Xorn
First Post
I've decided to try my hand at a story to follow the adventures of my primary campaign, which we play weekly, and has just begun two weeks ago. I've actually been swaying on the writing style though--I'm sitting on the fence between straight third person description or a narrative prose (more like a traditional fantasy story). I'm going to drop in the first adventure they completed, then see what opinions are.
Watch For Falling Meteors
Omar snorted derisively as the soft summer breeze pulled an odor out of the descending stone staircase they had found amidst the ruins. “Aye,” he grunted, “if’nae I have a beard, that’s tha smell of kobolds, the miserable, scaled bastards they be.” With a casual, practiced motion, the dwarf hefted the angular head of his maul off of his shoulder, leveraging the long handle in his other hand, ready to bring the mighty weapon down on his foes. Omar was tall for a dwarf, standing a good deal taller than four heads, and his blocky torso and limbs weighed more than most humans, though that wasn’t uncommon among dwarves. Omar’s scalp was bare, the thin crop of hair he was born with having long since been worn away from wearing a helmet most of his life, and his beard, normally a full, braided, and decorated aspect of a dwarf, was disheveled and chopped off erratically only inches from his jaw. The dark, course hair had a healthy shine, but was matted and uncared for leaving him looking a bit wild. Opportunity had not presented itself for the rest of those traveling with Omar to ask about it.
That’s what Daichot was thinking as he stood beside Omar, curiously enough he realized. While the rest of the soon-to-be delvers were preparing for battle, he was wondering why the dwarven fighter he had recently met had such a travesty (by dwarven standards) of a beard. For Daichot however, being born with devilish horns sprouting from his forehead, deep red skin, and a bony, ridged brow and tail, the word ‘curious’ did not mean the same to him as it did others. His sinister tiefling frame towered over the dwarf if height was the measure used, but the squat humanoid was probably heavier than him, or close to it. They were both wearing battered suits of scale armor, made of small, overlapping plates of metal sewn into leather, affording excellent joint mobility, once you got accustomed to the weight, and learning what ways you couldn’t twist. While Omar had swung about the maul that was nearly his height earlier in the day with obvious practice and skill, the warlord Daichot took comfort in the reassuring power of his greataxe, which he now brandished in a similar fashion to the dwarf, ready to chop mightily into whatever waited for them down stairs they had found, deep in the earth.
“What are we waiting for, then?” quarried a halfling crouching behind the dwarf, who deftly placed a small bolt in the hand crossbow he was holding, cocking the string in the same motion. “The lord warden said any spoils we found in the lair are ours for the keeping!” He had introduced himself as “Percy” when the band agreed to the request for anyone brave enough to enter the kobold’s lair to step forward, though he had included a broad sweep of his feathered hat and a low, flamboyant bow for the crowd, who actually started to applaud the halfling, apparently not noticing there was nothing to applaud, really. Since leaving the city walls of Fallcrest and setting out for the ruins of the old guard keep, Percy had changed from his dramatic attire to a more practical, form fitting leather shirt and britches, with a long (well, long by halfling standards), hooded cloak which draped over his loaded down frame. No taller than four heads, including the hood, Percy was as slim and wiry as Omar was stocky and broad. A bandolier of leather straps secured several sheathed daggers about the rogue’s body, ready for easy access, and a small hand crossbow, actually rather large for halfling hands, was the only thing protruding out of his cloak, presently, except an eager glint of teeth showing through his excited smile, framed by curly, dark brown locks of hair threatening to escape his hood.
Omar looked back at the halfling, trying to decide if the displayed bravado was genuine, or overcompensation. Having witnessed the halfling fighting on the road to Fallcrest during his journey from Hammerfall, the dwarf decided the rogue was not in the least bit timid, though whether from the natural boldness of the halfing race, or just not having enough sense to be cautious, he wasn’t sure. But his back cast glance at the halfling left his gaze settling on the last person to volunteer to help enter the lair.
The elven ranger had not spoken since they left the walls of Fallcrest, only nodding or shaking her head when asked a question. Even before they had left, she only spoke twice that he’d noticed, once to say her name, “Oleaf”, and the other time to indicate she was from Harkenwold Forest, which most likely meant she was from the Woodsinger clan of elves. She had three quivers, filled with arrows, strapped across her back with tight leather straps, which crossed and accented the lithe curves of her elven features, despite the heavy hides she wore as armor. Angled opposite the quivers across her back, two straight edged short swords protruded over her opposite shoulder, their ornately shaped, leather-wrapped hilts visible to Omar. While the other three were holding their weapons at ready, she had not drawn an arrow from her quiver yet, and calmly stood at the ready. From a quick glance, one might think she wasn’t paying attention, but her wide, green eyes resting on her high cheeks of earthy tone skin were searching the dwarf’s expression, as her long, pointed ears poked out of her tightly braided auburn hair twitched slightly. She nodded to Omar, to let him know she was ready.
