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DARK•HERITAGE -- 16 installments to date, updated April 20th
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<blockquote data-quote="Desdichado" data-source="post: 1605837" data-attributes="member: 2205"><p><strong>Prologue II</strong></p><p></p><p>A not so long time ago…</p><p></p><p><em><span style="color: orange">(The following prologue was actually played out by the players; I gave them some pre-generated characters to use for the better part of our first session.)</span></em></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">“Wanna fried tomato?” Acton asked. In his hand, he had a battered iron skillet with a silvered wooden handle. It still sizzled invitingly, as he speared the breaded and fried fruit with an equally battered fork and put one on Dacey’s and Toren’s wooden plates. Then he sat down next to them on a hard, dried log. The three of them silently chewed their food for a minute, watching the caravan porters finish setting up the small camp. Maybe caravan was too generous a word for what this was; three wagons, and as near as the hired muscle could tell, only one of them had any cargo. The owner, an obviously wealthy, yet suspicious and secretive fellow named Chauncey d’Albereau stalked by the guards, giving them a frown before turning aside again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Toren spat. “Five silver marks says he tries to sneak whatever he’s got in that trunk in the hard way. He’ll pay us and let us go right before we get to Razina, mark my words. He don’t want our eyes around when he bribes the gatekeepers.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Dacey burped and waved nonchalantly. “As long as he does pay us, I don’t care if the trunk is full of <em>haoma</em>. Since when have you cared anyway? As I recall you were a two bit bandit six months ago.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Toren sneered. “A little honest thievery’s one thing, but this bloke’s up to his arse in something worse than that.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Acton nodded his agreement. “Yeah, haven’t you heard the porters? They’re dead scared of whatever he’s carrying in there. Rumor is he pulled something off the plateau of Leng. Don’t wanna stick your poke in anything from there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Toren laughed, although a bit nervously, as he struck a match on a nearby reddish piece of sandstone and lit up a large brown cigar. “The dread plateau of Leng!” he said sarcastically, waving his hands mysteriously with his eyes open wide. He spat again, and chomped down on the cigar. “There ain’t no such place.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Acton had an indignant look on his face; clearly he was about to lay into his fellow guard with a scathing argument, but Dacey elbowed him. He was staring upward into the sky. “Oi, what’s that?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">All three of them stood. For a moment, it was hard to make out what Dacey had seen. The ground was dry and dusty; a rusted orange-red color, and the dust particles that were constantly suspended in the air gave the sky the same color. It not only made the horizon seem to disappear, but it also cut down in visibility considerably. But they could soon all see a large shape drifting slowly, almost lazily towards them. It was a ship, but a battered, dusty, and moldering one. It looked like it had been abandoned for years, floating aimlessly from who knew which island. It was a miracle that it was passing over them at all, and even more miraculous that the magic that suspended the ship hadn’t faded, sending it plummeting into the void.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">But miracle or not, it was clearly coming right for them, and would drift right over their heads no more than thirty or forty feet up.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Acton suddenly had his heavy flintlock pistol in his hand, checking the loaded charge and ball. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said, not taking his eyes off the ship. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">“Oh, c’mon! That’s clearly just a derelict…” Toren started to say. He thought he saw movement on the deck of the ship, which would be directly overhead in mere minutes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Dacey spat. “That’s what comes of meddling with Leng,” he said, drawing his sword. The ship was slowing down, and now ropes were dropping from its deck to hang down near them. The porters had all stopped working, staring wide-eyed at the old ship. And then people were disembarking, coming down the ropes slowly. But something was wrong with them. They moved jerkily, and seemed to be malformed. He couldn’t place what it was until they came down to the ground. Then he screamed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">The figures were all dead. Desiccated, mummified faces, with grinning, skull-like countenances and blank eye sockets regarded the screaming and running porters. But that wasn’t all – the walking corpses had been “modified” by some insane genius. Tubes and pipes burst from their torsos, and their hands were replaced by huge, spiked and vicious metallic claws, like grotesquely oversized boxing gloves made of cold steel. The corpses clanked and hissed as they moved, and their dried flesh rustled like parchment in the wind. And they were slaughtering the caravan with powerful blows from their mechanical hands. Chauncey d’Albereau came out of the wagon, screamed and fired a pistol shot at one, right in its face. The skull exploded, and the creature fell to the ground, but another one gripped the man’s extended pistol arm and ripped it from its socket in a spray of blood. Then another blow crushed his ribcage, and he fell in a red splatter to the rusty dirt, and did not get back up.