Classic-Castle Roleplay - Gaming Thread

[HeartOfDarkness]

Reeve led the crack team down the moonlit, jagged road. There was no way they could keep ranks in the rocky wasteland, so they moved north in loose skirmish formation. A faint smell of brimstone perforated the air. Somewhere, a beast moaned.

Gagyur was situated around the middle of the formation. He recognized several faces from his training group. He surreptitiously murmured to the stocky parvadaemon beside him.
"Do you know where we're going?"

The parvadaemon turned, revealing the scarred face of a veteran.
"I know better than to question Reeve. What's you're name, lad?"

"Gagyur. Yours?"

"Oportiem. Lieutenant Oportiem. Call me Opor. I've been serving with Captian Reeve for years, and he's never led us awry. You can stay on his good side easily; don't steal, except from the enemy or if you're starving, don't get drunk unless he lets you, and fight like a demon." At this last rule, Opor grinned, showing oddly jagged teeth. "We'll get there soon. Within the night."

"How do you know?"

"Any longer and Reeve would have taken horsemen. I know orcs aren't known for their cleverness, but try to use your head."

Gagyur grunted, but was unable to supress a brief smile. He drew a few inches of his sword and, seeing that it was still sharp, sheathed it with a clack, earning a reproving hush. He gnawed at a hunk of salted pork and stared at the hard, rocky path ahead. It would be a long night.

[Matt BeDar]

As Max dragged a whole tree into the village, he saw the wizard talking with Rolyn, who was being oddly serious. Max decided to find out who the wizard was, right after he finished trimming the limbs and branches from this tree.

It was around midday when Max finally finished trimming the massive tree.

As he approached the wizard, who was talking with Rolyn, Max decided it would be better to be as blunt as possible since his tale was one that no one would believe except a wizard.

"Could I talk with our new friend for a while Rolyn? There are some things I need to find out," Max said in as flat and as nonsense a voice as he could muster.

The wizard turned towards Max as if to protest to being used like a hatchet, handed from one person to the next, but the offense disappeared from his face when he saw the giant standing behind him.

[smcginnis]

Location: The new Viking Village in the Bull Lands.

The wizard turned towards Max as if to protest to being used like a hatchet, handed from one person to the next, but the offense disappeared from his face when he saw the giant standing behind him.

___Quolde stared at Max, and quickly linked his sight with that of Vbana. Can you see him, Vbana? Quolde thought-asked. I know I recognize that face... but from where?
___<Yes,> the dragon said. <He does look familiar.... I'll see if a phoenix can place him.> As the dragon spoke to the phoenixes back at Quolde's camp, the wizard introduced himself to Max.
___"Hello, I'm Quolde. Who might you be?" the wizard asked, ready to send the name to Vbana.
___"Name's Max," said the giant. Aha! Quolde thought. Maximus, the fearsome! Max then motioned for the wizard to follow him away from the village. "I need to talk to you about my past," Max said.
___"I'm all ears. But first I have a question for you," Quolde said. "Do you mind if I call my dragon?" Max shrugged, so Quolde told Vbana and the other fire-creatures to fly to the beach. In a few moments, the enormous dragon, still green, and the green phoenixes and drakes landed on the beach behind Quolde. "Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?" he asked, as he waved his wand at the creatures removing the camoflage so that they again shone the colors of flame in the sunlight.

[Matt BeDar]

Max wasn't surprised at the sight of the dragon or the other fire creatures that appeared on the beach. After all, he had been dead for approximately 250 years and had had nothing to do during that time except spy on the living.

"First off, do you remember the kingdom of Avlonian? If so, who was the king during the Death Mages rise to power? And when did the Death Mage conquer the Kingdom of Avlonian?" Max asked suspiciously. One could never be sure if one was talking to an agent of the Necromancer or to an actual person.

Max waited for several moments while Quolde thought.

'Well, this could either turn out to be the real Quolde or a very well thought out trap by the Necromancer,' Max thought to himself. 'I hope it's the former.'

[HeartOfDarkness]

Gagyur scrabbled up the rocks, helped by an ungainly shove from Oport. He joined the rest of the platoon and, peering ove the outcropping, saw disaster.

