Long time in posting, apologies.
I have something brewing on the sidelines but work keeps on interrupting me.
For now, you get my first RP post on the Guild forum.
Dezzi is the lady that started the thread so I included her in this:
Deep in the twisted alleys of Khemi, an unnamed tavern rests in the shadows where no civil patron would dare venture. Inside, the single room is just big enough for four small tables and a bar, a few candles are barely sufficient to illuminate the single patron.
Even if the tavern was busy, this man would stand out amongst the other Stygian regulars. Pale of skin and larger of build than most Stygian people, he sits with a steel mug in his knotted hands, staring at the floor with far away eyes.
The tavern door opens and lets in the harsh stygian sun. The rays fall upon the patrons face, the mans eyes dilate until they are almost entirely blue, yet the man does not move an inch.
A Stygian man looks in, first nodding to the barkeep and then looking towards the tables. The Stygian sees the man and looks back outside, then with another nod behind him he walks into the tavern with three other men of similar attire.
As they enter all 4 pairs of eyes are on the man at the table, the Stygian who first entered walks over to the patron and sits down opposite.
“Greetings to you, Cimmerian.” The stygian says in the mans native language. “You know why I here?”
The man looks at the stranger for the first time, his pale blue eyes locked on the Stygians dark brown. The man calmly leans back and says in perfect Stygian “Better you keep to your native tongue, boy. One is likely to take offence at the way you were butchering mine.”
The Stygian was now becoming nervous under the Cimmerians gaze, the eyes telling him exactly how dangerous this man was.
“I- yes, thank you. I have never been able to speak Cimmerian very well.” The Stygian took a moment to regain his composure. “I am here because-“
“I know exactly why you’re here.” Interrupted the Cimmerian. “And the answer is no.”
The Stygian faked a sympathetic sigh while reaching inside his tunic. “Then you know the alternative.”
The Cimmerian smiled. “Yes, I do.”
The next moment the table was in the air, thrown clear across the room at the three awaiting assassins as if hurled from a catapult. The table hit the group and shattered on impact, knocking them to the floor.
As soon as the table left his hands the Cimmerian had kicked out at the stygian as he pulled his weapons, knocking him to the floor and spilling his dagger.
The Cimmerian picked up the greatsword that had been leaning against the wall behind him. Now working himself into the rage he so welcomed during battle.
The Stygian was still groping for his dagger when he saw the new shine to the barbarians eyes.
“Oh, Fuck!” The Stygian whispered.
With a booming roar the Cimmerian pounced to the still dazed group at the door. With two quick swipes he had gutted one and near decapitated the other. The third had just enough time to attempt an attack on the raging barbarian but was rewarded with a missing arm.
The last stygian had finally picked himself up and stood poised for the attack.
“Damn you Skellan! Dezzi will hear of this!!” Screamed the Stygian.
“I don’t think so.” Replied the barbarian.
Suddenly, the barbarian stood as still as a statue, his animal instinct realising something was wrong. In one smooth movement he turned and hurled the greatsword towards the bar where the bartender was standing with an aimed crossbow. He had time for a surprised yelp before the twirling blade took off his head.
Even as the blade left his hand Skellan reached for the two axes hanging from his waist. He once again faced the Stygian.
“Now, where were we?”
The Stygian screamed some Stygian curse and ran at the Cimmerian, although his friends were easier prey this assassin had some skill with the blade.
They exchanged blows for a few moments, the Assassin dodging more than blocking blows while the barbarian blocking more than dodging. The stygian landed a blow to the barbarians right arm, scoring a cut along the bicep.
The stygian smiled. “I am going to cut you apart piece by piece!”
Skellan also smiled “I will drink to this fight, you have been a worthy opponent.”
The engaged again, trading numerous blows in so short a time. The assassin moved in for a stab to the groin but the barbarian was faster this time and landed a simultaneous blow to the stygians arm with his left axe and one to the shoulder with his right.
The assassin fell to his knees as blood poured from the stump of his arm and the burst jugular at his neck. The barbarian gave an approving nod before he scissored the axes and removed the assassins head.
Skellan took a moment to survey the carnage, then hung up his axes and retrieved his greatsword. As an afterthought he poured himself a mug of Beer and downed it in one long pull.
He sighed as he put down the mug.
“Damn you Dezzi, I will come to your dungeon in my own time!”
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Here is the story as promised, it is only the starting chapter of what could be a good long tale.
The story is based on the Age of Conan game schematics, in the game you have feats and abilities. For spell casters these come as spells mostly, for assassins they have poison, stealth and speed. For the Barbarian, they deal with damage and survival as well as others. In the RP thread on my Guilds forum I've written stories where I have 'unleashed' or 'wielded' rage like a weapon, so I wrote this to explain.
_____________________________________
In Cimmeria the skies were cloudless, the moon full and bright bathing the landscape in different shades of blue, broken sporadically by the orange flame of torches and campfires. The daily toil was over for another day for most Cimmerians, however in a longhouse, situated in Conall's Valley the days work has yet to being.
