Copperheads: Betrayal and Strange Runes and Burning Dead, oh my (short update 02/12)
- Thread starter arwink
- Start date
randomling
First Post
Mmmm, seconded. 
I'm liking the daily updates! And I even remembered to subscribe to the thread yesterday.
*does a happy dance*
I'm liking the daily updates! And I even remembered to subscribe to the thread yesterday.
*does a happy dance*
randomling
First Post
arwink said:I'm becoming quite fond of them myself, but they wont last.
I have the attention splan of a drunken kobold when it comes to writing projects
LOL. Being subscribed to this thread is funny - that's NOT what it said in my inbox!!
I'm yet to find out what drunken kobolds are like, K.
randomling
First Post
We're killing drunken kobolds if they get out of line?
Poor little Yip.
*draws sword* I will defend you, little kobold!
*sees Blarth*
*runs like hell*
Poor little Yip.
*draws sword* I will defend you, little kobold!
*sees Blarth*
*runs like hell*
arwink
Clockwork Golem
“Land Ho!”
The call echoes across the ship, taken up and passed along by sailor and church guard alike until it reaches the cramped cavern where the Copperheads are berthed. They can hear the rush of footsteps across the deck above as people mob the railing, and Yip can feel the subtle tip to the boat as it leans slightly to that side. The four heroes pause for a moment as they hear the news, as though waiting for it to sink in. As they hear the buzz of conversation above, the cry of the watch in the crowsnest repeating the joyful news, they belt on weapons and head topside.
Land ho. After nigh on a month at sea, it almost seems to good to be true. Climbing onto the deck, they can see the cause of the commotion – a coastline filled with rugged cliffs and tall trees, with mountain ranges stretching off into the distance. Everyone gathers at the railing and stares, breathing in the chill morning air. Apart from a small cluster of buildings, scarcely larger than Bellhold where their adventures began, the four members of the Copperheads can see nothing but wild coast and a dangerous coast. The air has a sharp bite, colder than anything they’ve felt before, and a few of the church guards point at small chunks of ice floating in the water.
The northern continent. The town of Borr. The possibility of danger, respect, and the chance to make a diffirence.
They had arrived.
It takes the Fist of Justice the better part of the day to navigate its way into Borr’s harbor, the heavy ship having to tack back and forth to avoid being stuck on sandbars or colliding with larger chunks of ice. The majority of the church soldiers head back below deck, leaving the Copperheads, a few shivering Yip’s, and Camar Vengallar to watch the land get closer and closer. They stand at the prow of the ship, the town growing larger , saying nothing and eager for the voyage to end.
“This is it,” Vengallar breathes with a sigh. “Seven settlements, a hundred miles of snow and half the youngest nobles from all corners of the empire.”
He cracks his knuckles with a satisfied grin.
“I look forward to breaking the lot of them.”
With a curt bow, Vengallar turns and returns to his quarters.
The boats in Borr’s docks are mostly modified longships, a design favored by the Reldenfolk in the empires north. Sleek ships that rely on sail and oar to make their voyage, buoyed by the magic of savage Reldenfolk clerics that loom taller than most man. The city beyond the docks is crude, seemingly carved from the ice and snow of the surroundings and painted with thin veneer of wood and stone. As the Fist floats into the harbor, the tall forms of a dozen sailors can be seen moving back and forth along the decks. Occasionally men pause in the midst of their work, waving a greeting as the warship floats past.
The Fist of Justice docks.
Borr isn’t used to visitors arriving towards the end of summer, the cold waters and inhospitable climate causing most sea captains to leave the long voyage for the spring. People flock from the crude dwellings to see the Fist unload, a small crowd of women and children gathering along the edges of the dock calling out greetings to the arriving clerics. Vengallar leads the churches servants off the boats, his four justicars and primary servants behind him. He talks briefly with the dockmaster, then points to one of the three streets running up and into town.
“We set up in a building that way,” he announces. “Start unloading, and have everything indoors by nightfall. If anything’s left out, you stay out here with it. It gets cold here, ladies and gentlefolk, so I recommend you move now rather than later.”
The Head Justicar’s slate-grey eyes scan the jostling church soldiers, clerics and monks as they start to move.
“You four, Copperheads,” he calls. Geoffrey snaps to attention, marching down the gangplank with his companions in tow.
“This is Gunnar,” Vengallar announces, pointing at a lithe northman who waits among the crowd. Gunnar nods, his blond beard shaking with the movement.
“Go with him,” Vengallar orders. “He needs Halgo to go see the king, preferably with some companions who know how to handle themselves. You got volunteered. Any objection?”
“No sir,” Geoffrey says quickly. He heaves his pack onto his shoulders and gestures to his companions. As the rest of the St Cuthban mission unloads the crew, the Copperheads follow a slouching Gunnar through the city streets.
“Don’t piss him off,” Vengallar yells as they leave. “And report before you leave the city.”
Gunnar leads them up the sloped streets of Borr, towards a small manor house set on the edge of a crude market square. A pair of mailed guards stand at the ready by the doors, both leaning on great-axes and glaring with bored anger at the street. Nither seems to react as Gunnar leads the Copperheads through the manor's front doors, down a hallway and into a large dining hall. The hall is more utilitarian than regal, the walls devoid of any war trophies or markings beyond a simple battleaxe and the pale white fur of a giant wolf.
There’s a trio of man standing around a map laid out on the table – a young, blond man who wears a plainspun tunic and cloak, an elderly bear of a man wearing the holy symbol of Arezz, god of war, and a muscular man of middle years who rises to his feet as Gunnar and his charges enter.
