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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Oct 29, 2013 10:22:26 GMT -5
The once proud city of Belosia was now just another broken scar in this desolate land. The land was said to be cursed following a heinous act by the King where he killed his family in a fit of rage after finding his wife unfaithful. The madness of the King grew, and death followed. This madness seeped into the land itself, causing violence to erupt and tear the city apart. This broken spur of land was now avoided by all but the most foolhardy fortune seekers. All who enter eventually succumb to the madness within, and join the tortured souls still haunting Belosia.
Kaladar Dragneel found himself at the edge of this broken city, a feeling of relief washing over him. Here he would find his peace at last, and stop the plans that Tzeentch had wrought for him. This was a cursed place, the few from this land who would speak to him had at least told him that much. He would find the refuge of death in this place, he was sure of it.
F-Y-do entered the abandoned city without any regard for the overwhelming feeling of dread emanating from the ruins. He was single-minded in his purpose and nothing would stop him. The slaan had awoke from his meditations to convey the portents leading to this city as the resting place of one of the stolen artifacts. The thieves must have been punished for their transgressions dearly, as none appeared to survive here. All that remained was to return the blessed stone to its rightful place in Lustria.
The dark shadows of dread covering Belosia meant little to Sir Chillin. The vampire rode purposely through the haunted streets, aware of the restless hungry spirits around him. The few that dared to approach were met with his cold stare that sent them slinking back cowering. “Pathetic shades” he muttered to himself, “not worth my time”. The vampire’s head had begun to ache again. The last of the watery ale he had taken from the last town a fading memory.
Znart surveyed his Kingdom with growing concern. There were intruders here, the stones whispered to him of their transgressions. They were vile, tricksy things that were here to take what was rightfully his, by birthright and divine law. Znart would not have this. He could not allow those vermin to take his kingdom from him. The very city itself spoke to Znart and told him so. He would have their heads, as he had done from all trespassers before. He vaulted atop Steve and moved with great speed climbing a ruined wall. He would have to be quiet, fast and deadly. It was the goblin King’s way.
The cold wind meant nothing to the dark prince. His dry bones long ago forgot what the chill felt like. He normally was not sent this far beyond his realm; however it was not his to question the will of his masters. He had been avoiding contact with the humans of this land on his way to Belosia, as he did not want to draw unneeded attention from the locals. It was easier as he approached the city, as it appeared that the local populace gave this place a very wide berth.
Dreadlord Corras dragged himself from the waters onto a desolate beachhead. Atop a high ridge there stood the ruins of a once great city. Coughing the remains of the water from his lungs, he lay gasping in the frigid air. He narrowly escaped the betrayal at sea by leaping overboard with the clothes on his back and what gear was on him at the time. He would have to get a fire going and dry out, and then explore this land to get his bearings. He would simmer his rage while he planned his return to exact his revenge.
Vlad continued on the twisted roadway, his great pox rat sniffing the ground and following the scent of the trails leading onward to the ruined city of Belosia. He could easily tell some creatures of power were heading in this direction, and the undead do not follow a trail with nothing of import at the end, especially when these two were clearly not working together. Vlad knew little about the undead, but enough to know the dry ones and the wet ones don’t like each other for some reason. He had to return to power and to do that he either needed an army or he needed an artifact. For some strange reason no one trusted him enough to follow him anymore, so he needed something to make them listen and obey. He may be able to find that wherever these things were heading.
The Executioner kept his vigil at his makeshift post overlooking the central courtyard at the city’s once proud palace grounds. He had seen movement throughout the city these last few days and knew he was no longer alone here. He had been sent mad visions from Tzeentch’s host spurring him to this place. It was here he was to set in motion the plans of the master of change, and he would not deter from this path, or allow anyone to stop him. The changer of ways had great plans for this graveyard of a city, and the Executioner was always his most faithful servant.
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Alright, here we go.... please add to the story, (in character) as you wish to flush out your character's actions in the city... if you have someone you wish to challenge to a fight, please do so in character as part of your story in this thread... only one fight per round, so if someone's called out, you cannot pick them... first come first serve.... let the battle commence! (and remember, I'm rolling out the battles off line so I take care of the battle report - also posted in this thread)
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Post by donimator on Oct 29, 2013 15:02:08 GMT -5
Steve skittered up the side of a crumbling wall as Znart clung to her back. She avoided the decaying timbers and weak sections, having placed her network of webs to permit safe travel. Silently she gained the heights while staying in the growing shadows such that they would have a clear view of their prey.