Reeve, apparently unconcerned, strode ahead with a few scouts. Ten paces away, hidden from Reeve by a stony ridge but plain to Gagyur and the platoon, was a patrol of skeletons. They clanked and clattered as they climbed the ridge, and Gagyur, amazed that reeve did not hear, was about to call out a warning, but Opor shushed him. Then the skeletons cleared the ridge. Reeve and his companions were clear in the moonlight.

Reeve called out suddenly and ducked. Unseen by Gagyur and the skeleton patrol, a dozen archers were hidden in the rocks. They sprang up at Reeve's call and fired. Gagyur watched, transfixed by the sight, as the enchanted arrows smashed throught the skeleton's ranks, rendering nine inanimate and harmless. Reeve leapt up and sprinted up the ridge, flaring his great blade, his companions hot on his heels.

Reeve threw his sword like a javelin, pinning two skeletons together. He dodged a spear thrust, grabbed the spear, and threw its hapless carrier onto the blade of one of his followers. He twisted, arm straight, and swept a skeleton off its feet. Finally, he reached his sword. He tugged it out of the inanimate skeletons, decapitating another on his backswing. His companions made short work of the tripped skeleton, cornering and killing another. Reeve turned to the last skeleton, a Captian, and waited for it to swing its heavy axe. Reeve effortlessly dodged the blow and held out his sword. The skeleton, swinging mightily, took an involuntary step forward, spearing itself onto Reeve's sword. All this occured in less than half a minute.

Oport grinned. "That," he said, "Is the real Captian Reeve. Never underestimate him"

Reeve barely acknowledged the encounter. He knew exactly why the undead where there, and the knowledge did not please him. Matters had now complicated.

[Matt BeDar]

The giant figs head landed with a thunk and rolled for several moments before coming to a stop.

The soldier who decapitated the giant walked past the still standing suit of armor and picked up the helmet.

"This will fetch a fine price with a knight," the man said.

Someone tapped the soldier's shoulder. The man turned to see an armored glove filling his view. "I would rather like my helmet back, if you wouldn't mind." What Bulloth didn't say but was completely understood by the soldier was If you don't give me my helmet back, I'll crush your skull like an acorn under a hammer.

The soldier promptly fainted, collapsing on the ground in a heap. Bulloth went down on his left knee and picked up his helmet. He brushed the dirt out of the groves and brushed off the horns. Then he fit it onto his neck, right where it belonged.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes, heading south," Bulloth once more set off in search of his long lost friend, Max.

After many days of traveling south, Bulltoh felt something tugging at the back of his mind, urging him to go west and further inland. Being a suspicious and careful man, Bulloth stopped and thought about whether or not he should continue going south.

His mind was made up for him when a peasant came crashing through the underbrush. The man was running at a full out sprint as if he were running away from something.

Bulloth grabbed the stranger as he ran by. "Hold a moment!" Bulloth barked in a harsh commanding tone. The peasant took one look at Bulloth and decided that he liked the large man more then what was chasing him.

"Please protect me sir!" the man in Bulloth's grasp begged.

"From what?" Bulloth asked.

As if on cue, twenty skeleton warriors burst from the woods and charged at Bulloth.

Bulloth threw the unfortunate peasant behind him and drew his hammer from its slot on his back. The skeletons were bearing down on him fast.

Three unfortunate skeletons with pikes reached Bulloth first and were subsequently shattered with a single swing of the war hammer. Five more skeletons tried to encircle Bulloth but met with the same fate as their comrades.

'Eight down, twelve left' Bulloth counted to himself.

Twelve skeletons all reached Bulloth at the same moment that Bulloth swung his hammer into the ground as hard as he could. The earth around Bulloth shattered, throwing boulders and debris everywhere. Their was no evidence of the skeletons except for the occasional skull rolling down from heaps of rubble. The entire fight had taken less then thirty seconds.

"Now, where were we?" Bulloth said over his shoulder, talking to the shivering peasant that was now more in awe of Bulloth then he'd been in a few moment's ago.

The now very fortunate peasant rose to his knee's and thanked whatever gods there were for sending this giant to help him. "Mighty and noble knight, I would ask that you help my village in this most troubling time."

"Troubling time?" Bulloth muttered under his breath. "I'm always willing to help those in need of help. From the look of things, I'd say your village will require my strength and skills," Bulloth stated with utter confidence in his abilities. " Take me to this village and I'll do what I can."

