A Monster for Every Season: Summer 2
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  1. - Top - End - #1
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    It has been said that the gods play games with the fates of men, with the world as the prize. Perhaps, perhaps not. But who can guess the will of them?
    It is best to simply shoulder your fate, and live as best you can.


    It was dark, and white stars were shining when Frodo and his companions came at last to the Green-way crossing and drew near the village. They came to the west-gate and found it shut, but at the door of the lodge beyond it, there was a man sitting. He jumped up and fetched a lantern, and looked over the gate at them in surprise.
    "What do you want and where do you come from?" he asked gruffly.
    "We are making for the inn here," answered Frodo. "We are traveling east, and can go no further tonight.
    "Hobbits! Four Hobbits! And what's more, out of the shire by their talk," said the gatekeeper softly, as if speaking to himself. He stared at them darkly for a moment, and then slowly opened the gate and let them ride through.

    Good Characters
    Marcus Andronicus
    You come to a halt. There is a small village, with a palisade wall, a tower with a bell, and fires burning merrily in the houses. Your men are hungry, tired, and confused, this is definitely not the borders of Rome.

    Aang
    Within the Southern Air Temple, there is a clamor as a stranger arrives. A huge black horse with an evil look, that he has somehow negotiated up the stairs and the mountainside. The air feels colder and the sky darker as he draws close.
    "Send the child to me." He demands, in a voice that is high and cruel. "So that I may speak to him. My master has many questions for the boy who is the Avatar of the world."

    Robin Hood
    Your men are relaxing against in their improvised homes, when he enters. It's Faramir, looking especially noble. At times, you have wondered how he manages it, he is filthy after all, sweating and covered in scratches, as well as in desperate need of a bath, and yet he still seems especially princely.
    "Robin? Robin my friend?" He calls out before arriving.
    You would not go so far as to call him your friend. The two of you are aware of each other it is true, but for the most part you leave each other alone, him concentrating on his harassment of Saurons forces, and you on your own cause, as well as striking on the Dark lord when the opportunity presents itself.
    "I have a favor to ask you." He states, and waits for your men to emerge.

    Leifr Eiríksson
    The mist part for the carved dragon of the ships figurehead, long oars silent as they dip into the ocean and emerge. The wind is still, and the ship moves slowly.
    You squint, but you can barely see a few meters ahead, the fog hiding the world from you. then there is a jolt, and the ship comes to a stop.
    Men get to their feet, staring about, wild eyed and anxious. What could this be? Have you hit a reef? But you leap from the prow, and laugh with delight. Soil. Rich, moist, loamy soil beneath you hands.
    Land. Land! You did it. You found the edge of the world!

    Oliver Cromwell
    The door opens, and the liveried, white robed servant beckons you in. The room is impressive, the size of a house, with an awe inspiring throne on a raised dias in the center of the room. The ruler, however, is sitting on a plain chair beside it. he looks up when you approach, and you stagger back as his hard gaze falls apon you. He's a hard man, wise, cruel as he needs to be and tougher then any. He's ancient, but his back is unbowed and his furnace burns hot. His shoulders are still broad under his robe.
    "So. Your the newcomer." He says. "Tell me about yourself."

    Samantha Sane
    To your surprise, what you had taken for a statue reveals itself to be a man, fast asleep. He looks kind, but likewise stern, and hard. In his hands he holds a magnificent sword, and he is dressed in a red tabbard with a golden dragon.
    He seems confused, as though uncertain where he is or how he got here.

    The Dread Pirate Roberts
    A captain with neither a ship nor a crew remains a captain, if a poor one. For that is what you are, a man of some means and exceptional ability, regretfully with nothing but the sword on you hip and the clothes on your back.
    But wealth is like that. You can't take it with you. A ship cannot sail on land, as as land is the place where your love is, then land is where you must go. Your crew shall no doubt pass the time spending your money and wasting your stockpile, but what can you do. A fortune is no good to anyone sitting around. Money was meant to stay in circulation, that way everyone is happy.

    King Arthur
    On a table stone, hands clasped around the sword he bore in life sleeps Arthur Pendragon, in all the majesty and power of his life. The wound in his side where Mordred had struck his treacherous blow has long since closed, but the scabbard had never been recovered.
    His beard has grown, a wild, tangled thing of spun gold, and his hair has grown with it. Abruptly, he awakes, a bright figure standing before him.
    He is on a hill. The ruins of a tower surround him, and and rugged foothills and lesser hills, trees and scrub surround. He has no idea where he is.

    Evil Characters
    Raphael Sorel
    Convinced that the chaos of war was no place to live a meaningful life, Raphael took Amy and came here, miles from anywhere. Avoiding war-torn lands, they moved to a town in the countryside. But even with the new surroundings, you could not get Amy to open her heart to the world. Even though her life in the slums strengthened the 10-year old girl's wariness of life and gave her a tenacious will to live, it erased any sense of hope she had for the future.
    Assuming a false name, you befriended a rich merchant to obtain the means to take care of the young girl. You employed cunning to gain the trust of the lord and those around him. And when the opportunity arose, you poisoned the noble, disposed of his body, and spread word that the lord had "left on a long journey." Your generosity and affable nature had convinced them, and at Last, Amy was beginning to to show signs of recovery.
    And then he came. A man in a dark cloak, all bound up, who radiated power. Once you had faced Nightmare, but even he had been no match for this figure in terms of presence. "I am the Lord of The Nazghul, servant of the dark lord. And thoust is his creature, though you know it not. From now, I take you into my service." So compelling had he been, that you'd forgotten everything, even Amy, and only desired to serve him.
    "Some shirefolk will come this way. Detain them until I return, and I will give you the future you desire." With that he'd gone.

    Lord Strahd
    ((Nothing for you yet))

    Riku
    ((You arrive later))

    Dorian Gray
    Saruman told you to wait here, so wait you will. You don't like the venerable old bastard, his knowing smile, or his way of making you do exactly what he wants, and bowing on his whims, but you have no choice. After all, he has your painting.
    Before sending you out, he took the time to bring you to the last tree in the fortress, where a man was being nailed to it's twisted limbs. He'd smiled, and talked casually, and been the very soul of courtesy, but his meaning was clear. Do not fail me, Dorian.
    So here you are. The hobbits will be here shortly. When they do, you are to win their confidence, by any means necessary. Impersonate a fellow named 'Aragorn', and lead them to Isengard. If necessary, drop the name 'Gandalf'.
    The serving maid leans over provocatively, and gives you a wink and a smile. You are sure you'll be able to find... something, to keep yourself occupied.

    Chained Bloodlust
    An inexorable will draws you from the grave, and presses the morningstar into your hands. Without being able to say exactly how, you know your prey nears. The power you seek. You do not altogether understand what it is, but you can feel it, and it draws you, calls out to you in a sirens song that is irresistible.

    The Wicked Witch of the West
    Power. Power beyond your dreams. All in the hands of a little hobbit, defenseless, wandering in the wilderness. Perhaps Gandalf is still with him. You don't dare a confrontation, the Istarii would sweep you magic aside like straws on the wind. But your chance will come. And then, it all will be yours.
    The mountains are your home for now, blue with the mist that never stops. You hate the clammy feeling, like caustic acid, but you persevere. You've spent your entire life persevering. You can wait a little longer.
    You gaze into the crystal ball, and fight the urge to cackle. They are all alone, coming into the town now. You dare not strike them in the town, but they must leave, and then you will be waiting for them.
    Last edited by Cracklord; 2010-06-24 at 08:15 PM.
    Nadir We,
    Youth Born,
    Blood Letters,
    Axe Weilders,
    Victors Still.

  2. - Top - End - #2
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
    doliest's Avatar

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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Gray
    Dorean's fingers tap the table as he drank another beer that could be more accurately compared to what came out of a horse. He hated small towns; aside from the odd bar maid there was nothing to amuse himself with, and if not for that crotchety old wizard. If he ever caught the man alone outside his domain, he'd make sure to pay him back for this mission, and anything else he sent him on. Now a large town, some place with a real night life? That was the place to be. Especially since if he got bored, he could go...hunting. He sighs and looks up at the door, keeping an eye open for the hobbits.

