Author Topic: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet  (Read 3972 times)

Adhira

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Artwork and a log from the point of view of Lord Templar Kitrix Borsail.


Submitted by James de Monet:

Artwork:  The Borsails


« Last Edit: April 14, 2016, 10:30:41 PM by Adhira »
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #1 on: April 14, 2016, 08:55:42 PM »
Artwork:
With Enemies Like These...
c.1633 (Year 16 Age 22) A rogue defiler makes an appearance in an Allanaki tavern. After exchanging jibes with a blue robed templar...")

"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #2 on: April 14, 2016, 09:55:40 PM »
Quote
This log has been edited for clarity, brevity, and typos.  It involves references and scenes of a violent nature, to include some that might now be impermissable under the updated rules.  It required the CONSENT of all present.  Please be forewarned.

A foreign presence contacts your mind.

 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Greetings Lord Templar."

You contact the sable, scar-faced mul with the Way.
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Captain."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "I assume our agreement still stands?"
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Of course."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "And what of the Borsail and the Byn? Are they still hunting me?"
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "I was quite plain with House Borsail regarding the arrangement.  They know what hangs in the balance."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Excellent."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "I cannot speak for the Byn, but I gave explicit orders to the Gemmed."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "As per the agreement, I have my first tribute for you."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Very good.  If you would feel more comfortable delivering it to one of my junior officers, or to my assistant, than to me personally, I will not take offense."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Who is your assistant?"
 
You think:
     "To reveal, or not to reveal.  She can hardly be used as leverage against me, competent though she is...."

You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "A woman by the name of Flay.  She is generally not about at this time of the week."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "A junior officer then?"
 
You think:
     "They did kill Takharion's assistant, but then, he was spying on them."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Sergeant Torgun is generally about.  And he has a document for you, besides.  Something to forestall trouble with authorities, should it arise in my absence, as per our agreement."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Excellent."
 
You feel contemplative, cautious, but unthreatened.
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "I've spoken with a man named Nams. He's agreed to deliver things between us. Do you know much about him?"
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "I know that he is unlikely to be delivering anything.  He met his end last week.  Not at my hands, I might state, though he was apparently of a rogue persuasion."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "If he is agreeable, I'll use him. Bah, it's typical. Every fool that comes to Red Storm seems to die in a few weeks."
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Suspected rogue or rogues on Meleth's, intervening now."

You stand up from a four-poster agafari wood bed.
 
A Sparse, Black-Walled Living Room [N, E, S, Quit, Save]
A thick wooden cask sits here, tapped and ready.
An embossed plain clay cask sits here, tapped and ready.
A carved bone winerack stands tall next to the black wall, here.
A bloodied grizzkt staff hangs on the wall behind the desk here.
A compact agafari desk sits here, its lacquered surfaces lustrous.
A glass paned case sits on an elegant stand here, its contents glittering.
A wyvern-pommeled, ivory and obsidian dagger rests proudly on the outside edge of the desk here.

The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "I'll have someone pick up your tribute. It's a tamed gwoshi. Should make a nice gift to one of your allies if nothing else."
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "*with a faint sense of pleasure* Indeed."
 
[The spare, sharp-eyed templar makes his way to the scene of the incident, picking up some guards along the way.]
 
Meleth's Circle [N, E, S]
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak is standing here.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak is standing here.
The slender, blonde-haired female is standing here.
The pale, fine-boned young woman is standing here.
The statuesque, black-haired woman is standing here.
The grisly, one-eyed brute is standing here, looking tired.
- he is carrying a large bag.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the south.
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak steps forward, grabbing for the grisly, one-eyed brute's arm and swiftly stepping behind.
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak subdues the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Is it safe for me to walk the street of Allanak?"
 
Extending another handful of coins, the pale, fine-boned young woman says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "I'm certain that your brother will be fine, if he obeys the law."

With a jerk of his helm at the statuesque, black-haired woman, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Grab his sister. She gets the same deal."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman glances at the pale, fine-boned young woman, and then at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Don't resist."
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak subdues the statuesque, black-haired woman.
 
The ropy, leathery-skinned man has arrived from the south.
 
At the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's words, the pale, fine-boned young woman retracts her handful of coins and shrugs her tattooed shoulders, stepping back from the scene.
 
Placidly and fearfully, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Okay."
 
The slender, blonde-haired female hangs back and watches, lifting her hand to rub gently at her forehead.
 
Not struggling or resisting at all, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Sure thing."
 
Tucking them away, the pale, fine-boned young woman puts her pile of allanaki coins into her jozhal-hide belt.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Kaya reports the man's either a rogue or in league with them. She'll have more information."
 
The ropy, leathery-skinned man draws to a halt as the circle becomes clogged with soldiers.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "The woman is apparently related to him."
 
Lowering in an uncertain bow, the ropy, leathery-skinned man looks up at you.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female pulls her hands from her pockets and turns more to you, dipping into a quick bow.
 
Giving you a nod and turning the grisly, one-eyed brute to face you, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Lord Templar."
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman looks up at you, stepping to the fringe of the scene and bowing politely.
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "Safe?  Yes, it should be.  It might draw a great deal of attention, however.  I would advise you to keep a low profile, though you are under no such compunction."
 
The slender, blonde-haired female breaks a bit away from the group and comes up by the pale, fine-boned young woman, hands returning to the pockets of her cloak.
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar purses his lips, glancing around the Circle.
 
Once more, the slender, blonde-haired female looks at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak grips the statuesque, black-haired woman tightly, by wrist and neck, facing you.
 
In a sing-song voice, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I'm part of the party. I'm part of the party."
 
With a look of recognition, the ropy, leathery-skinned man looks down at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
Resting one hand casually on the hilt of your engraved, broad-hilted bastard sword, you ask the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "What is the meaning of this, Sergeant?"
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman bends her neck forward and down, twice, facing you, as much as her captor would allow.
 
Silvery eyebrows knit a bit as she leans in, the pale, fine-boned young woman whispers something to the slender, blonde-haired female.
 
Studying him with pale, unblinking eyes, you look down at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Brother, I'm not so sure about this party."
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "As you wish. My thanks Lord Templar. I shall prove myself useful to you in Red Storm."
 
Giving the grisly, one-eyed brute a jerk up, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Reported criminal, Lord Templar. Smuggler. Came up and the woman mentioned her being a sister, so I had her grabbed too."
 
Curtly, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Quiet."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "I'm guessing you didn't plan this?"
 
Glancing sidelong at the statuesque, black-haired woman, the slender, blonde-haired female whispers something to the pale, fine-boned young woman.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female whispers something to the pale, fine-boned young woman.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Kaya told me. Corra was here stalling them. I haven't called them rogues in public. Smugglers."
 
