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Small RPG

Small is an understatement. Tiny is much more akin to what this truly is. With only a small handful of consistent role players, I cannot afford to start a large Roleplaying Game. So I'll keep this simple.

You may RP in any style you wish, that includes asterisk style. And the only rule is not godmodding.

This RP is dedicated to the Halloween spirit. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Undead Assault

The Undead are coming. Hundreds of them. And we have to fight them off. Trapped in a small town, called Muireadhach, with only a handful of Militia, the undead lay siege to the Kingdom of Knighthood, a fortified tavern and inn built by the Royal Knights. The Royal Knights are all off around the world, trying to stop more important areas from collapsing. So, against all odds, a small band of friends and acquaintances must hold off the undead for as long as possible.



Here's the maps:

Map of Muireadhach


Map of the Kingdom of Knighthood

The Sane Acquaintance of Inrazimad
The Co-Creator of the Bilbo RPG Community

K [email protected] Int 1
Member of the Royal Heavy Launchers; subdivision of the Royal Gunner Circle; subdivision of the Royal Remnant Knights.
PS: Remnant Knights is owned and copyright to Game Samba and Kalydo. My post on the forums is to be considered fan fiction.

Hate the fires,
K K

Help me raise Creatures, please.

«1

Comments

  • Lance brush away the golden strands of hair with his blood stained hand.  His quarry breathes it last breath drowning as blood filled its carved thought.  The hand on the doe's chest felt the last flump of its heart.  Quickly he crossed himself blessing the animal's soul as it left.  A tug easy pulled the arrow out.  He guts the deer then wipes the blade on a much bloody rag.  Lance swings the corpse over his shoulder and starts heading towards town.
  • *Waltzes into the KoK*

    Funny how this was only posted on almost a fortnight after this was created. I forgot about this little thing!
    Bazooka Duck of Fire | High Councillor of Inrazimad | That Person with an Addiction to Cookies 

    Um . . . I don't have enough titles. I must brainstorm!

    @au1 ~ graceL.H.E - Level 70 - Storm Cloaks - The Terrible
    @en1 ~ InsaneDuckling - Level 70 - New Vision - The Terrible

    One of those weird old players who became all sentimental after leaving the game before they could see dear old Empire rot away even more. 
  • K K (US1)K K (US1) Posts: 3,731
    Good to see people actually caring about this.

    The sentry slumped against the wooden pole that held up the straw roof of the watchtower. Bored was an understatement. This man was bored, tired and hungry. Ravished to be exact. He peered up at the sky, measuring how far the sun had moved since last checked. It has seemed that the world had frozen over. Everything was so still. So silent.
    The Sane Acquaintance of Inrazimad
    The Co-Creator of the Bilbo RPG Community

    K [email protected] Int 1
    Member of the Royal Heavy Launchers; subdivision of the Royal Gunner Circle; subdivision of the Royal Remnant Knights.
    PS: Remnant Knights is owned and copyright to Game Samba and Kalydo. My post on the forums is to be considered fan fiction.

    Hate the fires,
    K K

    Help me raise Creatures, please.

  • The snow crunch under Lance's light foot steps. The weight of the doe on his shoulder down seems effortless as he squint at the bright white landscape.  Pausing for a minute Lance turns around slowly, quickly letting the deer slid to the ground as he pulled a dagger from his belt. Eyes locking upon a tree few feet away.

    "Come out old friend."

    A shadow departs itself from the tree. 

    "Nice to see you again as well."

