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stonegod's Expedition to Castle Ravenloft: Ch. I [OOC]
- Thread starter stonegod
- Start date
stonegod said:
"What's this about 'unleashing a storm of arrows as if it came from a hundred men'?" Daellin had asked the reporter afterward. "I doubt I got thirty shots off in the whole battle. Certainly not fifty; I don't carry that many arrows around. And if I knew elementals and warforged as well as I know undead and humans, a good many of those killed that day would not have been."
stonegod
Spawn of Khyber/LEB Judge
I'll update the vignettes w/ everyone's posts to date; still waiting on Isida, James, and GwydapLlew.
As for character sheets, most everyone has made the fixes I requested. Jannis still needs to pick a familiar if she will start with one. If anyone wants a mount pre-game, now is the time to get one. Not going to be a lot of horseflesh where you are going.
As for character sheets, most everyone has made the fixes I requested. Jannis still needs to pick a familiar if she will start with one. If anyone wants a mount pre-game, now is the time to get one. Not going to be a lot of horseflesh where you are going.
James Heard
Explorer
War Is Hell
Cyran troops shed Cyran blood, that was all that Janis ir'Sandal knew, even though her father and uncle constantly bickered and beset the crown at each chance. Patriellen was little more than a fort really, a summer house turned into a walled compound in ages past at the behest of one of her ancestors. As such, it was marked on soldiers' maps and lucky for them in truth that it was, and it served as a somewhat isolated refuge for all manner of kingsmen and kinsmen for the entirety of the war. Janis remember her grand-aunt making some commentary on the fine roses which supposedly grew once upon the spider-like stucco of the guesthouse by the fountain; but for as long as she remembered the stone caps hat sat on the fountain, the statuary secreted away to parts unknown, and no roses bloomed anywhere upon the estate except the wild woods that ringed the fire zones around the walls. It was, in a word, hell. It was hell, and as long as her father stayed in the capital mounting his campaign for social change it was home. Safety, he said, was his first concern. Janis often wondered, as she brushed her long white hair, if it were simply a matter of shame at his youngest and plainest daughter.
The Vol-priest was intriguing. Self, she explained, was the center of divinity. Or something like that. It was too bad it was a foreign religion, because it had so very many similarities with her parent's politics. A religion such as that, without the grotesqueness of its strange focus on the undead, could transform a nation from being mere slaves to its king's fancies and arguments among its nobility and truly give them a voice of equality. Too many of the priests of the Host were merely soundboxes to repeat the sanctimony of the Wyngards entire. As he sewed up the last of the peasants, a man named Honelly who had one too many mistresses for his wife's temper, the first bells sounded.
More peasants, clutching their young as best as they could, were running madly for the gates with a Karrn raiding party in tow. Six mounted riders rode upon their hellsteeds at best pace at the walls...Truly, the dead were as mad as the living before them. Janis sighed as the scouts taking current refuge within the walls of the estate began suiting up at the barked orders of the rough-looking man commanding them as if the riders could pierce the walls or gates. Part of her bristled inside at the very idea, as if the comfort of the ir'Sandals was so fragile. Perhaps in court it was, given the mad whims of the king and the wandering hands of the young scoundrel prince, but here on the borders...the riders didn't have enough men to cover the front gate and the sally behind, so no doubt her kinsmen were already rallying to attack their flanks in a moment.
"Get everyone up that can hold a bow," the veteran commander ordered, only to see the efficient staff of the manor drop the crossbar into its cradle on the gate. His men were wounded and likely confused, but Janis nodded her head for him toward the roughly mortared stairs that led the the narrow walkway looking over the wall. They were archers, after all, and ever archers do like to find something to shoot at.
Arrows flew true, on both sides, and men died. The Vol-priest, surprisingly, followed the soldiers to the gangplanks and shouted at her fellow Karnnathians above the din, brandishing the symbol of her faith before her. Janis sat and watched from the grass below, war never being her province. While the womenfolk and children cried around her, she shushed them and tried very hard to look noble and aristocratic for them. By examples we make, her father would tell her, our fellow men tread.
Once it was over, the people cheered the soldiers and even the foreign priest as heroes. Even her wounded, bloody uncle came over to clasp hands with the commander and make talk with him as if he were some sort of intimate. Janis didn't understand really. It was just blood. She hated it here in Patriellen though, and if it took a hero to proclaim one's worth and establish one's own destiny then, she thought grimly, perhaps a hero she would become.