    Dorean looks over at the barmaid, licking his lips suggestively as she moves. He knew people, of that there was no doubt. He had more years on him than that aged old wizard or any being on the planet, short of Sauron himself. Unlike those idiots, though, he knew exactly how a life should be spent. Life was about your joy, and damn anything else. Saruman didn't know that. He spent all his time planning. Sauron was the same, stuck in that eye form because he wanted the world. Fool. Neither of them knew the simple pleasure Dorean engaged in as his words danced along with the woman's in a beautiful pattern of lies and lust. The words danced their way straight out the door, and into a nearby stable as he pressed up against her and he engaged in an act he'd practiced all his life, and one he never quite got tired of, murder. He kept her distracted with the kiss, before he pulled back, and slammed her head against the wood until she stopped fighting, and after a moment he hid the body under the straw. It was crude, not to mention basic, but it would keep him happy until those blasted hobbits showed up.

    Dorean grinned as he moved back into the bar and resumed his seat. Anyone who payed attention would assume they had a good, short time. He definitely had.
    Last edited by doliest; 2010-06-24 at 02:09 AM.
    Doliest's crimes against good taste
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    An Uwe Boll fan, and proud of it. LONG LIVE THE BOLL!

    Also a Michael Bay fan.

    Likes Jar Jar

    Likes FATAL..... No, I'm sorry, but no. Everything else on this list? I like, but while I've done many horrible things in my life, I WILL NOT claim to like FATAL.



    Let's Playing Final Fantasy with extreme prejudice

    Quote Originally Posted by Cracklord View Post
    Forgive me, Mr Tolkien. You do not deserve what I now do to you.

  3. - Top - End - #3
    Troll in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    The Dread Pirate Roberts

    "Remember, my friends. Return for me in Minas Tirith six months hence. I will be waiting for you!"

    And with a wink and a wave, The Dread Pirate is off on solid ground once more. Humming an old traveler's song (that he had picked up from a pair in Australia), he sets off on his journey, a tune in his ears, a sword at his hip, a mask on his face, and true love in his heart.

    The Wicked Witch of the West

    Green hands, wrinkled with age to be little more than claws, reach across the table. A black hat sits on a shelf; slowly, lovingly, the Witch grasps the thing, squeezing it so the accumulated dust is scattered to the air, and reverently places it upon her head.

    The hands stroke the crystal ball once more, caressing via proxy the hobbit known as Frodo. And deep in the mines of Moria, where the orcs and goblins dwell, the sound of shrill and harsh cackling can still be heard.
    Quote Originally Posted by DeafnotDumb View Post
    Silly boy. I've played in Industrious's games. They don't murder characters. That means the torture ends.
    Quote Originally Posted by Aevylmar View Post
    It turns out that sometimes? He *does* murder characters.

    The Maze of Madness

    Campaigns:
    Gotham: Year One
    Earth-52(abandoned) OOC
    RotSE II III] OOC2

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    Samantha Sane
    Samantha jumps back a bit in surprise. "Well thats rather strange innit? A sleeping man over on this here table stone. 'An a warrior at that. Wonder what hes doin in a place like this without a camp of some sort." Samantha steps back to where she was to get a better look at the sleeping person that gave her such a start.

    Chained Bloodlust
    Chained Bloodlust opens his glowing red eyes, deceased flesh from a hero long past hanging limply from his jawbone. He eyes his surroundings hungrily for a fresh meal, hopefully something still young and fresh, one with plenty of meat and blood. His built in nightvision swoops around from side to side, looking for his prey eagerly.
    Dolla dolla bill, y'all

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    PaladinGuy

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    The Romans

    It had been a week since... the Storm. A week since Centurion Marcus Andronicus of the 12th Legion had lost his way in the most otherworldy storm he had ever seen in his twelve years with the Legions. They had been deep in Gaul, in the parts without roads, and where no map had ever been drawn. Deep in the savage lands of the most savage people on Earth. The 12th had covered a lot of ground that day, and Marcus' century was just making it into camp when the Storm hit. It had begun with a sudden sharp wind from the West, blowing hard and growing steadily, till the roar of it drowned out every word anyone spoke, even the shouts and screams of the terrified. The clouds seemed to charge back and forth across the sky like disciplined cavalry, the earth shook violently, lightning streaked through the gathering darkness, thunder roared like a thousand lions. Veteran Roman soldiers, men who had seen a thousand horrors, despaired and threw down their arms and shouted that it was the end of all things. And in the centre of all the chaos, Marcus looked to the skies, and he saw a figure, with a beard of the purest white, who seemed to be directing the storm. He saw Olympian Jupiter himself, and Jupiter looked down upon Marcus, and stretched his great arm towards him, and there was a crash of thunder, and Marcus saw no more.

    That was a week ago.

    When Marcus had awoken, he was in a small woody clearing, with eight other soldiers of his Legion, and two Cretan archers who had been auxilaries in Caesar's army. They now stood behind him as he looked up at the stout wooden gate of the village that many days marching along an unknown road had brought them too. The rain beat down hard on them, and the legionaries had wrapped their dark red military cloaks around themselves, both for warmth and to protect their mail armour from rusting. The Cretans, wearing only leather and wool, were less daunted by the rain, but carried their bows unstrung to preserve the strings. Across every man's shoulder was a forked staff, designed by the great Gaius Marius to help the men carry their considerable burden of gear on the march, while their shields were slung across their backs. The ten men, even the otherwise indomitable Centurion Andronicus, looked very weary, very muddy, and very far from home.

    "Where are we, sir?" asked Lucius, one of the legionaries. He was a tall man, the largest of their small band, and could've been made optio a dozen times if he didn't refuse every promotion he received.

    "I don't know, Lucius. Not Roman territory, that's for sure" Marcus snapped back, the usually calm centurion's nerves having grown frayed around the edges over the last few days. There were a few grumblings amongst the men, the usually flawless Roman discipline being unraveled by the stress of being lost, coupled with the centurion's testiness since the Storm. Marcus silenced the grumbling by raising his swagger stick, the twisted stick of vinewood that every centurion carried as a symbol of his authority. However, instead of striking one of the men with it, as many centurions would've, Marcus used it to knock on the gate three times. Within a few seconds, a slat opened and an old, weathered and not particularly attractive face of a man appeared in it.

    "Why, you be a strange looking bunch, ain't you? Ten of you eh? What business do you 'ave in the village o' Bree?" the man said. Though his accent was strange, somehow Marcus could understand the words, though something in his mind told him that this man did not speak Latin or any tongue Marcus knew. Still, he answered:

    "I am a centurion of the 12th Legion of the Roman Army, sir. My men have been seperated from our legion, we are tired and hungry, and we are looking for an inn," Marcus replied, trying to sound confident, despite everything. The gatekeeper looked puzzled for a moment.

    "Well, sir, I ain't ever heard of no 12th Legion, nor any Roman Army, nor any Roma for that matter. But, if you 'ave the coin for it-" at this Marcus nodded, every man had a small purse of denarii and sesterces hanging from his belt "-then I suppose it won't do no hurt to let you in" the gatekeeper finished, an opened a small sally-port in the main gate, and stood aside to let pass into Bree.

    "Hey Stelios, the gatekeeper, his face reminds me of your mother" one of the Cretans archer said to the other in his curious Greek accent, as soon as the gatekeeper had returned to the gatehouse.

    "Funny Delios, I think he looks more like your wife" Stelios shot back, not missing a beat, as the small band of soldiers passed onto the muddy main street of Bree. The villagers looked at them with suspicious, wary eyes, never having seen anything that looked like the ten Roman soldiers. Marcus led them along the street that the old man had indicated, until he came to a brick building about two stories tall. Outside the door, there hung a sign, with a prancing horse, and words that read: "The Prancing Pony by Barliman Butterbur". Not caring who Barliman Butterbur was, or what his inn was called, Marcus opened the door and led his men, grateful only to be out of the rain.