Meanwhile... Znart was borne upwards on his palaquin to plan his attack. The four pairs of legs of his litter-bearers worked in concert to ensure a smooth ride. He had a moment to review some odious paperwork; the running of a kingdom was such a taxing thing. A jostle signalled their arrival to the ramparts. He would have the bearers flogged when time permitted.
Stepping out of the carriage, Znart was surprised to see his trusty mount had joined him, "Steve! How did you get up here?" Any anticipated response was lost to distraction as the full extent of this invasion became clear. Five, six, no seven generals were leading their forces into the city with some already housed within the walls.
Legions of undead filled the plains. Minions of chaos clogged the roads. Servants of The Old Ones held a sector, while the vile ratmen swarmed to a flank. Yet one had already befouled his palace. Leaping again to his mount he spurred it down the ramps towards the Herald of Tzeentch. Standing in the saddle, shouting orders to his vast forces, he made his way to the van of the attack and plunged headlong towards his quarry. His earth-shaking goblin warcry was sure to make his opponent quail before blows could be exchanged...wait, had he had lunch yet?
Znart challenges The Executioner
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Post by stonecutter on Oct 29, 2013 16:25:15 GMT -5
Sir Chillin looked at the grey skies above the ruins of Belgosia and groaned. His headache was coming back stronger then ever and the last drink from his keg of dwarf spirits was but a pleasant memory. That the keg had mysteriously disappeared while he slept off the night in a stupor was not entirely surprising but his blurred vision and muddled wits had not revealed anything of note when he had first awakened. With the increasing sunlight and fresh air, his pain increased, thus placing all of his senses on edge. Suddenly, another odour in the air triggered his predatory instincts and he inhaled deeply to better identify the singular smell from the rot amidst the rubble. Prodding his nightmare with spurs, he followed the air currents at a moderate trot until he came to what appeared to be a collapsed, abandoned building. Dismounting, he strode forward and, after ripping away several large stones, discovered an opening to an underground tunnel. The familiar scent of vermin was cunningly hidden beneath that of rat urine and he quickly surmised what had happened. Circling the area, he found some small scuff marks a short distance away. Lashing his mount, he gained speed as the odor became stronger, stopping every so often to listen and search for more tracks. For once, he didn't curse his hangover as his heightened senses allowed him to detect both the distant noise and scent of the skaven and his mount on the morning breeze. Quickening his pace further and abandoning caution, he galloped forward. Soon, the musk of fear filled the air and guided him as clearly as a shining sun toward his quarry. Rounding the corner, Sir Chillin saw one of the largest rats he had ever encountered carrying an equally brutish skaven lordling. On the rear of the massive rodent Sir Chillin's keg was secured with leather bindings, a sight which drove him to instant rage. Screaming his challenge with fury, Sir Chillin recklessly charged the skaven, heedless of any traps that the rat had undoubtedly set for him.
Sir Chillin challenges Vlad the Treacherous.
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Post by canadianguy on Oct 29, 2013 18:04:58 GMT -5
Arriving as the sun was falling f-y-do picked up a scent, one that he had smelled in the violated temple of he sun. Elf! The effort and time taken to enlighten them by the old ones and now they violate and plunder. The rage building and the scent clear f-y-do knows the path he must take!
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Post by LizardTau on Oct 29, 2013 21:56:03 GMT -5
Kaladar road his steed a large creature he had saved from some towns folk who were calling it daemon spawn. Yes the beast was large and could be dangerous but it was easy to tame the creature Kaladar was even able to get it to let him ride it. The beast was very loyal and would attack anyone who attacked Kaladar.
He rode it unto the ruins of the city. Looking for warriors or heros that would be able to kill him. He could feel it so close now, he knew it was coming. His long black hair covered his face but you could see a smile underneath it.
Then he spotted a large saurus, with a large scar. He moved forward and saw the wounds that had healed on it, this was a great warriors. The saurus saw him, not happy to share any of the treasures it would find here. This suited Kaladar, he would not need to push much to make the saurus fight him.
He charged forward and so did the saurus. The fight was brutal, Kaladar surprised the saurus which his skill and strength. This was a hard fight the saurus was good and had killed a lot of people. The saurus batted away Kaladar's steed knocking him to the ground. The saurus then raised his blade about to strike a killing blow.