Unusual Circumstances
Thaliost was overflowing with heroes it would seem. Janis ir'Sandal, she thought to herself, would never belong here, but Janis Stormhand apparently fit in fine. Riding the lightning rails out of Breland seemed only expedient when the kingsmen started asking around her tower about some populist literature that she had handed out to some friends from the Cogs and a charming warforged she had met. She was tired of moving though, and she had decided to wait before she took her next rail car out of the city. It was one of many poor decisions she had made in her life, she reflected; beginning with her absurd notion to become a hero.
Heroes don't sit sweating on their luggage waiting for lightning rails for one, she thought.
At least, she decided, life wasn't merely unfair to young, plain-looking noblewomen she thought, recognizing the familiar face of a certain scout commander from her past. It seemed that the gods played their whims upon others as well, and nothing could make her heart more glad. Well, that and perhaps a breeze and cool fruit drink, but who notices such things when one's blood runs with the icy, fearless bravery of a hero?
It wasn't all sarcasm, she noted. As heroes went, she faired middling well at the least. Certainly those New Cyran agents outside of Wroat wouldn't doubt it, if anyone called a priest to question their ashes. If anyone could discover where she'd spread their ashes. Her father hadn't been entirely pleased exactly, when commanded by his youngest daughter to produce a series of tutors and mentors in all things magical, but ever the pragmatist he'd finally conceded that Janis' training benefited the family when she'd managed to dispose of the kingsmen named to testify against him and her uncle before the audience. Old Blisterbeard surely hadn't been happy about that, but it wasn't as if the ir'Sandals had actually hired the assassins in the first place. Talked with them, yes; but there's much to be said about shopping around one's options in politics.
As Janis mused about the weather, politics, fate, and the universe though, the station around her erupted. She didn't know exactly which faction these warforged represented, and she didn't care. They were destroying the rails, and how exactly was she supposed to get out of Thaliost if they blew up the lightning rails?
Headline: Mysterious mage wreaks havoc defending lightning rails, collateral damage feared, death toll mounts.
----------
Sorry about the lack of posts. I've been busy.
Cyran troops shed Cyran blood, that was all that Janis ir'Sandal knew, even though her father and uncle constantly bickered and beset the crown at each chance. Patriellen was little more than a fort really, a summer house turned into a walled compound in ages past at the behest of one of her ancestors. As such, it was marked on soldiers' maps and lucky for them in truth that it was, and it served as a somewhat isolated refuge for all manner of kingsmen and kinsmen for the entirety of the war. Janis remember her grand-aunt making some commentary on the fine roses which supposedly grew once upon the spider-like stucco of the guesthouse by the fountain; but for as long as she remembered the stone caps hat sat on the fountain, the statuary secreted away to parts unknown, and no roses bloomed anywhere upon the estate except the wild woods that ringed the fire zones around the walls. It was, in a word, hell. It was hell, and as long as her father stayed in the capital mounting his campaign for social change it was home. Safety, he said, was his first concern. Janis often wondered, as she brushed her long white hair, if it were simply a matter of shame at his youngest and plainest daughter.
The Vol-priest was intriguing. Self, she explained, was the center of divinity. Or something like that. It was too bad it was a foreign religion, because it had so very many similarities with her parent's politics. A religion such as that, without the grotesqueness of its strange focus on the undead, could transform a nation from being mere slaves to its king's fancies and arguments among its nobility and truly give them a voice of equality. Too many of the priests of the Host were merely soundboxes to repeat the sanctimony of the Wyngards entire. As he sewed up the last of the peasants, a man named Honelly who had one too many mistresses for his wife's temper, the first bells sounded.
More peasants, clutching their young as best as they could, were running madly for the gates with a Karrn raiding party in tow. Six mounted riders rode upon their hellsteeds at best pace at the walls...Truly, the dead were as mad as the living before them. Janis sighed as the scouts taking current refuge within the walls of the estate began suiting up at the barked orders of the rough-looking man commanding them as if the riders could pierce the walls or gates. Part of her bristled inside at the very idea, as if the comfort of the ir'Sandals was so fragile. Perhaps in court it was, given the mad whims of the king and the wandering hands of the young scoundrel prince, but here on the borders...the riders didn't have enough men to cover the front gate and the sally behind, so no doubt her kinsmen were already rallying to attack their flanks in a moment.
