Unlikely Heroes: Content

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Sun Apr 29, 2012 3:59 pm

Azrael sat opposite Tyrael, a small campfire separating them. A light mist hung to the floor, forming a blanket a foot off the ground. The Sun had rose an hour earlier, and they had awoken to an empty camp. All other men had abandoned them, gathering their things and leaving in the night. Some of the former soldiers had left behind supplies for them, leaving Arrows, Food and some other basic survival items.

Throwing a strip of meat to the ground, Azrael spat. "Cowards. The lot of them, damned cowards" He grunted.

" Not all of them Azrael. Their lives have been torn apart. This is not what they are used to Brother." Tyrael soothed, trying to calm the Anger that had consumed Azrael.

" If that is how you feel, then why have you remained?" Azrael barked harshly, getting to his feet and walking toward his horse.

"I remain, because we are needed mentor. If we are to survive then we must band together."

"Mentor? I like that. Yes, I suppose I am your mentor." Azrael mused, smiling to himself.

" Well then. We must ride." Tyrael spoke quietly, standing and mounting his horse.

" I suppose we must. Will you follow me, Tyrael?"

"Of course Master, to the ends of the earth." Tyrael was taken aback, but answered firmly.

"Then we have much to discuss."
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jayertheslayer » Sun Apr 29, 2012 4:13 pm

Trees began to thicken, darkness drew closer and shadows moved in the distance. The Dark Forest.
Lienth always hated this place, who knew what horrors lurked ominously within blacked out patches. But she had to press on, only Ferax would accept her as their ignorance would blind them from her past.

Bah, I wish she'd 'urry up, I don't see what so scary about this place anyways! Unlike the Black Swamp it much less scary, and rather annoyingly, less wet. But I can't go 'ome, not after what's 'appened, I'd be killed from running from war. No, it seems I'm stuck with this obnoxious Fleshy for the time being.

It marched on uncaringly. Without a fear it pressed on through the closed trees illuminating through demented darkness with its shining bravery and fearlessness which sat swaying in luminously as it marched. Unfortunately for her she wasn't as bold, things scared her, like an array of bloodthirsty monsters lurking in the invisible shades. But she had -

Hooooowwwl

Immediately she was pinned to the ground by something snarling and snapping away at her face. But just as it jumped on her it came soaring off. Sounds of whimpers were heard. Then silence.

The Mer came wondering over towards her and outstretched its meaty hand. Her delicate fingers entwined around loose scales and once again she was on her feet.

Gasping for sudden breath she noticed its bulbously curling lips were stained liquid crimson, it had saved her. Taking a glance at where she thought her attack laid, there only remained a black mauled corpse of a black wolf.

"Y-you saved me!?"
"An' dat what da 'eal is,"
"B-but that was so quick on how you dispatched of it!"
It looked over at the now wasted body and replied,
"What dat? Dat's 'othin,"
"But you took care of it so quickly!"
"An' I'm an 'unter dat's my job 'o tings 'ike dat,"

Lienth couldn't help but admire the creature, maybe the legends of Mer were twisted somewhat. Maybe in fact they were helpful loyal beings that had become aggressive to survive their surroundings. Maybe they -

It coughed up a green gooey bone and extracted it from its mouth. After taking a long look at it, it ate it once again.

Maybe they were just a bunch of savages... She sighed to herself deeply as it moved on once again to scout the area. She couldn't deny the truth, it was only doing this because she had blackmailed it into doing so. It didn't care in the slightest, the legends were accurate enough to prove so. Mer are Mer there's no changing that..
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Cthulu Mechanicus » Sun Apr 29, 2012 7:52 pm

Name: Lakaz Marsh-dweller
Age: 45
Height: 1.5 meters, stooped.
Weight: 95lbs
Personality: Slightly crazy, keeps to himself, disdainful of nobility.
Race: Human (Barely)
Gear
-Head: Mer skull.
-Chest: Ragged and rotting remains of a roughspun robe, combined with fur and bone.
-Arms: Same as above.
-Legs: Same as above.
-Feet: Well wrapped in cloth, excessively muddy.
-Miscellaneous: Pouches filled with mushrooms, snacks, elixirs, the like. Also posses a staff made from dead wood festering with fungus.
Physical appearance
-Face: Pale and haggard.
-Hair: Overgrown brown, a bushy beard.
-Eyes: Brown and wild.
-Musculature: wiry.
-Defining features: A crazed shaman living in black marsh. There's really no other way to put it.
-Racial Features (if not assumed):

Skills
-Strengths: Can control vegetation and look into the future when a proper ritual is preformed.
-Weaknesses: Physically weak, no social skills, has liven the majority of his life in black marsh.
-Trade/Training Skills: Alchemist, soothsayer/ fortune teller, herbalist, control over vegetation, can survive in black marsh.
Biography: Lakaz was young when the colleges came for him. He displayed a talent and magic, and like many others before him, he was slated to be taken away. Lakaz, being young sensibly decided not to go with the men and ran. A simple enough task to catch any boy, but not when vines had entangled themselves around your feet. He continued to run until he reached the deadly marshes of the black swamp. Using his abilities to control plants, vines sheltered him, struck out at his foes, and provided him with food. After a decade of such existence, he began to witness visions. Visions of his own city ridden with vines and fungi, stalked by vegegolems of his creation. Visions of death and pain. Visions of his parents, alone and sobbing. Things like this have a tendency to drive one partially insane, and he promptly did. However, news of a shaman protected by the marsh itself spread by glimpses of him throughout the dead trees. Some adventurers came to slay him for the glory, their corpses now fester, impaled by vines. Some came to seek a glimpse of their future, paying in goods and tools. They received a harrowing glimpse of their future, this being their eventual fate. Some died peacefully in bed, surrounded by their friends. Some Fell in battle, protecting some empty headed maiden or other. Some were angered at the glimpse given, and found their fate soon enough. Some came to seek potions, elixirs to crush their enimies or to woo a fair maiden, poisons to bring about the downfall of a tyrant, or to ensure inheritance.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Lakaz walked through the swamps, the skull of a foolish Mer hunter adorning his head. A giant walked alongside him, wines writhing as they propelled themselves forward, drawing vast amounts of water from the swamp. (Point: Vine golems only work with enough water to sustain them) protecting their creator. A low roar emenated from the swamp and a fearsome amalgamation of lizard and wolf leaped from the trees, aiming for his throat. Lakaz walked, unperturbed. Vines lashed out, ensnaring it in the air, as another eached out and throttled it, choking the life out of it. Lakaz stooped down and skinned it with a knife looted off a rather mad fortune-seeker. He cut a slab of meat off and popped a peice into his mouth, shaprned teeth slicing it apart. One day, he would be king. The city would be rife with fellow outcasts, scurrying among the wreckage. No-one would even bother to face them. And if they did, they would be like cornered swamp rats. His steward would be called Alkaxanwergali- Four loud bongs echoed across the swamp, a sound that had rarely been heard by our Shaman. A vision snapped into his head.