"Many thanks noble one! Many thanks!" with that, the peasant started to jog west, back through the forest with Bulloth quickly following.

Bulloth and his guide finally arrived at the top of a hill overlooking the village and its surrounding area.

"Well," Bulloth said "this could be better.

Off to the north of the town, an army of skeletons and some trolls had made camp. By Bulloth's hasty count, there were at least ten-thousand skeletons in the camp.

"I think we need a plan," the giant knight stated as he walked down the slope towards the village.

[HeartOfDarkness]

Feldered turned and, blowing his whistle, watched his men perform yet another a parade drill, the last of the evening. He gave the orders to form a column, and marched them straight into the encampment. Even though they where right next to the village, he had them build a wooden palisade surrounding the camp, just for discipline. An hour later, the tents were pitched, the pickets were set in the adjoining field, and the sentries settled in for what promised to be another long, cold night.

Reeve crept forward in the tall grass. Five feet away, a picket dozed while his companion tried to keep his eyes open. Reeve waited. Time passed, the crickets slowly chirping their soothing lullaby, and before long, the picket's eyes drooped shut. Reeve rose to a crouch and slid a wickedly serrated knife out of his boot. The pickets didn't stand a chance.

Gagyur watched as the second picket stiffened, then slumped over. Reeve rose, his knife glistening wetly, and placed it between his teeth without bothering to wipe off the fresh blood. He slunk away silently. The first picket, who had been slightly awake after all, had a faint expression of surprise frozen on his face. After another few minutes, the next pair of pickets stiffened and slumped, almost comically, in swift succession. Reeve waved his knife in signal to the platoon, peppering himself with droplets of blood that he seemed to ignore.

A bulky parvadaemon rose silently and beckoned the platoon to follow. He ran silently down the field, trailed by about forty assorted parvadaemons, orcs, ghouls, goblins, and men. The stealthy ensemble sprinted through the fresh gap in the picket line and crouched by the palisade. A sentry, stationed nearby, might have sounded the alarm, but a goblin-borne arrow in his windpipe somewhat restricted his speech.

Reeve nodded to a group of soldiers, who produced an assortment of odd materials from beneath their cloaks. They tossed a few oil-sodden rags over the palisade at the guidance of a ghoul with an eye pressed to a crack. They took a few canteens and sprayed liberal amounts of oil into the camp, and Gagyur finally understood what they were doing. His impressions were confirmed when one held up a bundle of dry grass, half soaked in resin, and lit it with a muttered enchantment. He carelessly tossed it over the wall.

Reeve sprinted around the palisade with a score of men, the bulky parvadaemon leading the rest around the other side. Reeve posted a few men at various points on the peremiter, and stationed the rest in four ranks in front of the entrance. The other parvadaemon did the same. All drew their bows. It was several moments before someone shouted "fire!". Chaos ensued.

Feldered couldn't believe his eyes. The entire southern quarter of the camp was in rapidly spreading flames. He was organizing a water team when he gazed up and saw yet more flames streaking into the camp from all sides. It could only mean an attack. He could not believe it even as he sprinted through the camp, shouting for the troops to form up. An attack! He bullied and shoved his groggy troops into a passable column, deciding to march out and meet the invaders on the plain before they could get to the village. The entire militia garrison, around a hundred and fifty men, charged out, spears extended, blood rising to the pulse of the wardrum.

Reeve was pleased. He allowed himself a single grin before shouting the command.
"Fire!"

The half-formed column twitched and shuddered as thirty-four arrows thudded into its tightly packed ranks. Reeve's men fired once more, then drew their various swords, spears, axes, hammers, and other assorted weapons characteristic to a crack platoon. Reeve gave one more order.
"Advance!"
The platoon moved forward, advancing slowly and orderly. Then Reeve gave his battlecry. A high-pitched, furious, keening shriek, it roused the blood of his warriors while curdling the enemies'. The disciplined platoon shattered into a ragged group of charging, screaming fiends. The enemy column quivered, then broke completely as the laxly disciplined militia ran for the relative safety of the village.