  • Dan o Shanter (US1)Dan o Shanter (US1) Posts: 396
    edited 15.11.2015
    Brother Ravenna sighed as he slowly, painstakingly swept the church steps free of the light mixture of snow and ashes that had begun to sift down out of the world-weary, grey, late afternoon sky.  He shook his head slowly, slowly; slowly climbed the steps to the top and started sweeping again.  "How do I get stuck with these things?", he muttered.  All the other monks, priests, clerics, all the men and women of faith but him, it seemed, were off with the Knights in far lands..exciting lands...SUNNY, WARM lands, doing exciting sunny warm things; healing generals, calling down bolts of divine wrath on their foes...they claimed, on the rare occasions he actually saw another religious.  But the Brother knew, deep down, why he was always shuffled off to some greywater back alley hamlet.  He didn't really believe in any of it.  The second son of his family had always gone into orders: this was an established law of the universe; this was provable, as he'd spoken to his uncle and greatuncle and they'd mentioned his great-great uncle and so on and back: great religious all, men of piety and unshakeable, simple-minded faith.   He was not.  He had followed family custom because he held a vague, formless reverence for tradition: perhaps the only thing he did revere.  But as for the rest of it?: wounds healed at a touch of the holy hand? lightning from a clear sky with just a prayer? undead blasted to dust by the same means?  UNDEAD?...at all!  He snorted.  "Only bloodsucker I've ever seen is that fat friar Garin that trained me, and the only walking corpse was Brother Albion too early in the morning, or Sister Lia...well, always."  He'd never worked a miracle in his life, not even the simplest; he doubted any of the others had either.

    Proud non ruby-whiner
  • Rage fills Lance.  Why and how did one of the order find him was beyond him.  Enough bodies where left behind to make sure they weren't that brave or stupid.  Yet here one of them stood in front of him.  Not just any one as well but one of the greatest known assassins this land has seen in centuries.  That is other then Lance. 

    "Drake I am sorry to say this but why did you follow someone who left half of your order in the ground?"

    "Simple Lance we can't leave that alone."

    "Then this outcome Is never going to change."