Him. A giant man. Many unknown others. The giant man is facing them. He weilds a large sword and the power of storms. He charges. You stand together, united in cause.
He sat down, taking a moment to ponder. Was this a sign from Papa swamp? A sign that he should leave the familiarity of the bog and to face this threat? "Thank you Papa." He said to no-one in particular. He set off to the east, the mass of vines following, ever-loyal.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jason » Mon Apr 30, 2012 12:18 am

The Legion was on the move once again, cloaks and furs blowing in the increasing winter storm. Nauticus turned back to his legion, the men huddled and miserable. They had winters in Westmarch, but none to this magnitude. Nauticus had a flashback of his tribulations of the long forgotten past, the trials of hardship that befell himself and his followers. In a rare case of compassion, he raised his hands from the reigns of his horse and put them together in front of him. Slowly pulling them apart he exhaled slowly, and the storm began to part from over top of the men, the cold, howling winds dissipated to nothing, and the driving snow began to fall softly and serenely. He did not turn back as he heard the mumblings of his vast horde at the sudden change of weather, but smiled to himself at his action.

They spied a snow covered fortress in the far reaches of a icy plain, the next stop on this crusade.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evette approached the figure through the smoke, the ashy fog of burning canvas and wood filling the area, yelling and shouts coming from all around her. Soldiers with buckets bumping into her she calmly walked towards the solitary figure, and once she was out of the flow of legionnaires, the smoke lifted above their heads. Her left eye twitched a she found the face of the figure. Squinting in anger, she quickened her pace towards her familiar foe, grinding her teeth as she briskly closed the distance. She pulled her blade from its sheath vigorously; the metallic sound of the blade hitting the metal cusp on the scabbard filled the immediate air. With the confusion and chaos of the camp, she knew that they would not be bothered in the time to come.

“You! You... YOU SET FIRE TO MY CAMP!” She shouted at the hooded figure, stamping her foot on the ground. “I told you, Bastard. If I saw you again, it would be your end!” she finished, knees bent, arms up at the ready as she adopted her familiar fighting stance.

Swidhelm turned, his arms at his side as if he was shrugging, a white and broad smile shone under the shade of his hood, in contrast with his en-shadowed face. Swidhelm began to laugh; his arms still relaxed looking over Evette's stance.

"What can I say general... man can't stay away from a pretty face."

Evette’s face turned sour at the remark, adopting a stern frown. She began to regret putting on the heavy winter tunic, as it restricted her movement. Seeing as her opponent was yet to take on a ready stance, she took this moment to undo the large belt that went around her waist. With a deft stroke of her free hand she undid the buckle, and let the iron and leather strap fall to the ground. Taking a deep breath, she felt her flexibility return to its former freedom, however the tight, rough garment still restricted her movement some, though she was not worried. Flipping her blade up to her face once again, like a dualist, her face resumed its familiar wicked smirk as she spoke once more to Swindhelm;

“Let’s see if you fight even half as decent as that peasant... what was his name, Brisborn? No matter, he lies in the forest somewhere now, wolves probably passed over such a paltry excuse for a warrior...”

Swidhelm reduced his smile to a simple smirk, his arms remained relaxed. He took in a deep breath, taking in his surroundings. He twiddled his fingers looking up to the smoke filled sky. Slowly he closed his eyes, the smirk still on his face. He listened to the chaos and terror around him. His body felt relaxed with the warm air in his lungs, calmly he released his breath.

Jumping the distance between herself and her opponent, she gracefully leapt into the fray, starting with a wide, low slash at Swindhelm’s midsection. A parrying stroke greeted her blade as he brought his sword to meet hers. Using her momentum she spun to his left, keeping a flurry of strokes fluid and precise, face set in a stony calm visage as she exerted her careful and masterful movements. She could feel the winter tunic slowing her down, and she worked against the poor choice of clothing.

Blocking the flurry of strikes, Swidhelm calmly began taking steps back absorbing the blows with his sword. Calmly he planted his right foot back and took a rigid stance, Evette didn't slow, and going for an over head strike, Swidhelm took his chance to move.

Blocking the blow Swidhelm placed a powerful kick into Evette's side, and followed with a slash of his own.

The sudden change of style caused Evette to flounder for a moment, she cursed, allowing herself to become open. The deft kick to her side caused her to absorb the blow as best she could. She remained in her wide stance, and brought her overhand strike into flashing parry. It was an awkward angle to work from, but the blade was successfully blocked, barely. She took this moment as Swindhelm swung his blade past her to leap to the side, creating distance between them. Her blade centered at his chest, they began to circle, swords at the ready. She sidestepped in time with Swindhelm as their circling dance continued; noticing a large gash across her upper arm, where the awkward block took place, a large slice through the fabric of her tunic. Scowling, she ripped the sleeve off.

“You know, Bastard? This is the second tunic you and your friends have cost me, at this rate; I would assume you would fight me until I lack a shirt to call my own!” she laughed.

"Anything to help the war effort..." Swidhelm smiled back, hoping his light mood would throw off Evette, he drew his sword back for another strike he calmly drew another breath. Then, as he exhaled he threw a powerful swing at Evette's side hoping to break straight through anything she could muster to meet it.

Evette saw the large swing coming her way, and laughed in her head at the mistake he was about to make. The large arc came swiftly, expecting brute strength to overcome her blocking. Even though she may not have the upper-body strength of her opponent, she more than made up for it in skill and body control. Grasping the long hilt of her sword, she brought it to her side; she brought the blade upwards, catching Swindhelm’s sword mid-swing, and raising it over her head to continue harmlessly into thin air. His momentum was great from the heavy swing, and it threw him off balance, giving Evette ample time to strike. Utilizing the two-handed grip she had after the maneuver, she spun, dealing a weighty thrust into the mail that covered her opponent’s chest.