Reeve, all self-discipline seemingly gone, pitched himself into the fray. He decapitated a man with a textbook backswing, then twirled his blade and plunged it through the opening of a young militiaman's defense. He wrenched out his sword, slapping away a thrusting blade, then flicking its razor-sharp point into the face of his unfortunate attacker. Three down in five seconds. Not bad.

Gagyur and Opor sprinted into the melee. Opor knocked away a spear thrust and buried his sword in its owner. As he struggled to pull it out, Gagyur swung his sword wildly at a militiaman. To his surprise, the man reeled back, splattering blood everywhere. Gagyur swung his sword again, meeting resistance in the form of a wiry enemy swordsman who parried cooly, then counterslashed, knocking Gagyur's hemet off and opening a gash in his forehead. Gagyur snarled. The swordsman grinned. Battle had finally met in the moonlit night.

[HeartOfDarkness]

Gagyur swung again, and was parried just as easily. The swordsman thrust, then gave a vicious backswing. Gagyur dodged the thrust, but was barely able to parry the backswing. He stepped back. The swordsman, encouraged, feinted to Gagyur's right, then twisted and flicked his sword at his left. Gagyur parried, apparently desperate, but continued with the twisting motion so that the swordsman's blade was carried off. Gagyur then disconnected and made a controled slash that seperated the man's head from his shoulders, splattering Gagyur with yet more blood. He allowed himself a quick grin, then jogged off to help Opor. He had never known the joy of killing before.

This isn't a fight, it's a massacre. Thought Feldered. Might as well make it official. He ducked an axe, burying his sword in the owner, and bellowed:
"Retreat! Back to the village!"
He tugged out his sword and ran.

Reeve's heart was pumping, his blood was singing, and he was falling into the lust of battle. His blade was drenched in blood up to the hilt, and men were throwing down their weapons and cowering rather than fight him. He wrenched himself back into conciousness and shouted harshly at his men, pulling them back into organization. A few of the archers stationed on the peremiter had been ambushed as they joined the main force, and a few soldiers were sporting fresh wounds, but otherwise the platoon has no casualties. The poorly trained militia, on the other hand, had lost at least seventy or eighty men, mostly speared in the back while they ran. About a dozen had been taken prisoner, as many had deserted, and the rest were cowering in the village. His tertiary objective was complete. Now to capture the village.

[Matt BeDar]

Bulloth stood by the southern entrance into the village. Militiamen in varying states of health streamed through the rough gate.

A few orcs and parvadaemon's tried to enter the village but found to their utter dismay that their was still one defender that still had his wits. The first few were met with a quick bash over the head from Bulloth's iron fists which was more than enough to break through their helmet's and crush their skulls.

After the first few bodies were thrown back over the wall, the rest of the strike force decided that it was a bad idea to try and enter through the open southern gate.

Having made it evident that he meant business, Bulloth called to one of the few militia men still thinking coherently.

"Find the man in charge of this village's defense and tell him that he has a new volunteer by the southern gate that wants to talk with him," Bulloth told the man.

'Hopefully he'll be back shortly,' Bulloth thought to himself as he watched the strike force of evil waiting outside the village.

[smcginnis]

Max waited for several moments while Quolde thought.

'Well, this could either turn out to be the real Quolde or a very well thought out trap by the Necromancer,' Max thought to himself. 'I hope it's the former.'

Location: Rolyn's village.

___Quolde scratched his chin. "Avlonian, you say? Well, yes... I remember hearing of that land from my father. The Death Mage conquered it 424 years ago, a year before Sartre was born."
___"And how do know that?" Max asked, still wondering if this really was Quolde.
___"Because he forced the king's widow to marry him when he took control of her husband's kingdom. I'll be honest with you, though; I can't recall the king's name," Quolde said. Suddenly, he added "Are you grilling me?"
___Max looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, I had to make sure you weren't an agent of the Necromancer.... He's very good at making doubles of people."
___Quolde snorted. "As if I don't know that. But I have to tell you something else before you start your story." Quolde leaned forward, and whispered, "My grandfather, Majisto, is still alive. I know this might not seem to matter much to you, but believe me, it's important. Remember when he was 'killed' by Sartre's double of him, before the Necromancer was exiled overseas?"
___Max nodded.
___"Well, as you can probably guess, it was the double who died," Quolde said. "But my grandfather took its place, and followed the Necromancer to Baporohi, the great land far to the south of Dardanilium. He returned here a few years ago, and told me about a certain potion that would give a moonstone the power to kill Sartre, beyond reanimation. However, I've now realized that I didn't formulate it correctly. It could harm King Leo, who's possession I left it in." Quolde paused to take a breath. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, except I that have a feeling that you could help me. I've heard... things, about you." Quolde cleared his throat. "Anyway, your turn."

