifting the goggles from his eyes and allowing them rest around his neck, a pair of sky blue orbs stand in stark contrast to his ragged features.
"You're afraid of hurting people, both yourself and others, I can smell it on you."
The chuckle returns.
"Show me what you're capable of, after all, Thorre here can survive it."
Thorre merely writhes on the floor in evident agony as the metallic 'brew' leeches into his few remaining capillaries.
Vanessa watches the warforged sing a painful song in the tavern - it's... unpleasant to watch. The result of a thrown crucible. Whatever that supposed "person" was drinking would probably kill her, she bets. "Is he going to be alright?" she asks first and foremost: because, well, that wasn't necessary. Pointless violence isn't something she supports.
"I'd also learn how to... ahem, not be smelled by other people." she replies to his constant statements of how she smells to him. How anyone can smell anything but the environment in here is beyond her. Damn. He can smell her -feelings-; that's almost scary.
"I'll never cast this horrible magic in any public place. It does terrible things that break every rule of magic I've ever read about. Wouldn't it be more important to attempt the methods of controlling it rather than putting on a demonstration?" If he can smell her feelings, he'll know her immediate discomfort with casting these spells. Hesitance. She even tries to work around casting by proposing skipping to the theoretical way to 'master' this ability.
It isn't anything that should be mastered. It should be destroyed and left at that, so she can live an ordinary life as an ordinary woman and never look back on magic again.
Kulture
2010-03-12, 07:12 PM
"I could seal the lay lines of magic that sit in your flesh as we speak. But you'd never survive the procedure, and I made a vow never to take another life."
Wyatt nudges the now unconcious mechanicaly enhanced elf at his feet.
"All that work and he's still too dumb to stay alive."
Wyatt reaches down picking the unconcious elf up with one hand rather comfortably and hefting him over his shoulder, motioning for Vanessa to follow with the other.
Without a further word he carries the tinker up the flight of stairs.
She follows. As strange as this man was, as odd as everything is about him, he's so unique that perhaps this was the one that would solve her problem. He picks up the miniature giant like he weighs nothing and brings him with him... A sigh escape her as she follows up the stairs, trying to prepare herself for events to come. This wouldn't be simple, and ultimately it would cost her dearly: that's something she keeps in mind.
Still, this man is dangerous. She'll have to be careful around him, just in case. He's still a stranger to her, after all.
Kulture
2010-03-12, 07:49 PM
Wyatt's pace and demeanor remain cheerful as he carries the demi-elf up the stairs before throwing him the last 5 feet to a free bed.
"Don't let him intimidate you, he's so utterly inept that his 'perfect metal body' is more a hazard if it flies apart at every joint."
The music of the young elf returns the bar to its initial state, while a bartendress mends a dented counter with a scroll.
"I still wonder why it is that you really want rid of your magic, is it the disorder it brought? Is it the ridicule of your peers as an apprentice? Perhaps it's the destruction it caused, judging by the pheremones you produce."
Wyatt's sits on another free bed in the open plan living quarters of the inn, the frame warping under his weight despite his rather thin frame.
"The fear is so thick on you I can damn near taste it, but I can detect a little hope on you still. You've not given up."
Wyatt reaches into a footlocker beside the bed, revealing a small, slender blade, not more than a long-knife, but inscribed with runes completely alien to the viewer.
He holds the handle toward vanessa
"Try it, Feel if it cuts the air or not."
"It's because I am forced to cast spells every day, without knowing what the result will be. I might try and cast a harmless spell, only to open a demonic gate. I might try and start a fire and instead turn the object into stone. I might be trying to conjure water and instead turn my arm into a tentacle. I never want to cast magic again. I want to live as a plain person."
She frowns. Every word she said is true, and she's got the scars to prove it. The world would be so much more fruitful to her if she didn't have this problem... but, she doesn't have time to think through the thought that plagues her day and night before a strange blade is offered to her. She slowly reaches out and grips the thing, moving it about with her arm ever-so-slightly... odd...
"I want to be rid of this curse before I kill myself, which could be any time I cast a spell."
Kulture
2010-03-13, 06:35 AM
As you pick up the blade the runes flare with colours from every spectrum of light.
You feel the magic bound to your body drawn into the hilt, and as it does so you feel lighter, as does the blade.
"Your rogue magical energies won't be much of a problem with that, it was forged for the likes of Tenser.
You see, magic is an awful lot like emotion, it's easier to control if you internalise it and use it as a force to improve yourself."
Wyatt smiles warmly, handing over the blade's scabard as he does.
"I apologise for not introducing myself properly, earlier, my name is Wyatt Rathan.