Suddenly falling off of her person with a thump on the ground, the statuesque, black-haired woman drops her tattered cloth bag.
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Oh, shit."
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Can you see inside that, Private?"
 
The sable, scar-faced mul sends you a telepathic message:
     "Calm silt, Lord Templar."
 
The slender, blonde-haired female bobs a small nod, and then looks aside when a bag falls by the statuesque, black-haired woman.
 
You send a telepathic message to the sable, scar-faced mul:
     "His Shadow, Captain."
 
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #3 on: April 14, 2016, 09:56:12 PM »
The statuesque, black-haired woman begins humming contently under her breath.
 
With a shake of his head as much as his being held allows, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Didn't plan it, but I'm sure everything will be fine when we do as these fantastic folks ask of us. Sister."
 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "And you, wanderer?  What have you to say?"
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Kaya mentioned something about a Gemmed being captured by the one-eyed man, or something."
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak cranes over, tightening his grip on the statuesque, black-haired woman as he does so to look in a tattered cloth bag.
 
Simply, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Spice, sir."
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak nods to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
 
Looking with his one eye to you, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks you, in sirihish:
     "Lord Templar, exactly as your man here has said. He mentioned something about a fine earlier?"
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar lifts an eyebrow at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, glancing at the bag.
 
With a nod over at the half-giant soldier, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Hand one of them over to your giant, Lord Templar?"
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "I told him "come with us and pay the fine." Didn't want to start a fight on the road."
 
Pleased, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I'm made of spice. I throw it up when I'm not feeling so good."
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar glances at the half-giant soldier, gesturing to the bag.
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "The man matches the description of one who attacked a vivaduan and claimed to be able to see the magicks on the vivaduan's person, and was working with, or was himself, capable of wind magicks."
 
Stooping to pick it up, the half-giant soldier picks up a tattered cloth bag.
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak nods at the half-giant soldier.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female sends you a telepathic message:
     "This one matches the description of a person who captured one of the gemmed, Lord Templar.  With magick."
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "Of course, he only matches the description. There could be more Red Stormers with one eye, a broken nose, black hair, and red cloaks."
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Pikks is also out scouting gith at the shield Wall, which could get interesting in a hurry."
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar glances in the bag as the giant holds it out to him.
 
In a tattered cloth bag (here) :
a few limp rolled tubes of spice
a solidly packed tube of spice
a knot of dark-red spice
many grains of viscous black spice
many grains of dark-red spice
many multi-colored grains of flaky spice
several grains of dull red spice
many grains of dark-red, golden-flecked spice
a spiky, thin-stemmed chitin spice pipe
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar purses his lips, looking amused.
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "I was unaware that he was actually a smuggler, Lord Templar."
 
Looking back to the statuesque, black-haired woman, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "My sister and I rode her from Red Storm to join the T'zai Byn. She is a little odd, I'll grant you, but don't mean any harm to you or your city Lord Templar."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "Brother, do you have a hairbrush I could borrow?"
 
The slender, blonde-haired female pulls her hand from her pocket and gently scratches at her cheek, keeping silent as she watches on.
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "There's a taller guy, thin muscles at the edge of the crowd. Followed us out of the tavern. Seemed to know who Mister One-eye is."
 
Whiningly, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I'm hungry. I want a hairbrush."
 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak rolls his eyes.

 
Tapping thin fingers on the hilt of your engraved, broad-hilted bastard sword, with a smile, you say, in sirihish:
     "Well, well."
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Umm, it was all my idea."
 
Singing, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "All my idea."
 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Only fools intend harm to that which cannot be harmed."
 
The short, hairy, burly man sends you a telepathic message:
     "Sounds like the Byn's gotten into a fight. Twelve gith in a crashed wagon last word I had. If they survive and are retreating, I will let you know."
 
Singing, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Like the wind, or the sun."
 
Glancing toward the grisly, one-eyed brute with a fleeting, displeased frown, the pale, fine-boned young woman whispers something to the slender, blonde-haired female.
 
Glancing aside, the ropy, leathery-skinned man looks down at the pale, fine-boned young woman.
 
The slender, blonde-haired female purses her lips a little as she looks back over to the pale, fine-boned young woman, nodding a few times.
 
The pale, fine-boned young woman looks up at the ropy, leathery-skinned man, returning a sidelong glance.
 
Softly, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks, in sirihish:
     "Quite so, quite so. How then can I make myself useful?"
 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak stands stalwart behind the grisly, one-eyed brute, keeping his arms twisted back in a practiced grip.
 
Turning his helm aside to look at her, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks up at the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
The pale, fine-boned young woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "Certainly matches the tone described. Always calm, in control."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman hums a song contently.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak keeps his grip firm on the statuesque, black-haired woman, unmoving amidst the lunacy.

 
The huge, red-bearded half-giant has arrived from the south, wandering along with loud steps.

 
Simply, fingers continuing to tap on his sword hilt, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Come along quietly.  I have some questions I would ask you."

 
The huge, red-bearded half-giant takes his littlest finger out of his nose to dip into a bow for you.

 
Nodding as much as his position allows, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "As you command, 'course, Lord Templar."

Then the huge, red-bearded half-giant wanders along again, even re-poking his finger into his nose.

Quietly, turning, the pale, fine-boned young woman asks the slender, blonde-haired female, in sirihish:
     "Well. This has been a very unusual pair of days. Let's make it even more unusual. Would you like to go get a drink?"

The slender, blonde-haired female stands back up straight, her gaze shifting over the others gathered.

Shoving the grisly, one-eyed brute forward, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "He will come, Lord Templar. His sister, too."

The statuesque, black-haired woman says to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "I, love your cleaver. I want one just like it someday, I think."

 
Looking back to her and bobbing a small nod, her voice just as quiet, the slender, blonde-haired female says to the pale, fine-boned young woman, in sirihish:
     "Aye, drink sounds good."

 
It is a warm day.
A hot breeze blows from the east.
Jihae, the red moon, is high in the sky.
High in the sky is the black moon.

 
Still seeming amused, you say, in sirihish:
     "Nice day, if a touch warm.  I would hate to spoil it for my soldiers by making them chase you through the streets."

 
Edging past a crowd of soldiers, the ropy, leathery-skinned man walks north.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Bye pretty pale lady."

 
Watching the statuesque, black-haired woman and the grisly, one-eyed brute with a thoughtful squint, the pale, fine-boned young woman says, in sirihish:
     "His Shadow upon you, girl."

 
You ask, in sirihish:
     "So, let's have a nice, calm stroll of it, shall we?"

 
Attempting to smile in the grip he is held in, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Wouldn't want to upset anyone, Lord Templar. It is a nice day for a stroll."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar turns, nodding easily as he sets off across the circle.

 
[The group walks through the city, toward the Templarís Quarter.]