Watch For Falling Meteors
Omar snorted derisively as the soft summer breeze pulled an odor out of the descending stone staircase they had found amidst the ruins. “Aye,” he grunted, “if’nae I have a beard, that’s tha smell of kobolds, the miserable, scaled bastards they be.” With a casual, practiced motion, the dwarf hefted the angular head of his maul off of his shoulder, leveraging the long handle in his other hand, ready to bring the mighty weapon down on his foes. Omar was tall for a dwarf, standing a good deal taller than four heads, and his blocky torso and limbs weighed more than most humans, though that wasn’t uncommon among dwarves. Omar’s scalp was bare, the thin crop of hair he was born with having long since been worn away from wearing a helmet most of his life, and his beard, normally a full, braided, and decorated aspect of a dwarf, was disheveled and chopped off erratically only inches from his jaw. The dark, course hair had a healthy shine, but was matted and uncared for leaving him looking a bit wild. Opportunity had not presented itself for the rest of those traveling with Omar to ask about it.
That’s what Daichot was thinking as he stood beside Omar, curiously enough he realized. While the rest of the soon-to-be delvers were preparing for battle, he was wondering why the dwarven fighter he had recently met had such a travesty (by dwarven standards) of a beard. For Daichot however, being born with devilish horns sprouting from his forehead, deep red skin, and a bony, ridged brow and tail, the word ‘curious’ did not mean the same to him as it did others. His sinister tiefling frame towered over the dwarf if height was the measure used, but the squat humanoid was probably heavier than him, or close to it. They were both wearing battered suits of scale armor, made of small, overlapping plates of metal sewn into leather, affording excellent joint mobility, once you got accustomed to the weight, and learning what ways you couldn’t twist. While Omar had swung about the maul that was nearly his height earlier in the day with obvious practice and skill, the warlord Daichot took comfort in the reassuring power of his greataxe, which he now brandished in a similar fashion to the dwarf, ready to chop mightily into whatever waited for them down stairs they had found, deep in the earth.
“What are we waiting for, then?” quarried a halfling crouching behind the dwarf, who deftly placed a small bolt in the hand crossbow he was holding, cocking the string in the same motion. “The lord warden said any spoils we found in the lair are ours for the keeping!” He had introduced himself as “Percy” when the band agreed to the request for anyone brave enough to enter the kobold’s lair to step forward, though he had included a broad sweep of his feathered hat and a low, flamboyant bow for the crowd, who actually started to applaud the halfling, apparently not noticing there was nothing to applaud, really. Since leaving the city walls of Fallcrest and setting out for the ruins of the old guard keep, Percy had changed from his dramatic attire to a more practical, form fitting leather shirt and britches, with a long (well, long by halfling standards), hooded cloak which draped over his loaded down frame. No taller than four heads, including the hood, Percy was as slim and wiry as Omar was stocky and broad. A bandolier of leather straps secured several sheathed daggers about the rogue’s body, ready for easy access, and a small hand crossbow, actually rather large for halfling hands, was the only thing protruding out of his cloak, presently, except an eager glint of teeth showing through his excited smile, framed by curly, dark brown locks of hair threatening to escape his hood.
Omar looked back at the halfling, trying to decide if the displayed bravado was genuine, or overcompensation. Having witnessed the halfling fighting on the road to Fallcrest during his journey from Hammerfall, the dwarf decided the rogue was not in the least bit timid, though whether from the natural boldness of the halfing race, or just not having enough sense to be cautious, he wasn’t sure. But his back cast glance at the halfling left his gaze settling on the last person to volunteer to help enter the lair.
The elven ranger had not spoken since they left the walls of Fallcrest, only nodding or shaking her head when asked a question. Even before they had left, she only spoke twice that he’d noticed, once to say her name, “Oleaf”, and the other time to indicate she was from Harkenwold Forest, which most likely meant she was from the Woodsinger clan of elves. She had three quivers, filled with arrows, strapped across her back with tight leather straps, which crossed and accented the lithe curves of her elven features, despite the heavy hides she wore as armor. Angled opposite the quivers across her back, two straight edged short swords protruded over her opposite shoulder, their ornately shaped, leather-wrapped hilts visible to Omar. While the other three were holding their weapons at ready, she had not drawn an arrow from her quiver yet, and calmly stood at the ready. From a quick glance, one might think she wasn’t paying attention, but her wide, green eyes resting on her high cheeks of earthy tone skin were searching the dwarf’s expression, as her long, pointed ears poked out of her tightly braided auburn hair twitched slightly. She nodded to Omar, to let him know she was ready.
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