The carefully clasped metal links gave way to the superior steel of the blade, allowing a good portion of her blade to sink past the leather into his skin. Quickly withdrawing her blade, she noticed the roughly three inches of smeared blood that donned the tip of her blade and flashed a malicious smile, keeping in position as Swindhelm recoiled.

Swidhelm staggered back, teeth gritted he kept his grin, bringing his left hand up, he clenched the wound on the right of his chest. Taking slow controlled breaths, he was happy to see his lung wasn't punctured, but his chest shot with pain. Swidhelm's legs fumbled and he collapsed holding himself up with his sword he cursed himself as he watched Evette approach, a cold expression on her face as she neared, sword in hand. Swidhelm tried to push himself back up but couldn't find the strength his face felt pale. Teeth still gritted into a look of mock sureness, he looked down to see little more blood come from his wound. His mind began to race as Evette stopped before him.

Lifting his chin with the tip of her blade, she met Swidhelm's smirk with her own devilish one. She basked in the moment looking into Swidhelm's eyes. Slowly she lifted her blade aligning it with the center of Swidhelm's collarbone. Swidhelm made sure not to break his stare, if he were to die, he wanted to haunt her. Just as her blade reached its peak a sudden look of shock took control of her face as a silver gleam made its way behind her legs.

A short blade carved it way through the backs of Evette’s thighs, eliciting a soft tearing noise of the fabric as the blade slipped through flesh and thread. Evette fell to her knees, and collapsed to her side, aware of another familiar figure crouched beside her.

Evette felt the hot pain ripple through her legs as she collapsed, sword still in her iron grip. She put her free hand to the back of her legs, feeling for the wound. In the middle of her thighs, two clean slices wound their way around the large circumference. She gritted and bared her teeth at the assailant, who just smirked with juvenile confidence. Spitting on the boots that lay before her, she attempted to bring her sword to the attacker’s throat, but was greeted by a sharp point on the throat. She did not recoil, and felt a small prick as the skin broke around the blade-point.

“How very cunning of you, child.” Evette spat. “Attack from behind, a true coward’s action.”

Ranger broke a wide smile across her face, and leaned in close to Evette's face;

"I. Am not. A child." And with that she spat on Evette's face, Ranger's smile growing wider at her foes helplessness.

Ranger stood up being sure to place a foot on Evette's sword hand she basked in the moment. Slowly she sheathed her blade looking down on her enemy.

"And from this moment on, you shall remember..." Ranger took in a light breath, "You could've been killed. But were spared. And that's why we're better then you. Because you. Are a soulless. Monstrosity."

Swidhelm rose to his feet placing a hand on Ranger's shoulder a light cloud of smoke rolling over them.

"Come on..." he said through gritted teeth, "... Let's go."

And with that both of them turned and left, Swidhelm with an arm over Ranger's shoulder as they hobbled away, not bothered as they entered the chaos, they left back towards the forest. Clouds of smoke bellowing over head, fires lighting up their way, and men sprinting nearby shrouded them from Evette's sight as they left.

Evette frowned, spit sliding down her face as she leaned up off the ground. Left arm holding her upright as she leaned on her hip, she shouted at the retreating duo;

“YOU SHOULD HAVE KILLED ME GIRL! YOU SHOULD HAVE PUT ME DOWN ON THE GROUND I LAY UPON! FOR YOUR FEAR OF KILLING ME HAS COST YOU YOUR LIFE! MARK MY WORDS!”

She had long since lost sight of the pair as she hobbled back to her tent, and grabbed onto the shoulder of her bodyguard. “FETCH THE HEALER!” She screamed, legs burning from the deep gashes that lay across them.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bone2pick » Mon Apr 30, 2012 11:02 am

The boy reminded Margus of a young noble he once tutored. It was his fierce curiosity, the youthful need to learn about the world of men. His mother was grateful to have her son occupied, and grateful that Margus Gan had just purchased a heavy woolen horse blanket from her market table no less than two minutes ago. The spirited lad had taken an interest in Margus’ cape and was determined to get an earful about its origin. He guessed the boy to be no older than twelve.

“How big do tigers get?”

“Quite big.” Margus put his hand out slightly below his chest to indicate the cat’s height. The boy opened his eyes in surprise and his mouth dropped a bit.

“Wow.” The boy let the word stretch “That’s bigger than a wolf.”

Margus quickly nodded his agreement. “Much bigger. It’s a different league of animal, the tiger.” He picked his beard and contemplated on how much further he should continue, then put on a devilish grin as he decided to proceed. “And a much more dangerous critter all together.”

The boy’s head slowly pulled back in disbelief. His young face, sprinkled with freckles, scrunched as he processed this new information.

“More dangerous than a bloody wolf?”

“Much more. More dangerous than a bear.”

The boy blew some of his scattered brown hair off of his eyes. He looked up at southerner with child like suspicion and Margus couldn’t help but be reminded of the Baron’s son he once mentored.

“More dangerous than a mean ole grizzly bear?”

“Sure.” Margus crouched down to look the boy in the eyes. “Bears and wolves do what needs to be done to survive. They’ll kill when it suits them, scavenge off the land out of convenience, and do their best to stay out of mans way.” The young listener wiped some dirt off his face with the back of one of his wrists as he took in every word from Margus Gan. “If given the choice, wolves would rather lick a beehive clean then bear fangs at someone. And a bear would rather raid your pantry than bother with you or your family.”

Margus held up his index finger, a theatrical gesture that he enjoyed doing. “But this is where the tiger is different. A tiger lives to hunt. It lives to kill. It doesn’t want your honey, it doesn’t come around because it’s caught wind of spoiled milk. If it’s near you, then it’s there to kill you.” Margus motioned into the market to give the boy some room to imagine.

“A tiger doesn’t just move, it prowls. It’s a stalker. And you and I are no different in its eyes than a mouse is to a farm cat. Wolves and Bears may catch you off guard out in the forest, but they usually have no interest in following you home. Why you can leave your door wide open and only the most foolish of wolves would enter. You see a wolf, like most animals, is still a creature of fear. It fears what would happen if it would trot inside your house and the door suddenly closes behind it. A wolf needs its pack for courage.”