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak tugs the statuesque, black-haired woman along with an almost unhindered gait.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak keeps the grisly, one-eyed brute moving in front of him, letting you set the pace.

 
Keeping up as he is led along by the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak the grisly, one-eyed brute follows you.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar strides unhurriedly down the street, citizens scattering to make way for the party.

 
Templars' Way [N, S, W]
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands here, guarding the Templar Quarter.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak has arrived from the north, dragging the grisly, one-eyed brute behind.
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak has arrived from the north, dragging the statuesque, black-haired woman behind.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the north.

 
You send up a call to the wall for the gates to be opened.
A human soldier exclaims, in sirihish:
     "Hail the Servants of the Almighty Dragon!"

 
After a soft whistle, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Lord Templar, I must say, with everyone showing their respect of you, I've never walked so smoothly through the city. Right relaxing stroll."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Oooh now that you've said that, I've noticed that too."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak gives the grisly, one-eyed brute's arm a twist further back at his words.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute grunts softly as he bites his lower lip in response to the arm twisting.

 
[The party reaches the jails.]

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak waits patiently beside the surly, half-giant jailer.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman begins to appear nervous, stamping her feet lightly and looking at the jail door.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman shouts, in sirihish:
     "Brother, if not you then who will save Lirathu!"

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak tugs firms upwards on the statuesque, black-haired woman's arm, till it can move no further upwards.
 
The statuesque, black-haired woman yelps as her arm is twisted back.
 
You gesture towards the door and nod at the surly, half-giant jailer.
The surly, half-giant jailer unlocks the door with an obsidian key.
 
The surly, half-giant jailer opens the door.
 
Leaning back a bit, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks at the grisly, one-eyed brute.
 
Softly, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "It's alright Pasheen. Just hush a little and I'll speak with the nice folks."

The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Okay."
 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar turns around, surveying the grisly, one-eyed brute and the statuesque, black-haired woman for a moment.

 
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #4 on: April 14, 2016, 09:57:59 PM »
[They step into a cell.]

 
Darkness

 
Someone lights something.
The area is filled with a green light.

 
The Dungeons of Allanak [S, Quit]
Several tiny, dead cockroaches are here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
The statuesque, black-haired woman is standing here held by the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.
The grisly, one-eyed brute is standing here held by the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak.

 
You close the door.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar fingers your medallion of Tektolnes, looking at the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak shakes his glowing leather-strapped green glow-crystal on with a kick against the floor.

 
You call out the name of the Highlord Tektolnes.

 
[The spare, sharp-eyed templar does something magickal, inspecting both of the prisoners in turn.]

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak turns the grisly, one-eyed brute to face you.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar turns pale eyes on the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak steps to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's side, doing the same with the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute looks up at you simply.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman gazes wonderingly between the grisly, one-eyed brute and you, mostly the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman cringes, watching you.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar rubs at his jaw, releasing your medallion of Tektolnes.

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Hold him here."
 
Nodding, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "With me."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman garbles in her throat.

 
With a slow nod, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "That's right. One good eye, one eye filled with silt. Barzel is my given name, and my sister is named Pasheen."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Yeah I'm Pasheen. Correct color as well."

 
[The prisoners are split into two separate cells, where they cannot communicate with each other.]

 
You say to the half-giant soldier, in sirihish:
     "Leave her here for now, Private."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar simply turns and walks out.

 
[The soldiers move back into the cell containing the male prisoner.]

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar holds out a hand to the half-giant soldier.

 
The half-giant soldier gives you his tattered cloth bag.

 
Drawing it out and giving it a slight sniff along its length, you get your solidly packed tube of spice from your tattered cloth bag.

 
Chuckling over his shoulder at you, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Just some, Silteye?"

 
You ask the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Do you have a torch, Private?"

 
His head tilted a little, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Well, the Byn do take you for at least a year, don't they, Lord Templar."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his unlit simple, leather-wrapped bone torch from his bone-studded backpack.

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Light it, and put it in the ring.  I want some proper light."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
Setting it down carefully, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak drops his burning simple, leather-wrapped bone torch.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar holds the end of your solidly packed tube of spice to the torch's flickering flame a moment, lighting it.

 
Sticking it casually between his lips, you hold your solidly packed tube of spice.

 
You bring a solidly packed tube of spice up to your mouth and inhale deeply.
You feel euphoric, and a numbness creeps across your body.

 
Gesturing casually to your tattered cloth bag with the smoldering end of your partially smoked solidly packed tube of spice, you say, in sirihish:
     "This is quite a lot of spice, Stormer."

 
A finger of torchlight stretches beneath the door of the cell, only to fade away amidst a thick, coarse chuckling.

 
Nodding slowly, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "I don't know exactly how much my sister packed for her journey to the T'zai Byn, but I'm sure you're right."

 
Glancing in your tattered cloth bag as he sticks the tube between his lips, you say, in sirihish:
     "About a large worth, I should say."

 
As he nods towards his shoulder, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "I've about a hundred, hundred and fifty grains myself. Lord Templar, in my saddlebags. Don't want to forget about them."

 
Exhaling heavy, sweet smoke around the rolled tube, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "No, indeed.  So, you say you were coming to join the T'Zai Byn mercenary company?"

 
A woman shrieks several times from the next cell only to be suddenly silenced.

 
With a nod, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "We were, My sister has always spoken of being a trooper, and I planned to spend a year training and settling her in."

 
At the shriek, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks to the door, letting out a thoughtful hum.

 
Tone casually probing, you say, in sirihish:
     "And you thought you would bring enough spice with you to last you your year."

 
With a few nods, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "That's right, Lord Templar."

 
Tilting his head again, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Maybe see if the sergeant wouldn't accept part trade for our joining fee as well."

 
You say, in sirihish:
     "Even though to do so would be a violation of His Law."

 
With a frown, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Wasn't entirely sure on the particulars. No intention of selling the stuff or corrupting the citizens, Lord Templar. Just keep my sister happy."

 
Light flickers faintly against the floor of the cell as a guard lumbers by.

 
Nodding slowly, a serious intensity laying itself over his features, watching the grisly, one-eyed brute, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Mmm-hmm.  You needn't worry about that, for the moment.  I am certain my guards are keeping her well entertained."

 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Have you already made arrangements with the Byn?"

 
With a shake of his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Not particulars, but I've exchanged thoughts with one of the Sergeants. Pikks. Let him know my sister and I wanted to join up."

 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Interesting.  So tell me, Silteye, is it?  What did you do before bringing crime to His Streets?"

 
With another simple nod as he is transferred again, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "That's right, Lord Templar, or Barzel if you prefer. Before this I was a grebber out of Red Storm village."

 
You ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Sifter?  Hunter?  Little of both?"

 
The distinct sound of two people fist-fighting, complete with shouted curses, comes from the next cell.

