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<blockquote data-quote="BoldItalic" data-source="post: 7340320" data-attributes="member: 6777052"><p>Much like Perseus, much like Hercules, much like..... <em>Ragash The Destroyer of Lives</em>.</p><p></p><p>She emerged from the cave like a serpent from the egg. The hideout would no longer contain her and she would range freely through the Sword Coast, laying waste to the human lands and reclaiming them for her kind. Four rapiers danced in the air as she juggled them. She laughed a guttural laugh as she thought of their former owners, torn limb from puny limb, protesting that a TPK was sooo unfair. She licked the taste of crocodile from her lips. The taste was new to her and she had a taste for the exotic. And it came in a convenient handbag, too.</p><p></p><p>There was a village not far to the south. Ghandalin, the humans called it. She would begin there. Cottages burned well and she would eat more manflesh. She chanted an orcish chant as the miles sped under her feet. Soon, she was on a trail that led to the village. She was Ragash. She would slay.</p><p></p><p>There was a figure on the trail. It was a man on a horse. The man was armoured from head to toe and so was the horse. Over his armour, the man wore a white surcoat and a crimson cloak. His helmet sported a crimson and white plume and a crimson and white shield hung from his saddle. As Ragash watched, the man closed his visor and tilted a lance towards her. "Easy, boy," said Lord Emphal to his horse. Brocollin twitched an ear in response, muscles tensed for the charge.</p><p></p><p>Ragash sniffed the air, her nostrils flaring. There were <em>four</em> humans and <em>two</em> horses upwind of her, not just the lone cavalier she could see. She glanced to left and right, for he trail ran between two outcrops of rock. So, she thought, there were others concealed in ambush. But she was Ragash. She would not fall for such an obvious trap. She stopped, and moved aside from the trail so that the horseman would have to come forward to meet her on ground of her choosing. There was a dried-up watercourse where the ground was stony with loose gravel, washed down by vanished stream. She took her stand there, with her back to a large boulder. The stones would make the horse's footing unsure. She waited, weapons ready to strike.</p><p></p><p>A man in drab clothing, a sheaf of arrows in his quiver, crouched in the shadow of a gnarled tree-stump and made a complex hand signal to an unseen companion nearby. He was of average height, with the sunburnt complexion of an outdoorsman and his eyes were deep-set with a permanent frown that came from being ever-watchful. His name was Hendred.</p><p></p><p>In response to Hendred's signal, a wizard raised her hand and a crytal orb glittered in the fitful sunlight as she twirled it and intoned the words of a spell. The air shimmered between her and Ragash and the spell took shape and was manifest. Beside her, a dwarf grunted with satisfaction and readied a loaded crossbow. He murmured a prayer to his gods and tensed his finger on the trigger. He was Gardain Brawnanvil, the half-brother of Rurik of the Seven Mines. It was for this moment that he had travelled to Ghandalin, to meet the fate laid upon him by his gods.</p><p></p><p>Suddenly, the stillness was broken by the sound of tumbling rocks and of numbers being spoken aloud by unseen beings. The immortals were rolling for Initiative ....</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="BoldItalic, post: 7340320, member: 6777052"] Much like Perseus, much like Hercules, much like..... [i]Ragash The Destroyer of Lives[/i]. She emerged from the cave like a serpent from the egg. The hideout would no longer contain her and she would range freely through the Sword Coast, laying waste to the human lands and reclaiming them for her kind. Four rapiers danced in the air as she juggled them. She laughed a guttural laugh as she thought of their former owners, torn limb from puny limb, protesting that a TPK was sooo unfair. She licked the taste of crocodile from her lips. The taste was new to her and she had a taste for the exotic. And it came in a convenient handbag, too. There was a village not far to the south. Ghandalin, the humans called it. She would begin there. Cottages burned well and she would eat more manflesh. She chanted an orcish chant as the miles sped under her feet. Soon, she was on a trail that led to the village. She was Ragash. She would slay. There was a figure on the trail. It was a man on a horse. The man was armoured from head to toe and so was the horse. Over his armour, the man wore a white surcoat and a crimson cloak. His helmet sported a crimson and white plume and a crimson and white shield hung from his saddle. As Ragash watched, the man closed his visor and tilted a lance towards her. "Easy, boy," said Lord Emphal to his horse. Brocollin twitched an ear in response, muscles tensed for the charge. Ragash sniffed the air, her nostrils flaring. There were [i]four[/i] humans and [i]two[/i] horses upwind of her, not just the lone cavalier she could see. She glanced to left and right, for he trail ran between two outcrops of rock. So, she thought, there were others concealed in ambush. But she was Ragash. She would not fall for such an obvious trap. She stopped, and moved aside from the trail so that the horseman would have to come forward to meet her on ground of her choosing. There was a dried-up watercourse where the ground was stony with loose gravel, washed down by vanished stream. She took her stand there, with her back to a large boulder. The stones would make the horse's footing unsure. She waited, weapons ready to strike. A man in drab clothing, a sheaf of arrows in his quiver, crouched in the shadow of a gnarled tree-stump and made a complex hand signal to an unseen companion nearby. He was of average height, with the sunburnt complexion of an outdoorsman and his eyes were deep-set with a permanent frown that came from being ever-watchful. His name was Hendred. In response to Hendred's signal, a wizard raised her hand and a crytal orb glittered in the fitful sunlight as she twirled it and intoned the words of a spell. The air shimmered between her and Ragash and the spell took shape and was manifest. Beside her, a dwarf grunted with satisfaction and readied a loaded crossbow. He murmured a prayer to his gods and tensed his finger on the trigger. He was Gardain Brawnanvil, the half-brother of Rurik of the Seven Mines. It was for this moment that he had travelled to Ghandalin, to meet the fate laid upon him by his gods. Suddenly, the stillness was broken by the sound of tumbling rocks and of numbers being spoken aloud by unseen beings. The immortals were rolling for Initiative .... [/QUOTE]
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