Magic energy channeling from her into this blade - it's only a matter of a couple moments before she panics and places the thing on a nearby desk/chair/anything within immediate reach. Usually when trying to channel energy through objects like this, they end up being destroyed in the process. But this was a blade; an edged object that could break and easily cause grievous wounds to the both of them.
After a short moment of silence as she stares at the strange dagger, "Vanessa Lenheim" she responds. "It looks... expensive. I'd rather not break it. I mean, what... how is this going to help exactly? I've tried to "internalize" it, but it doesn't work. Not in the least. This is much, much different." He tries to compare her magic to others; it's not the same. She breaks the rules. All is well, though. He's probably never seen something like this before.
Kulture
2010-03-13, 05:11 PM
"This blade is rather potent, I've seen a great many spells channeled and fed to it. Such classics as "Apocalypse from the sky" and "Genesis" among them."
He leads you to just below a discreet hatch in the ceiling, evidently leading to the roof.
"I believe a demonstration may be in order, and what better place but under the stars?"
He holds onto a rung of the ladder, facing away from it and flings his feet upward, propelling himself through the hatch and out onto the roof.
"Care to join me?"
She grasps the blade once more, securing it and taking it up to the roof. Upon standing there, she looks about, obviously judging the worst possible situation that could happen, to which she replies "Well... it isn't the safest place, but it's good enough."
After a moment of surveying which is the safest direction to cast a spell in, she grips the dagger and points it in that safe direction. "Please be lucky." she tells herself. Without another word, she begins to will that magic within her to work, casting a spell in the fashion she's grown so accustomed to: no prerequisites, no words, no runes, simply willing it.
1000PW Cast -> {2000}
Kulture
2010-03-13, 11:40 PM
An arcane glyph glows in the sky as the loosed magics course through the air.
A great clatter, like the peel of thunder rattles the sigil's surface as something attempts to breech it.
The claws that breech the sigil exceed 2 feet in length, coming togeather into great hands of their owner, a skeletal creature, with skin stretched over bone like that of a drum.
a pair of great, membranous wings stretch out into the crisp, night sky.
Silently aloft, the creature's eyes glow a luminescent blue, stark against the black sky.
"Impressive, perhaps the first time I've seen somebody summon a Dracolich."
Wyatt smiles broadly as the beast charges.
He merely points at the creature with a solitary, gauntleted hand and snaps his fingers.
The creature's skull caves in like a tin tray beneath a giant's boot.
Wyatt reaches upward as the remains pass over head, his gauntlets carving great ravines in the Dracoliche's body as it disappears back into the ether from wence it came.
"I see your problem. But I believe it can be remedied without severing your arcane power."
Her eyes grow wide as she summons something - exactly the type of thing that she's afraid of. Something that wouldn't be obedient, if anything dangerous to everyone around. For now, she's deaf to what Wyatt says. There's no chance of casting an unsummoning ritual on her next attempt - she waves her dagger-wielding hand at the thing, about ready to cast another spell, then... it's head is destroyed, the body returning back where it belonged. The whole affair has her looking around, making sure they didn't grab too much attention. After all, summoning things like that in a town is usually enough to be executed.
The blade finds it's way in that sheath she was given as she places both of her hands on her head, obviously going mildly insane. Wearing a pseudo-smile on her face, she begins making chittering noises - fragments of words as if countless sentences wanted to roll out, yet never did. A heavy sigh and her arms find their ways at her side once more as she finds a place to collapse and rest.
Speaking in a low-tone, annoyed voice, "That's acceptable, but that thing- I don't think you- everyone is very lucky that you're here right now, or else that could have ended horribly for everyone. Any solution that prevents things like that from happening is fine by me - just give me instructions." One hand now rests against her face - uncomfortable. Still uncomfortable. Destined to always be uncomfortable. "If this continues for years, something truly, truly horrible is going to appear. Far worse than a... "dracolich""
Kulture
2010-03-16, 02:05 PM
"Kid, I've seen more casters than you've seen people on the street. There isn't always some looming threat to bring us togeather, and there certainly isn't always some ancient prophecy foretelling the coming of some hoity-toity 'chosen one' or any of that spiel.
But there will always be people.
Weak, strong, good, evil."
Wyatt secretes a hip-flask from his inside pocket, apathetically taking a draught.
"Fallhaven is the sort of place so far up itself that it can taste it. No one will be missed because resurrection spells are a silver a six.
The people in this city will keep going forever, though they don't even have a soul to sell."
Wyatt sits wearily at the edge of the roof, watching the fireworks arc through the sky.