 
Nodding again, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Little of both. Silt lurkers, desert rodents and jozhal when opportunity permits. Spice 'n silt pearls otherwise."

 
Nodding slowly, you say, in sirihish:
     "Mmm-hmm."

 
[Inspecting his gear a moment] You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Why don't you drop that bag.  And those coins.  And the saddlebags, while you're dropping."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Open that cloak of yours too, while you're at it. Nice, 'side from the holes..."

 
With a nod as he wiggles a little in the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's grip to accommodate, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Course, Lord Templar."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a large bag.

 
Nearby, the sound of a cracking whip is followed by a muffled yelp of pain.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops many coins.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a pair of drab canvas saddlebags.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute holds his hooded, tattered dark red stormcloak open as the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak releases him.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak subdues the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
Gesturing, you say, in sirihish:
     "The other bags."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute's his hooded, tattered dark red stormcloak falls limp as the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak grabs him again and he wriggles to reach his patchy, well-used leather tool bag to free it from his belt.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute nods to you slowly after letting a patchy, well-used leather tool bag slip to the ground.

 
Glancing at the bags, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Take out anything that looks spice-related, Private.  And check any other bags within."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak nods stepping forward to sift through the bags.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his bone-buttoned canvas spice pouch from a patchy, well-used leather tool bag.

 
Turning back to him, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Now...tell me.  While you were out grebbing these things, did you ever greb anything larger?"

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his red clay spice pipe from a patchy, well-used leather tool bag.

 
(Though his manner hasn't much changed, a hint of malice has crept into the spare, sharp-eyed templar's posture, leaning forward at the shoulder, brows narrowing slightly, eyes unblinking.)

 
With a shake of his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "Not really, Lord Templar. Found a couple of lost war beetles 'n a dead fellow with a tent strapped on one once."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Hrm, bloodburn."

 
Giving a slow puff on the tube as he lifts an eyebrow, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "What about live people?"

 
Shaking his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "No, I can barely hunt Jozhal. One of the reasons I was here for Byn training, learn how to fight."

 
Muttering softly, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Fucker's got all of Storm in here."

 
Musing quietly, pale eyes watching him, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "That's strange, because I have several reports.  Several.  That a one-eyed man with black hair in a red cloak has been kidnapping Gemmed."

 
Gesturing to a patchy, well-used leather tool bag, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Rest in there's things like a travel bag, minus the sunslits."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gets his battered grey bone spicebox from a pair of drab canvas saddlebags.

 
After swallowing hard, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks, in sirihish:
     "Gemmed? Like, finger-wiggling, magic using, gemmed? Now why would I do such a suicidal thing as tangle with mages?"

 
Leaning forward, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Exactly like that.  And do you know -why- that would be suicidal, wanderer?  I will give you a hint.  It has nothing to do with Gemmed."

 
The shuffling of heavy, booted footsteps moves past the door of the cell, pausing for only a moment before moving onward.

 
Simply, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks you, in sirihish:
     "Cos, seeing as they wear a gem, they work for Him and you?"

 
Taking the tube from between his lips, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "No, they do not "work" for Him.  They -are- His.  They owe their lives."

 
Holding up his sturdy rope-slung leather sack and his battered grey bone spicebox, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Hot spice, paraphernalia, and bloodburn taints, Lord Templar."
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #5 on: April 14, 2016, 09:58:34 PM »
As if to punctuate his sentence, the spare, sharp-eyed templar casually leans forward to put your small portion of a solidly packed tube of spice out on the grisly, one-eyed brute's face, just under his one good eye.

 
Voice a little louder, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Right. 'course. Ahhhhhhhh."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute twists under the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's grip as his face begins to sizzle.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak braces himself, forcing the grisly, one-eyed brute to remain upright under your attention.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak watches, silent.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar pulls the tube away from the grisly, one-eyed brute's face, glancing at the blackened end before tucking it behind his ear.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute grits his teeth together tightly.

 
You hear the screaming of someone in pain from some other cell.

 
Leaning forward so that your pale eyes fill his vision, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Now.  You are going to begin talking to me about things I want to hear.  Not the T'Zai Byn.  Not your sister's taste for Kurac's fancy sand.  Important things."

 
His voice more ragged than before, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "All I know, you know."

 
Babbling a little, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Some northern fellow in the village, name of Wek, he is a mage. Heard him talking with a cloaked woman 'bout not taking a gem like her."

 
Snapping, all trace of cool disinterest gone from your stony features, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Don't lie to me, boy.  Wek.  That's one.  Keep talking."

 
After stammering a few times, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Rhoko, he sometimes rousts the undesirables like the half-breeds. Jeers at 'em on the sands till they run off."

 
Piercing eyes roving his features, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Another rogue?"

 
Continuing to speak, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Dryden.. some tribal reject who has taken to the Storm's Eye recently... uhm, Corra is a woman here in the city I've sold pearls too."

 
Still yammering on, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Sky Fall and Bright Eyes, pair of longnecks from the Sun Runners. They were hanging round the village few weeks ago.. Fek, why don't I pay more attention to name.. uhm. The ugly fellow and the tiny girl.. what was their names."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak glances aside at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.

 
Voice lifting for the first word, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Walen! Though I think he is dead, least Rhoko said he found him in the westlands."

 
One eyebrow rising, you ask, in sirihish:
     "The Westlands?"

 
Nodding his head to one side, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Out west, where the spiders are. I don't travel that far myself. This is just what Rhoko said. Me I just stick close to the village."

 
Something predatory gleaming in your eyes, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Of course.  It's dangerous out west, you know.  Lots of ungemmed."

 
Looking up to you, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "That's bout all I know. Less you want a recipe for Kutai jam. We're just simple folk."

 
Staring him dead in the eyes, you ask the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "I see.  So you wouldn't know anything about being ungemmed then, would you?"

 
With a shake of his head, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks, in sirihish:
     "No, 'cept for the fellow naming himself Wek, nothing. Why would I?"

 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "It would be terribly, terribly unwise of you to lie to me."

 
After stammering again, the grisly, one-eyed brute asks, in sirihish:
     "No lies. None. I've been honest, completely, 'n followed all instruction. Yes?"

 
Leaning in, almost close enough that he could feel your breath, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Because if I thought you were...even for a moment, I would lock you in this cell FOREVER.  With just a female dwarf for company."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute grits his teeth together after swallowing hard.

 
Musing quietly, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "And eventually, either your sanity, or your resolve would begin to slip."

 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "You would grow to love this dwarf.  Mate with her."

 
Eyes hard as augers, you exclaim to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "And when you got her pregnant, I would spike your eyelids open and make you watch as your misbegotten offspring tore her open from within!"

 
Wilting in the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak's arms, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "All truth."

