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Thread: Scotley's 4e Swashbuckler
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 04:01 AM #1
Magsman (Lvl 14)
Scotley's 4e Swashbuckler
Spring was in the air. The weather was warming and clear. Several of the Hounds jumped at the chance to take a group of tired old horses from the stable out to a horse farm belonging to the order. A group of young horses was ready to be added to the stable. After the hard winter the countryside was said to be restive and it would not do to have the horses lost to yokels turned bandit.
The journey to the farm was uneventful and the afternoon was spent in a successful bit of fowling. Tales of the hunt grew as the evening's drinking wore on. Though a bit cramped the farm provided adequate lodging.
After a hearty breakfast the Hounds set off for the city with half a dozen grooms and two dozen fresh horses. The cold pheasant, some soft ripened cheese and a few bottles of wine from the farm would make a welcome picnic for the return trip. Even the Horsebread from the farm, a peasant bread made with oats and legumes as well wheat and rye, was a pleasant change from the Baguettes supplied daily to the Hounds by the Royal bakery. The sun was mild and warm and roadside flowers were beginning to bloom. The Hounds fell to companionable banter as they rode. Except for the some rather muddy stretches, the journey was one worthy of setting to verse.
Alas, all good things must come to an end. As the amiable companions topped a rise the sounds of a barking dog could be heard ahead. Then more alarmingly, a feminine voice crying out for help reached your ears. A moment later a plump young woman in a torn dress with her disheveled hair trailing behind ran into view. "Mesdame! Messieurs! The barbarians, they are pillaging the Roadhouse, please help us!" She points back down the road. "Please, quickly!"
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Monday, 7th March, 2011, 04:55 AM #2
Lama (Lvl 13)
Lucien brushes a lock of dark hair out of his face as he observes the girl running toward the group. He had known that something bad was going to happen. It had been such a pleasant day after all, and the world had a way of ruining such things. Lucien had gotten into the habit of expecting the worst.
As the girl draws near, he calls out to her. "Barbarians? How many?"
For every one hundred men you send us, Ten should not even be here. Eighty are nothing but targets. Nine of them are real fighters; We are lucky to have them, they the battle make. Ah, but the one. One of them is a warrior. And he will bring the others back. - Heraclitus of Ephesus, 500 BC
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 09:43 AM #3
Waghalter (Lvl 7)
The pale blue crystalline performer is wrapped lightly in a completely impractical suit of white cloth armor that wouldn't provide the slightest warmth or protection to any who had need of such comforts. His mouthless face is a single "V shaped" gem, with smaller opaque growths and stones that imitate a spiked hairdo and a goatee. The eye shaped points of light inside the transparent shape of a face glow a deep and eerie blue, expressing none of the ample emotion that the mage seeks to convey. Thayoon's forearms and calves are a veritable forest of sharp, back-facing points of the same opaque crystal that gives his head the illusion of hair. Any uncovered facets of the shardmind's body glimmer and refract the suns light in a very enticing way.
To an observer more than 25ft away, Thayoon is silently juggling a set of flaming circus balls, using advanced techniques to keep his horse unaware of the aerial inferno whizzing by just behind its ears. But in the middle of the rambunctious group of Hounds, the entertainer is singing a raucious tune directly into the minds of his comrades that makes them randomly burst into fits of laughter, while the bards accompany him, each in their own way.
When the girl comes running over the rise, the shardmind stops failing his arms under the cascading circle of mini fireballs, but they just keep on spinning through the air. "Yuh see there? They come from far and wide, once word gets around about these skills." Once she starts yelling, the mage's shoulders slump and he waves a finger in a corkscrew pattern at the swirling circle of fiery spheres. The angle of the burning disc changes from vertically to horizontally over his head before each ball fades away in quick succession. "What kind of barbarians?"OOC
Last edited by Vertexx69; Monday, 7th March, 2011 at 09:48 AM.
Remember that every facet of our lives tries to become all consuming if we don't watch it. We need creative outlets like gaming to keep the trudge of daily life from grinding our souls into dust...
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 11:05 AM #4
Lama (Lvl 13)
Aislinn rides alongside the others, her remarkable voice weaving an intricate, smoky counterpoint to the Shardmind's bawdy tune. Her pale blue eyes scan the countryside; she thoroughly enjoys the beautiful day and trusts that Boldrei will give her notice should anything threaten.
At the feminine cry of terror, the young Bard guides her mount with thigh and calf, quickly readying her bow and setting an arrow to the string.
"Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats."
-- H.L. Mencken
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 01:02 PM #5
Superhero (Lvl 15)
Malkyr is playing on his black flute, sitting on his black horse, wearing his black leather armor with just a hint of red (or is it another color...). Were it not for his flamboyant hat, his bright blue cloak and the surcoat with the Hounds emblem, one could have confuse him for a criminal himself.
In a blurring motion, he stows the flute away (twisting it just ride to turn it into a blowpipe) and he has his short sword in hand.
"Please show us the way, Mesdame."
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 02:35 PM #6
Myrmidon (Lvl 10)
Colin MacKinnon, riding his mount in a rather uncomfortable position, is happy that the ride has come to an end - for now at least. "Of all the cockamamie ideas," he says. "A dwarf ridin' a full-sized bleedin' horse? Ack, daft I tell ye!"
MacKinnon draws his mount to a stop and looks at the woman crying for help. "Barbarians, eh?" The dwarf considers dismounting, but, seeing no barbarians present, decides to stay mounted for now. "Ya know, many have called us dwarves barbarians, especially the cousins in Nordia. We'll see what sort of bleedin' barbarians are to be had in this peaceful land."
MacKinnon draws his reins and looks in the woman's direction. "All right, lass. Shew me to yuir barbarians..."
Last edited by Insight; Monday, 7th March, 2011 at 04:59 PM. Reason: mis-read the intro =(
I have returned after a 4-year absence.
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 03:57 PM #7
Magsman (Lvl 14)
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 04:11 PM #8
Spellbinder (Lvl 16)
Tabitha squints into the distance behind the girl, looking for a plume of smoke, or pursuers or other signs of the pillage she described. Bandits sometimes used this sort of thing to lure the unsuspecting away to ambush.
But then again, even if that WAS the goal, well then the bandits needed stopping just as much as barbarians did.
"Lets go!" she cried, and spurred her horse forward, following the woman's backtrail.
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 04:15 PM #9
Magsman (Lvl 14)
Monday, 7th March, 2011, 04:36 PM #10
Enchanter (Lvl 12)
Near the back of the group, on an old mare, was an older man, apparently asleep. He seemed out of place with the warriors and entertainers, dressed in heavy workman's leathers. He snored lightly, his white mustache twitching softly. His mare, however, seemed to know what to do, and she never went astray.
When the girl appeared and yelled, the mare stopped and the man continued sleeping. As the others began to question her, the older man slyly opened one eye, looked around, then went back to sleep. As he resettled, the reason for him being their was made clear: Strapped to his back was the largest, finest musket in the world. Carved clearly on its winged shaped stock was one word: Drache.