  • Dan o Shanter (US1)Dan o Shanter (US1) Posts: 396
    edited 17.11.2015
    Ravenna shivered, peering up at the leaden sky that loomed above him like a tombstone, cold, inexorable as death, announcing its dread weight with icy claws of wind that mocked at the cloudless state of the sky and the consequent presence of a visible sun.  If there was a glowing center of warmth under, on a level with, within, or above this dead grey sky, he certainly didn't see any evidence of its existence.  It was at times like this that he was drawn to muse on the mystery of Lance: distant acquaintance, to be sure; and the Brother was too much a rationalist to ascribe any weight to the existence of supernaturally prophetic intuitions of character, but he did sense two centers in the man: one light, one dark, like the contrast of sky and sun now before him.  He'd waved to the fellow as he went out hunting in the grey of predawn some hours gone: there might have been the twitch of a cheek in reply; one never knew with Lance, at least not according to his  (Ravenna's) brief observation and conversation with him in the equally infrequent times he came to visit Ravenna's church. in which his conversation was as mysterious and veiled as the traditional convoluted language of expressing the so-called "miraculous armament" of the church, but in an iceberg-solid, practically-grounded style that left the complete opposite reaction in Ravenna's mind: here was a spirit he could relate to; one intensely pragmatic and more than capable of dealing with the realities of the world without needing to cloak them in theological abstractions and mumbo-jumbo gobbledigook designed to conceal the fact that the abbot or lama spouting it was desperately out of his depth in the simple, practical  task of tying his shoes, and therefore chose to go barefoot as a "sign of his great piety in connecting intimately with the divine Creation, rooting his power in the triple twisted dragons of Intention and Sacred Humility and That-Which-IS, the TheotokosticametrioQabalistian Essence imbued into Hier Creation by SzHe-Whose-Name-Is-Too-Sacred-to-Be-Uttered-Nor-Scriven-by-Thrice-Unworthy-Human-Lips-Nor-Hands, unshakeable mountain of the five-faced steel monkey who embraces its own lingam and yoni in the pure breath of Non-Self".
       The sky was like a lid of stone closing off silent wells of ice, personified by the looming coastal mountains just to the east; and upheld and bounded by those mountains, the formless grey sky arching from the featureless black shadow of the southern forest to the final boundary, the ultimate border, the empty silent sea, grey and cold with the foggy northern breath of the frost giants [creatures whose plausibility seemed to Ravenna so ridiculous that he wondered stories of the buggers were so popular and were greeted by thunderous applause for the hero (youngest son, always; first to be triumphant of his whole family, but two elder brothers always had gone forth against the frost giants first and met a horrible end in spite of the fact that given the realities of weight-to-mass ratio, inflexible and real as the sky above, the creature would not even be able to breathe, much less move swiftly in a fight...no bone could have sufficient tensile strength to support such a massive weight of flesh and fat and sinew and muscle, not to mention the weight of the bone itself: the ribcage would collapse on birth and swift death from suffocation would ensue almost immediately, and there had been no reports in recorded human history of encountering the frozen corpses of monstrously huge newborns anywhere in the regions of the north) rather than gales of derisive laughter that the storyteller expected his or her audience to believe such stuff.]  And under the lid silance was trapped by those inexorable walls, silence so profound that he could hear the rasping voice of the wind strumming the gravestones south of the church.  The song (he had come to regard it as s song, the tuneful voice of reality saying of all who live without undue ostentation, without fairy-tales, without favor,  "They will die.  Again I say, They will die.  Again I say, They will die/"   Could any who existed countermand that inexorable, final voice, and actually raise the dead?  The song was rasped on a lower, rougher, more moaning note this day, but then the wind was rougher too, came in gusts punctuated by long silences like...well, like an arrow hitting the heart.  He'd presided at the burial of a man who died in just such a way. by a four-bladed arrowhead.  There was no WAY that heart would ever pump blood again, and blood was what powered motion, not maybe by direct observation but by a process of fairly simple reasoning...blood moves, he'd seen it spurt out of wounds in his acolyte days when they were training him in basic first aid...a tacit admission by the church, he was inclined to believe, that its "miraculous" healing legends really were hooey and if its eventual priests were to rely on those fairy tales alone out in a situation in the real world that the church reluctantly dirtied its hands dealing with because only in that way could it enrich its already fat paunch by bilking the greater nobles of their coin, since such were generally simpler-minded the greater their rank and wealth...a particularly sharp rasp from the graveyard provided an eerie near-hyena laugh to punctuate his thought about the ridiculousness of it all...if they were to really BELIEVE their own crap and try to use it at a time when the favor or displeasure of one of these simple gold-sponges was on the line, they and the church would be in some serious pig-flop.  Whereas the solid and real...he patted the very pragmatic iron mace he'd substituted for the ridixulously impractical ceremonial golden ones the greater clergy not only tended towards but seemed to expect of any priest they visited, not that any of them would be likely to desire to visit this ends of the earth backwater in the first place, and which he swung at his belt proudly in the exact same place they were so militaristically precise as to micromeasure their own placement for but being placed in a closer relationship with the rich and powerful did not since they were well protected enough not to need to stake their lives on their ability to think of anything so practical as for it to occur to them the simple physical truth that where gold is a very SOFT metal, iron is HARD, and consequently were not required by the harsh laws of survival of the fittest to develop the faintest trace of the intelligence required to process the reasoning behind so elementary a conclusion as that one.


    Post edited by Dan o Shanter (US1) on

    Proud non ruby-whiner
  • Lance lays the body of the doe onto the table.  then walks towards a end table place against the wall. He quickly moves it to the side and pull up a few loose boards that where under it.  Lance silently pulls out from his cloak Drake's collection of daggers, poisons, darts, and other tools of the trade.  All he place underneath the floor board with several coin purses that everyone of their order kept on them to make things go easier with bandits.  They really do leave people alone when they freely hand over their purse.  Which speaking of would take the blame for the death for an unknown traveler if anyone ever found the body.  Lance replaces the floor boards and slides the end table back over them.  Turning he heads back towards the table where he starts working on the deer.
  • K K (US1)K K (US1) Posts: 3,731
    A soft hiss followed by a sudden Thud!