    ___________________________________

    Arthur Pendragon

    If there was one thing that Arthur, awoken from his slumber after so many centuries, was sure of, it was this: He was no longer on Avalon. Avalon had been fair and green and prosperous, kept immortal and ageless by faerie-magic. Wherever he was now, it was not Avalon. He lay in the middle of a circle of stones which seemed to suggest that it had once been a great tower. The sky above him was gray and seemed heavy with rain, but no rain fell. As he sat up and looked around, the landscape was gray and scrubby, reminding him of the marches of Scotland. His eyes were blearly with centuries of sleep, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a very old friend standing next to his table...

    "Merlin!" he exclaimed, sitting up, with the excitement of youth returning to his face, despite the golden beard. But, alas, it was just a trick of his eyes, and the youthfulness of Arthur's face drained, and a kingly sternness returned to his features. However, he quickly became aware that he was not alone. Turning his head, he saw a woman, dressed unlike any woman he had ever seen. For one, she wore trousers, completely unproper for a lady. She was dressed mostly in wool and leather, with a blue jacket, and brown pants, along with two very tall brown boots which reached her upper legs at the top of them. Over her shoulders, Arthur spotted two sword hilts, with black leather-wrapped handles. Slowly, he sat up completely, and swung his armoured legs over the side of the table, and then stood up. For a moment, he wobbled a little, still unsteady after sleeping for uncounted centuries, but he managed not to fall, and drew himself up to his full height of three inches over six feet. Then, with a sudden fluid burst of speed, he set his right hand on Excalibur's familiar jeweled hilt, his left grasping the simple leather scabbard which now held the Sword of Kings, ready to draw it out at a moment's notice.

    "Who are you and where am I?" Arthur said, his blue eyes now glinting and hardened like two dark sapphires, his tone challenging. He felt power flowing into him through Excalibur's ancient and hallowed blade, power such as he had not known since the glory days of Camelot. The elves and faeries of Avalon had told him that, when the times were dark again, and Britain's need was dire, he would awaken to come to his people's aid. What, then, was happening in Britain? What dread had come upon his people? All these things raced through the King's mind as he stared down the stranger.
    Last edited by Executor; 2010-07-01 at 02:39 AM.
    Quote Originally Posted by EvilElitest
    Executor - for a Vs. thread, you have laid out the case for this confrontation very intelligently - bravo!
    he is like the demigod of vs. threads
    They can take our lives... but they'll never take our AWESOME!!!

    Awarded EvilElitest the Trophy for winning the internet.

    Alumnus of the Sauron vs Voldemort thread
    <ASVSVA>

  6. - Top - End - #6
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Samantha Sane
    Seeing the man jump up with his hand on a greatsword, Samantha jumps back a second time because of him, slightly more scared than before. "By the Spire! Thats the second time youve made me jump! I should be asking you the same question, but I'm Samantha Sane, and this 'ere 'stabl'shment is Weathatop." She says, watching the strange man that looks like he's from one of the old tales to make sure he doesn't make any sudden movements.
    Dolla dolla bill, y'all

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    Taenarius
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    ((OOC: I read that we could have characters reply to ours, so I hope that is still correct. I think I still need prompting plot-wise, however.))

    Oliver Cromwell

    The man that entered the throne room of Minas Tirith was an odd sight. His clothes were simple, a black doublet and breeches, brown knee-high boots with 'buckets' at their top and butterfly-styled buckles. His neck was enshrouded by a stiff, wide white collar, and he carried a black, wide brimmed hat in his left arm. By his belt was a mortuary sword, a half-basket hilted straight blade used by cavalry. Perhaps his most noticeable features were his face, with wavy, grey-brown hair, dark blue eyes, long nose and neat, short moustache and small beard just below his lip, next to a wart. In fact, the man had two warts on his face, the second being above his right eyebrow. Oliver Cromwell was forty-seven years old, he was a Member of Parliament in the England torn by Civil War, and he was a military commander of cavalry in his New Model Army. He had been, just last year, victorious against the Royalists at Naseby, and was supposed to be mopping up resistance to Parliamentarian forces in Devon and Cornwall. However, a strange set of circumstances, which the Puritan could only ascribe to God's will, had taken him far from England, or indeed anywhere on Earth he had ever heard of, along with ten of his cavalrymen, to a place that was both wondrous and daunting to the man. He had established, over the course of a week or so, that the land he had stumbled into, at first getting lost and then bewildered by the change in familiar scenery, was called Gondor, and was called a realm of Men. Other names like 'Minas Tirith' had worked their way to Oliver's understanding of his whereabouts, but now he was to clarify his situation once and for all.

    The throne of Minas Tirith was not occupied, that much was certain. Cromwell was not entirely familiar with the customs of the country, but thought it a curiosity that God had delivered him to a land with no King upon the throne. However, he understood the importance of the man beside the throne completely, and so began with a short bow. His motions were simple, and seemed to conserve the man's energy, rather than any grand gestures. He spoke with a mixed accent, with hints of his native Cambridgeshire upbringing, which had similarity withs Estuary English, with a slight mix of London, from his years in Parliament. His voice was course, but his tone respectful, if authoritative, like any good politician's. "I am Lieutenant-General Oliver Cromwell. I have been called to the employment of Lieutenant-General of Cavalry, and the Second-in-Command of the New Model Army. I also have had the honour of serving as a Member of Parliament." Here Cromwell drew breath, and proceeded to the more difficult part of explaining these names. "I expect not that these names are familiar, sir. The land of which I speak is a great distance hence. The Lord hath sent me here for His own purposes. If it so pleases you, honourable sir, I believe the reason that I have been brought here, is to serve the Lord's purpose, I would think to endeavour to discharge some duty for your venerable Nation."

    The man on the chair listened patiently, and there was a pause as Cromwell finished speaking. Finally, he spoke again. "So, a General, a man of some... significance. The eyes of the White Tower have never seen a New Model Army, however the ten horsemen with which you ride are a small credit to your story. This distant land, is ruled by Men?" The steward's mind was turning over Cromwell's proposal. The General had mentioned his 'Lord' wanting him to serve Gondor, and an army of Men in the bargain, so Oliver had indicated. Gondor was a proud realm, that kept the forces of Mordor at bay, and remained the seat of the strength of Men in Middle-Earth. Yet there were stirrings, rumours, turmoil abroad. The man beside the throne knew Gondor was not as powerful, not nearly as powerful as he should like, not with the Eye on its doorstep, so to speak. News of another Army of Men, with a commander willing to fight for him was certainly a momentous occasion. So, the steward decided to learn more, with a view to how he could turn this to Gondor's advantage. "Tell me more of your army." he commanded. Oliver replied, "The New Model Army hath twenty-two thousand men, that is eleven regiments of cavalry, much like my troops here in Minas Tirith, each of six-hundred men. Our infantry hath twelve regiments, each of twelve-hundred men. Our cavalry fight with sword and pistol, our men are capable of using pike, matchlock or sword, and it pleases me to say in confidence, that their formations and discipline are exemplary. They know what they fight for, and love what they know, sir." What Oliver could not answer for, however, was whereabouts this force was, though it did not trouble him, whom believed that such things were in God's hands now.
    Last edited by Taenarius; 2010-06-24 at 07:35 AM.

  8. - Top - End - #8
    Ettin in the Playground
     
    Kobold

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    smile Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Leifr Eiríksson

    Leifr had sailed out to be the first Norseman to set foot on the fabled land, little did he know that the land he had reached was far more magnificent and odd than he could imagine in his wildest imagination.
    He spoke to the crew that was left after this long journey, only ten of the thirty five had made it, in the guttural tongue of the natives of their far northern homelands from which he hailed

    "Come down men, today the gods have seen our strength and let the ocean lead us to the Fabled Land West Of Greenland! Let us honour the sacrifices of those whom the waters have taken to drown in the blood of Ymir and continue onward into that which none have braved to seek ever before!"

    His speak would have left confusion in the hearts of many, but to the Norsemen on the mighty ship it was a rousing speak that reminded them of why they had come and of the gods which had chosen them to reach this land.