This was it, he couldnt save him self if he wanted to. The blade came down and then stoped, the eye in the middle of his head opened and stoped the blade, and his hand flew up of its own and stabbed the saurus in the chest. "NOOOOO" Kaladar screamed, He was so close. He pulled his blade out of the saurus and grabbed his steed. He lefts it's body where it lied, it wasn't worthy of anouther moment thought. He Needed to find someone stronger and better.
He rode on down where he thought the saurus came from, maybe it had a master who was stronger. It was a long shot but who knew.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Oct 30, 2013 5:43:13 GMT -5
round one battles:
znart vs. the executioner Sir Chillin vs. Vlad f-y-do vs. dreadlord Corras Kaladar vs. the Dark Prince
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Post by Khalai on Oct 30, 2013 9:46:58 GMT -5
Dreadlord Corras catches a familiar scent in the air. Lizard. Shaking the last of the water off of his Sea Dragon Cloak, he puts out his fire and prepares to move into the city. He had only a short time to ready before the vile saurus found him. Such filthy creatures he thought to himself, all brute and no grace. The coming combat would be entirely dependant on his ability to escape the slower lizard's strikes. A simple task, no doubt he thought to himself. The irony of defeating this opponent with the very artefacts stolen from one of their temples was not lost on him. Dreadlord Corras turns the corner to see f-y-do awaiting him, and readies a charge.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Oct 30, 2013 11:36:04 GMT -5
Znart leapt through the air with an earth-shaking goblin warcry, confident he would run through the warrior before he even got a chance to swing. With unbelievable speed, the warrior spun and in one fluid motion struck out with his great sword. Znart’s protective talisman shone brightly with shielding magics, however the strange force directing the warrior’s attacks began to warp and shift the defensive wards. With a force of will, Znart wrenched Steve’s reins to pull them both out of the path of the blade before it cleaved them in two.
Znart pounded at the warrior’s armor with his basha, driving the Executioner down to one knee with a force surprising for a small goblin. Tzeentch’s warding magic whipped around the warrior, pushing back the damaging effects of Znart’s attack. Steve meanwhile latched onto the warrior’s mount, who kicked and attempted to drive back the hungry arachnid.
The Executioner swung again, easily cutting through Znart’s makeshift armor as if it wasn’t there. Znart’s protection talisman again tried to flare to life to save him, however the changer of ways interfered again and this time the blade sunk home. Znart howled at the pain and tried again to bash at the warrior. The armor was too strong, perhaps his strength had been compromised from the wound. Or perhaps there was a traitor in his court who may have poisoned him! Znart tried to think of who it could possibly be, but he was having a difficult time remembering who was actually in his court now for some reason. He could feel himself slowing down, his reaction time to the point where he barely avoided the warrior’s strikes which would have easily dispatched him. Znart struck out almost in instinct, cracking the shoulder plate of his opponent’s armor, but the magical wards surrounding him were too strong, while his own felt weak and sabotaged. Znart felt his grip loosening and his basha fall to the ground. He blinked in surprise as he looked up at himself standing there headless and wondered how this all happened. He was king after all.
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After battle thoughts:
S7 took care of poor Znart's armor, and making him reroll successful ward saves was rough. Znart had more attacks (and Steve! who unfortunately did no wounds this battle) but hitting on 4's then dealing with a 1+ (turning to a 4+ with strength/AP) then a 3++ was rough, even with the forced rerolls... must say, the 1+/3++ reroll 1's is pretty darn difficult to get through, and there's two of you in the arena that have it! poor Znart... all he wanted to do was be king! A 2 wound character though is always risky... one bad round and it can be over!
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Post by donimator on Oct 30, 2013 12:09:58 GMT -5
As Steve scurried away to hopelessly nurse her mortal wounds, Znart lay confused as his kingdom faded to grey. Wait, nothing was fading. It actually was grey. The ashen taste in his detached head was actually ash. What had happened to his grand city? He struggled with the reality of it as truths parted his foggy perception. In the end he passed on, content in the knowledge his 'people' would raise a grand statue of him in honour of his final charge to save the city. For a rabble of peasants and minions, they were still good folk.
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Znart seemed too fun not to try. Little guys - 0.
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Post by canadianguy on Oct 30, 2013 16:20:48 GMT -5
Pretty intereting that they made sure to break the combo for the unkillable lord but come up with something even better in another army. Makes me chuckle.