    That was all the farmer heard before skeletal hands grasped around his throat. The farmer's yell barely left his mouth when cold iron plunged through his torso. The strike was deadly and powerful; puncturing the farmer's heart with inhumane force. For the dead were no longer affected by pain, nor were they limited by any human weakness. They are, quite simply, just a puppet.
    The Sane Acquaintance of Inrazimad
    The Co-Creator of the Bilbo RPG Community

    K [email protected] Int 1
    Member of the Royal Heavy Launchers; subdivision of the Royal Gunner Circle; subdivision of the Royal Remnant Knights.
    PS: Remnant Knights is owned and copyright to Game Samba and Kalydo. My post on the forums is to be considered fan fiction.

    Hate the fires,
    K K

    Help me raise Creatures, please.

  • She was getting drunk again.

    The duck sitting at her side almost slammed her tiny tennis-ball sized head onto the bar from frustration. It seemed to happen more frequently now than before, seeing as she had managed to get out of her debt to one of the local farmers for burning half of their property. Of course she wasn't poor, she just didn't like to borrow money from the funds she had brought to the ducks. "I got y'all that money," she had said. "It's not mine anymore."

    So she'd decided to earn another 120 coins for the rip-off farmers whose property she'd destroyed. How? By burning more things. Sometimes her ability to spontaneously combust was a good thing, but her ways of using her ability was most definitely questionable. 

    "Everything looks sooo yellooow," she laughed. The duck gave her an unimpressed look. "Wait no . . . It's orange now!"

    She burst into half-giggles and the duck felt close to leaving her side and going to her room to catch some sleep. But the duck knew better; if she left her while she was drunk, her drunken self would probably do something incredibly stupid like jumping into the water at the Docks, or drinking herself into oblivion. 

    The duck decided enough was enough, and nudged her with her beak. She stood up almost immediately, knocking over her chair in the process. Feeling relieved that she seemed so keen to obey this time, the duck waddled towards their room on the second floor, making sure she was following. She was going to need to drink some water tonight, or she would be half-dead the next morning with a pounding headache and an inability to think. 

    A couple of people whom she knew called out to her, and she replied cheerfully - mostly a quick "Goodnight!" or "See you in the morning!". The duck got more frustrated everytime that happened though; it was slowing her journey to her room down, and she needed to get there before she passed out. 

    After what seemed like too long, the two of them finally made it back to the small room that she had hired for the two of them. But not even after ten minutes after they closed the door, three quick raps on the door startled the duck as she searched the room for a place to sleep.

    The duck waddled over to the door and opened it, giving the unexpected guest a puzzled look. 

    She recognised it to be one of the people who had been chatting with the now asleep drunkard. The man hadn't drunk much during the course if the evening, and he only seemed like he was just a little bit tipsy. 

    The guest smiled down at the duck and held up a waterskin. "Some water for Miss Grace?"

    The duck quacked a sharp quack in response and gave him a suspicious look.

    "It's not poisoned. I bought it straight from the bartender."

    The duck accepted the waterskin and searched it for any tampering. She detected no out-of-place substances on the waterskin so she deemed it safe to drink. She looked back up at the man and quacked again.

    "Alright, I'll take my leave. My best wishes to Miss Grace." he said in reply to the quack. Then he turned around and went back downstairs to the common taproom.

    The duck shut the door and went back to searching for a place to sleep.
    Bazooka Duck of Fire | High Councillor of Inrazimad | That Person with an Addiction to Cookies 

    Um . . . I don't have enough titles. I must brainstorm!