[smcginnis]

Location: The Tower of the Necromancer, hidden in the Crusader lands.

___The Red Lord paced the great hall of his Tower, an action that unsettled the skeletons scurrying back and forth throughout the hall; for normally, the Necromancer kept to his chambers far higher in the Tower. The Red Lord was in a fury, though only his speed and the look in his left eye betrayed it. The rest of his body, including the impassive red monocle he wore over his right eye, remained as eerily calm as ever. He halted for a moment "You there!" he said, pointing at a passing skeleton. "Bring me the General."
___The skeleton bowed and scuttled off to do his master's bidding. Sartre resumed his pacing. A few minutes later, just as the floor of the hall was beginning to show signs of wearing down, the Black Skeleton, the Necromancer's high General, appeared at the door. "Milord?" he said, bowing. "You called for me?"
___"Yes. A certain regiment of my army is camped outside of a certain village," the Red Lord said. "I have received intelligence that there is a strike force of orcs, parvadaemons, goblins... et cetera storming said village. A small patrol of mine was overwhelmed just before the attack on the humans' militia base. You are to contact the colonel in charge of my regiment and order him to secure the borders of the camp, and not to engage in any battle other than that of defending the regiment. I have an idea of who ordered this strike force, and I am going to try to confirm my suspicions. Now go."
___The Black Skeleton bowed again, and strode out of the hall, towards the long stair that led to the roof of the Tower, where there were many communicative implements to aid in the control of the Necromancer's army abroad.
___Sartre himself took another, smaller stair and arrived in his study. Walking over to an obsidian mirror, he snapped his fingers and spoke a name. "Skfsaaahaidhornamagshahyauheiklahrhaszachk." The mirror began to shimmer, but after a few minutes, it still hadn't resolved. Sartre sighed. "Otherwise known as... Phil," he said reluctantly. The mirror instantly resolved into a clear picture of a Phil's crest.
___"Request for conversation submitted," the mirror said, in its slow, dreamy female voice. "Awaiting acceptance." As the Necromancer stood, waiting, there was knock on the door of the study.
___"Enter," Sartre said.
___The door opened, and the mage Yirwé walked in. "My lord, I believe I have located Quolde. He was fool enough to mention his name to someone up on the Bu—" Yirwé fell silent as the Necromancer held up a hand. The crest on the mirror was fading, being replaced by a moving image of a man peering at them.
___"Request accepted," the mirror said.
___Sartre spoke. "Hello, dear cousin. I wish to have a little chat with you."*
___The man at the other end of the mirror-line harumphed. "You," he said. "Well, young one, I haven't got all day."
___"Did you order an attack on a certain village, outside of which a large number of my soldiers are camped?" Sartre asked. "Because this whole affair reeks of your style. I happen to know about your marvelous Captain Reeve."
___Phil laughed. "Ohoho, you do, eh? Well that's just—oh, wait. How do you know of him?"
___Sartre smiled. "That is for me to know, and me only. Now tell me, please, did you order that attack?"
___Phil appeared to be thinking. "Hmm, let me see.... Oh yes. I'm not telling. Ha!" He mumbled something to his mirror, and the picture faded, though the Phil's laugh still echoed around the study.
___The Red Lord, hiding his disappointment, turned away from the mirror, and towards Yirwé. "You were saying?"

*(Note: I use cousin in the older sense 'kinsman'. Phil isn't a first cousin of Sartre.)

[HeartOfDarkness]

Reeve inhaled, about to bellow the order that would send his men to shatter the remnants of the Crusader militia. As he drew breath, he froze, having caught a wiff of decay on the gentle breeze. He shut his mouth immediately and motioned for his men to take cover. There were more of them than he had thought.

The eerie skeletons formed ranks in the moonlight, their brittle bones making slight clattering noises. All was still as the gigantic column swayed in the breeze. As one, they advanced, making for the flickering remnants of the camp.