Margus had his right hand on the child’s back while his left hand made gestures into the market. The boy was entranced by the Gan’s tale, and the realities of the market had transformed into a lonely country house assaulted by wolves and bears. The imagination was so thick they both could smell it.

“And a bear, if it ever came across your house with the door open, would rather you not be there when it entered. It’s biggest payoff would be to catch tonight’s dinner, unattended, left waiting on the table. The tiger on the other hand, would have no trouble coming through your open door. And if it ever does, then be sure it’s there with murderous intent. It doesn’t fear you, it doesn’t want your baked goods, it wants your blood.”

Margus Gan finished the lesson and rose to his full stature. He straightened his tiger skinned cape and gave the boy a playful pat on the arm.

“So now you know as much as I do about tigers.”

“I know something else too.” Now it was Margus’ turn to look surprised. This boy was amusingly perceptive.

“What’s that?”

“I know that if I lived in your country, I’d keep my doors closed.”
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Mon Apr 30, 2012 12:39 pm

" So, you are trying to tell me, that your name is not Azrael?" Tyrael spoke softly, shocked by the revelation.

"Sort of. Remember in the Planesworld when I spoke to you and told you Azrael was one of my names? Well, Azrael was simply the name you knew me by. To my parents, I am An'graratth. To myself, I am Ra. I am a Plansewalker, a Mystic perhaps. I'm from the Shadowlands off the coast to the East. Among the islands there, few tribes exist. I served as a Guide to my people." Ra spoke calmly, his voice assertive yet calm.

"A Planeswalker? A Guide? What are the Shadowlands?" Tyrael asked, a puzzled expression coating his face. Thoughts flew through Tyraels head, but one stood out causing him to blurt it aloud.

"Who are you."

"I'm Ra, Planeswalker. I act as a Spirit guide for my Tribe, guiding the dead to their Ancestors. The Planesworld is the world between, where I am strongest. That beast you saw there was a conjuration, for I needed you to see your power.

"My Power...?" Tyrael asked.

"Yes your power. Do you not remember the Forest and the voices?"

"How do you..."

"I am the voices Tyrael. I gave you a portion of my powers for what lies ahead."

"What lies ahead? How could you know what happens before it does?" Tyrael moaned, refusing to believe most of his life had been a lie.

"Planeswalkers have a variety of powers. One of them is Scrying. It allows me to view, albeit extremely hazily into the Future. It may not be as clean as you think though, youngling. It is a series of visions that I must interpret. And In your future, I see great strife. You could use all the power I hold. Although I can not give you my speed or my thoughts, I have given you a portion of my healing ability." Ra smiled, patting Tyrael on the shoulder.

"And The sword?" Tyrael growled, shaking the hand from his shoulder.

"The sword is what you need it to be. Is It not true you feel calmer when holding it? More relieved perhaps? As if a weight has been taken from your shoulders?" A Devilish grin crept across Ra's face, a glint of madness in his eyes.

"Yes. Well, no. I suppose I feel better when I hold it." Tyrael admitted, slouching his shoulders.

"Well then I suppose it has worked. It relax's you, clearing your mind. It is simply a shard of the material of my people, the Shadowgem. Aldurukh was made of the same material, I simply took some from there. Wait. There's something ahea..." Ra was cut off by the Twang of an bowstring.

A single arrow was propelled between the trees toward Ra, hitting him in the shoulder and penetrating the leather he wore. Knocking him from his force, He remained splayed out on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Four of the Soldiers who had abandoned them earlier rushed from the Trees, Their Armor muddied and the occasional piece discarded. Tyrael dropped from his horse and scrambled to his feet, gathering his wits. Grabbing the sword from a strap on the horses saddle, a feeling of relief washed over Tyrael just as Ra had predicted. Holding it up in front of him, Tyrael prepared to lunge toward the closest man, before he felt a hand on his Shoulder. Spinning, Tyrael was knocked from his feet onto his back, an armored fist impacting with his Chin. A Large soldier stood, flexing his hand. The large one rolled Tyrael onto his stomach and pinned him down, holding his face up so he had to watch the others move toward Ra.

Getting to his feet, Ra pulled the arrow from his Shoulder, holding the wound with one hand. Standing to his full height, One of the Soldiers moved forward, hitting him in the gut causing him to keel over. As one the pack of men swarmed him, Punching and kicking him as he lay on the ground.

"Prop him up lads!" Franz barked, taking his gauntlets off. " I'll enjoy this, Freak." Franz spat.

A Soldier each side of Ra lifted him to his feet, holding him beneath his armpits on each side. Franz stood a few feet from him, his jaw clenched and a nerve bulging from his forehead. Curling his hand to a fist, Franz punched Azrael on the left side of his face, causing him to spit blood and slouch slightly. Bringing his fist back for another punch, Franz struck once more, this time on the right. Ra's blood splattered onto the armor of another Soldier, Azrael's lip split and his mouth filling with blood. Striking him again, Azrael's cheek split open, revealing the soft muscle beneath the deep cut. After Five or so minutes of the Beating and the taking turns of beating him, They stopped and released him. Azrael dropped to the floor, lying face down. Tyrael roared in anger, frustrated as he couldn't do anything to help his friend.

Azrael slowly rose to his feet, his eyes burning with a red glow and his skin morphing into the familiar rock like patterns. Slowly spreading across his face and down his neck, the transformation continued. Franz was taken aback, stumbling backward and tripping over a root. Pressing his advantage, Azrael marched forward, the Transformation reaching his arms as they solidified into stone. Clenching his fist, Azrael drew his arm back, preparing to strike.


The Speartip burst from behind his knee, pinning his left leg to the floor. The Rocky transformation ceased, his flesh turning back to normal around his body.

"We know your tricks little man. That thing you did to me." Franz flinched, as if hurt by the memory. "That thing you did, worked both ways."

Azrael said nothing, simply glaring at his attackers.

"I'm bored. Kill him." Franz said, waving his hand to dismiss him.

Another spear exited Azrael, this time straight through his stomach. Blood spurted from the wound as the Spear was drawn back, coating Franz's armor and the brown soil in front of him. Finally another soldier drew a dagger, slicing Azrael's throat and letting the body fall.

Tyrael's eyes widened in shock, as he refused to believe his Leader, and friend had been injured. Slumping forward in front of him, Azrael lay still, blood pooling around his body. One of the men moved and rolled Azrael over with his foot, revealing Azrael's horrifying visage.