    @au1 ~ graceL.H.E - Level 70 - Storm Cloaks - The Terrible
    @en1 ~ InsaneDuckling - Level 70 - New Vision - The Terrible

    One of those weird old players who became all sentimental after leaving the game before they could see dear old Empire rot away even more. 
  • With the meat in storage, the skin curing by the fireplace, lance finish wiping the blood off the table then throws the rag into a corner.  Silently he climbs up to thee rafters and yank on a board.  It comes out easily. With a knife he wedges out a stopper at its end.  He quickly pours out charts and maps onto the table.   Looking over them Lance decides that the best plan of action would be to wait until spring before moving out.  The  closing of the pass will insure that no more of the order will find him before them.  By that time Drake will be missed and they start following his path back to Lance.  Silently he puts the maps away then heads out towards the local tavern for a drink..
  • Dan o Shanter (US1)Dan o Shanter (US1) Posts: 396
    edited 23.11.2015
    Brother Ravenna sighed contentedly as he entered the tavern.  This particular point was perhaps not the theologically most important of those on which he thought the official church doctrine was absolute bulltwaddle, but in the matter of visiting the social congregating point of the souls good bad and indifferent he lived and worked among...and liberally partaking of the potations and libations thereof since to fail to accept a fellow Tavernite's sincere offer of a drink would of course be the most abjectly rank discourtesy and would earn you at least a fifteen minute stint in the Hell of an eternal "You're cut off, buddy!"...  He nodded to Lance again as he passed his table, then continued towards his objective: the bar.  He'd heard from one of his semi-perennial charity cases a story of what the man swore was a duck sitting at the bar and comporting itself as intelligently if mot more so than the human it apparently accompanied.  The Brother's disbelief of such supernatural tales, being a product of his reason, tended also to fluctuate with the state of his reason.  Or, to be brief, the measure of his scoffing at them while stone cold sober was also the measure of his delight in them (though possibly no more believing them than before, mostly because belief also requires some degree of unpickled intellectual capacity) while comfortably lubricated by the uisgebeatha; and what better salve to lubricate the dust that had caught in his throat; and what better time to apply it than while he was putting away the broom that occasioned that selfsame dust, shortly before he'd tucked his rolled-up outer cloak under his arm for use against the chill of later night and headed out for this selfsame tavern he entered now with a deep hunger to find one who could tell him more such tales.
    Post edited by Dan o Shanter (US1) on

    Proud non ruby-whiner
  • The duck woke Grace up only about half an hour later to give her a dose of water. Her mistress managed to down about half of the water canteen, after complaining for some minutes about having to wake up, but she complied nonetheless, knowing that it would prevent the severity of the hangover she was likely to have the next morning. Sometimes, the duck was thankful her mistress was no stranger to drinking. She could sober up relatively fast, and even though she would always end up with a hangover the next morning, she was smart enough to drink a decent amount of water the night before.

    Grace dozed off again after her drink of water, and the duck made a mental note to wake her up again in about half an hour for another drink of water. Feeling restless, the duck returned to the tiring task of finding a decent place to sleep, which she had been doing in the half hour after the stranger had arrived to drop off some water. 

    Eventually, the duck found a very comfortable place just large enough for her to not be uncomfortable in one of the spare compartments of the small bookshelf tucked away in one of the corners of the room. Delighted, she shuffled her way into the compartment, and allowed herself to fall into that trance-like state of nothing, similar to how the humans daydreamed; almost asleep, but not exactly asleep. The duck would be able to sense an unwanted presence if there ever was one, and warn her mistress if she did.  
    Bazooka Duck of Fire | High Councillor of Inrazimad | That Person with an Addiction to Cookies 

    Um . . . I don't have enough titles. I must brainstorm!

    @au1 ~ graceL.H.E - Level 70 - Storm Cloaks - The Terrible
    @en1 ~ InsaneDuckling - Level 70 - New Vision - The Terrible

    One of those weird old players who became all sentimental after leaving the game before they could see dear old Empire rot away even more. 
  • JackelKight (US1)JackelKight (US1) Posts: 533
    edited 23.11.2015

    Lance sat at his usual table. Near the wall with no table between him and it, making one side he didn't have to watch.  Almost center of the room from there, allowing him to be able to move in either direction.  Even the side was chosen for the stairs leading to the rooms giving him a close escape if the exits outside or behind the counter were blocked.  Basically a seat someone more concern with escape then not being seen would choice.  Old habits are hard to forget. Lance thought looking down into his ale and half eaten dinner. Especially when they saved you so many times on the run.  The flashes of memory of assassins failing in their hunt which all ended in back allies or dark forest.  Lance remembers the feeling of distain at the poorly executed skillsets of the younger members of the order trying to make a name.  None of the seiner members ever made the mistake of being baited like that.  None of the thoughts show on his face though.  To the world around him, he is just a man silently drinking ale.