There is a bright amethyst colored flare in the skies above the district, a voice between gutteral growl and a fevered scream rises in Wyatt's throat.
"Close your eyes NOW!"
As you feel your eyes clamped shut, both from compulsion and exerted telekinetic force you can still here Wyatt's voice.
Low. Controlled. Disonantly calm.
"Someone's tampered with the display,
That was a mark of death. It's them.
We need to get to the festival NOW!"
Without a further word Wyatt jumps down through the hatch, you can hear him begin to muster the tavern's occupants.
"Contact at the festival! They just lit the sky up with a fething Mark of death."
Wyatt's voice suddenly booms like thunder.
"MOVE NOW!"
The voice is followed by the stomping of feet and the clanks of armor and weapons.
Those of you in the bar currently can see Wyatt grab his cape and a before unseen wooden fencing waster (or merely a wooden sword to those unfamiliar) before barreling through the doorway, knocking the door off its hinges in the process.
He is swiftly followed by the young elf bard whose longsowrd soon clatters from its scabbard.
Gauntlet
2010-03-17, 08:32 AM
Gauntlet is leaning against the wall outside, his glaive in one hand and a mug shattered on the ground next to him. He shudders, creaks slightly, and pulls himself back to his feet. "Wyatt. Mark of Death, probably empowered and heightened as well. I only saw the reflection in the window, but I would guess at least two people cast that. Could've been only one, but it would be either a deity or the kind of overchanneling which will put you in hospital for a week.
The warforged falls into step next to Wyatt. Any ideas?
Kulture
2010-03-17, 12:27 PM
"Ritualised. Likely with sacrifices to offset the trauma of a spell of this scale."
A group of would-be saviours builds up around you, but few can keep up with Wyatt's pace, and even you feel as though your pace is somewhat faster than normal.
Up ahead you see platoons of troops wearing all-enclosing armor, wielding tower shields and large rifles, large enough that the bayonet at the end of each barrel resembles a long-sword.
"Good to see the knights Harquebus are joining us."
It's the elven bard, barely keeping pace with the aid of his magic.
There is a loud clank as one of the knights hits the ground, arrows jutting out of every seem of his armor.
The thunder of the rifles and the shattering of wood and masonry follows as the knights unleach a volley into the rooftops, aiming for the target darting from crenelaton to crenelation.
"That's odd. I, too, have seen more casters than I've seen people on the streets." Such a statement puts a small smirk across her face. As she listens to his philosophical ramblings, she stares at the fireworks. They are beautiful... until her eyes somehow jam themselves shut and she finds herself being yelled at. This has her standing, looking at him in immediate discomfort. It all happens like a blur to her - something about a mark of death. Not being an adventurer, crusader or anything of the type, it isn't her duty to fight marks of evil.
One thing remains, though; this Wyatt man might know a way to help her.
Grabbing that strange runic dagger and placing it away, she chases after him. How she hates yelling. How she hates everything like this. She was supposed to be happy inside a cottage, perhaps raising a family and nibbling on dinner while sewing something together - likely a dress or so. However, in her life, she had drawn a terrible card. A card that couldn't be re-drawn. Great. She hears all sorts of sounds of war ahead. Sounds that yell at her to stop, turn around, and wait it out. Why was she moving forward? Why did she continue, even as discharge after discharge of those terrible bullet-firing devices echoed throughout the city?
Kulture
2010-03-17, 03:49 PM
The dissonant, arhythmic screech of a viol carves the air as the alleyway walls of the city nearby bloom with light.
The unnatural sounds that follow send several of those mere brawlers weeping from this place.
Utterly alien, unnatural creatures claw their way from crevices unfit for their size as a silhouetted figure on the rooftop plays that otherworldly music, eyes gleaming silver and row upon row of filed sharp fangs reflecting the glows the summoning sigils produce.
Those of you familiar with planar travel in the outer realms will be familiar with half-farspawn creatures and the Tsochar.
A full 9 layers of hell break loose in Fallhaven's streets, with knights harquebus holding their ground against the abominations as they slaver onward.
Wyatt's waster shatters bones as it is brought down upon a grey-render's clavical, rendering it paralysed before he eviscerates a Tsochar with his free gauntlet, movements fluid, but controlled.
That's when it arrives.
It soars on the miasma with tattered wings, as if mocking its origins.
It silently touches down amongst a group of mercenaries, not even moving.
The decay quickly grips their bodies, withering flesh to husk as otherworldly tendrils lash out and twist head from body.
A rippling mass of rotten flesh twice the height of any man amongst the defenders.
A Half-farspawn Angel of decay.