“Gunnar, I see you found them,” he says, and his voice holds a rich timbre and strength. “Welcome, noble servants of Lord Justice, to Borr. I’m King Oleg.”
He circles the tables and shakes everyone hand, looking them up and down with an appraising eye as he does so. When introductions are made, he turns and nods to his two advisors before gesturing for everyone to sit.
“I regret summoning you here so quickly after your arrival, Lads, but I find myself in a situation where speed is more important than courtesy,” Oleg says. “You look like good men, and truly you serve a noble god, so perhaps you would care to share a meal and see if you can help my people.”
The call echoes across the ship, taken up and passed along by sailor and church guard alike until it reaches the cramped cavern where the Copperheads are berthed. They can hear the rush of footsteps across the deck above as people mob the railing, and Yip can feel the subtle tip to the boat as it leans slightly to that side. The four heroes pause for a moment as they hear the news, as though waiting for it to sink in. As they hear the buzz of conversation above, the cry of the watch in the crowsnest repeating the joyful news, they belt on weapons and head topside.
Land ho. After nigh on a month at sea, it almost seems to good to be true. Climbing onto the deck, they can see the cause of the commotion – a coastline filled with rugged cliffs and tall trees, with mountain ranges stretching off into the distance. Everyone gathers at the railing and stares, breathing in the chill morning air. Apart from a small cluster of buildings, scarcely larger than Bellhold where their adventures began, the four members of the Copperheads can see nothing but wild coast and a dangerous coast. The air has a sharp bite, colder than anything they’ve felt before, and a few of the church guards point at small chunks of ice floating in the water.
The northern continent. The town of Borr. The possibility of danger, respect, and the chance to make a diffirence.
They had arrived.
It takes the Fist of Justice the better part of the day to navigate its way into Borr’s harbor, the heavy ship having to tack back and forth to avoid being stuck on sandbars or colliding with larger chunks of ice. The majority of the church soldiers head back below deck, leaving the Copperheads, a few shivering Yip’s, and Camar Vengallar to watch the land get closer and closer. They stand at the prow of the ship, the town growing larger , saying nothing and eager for the voyage to end.
“This is it,” Vengallar breathes with a sigh. “Seven settlements, a hundred miles of snow and half the youngest nobles from all corners of the empire.”
He cracks his knuckles with a satisfied grin.
“I look forward to breaking the lot of them.”
With a curt bow, Vengallar turns and returns to his quarters.
The boats in Borr’s docks are mostly modified longships, a design favored by the Reldenfolk in the empires north. Sleek ships that rely on sail and oar to make their voyage, buoyed by the magic of savage Reldenfolk clerics that loom taller than most man. The city beyond the docks is crude, seemingly carved from the ice and snow of the surroundings and painted with thin veneer of wood and stone. As the Fist floats into the harbor, the tall forms of a dozen sailors can be seen moving back and forth along the decks. Occasionally men pause in the midst of their work, waving a greeting as the warship floats past.
The Fist of Justice docks.
Borr isn’t used to visitors arriving towards the end of summer, the cold waters and inhospitable climate causing most sea captains to leave the long voyage for the spring. People flock from the crude dwellings to see the Fist unload, a small crowd of women and children gathering along the edges of the dock calling out greetings to the arriving clerics. Vengallar leads the churches servants off the boats, his four justicars and primary servants behind him. He talks briefly with the dockmaster, then points to one of the three streets running up and into town.
“We set up in a building that way,” he announces. “Start unloading, and have everything indoors by nightfall. If anything’s left out, you stay out here with it. It gets cold here, ladies and gentlefolk, so I recommend you move now rather than later.”
The Head Justicar’s slate-grey eyes scan the jostling church soldiers, clerics and monks as they start to move.
“You four, Copperheads,” he calls. Geoffrey snaps to attention, marching down the gangplank with his companions in tow.
“This is Gunnar,” Vengallar announces, pointing at a lithe northman who waits among the crowd. Gunnar nods, his blond beard shaking with the movement.
“Go with him,” Vengallar orders. “He needs Halgo to go see the king, preferably with some companions who know how to handle themselves. You got volunteered. Any objection?”
“No sir,” Geoffrey says quickly. He heaves his pack onto his shoulders and gestures to his companions. As the rest of the St Cuthban mission unloads the crew, the Copperheads follow a slouching Gunnar through the city streets.
“Don’t piss him off,” Vengallar yells as they leave. “And report before you leave the city.”
Gunnar leads them up the sloped streets of Borr, towards a small manor house set on the edge of a crude market square. A pair of mailed guards stand at the ready by the doors, both leaning on great-axes and glaring with bored anger at the street. Nither seems to react as Gunnar leads the Copperheads through the manor's front doors, down a hallway and into a large dining hall. The hall is more utilitarian than regal, the walls devoid of any war trophies or markings beyond a simple battleaxe and the pale white fur of a giant wolf.
There’s a trio of man standing around a map laid out on the table – a young, blond man who wears a plainspun tunic and cloak, an elderly bear of a man wearing the holy symbol of Arezz, god of war, and a muscular man of middle years who rises to his feet as Gunnar and his charges enter.
“Gunnar, I see you found them,” he says, and his voice holds a rich timbre and strength. “Welcome, noble servants of Lord Justice, to Borr. I’m King Oleg.”
He circles the tables and shakes everyone hand, looking them up and down with an appraising eye as he does so. When introductions are made, he turns and nods to his two advisors before gesturing for everyone to sit.
“I regret summoning you here so quickly after your arrival, Lads, but I find myself in a situation where speed is more important than courtesy,” Oleg says. “You look like good men, and truly you serve a noble god, so perhaps you would care to share a meal and see if you can help my people.”
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