The man had died smiling, a unsettling grin stretching right across his face.

Tyrael was numb. The men moved toward him next, Grinning. One of them grabbed him, lifting him to his knees and propping him up. The one who had slit Azrael's throat held his knife in his hand, and grabbed Tyrael's cheeks in the other. Squeezing, Tyrael's mouth was forced open.

"Hold him." The Man barked, the other men scrambling to hold Tyrael still.

Struggling, Tyrael tried to move, but he was held in place with his mouth open.

The man with the knife moved his fingers into Tyrael's mouth, grasping at his tongue. Yanking it from his mouth, Tyrael let out a hollow scream as the soldiers pressed the knife against his tongue, dragging the sharp blade through the flesh and muscle. After what seemed like an eternity, the soldier with the blade removed his hand from Tyrael's mouth, a fleshy hunk of meat coming with it. Blood pooled in Tyrael's mouth, the bitter metallic smell of blood filling his nose.

"Release him you Bastards! We have no quarrel with him!" Franz roared, punching the man who had cut out Tyrael's tongue to the ground. At once, the men released Tyrael, allowing him to slump to the ground. With one final kick to Tyrael's ribs, the small band of men set off, leaving Tyrael in his bloodied state.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Chaos Farseer » Tue May 01, 2012 2:14 am

The man was polite enough, though Oswaldo could tell gentlemanly behavior was not something he normally indulged in. His weather-beaten visage and hard muscles told of a life quite lacking in upper-class leisure. It was good he found his ring, though, because a silver ring could buy quite a nice amount of food. He turned his attention back to the small group outside. Irandirel was still freaking out on the ground. The boy from inside was standing just out of the doorway. Oswaldo was about to open his mouth, when the man who had startled the boy walked through the door. Except, in that short time, he had managed to acquire a traveling cloak, and some sort of large object that he kept well hidden under it. The clumsy fellow from inside didn’t notice his arrival. Either that, or there was something severely weird going on. So what’s the big fuss about, anyway?

To Irandirel, “Why’re ya still worryin’?” He turned to the strange pair that had appeared from the inn, “And jus’ ‘oo are the two of you, anyway?”

-={0}=-

Huor opened the door to see an unlikely group. He saw a female elf lying on the ground in the fetal position, flanked by Calcifer and a stranger. A third man walked briskly away. Huor began to approach the group cautiously when the man confronted him. “And jus’ ‘oo are the two of you, anyway?” He asked of Huor and Calcifer.

“I’d ask the same of you lot” Huor replied, looking at Calcifer.

The stranger replied, “I’m Oswaldo Perez. You bett’r not be lookin’ for a foight. I don’ know who dis is,” he nodded to Calcifer, “ but if either of ya mess wit’ ‘er, ya mess wit’ me.”

“I’m not here to mess with anyone, I’m only here to find my... friend here.” Huor replied.
"’lle vee' eithel, edhel-edainme?’", muttered the elf. “Man?”
Huor looked at the female elf, and dropped his hood, revealing his ears. “Hebo estel.” He muttered so only she could hear.

-={0}=-

Oswaldo did a double-take. Two elves? Count them, one, two... in one town? Not just that, but they both seemed like nice people? And had uncovered heads? His eyes bugged almost out of his skull.

He breathed, “Ya got guts, mate.”

-={0}=-

Irandirel felt confused. She looked up at the new arrival. <<Is this true?>> She blinked and shook her head. <<You can understand me?>>
<<Yes,>> replied the elf.
<<But... how?>> She was on her feet now. <<They all died. They all died!>> She shook her head again. <<It is impossible.>>
The man looked at her with confusion. <<What are you talking about? Who died?>>
She stared at him blankly. << You don’t know? How could you not...>> She looked away. <<You weren’t there. I don't know you.>> She felt her hopes shatter and she sighed.
<<It’s okay, you’re safe now,>> said the elf. She noticed the comfort intended in his voice, yet it did little to help.
<<I wish I could believe you. I wish it were true.>> She turned to him and stared down with impassive eyes. <<Do you know what it is like to lose everything? Everything that was once precious to you?>>
<<Unfortunately. I lost both of my parents several years ago but I’d rather not speak of it...>>
<<I wish I could sympathize. But I can’t. You still have a home. You still have a life. You still have a future. While I . . . I have nothing left.>> Her words hung in the air like a gloomy thundercloud, and Irandirel sighed. <<You cannot understand what I suffered. How can you claim to keep me safe? They thought we were safe once, before they died. Before they . . .>> She looked through the elf for a few seconds, before shaking away the pain and tears. <<You cannot understand.>> She turned her back on him. <<You could never understand...>> She sat on the dying grass and stared into the clouded sky.


-={0}=-
How did he find me?

Calcifer slowly inched away when Huor walked to the other elf. At least he was distracted, maybe even stay here for good.
Calcifer was just about to leave, when Oswaldo called out, “Oy, you! Why’s you so nervous around ‘im, anyway? Whas goin on wit the two of ya?”
“He sort of, err, saved my life,” Calcifer choked out. It was hard to say, he admitted to himself. He lived his whole life being judged and ostracized from Colt, and was raised with prejudice towards those who were not “normal”. He held on knowing he wasn’t the lowest on the social scale.
But looking at Oswaldo now made him think that not everyone hated non-humans. Like him.

Calcifer turned around and walked back to Oswaldo. He explained why he left his home, what happened in the Dark Forest and why he was here. Oswaldo didn’t say much while Calcifer told his story, but nodded or made remarks at certain parts.
“So how did you meet her-the elf?” Calcifer asked. He couldn’t help add distaste to “her”, and looked down quickly in embarrassment.
“Well, ya see thas’ a bit o’ an int’resting story...”
When Oswaldo finished recounting the previous day’s events, he realized that Huor had been listening all along. And was standing next to him.


*{‘You as well, elf woman?’ How?'}
{'Have hope.'}
Last edited by Chaos Farseer on Tue May 01, 2012 7:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Jayertheslayer » Tue May 01, 2012 1:31 pm

Legs tiring. Sweat dripping. Heart rate increasing. It had been what, several hours at least of walking through the godforsaken forest and Lienth knew it would be longer till the end. But what annoyed her the most was that her bodyguard still kept up pace showing no signs of weakness. She didn't know how it did it.