Her feet find it harder and harder to move forward as she can clearly see the gigantic angel-beast before her. There's also the front line that is quickly becoming more of a bloody stain on the ground than a defensive wall... upon noticing the strange beasts crawling out of places they should rather not, "Nice nightmare, but i'm ready to wake up." she thinks to herself.
Waking up from her thoughts, she's quite aware that everything here is real. The thing. The people. The music from the roof. It's now that the same legs that lead her here take her to a place to hide - somewhere she can peek over while being protected from everything. Dying didn't sound particularly fun. Not today. Why did she even come here? Casting anything would be dangerous to everything, especially the people who were still alive.
So, she continues to peek and observe over this small wall, ever ready to duck and hide, but not so much help to raise arms against this horrible invading force.
Kulture
2010-03-18, 03:31 PM
The blades of the dead spring into the air with a wave of Wyatt's gauntleted hand, looming over head like birds of prey.
As each blade falls it falls as thousands of razor sharp shards, dicing several abominations into fine chunks.
Wyatt wipes the blood out of his eyes.
His metal wrapped fingers twitch in their burnished housings as the angelic visade makes slow, deliberate steps towards him through the crowd, butchering the unfortunate few between the creature and its target.
Gauntlet
2010-03-19, 04:39 AM
Gauntlet pulls a wand from his pocket and flicks it. The fleeing crowd splits, pushed to relative safety by an unseen force. The artificer quickly switches the wand for a second, inlaid with silver which seems to glow slightly. Rather than cast with it, he places it in a slot in his glaive with a snap.
"Ready when you are."
She remains semi-hidden, watching the battle unfold. Thankfully, it would seem that there were plenty enough of experienced fighters to hold the line - enough so, that she wouldn't be necessary. It's a shame - to dispell her magic like this would put it to some use, but why, then, does she find herself behind this miniature wall?
"Because I'm a coward." she figures.
A very living, breathing coward, who is perfectly fine with the place which she stands. Still - for something like this to just happen in the middle of a town, it lacks sense. Taking advantage of her safety, she looks about, trying to learn or figure out anything of particular interest.
Kulture
2010-03-19, 10:37 AM
Broken bodies decompose into black sludge in a matter of moments as the dead celestial steps neatly between them.
Wyatt pulls a long bayonet from beneath his surcoat, throwing it with great force.
The blade thuds neatly into the creatures sternum with enough force, both physical and telekinetic, to send it barreling back into the outer wall of the tailor's shop behind it, stapling it neatly to the surface.
A flurry of identical knives thud into its body at each joint, pinning it neatly in place.
"Go deal with that musician on the roof, I'll deal with this one."
The hilts of the knives glow with dim, red runes before the creature ignites, slowly burning away, still thrashing against the blades.
A final long-knife is drawn, plain and dull, with a blade that matches charcoal.
As Wyatt brings the blade swiftly across the creature's neck, a crossbow bolt slams through his throat, knocking him instantly to the ground, gasping for breath.
He attempts to call out, but a sickening gurgling is all that is heard.
She remains a spectator to the war in the streets... up until Wyatt receives a crossbow bolt to the throat. This was not a good thing. Not at all. If he dies, that leaves her traveling the world all over again, on yet another wild chase to find some sort of cure. But with a bolt to the throat, he's practically already dead. "Damnit." she mutters, now knowing what was to be done.
She can't stay here any longer. That front line ahead would have to stay effective for a while longer - she moves quickly from the hiding place, towards Wyatt, to pull him away from battle. As she moves, her satchel of goods bounces along. If she's lucky, they'll make it back to her hiding place. While she does this, she's ever careful to avoid attracting the attention of any of those... "things". Ugh. She stares down at Wyatt, trying to judge if he's going to live or die. Her head turns every which way, constantly checking for anything sneaking up at her, anything with a crossbow aiming at her, or simply any stray danger that was coming directly for her.
Kulture
2010-03-19, 04:29 PM
two more bolts whistle past, thudding into a Tsochar's maw and a pseudo-natural wolf's spinal column.
Wyatt seems concious, and the wound does not appear to be life threatening, but he will require medical attention before he can speak or fight properly, due to the obtrusive bolt in a sensitive region of the neck.
Anyone familiar with anatomy will realise it borders the Jugular.
A combination of knights Harquebus and mercenaries begin to mop of the remainder of the aberrant forces on this street, allowing you to safely reach the festival, should you wish to continue.
The musician is missing from his previous place and the origins of the bolt remain unseen.