"Get everyone up that can hold a bow," the veteran commander ordered, only to see the efficient staff of the manor drop the crossbar into its cradle on the gate. His men were wounded and likely confused, but Janis nodded her head for him toward the roughly mortared stairs that led the the narrow walkway looking over the wall. They were archers, after all, and ever archers do like to find something to shoot at.
Arrows flew true, on both sides, and men died. The Vol-priest, surprisingly, followed the soldiers to the gangplanks and shouted at her fellow Karnnathians above the din, brandishing the symbol of her faith before her. Janis sat and watched from the grass below, war never being her province. While the womenfolk and children cried around her, she shushed them and tried very hard to look noble and aristocratic for them. By examples we make, her father would tell her, our fellow men tread.
Once it was over, the people cheered the soldiers and even the foreign priest as heroes. Even her wounded, bloody uncle came over to clasp hands with the commander and make talk with him as if he were some sort of intimate. Janis didn't understand really. It was just blood. She hated it here in Patriellen though, and if it took a hero to proclaim one's worth and establish one's own destiny then, she thought grimly, perhaps a hero she would become.
Unusual Circumstances
Thaliost was overflowing with heroes it would seem. Janis ir'Sandal, she thought to herself, would never belong here, but Janis Stormhand apparently fit in fine. Riding the lightning rails out of Breland seemed only expedient when the kingsmen started asking around her tower about some populist literature that she had handed out to some friends from the Cogs and a charming warforged she had met. She was tired of moving though, and she had decided to wait before she took her next rail car out of the city. It was one of many poor decisions she had made in her life, she reflected; beginning with her absurd notion to become a hero.
Heroes don't sit sweating on their luggage waiting for lightning rails for one, she thought.
At least, she decided, life wasn't merely unfair to young, plain-looking noblewomen she thought, recognizing the familiar face of a certain scout commander from her past. It seemed that the gods played their whims upon others as well, and nothing could make her heart more glad. Well, that and perhaps a breeze and cool fruit drink, but who notices such things when one's blood runs with the icy, fearless bravery of a hero?
It wasn't all sarcasm, she noted. As heroes went, she faired middling well at the least. Certainly those New Cyran agents outside of Wroat wouldn't doubt it, if anyone called a priest to question their ashes. If anyone could discover where she'd spread their ashes. Her father hadn't been entirely pleased exactly, when commanded by his youngest daughter to produce a series of tutors and mentors in all things magical, but ever the pragmatist he'd finally conceded that Janis' training benefited the family when she'd managed to dispose of the kingsmen named to testify against him and her uncle before the audience. Old Blisterbeard surely hadn't been happy about that, but it wasn't as if the ir'Sandals had actually hired the assassins in the first place. Talked with them, yes; but there's much to be said about shopping around one's options in politics.
As Janis mused about the weather, politics, fate, and the universe though, the station around her erupted. She didn't know exactly which faction these warforged represented, and she didn't care. They were destroying the rails, and how exactly was she supposed to get out of Thaliost if they blew up the lightning rails?
Headline: Mysterious mage wreaks havoc defending lightning rails, collateral damage feared, death toll mounts.
----------
Sorry about the lack of posts. I've been busy.
Unusual Circumstances
"WAAAAAOOOOORRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!-- OOOOOOOHHHHHHFFF!!!"
Jarrith slammed hard against the rail station wall and dropped like a stone to the ground. The winds all around the area were blowing so intensely that it took him a solid three or four minutes to get back to his feet. The air elemental was flying back and forth outside the railcar that was currently off its tracks, tossing anyone and everyone every which way. Jarrith didn't know who it was that summoned this creature here... or indeed if perhaps it had just escaped it's imprisonment from within the dragonshards that allowed this raircar to move... but in any event, it was just one more problem that he and his brothers were forced to endure this day.