Stopping and collapsing to the muddy floor she called out,
"Can we please rest?!"
The Mer turned towards her confused on why she was already tired this quickly.
"Wha' 'ou tired or someting?"
Breathing heavily she replied,
"What do you think?! We've been walking through this stupid forest for ages now!"
"'ou 'anted to go through it,"
"Well I didn't know it would take this long!"
Opening its mouth to say something it then suddenly paused. Thinking deeply about what it was going to say it held its jaw open in a very odd manner. After a while of Lienth staring blankly at the creature it finally spoke,
"Well dere is always da other ting 'ou can do,"
"Why what's that?"
"I 'ould pick 'ou up an' get 'ou dere,"
Lienth peered up and down repeatedly to observe the proposing creature's height. Well it was certainly a lot shorter than most horses she's rode but it would definitely beat walking. After standing once again on her worn legs, she nodded in agreement.

It was awkward but it would do. Trying to get it to retract and flatten its dorsal fin was somewhat of a nightmare, at least horses listened! That and it didn't help that her feet were only a few inches off the ground. But it seemed as if it had the strength to support her, well at least hold her for the time being. It was only a matter of moving that was the problem.

"'ou 'oldin on?"
Wrapping her arms around its thick meaty stomach, she entwined her silky fingers together to safely lock herself in place.
"Alright, I 'elling ya Fleshy, I go fast an' if 'ou fall it in da mud for 'ou,"
"That's for reassuring me, I really needed it." She said sarcastically. "Also the name's Lienth, not Fleshy, how many times have I told you that!?"
"'ree.."
"I think certainly more than-"
"'oo.."
"Wait! I'm not-!"
"on'.."
"Reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddyyy!!!"
When in doubt..
use a shotgun.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bone2pick » Tue May 01, 2012 2:15 pm

He examined its color as the liquid poured into his cup. It wasn’t quite amber, it was too pale. This was more than likely a young whiskey. Margus was visiting with a local blacksmith who he had obtained earlier to re-shod his stallion. He was a very agreeable fellow, the sort of man who took pride in his trade and found contentment in an honest days work. Margus Gan liked the man immediately. His name was Maynard.

During the course of their friendly conversation Maynard let slip that he was the owner of, in his humble opinion, a respectably tasteful jug of whiskey. That promptly resulted in cups being fetched and the spirit being poured.

Margus raised his cup to his nose and inhaled at the rim. The burn of alcohol came first, as it always did, then came the smell of smoked wood. Deeper still- wet earth, grains, and burned honey. Yes, this was definitely young. Margus grinned in satisfaction but there was a whisper of sadness behind his eyes. Maybe it was because the thought crossed his mind that this may very well be his last drink of whiskey. Maybe it was because the spirit’s aromas brought him back to the memories of his homeland and his former life. Whatever it was, he didn’t linger on it.

“Cheers.” Uttered Margus and the two men drank together.

Maynard finished his drink and breathed in the days air. He rubbed his bald head with his calloused blacksmith’s hands and then tidied up his mustache. Maynard slowly spun his cup with his fingers as he worked up a question to ask his guest.

“Margus. Can I ask you something?”

The Gan surfaced from his deep thoughts and nodded for Maynard to continue.

“Why did you come here? Why Lycene?” Maynard now looked sternly at the man across from him. Margus Gan met the gaze and the two locked eyes for a spell. It wasn’t a threatening exchange, it was the look one gives when he or she is serious about understanding something. “Why not stay down south?”

Margus ran his fingers through his mane of hair. It was a habit of his that he picked up long ago as a wild haired child. He steadied himself before he answered.

“Because this is where I’m needed. Because this is where the legions of Westmarch will soon march for.” Margus plucked the sheathed Claymore up from his side and held it in both hands across his lap. He stared into the weapon and Maynard watched the emotion scroll across the southerner’s face. “This is important.” Margus continued. “And if I can help in anyway I will.”

Maynard considered his new friend. He was a bit of mystery, the jewelry, the tiger skin, the magnificent horse, the over sized sword. What they all meant together was unclear, but what was perfectly clear to Maynard was that Margus Gan believed in the words he had just spoke. Maynard asked another question.

“So you’re a warrior here to help fight the legions?”

Margus Gan finished his drink and returned his Claymore to its place across his back.

“I’ll be whatever I’m needed to be.”
Space Marines excel at warfare because they were designed to excel at everything.

-Primarch Roboute Guilliman

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Deldar10 » Wed May 02, 2012 1:10 am

Name:Aeathir
Age: 23
Height: 5 ft
Weight: 190
Personality: Adaptable, trustworthy
Race: Fel
Gear
-Head: Nothing but her fur
-Chest: Leather chest piece
-Arms: Leather gloves
-Legs: Strips of leather arranged in a skirt like fashion
-Feet: just her paws
-Miscellaneous: Always carries her bow and some arrows
Physical appearance
-Face: More feline than human, high cheekbones
-Hair: Shoulder length brown hair, same colour as her fur
-Eyes: Hazel
-Defining features: Looks much more feline than most fel and tends to bathe very rarely
-Racial Features (if not assumed):
Natural Claws, Fur over whole body, VERY feline features
Skills
-Strengths: Hunting, archery
-Weaknesses: Hand to hand combat, diplomacy, swimming
-Trade/Training Skills: Great at hunting and knows most of the edible plants that exist in the forests.
Biography:

Aeathir has lived in the Dark Forest for as long as she can remember, when she was little her parents went on a hunting trip and brought her with them. Her parents were killed by a large wolf and she was left to fend for herself in the forest from then on.

She has since constructed a rough house in the trees above where most of the large carnivorous animals are and has survived by hunting animals and eating the plants that her parents taught her were safe to eat. She crafted her own bow and makes most of her own arrows however she does scavenge off the corpses of the people that stray into the forest and get themselves killed.

Aeathir knows nothing of the invasion and is still living in the forest and watching for prey.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Deldar10 » Wed May 02, 2012 1:18 am

Aeathir had been sitting on a tree branch for the past hour or so now waiting for a good animal to kill came along.

"hmm, looks like nothings coming here tonight, off to the other branch" she murmured to herself.

suddenly below her she heard a large thump and saw what she thought was a fish man and a woman walk out into the clearing, the woman sat down and said something to the fish-man who looked confused for a moment then walked over to her. The woman jumped on the fish-mans back and they began to run off in the direction they had been going.