She pulls Wyatt along the ground, being very, very careful not to agitate that wound. What exactly was run through when the bolt collided with his neck doesn't matter - he got shot in the throat. Of everything on her mind, going forward was the last thing. Once she pulls him a safe distance away, there's the next problem: finding a cleric. Looking down at that man who could rid the world of one of her summons just by thinking about it, it's almost hard to believe something as little as a bolt put him down like this. So, sparing him any encouraging words, she begins investigating, looking for anyone around who might bear something on their clothes that might make them affiliated with some sort of god; a rosary, anything. Anyone who might be able to conjure a healing spell.
Kulture
2010-03-19, 05:51 PM
Upon closer inspection you notice that the bolt's shaft is in fact hollow, and has the residue of a liquid still inside.
The young elf bard from earlier hurries over, having heard the hollow choking Wyatt emits from his wound.
"What in the 9 hells happened to him?"
He takes a small trauma-satchel from his bag, readying a syringe full of a luminous Yellow substance as well as a set of forceps, sutchers, a fine cloth and a small bottle of ethanol.
"He got shot in the throat?" she says, ending it as more of a question - what did he think happened? Did he think that Wyatt stabbed the bolt through his throat in angst about his life, or something of the sort? "It also looks like there's something that was inside the bolt..." she uselessly includes. He seems to be a lot more experienced in this field than her. Outside of magic, which has been her sole field of study since she got this damnable curse, she hasn't done much. "Is he going to live?" she asks of the bard, glancing up to Wyatt. Maybe she shouldn't ask questions like that while he's still conscious...
Kulture
2010-03-19, 06:20 PM
"He'll definately live, but divine magic won't heal his wounds. He's had Hubristic Haemophilia for who knows how long. Positive energy has no effect whatsoever on him"
The bard fiddles endlessly with the forceps, trying to remove the bolt without causing any further damage.
A few moments pass before a gauntleted hand grips the bolt with enough force that the crystalline structure shatters.
A rather irritated Wyatt sits, picking the last shards out of his throat before allowing the bard to finish sealing the wound with an alchemical salve.
"Arthuras, one of these days I'll end up murdering you."
Wyatt's disapproval is shown by his facial expression.
Arthuras readies the syringe, a small jet of the fluid escaping the hollow point.
"You know what that stuff does to me."
Wyatt's somewhat bitter disposition is offset by the fact that he just got shot in the throat.
The bard shrugs, jamming the needle into the wound anyway, injecting the entire contents of the vial at a slightly irresponsible speed.
In response, Wyatt cringes, irises changing color to match the fluid.
Wyatt's waster serves as good leverage for him to stand.
"That injection should stave off any ill effects that fluid had."
Vanessa stands aside. There wasn't anything she could do, nor say. 'Hi, if you keep running into those sorts of battles and taking crossbow bolts to the throat, you're going to die and i'll have to go on another endless quest to try and solve this problem, so you should stop... umm, doing that.' How she wanted to say that, but how she was barred from it by the limits of herself. So, she ends up standing in a safe place that she figures she would not be hurt at. Her arms fold beneath her breasts as she seems vaguely irritated. This does offer her one advantage; one opportunity to do something she didn't have the time to before.
"What is the Mark of Death? What does all of this mean? Are you going forward again?"
She definitely won't be able to convince him to stop - so that means she will have to chase after him, all the way through this hell until he finds the source of this "Mark of Death" and puts an end to it. Why, of all times, does a catastrophic event have to happen the moment she steps inside any town?
Kulture
2010-03-23, 08:42 AM
"There is no time for me to offer you your exposition, lives are at stake."
Without a further word, Wyatt dashes off toward the festival, or at least what remains of it.
You can hear screams for a time, though they don't last, as no sooner do they start up they silenced once more.
The sound is audible even at this distance.
Hollow, cracking, squelching noises, like teeth through egg-shell.
What incredible insight Wyatt has offered Vanessa. He dashes off, she simply stares into the distance, at the festival. Her boots had a fine tint of red on them from all the chaos ensuing around them. Howls of fear and agony pierce the night air like an arrow of the highest quality. Besides everything around her, she's dumbstruck. He acts like a crossbow bolt to the throat is an ordinary, daily event.
Whatever kind of festival this is, it's quickly turning out to be not to her tastes. She begins deeper into the 'celebration', trying to guide her feet away from the corpses on the ground, but every so often having to step over a few. "I guess this makes me an adventurer of sorts, as I wouldn't have come to this damnable town if I weren't looking for something." she curses to herself, ever vigilant of any archers or beasts looking to kill her.
Kulture
2010-03-24, 01:45 PM
As you reach the square, you realise the depth of your adversaries' depravity.
Dozens hang in the air, impaled on black, iron spikes, standing some 20 feet in the air.