 
Standing upright, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "We shall see.  I certainly hope so, for your sister's sake.  Because it might just be easier to lock the dwarf up with her."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute nods furiously to you.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak shifts his stance behind the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
Crossing his arms over your elegant, spider-imprinted breastplate, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Drop your pouch, your sash, and your weapons."

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a small, padded leather coin pouch.
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a drab double-folded sandcloth sash.
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a leather knife belt.
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a heavy, notched bone falchion.
The grisly, one-eyed brute drops a crude shortbow of agafari.
The grisly, one-eyed brute shakes himself free of the items that are dropped to the ground.

 
Giving the barest nod toward the bags, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Private."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak nods.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak picks up a leather knife belt.
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak empties his leather knife belt onto the ground.

 
Looking over at the knives, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Pfft. Just two. Well short of the record."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Couple small, a few mount tickets."

 
You ask the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "No more spice or taints?  No strange, arcane objects?"

 
Shaking his head, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "No, lord Templar."

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Take the weapons.  Put them in with the spice, for now."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar scratches irritably between the plates of his armor.

 
Several prisoners a couple cells down yell in a heated argument, quickly quelled by several guards that run past the door.

 
Gesturing curtly, you say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Leave him for now, Sergeant.  Let's go see how the sister is faring."

 
You vaguely hear someone shout curses in a distant cell.

 
Tossing the grisly, one-eyed brute aside, voice a gruff monotone behind his helm, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak releases the grisly, one-eyed brute, who immediately moves away.

 
Meekly, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "She has most of the coins, Lord Templar."

 
In the darkness, a low moan of pain echoes across the cells, its origin indeterminable.

 
Imperiously, as he turns out, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Collect your things.  I am not done with you yet."

 
You open the door.

 
[They move into the antechamber, leaving Silteye in the darkness.]

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Send the Private for the [Seeker], Sergeant.  He must be tested."

 
You say, in sirihish:
     "On second thought, perhaps the sister will tell.  Someone fetch me a few wedges of cheese."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "I will, Lord Templar."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak walks west.

 
After a look back at the door, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "So that one's not a... thing?"

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "He does not show the signs."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Hmm. Sister's bonkers, though."

 
Stepping forward, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Your cheese, Lord Templar."

 
 [The soldiers move into the other cell.]

 
The area is filled with a green light.
The Dungeons of Allanak [S, Quit]
Several tiny, dead cockroaches are here.
The statuesque, black-haired woman is sitting here.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak has arrived from the south.
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak has arrived from the south.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the south.

 
You close the door.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman stands up.

 
With a feral grin, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Well.  That was enlightening."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "O-okay."

 
Standing just behind and to the side of you, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak slowly cracks his knuckles, rolling each shoulder as he does so.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman glances around without moving her head, with an air of nervousness.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak shifts from one foot to the other, folding his arms.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "So, uh... how is.... brother?"

 
Musing quietly, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "It's strange, the stories people know, that they suddenly remember after swearing they don't."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman nods after a few seconds.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman looks around with an increasing air of nervousness.

 
In a scared voice, the statuesque, black-haired woman asks you, in sirihish:
     "Am I... am I going to eat the sun, Lord Templar?"

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Just, 'poof,' and, I'll be... gone."

 
Leaning forward, pale eyes full of amused malice, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Your brother told me some interesting stories.  And now, you are going to tell me the same ones.  Because if you don't, this will become...complicated."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman whimpers quietly in her throat, glancing around wildly without moving her head, gaze coming to rest on you often.
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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  • Posts: 2376
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #6 on: April 14, 2016, 09:59:04 PM »
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak stares down from behind a dark mask of shadow and helmet, underneath his hood.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman steps back a couple paces from you, looks down, and takes another two steps back.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman begins looking up and around at the walls and ceiling with a studious air.

 
Quietly, the flickering flame reflected in his piercing eyes, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "There is nowhere to run to, little one.  Nowhere you can hide.  Not from me."

 
With a mixture of resignation and fear evident in her movements, the statuesque, black-haired woman sits down.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "Y-yeah?"

 
 (There is something wrong about the flames in the spare, sharp-eyed templar's eyes, the movements not quite matching the torch's flickering glow.)

 
Looking around, speaking quietly, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Barzel..."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "Silteye. Where is he? Where is my brother?"

 
Softly, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "If one of the two were 'gicker's my 'sids would be on this one."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak grunts, nodding his helm at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak's words.

 
Wonderingly as she looks around, the statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "Brother?"

 
Listlessly, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I thought you'd saved Lirathu. And you could keep the jozhals off the sun."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "I really did. Didn't you?"

 
You say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Right now we are talking about stories."

 
Head snapping towards you, with an attentive air, the statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "Okay."

 
After a moment, holding out a hand, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Spicebox."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gives you his battered grey bone spicebox.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar grunts sourly, dumping the box into your tattered cloth bag.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar reaches over his shoulder.

 
You get your small pymlithe snuff-box from your large, blue leather backpack.

 
Drawing it out simply, you get your pinch of dark, light-flecked spice from your small pymlithe snuff-box.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar holds out a palmful of fine grains to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak holds out his palms, clasped together upwards.

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Stuff this up her nose, Private.  Perhaps then she will talk some sense."

 
You give your pinch of dark, light-flecked spice to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Yes, lord templar."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman begins watching the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak with widened eyes.

 
Unable to gauge its position in the darkness, you hear the sound of something moving within the cell.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak steps forward, slowly, towards the statuesque, black-haired woman, kneeling arms-reach before her.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman glances around wonderingly.

 
Extending his hand, and the pinch of spice underneath her nose slowly, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Snort the spice like a good girl now."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman brings a pinch of dark, light-flecked spice up to her nose and inhales deeply.
The statuesque, black-haired woman's countenance becomes a bit more solemn.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak dusts off his hands.

 
Irritably, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Cram it up there, Private.  This isn't a Falish party."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman's eyes widen, and she looks around.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak asks, in sirihish:
     "More, Lord Templar?"

 
A heavy door slams somewhere in the dungeons, followed by a gruff chuckle.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak folds one arm up across his chest, the other resting up aside his helm.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar waves the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak away, focused on the statuesque, black-haired woman.

 
Demanding, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Now, tell me about the kidnappings."

 
Weakly, the statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "I... don't... know about... any kidnappings."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "When I left the village, I went to the dock, and that was it."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "Until Silteye brought me to Allanak."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks you, in sirihish:
     "Who was kidnapped?"

 
You say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "It is a very, very bad idea to lie to me."

 
Quietly, looking down at her palms as she slowly rubs them together, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "I don't know about any kidnappings. Nothing at all."

 
You say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Your "brother" disagrees with that statement."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman asks you, in sirihish:
     "Are you--- are you serious?"