After thinking awhile Aeathir decided to follow them, she gathered her bow and arrows and began to jump from branch to branch keeping right behind the fish-man and the woman.

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bjorn » Wed May 02, 2012 1:13 pm

(*** Anything in Italics are Azrael's voice in Tyraels head. Anything that is speech without the Speechmarks are Tyrael in his head.***)


Get up.

Didn't you hear me? I said Get up.

Tyrael sat up, fresh sunlight penetrating the trees above him. Dried blood coated the ground around him, the body of Ra laying where it had landed. Instinctively, Tyrael moved his hand to his mouth, probing the find the damage. To his surprise, his tongue remained in it's mouth, despite the small hunk of flesh lying next to Azrael's body.

The Healing powers I gave you, Tyrael.
What?

You've forgotten me already? You lay next to my corpse and you have forgotten me?

I... Azrael? How are you...

Small details you need no concern yourself with.

You're dead Ra. I saw it.

I control more powers than you know, boy. Azrael's voice appeared harsh, almost malicious.

How are you in my head, Ra?

The voice wavered, pausing for a moment.I am in your head because I do not intend to have died this week.

What do you mean?

I mean, Boy, that I do not plan to die. Now, Stand up. We must go.

Tyrael's body seemed to move involuntary, flinging him to his feet. As soon s he was stood upright, Tyrael was able to move his feet again, flooding him with relief. Instinctively he moved his hand toward his sword, only to flinch his hand away as if it were burned.

Now that, I would not recommend.
Gott mit uns

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Rangrok1k » Thu May 03, 2012 1:38 am

Name: Phyrrous Hrodulf Duga'al... AKA: Tim the Armless
Age: 392~ish
Height: 5'2" and shrinking
Weight: 87 lbs and loosing weight
Personality: Eternal patience, boundless wisdom, and forever insanity. Often he is taken for the fool who spews sarcastic remarks, but has been known for the occasional pearl of wisdom from his bizarre view of the world.
Race: Undead Human
Gear
- Head: Removable Skull (At least, the remnants of a skull)
- Chest: Ancient robes, traditionally worn by apprentice sorcerers... a few centuries ago. They were red, with golden streaks, but nowadays they are a brownish-green color, torn and rotten
- Arms: Potentially detachable
- Legs: Also potentially detachable
- Feet: Optional
- Misc: He carries around a leather sack. Within it are random trifles and trinkets that he finds interesting (and/or shiny). Most of these are marbles or shiny rocks.

Physical Appearance
- Face: Well his skin fell off a few centuries ago... All that is left are the occasional strands of sinew and muscle that sickeningly twitch when he speaks. Occasionally said fleshy strings break with an audible *TWANG*, dangling from his face (still twitching). Oh, and his skull is visible, rotted down to a grey-ish green color.
- Hair: It fell out a few decades ago
- Eyes: Those dried out a few centuries ago. Ask him nicely, and he will show you the jar he put them in!
- Musculature: Removable
- Defining Features: That tangible sensation, signifying a body that should be lying in a grave, but isn't. Tim's body is now held together with the magical equivalent of duct tape and staples.
- Racial Features: Undead generally do not tire, and can keep working for an unlimited amount of time. What does limit them is the condition of their own bodies. Their physical strength tends to be incredibly poor, due to their muscles rotting off the bone. Even when physically incapable of movement, an undead's mind will still occupy its body, aware of its surroundings, yet incapable of acting. Simple magic can preform basic functions that a normal, living creature could do (For example, movement, sight, speech) However, these magical enchantments are temporary at best, and need to be constantly maintained. The enchantments that do summon undead tend to forcibly bind a dead spirit to its body. The process is uncomfortable and painful for said dead spirit. Strong magical rituals are the most direct way of "killing" the undead, forcibly separating spirit from body (Said rituals are more commonly used to lift curses). The most common method is killing the summoner. When the summoner dies, the undead's spirit is immediately freed from its body. Clever summoners have been known to use physical objects as channeling implements, in which case said objects need to be destroyed instead of the summoner. Demolishing the undead until little remains of their body (which sounds harder than it actually is, taking into consideration that a good swing of a club could part rotten skull from equally rotten spine) is a temporary solution, for, given enough time, they will stand up again.

Undead do maintain a degree of free will, but the summoner has an incredibly strong influence on the Undead's hopes, desires, and wishes.

Skills
- Strengths: Never requires rest, patience, and a few quirky magic charms
- Weaknesses: Dead with easily removable limbs, usually suffering from insanity, and has great difficulties in social situations
- Trade/Training Skills: Three years of magical training (Average is Five years)

Biography: Tim's story starts in some vague southern kingdom. Ask him, and he'll shrug, for he too has forgotten. It was a pleasant place, full of life and joy. As a young child, Phyrrous (now known as Tim) was a quiet and self-centered person. He focused on his own needs, before those of others. On many occasions, his mentors lamented his lack of loyalty and faith. When he was around 12 years old, he managed to permanently lock a door... No really, The local lumberjacks couldn't even dent the fragile wooden frame with several swings of their mighty axes. Eventually it took a team of magicians to break the charm Phyrrous had casted (Freeing his trapped sister from the outhouse). The magicians quickly sent him away to learn "proper" magic. From the start, Phyrrous hated the school. He hated the rigid structure and the numerous social taboos he couldn't break. He enjoyed the basic principles of magic, and manipulating its power, but he always felt that the school limited his ability.

In his third year, civil war broke out in unspecified-peaceful-kingdom. Being 15 years old, he technically was too young to meet the age requirement of 16 to join the magical forces, yet his mentors, out of spite, decided to make an exception for his "unique" capabilities. His commanding officer, after several failed attempts to pronounce his name, simply called him "Tim," because Phyrrous Hrodulf Duga'al does not have the letters T, I, or M in it. Two weeks later, he was part of the first military offensive, which was subsequently massacred because it consisted of mostly naive 16 year olds who had only been drafted a few weeks earlier. As of this day, Tim is unclear why he had to participate in such a foolish suicide mission, but he assumes it was so they could weave stories of the heartless rebels massacring children, hopefully inspiring an influx of recruits.

Regardless of the outcome of the civil war (which involves the entire kingdom collapsing upon itself and dissolving into a series of city-states, which in turn collapse upon themselves due to internal conflicts), Tim was dead. Quite happy to be dead too.