    Three men were left to guard the ship from what creatures might roam this land, the rest journeyed out to explore this new world. To search for a place to find a place to settle for the winter they knew was coming.
    Last edited by Mina Kobold; 2010-06-24 at 03:44 PM.
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    Emphatic shirts.

    Quote Originally Posted by SiuiS View Post

    At first, it was the smiley faces and the mannerisms. Then, it was the infernal magpie. It struck a chord. A cutely fiendish, macabre chord.

    An then I saw Keveak in the sorting hat and you are just the cutest thing when you want to be. My gosh look at that. It's squee-inducing.

  9. - Top - End - #9
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    darkblade's Avatar

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    Aang

    The man shouts to bare stone walls as the temple has been deserted for a century. Well almost, a bald tattooed child sits in front of him deep in meditation. Without even looking up the child responds, "Your master will have to come here himself and ask them then."

    It would have been mildly intimidating if it weren't for the Giant Sky Bison that floated up to the man and licked his body in its entirety in one swoop of the tongue. This causes the boy to open his eyes and giggle slightly. "Appa, I was trying to scare off this guy and you had to go ruin it."

    The boy stands to his feet, he stands barely four feet tall. He holds a staff in his hands with one weighted end pointing at the man. The intent to use it to beat the man senseless with it if he should prove untrustworthy is clear. "Well since Appa ruined the moment for both of us, tell me who your master is."

    ***

    Rapheal Sorel

    ((Amy was beginning to what?))

    A creature of the Dark Lord? This tidbit of information comes as no surprise to Rapheal, the curse Nightmare inflicted upon him had indeed shifted him into something somehow both more and less than human. The cursed noble looks at Amy playing with her servants as he considers what the cloaked "Lord of the Nazghul" had said. He'd make Rapheal's dream a reality if Rapheal aided him in the capture of a few Shirefolk. Rapheal had fed on some of those so called Hobbits a while back, their blood had this delicious nutty flavour but it wasn't as well suited to quenching his thirst as the blood of human women. All in all even if what the strange man had promised was all lies, Rapheal would not lose anything by taking care of a few insignificant Hobbits.

    That night as the sun began to set Rapheal makes his way to the house of the guard. None of the guards got so much as a chance to scream as Rapheal slit their throats and left them to die. It was a beautifully simple plan really. No one would question the presence of a merchant's aide on the city walls watching for an expected trader and on such a quiet night no one would need to call for the city guard. No one would suspect that their trusted merchant, "Larwence Melvern" had killed the Guard and took their place for something as insignificant as a bunch of shirefolk.
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    The Dread Pirate Wesley

    He approaches the city gates, and admires the sight before him. Marble spires ascend into the clouds, and gilded patterns swirl with them. A remnant of a better time. A reminder of what has been lost. And also...probably not where Buttercup was.

    But he had little choice but to enter the city. He had no provisions, and a full wallet, and the world was too large a place to wander about without such things. Also, there were guards pointing spears at his neck.

    "Halt, in the name of Gondor!" One of them seemed braver than the others. Or more verbose.

    "Greetings, fair guardsman. I wish to enter your beautiful city."
    Of course he did. He was only headed in that direction when they caught him. And while he could easily have defeated all four of them, it was considered polite to not kill the civil servants of a town you intend to visit. Unless you were in the midst of piracy.

    "You move like a Ranger. Fast and fluid and elegant. But you dress in black, and worse-you wear a mask on your head. Speak! For the servants of Sauron are not welcome in Gondor!"

    Ah. So that was the problem.

    "I wear the mask because I find them comfortable. And the only one I serve is named Buttercup. THe most beautiful lass in all of Florin."

    "Oh." The spears drop down. "One of those. Another lunatic."

    "Hardly. Merely in love."

    "Like I said: a lunatic. Take him to Lord Imrahil. What is your name, madman?"

    As they marched him into the city, Wesley decided to tell an half-truth. While his name was commonplace, his title was...less so. Infamous, really. Which was the point.

    "Wesley."
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    Leifr Eiríksson
    There is no sign of habitation here, the river flows fast and strong into the sea. If you choose, you could sail up the river, though it would be hard work and closing banks or shallow waters may beach you.
    Your men take out their last rations, but you don't worry too much. They'll be easy to replenish, no more salted fish for you.
    Some warriors are removing their armor and weapons, and unslinging their shields from the side of the boat. Another mentions that they should make a sacrifice to the gods of the sea and sky for the safe voyage.
    The land ahead is grassy meadows and forests, of the sort found in the lowlands of Brittan. They seem untouched, perhaps nobody has come here before. Thunderclouds are gathering in the sky above, and it occurs to you that you should find shelter. Will you go North or East?

    Marcus Andronicus
    The barman greets you by the door. He is aging, somewhat portly, with a wide, open face that is perpetually ruddy from sampling his own brew, slightly hunched shoulders and a welcome smile.
    "Good evening masters." He says respectfully, reaching up to remove his hat, and then slapping his head as he realizes he isn't wearing one. "Butterbur is my name. Barliman Butterbur. Not often we see soldiers in these parts. Why, last time it happened was my grandfathers time. Bad business that was, but needed to be done. Though I don't suppose you'd know about that, being outsiders... or travelers, I should say. You'd be from Gondor then? Or from Dale, though I don't suppose I know what would bring you so far South. Let me offer you a table by the window and a drink on the house, and I'll see if I can put you up for the night. Business is doing so well I don't know what to do with meself, but I daresay I can squeeze you in a room, as long as a few of you don't mind sleeping on the floor. I'll have Nob run you all baths. Nob! Nob! Get over here Nob, you wooly-footed slowcoach! Where is he.... Anyway, until then I'm sure we'll all appreciate you're fine company."
    Filtering out the stream of talk and observations, you notice a rugged, dark man eying you with more then passing interest. Despite his ragged clothing and scraggly appearance, he has the bearing of an officer and you fight an urge to snap of a salute. He places the stem of his pipe in his mouth, still not taking his eyes off you.
    The rest of the crowd is far more relaxed, and the company fine, singing, dancing and story telling to appreciative cheers and exclamations. They are all good company, and a welcome break.

    Oliver Cromwell
    Denathor gets to his feet, and steps over to you, his eyes like chips of flint.
    "These are dark times. Hard and fierce, with our forces harried every step. And fight as hard as we might, Lord Cromwell, we are losing." You fall into step beside him, and he leads you to the edge of the cliff that overlooks the city. "What do you see? Oh, the city has been reinforced, but before my ancestors renamed it City of the Guard in the old tongue, this was a seat of learning, not a fortress. But it wouldn't matter even if it was. We cannot match the enemies forces, we can barely afford to lose a single soldier. The men who live behind us give much praise, but little help, as we bleed for their freedom. And we bear it uncomplaining, but it will be our downfall."
    He turns and looks at you. "You claim to be a warrior, and a leader of men, yet you are all but alone. But at this, the last hour of Gondor, I cannot turn away any aid. So I give you your command. Your men are yours, do do with as you see fit, and should you show merit perhaps I shall make a captain of you. For now, kneel."
    He draws a fine sword, an heirloom that had belonged to his grandfather, and had been wielded by Ecthelion before him. "I dub thee Knight of the White Tower, and Guard of the Citadel, with all the duties and privileges thereof." He says, before returning the blade to his hip.
    "Much good may it do you."
    With that he turns and makes his way back to the throne.
    The servant who saw you in returns to see you out. "Forgive him, he is a fine man and a good ruler, but he suffers under many burdens. These times have taken a toll on us all."

    Gray
    You look up, but it's ten, strangely dressed soldiers who troop in, shaking rain of their cloaks. The innkeeper, a fat, balding, cheerful man with a red face and a seemingly unending stream of chatter is talking to them politely, making observation, small talk and polite questions.
    Five minutes later, the hobbits arrive. Butterbur is still seeing to the soldiers, so nobody greets them at the front door, and they mill around, seeming unsure what to do. Finally, a dark haired one in expensive clothes taps on the bar for attention.