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">The three guards saw the hideous corpses coming their way, and drew their weapons. Dacey screamed as he shot one that jerked backwards from the force of his ball, but did not stop. With shaking hands he started reloading his gun. Acton was diving under a wagon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Then Dacey and Toren noticed that someone was suddenly standing next to them. Toren stepped back with a start. The someone was a person of a race that he did not recognize. She was tall, and had soot-colored skin and piercing blue eyes. She smiled at him, showing teeth that seemed unnaturally white against her dark skin. Her head was shaved, and she wore strange black clothes; a tight leather tunic that fitted her like an ophidian skin, and extremely voluminous trousers. She had two large curved swords hanging low on her hips, but even as she smiled they seemed to leap almost of their own accord into her hands. Toren shouted, “I don’t think so!” as he loosed a blast with his own pistol directly at her chest, but she wasn’t there – she had melted into the shadow of the wagon. Instantly she reappeared behind him, leaping out of another shadow nearby, and her swords flashed so quickly that they were mere blurs. Toren fell to the ground stone dead.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Acton got out from under his wagon as the strange steam-powered mummies smashed it to splinters. His sword chopped down one of them before he took a resounding blow that spun him around. He shook his head, spitting blood and tried to rise, but fell again under the pummeling fists of three of the creatures. His screams were short-lived.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Dacey had given up trying to reload his pistol, and tossed it to the ground, running as fast as he could for Chauncey’s wagon. The shadow woman was suddenly next to him, slashing at him, but he dived to the ground, avoiding all but a stinging blow from her sword, and he was back up again, scrabbling into the wagon. There was the chest; the valuable cargo that they had been hired to protect. With a shout, he chopped with his sword, and the lid of the chest flipped open. Inside was a book. Just a book.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Disbelieving, he picked it up, but as he did he suddenly shivered in terror. The book was made of human skin, and a stretched face was on the cover. He thought for an instant that he saw the face mouthing obscenities at him. He quickly put it down where he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">And then he saw that the dark woman was standing right behind him, an amused smirk on her face. He stumbled backward, holding the book in front of him like a shield. She jammed one of the swords into the floor of the wagon to watch him for a minute, chuckling slightly to herself, and shaking her head and her finger at him. “I don’t think so, hero. Give me the book.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Dacey tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry, and only a hoarse rattle came from his throat. Then he turned and ran. The dark woman’s face hardened, no longer amused.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">He leaped madly for one of the ropes hanging from the flying ship. If the entire “crew” were here on the ground, he might just escape if he could hijack their ship before they could reboard. He began shimmying up the rope as fast as he could. He felt the boat wobble slightly, and he looked around. Several mechanical zombies were also climbing ropes. He would be hard pressed to cut their ropes and get the ship underway before the deck was swarming with the things again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'">Breathing heavily, he clambered up on the deck. It was deserted. He cast his eyes about desperately for a knife, or sword, or anything he could use to cut the ropes. And then the dark woman stepped nonchalantly from out of the shadow of the sail. She smiled mirthlessly at Dacey as she slit his throat with the end of one of her swords. He was still choking on his own blood as she pitched him over the side to smash to the hard ground below.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Desdichado, post: 1605837, member: 2205"] [b]Prologue II[/b] A not so long time ago… [i][color=orange](The following prologue was actually played out by the players; I gave them some pre-generated characters to use for the better part of our first session.)[/color][/i][color=orange][/color] [font=Trebuchet MS]“Wanna fried tomato?” Acton asked. In his hand, he had a battered iron skillet with a silvered wooden handle. It still sizzled invitingly, as he speared the breaded and fried fruit with an equally battered fork and put one on Dacey’s and Toren’s wooden plates. Then he sat down next to them on a hard, dried log. The three of them silently chewed their food for a minute, watching the caravan porters finish setting up the small camp. Maybe caravan was too generous a word for what this was; three wagons, and as near as the hired muscle could tell, only one of them had any cargo. The owner, an obviously wealthy, yet suspicious and secretive fellow named Chauncey d’Albereau stalked by the guards, giving them a frown before turning aside again. Toren spat. “Five silver marks says he tries to sneak whatever he’s got in that trunk in the hard way. He’ll pay us and let us go right before we get to Razina, mark my words. He don’t want our eyes around when he bribes the gatekeepers.” Dacey burped and waved nonchalantly. “As long as he does pay us, I don’t care if the trunk is full of [i]haoma[/i]. Since when have you cared anyway? As I recall you were a two bit bandit six months ago.” Toren sneered. “A little honest thievery’s one thing, but this bloke’s up to his arse in something worse than that.” Acton nodded his agreement. “Yeah, haven’t you heard the porters? They’re dead scared of whatever he’s carrying in there. Rumor is he pulled something off the plateau of Leng. Don’t wanna stick your poke in anything from there.” Toren laughed, although a bit nervously, as he struck a match on a nearby reddish piece of sandstone and lit up a large brown cigar. “The dread plateau of Leng!” he said sarcastically, waving his hands mysteriously with his eyes open wide. He spat again, and chomped down on the cigar. “There ain’t no such place.” Acton had an indignant look on his face; clearly he was about to lay into his fellow guard with a scathing argument, but Dacey elbowed him. He was staring upward into the sky. “Oi, what’s that?” All three of them stood. For a moment, it was hard to make out what Dacey had seen. The ground was dry and dusty; a rusted orange-red color, and the dust particles that were constantly suspended in the air gave the sky the same color. It not only made the horizon seem to disappear, but it also cut down in visibility considerably. But they could soon all see a large shape drifting slowly, almost lazily towards them. It was a ship, but a battered, dusty, and moldering one. It looked like it had been abandoned for years, floating aimlessly from who knew which island. It was a miracle that it was passing over them at all, and even more miraculous that the magic that suspended the ship hadn’t faded, sending it plummeting into the void. But miracle or not, it was clearly coming right for them, and would drift right over their heads no more than thirty or forty feet up. Acton suddenly had his heavy flintlock pistol in his hand, checking the loaded charge and ball. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said, not taking his eyes off the ship. “Oh, c’mon! That’s clearly just a derelict…” Toren started to say. He thought he saw movement on the deck of the ship, which would be directly overhead in mere minutes. Dacey spat. “That’s what comes of meddling with Leng,” he said, drawing his sword. The ship was slowing down, and now ropes were dropping from its deck to hang down near them. The porters had all stopped working, staring wide-eyed at the old ship. And then people were disembarking, coming down the ropes slowly. But something was wrong with them. They moved jerkily, and seemed to be malformed. He couldn’t place what it was until they came down to the ground. Then he screamed. The figures were all dead. Desiccated, mummified faces, with grinning, skull-like countenances and blank eye sockets regarded the screaming and running porters. But that wasn’t all – the walking corpses had been “modified” by some insane genius. Tubes and pipes burst from their torsos, and their hands were replaced by huge, spiked and vicious metallic claws, like grotesquely oversized boxing gloves made of cold steel. The corpses clanked and hissed as they moved, and their dried flesh rustled like parchment in the wind. And they were slaughtering the caravan with powerful blows from their mechanical hands. Chauncey d’Albereau came out of the wagon, screamed and fired a pistol shot at one, right in its face. The skull exploded, and the creature fell to the ground, but another one gripped the man’s extended pistol arm and ripped it from its socket in a spray of blood. Then another blow crushed his ribcage, and he fell in a red splatter to the rusty dirt, and did not get back up. The three guards saw the hideous corpses coming their way, and drew their weapons. Dacey screamed as he shot one that jerked backwards from the force of his ball, but did not stop. With shaking hands he started reloading his gun. Acton was diving under a wagon. Then Dacey and Toren noticed that someone was suddenly standing next to them. Toren stepped back with a start. The someone was a person of a race that he did not recognize. She was tall, and had soot-colored skin and piercing blue eyes. She smiled at him, showing teeth that seemed unnaturally white against her dark skin. Her head was shaved, and she wore strange black clothes; a tight leather tunic that fitted her like an ophidian skin, and extremely voluminous trousers. She had two large curved swords hanging low on her hips, but even as she smiled they seemed to leap almost of their own accord into her hands. Toren shouted, “I don’t think so!” as he loosed a blast with his own pistol directly at her chest, but she wasn’t there – she had melted into the shadow of the wagon. Instantly she reappeared behind him, leaping out of another shadow nearby, and her swords flashed so quickly that they were mere blurs. Toren fell to the ground stone dead. Acton got out from under his wagon as the strange steam-powered mummies smashed it to splinters. His sword chopped down one of them before he took a resounding blow that spun him around. He shook his head, spitting blood and tried to rise, but fell again under the pummeling fists of three of the creatures. His screams were short-lived. Dacey had given up trying to reload his pistol, and tossed it to the ground, running as fast as he could for Chauncey’s wagon. The shadow woman was suddenly next to him, slashing at him, but he dived to the ground, avoiding all but a stinging blow from her sword, and he was back up again, scrabbling into the wagon. There was the chest; the valuable cargo that they had been hired to protect. With a shout, he chopped with his sword, and the lid of the chest flipped open. Inside was a book. Just a book. Disbelieving, he picked it up, but as he did he suddenly shivered in terror. The book was made of human skin, and a stretched face was on the cover. He thought for an instant that he saw the face mouthing obscenities at him. He quickly put it down where he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. And then he saw that the dark woman was standing right behind him, an amused smirk on her face. He stumbled backward, holding the book in front of him like a shield. She jammed one of the swords into the floor of the wagon to watch him for a minute, chuckling slightly to herself, and shaking her head and her finger at him. “I don’t think so, hero. Give me the book.” Dacey tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry, and only a hoarse rattle came from his throat. Then he turned and ran. The dark woman’s face hardened, no longer amused. He leaped madly for one of the ropes hanging from the flying ship. If the entire “crew” were here on the ground, he might just escape if he could hijack their ship before they could reboard. He began shimmying up the rope as fast as he could. He felt the boat wobble slightly, and he looked around. Several mechanical zombies were also climbing ropes. He would be hard pressed to cut their ropes and get the ship underway before the deck was swarming with the things again. Breathing heavily, he clambered up on the deck. It was deserted. He cast his eyes about desperately for a knife, or sword, or anything he could use to cut the ropes. And then the dark woman stepped nonchalantly from out of the shadow of the sail. She smiled mirthlessly at Dacey as she slit his throat with the end of one of her swords. He was still choking on his own blood as she pitched him over the side to smash to the hard ground below.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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