"Son of a--" he mumbled, as he tried to shake the sobwebs from his head. One of the warforged sympathizers flew past him and crashed into a stone railing, snapping it's body in half. Jarrith immediately started darting his eyes back and forth in hopes of finding his Lumin Brothers, but instead all he saw was chaos. Off to his right was a young priestess working desperately to save the life of a woman whose legs had been sheared clean off. To his left, several lightning bolts cracked thunderously across the station and slammed into the elemental, sending it backwards with a wail... followed closely by a woman of the arcane, whose hands crackled with electrical power.
"This is insane! All I wanted to was to go back home for the holidays! Hey lady! Take out the elemental! I'll handle the warforged!"
Whether or not the wizardess heard his voice over the mad rush of wind all around them made no matter. Jarrith ran headlong towards the railcar that was leaning sideways off the track. He could see that there were two warforged battering away at it's side... presumably trying to get in... and he knew that they were the reason he was going to be late for holiday dinner. And his mother would never let him hear the end of it for that.
"Damn shame that Cannith went through all the trouble to give them life, and now I have to take it from them."
He sprinted down a car length, rolled under the body of the car, then began crawling at full speed on his hands and knees back up to where the 'forged were standing. Several quick stabs to the knees should slow them both down, he thought.
"WAAAAAOOOOORRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!-- OOOOOOOHHHHHHFFF!!!"
Jarrith slammed hard against the rail station wall and dropped like a stone to the ground. The winds all around the area were blowing so intensely that it took him a solid three or four minutes to get back to his feet. The air elemental was flying back and forth outside the railcar that was currently off its tracks, tossing anyone and everyone every which way. Jarrith didn't know who it was that summoned this creature here... or indeed if perhaps it had just escaped it's imprisonment from within the dragonshards that allowed this raircar to move... but in any event, it was just one more problem that he and his brothers were forced to endure this day.
"Son of a--" he mumbled, as he tried to shake the sobwebs from his head. One of the warforged sympathizers flew past him and crashed into a stone railing, snapping it's body in half. Jarrith immediately started darting his eyes back and forth in hopes of finding his Lumin Brothers, but instead all he saw was chaos. Off to his right was a young priestess working desperately to save the life of a woman whose legs had been sheared clean off. To his left, several lightning bolts cracked thunderously across the station and slammed into the elemental, sending it backwards with a wail... followed closely by a woman of the arcane, whose hands crackled with electrical power.
"This is insane! All I wanted to was to go back home for the holidays! Hey lady! Take out the elemental! I'll handle the warforged!"
Whether or not the wizardess heard his voice over the mad rush of wind all around them made no matter. Jarrith ran headlong towards the railcar that was leaning sideways off the track. He could see that there were two warforged battering away at it's side... presumably trying to get in... and he knew that they were the reason he was going to be late for holiday dinner. And his mother would never let him hear the end of it for that.
"Damn shame that Cannith went through all the trouble to give them life, and now I have to take it from them."
He sprinted down a car length, rolled under the body of the car, then began crawling at full speed on his hands and knees back up to where the 'forged were standing. Several quick stabs to the knees should slow them both down, he thought.
GwydapLlew
First Post
DEFCON 1 said:
The cultists surged around the three of Flamers, and Khensu stood firm. His faith in the Silver Flame was pure, and his sword was sharp. While the other two moved through the underbrush, sniping at the cultists, the shifter took position between a pair trees and defended himself.
As the battle raged, Khensu's sword was shattered when a particularly brutish cultist slammed a greatclub against it. Desperately, Khensu slipped back and pulled a greataxe from the hands of a slain cultist and buried it into the neck of his opponent.
It was only later, after being reprimanded for alerting the cultists that Khensu realized he still had the axe in his barracks. From that point on, he carried one with him throughout his travels regardless of what his fellow paladins thought of the crudeness of the weapon.
GwydapLlew
First Post
Vignette #2
The chaos of the Thaliost station caused Khensu's head to spin. The smell of spilt blood, the screams of the civilians, and the warforged who moved through the crowds towards the lightning rail. With a low growl, Khensu tightened his grip on his greataxe and stepped into the fray.
No matter how hard he strove, he couldn't save all of the civilians. The press of the crowd was too great, the buffeting winds of the manix elemental too confusing, and with a shiver and a groan he felt himself pass within himself.
Khensu's muscles rippled and his broad nose elongated into a snout and, with a roar of frustration, he began to push his way through the crowd. The inhuman constructs stood out to his nose, and he could smell the acrid stench of spell components on one ragged warforged. It was over before he could lose himself to the beast within, and the warforged summoner and two of his bodyguards lay in pieces about him when he regained his senses.