    The Wicked Witch of the West
    As you peer into your crystal ball, you feel something. A creeping darkness, at the edges. You try to determine the source, and see at last determine it. The ball focuses on an attractive young man, meticulously groomed and vaguely bored looking.
    Somehow you know the second you see him that he desires what will be yours.
    ((Given that the men of the west are the finest and greatest warriors, proud and free, she's going to sound like such a moron.))

    Chained Bloodlust
    Night is falling, and the trail leads to a walled town near a bend in the river. As you approach, you see a tall, dark man, proud and clad in leather whittling something with a knife. His bright eyes seem focused on it, though you doubt it will be possible to take him unawares. He sits on a cloak, with his back against a tree, a sheathed sword rests within reach, and a small fire twinkles merrily nearby.
    You can smell what he is from here. The blood of Numenor sings strongly in his veins, still. Like all the Ranges, the 'Men of the West', he is an opponent for your kind to fear. He has it in him to be a hero, and may already be on that path.
    Yet despite this, he is one and you are many.
    ((No, that's not Aragorn. Badguys wandering around here meet rangers, it's only logical.))

    King Arthur and Samantha Sane
    The hour grows late. While the ruins are small cover, the heavens have opened and it is raining already. You hear an ominous rumble of thunder, and the two of you are in the open with no shelter.

    Rapheal Sorel
    Your mistake was waiting for nightfall. The sun makes you sluggish, lethargic and slow, and if you remain in it long enough, you find it quite impossible to stand, or think. The rain helps, but not enough.
    The hobbits arrived an hour before dusk, and you missed them. This only occurs to you an hour after it is too late to catch them. By then, they've arrived at the inn, and you sigh in frustration. Then you think of Amy, and know you have to find some way to get them out. But how? You can't risk harming them, so force is out of the question, and besides, in an inn full of people...
    If only there was some way to convince them to stay the night in your home...

    Aang
    The doors abruptly swing open, and the dark figure steps in.
    He wears an odd helm that reminds one of a crown, and is swaddled and bundled in heavy robes. His face was pale and bloodless, reminding you of tales of vampires. Even his voice is unsettling, a silibant hissing, like a snake.
    "My master is Lord Sauron. I am the foremost of his servants, ans speak with his voice. I am to be addressed as the Mouth of Sauron. He speaks through me. Know, prince, that he desires your friendship. He shall give you protection from your enemies, and knowledge beyond your dreams. He shall even reunite you with your friends, who have already accepted his invitation and come to meet with him, and with your assistance, the lands at last will have peace. All he asks in return is that you close the Red Horn gates of Cahradras, and then accompany me to meet with him. But he bids me warn you that you must come at once, for dark things and dark deeds are afoot, and he would have your council."
    He offers then a smile.

    The Dread Pirate Wesley
    Imrahil is a tall, fair, lordly man, with the shoulders of a warrior and the waist of a dancer. He is clad in a white shirt and breeches, with a belt of gold, his long, silken hair flowing past his shoulders and a broadsword belted at his hip. This may be a peaceful part of the world, but his country is at war and he will not allow himself to forget it, even in times like this.
    He is standing in a courtyard, watching the sun play across leaves and children play in the trimmed grass. He holds a goblet of wine, and favors a faint smile. It is a nice smile, of a man content with the world and his place in it. The sort of smile you can appreciate.
    "You don't look like a servant of the shadow. Moreover, I imagine a servant of the shadow would go to greater lengths to conceal himself, rather then marching baldly into my city." He says, his gaze flickering over you.
    "You have the build and confidence of a ranger, but are much too fair to be of the blood. So you are something else." He waves the guards away. "If he'd rather not reveal himself, that is surely his business. I have read those of Harad conceal their faces for religious reasons. Those who do not worship the shadow, at any rate. So he is no doubt one of them."
    He winks, and the guards bow and leave. He saunters over you, in the manner of two men sharing a private joke, and waves you in, where he gestures to a bench to seat yourself. "All frivolity aside, why are you wearing a mask? An unfortunate wound, perhaps?"
    Last edited by Cracklord; 2010-06-25 at 07:20 AM.
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    Chained Bloodlust
    The Numenor. The curse of his kind. He would be doing all of his kind a favor by wiping this one out. But did he owe them one? No. He would not do this for his kind. He would do this for himself. This one was full of blood, constantly pulsing through his veins. His fresh flesh looked supple and appetizing, his gear a boon to his fellows. This one would die tonight, and it would become bloody, no body would be left. He hefted his morningstar in his right hand, his shield in his left, and began slowly approaching the doomed ranger, an age old war chant seeping with menace escaping his deceased lips. Seven skeleton warriors slowly popped up from the Earth, joining their master in the kill. Suddenly, an evil warcry echoed from all of their mouths as they charged their prey, swinging axes, swords, maces, and morningstars, they all become one, one became many. This human would die now.
    Last edited by Gimliggamer; 2010-06-25 at 01:09 AM.
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    Dorean
    Finally. If they were any later, he'd have probably been able to do more with that bar maid then that crude, simple kill. He moves closer to them, making sure to avoid the soldiers; they'd simply get in the way. He moves forward, with the charming smile that had led many a maiden for a night they would never forget....or remember, once the blackness engulfed them forever. In a collected voice he looks at them and says, "My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, I'm an old friend of Gandalf and was told to meet you here." Lying was always so simple for Dorean; many people worry about tells or seeming nervous, but that was never an issue for him. These people could never see past his eyes and charming smile. To them, he was a kind, noble man. To him, they were an amusing toy that he would soon take the time to break.
    Last edited by doliest; 2010-06-25 at 01:14 AM.
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    Dorean
    Their reactions are mixed. One seems relieved, the older one who rapped the table. The other two look to him for direction, confused at this eventuality. And the bigger one, soft around the middle but with strong shoulders glowers at you suspiciously.
    "Remember what Gandalf said, Mister Frodo." He says. Frodo, if that's what his name was nods reluctantly. "Why couldn't Gandalf come himself, mister... Aragorn, was it?" He says, and some of the relief has faded. "He said to meet him here, after all."

    Chained Bloodlust
    The Ranger leaps to his feet, keeping his back to the tree and pulling a burning brand from the fire with his others. His teeth clench, and his eyes narrow, but he's not scarred. Merely... determined. You have to admire that.
    Then, rather then wait for you to come to him, he strikes, the burning log hitting the first of the skeletons sending it sprawling, his sword slashing at the others to ward them away.
    Last edited by Cracklord; 2010-06-25 at 01:23 AM.
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    Dorean
    Dorean looks at the little hobbit, "He sent me ahead to guide you to your destination. He was held up by Sauron's forces." The first step of lying was stay the perfect point between vague and descriptive. It had to be simplistic enough that nothing was contradictory, but descriptive enough that it had some ring of truth to it.
    Last edited by doliest; 2010-06-25 at 01:26 AM.
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    Chained Bloodlust
    The skeletal warrior that was sent sprawling merely gets back up, no emotion or fear except for the one, primal instinct that every creature inherits. Anger. Survival. He cannot stand all of us. They think as one. The Chain of Bloodlust grows strong within us. We shall win. He shall fall. The swarm him all at once, some warrior blindly flinging themselves at him, swords slashing and stabbing in a crazy and unpredictable pattern, the rest, the leader of them included, thrust their shields out and charge, swinging their respective weapons at their doomed enemy.
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    Rapheal

    Rapheal is annoyed, as would you if you just lost your objective due to a medical condition. In his world none would dare travel during the day, when the Sun can harm his kind.

    All those men he killed all for nothing, a foolish waste of a perfectly good cover identity, now after this he would have to move again before anyone could trace the murders back to him. In quite a huff he makes his way towards the Inn, where fortune has decided to stab him in the back once more. The Hobbits are already talking to a strangely well dressed man, obviously of noble blood. This would not do at all but shy of physically engaging the man there was little that could be done. Even combat was out of the question since the Inn had been infested by a foreign army.

    Instead Rapheal enters the inn and takes a seat at the closest table to the Hobbits and tries to listen in on their conversation.