Most of those slaughtered have been eviscerated, their carcases wrenched open and held in place with hooks.
Several dozen more adorn the buildings around the square, crucified upside down, their hands pierced by long blades.
Between the ferrous staves that litter the landscape, a thick, corroded-green fog hangs in the air, twisting in on itself ominously.
Someone has a unique taste in decorating. Why? If this were some sort of siege on the town, why would anyone or anything waste their time setting up such an elaborate exhibition?
In a world of dead people, Vanessa stands alone. Staring out at the bodies, she's paralyzed. Unable to understand all of this. Unable to comprehend that what she is looking at isn't tasteless art. Unable to learn that the smell looming in the air was that of blood, organs and destroyed people of all races. Yet, even without this understanding, it all existed before her.
Between the green fog, the red ground and the bodies hanging in the air, she had changed her mind. Chasing after Wyatt was a terrible idea. Being here was a terrible idea. Those people were just like her - there's absolutely nothing to make her think that she won't end up just like them.
Unable to stand looking into this strange world, she turns around and begins scurrying backwards - if anything because that direction has no crucified bodies, no green fog and less people that have been eviscerated. What would she even be capable of alone? Absolutely nothing - and that's all the judgment she needs to make the decision to leave.
Kulture
2010-03-25, 01:35 AM
As you run back through the street you see no one.
The area is completely barren, the buildings in varying states of disrepair and corrosion.
This is certainly not the same way you just walked out from previously.
The fog twists around you, its pale-green colouration contrasting its lack of odour.
Indeed, it actually seems to block your sense of smell.
As you walk through the thick smog of your surroundings, your foot catches on something below your line of sight, sending you tumbeling.
The expanse echos with the impact of wood on masonry.
Nobody. Were they all dead? No, they must have made a better decision than her and left beforehand.
This green air - whatever it is, it's not healthy to be inside of. That much she can tell. The bitter silence of it all is absolutely frightening. Before she knows it, her feet topple over eachother, and she finds herself on the ground, looking up to the sky.
In a panicked daze, she sits up, looking at what tripped her and all around her - without any sense of direction, she felt vulnerable from every side.
That wood-beating sound made her more uncomfortable with every second that passed. Pulling herself back up onto her feet, she continues down the way she was headed. The fog had to end somewhere - going in this one direction forever, she would eventually get to it - or die.
Kulture
2010-03-25, 10:41 AM
Looking down you see a wooden fencing waster, the blade smashed to splinters.
Beside it is a hand print, seemingly burnt into the ground, easily a foot in length, but with otherwise human dimensions.
Continuing down the street it only grows colder, and the fog thicker.
Soon, the buildings either side are difficult to see, and the ground crunches with frost underfoot.
You get a strange feeling of exposure and dread, though you also feel compelled to continue.
The echo of your tread is the only remnant of sound in this place.
It's cold - so cold that there's frost under her feet. Her body lightly shivers. The cold isn't something she's particularly fond of.
She can't even see the buildings anymore. This wasn't safe. This wasn't even a good idea. Rather, there was only one good idea, but she probably didn't have a long enough piece of rope.
What is this fog? What is it doing? She can't figure it out...
In the silent world, the loudest sound comes from her feet on the ground. That's amazingly uncomfortable to know, because if someone can hear her, they know exactly where to find her.
And yet, all she can do is move forward. 'I'll escape from this.' she thinks to herself, because it wasn't a matter of choice now - either dying from her curse or dying to terrible forces of evil, the end result would be the same.
Kulture
2010-03-25, 03:48 PM
The street ends upbruptly, a tall, wide wall of seemless, white marble stands before you, a few words written in sharp, white chalk letters.
"And at that, the wolf pounced upon the girl and devoured her, rending apart her flesh and bone, eating her alive, ignoring her screams."
Even though you may need to look closer, you feel as if this wall is the source of some of your discomfort.
The same black handprint from earlier is burned into the otherwise flawless blank of the wall.
The text on the wall didn't have anything to help her. Honestly, she didn't want to read more of it. She didn't even want to think through if it related to her, because she's driven to survive.
Maybe it has nothing to do with the fog. Maybe she's lost downtown. There's only one way to find out. Turning, she begins walking along the right side of the wall, looking for evidence. Something like a building split in half by this wall would tell enough. Crouching down, she peeks at the ground - perhaps there was a small crevice from which the wall burst?
Still, perhaps on the other side the fog was gone. If there was just some way to climb the wall, to see what was on the other side... as much as she wishes to know, she also doesn't. With her luck, every demon from every dark underworld will conveniently be waiting for her right there.