The Korranberg Chronicles reported a silver flame appearing among the crowd during the confusion. Many wrote it off as the gazette's notorious rumormongering. Khensu knew it for what it was, however, for his axe had glowed with a silver intensity when he called upon the Flame to smite the warforged conjurer. As he prayed later that evening, he wept silent tears to know that the Flame did not blame him for utlizing his nature to fight off the criminals.
The chaos of the Thaliost station caused Khensu's head to spin. The smell of spilt blood, the screams of the civilians, and the warforged who moved through the crowds towards the lightning rail. With a low growl, Khensu tightened his grip on his greataxe and stepped into the fray.
No matter how hard he strove, he couldn't save all of the civilians. The press of the crowd was too great, the buffeting winds of the manix elemental too confusing, and with a shiver and a groan he felt himself pass within himself.
Khensu's muscles rippled and his broad nose elongated into a snout and, with a roar of frustration, he began to push his way through the crowd. The inhuman constructs stood out to his nose, and he could smell the acrid stench of spell components on one ragged warforged. It was over before he could lose himself to the beast within, and the warforged summoner and two of his bodyguards lay in pieces about him when he regained his senses.
The Korranberg Chronicles reported a silver flame appearing among the crowd during the confusion. Many wrote it off as the gazette's notorious rumormongering. Khensu knew it for what it was, however, for his axe had glowed with a silver intensity when he called upon the Flame to smite the warforged conjurer. As he prayed later that evening, he wept silent tears to know that the Flame did not blame him for utlizing his nature to fight off the criminals.
GwydapLlew
First Post
Vignette #3
Selase may not worship the Silver Flame, but her instincts to help those about her had proven to Khensu that she was a worthy comrade-in-arms. When word had been received of the plague in the Peasant District, the normally laconic paladin had gone to his superiors and begged to allow them to intervene. Once permission had been granted, the three Lumins joined the cleric - and found the other two involved as well.
Khensu's resistance to the plague allowed him to travel deep into the District, secure in the knowledge that the Silver Flame would keep him hale and unharmed. It was here that he began to combine the discipline that the Order of Illumination had instilled him - stealth as well as strength of arms.
His reports to the rest of the Six allowed them to formulate a plan of attack. The three clerics were able to banish the foul undead whenever they encountered them, while the elf's experience hunting the walking dead allowed them to track the source of the plague to the Jorasco Guildhouse. The Six found strength in unity that night; whereas prior encounters had seemed to reek of happenstance or luck, this had been planned from the beginning - one of the Six contacting the rest for assistance.
It was after this mission that he was gifted with the magical breastplate he wears today, a sign of favor among the Order. He wears it with pride, secure in the knowledge that it protects his body from harm as surely as the Silver Flame protects his soul.
Selase may not worship the Silver Flame, but her instincts to help those about her had proven to Khensu that she was a worthy comrade-in-arms. When word had been received of the plague in the Peasant District, the normally laconic paladin had gone to his superiors and begged to allow them to intervene. Once permission had been granted, the three Lumins joined the cleric - and found the other two involved as well.
Khensu's resistance to the plague allowed him to travel deep into the District, secure in the knowledge that the Silver Flame would keep him hale and unharmed. It was here that he began to combine the discipline that the Order of Illumination had instilled him - stealth as well as strength of arms.
His reports to the rest of the Six allowed them to formulate a plan of attack. The three clerics were able to banish the foul undead whenever they encountered them, while the elf's experience hunting the walking dead allowed them to track the source of the plague to the Jorasco Guildhouse. The Six found strength in unity that night; whereas prior encounters had seemed to reek of happenstance or luck, this had been planned from the beginning - one of the Six contacting the rest for assistance.
It was after this mission that he was gifted with the magical breastplate he wears today, a sign of favor among the Order. He wears it with pride, secure in the knowledge that it protects his body from harm as surely as the Silver Flame protects his soul.
Last edited:
GwydapLlew
First Post
Khensu's character sheet is updated and I fleshed out more of the background - I incorporated elements from the vignettes and expanded one of the minor hooks from Vignette #2. If there are any objections to my description, I'll modify it as appropriate. 