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Post by onlurker on Oct 30, 2013 21:41:29 GMT -5
The Executioner dismounted as the giant spider scampered away with some part of it's fallen rider, it's several broken legs twitching as it bobbed & hobbled, scurrying quickly despite the battle. Surveying what was left, he was taken in by the look of longing in the Goblin's eyes. He could almost relate. He sensed a feeling in himself he could only assume was pity, though it disappeared before he could study it as swiftly as his axe had last swung.
The feeling of power gave him a rush in his gut, and the air smelled sweeter than he'd noticed before. His eyes started to feed this feeling as he surveyed the landscape, but he knew the sense of longing to rule a place like this would be his greatest foe. He shook his head, and his gaze fell upon the axe that streched itself out beside a pool of blood. Somehow the allure of taking just one of the goblin's treasures pressed on him.
He closed his eyes, while the ones on his head watched through a power from beyond. He was going to the place he needed to escape to, to remind himself the void in him wouldn't be filled by the promise of 'a bit more power', because 'a bit more' was ever. There was a few moments of peace, before the dirty tendrils of guilt crawled up to spoil the joy of triumph. On the outside he was marked as a servant of Tzeentch; few would think past it. But on the inside, a struggle was ongoing, and this land- this ruined city was the place he sought for solace- an excuse for retreat while he contemplated what was unthinkable.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Oct 31, 2013 9:13:33 GMT -5
Vlad certainly did not expect the sight before him. A full on vampire screaming in rage and charging him! Vlad squirted the musk of fear involuntarily, which unsettled his mount as well. He turned to flee but realized it was far too late. He spurred his loyal pox rat to charge into the fray, unsheathing his weapon. As he moved to strike the vampire, a strange thing happened. His movements slowed as if moving through water, and the undead creature whirled with supernatural speed, cutting with unnatural precision, leaving gaping wounds in the skaven warlord.
“Impossible” Vlad slurred, “nothing…is….that…fast”
Vlad tried to bring his own weapon to bear against Sir Chillin but when he met the ferocious gaze of the vampire he could not bring himself to strike, his weapon seemed to take on a life of it’s own and diverted it’s path away from the creature.
With ruthless savagery, Sir Chillin cut the skaven down. The pox rat attempted to scurry away, however the vampire would have none of that, and intercepted the beast’s path and ended it’s miserable life.
Sir Chillin grabbed the flask and raised it to his lips. The last keg of the finest ale ever produced. This would finally quench his thirst.
But the keg was empty.
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After battle thoughts:
Holy crap. This vamp is rough! There was literally nothing the skaven could do, getting a 5+/5++ that must be rerolled vs. ASF, rerolling hits, beguile and no strength bonus. Sir Chillin is a force to be reckoned with it seems... however in true skaven trechery, he just couldn't get that keg of ale for all his troubles...
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Post by stonecutter on Oct 31, 2013 10:28:00 GMT -5
Screaming in frustration at the empty keg, Sir Chillin gazed down with cold fury at his skaven foe. The hangover induced heightening of his senses continued with the absence of relief, blotting out THE THIRST. Glowing rays of power emanated from the skaven’s pockets as well as from a small, metal box on the giant pox rat. Ripping off the lid of the box with easy contempt, he ignored the feeble magical protections and felt the glow of warpstone radiation. Moving quickly to the still warm skaven, he stripped it of warpstone powder and poured it into his keg. Lifting the warlord with one hand, he slit his foe’s throat and drained as much blood as he could into the keg. Muttering the incantations he had memorized before this journey, he then carefully swirled the keg’s contents in circles, first clockwise and then counter clockwise with a measured rhythm and constant speed of rotation. At the apex of each repeated incantation he faced a different cardinal point until each had been reached three times. Setting the keg down, he poured himself a small drink and quaffed it during pauses in the casting. While THE THIRST remained, it had abated, and the adulterated Bloody Mary had served it’s purpose as the pain subsided, allowing him to think clearly. While his ultimate aim remained the fabled Beer of Belosia, he knew that his next step was to seek the “fire & ice” red wine that the seeress had cryptically hinted at. As his thoughts pondered this latest conundrum, the tantalizing scent of a warmblood washed over him. In an instant of revelation, he knew what must come next. The blood of a northern warrior serving a god of flame, fire and change was the next ingredient in the elixir. Securing the warpstone and his keg on his mount, Sir Chillin rode slowly away, allowing his nostrils to guide him toward his next challenge.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Oct 31, 2013 11:04:48 GMT -5