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman glances at the floor.

 
Snarling, you ask the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Do I -look- as if I jest, rat?"

 
 (The fire in the spare, sharp-eyed templar's eyes swells, as if finding a pool of oil.)

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman cringes sharply and mutters audibly incomprehensible sounds of apology, gazing at the floor.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman's eyes begin darting around the cell with an increasingly wild look.

 
You say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "You have until the Sergeant's arms get tired from standing here, and he already got -such- an exercise, on your brother.  And then...I take you to meet Your Highlord."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman freezes suddenly, and a tremendous look of fear washes over her, and she cringes back where she sits, whimpering.

 
Leaning in, looming over her, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "TELL ME what you are."

 
With high-pitched terror, the statuesque, black-haired woman shouts, in sirihish:
     "I'm Pasheen, daughter of a windmill foreman! Daughter of a man with the best values I'd ever heard of!"

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak lowers his arms, stretching it out.

 
Stuttering in fear, the statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "I, I-I-I want to see my brother, may I see my brother?"

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman whimpers in terror, and her whole body begins visibly trembling.

 
Shaking his head, you say, in sirihish:
     "Such reticence."

 
Quietly, the statuesque, black-haired woman asks, in sirihish:
     "I need my blood. Where the hell did I put it?"

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman looks around searchingly.

 
You say, in sirihish:
     "Perhaps pain will loosen your tongue.  Private, search her."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
Cringing and backing away from the others by a few steps, the statuesque, black-haired woman stands up.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Do I? Ah."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman drops a double-layered sandcloth pack.
The statuesque, black-haired woman drops a leather pouched belt.

 
Rolling his shoulder, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Reports for you when we are done here, Lord Templar."

 
You get your wickedly barbed whip from your large, blue leather backpack.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak puts his pile of allanaki coins into his leather pouched belt.

 
Quietly, the statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "We were going to live on that. You know, after getting here."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "A small or so, and some silt pearls, and a mount ticket here."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman fiddles with her pair of bone sunslits.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak extracts a massive sack of coins from his double-layered sandcloth pack.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman fiddles with her pair of bone sunslits, staring down at them.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Whoah."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "Yeah."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Guess the brother wasn't kidding."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says, in sirihish:
     "We were going to live on that. For the apartment."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar looks curiously at the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, untwisting the strands of your wickedly barbed whip.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman fiddles incessantly with her pair of bone sunslits.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Uh'm I dunno, more than a couple large, less than ten. It's a lot of 'sids."

 
Evenly, the word not quite a question, you say, in sirihish:
     "Grebbers."

 
Flicking the strands of your wickedly barbed whip experimentally in the air, you ask the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Tell me...what kind of grebbing brings coins such as this?"

 
Cringing as she eyes your whip, the statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "T-tailoring. Lord Templar."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "I made clothes."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman eyes your whip warily and with open fear.

 
Sounding unconvinced, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Mmm-hmm."

 
Rough chuckling can be heard from somewhere just outside the cell.

 
Aside, you ask the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "No more spice, taints?"

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman cringes, glancing towards the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar takes a step toward the statuesque, black-haired woman, then another.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "No, Lord Templar. All clean, that way."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman gulps and backs up away from you, eyes on your whip.

 
Tripping while attempting to back up, the statuesque, black-haired woman sits down to rest.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Jus' more coins than I've ever seen in my life combined."

 
Scrambling to her feet, the statuesque, black-haired woman rises and stands.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar nods slowly.

 
Leaning in, pale eyes unblinking, you say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Very well."

 
With high-pitched fear, the statuesque, black-haired woman shouts, in sirihish:
     "Barzel!"

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar grins ferally.

 
Standing upright, his shadow falling across the statuesque, black-haired woman, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Drop the bag.  We're going."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman looks around the cell searchingly, eyes wide, gaze going back to you a couple of times.

 
Making sure, the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Of coins, Lord Templar?"

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar gestures simply, turning on his heel, with a faint, feral grin on his face, pacing toward the door.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman watches the others in the cell, eyes wide with terror.

 
You open the door.

 
[The party steps out of the cell, leaving Pasheen behind.]

 
You close the door.

 
The surly, half-giant jailer locks the door with an obsidian key.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar glances into a few surrounding cells, through the flaps.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks from one door to the other.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar gestures to one, seemingly at random, the surly, half-giant jailer unlocking it quickly.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar strides into the cell, brandishing your wickedly barbed whip.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar lashes out once, twice, as someone scrambles in the darkness of the cell, and a high-pitched female scream tears through the outer room.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar strides out of the cell, gesturing for the surly, half-giant jailer to lock it.

 
[The soldiers move back into the cell where Silteye is.]

 
The area is filled with a green light.
The Dungeons of Allanak [N, Quit]
Many tiny, dead cockroaches are here.
The grisly, one-eyed brute is huddled here in a corner of the dungeon.
- he is carrying a large bag.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak has arrived from the north.
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak has arrived from the north.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the north.

 
A sharp -squeak- can be heard from above, followed by the sound of tiny paws scrambling across stone.

 
You close the door.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar strides into the cell, staring down at the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute looks up from the corner.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar taps your wickedly barbed whip on his palm, drops of blood falling to the grimy floor at the gesture.

 
Leaning aside, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak whispers something to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak whispers something to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak chuckles, shaking his helm from side to side.

 
Slowly pushing up to his feet, the grisly, one-eyed brute stands up, and bows to you.

 
Your wickedly barbed whip glistening wetly in your hands, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "That was enlightening.  It's amazing what pain can do for a person's clarity of mind."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks back at the grisly, one-eyed brute, his black, braxat-shell greathelm a blank, black mask beneath the hood.

 
Looking up slowly and giving a nod, the grisly, one-eyed brute says to you, in sirihish:
     "It is."

 
A tiny, brown cockroach scuttles to the middle of the floor, stops, then falls over dead.

 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Now...I've had a chance to hear such fresh details.  Perhaps you would like to amend your previous statements."

 
You think:
     "Hang all if these two aren't innocent."

 
Dropping to his knees, the grisly, one-eyed brute sits down, with his head hanging forward.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak folds his arms across his cloak.

 
A tortured scream floats its way through the dungeon from a nearby cell, followed by a short yelp of triumph.

 
Softly, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "I don't know what else to say. I've spoken everything."

 
Slicing through the darkness, a horrid wet scream ends as abruptly as it begins.

 
Feeling proud and amused, you think:
     "This questioning, though...is like my masterwork!  If only Great Uncle Allerer were here to see it.  Her scream!  Perfect."