At least with this wall here, she can focus her attention away from one side. Wait. What if it's not that thick and something can burst through it? She gives it a light kick with her boot.
Kulture
2010-03-26, 03:56 PM
You are surprised to feel your foot hit liquid as it connects with the wall.
A swell arises in the wall at the point of connection once your foot withdraws. forming a broad spike, similiar to a horn.
The spire itself quickly grows great rows of spikes along a spiral spanning its length (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=me5Zzm2TXh4&feature=player_embedded), morphing wildly with your every movement.
You notice that stray drops of the fluid quickly bleed into the surrounding masonry as they connect, forming a vast, yet discreet network of veins in the street's stone beneath you.
When she goes to kick the thing, she almost loses her balance, expecting it to collapse, not budge, or otherwise behave as a wall. When it doesn't behave as such, and instead proceeds to become spike after spike after spike, her feet quickly drag her away from the thing. Not even the ground was safe, as the drops became one with the ground. Right now, she's looking for a building. If that wall is alive, it couldn't know about her inside of a building - but even if it wasn't, perhaps if she climbed further up a building she could see over the fog, to know a little bit more about where she should go or what she should do.
Her breathing becomes heavier as the lone woman travels through the fog. Before she couldn't trust the direction she was going, now she couldn't trust the very terrain around her. The silence. The fog. For all she knows, she's hallucinating or unconscious already, and all of this is a dream before she bleeds to death on one of those grotesque spike-displays for the others she saw before. 'I'm sick of thinking. Let's just find a way out of here.' she wishes, moving to the right after getting a safe distance away from that... that spike-wall-pillar thing.
Kulture
2010-03-28, 03:13 PM
The smog begins to lighten in color, losing its green tone and becoming a smokey off-white.
All smell ceases and your sight tunnels, giving you a crippling sense of vertigo as you stumble through the mist.
The fog lessens slightly, giving you some visibility through it, just enough to see flakes of light grey snow fall through the air.
As you rub it between your fingers you quickly realise that it is ash rather than snow.
You see a solitary grey figure slightly obscured in the mist, ash flaking from its rubbery, grey, exposed flesh.
Its body is vaguely humanoid, but featureless save a metal gauntlet which clutches a spear of the same material, both similiar to that of the wall.
It turns to 'face' you, slowly.
It gets worse. As she continues, her sight becomes worthless. Her sense of smell, remarkably, did nothing. She was listening closely, because that was her only sense left she could use to defend herself.
The green world quickly becomes a white world. She knows it isn't snow when it fails to be cold upon her fingertips. Ugh. Breathing ash wasn't good, but she had to continue. Moving forward was the only way to go.
Until, for the first time in this empty world, she meets another. Another with a spear. It turns to face her - standing here in the middle of this street amongst this ashen world, she was uncomfortable. That spear could easily go through her, as she wasn't armored. Strafing to the right, slowly walking as it watches her, she stares at it. Entranced by it. The only thing keeping her from casting a spell is that it has yet to move or say anything. Still, as she moves along the sidelines, she isn't about to move directly towards it.
She's here. There's no reason that others couldn't be as well. Maybe it wasn't something to kill her - and yet, maybe it was. Maybe she should abuse this advantage...
Kulture
2010-03-29, 06:40 PM
The figure holds out the large spike of a spear at arms length, the tip of which seems to morph back into the stave before reappearing at the base of it.
Slowly, but surely, the creature drives the weapon into the ground, through marble, hard-core and eventually bedrock.
The metal of the spike rips outward in great veins through the stone, culminating in great rows of spikes erupting suddenly from the ground, blocking the entrance to every store-front and door-way.
A pair of hollow, empty, vestigial eye-sockets begin to form on the being's face, little more than shallow craters in its monochromatic flesh.
Light begins to pour through those shallow craters, like dim lanterns' light, but white and aberrant.
As its vision glides over you, it feels as though you were struck with pure anathema.
nausea and rage hit you simultaneously, but are soon joined by a feeling of rapidly multiplying power, though it feels as though it is being dragged toward the creature.
Whatever it was, it didn't look friendly. Without anywhere to go in this white world, there was only one choice - forward. She would have to defeat this strange thing and continue ahead. Spikes tear through the ground and block entrance to buildings. Moreso frightening was the possibility that there could be spikes beneath the very ground she stood on. Not entertained by the idea of being impaled, she begins to run along a circular pattern around the beast, holding one arm out towards it as she does. Maybe if she ran, it would have a harder time trying to skewer her.