  • K K (US1)K K (US1) Posts: 3,731
    I wake to the sound of yelling from the watchtower.

    What is it now? The Soldiers of Darkness? The Werewolves? The Dodge Federation?
    All these thoughts rush through my mind as I hurriedly dress into the uniform of the Royal Heavy Launchers. Picking up my shortsword from my bedside and collecting my bow and a quiver of arrows from their clips on the door, I raced down the stairs and outside.

    Before me, a small skirmish plays itself out. A lone guard in the watchtower cut frantically at white, bony skeletons mounting the ladder. A rasping sound of wood on wood, barely audible from my position by the door, signalled the drawing of an arrow. A skeletal archer aims at the sentry and fires. The arrow slits through the poor man's throat and he falls.

    My arrow arrives in the skull of the undead archer just a second later. It easily penetrates for I was using a broadhead. The arrow stops, half-in, half-out of the skeleton's bare skull. Asides from the small incursion it made, there was no visible damage, for the being's brain was long gone, rotted away during the years. The archer simply turns towards me and nocks another arrow to its massive longbow.

    I run inside the tavern and close the door behind me. A resounding Crack! and the arrow lay, quivering on the pine wooden door, its head buried in the hardwood.
    The Sane Acquaintance of Inrazimad
    The Co-Creator of the Bilbo RPG Community

    K [email protected] Int 1
    Member of the Royal Heavy Launchers; subdivision of the Royal Gunner Circle; subdivision of the Royal Remnant Knights.
    PS: Remnant Knights is owned and copyright to Game Samba and Kalydo. My post on the forums is to be considered fan fiction.

    Hate the fires,
    K K

    Help me raise Creatures, please.

  • Lance snaps from his musings at the sound of the Crack! of a large arrow hitting solid pine.  Instinctually he jumps up knocking over the table on its side.  A quick survey of the room reviews socked faces staring either at him or the Royal Heavy Launcher panting against the door.  For s moment Lance nerves start to get  the best of him with so many eyes directed at him.  Even assassinating a royal didn't have this many people staring at you.  In those cases though every set of eyes usually lingers on the body for more then the amount of time it takes for him to disappear.  Here Lance himself was the object of attention. Then the screams outside pulls everyone's focus to the window.
  • Grace's eyes snapped open at the sound of screams outside the window. As soon as Quacky let out a quiet hiss, she knew the clever little duck had heard them too, and was waiting for another sign of danger. 

    Not wanting to wait for another sign, Grace lifted her legs off the warm bed and twisted them to the left, rolling off the bed in one fluid motion. She stayed at a crouch for a moment or two, listening to the screaming for a second longer, then stood up slowly, her eyes darting around the room for a sign of danger. Seeing none, she assume that there was simply a commotion in the tap room, or outside. 

    Still, she supposed, it was always a good idea to see what was happening. So she stumbled towards the drawn curtains, still half-asleep and inebriated, and pushed them to the side to see past the window. Behind her, she could hear the soft thump of Quacky landing on the floor from her sleeping place, and waddling towards the window as well.

    Grace studied the land around the Tavern with squinted eyes, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Feeling annoyed that her sleep had been interrupted, she surmised that it was likely to be some extremely loud brawl in the tap room downstairs. 

    And a drunken brawl was always entertaining to watch.

    Grace drew the curtains closed again, and beckoned for Quacky to follow her. She exited her room quietly and shut the door behind her, then made her way downstairs. As she descended, she was slightly puzzled at the lack of noise, except for the screaming still echoing around the Tavern. 