 
Nodding grimly, you say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "Very well."
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

Adhira

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Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail
« Reply #7 on: April 14, 2016, 09:59:30 PM »
The spare, sharp-eyed templar steps toward the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar's fingers curl around the handle of your wickedly barbed whip.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute stares down at the grubby ground.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar taps the whip once more on his palm, wearing a simple, serious expression.

 
The grisly, one-eyed brute waits before you on his knees, head low.

 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "On your feet."

 
Looking up before he slowly pushes himself up off of the ground, the grisly, one-eyed brute stands up.

 
You say to the grisly, one-eyed brute, in sirihish:
     "You are hereby fined four small, for bringing a truly obscene amount of spice into His City.  And you are free to go."

 
Nodding weakly to you, the grisly, one-eyed brute says, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak glances down at a rather large, clinking bag in his hands, among other things.

 
You say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Extract the fee, Private.  Give him the rest."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak nods.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak gives some coins to the grisly, one-eyed brute.

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak asks, in sirihish:
     "His weapons too?"

 
Nodding, you say, in sirihish:
     "Yes."

 
As the weapons are transferred, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak takes a step closer to you.

 
You ask the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "What else do you have?"

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Taint, lord templar."

 
Snorting, you say to the short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Keep that."

 
You shout in sirihish:
     "Jailer!"

 
You pardon the grisly, one-eyed brute of his crimes.

 
The surly, half-giant jailer opens the cell door, and hauls someone out.
The surly, half-giant jailer closes and locks the cell door, and motions to a soldier.
A soldier grabs the grisly, one-eyed brute around the arm, and escorts him to the west.

 
[The soldiers step back into the other cell.]

 
Slowly, blinking her eyes in the light, the statuesque, black-haired woman rises and stands.

 
You say to the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "You are free to go.  Your brother has been fined for bringing spice into His City.  And both of you owe me a debt.  A debt that will be repaid...in time."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman quails and steps back from the others in the cell a few steps.

 
You shout in sirihish:
     "Jailer!"

 
You pardon the statuesque, black-haired woman of her crimes.

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman looks around with a wide-eyed stare.
You say, in sirihish:
     "Take your things.  You won't get them back if you leave them."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman nods, appearing numb.

 
The surly, half-giant jailer opens the cell door, and hauls someone out.
The surly, half-giant jailer closes and locks the cell door, and motions to a soldier.
A soldier grabs the statuesque, black-haired woman around the arm, and escorts her to the west.

 
Allanaki Jail [N, E, S, W]
A surly, half-giant member of the Allanaki militia is here, acting as jailer.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak has arrived from the east.
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak has arrived from the east.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the east.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Didn't actually expect the two of them to make it out of here alive..."

 
Looking at the door, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Certainly not her."

 
With a shrug, you say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "They seem to be telling the truth.  And if not...His Justice will come to them another day."

 
Bowing his helm, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Yes, Lord Templar."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "I received a word from the Senior Aide. Reports of Storm. There was a shared name between that and the brother."

 
Flinging the wet blood out of your wickedly barbed whip, you say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Pain makes its bed in the heart, Sergeant.  Hurt a man deeply once, and he will never forgive you.  Never be useful again."

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "But fear, fear makes its bed in the mind.  Give a man fear, and not only will he not forget, it will direct his actions."

 
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak bobs his head once, taking in the lesson thoughtfully.

 
Seeming satisfied that the whip is dry, you ask the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Which name?"

 
You put your wickedly barbed whip into your large, blue leather backpack.

 
Nodding, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Wek."

 
Nodding, you say, in sirihish:
     "Mmm."

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "I think there is something to that one.  And meeting with a gemmed? Intriguing."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Shall I have her report to the barracks? I told her it might be something you wish to hear."

 
Nodding, you say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Do so.  Or better yet, the Temple.  I wish a comfortable chair."

 
After a look around, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak whispers to you, in sirihish:
     "For a while, she was... had a run in with that Lord Templar Valika."

 
Sticking it between his lips after retrieving it from behind his ear, you stop using your small portion of a solidly packed tube of spice.

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar lights the tube on a sconce torch on his way out into the street.

 
With a nod, you say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Mmm.  That."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Lord Fale also wishes to speak with you. About a dig?"

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar flicks the burnt end of the tube into the street, walking on.

 
Nodding, you say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Krath.  That."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Told him you were indisposed. Wants to move it up, to two-weeks out."

 
The spare, sharp-eyed templar grunts, nodding.

 
[The soldiers make their way to the domed temple.]

 
Before a Colossal Obsidian Dragon [N, S, W, U]
The short figure in a crimson-hooded, grey silk aba is standing here.
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak has arrived from the west.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the west.

 
Loitering before the statue, the short figure in a crimson-hooded, grey silk aba has her hands in her pockets, eyes roving over the carving.

 
Tucking the blades under his arm, the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Have the fine as well, Lord Templar."

 
You say to the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, in sirihish:
     "Split it with Thorm."

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak nods.

 
The short figure in a crimson-hooded, grey silk aba reaches for the skirt of her tight-sleeved rose linen dress and slips up into a curtsey for you, holding the pose in a well-practiced fashion.

 
The short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak looks at the short figure in a crimson-hooded, grey silk aba, dipping her a nod.

 
The short figure in a crimson-hooded, grey silk aba looks at the short figure in a jade-shouldered black dustcloak, up-nodding in return.

 
Nodding easily, you say to the short figure in a crimson-hooded, grey silk aba, in sirihish:
     "Senior Aide."

 
Smoothing it back off her face, the trim, dark featured young woman lowers the hood of her crimson-hooded, grey silk aba.

 
Beckoning, you say to the trim, dark featured young woman, in sirihish:
     "Come."
---The End---
"It doesn't matter what country someone's from, or what they look like, or the color of their skin. It doesn't matter what they smell like, or that they spell words slightly differently, some would say more correctly." - Jemaine Clement. FOTC.

James de Monet

  • Posts: 3222
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #8 on: April 15, 2016, 08:15:43 PM »
Clicky versions to see full size:

Borsails


With Enemies Like These...


(And yes, if you suspected the second one was partially paying homage to the ever-impressive A Tuluki Quest, that was indeed the case.)
« Last Edit: April 15, 2016, 08:18:15 PM by James de Monet »
You know I think if James simply retitled his thread "Cheese" and apologized for his first post being off-topic, all problems would be solved.

LauraMars

  • Helper
  • Posts: 9356
This was a fun read with some great artwork, thank you for sharing.

This part got a real chuckle out of me:

Quote
The short figure in a black, hooded militia dustcloak says, in sirihish:
     "Uh'm I dunno, more than a couple large, less than ten. It's a lot of 'sids."

 
Evenly, the word not quite a question, you say, in sirihish:
     "Grebbers."

 
Flicking the strands of your wickedly barbed whip experimentally in the air, you ask the statuesque, black-haired woman, in sirihish:
     "Tell me...what kind of grebbing brings coins such as this?"