    ***

    Aang

    "I have never heard of your master but I have already brought peace to the nations and I have all the knowledge I require. So I am not very impressed by your offer." Aang says defiantly in the face of the cloaked man.

    "Now if you'll excuse me I am a hundred years behind in my meditation." Aang sits back down on the floor and begins to cross his legs. He closes his eyes but they open a moment later at look at the man intently "Did you say my friends already accepted your invitation?"
    Last edited by darkblade; 2010-06-25 at 01:40 AM.
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    Aang
    "I did." The man says. "And peace you have brought. And yet it is a fragile thing, this peace you have made. Already it crumbles at the seams, and the drums of war beat again. Is it truly what you desire, to spend your life putting down wars? Or would you rather come East, and talk with my master. I leave it in your hands. Work with us, and we can achieve anything at all. Refuse, and things will not go so well..."
    He spurs his horse, and it gallops down the mountainside until it is out of sight, leaving you much to reflect on.

    Dorean
    The halfling that seems to be the leader nods, and walks confidently over to your table. The less trusting one however is shaking his head. "How could the Darklord do anything to him? He said he was going to go see the head of his order, and if he's anything like master Gandalf I should think it was the safest place around."
    Just the same he stumps after you, and the youngest of the hobbits, who have ordered four pints of beer, are sitting contentedly, hands in their belts.

    Chained Bloodlust
    He fights to the bitter end, not letting out so much as a scream as you fall on him. The rangers are hard men, and spend every day in the wilderness knowing it might be their last.
    No, it would take more then the prospect of death to make the last sons of Numenor flinch, that was something they made peace with long ago.
    He leaps back and drives his sword into another, lashing out and hewing as he would a tree. It's not enough, and you bring him down by weight of numbers.
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    Chained Bloodlust
    The defeated warriors draw themselves back together by sheer force of will, becoming warriors again as they sink into the ground, their emotions all flowing back to their leader, the chain that keeps their Bloodlust together. Chained Bloodlust now begins feasting on the dead Ranger that had put up such an admirable fight, bathing in the ecstacy of the blood of his enemy. After he finishes eating, his hunger and thirst quenched, the rangers weapons and armor scavenged for his army, he now sets about finding a way into the walled town.
    Last edited by Gimliggamer; 2010-06-25 at 01:59 AM.
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    Oliver Cromwell

    Oliver calmly accepted Denethor's dubbing, barely murmuring a few polite words as the steward returned to the throne. Oliver was not precisely certain, word-for-word, what his newfound duties and privileges were as a Knight of this realm, but he knew that it was a matter of political expediency that he hold some Gondorian rank, for the title of Lieutenant-General of the New Model Army only had meaning for ten other people in the city. Therefore, all Oliver could assume, was that he had been guided by God and commanded by Denethor to do all he could to maintain the defence of Gondor, as he saw fit, so the steward said. In return, Cromwell knew that there was at least one more door open to him in the city. The black-clad man affixed his wide-brimmed hat over his wavy brown hair, and looked, somewhat nervously, out over the cliff. The scale of the city's construction dazzled Oliver, the cold air and wind, overlooking the plains below, in which the great walls and masonry of Minas Tirith stood. Cromwell turned from the sight, and made to leave the courtyard, glancing at the tree that stood in its centre. Denethor had not gone into detail about the enemies of his country, but Oliver could all too well relate to the defence of freedom, or at least his concept of the word.

    The cavalryman walked through the city's winding, stony roads, taking in all around him. Most of what he saw were what he took as peasants, about their business, selling, buying, talking. Some threw a curious look at the stranger's unusual dress. The more perceptive were able to detect from his stride and head held high, in his formal attire, that he was not one of their social standing. Cromwell's reaction to finding himself in such an unfamiliar city, was to look as confident as possible, keeping his face set in an expression of idle seriousness, being not surprise, dismayed nor pleased at any sight, no matter how wondrous. He noted, on his walk, the soldiers here and there, in their shiny armour, all uniform. It struck him as a curiosity that they all wore precisely the same armour. Armies of his knowledge were never so provided for, each officer or man providing his own equipment. In fact, it had been an innovation of the New Model Army to wear all red buff coats with breastplates over them, and pot helmets. The Royalist Army they faced in battle had no such uniformity of equipment, and so Gondor's appearance of wealth and professional organisation appealed to the Lieutenant-General's military sensibilities.

    Oliver reached the Inn, in which his men were staying. Their horses safely stabled, Cromwell's ten cavalry troopers had little to do beside explore the city. So, it was not particularly unusual that there was only one of the troopers in the building when Cromwell entered. The trooper's name was William Rossiter, and he told Cromwell that he had been left for the rather dubious duty of guarding the horses. Ordinarily Oliver would have raised an eyebrow to that, but the troopers were on edge, not knowing where in the world, let alone England, they had come to, trusting their commander to see them through. "Rossiter, I intend to see more of this city," Cromwell explained, "When the other troopers return, you may inform them that your General hath been made a Knight, thus we have some official position in Gondorian society, which I believe to be at our advantage." Rossiter nodded, and Oliver departed from their lodgings. They had arrived in dark and confusion, and so the Englishman knew very little of his surrounds. He set off again, trying to become familiar with his immediate environment. In his mind, he was thinking about Denethor's words, his understanding of how and why he had arrived, and what lay ahead. The steward had, in a sense, given Cromwell the means to come and go from Minas Tirith with his men, as he wished, as he saw fit to defend Gondor. Given this, Cromwell could now come to grips with the country, and made it a point of interest, as he walked, to see if he could purchase reliable maps of the land.
    Last edited by Taenarius; 2010-06-25 at 02:07 AM.

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    Dorean
    "Dark creatures trek these lands. Horrific creatures from the depths of Mordor. Gandalf was too recognizable to these creatures, so he told me to meet you and lead you to your destination. Now do any of you have some of that Hobbit pipeweed? I'm in sore need of some." That last part was true. 'Pipeweed' which seemed almost exactly like tobacco was a vice Dorean rather enjoyed indulging in. He sat them down at his table, "Now you still have the Ring Gandalf gave you, correct?" Because if you don't, I will be using each of you to take out the anger over what Saruman will do to me. Well would do if he could catch me.
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    The Dread Pirate Wesley

    The Dread Pirate Roberts is not intimidated by titles and tokens of authority. Wesley used to be; a young naive man seeking his fortune was guaranteed to be. It was practically in the rules of the universe. Years spent under the tutelage of the former Dread Pirate soon saw to that.

    Yet there was still some spark of idealism that remained within the young man. There had to be, for it was true love that had saved him at sea, and which had guided and motivated all his actions. He had been content as Roberts. But he had been happier as the stable boy Wesley.

    And he was an excellent judge of character, now. Picking out an entirely new crew for the Revenge required him to be. The Prince seemed a fine man, a true nobleman. Unlike what he had heard about the ruler of Minas Tirith. Small wonder, then, why Dol Amoth's fleet had been relatively untouched by his actions(there was that one time, but it didn't count. At least, not to him).

    "Thankfully, nothing of the sort, my lord. When I first ventured into the wider world, I did so to seek my fortune. My true love and I wished to be wed, but had no money to do so. And until the day when we are finally reunited, no man (or woman) shall see my face, save that of dear Buttercup."

    The Wicked Witch of the West

    ((She is completely genre blind. And allergic to water. And it's raining. She can't do a thing until they leave the village.))
    Quote Originally Posted by DeafnotDumb View Post
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    It turns out that sometimes? He *does* murder characters.

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  23. - Top - End - #23
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Robin Hood
    A whizzing sound is heard, as an arrow flies by Faramir's face. The arrow hits its mark - a bullyseye, painted on a tree a good distance away from Robin Hood. "You really should be more careful." The archer says, ignoring the fact that he almost hit Faramir. "What is it you need? As you can see, I'm somehwat busy at the moment." Robin Hood says, knocking and firing another arrow.
    He whistles for his men to grab their bows, for Robin expects that Faramir has a mission that requires his skills, for those are the "favors" Faramir usually asks of the noble archer. "Spit it out, now, what is it?"
    Dr, Bath's Dolly!