Fast forward a century (plus a few decades), and an ambitious necromancer, by the name of Zygmunt, decided to summon a legion of undead. Instead of using a single channeling instrument to raise his army, Zygmunt decided to use countless small, lesser gems. Each military squad was bound to a single gem, approximately the size of one's thumb. Each gem was held by the respective squad leader, to ensure that his army could not be swiftly vanquished if his personal keep was destroyed. While this was ingenious in theory, in practice, his commands were muffled and weak, leading to ineffective offensives, and slow progress.

Tim, when summoned by Zygmunt, was sent on a preemptive strike against some local fishing communities. Tim's squad ran into a group of cavalry, who swiftly demolished the undead. Tim obtained the title of "Armless" when his left arm was torn apart in a single swing of a halberd, flying into a nearby river, eventually being obliterated by swift currents and hungry fish. However, when smashing the small crystal that held the squad together, a small shard flew into Tim's jaw. While the rest of his squad was released from the mortal plane, Tim's spirit was instead bound to the tiny fragment.

Broken, demoralized, and enraged by his situation, Tim was a pile of bones, incapable of motion. It's unclear how long he stayed like this, but it was at least several seasons, for by the time Tim began to slowly move once again, Zygmunt had been slain. When Tim finally was able to walk again, his mind had collapsed upon itself, driving him insane.

As of now, he lives in a small abandoned cottage along the northwestern borders of Fosterland. His missing arm tends to be replaced by various tools and occasionally the limbs of animals. He has been known to keep a "spare" on his person at all times, but this "spare" changes constantly. A few local farming communities whisper about his presence, referring to him as an urban legend that no one believes, but is fun to talk about.

As for the crystal fragment that keeps him walking... He placed it in a jar somewhere, then subsequently lost the jar. At first he was enraged by this, but now he has grown used to life (or the lack-therof... or the combination of both). His fractured sanity has kept him unmotivated to search for said shard.
Clearly, I'm a mere walking corpse, shambling through walls of text.

Inactive? Maybe...

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Bone2pick » Thu May 03, 2012 7:02 am

The log was split in half lengthwise with its flat side resting in the cold grass. It was approximately six feet of pine from end to end. Maynard had told Margus that he had planned to turn the raw wood into a work bench, but evidently the blacksmith had never managed to get around to doing so. When the matter of looking for a suitable practice area came up, Maynard insisted that his new friend use the land behind his smithy. Margus, not having a better option, and deciding that to refuse would be impolite, accepted the offer.

The evening sunlight broke against his back as he moved across the yard methodically. Each footfall was measured, and his breaths drew deeply in preparation for the approaching task. He rolled his limbs out in looping circles, stretching, flexing, wakening his body. Margus stopped and squared up when his right boot made contact with the pine log. It began when he cast a challenging stare into the nothing that was in front of him. His foes answered, they emerged. Ghostly silhouettes fashioned from the mind.

On they came. Twenty paces away, then ten, and then seven. Margus’ heart drummed anxiously in his chest. His breaths came quicker, his fingers danced at his hips. When the ghosts shuffled within five paces his Claymore was in his hands. The action was sharp, fluid, and it rasped a metallic warning when it snapped free. The blade of his great sword was an imposing forty four inches of folded steel. Margus Gan gripped the weapon with both hands, it’s pommel pointing back to his hips and its tip aiming between his enemy’s eyes. He engaged. His offense was formed from bursting flurries, each one ending swiftly in order to reposition and defend himself against illusionary attacks. He crossed the fallen log time and time again as deftly as a spider crosses its web. Margus preferred to practice over uneven terrain to simulate awkward battle conditions, which explained why he had placed the hunk of wood in the yard.

Sweat fell onto dead grass. The sound of grunts and the hiss of a blade invaded the evening. His style was the marriage of technical attacks and impromptu assaults. Margus understood textbook maneuvers could only take a warrior so far, and that innovation in battle was inevitably required. Deep into the exercise he forced himself to drop his two handed grip on his sword. His main hand coped and carried on the blade‘s attack, later his offhand was switched to and pushed to its limits. His muscles burned and shook, the weight of the Claymore was obscene. Lesser men would surely have broken down, but the Gan pressed on. He leapt onto the log with both feet balancing off of their heels. Regripping the weapon with both hands he continued the shadow fight, all the while keeping himself stable on top the obstacle for the remainder of the workout. He trained until nightfall.

Panting and weary he slowly slid his weapon into its scabbard. He turned and instantly realized that he had been spied on. Maynard was leaning against a waist high gate at the back of the smithy wearing a mischievous grin, god knows how long his friend had been there.

“Your secret is out now Margus, you are indeed a warrior.” The blacksmith laughed and clapped his hands in playful appreciation. Margus Gan untied his tiger skin cape and thought about what exactly to reply as his heart rate normalized.


“Yes, I was a peacekeeper at one time, among other things…” Maynard considered his guest and then asked the question he’d been waiting to ask.

“Will you teach me to fight?” The blacksmith’s eyes clearly showed his honest plea for help. Margus Gan understood. Maynard simply wanted hope, he wanted to feel some shred of power against these awfully grim times. Margus Gan sympathized.

“Very well, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” The two men laughed together.
Space Marines excel at warfare because they were designed to excel at everything.

-Primarch Roboute Guilliman

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Re: Unlikely Heroes: Content

Post by Cthulu Mechanicus » Thu May 03, 2012 5:26 pm

Lakaz trudged through the swamp, black mud sucking at his feet, ever threatening to pull him down. He scanned his surroundings. Bloody heads and skulls on sharpened sticks. The distainct sign of Mer territory. The vine golem stepped beside him, vines pulling out of the way, forming a small hole in it's chest. Lakaz stepped on a vine and pulled himself into the golem, the vines weaving themselves back, encasing him in a green womb.

The golem stepped forward, Lakaz's destenation etched firmly into it's limited mind. A Mer growled and shook it's crude spear at it, and it veere away, still heading towards the edge of the black swamp. It faced several mroe encounters similar to this, the Mer weighing territorialisim against survival instinct and base logic, threatening and seemingly scaring off the hulking mass of vines. It still strode on, it's precious cargo sealed inside swathes of greenery.
A Luna: Best reply ... ever.

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