The Hundred Seas
- Thread starter GreyOne
- Start date
bragon gault
First Post
"That's the problem with counting on magic instead of a good blade. At least earth magic is a little more predictable," snorts Bragon.
(OOC) Can Bragon use an action dice for advice?
(OOC) Can Bragon use an action dice for advice?
bragon gault
First Post
"Might as well try Nado. That scroll might have made it flammable again."
Bragon is looking around for some wood.
Bragon is looking around for some wood.
GreyOne
Explorer
The fire pit crackles, the light and heat starting to brighten the cheerless place.
“I do not think that destroying the flute will help us Fin,” says Nado in his lilting accent.
The strange voice sounds in your head again traveling across a great void, the hoe is gleaming in the firelight.
“Thank you for this deed. This place must now be sanctified with fire. What you seek you will find in the city of the fire pit.”
With these last words the tool returns to its rusty, rotted pallor.
“The fire pit, mumbles Nado. The spirit means the grim city. Adatchauf, the city of smoke and steam. I fear our quest will lead us to our deaths my friends. For that is not a place I would lightly tread…”His voice trails off. He takes a stick from the fire, and walks to the wooden bannister. Almost instantly, the flame catches , traveling up the length of the beam as if terribly hungry. The dry wood and frame catches easily. It will be moments before it spreads to the ceiling.
You hasten from the ancient shrine, the horses in tow, the snap and crack of timber filling the air, smoke rising into the starlit sky.
You need a place to rest for the night, exhaustion starts to come over you, the stress and fear finally taking its price from your tired bodies.
The night passes uneventfully but for the distant yowls of feral cats at one point. The next morning is cold, the sky overcast by a leaden cloud that came across from the south before dawn.
“I do not think that destroying the flute will help us Fin,” says Nado in his lilting accent.
The strange voice sounds in your head again traveling across a great void, the hoe is gleaming in the firelight.
“Thank you for this deed. This place must now be sanctified with fire. What you seek you will find in the city of the fire pit.”
With these last words the tool returns to its rusty, rotted pallor.
“The fire pit, mumbles Nado. The spirit means the grim city. Adatchauf, the city of smoke and steam. I fear our quest will lead us to our deaths my friends. For that is not a place I would lightly tread…”His voice trails off. He takes a stick from the fire, and walks to the wooden bannister. Almost instantly, the flame catches , traveling up the length of the beam as if terribly hungry. The dry wood and frame catches easily. It will be moments before it spreads to the ceiling.
You hasten from the ancient shrine, the horses in tow, the snap and crack of timber filling the air, smoke rising into the starlit sky.
You need a place to rest for the night, exhaustion starts to come over you, the stress and fear finally taking its price from your tired bodies.
The night passes uneventfully but for the distant yowls of feral cats at one point. The next morning is cold, the sky overcast by a leaden cloud that came across from the south before dawn.
Last edited:
GreyOne
Explorer
(BRAGON GAULT)
The memories return, every night, unbidden but relentless. The journey south with your father and Blacklock, across the mountain passes into Mourandar. Your hasty parting in Ancim and your travels apart throughout Medrivan. The meeting again in Mouran and the last few, strange days spent together before…
Then of course, it had all come to a head, in the great city of Mouran, among the teeming masses, in a decrepit warehouse, on a deserted street. You had never trusted Joffer. Since your father had hired him in Jeryda as his guide into the southern Grand Duchies, there was something odd about him you had sensed from the beginning. In the half dozen times you had met him before that terrible night, you had perceived the pale-eyed man had bad intentions.
You remember searching for your father with Blacklock, Ulfghar, Hander and Nado through the crumbling alleyways of the Tenderloin Quarter. The discovery of Lyat Gault’s mangled and bloodied corpse in the old warehouse had been the worst shock, of course. The blood had pooled about his bound legs and was being swarmed with rats. The stench of death had been heavy in the air. Your father had died terribly, tortured and cut to ribbons, nearly unrecognizable.
And as they dragged you raging from the building, Joffer had made his appearance. The twelve black-cloaked murderers about him conveyed his intention and you remember the pure rage that had burst free and taken over. You had attacked instantly, blindly striking forth. And your companions had fought too, desperately trying to avoid the whirring blades of these shadow-clad men. You remember seeing Hander opened from neck to groin, his shriek another notch in your list of betrayals. You never saw what happened to Blacklock. But you know you’ll never hear his ribald jests again. They ended that night as well.
And you remember the biting agony across your chest from Joffer’s blade, the Chofa poison already torturing your flesh, burning its way into your bloodstream. You remember Joffer’s smiling eyes and his words to you as you began to die: “Just like your interfering father, whelp. Never knew when to quit. Greet him for me at the Crone’s Gate.” You remember also Nado’s whirling blade, driving him back when you finally, mercifully faded away.
The memories come back, unbidden every night, and they haunt your dreams.
The memories return, every night, unbidden but relentless. The journey south with your father and Blacklock, across the mountain passes into Mourandar. Your hasty parting in Ancim and your travels apart throughout Medrivan. The meeting again in Mouran and the last few, strange days spent together before…
Then of course, it had all come to a head, in the great city of Mouran, among the teeming masses, in a decrepit warehouse, on a deserted street. You had never trusted Joffer. Since your father had hired him in Jeryda as his guide into the southern Grand Duchies, there was something odd about him you had sensed from the beginning. In the half dozen times you had met him before that terrible night, you had perceived the pale-eyed man had bad intentions.
You remember searching for your father with Blacklock, Ulfghar, Hander and Nado through the crumbling alleyways of the Tenderloin Quarter. The discovery of Lyat Gault’s mangled and bloodied corpse in the old warehouse had been the worst shock, of course. The blood had pooled about his bound legs and was being swarmed with rats. The stench of death had been heavy in the air. Your father had died terribly, tortured and cut to ribbons, nearly unrecognizable.
And as they dragged you raging from the building, Joffer had made his appearance. The twelve black-cloaked murderers about him conveyed his intention and you remember the pure rage that had burst free and taken over. You had attacked instantly, blindly striking forth. And your companions had fought too, desperately trying to avoid the whirring blades of these shadow-clad men. You remember seeing Hander opened from neck to groin, his shriek another notch in your list of betrayals. You never saw what happened to Blacklock. But you know you’ll never hear his ribald jests again. They ended that night as well.
And you remember the biting agony across your chest from Joffer’s blade, the Chofa poison already torturing your flesh, burning its way into your bloodstream. You remember Joffer’s smiling eyes and his words to you as you began to die: “Just like your interfering father, whelp. Never knew when to quit. Greet him for me at the Crone’s Gate.” You remember also Nado’s whirling blade, driving him back when you finally, mercifully faded away.
The memories come back, unbidden every night, and they haunt your dreams.
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