RangerWickett
Legend
The cabal of Marblemaw is ridiculously fun to say.
(Also, I make calendar reminders for everything I have to do, even if I'm planning to do it later the same day.)
Welcome back! What's the research?Sorry for the delay, too many research proposals to write.
I'll be vague to accommodate whatever research plans go through. I study belief and social change, with a special interest in conspiracy theory belief. I'll let you know more about the research once the ball is rolling!What's the research
I am very tempted to do a reality TV dungeon myself now.
To the unfortunate soul that happens upon this letter,
Please find encased this glass chamber uniquely commissioned weapons to combat the threat of Team BAD. Please distribute the revolver to the healthiest of your comrades. I have etched these bullets with sigils to disrupt the magics that sustain heroic physique and focus. Within the chambers are six bullets, one for each member of Team BAD and two for any accompanying animals. The white bullets are for humans, red for the tiefling, brown for the lion, and blue for the bird.
If the revolver chambers are emptied upon Team BAD, you may be lucky enough to succeed. Unfortunately, you cannot comfort yourself with statistics — it is unlikely you will survive to fire a second bullet.
I suggest fighting boldly. Otherwise, you will have the pleasure of answering to the council.
May your impending death grant you the mental clarity to maximise your utility,
Vicemi Terio,
Spectral Archmage,
Head of the Ghost Council
Slate’s summer sun glistens through the vast window that lines the eastern wall, tinted of course to obscure curious onlookers. Facing this window stands Nigel Price-Hill, the Viscount Inspector, who stares at his reflection sternly. In the reflection, a complex rifle sits atop a pine table. Then, Nigel sees the door behind him open, revealing a younger John. He tips his hat to the Viscount as he enters, though his eyes are immediately drawn to the rifle.
The Viscount Inspector speaks solemnly: “A gift for you, son. I am not playing favourites here. I consider this an investment as much as a sign of appreciation, I have great faith in you.” As John inspects the weapon, Nigel makes introductions: “A Mosin-Nagant M1891 Rifle. Advanced Drakrn technology. Mr Scoursoft had to retrieve it from storage, it’s been quite some time since it’s seen the light of day. I’ve been lead to believe it’s quite a reliable weapon. I do hope you find it to your liking.”
John thanks the Viscount Inspector, who explains the weapons origins:
“John, you know my so-called ‘claim to fame’, where I thwarted a dwarven cult hoping to resurrect a dragon? Yes, well, I didn’t approach the cult alone. Fate was fortunate to me, and me alone that day. Good constables, good people, John, fell that day. In fact, my partner of ten years was slain by this rifle. Worst, when he succumbed to the necromantic rituals of the cult, I had the unenviable position of sending his twisted soul to the Bleak Gate.” His gaze falls to the floor for a moment, before looking up at John. “I had one fear that day. You may think it fear worry for my life. No, I feared for the lives of those I swore to protect.
There may come a day where you are holding this rifle, and your trigger finger will falter. You may look around and find your allies have long left you and all odds are stacked against you. Remember, you may be the last bastion of hope before the doom of Risur. You’re a good man, John. I know you’ll in that dark time, you will do what needs to be done and keep the light of hope alive.”
We see a terrified Angharad, bundled in vines, bouncing on the side of a sturdy horse. Reaching down to him is the hand of a young fey, Riffian, offering cured jerky. The Cipith quickly snatches it, to which the huntmaster commands “Do not feed him son, he must be desperate for our hunt”. Then, the blare of a horn, and we zoom out, first to see the huntmaster and his son Riffian riding the same horse, and then to see the scope of the hunt, a pack of horse-riding fey roar with warcries and drums. The environment of the scene flickers, but the hunt remains the same, with fields of storms, hail, blaring sun, and autumn leaves, the season’s cycle for three years before the screen fades. Superimposed on this, we hear the screams of a young Angharad, the roars of impossible beasts, and the sounds of arrows darting through the air. Then darkness.
A night like no other, pitch black. A blast of gunfire briefly illuminates a terrified, panting Angharad trying desperately to untangle himself from the vines. He has aged a couple of years older than we last saw him. Darkness again. The panicked neigh of horses, bullets tearing through blood. Swords clang. A sniper’s shot. Then a thud. The darkness is lifted again briefly to reveal Angharad, who is now trying to escape the corpse of a fey who has landed atop him. The lifeless body, face down in the dirt, has spoiled his once-majestic, silvered antlered helm with blood streaming from his heart. Angharad manages to slither out, gets to his feet, and halts immediately. Time slows as we see the centre of the Cipith’s attention, a man dressed in full black except for a silver bookpin brooch raises a weapon the child has never seen—a shotgun. He fires, but a force throws Angharad out of the way. Riffian, the huntmaster’s son, tackles Angharad to the ground. Riffian forces a mushroom into Angharad’s mouth: “Chew Cipith. Ya never deserved this fate” The Cipith chews desperately, as a kaleidoscope of colours swirl around him, transforming his surroundings to a once-familiar forest, lit by a pale green sky
It's been a year since that night, and Riffian has visited every noon since. Today, he brings an antlered beast. He wears a silvered helm of antlers of his father, it sits awkwardly on his young head. “Ya recognise this one, Cipith? This was meant to be my first kill. But us meeting, it was destiny, you know? I’m glad this boy got to fatten up. He’ll make a good lunch.” Riffian draws his knife, and begins to gut the strange deer. “I’m glad we met, Angharad, you make a good huntmaster. Pa wasted your talents hurling ya as bait. But then, maybe that’s why ya so good at anticipating the cowardice of animals, eh?” Angharad frowns a little, to which the now blood-covered Riffian laughs “Don’t take it personally Cipith” he removes two livers, “We all have our…” Riffian’s smile fades, as he reaches into the deer and yanks out a large, peacock feather “…our weaknesses.” Angharad begins to panic, his hunting friend and protector from the feywilds has been summoned by the Court. Riffian takes off his helm, holds it in two hands, and turns it to its front. “Sorry pa. I know ya wanted to be up there with them Unseen Lords, but I’m not too interested in all of that. They always be poking their fingers where they don’t belong.” “Well, naughty word this.” Riffian tucks the peacock feather behind his ear. “Those unseen bastards can wait, we’re having lunch.
Long before the fall of Srasama, was the death of She-of-Dissolution. Her followers, however, endured.
For thousands of years, The Noble Order of Non-Extance fulfilled their terrible duties, and interred each god that died, beginning with their own. This complex is but one of many interment sites throughout the wicked world. Of course, no one knows any of this. The Noble Order kept no records and followed its god into nothingness.
All would have been happily disremembered if some wretch hadn’t stumbled upon the door, deep within a lifeless Drakran wasteland. Surprisingly, she was smart enough to sell its location to an eccentric Risuri quatermaster, who handed it over to a Royal Homeland Constable as a wedding gift.
And so began Rin and Naomi's honeymoon.