Skeletons are merely frames, nothing more than the bones they are composed of. As such, their commander must issue their thoughts personally, transforming them all into extensions of himself. No necromancer could ever control their infamous great hordes of skeletons without going insane. Instead, they assign each skeleton with a low-maintanence, animal-like conciousness, with any necessary phrases and their contexts implanted seperately. All orders are issued en masse, and only the officers are controled directly.

Reeve turned, facing the camp. In his mind, he conjured the image of a great, poison green, winged monster. He starting chanting, at first in a mutter, but rising in intensity until he was shrieking the unholy, barbarous words into the night. The moon darkened. Rising from the south, great wings beating, bright eyes flaring, teeth shining, was a dragon.

Although a heavy stick could destroy them easily enough, skeletons by nature are imbibed with a fear of fire and enchantment, their two worst enemies. Dragons have both in great amounts.
And this dragon was huge.
The skeletons ran.

The skeleton Colonel stared in disbelief. Miles away, the Necromancer stared through the Colonel's eyes. There can't be a dragon, he muttered to himself, not this far south. The dragon, as if on cue, emitted a mocking screech. In every direction, soldiers could be seen running northwards as fast as they could, heading in the general direction of an unwary Crusader castle. The Necromancer sighed. He did not really want to open another front in the growing conflict, but it was out of his hands. He stalked off to inform the Twelfth Brigade that they had work to do.

Reeve allowed his great shriek to peter out. The dragon faded, then vanished entirely. He turned back to his astonished troops, snarling for them to get back into formation. The bulky parvadaemon stumped forward, growling softly that several troops had seen a giant, hammer wielding suit of armor that flattened a few orcs, then clanked off. He added that the bodies of two orcs had been found with half of their heads lying scattered about their bodies, and the other half stuffed down their necks. Reeve dismissed the parvadaemon, then fondled the hilt of his blade. He would have his work cut out for him tonight.

Feldered did not quite believe his eyes. Surely he was hallucinating. There! It dissapeared! He blinked, then shook his head. Next to him, a great suit of armor nodded and chuckled softly. Oldest trick in the book, he thought to himself. Still, he knew now that he was facing a more formidable enemy than he had expected.

[Lord Tyler II]

Sorry it's been so long

At Reeve's village.

The General arrived at the village on his chared skeletal horse. As he topped the hill all he saw was pandomonium! Skeletons ran everywhere! Throwing their weapons and hiding under rocks to get away from some unseen foe. An insane RAGE filled the General's sunken red eyes, "FORM RANKS YOU SLIME!?!"
At the sound of the monstrous voice every skeleton froze.
"GET BACK IN LINE YOU MEASLY USELESS ROACHES!!!"
The General roared!

---Later that Night---

The hordes of skeletons had finally organized themselves, with much "prodding" from the General.
"Now, you pointless marrow heaps, I want resolve! I want pain and fear!"
He turned to an officer and gave the word, "Frighten them."
As the hordes shook the night filled with the eerie rattling of dead cold bones, and the dull roar of a thousand haunting voices...

[HeartOfDarkness]

Reeve straightened up, motioning his platoon forward. They crept quietly into the village, some vaulting fences, others negotiating cramped, smelly alleyways, none using the main road that was gaurded by such intimidating a warrior. Reeve and a few other marksmen climbed the short stone facades of the outlying houses and leapt from roof to roof, hurrying to the best vantage points.

Feldered peered slowly from behind the makeshift barricade on the main road. The platoon of monsters seemed to have vanished into shadows cast by the luminous moon. He slowly tied an oily rag around an arrow, then dipped it into the glowing embers in a nearby iron brazier that was used to illuminate a signpost in times of peace. Feldered shot the arrow, then watched its progress as it speared into the night. No enemy soldiers were in the immediate vicinity, and the plain some eighty yards away was brightly lit by the flaming encampment. The hastily constructed defenses were now useless. The enemy was inside.

Oport and Gagyur squatted in a wretched alleyway, waiting as the village was stirred up into a state of shock all around them. The militiamen remaining spread throughout the village, thrusting torches into the dark alleyways, but unwilling to venture beyond the wide, better lit street.