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    Barbarian in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Aang

    Aang resumes his meditation, this is bigger than him, bigger than anyone really. He needs to commune with the previous Avatars. As he focuses on drawing the spirits out thousands upon thousands of spirits spectres manifest before him. A council of the wisest men and women across all of time.

    "I need to once again ask advice of you all." Aang begins as he explains about the cloaked man who sounded like death and his demands.

    "This is nonsense, why would you trust someone like that with offers of peace. Need I remind you of the Fire Lord's offers of bringing peace by cleansing an entire nation from the world." the painted warrior Avatar Koyshi replies sternly.

    "But if I don't trust him then it stands to reason that he kidnapped my friends. I'll have to stop him." Aang says, almost as though it were a question of his duties.

    "That would indeed be a noble course of action." the woman says.

    "But I don't know anything of what he was asking or his master this 'Sauron'." Aang says "What can I do when I don't even know my enemy?"

    The word Sauron causes the spirit of Avatar Ryoko to shiver slightly, he was the Avatar who failed to defeat the Fire Lord Sozzin, who would go on to kill Aang's Air Nomad people. He bares the greatest shame among his kin. Slowly he begins to speak "I...know of this Sauron. When I was traveling to learn of the other elements he sent men to offer Sozzin great gifts of power, to tempt him. He may have helped sway him to the side of darkness."

    "So he is trying to do the same to me now, a hundred years later?" Aang asks.

    "Precisely. I would advise you to travel East to confront this sorcerer in person." Ryoko said darkly and with that final word the spirts fade back into Aang who is left alone in the abandoned temple.

    What else was the young Avatar to do but to heed the advice of his predecessors? Without much preparation he mounts Appa and flies away from the abandoned temple out East to where the mysterious rider of Sauron directed him.
    Rural Reign An Original Superhero Webcomic Written by Me and AteMozzarlla

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  25. - Top - End - #25
    Orc in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    The Romans

    One of the men, by the name of Faustus Janarius, began to voice an objection to sleeping on the floor, but Marcus silenced that with the simple gesture of crossing his arms so that the tip of his swagger stick projected above his shoulder, and all of the men standing behind him could see it. Faustus fell silent, and Marcus smiled at Barliman as if nothing had happened.

    "A room and a round of drinks would be excellent, thank you sir" Marcus said, and then led his men in following Barliman up the stairs to the upper floor of the Prancing Pony. He had two rooms available, with four beds each, so a few of the legionaries would have to sleep on the floor, as Barliman had said, but other than that the rooms were simple but comfortable. Nob finally appeared shortly after the men began to unload their gear. He seemed to be some kind of... servant child. Marcus concluded that he must be Barliman's son, helping his father with his business. He also concluded that children in this land had exceptionally large and hairy feet. Whatever the case, Nob provided the Romans with basins and tubs of warm water, to their everlasting gratitude. As soon as Nob disappeared down the hall to another of Barliman's calls, Marcus turned to his men.

    "Alright boys, you have 20 minutes to wash and shave. Undress uniform tonight, tunics and swords. Meet downstairs when you're all washed up, and we'll see what food Mr. Butterbur can provide us" He said. He was met with a chorus of 'Yes sir' from the men, and then they disappeared into their rooms to spend a happy 20 minutes washing off the dirt and grime of a week of muddy marching. With a bit of the soap Nob had provided, a bronze straight razor from his pack, and a lot of hot water, Marcus carefully shaved away seven days growth of brown beard from his face. He smiled at himself in the mirror and rubbed a hand on his newly smooth face, to make sure he hadn't missed any patches of hair. He looked like a proper Roman again, that was for sure. He put on the cleanest and driest dark red tunic he could find in his pack, and around the waist he buckled on his belt, his sword hanging on the left side of his body, in contrast to the regular legionaries who wore theirs on the right.

    When he came downstairs, he found that his men had already claimed a long wooden table, and were sitting with mugs of ale and plates heaped with roast pork and vegetables and warm, fresh bread. One of the servers laid out a similar plate for Marcus as he sat down at the head of the table, and the Centurion dug into the food with the voraciosness of a man who had eaten nothing but hardtack and cold meat for the last seven days. Some of the vegetables seemed strange to Marcus, but he shoveled them into his mouth anyways, too hungry to care about what they were. All of it was delicious, and the ale especially so. Normally, Marcus did not drink beers or ales, most Romans considered them vulgar, but considering the circumstances, he was willing to overlook that, and he took long, hearty gulps of it.

    They ate in silence, with the large mouthfuls of soldiers who had gone hungry for many days. The only noise were the small "mmm"s and the sound of sucking on greasy fingers. Finally, Lucius spoke up, after swallowing his last mouthful of pork and bread.

    "That man in the hooded cloak over there, he's been staring at us this whole time" Lucius said, and pointed towards a distant corner of the mainroom. Marcus twisted and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was a man, wrapped in a dark green cloak even more travel-stained than Marcus' own. The man was lean and very tall, with long legs resting on a stool in front of him, shaggy dark hair with grey flecks, eyes as grey as an iron blade, and, from what Marcus could see through the shadows of the man's hood, a stern face. He looked like a grim fighting man, which made his wearing of effeminate trousers made Marcus snicker a little. In fact, he looked further around to room to sear that everyone was wearing trousers and that his men were the only ones in proper tunics. True, they had their cold weather trousers all safely folded in their packs, but they rarely wore such vulgar clothes. He snickered a little bit more, but suppressed it as an over odder habit of the man suddenly caught his attention. In his mouth, the man was holding something: A long wooden stem with a small bowl at the end of it, which seemed to be... smoking. Then the man removed the stem from his mouth and blew out a long stream of smoke, and then put the stem back in his mouth again. The centurion arched an eyebrow at this, and then stood up from his stool.

    "I'll see what he wants" Marcus said to his men, who did not reply, still preoccupied by the food in front of them. He walked across the dark, smoky room, beside the intense heat of the roaring fire, and came to stand before the cloaked man, while resting a hand on the round pommel of his gladius.

    "Excuse me sir, but one of my men noticed that you are staring at us. Can I ask why?" Marcus asked.




    ((I'll reply as King Arthur after Gimliggamer does something as Samantha Sane))
    Quote Originally Posted by EvilElitest
    Executor - for a Vs. thread, you have laid out the case for this confrontation very intelligently - bravo!
    he is like the demigod of vs. threads
    They can take our lives... but they'll never take our AWESOME!!!

    Awarded EvilElitest the Trophy for winning the internet.

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  26. - Top - End - #26
    Ettin in the Playground
     
    Kobold

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    smile Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Leifr Eiríksson

    The men that had been chosen by Leifr to protect their ship stayed behind while Leifr and the seven others prepared to journey east along the river, on search of a more habitable spot for their winter settlement. Just before they leave Leifr makes his decision on the question regarding the gods, he turns to face the man who had spoken about it

    "You are right, Olaf. Njörd, hod of the sea and wind, deserves our gratefulness for having led us safely across the wild seas between Greenland and here.

    In his honour I therefore name our landing spot and the first place to have seen Norsemen on this foreign land, Njördvollar!"

    We will offer for his approval once we have built our first settlement

    The men once again roared in agreement and the eight explorers began walking down the side of the river after mead had been drunk in celebration

    (IE I pick East )
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    Quote Originally Posted by SiuiS View Post

    At first, it was the smiley faces and the mannerisms. Then, it was the infernal magpie. It struck a chord. A cutely fiendish, macabre chord.

    An then I saw Keveak in the sorting hat and you are just the cutest thing when you want to be. My gosh look at that. It's squee-inducing.