Dreadlord Corras picked his way up the trail leading to the city with ease in the growing dark, his goal to get up into the city proper before the saurus could get to him. He knew that the creature would be trying to use it’s strength against him, and he needed the mobility of open terrain. F-Y-Do was cunning however, and intercepted the dark elf before he could fully ascend. The oldblood growled in satisfaction, this was going to be on his terms. Corras realized he was not going to make it almost too late, rounding a bend in the precarious trail to see the lizard man coming full speed towards him. Corras spun quickly, slicing his opponent across the thigh as he moved past him. F-Y-Do howled in pain and frustration at missing his mark, obsidian claws ripping deep gouges into the elf’s armor, but unable to find purchase in flesh. Corras’s cold one, being led behind his master, was unable to do much other than snap ineffectually at F-Y-Do, it’s focus fully on trying to keep from tumbling down the slope. Corras moved and sliced at the lizard man with blinding speed despite the close confines hampering his swings. F-Y-Do batted away the great weapon with ease, the deflection hard enough that the dreadlord felt it rattle his clenched teeth. The great saurus sliced into the side of the dark elf, hissing as he felt the sharp blades dig deep. The dark elf’s amulet attempted to envelop F-Y-Do in numbing mist, but the oldblood shrugged off the effects. F-Y-Do threw Corras to the side, attempting to toss him over the cliff face, but the elf nimbly held his ground. F-Y-Do rushed at the dark elf, intent on crushing him on the rocks or running him through with his obsidian claws, whichever fate the wretched creature wished. As the oldblood rushed in, Dreadlord Corras avoided the rushing lizardman and struck with his sword into the creature’s back, cutting deep into F-Y-Do’s spine and using his momentum to send him tumbling over the cliffs to break on the rocks below. Holding tight to his side to stem the gushing blood, Corras continued his ascent up the trail, all the more cautious now that he was wounded. His mount moved up beside him, bearing some of the elf’s weight. “lot of help you were”, Corras mumbled. ------------------ After battle thoughts: Okay this was really, really close. It went FIVE rounds, which is a LOT of attacks to weather when you consider each of you is throwing out 4-5 attacks each, often at high strength, ignoring armor and sometimes forcing rerolls of wards. To put this one in perspective – Corras hits on 3’s wounds on 3’s and F-Y-Do gets a 4+/4++. F-Y-Do gets an extra attack, hits on 4’s and wounds on 2’s and Corras gets no armor save and has to rely on his 4++ only. HOWEVER, every one of those passed wards generates an armor ignoring hit on the saurus. So yeah, this was back and forth, with Corras scoring a wound in round one, F-Y-Do scoring a wound in round three, then Corras getting one through in round four and five. To F-Y-Do’s credit, he ward saved EVERY bounced wound from the black amulet…lol - and Corras' mount continued the whifflefest that has marked the attacks of EVERY mount fighting thus far
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Oct 31, 2013 11:39:43 GMT -5
Kaladar strode through the ruins of the city, eager to meet his death. The lingering smells of dry rot and spices drew him to the ruins of a cathedral, where a mummified creature stood surveying the area, appearing to be looking for something. Kaladar yelled a challenge, daring the creature to slay him. The Dark prince casually turned and looked at the warrior, and although his features had long since wasted away his expression was one of cold annoyance.
The Dark Prince began walking down the stone steps, raising the destroyer of eternities as he went, ready to strike down this arrogant thing that dared to challenge him. Kaladar ran quickly forward, feeling that this finally could be the one who freed him from his destiny.
Kaladar swung his weapon with practiced efficiency, cutting deep gashes into the mummified flesh, the light armor no match for the force of his blows. The dark prince slammed his weapon into the warrior. Kaladar smiled to himself as he felt the impact. Truly this was the creature that would kill him. The armor refused to break however, and he remained battered and bruised, but not truly injured. Kaladar roared in frustration and sliced upwards with his sword, cutting the tomb king fully in half.
The dark prince fell to the stone steps and began to disintegrate as the necromantic magics unravelled. Kaladar swore and kicked the skull down the roadway. He sat on the steps and hung his head. How could anyone free him from his fate?
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After battle thoughts… well the tomb king hit hard, that’s for sure. And the glittering scales helped a little, but it only made Kaladar hit on 4’s instead of 3’s. 6+ armor just doesn’t cut it vs. S6. So basically hitting on 4’s, wounding on 3’s meant Kaladar made short work of the tomb king.
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