Her arm begins to tingle with magical energy pouring from within her to her arm, all the way to her fingertips - this terrible power had limited uses in her life, but now more than ever it was needed. Ash in her hair and clothes scattered about the white terrain as she begins battle with this beast. Even so, running a different way while looking at the beast she's fighting results in her stumbling a bit. The ashen ground didn't help her balance either. Performing all of this, she prays - 'please, let this be a useful spell, and not something completely worthless.'
Her prayers are answered when the ground comes closer and closer to her. The dressed lady slips on a mound of ash and falls on her side, arm still pointed at the beast. She lets out a squeak of pain as her body knocks against the ground, but she remains focused - she's had worse, and would have much, much worse if this beast didn't die.
{PW2000->1750}
Kulture
2010-03-30, 12:34 PM
A dark ray springs from your fingertips, striking the creature in its face.
The creature shakes and contorts as a number of fractal patterns and spirals form on its flesh.
A wide maw seems to form from the tissue rotted from its face, like that of a jack-o-lantern.
The creature's vitriolic fluids are forced from its body, dismantling it in the process, forming a great, amorphous spiral of meat and metal.
The only form left amongst the warped flesh is that of the gauntlet.
The fog lessens and eventually dissipates, leaving you standing where you began, before the corpses.
A group of five armored figures enter the area behind you, garbed in adamantine full-plate and wielding much more intricate, notably arcane in design, firearms.
A belt of ammunition leads off across the off-arm of each wielder, the cartridges appear to be infusion cartridges, small cannisters of magical energy used to recharge wands, rods and staves.
The armored figures each wear a pair of glowing, red goggles, and respirators, giving them an inhuman appearance.
A figure clad in grey camouflage pattern hashashin garbs falls from a roof-top, falling on his neck with a sickening crack before fizzling away to ash.
Wyatt stands from where the figure was dropped.
"About time you lot arrived."
Wyatt seems to be unarmed bar his gauntlets, and his armor has suffered for it.
"I expected better from The Brotherhood of Fenris."
Pulling herself up from the ash, hand still pointed at the thing - thank all that is holy, she managed to cast something useful. Her clothes have a new shade of white about them, which she pats off with one hand while her other remains pointed at the beast. Was it dead? No matter, her paranoia of the thing remains, and that hand refuses to point away from the corpse.
The fog begins to disappear. She can see again, but the silence was eerie. After a long moment, her arm drops to her side. The thing probably wasn't going to attack again. She coughs, and pulls herself up out of the ash. Breathing this stuff irritates her nose and lungs, to which she coughs. Staying here wasn't a good idea. Completely unaware of the soldiers behind her, she continues forward, peeking around the edge of the next building - until she hears the thump of a corpse behind her. Her feet spin like greased lightning, facing behind her - soldiers. People. They didn't look corrupted.
As the body begins to corrode into ash, she hears Wyatt's voice above her. Looking up - she's immediately pleased, someone who would definitely know more about this situation than her. To not be alone, to not be a wanderer in the midst of a situation she is definitely not prepared to face. Even with her heart pounding, even with her head on fire with a thousand thoughts and ideas, she can't form a coherent sentence.
"What?" she... says, barely loud enough for herself to hear. It wasn't even a question about anything, it was a shocked response. Disbelief.
Kulture
2010-04-01, 07:32 PM
Wyatt's words are largely ignored by the armored soldiers, who fan out and cover the exits from the square, with one covering the spiral of decaying flesh in the center of the square.
"Don't touch that thing, it's still kicking."
The detritus begins to shudder, the gauntlet's fingers twitching violently.
There is a deafening staccato of fire, similiar to someone ripping canvas.
The armored figure facing the abomination's remains has opened fire with their weapon, a continuous stream of red heat expelling from the muzzle.
The twitching of the gauntlet has her backing up into the wall; the thundering booms of the weapons have her hands over her ears, wincing as she watches on. She's heard about these things, read about the various gadgets that power them, yet never seen such a device in action. As intriguing as it might be by the warmth of a hearth, said hearth might be hard to come by at the moment.
Her back is pressed against the wall - not by any other force than herself, she's just afraid. Not only the powers of the strange devices, but the impact on the strange being as well. If it was hit too hard, maybe it might splash on her. It might even be poisonous.
At the moment, she voices nothing, still stroken silent by the world around her. The corpses. The mist. The unfamiliar world around her. She isn't even in the same city anymore. The only good thing to happen to her since then is that she is no longer alone - losing the company she has here is not an option. She will follow them until they meet a grim fate - picking a random celestial body far above, 'I'd like to live. I'd like to return home, eat supper, maybe read a book and have a nice nap. That sounds nice.'
Because if she invests too much thought into the world around her, she'll end up insane.
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