 
Cringing as she eyes your whip, the statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "T-tailoring. Lord Templar."

 
The statuesque, black-haired woman says to you, in sirihish:
     "I made clothes."
Child, child, if you come to this doomed house, what is to save you?

A foreign presence contacts your mind.

RogueGunslinger

  • Posts: 18774
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #10 on: December 23, 2016, 02:12:53 PM »
How did i miss this? Its been so long i cant even remember if that was actually me playing or if i read this story before. Was the private Thorm? Damn why did i smoke so much weed back then i cant remember for shit. I think this was me. Thorm was funny. An ex whore who eventually made Sergeant. I sometimes wish i didnt store him.

Everyone in this scene played so great. I really liked kitrix as a templar.

azuriolinist

  • Posts: 308
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #11 on: December 25, 2016, 08:15:46 AM »
I agree with the above. This was a great read, along with amazing artwork. Really showcases the harshness one might find in Zalanthas, imo. Thanks for sharing!

BadSkeelz

  • Posts: 8243
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #12 on: December 25, 2016, 04:29:25 PM »
I'm pretty sure that's Thorm in there, RGS. As I recall he was the only Private in the clan at the time, certainly the most useful.

I had forgotten Kaya was in this one. She was always a cool customer, a Gemmed Torgun had respect for as a fighter.
Quote from: janeshephard
You really think BadSkeelz understands the concept of Wine In Front of me? This guy shot me as a townie when he felt threatened. The man's a neandrathal.

Persona for GDB use only. Results in game may vary.

Fathi

  • Posts: 4515
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #13 on: December 25, 2016, 06:42:17 PM »
Man, Kitrix was always one of those characters I really loved to RP with but couldn't ever come up with an excuse to really hunt down and interact with, given my character at the time. Really enjoyed every scene we ever had together. Great to see some logs of him.
Out of all those kinds of people, you got a face with a view
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two

Quote from: BadSkeelz
My preferred form of birth control is still rough circle.

Erythil

  • Posts: 1227
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #14 on: December 27, 2016, 09:26:14 PM »
Kitrix maybe won the award for most anticlimactic and ill-fitting death

I still feed bad for you over that lol

BadSkeelz

  • Posts: 8243
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #15 on: December 28, 2016, 02:45:38 AM »
It does sound like something he would have done, though. ;)

Incidentally I floated a theory in game that Kitrix was haunting a particular spot and causing an inordinate number of Northies to die there some IG years later.
Quote from: janeshephard
You really think BadSkeelz understands the concept of Wine In Front of me? This guy shot me as a townie when he felt threatened. The man's a neandrathal.

Persona for GDB use only. Results in game may vary.

James de Monet

  • Posts: 3222
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #16 on: December 28, 2016, 03:43:42 AM »
It was indeed Thorm.

I'm glad you guys enjoyed the log (and some the character  ;))!

Kitrix was definitely one of those PCs where the stars aligned and a lot of things worked out both ICly and OOCly (not least among which were having an amazing cast of both enemies and allies around him, proximity to world events, and crucial support from staff).  When I made him, I knew I was making a character that was going to be a villain in a lot of people's stories, but he was absolutely the hero of his own.

As to his death, I had warned some other PCs about that exact peril not 10 minutes before, but...well, that's what happens when you mix an unplanned side-excursion with people waiting in a cab downstairs to take you to the bar.  He was probably one last battle RPT from eyeing retirement anyway.  Maybe it's a tender mercy.  Having him reach a successful end to his story would only have addicted me worse than I am, and I didn't need that, heh.
You know I think if James simply retitled his thread "Cheese" and apologized for his first post being off-topic, all problems would be solved.

BuNutzCola

  • Posts: 557
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #17 on: May 05, 2017, 04:20:49 AM »
Very much enjoyed this read.

Being involved in this series of events was definitely the most enjoyable season of Armageddon I ever had.
Standing there between Kitrix and Takharion as they fought debating what my ultra-loyal-to-the-templarate mage would do was one of the toughest spots I've been in in this game.

Ugh reading this almost tempts me to MUD again. Almost.
<Morgenes> Dunno if it's ever been advertised, but we use Runequest as a lot of our inspiration, and that will be continued in Arm 2
<H&H> I can't take that seriously.
<Morgenes> sorry HnH, can't take what seriously?
<H&H>Oh, I read Runescape. Nevermin

James de Monet

  • Posts: 3222
The Tipping Point
« Reply #18 on: June 14, 2017, 12:45:46 AM »
Speaking of which...

I changed the name of this thread because while the log below includes Kitrix, it doesn't focus on him solely.  I think staff's process for approving this looked a little like approvals of Vogon orders (must be signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters), and with good reason, because it's...well...you'll see.

I wrote this with key aid by Valeria, and I hope you all enjoy the format.  I will say it seems to display better on things other than Safari and Firefox.  Also, this may include references to magickal things some have not encountered before.  Let the reader beware.  And let the games begin!

The Tipping Point
You know I think if James simply retitled his thread "Cheese" and apologized for his first post being off-topic, all problems would be solved.

valeria

  • Posts: 5504
    • I have a writing blog.
Re: The Tipping Point
« Reply #19 on: June 14, 2017, 08:07:00 AM »
I wrote this with key aid by Valeria, and I hope you all enjoy the format.  I will say it seems to display better on things other than Safari and Firefox.  Also, this may include references to magickal things some have not encountered before.  Let the reader beware.  And let the games begin!

The Tipping Point

This turned out extremely well.  Ah, nostalgia!

Kankfly

  • Posts: 1179
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #20 on: June 14, 2017, 08:33:08 AM »
This is an amazing, amazing log. You guys are awesome. :)
I ruin immershunz.

Lizzie

  • Posts: 7454
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #21 on: June 14, 2017, 08:38:15 AM »
I love the format! Awesome insight. I wish I had saved logs of certain "things" that might've contributed to all that. Doubtful that any of it could've been posted though, it was all creepy magicky freaky stuff, and similar.
Talia said: Notice to all: Do not mess with Lizzie's GDB. She will cut you.
Delirium said: Notice to all: do not mess with Lizzie's soap. She will cut you.

LauraMars

  • Helper
  • Posts: 9356
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #22 on: June 18, 2017, 05:04:17 PM »
That is one of the coolest ways of presenting an Armageddon story I think I've ever seen.

...no, it is absolutely the coolest way. And what an amazing pair of logs.
Child, child, if you come to this doomed house, what is to save you?

A foreign presence contacts your mind.

RogueGunslinger

  • Posts: 18774
Re: The life and times of Kitrix Borsail - submissions by James de Monet
« Reply #23 on: June 19, 2017, 09:38:23 PM »
Damn that is a fun way to read a log.