Chaos in the River Province

[Horatio@Bridge]

Ganaliel Crade wiped sweat from the corner of his eyepatch, then looked up and considered the wide plains stretching to the horizon. His good eye narrowed as he caught sight of a thin plume of smoke rising from the direction of Kalad Steading. He swore, and gestured to draw his companion's attention to the sign in the sky. It seemed as if the Mask of Winters might have caught up to their quarry before they could find him. He goaded his mount into a canter, leaving his companion to catch up.



Nori, you're the companion. What do you and Ganaliel Crade find when you get to Kalad Steading? Aure, you're the quarry. Are you still there or have you moved on?



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The Sleeping Dragon noticed that his visitor was still there, waiting in the clearing. A Dragonblooded this time, from Lookshy based on the quality of her equipment. Not much of a surprise there given the rise of the undead in Thorns. Now that was an interesting chestnut...the dead did not fight in the same manner as the living, but he could sense some underlying similarities. Yes, a few strategies were coming together in his mind as he considered the situation. Well, perhaps his guest had waited long enough...



Banshee, you've been sent by Ganaliel Crade to recruit the Sleeping Dragon to aid in the conflict with the Mask. Failing that, at least get his analysis.

[scsimodem]

After the third day, Sleeping Dragon emerges from his hut, perfectly groomed and dressed and holding a rather ornate fan made of exotic feathers. He fans himself lightly as the shadows of the trees fall on his face. His speech is rapid and directed an no-one in particular. You get the sense that he is thinking out loud...very quickly. "Persistent. Student? No. Lack of effects indicates short stay. Likely agent looking for aid against undead army. Seventh Legion, by appearances. Mortal? No. Jade weapon. Not given even to enlightened mortals without immediate purpose. Anathema not tolerated. Dragon-blooded, no doubt. Air aspect, unimpressive breeding, given features. Situation must be more dire than estimated to divert dragon-blooded from front lines." At this point, he catches himself and begins directing his speech towards the person. "Oh, sorry. Living alone has left me prone to thinking out loud. I'm not sure if I can come back with you. Small disturbance. Big effect. Ripples in the pond and all that. Coming back down with just anybody could upset the political balance of the whole region if...whoever sent you has an agenda aside from this army, but by the end of our conversation, I'm sure I'll know who should fetch me back down to civilization. I've just finished making tea and some stew. Please. Come in and sit down. You must be hungry." With that, he retreats back into the house and sits at a small table. He pulls the tea kettle and the stew pot off the fire and then just sits there, waiting for...something.

[Trenchfoot]

--Kalad Steading, Near The Outskirts--

A strangely artful smear of blood on a stone wall led, like a trail of proverbial bread crumbs, to a lone man leaning against a building. The source of the crimson sign was a furtively spurting brachial artery in the man's arm, dumping its bright red payload out of a particularly nasty puncture he had endured from a crossbow quarrel. To make matters worse, he had only moments ago yanked the bolt out, fearing poison. Now, to quell the little fountain, he was pressing his whole shoulder hard against the wall, hoping the pressure would slow the vicious blood loss. It did not.

After a few moments, the man finally looked back, seeing the grisly signs of his passage, and he groaned audibly. "That should be inside me." he said, as though he could convince the stuff to return. His protests fell on deaf ears, for the blood remained right where it was, smug and rebellious. With a low cough he left the wall, staggering gradually down the street toward the edge of the town.

His resources of energy, granted to him by his heritage as a Dragon-Blooded, were slim at best. He had been intercepted at the worst possible time; when the pursuers found him, he had already been sinking his daily energies into other magics. The attackers had slain the Elementals in his service, buried a fat quarrel in his arm and put one more across his abdomen, leaving a wide gash that even now continued to stain the inside of his already ragged clothing. At least one of the bolts had been envenomed with a toxin from some an animal or being from the underworld, and the addition of the blood loss was making him woozy and delirious. If he tried to shape his way out of danger now, he'd surely fail or fall and be captured or killed...

So he continued to walk, needing his head to clear and only getting muggier as the seconds passed...

I'm starting play with some Bashing and Lethal health levels checked, and with an unspecified fatiguing Underworld poison working its way into my system. I'm in rough shape, with no allies or mounts nearby. I'll leave other details about the state of the town and the nature of my pursuers to the next poster. I plan on writing this character with a decent amout of physical resistance and health levels, so if I end up shot a few more times, I'll survive.

[Horatio@Bridge]

A whorl of darkness coalesced at the other end of the alley, and a massive fur-clad figure took form next to the wall. The war ghost ran his fingers over the blood on the wall, then brought his hand to his mouth to lick the viscous fluid clean. Grinning as the blood touched his tongue, he readied his axe and faced the wounded man.

[Trenchfoot]

--Kalad Steading, Near The Outskirts--

The Wood Aspect sneered strangely at the fur-garbed dead one. Had the pursuit party used a poison that they could safely consume? Or did this blood-suckling undead solder just swallow some unthinkingly? Granted, the war ghost had only drank the stuff, while he had taken a full slug of it directly into his stomach through a shredded gut-wound. Truthfully, the sorcerer wasn't too worried; the fiend had drawn an axe, rather than a bow or sling, which meant his escape spell...

"You go ahead and enjoy the rest of that." he suggested in Low Realm, before speaking a word that humans could not speak. In a brief burst of energy, the laws of reality demanded that the man be transformed into something that could speak the word; a flock of birds. Were the war ghost a birdwatcher, it would know the fluttering things were meadowlarks. More than a few of them were visibly wounded, and several wobbled dangerously as they flew, as though sick. As one, the creatures began to fly out over the rooftops, staying low in their unified desire to escape!

Casting Flight of Separation, which acts as a Reflexive Cast Sorcery action that immediately transforms me into a flight of birds. I can immediately take a move, which I do, and as the birds fly at 20 miles an hour, I can move at roughly 30 feet per second, or 10 yards per tick. There are wound penalties that might slow me, so I'll take this into account. I will, conveniently, be flying in the same direction that Ganaliel and Nori's character are coming from.

I might be within view of those two if either has high perception. I'm going to guess that ol' eyepatch doesn't have the best eyesight. Any archer or sorcerer would be able to target the flock of birds if they know to do so. Survival could let someone identify the birds as meadowlarks, which do happen to be native to plains environments, but they'd look extremely strange flying together with some of them wounded or sick.