Reeve waited until his soldiers had crept deep into the village, then muttered a hasty enchantment and shot an arrow sporting a newly flaming head. It arced up, slicing throught the dark sky, flaring brightly. It was the signal to attack.

At once, the platoon leapt from its various hiding places, shrieking their chilling battle cry. The nervous militia were caught totally off gaurd, expecting the attack to come from the outskirts of the village. The marksmen on the roofs added to the confusion, loosing arrows towards the panic-stricken militia. The undisciplined recruits had slowly moved towards the center of the village, expecting it to be safe, and they were the first to die.

Reeve stalked the rooftops, looking for the giant suit of armor that was his opponent tonight. He leapt a narrow alley and ducked under a tarp sheltering an abandonded vegetable garden. He jumped an alleyway again, scrabbling up an angled, tiled roof belonging to a wealthier citizen, then took a flying leap across a wide side street. He landed precariously onto a wide window sill, and after regaining his balance, ripped off the rough curtains and clambered into the house.

He strode across a cramped, bare room, emerging on a small balcony. An innate sense had led him here, and sure enough, Bulloth was there, hefting his warhammer. A slow grin crept over Reeve's face. The grin expanded until it turned into a horrid grimace, exposing mottled gums paired with strangely white, sharp teeth. Reeve's two wickedly pointed incisors gleamed. He leapt from the balcony.

Reeve's cape billowed behind him as he fell, and suddenly two huge, dark, leathery wings were pumping on his back. He rose sharply, twisted, then plunged down, drawing his sword. The blood-darkened blade tore through Bulloth's shoulder armor like a razor through paper, then fell to the ground as Reeve dropped it to clutch Bulloth's arm and head, forcing them apart, exposing the naked emptiness that served for his neck. Voraciously, Reeve sank his teeth into the shadowy neck. Convulsions wracked his body as he perched on Bulloth's back, looking for all the world like some demonic bat, and still Reeve bit. He forced his teeth farther, farther, wrenching and twisting, digging deeper, ever deeper.

For a moment Bulloth did not realize exactly what was happening. He felt an awful pain in his neck, and realized that Reeve had forced his incisors beneath his armor. He did not know how that was supposed to harm him, nor indeed what Reeve was biting, but he still decided it worth his while to drag Reeve off his back and fling him into a nearby wall. Reeve slammed into it bodily, then, leaving a clear Reeve-shaped mark, crumpled into a greusome position at its base. The wall shuddered, then slowly crumbled, burying Reeve under a pile of dusty stones. Bulloth shrugged, then turned away to hunt more monsters.

From beneath the rubble, Reeve struggled to get out. He knew what would happen next. It was an amazing and mystifying spectactle, and he did not get to see it very often. A burst of energy shot him to his full height, sending the opressive rocks flying. He picked up his sword, just in case Bulloth survived the awfull process, and waited.

[doodstormer]

Crafton stopped walking, and decided to rest. after him and the two goblins got off the road, they set up a shelter. The goblins collapsed into sleep immediately. Crafton went out to watch the road. suddenly, a flash of light and a thunderclap surprised Crafton, and an armor clad figure with a flowing black cape appeared before him. Crafton could only gasp. "Timethious!"

Timethious raised his visor, to reveal a black void. "Crafton," he said, in an echoing, loud voice, "I must speak with you, upon a matter that involves you and your world." Crafton, somewhat startled by the event, regained his composure and replied "what is your request?" Timethious sat down on a stump near the road. "Do you know how long it has been? How long these dark wizards, evil warlords, and heartless criminals have been allowed to rampage and storm through the world I and the gods have created? Centuries, nay, ages! This evil is finally taking its toll... on me. I cannot co-exist with evil, that you know. I have designated you a quest, to destroy this evil. You must destroy that which is evil, all the accursed dark wizards and bloodthirsty warlords. This quest will not be accomplished by you alone, you must gather the heroes of this land, those who still uphold right." Crafton was taken aback at the massive quest placed before him. "Who would you have to serve you on this quest?" asked Crafton. "That is for you to decide. I must go now, as the burden of this evil grows heavy. I will be with you!" In a flash of light, Timethious was gone. Crafton returned to the shelter, and rested, knowing that tomorrow would be the start of the quest of a lifetime.