  27. - Top - End - #27
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    smile Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    The Romans
    The man puts his pipe aside, and lowers his legs from the stool to stare frankly at you. You find your estimation of him growing at his silence, he is clearly a careful man, who is likewise assessing you as you assess him.
    "Forgive me." He says after a moment. His voice is slow and quiet, the sort of voice one develops when used to being listened to and obeyed. Most officers shout and bluster, even yourself at times, but emperor's learn the value of silence.
    Then you wonder why the comparison came from, the man is wild, dark and scruffy, far from any leader you've ever seen.
    "But you are a mystery. In this part of the world, any fighting men are a rare sight, and you especially so. I recognize neither your armaments, nor your uniforms." He says, then raises his hand to signal for a drink.
    "And mysteries get you killed." He gestures with his pipe at Dorian Gray. "Take that man. He's either a con man, in which case it's not my business, or a servant of the enemy.

    Robin Hood
    "We all take risks." He replies mildly. He flinched at the arrow, but regained his composure in an instant. "Though mine was a small one. I've never known you to miss a target."
    That said, he strides over to you, pulling back his hood to reveal his handsome face growing grizzled from the wilds and the stress. he's not thirty, and already has the beginnings of grey in his hair. Then again, you doubt you look much better yourself.
    "I am in fact here to warn you, Robin. The kings of Khand's first son is marching to war. with him is a considerable escort, of course, but also no shortage of gold, jewels and other rarities. And while you are a man of principle, and, I think at least, honor, you will no doubt find a better use for a few of them. They have to ravel through a certain gully that we are both familiar with..."

    Chained Bloodlust
    You feel your strength grow and your powers expand with each bite. By the time that you are done, you feel stronger then you have in a long time. You do not know how long, you do not count nights any more then you count anything.
    And yet, your hunger is not sated, and the desire that burns in you only seems to increase.
    You sniff the air, and feel a tang on it, a tang of nascent power just beyond your grasp.

    Dorean
    One of the hobbit shivers at your violent imagery. The youngest of the two are clearly convinced, but the leaders... servant, or whatever, is a skeptic. Fortunately he has been reduced to grumbling discontentedly.
    They hand you a pipe, a long stemmed one, and a pouch of the stuff, that smells particularly fresh. It is. Amongst the best weed you've ever smoked.
    "So what should we do?" Asks the oldest, confused.

    Raphael
    You hear everything. Given what you know of the situation, it's likely he works for some... third party. And he seems to be winning them into his confidence.
    In a way, this is a good thing. It would be the easiest thing in the world to trail them for a few days, kill him and them and take th ring from their bodies. You have had little opportunity to practice, but are more then confident in your abilities.
    ...Except there is a chance, however small, that you will lose them. As your hunt for souledge shows, while you were the most dedicated of hunters you were far from the best, and could very well lose them. Worse, it would mean leaving Amy behind. The poor girl has suffered more then enough, abandoning her in town, possibly to answer for your crimes would be more then you can bear.
    No. You have to act now.

    The Dread Pirate Wesley
    Imrahil gives you a smile. "Ah. A romantic. Well, sir, I am sorry to say I have never heard of this Buttercup, to be honest I couldn't even tell you for sure that she's in Gondor, but I certainly hope you find her someday. If you would take some advice, many families are fleeing Gondor despite the danger, as the lord of the black land stretches out his arm." The garden seems to grow colder and the shadows deeper as he says that.
    "Who knows where you will find her. But if she loves you as much as you say, and I do not doubt your word, my good man, perhaps you should make her come to you. Win fame an renown so all the four corners of the world sing you praises, and when she hears of it she will know where to look."

    Oliver Cromwell
    You explore the city, finding much of interest. It's clearly fairly advanced, not the backwater savages you initially took them for. Foundries and forges are burning night and day with the fires of industry, as people prepare for the coming war. What have occurred so far are skirmishers and minor scuffles, but soon this... Sauron will muster his true might, and throw it against these white walls.
    And you are not sure they can hold. You eat a somber meal with your returned soldiers, all of whom are likewise quiet, and get a good nights sleep. In the morning, there is a page waiting for you. It looks like Denathor has decided what to do with you.

    Leifr Eiríksson
    You head along the river, that gives both a point of reference in helping you find your way back to the ship, and a limitless supply of fresh water. You are on the Northern side, and considering it's width and powerful current, you tremble at the thought of having to ford it.
    The land is rugged and hilly, with unending gullies and a rough landscape. It is wearying to make your way through it.
    After a days hard march, you come to a campsite, and your men begin to lower themselves. There is no nearby lumber, game, or room for farmland, so you will have to keep moving the next day. After so long at sea, the thought of doing all this walking again is miserable, but the spirit of adventure burns brightly in you.
    It's lte at night when your designated lookout kicks you awake. He's noticed, burning a few miles away from yous, a fire.
    Somebody else is already living here.

    Morgan Le Fay
    Saruman is pacing the throne room, hands twisting around each other, ignoring you, as he is wont to when focused on a problem. When one presents itself, he focuses himself to the exclusion of all else. "Nothing." He says, his beautiful voice somewhat hoarse from, you suspect, shouting.
    When he chooses, he can charm the birds out of the tree and into his hand, but clearly it's not enough in situation like this.
    "Mithrandir is a stubborn fool. He can't see how hopeless this is without the ring. We can't win on out own." He stops, and stairs at you, his hooded eyes thoughtful.
    "Perhaps a woman's touch..." He doesn't mean it literally, of course. The Istarri have no interest in that area, or if they do they've used it up a long time ago.
    "Well, it can't hurt to try." He says, and raises his voice. "My lady, once more I have need of your wisdom and considerable abilities. My quarrel with my brother sees no resolution, and he is obstinately refusing any compromise, any appeasement. I have learned enough to send out Dorian, but I would have to be a fool to make do with only that. Go up and see if you can persuade him to stop being stubborn."
    Last edited by Cracklord; 2010-06-26 at 06:16 PM.
    Nadir We,
    Youth Born,
    Blood Letters,
    Axe Weilders,
    Victors Still.

  28. - Top - End - #28
    Bugbear in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Dorean
    "We should start our travels to...." Saruman hadn't given him a destination. Lovely. The man would die. Slowly. Great, he needed a location. Saruman's base? Obviously not. Another city...,"Minas Tirith. Gandalf will meet us in Minas Tirith with orders of what to do with the ring." Dorean looks down for a moment, savoring the pipe weed, "You hobbits really know how to grow this stuff; heavenly. Where was I? Oh yes, and show me the ring to prove you have it. Now."
    Doliest's crimes against good taste
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    An Uwe Boll fan, and proud of it. LONG LIVE THE BOLL!

    Also a Michael Bay fan.

    Likes Jar Jar

    Likes FATAL..... No, I'm sorry, but no. Everything else on this list? I like, but while I've done many horrible things in my life, I WILL NOT claim to like FATAL.



    Let's Playing Final Fantasy with extreme prejudice

    Quote Originally Posted by Cracklord View Post
    Forgive me, Mr Tolkien. You do not deserve what I now do to you.

  29. - Top - End - #29
    Barbarian in the Playground
     
    darkblade's Avatar

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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Rapheal

    "Yes that is it foolish "Aaragon" play right into my hands." Thinks Rapheal who has to fight of the urge to chuckle manically. All he needs to do is wait for one of two senarios. One, the Hobbits and their new ally will go find themselves rooms for the night where he can sneak in and steal the ring at their most vulnerable, or they will set about on their journey now in which case he will simply challenge their protector on the streets, with the guard all dead and hidden until the changing of the shift at dawn no one would intrude upon their duel so late at night.
    Rural Reign An Original Superhero Webcomic Written by Me and AteMozzarlla

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  30. - Top - End - #30
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Default Re: [WoR] The Fellowship of the Ring

    Dorean
    The hobbits glance at each other in confusion. None of them have even left the Shire, and to them godor, let alone the white city, is just a theoretical thing that exists on maps, but not in real life. The thought of going to Rivendel is hard enough for them to comprehend.
    Frodo reaches his hand into his pocket, indecision playing across his features - then takes it out. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." He says, suspicion and uncertainty returning to his voice.
    You suspect you've over played your hand.
    Last edited by Cracklord; 2010-06-26 at 06:15 PM.
    Nadir We,
    Youth Born,
    Blood Letters,
    Axe Weilders,
    Victors Still.

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