    The light grew brighter as she reached the point where she was able to see the tap room, and her eyebrows furrowed slightly when she saw majority of the people looking at the windows, surprise and worry etched in most of their expression. Her eyes flickered to the man stood at the base of the stairs, a table overturned on its side, then to the Bilboan leaning against the door, which had a slight protrusion on it that definitely hadn't been there before. 

    Worry ate at her as she made her way down the remainder of the stairs, Quacky following behind her as silently as she. She wove in and out of the quiet tap room towards her friend, her eyes intent on the crack on the door. 
    Bazooka Duck of Fire | High Councillor of Inrazimad | That Person with an Addiction to Cookies 

    Um . . . I don't have enough titles. I must brainstorm!

    @au1 ~ graceL.H.E - Level 70 - Storm Cloaks - The Terrible
    @en1 ~ InsaneDuckling - Level 70 - New Vision - The Terrible

    One of those weird old players who became all sentimental after leaving the game before they could see dear old Empire rot away even more. 
  • K K (US1)K K (US1) Posts: 3,731
    I hold my free hand up to hush the people. Then, in one fluid motion, I open the door snap the shaft off and closed the door behind me. This was immidiately followed by two or three more arrows simultaneously burying themselves into either the pinewood door or the oaken wall.

    I examine the fletchings of the arrow carefully, noticing the sharp shape and hardness of the feather. The feather came from that of a goose as far as details go. And despite my eighty years of knowledge I could not identify the origins of the feather. The universe was a large place after all...

    I turn back to the tap room with the grimmest of expressions and shake my head at the man by the overturned table.

    "There's no need to panic as of yet." I say optimistically.
    The Sane Acquaintance of Inrazimad
    The Co-Creator of the Bilbo RPG Community

    K [email protected] Int 1
    Member of the Royal Heavy Launchers; subdivision of the Royal Gunner Circle; subdivision of the Royal Remnant Knights.
    PS: Remnant Knights is owned and copyright to Game Samba and Kalydo. My post on the forums is to be considered fan fiction.

    Hate the fires,
    K K

    Help me raise Creatures, please.

  • Lance mind fills with rage.  No need to panic. There were screaming from the friends and family of the people in here.  good luck keeping them inside.  Lance's composure is still and calm though.  Whatever was happening he was not planning to let it get the better of him.    He walks over to the window and carefully peers out towards the barricade. Lance suddenly ducks just before an arrow crashes though it.
  • Brother Ravenna rolled cautiously off the barstool, circled around to the left wall of the taproom (mostly unobstructed by tables) and edged over to crouch beside the door, drawing his mace from his belt as he did so. Meanwhile, silently but fervently cursing himself for not replacing the string sooner on his hand crossbow...which left his stock of missile weapons limited to the light standard crossbow which was very conveniently (for the enemy, whoever it was) hanging on its usual hooks above his bed in the clerestory at the far end of the church attic.  He looked speculatively at the Launcher standing by the door; Lance by the window; and wending through the crowd, a young woman and...he almost burst out with an oath more appropriate to his days as a dockside streetwolf from the slums of Tuiren-Shar, long before the Order had found him and for some totally unfathomable reason considered him potential clerical stock.  Stopped, took a breath, started again: "By the most holy names of Pelor, Mithras and Lugh!  It IS a duck!!!"  Blinked, composed himself again and spoke to all of them.  "Ah, anyway...As the priest of this village, I hold it my duty in this situation to offer spiritual counsel.  And what I counsel is that we seize the momentum.  Clear all away from line of sight of the door and windows, then open the door briefly and duck away as we slam it; show ourselves briefly at the window and duck...whatever it takes to get whoever's attacking us to waste their arrows.  Then when they're out of ammunition, get them to charge the door where they can only enter one at a time. and when they do..."  He flourished his mace just above the lintel, then swung it down to smack into his open palm.

    Proud non ruby-whiner
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