“What’s the deal with this anyway, I was on to a certain lay before we were summoned here!”
The speaker was a wiry, broken toothed youth with fading bruises across his face.
“What I want to know is where you got enough money to pay for someone to sleep with you!” Another stockier youth called from across the room, inciting a few laughs from the other adolescents summoned, the smaller youths face reddened.
“Perhaps you should ask your sister if coin changed hand!” The wiry youth replied angrily, rousing another peal of laughter from the crowd.
The bigger youth pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning on and strode across the room.
“I’m going to knock out the rest of you teeth, little man.”
The stocky youth threw a few powerful punches at the wiry youth but they were dodged with some skill, most likely from previous practice.
“You’re going to have to hit me first, ox cock!”
The other dozen or so youths were cheering the fight on, moving into a ring almost subconsciously.
“Enough!”
The word was not shouted but carried to every ear in the longhouse, filled with authority and substance. The youths quickly broke the ring with accustomed speed, all turning to face the man who had entered.
They knew him from reputation, and if they were like any other cowed youth of their age they would fear him too. However they looked on the warrior with awe and respect, knowing his deeds in battle from many tales told around the campfire. He was tall of height and large of build, although the night was cold enough to mist his breath he was bare-chested, his legs and feet wrapped in fine grey wolf hide. From a chill crawler skin girdle hung his two blades, famously named Dusk and Dawn, the blades themselves glowing with an inner light the colour of their namesakes. The mans scarred face was framed in a mane of black hair, braided at what seemed random and affixed with tokens such as feathers and bone. The weather beaten face spoke of many battles, the pale grey eyes hard from the gruesome sights the man has witnessed.
The warrior looked around the room, noting each individual that was present.
“You are wondering why I have called you here, only you and not all the youths in the village.” He walked quietly in to the hall, every move supple yet commanding.
“I have asked for you to be here, because I and others have noticed your potential for greatness.”
He moved towards a large high-backed chair and sat down gracefully, motioning the others to sit in front of him.
“Crom, as you know, has given all his children his strength to survive in this world. However to some he imparted an extra part of him, a small spark of his immense anger. That spark is within me, and potentially in you.”
He paused long enough to let the thought sink in, eventually he leaned forward and pointed to someone in the crowd.
“Senkar, you fought off two Vanir with a broken arm and a split scalp.”
He pointed to another, the wiry youth from before.
“Jaser, you fought one of the best fighters in the village and did not get a scratch until your anger got the better of you.”
He pointed to the bigger youth who Jaser was just fighting with.
“Brinnon, I saw you myself at the Gala lift a rock men older and bigger couldn't budge.”
The warrior leaned back in the chair.
“These are traits of The Rage which you can learn to control, with enough practice you can be stronger, faster and feel no pain. Those who master The Rage can even influence those around them, improving prowess in allies and inciting fear into the enemy.”
The warrior paused once again to collect his thoughts.
“The Rage is a tangible thing, like the Shaman who draws his power from the ether, we can draw on The Rage to manifest itself in us as strength and dexterity. At the moment you draw The Rage from instinct, but when you learn to control it you can wield it like a blade, or an axe, or a hammer.”
“Beware though, The Rage can turn on you if you let it. It will consume your will until your vision goes red and you remember nothing more until you wake up drained, if you’re lucky to wake up at all.”
“I can see The Rage affects each of you differently, for some it is near the surface, only awaiting a trigger to release, but it is untamed and weak.”
Brinnon looked at the floor as the warriors eyes cast over him.
“Others have The Rage buried deep and requires a great deal of anger for it to emerge, the result is usually the Red Mist as I have already described.”
Jaser fingered his broken teeth as he thought on this.
“I can teach you to put a collar on The Rage, to keep it chained until you release it like an arrow from a bow. I will warn you now though, the training will be extreme, I will break some of you, but if you endure you could become a great warrior - perhaps surpassing me.” He added, smiling.
“I will only offer this choice once, if you do not want to be a part of this then leave now, and hope The Rage does not consume you.”
None of the youths moved, as the warrior expected, only those without the spark would choose to leave and he could already see The Rage in each pair of eyes in the hall.
“Good, then let the training begin…”
The story is based on the Age of Conan game schematics, in the game you have feats and abilities. For spell casters these come as spells mostly, for assassins they have poison, stealth and speed. For the Barbarian, they deal with damage and survival as well as others. In the RP thread on my Guilds forum I've written stories where I have 'unleashed' or 'wielded' rage like a weapon, so I wrote this to explain.
_____________________________________
In Cimmeria the skies were cloudless, the moon full and bright bathing the landscape in different shades of blue, broken sporadically by the orange flame of torches and campfires. The daily toil was over for another day for most Cimmerians, however in a longhouse, situated in Conall's Valley the days work has yet to being.
“What’s the deal with this anyway, I was on to a certain lay before we were summoned here!”
The speaker was a wiry, broken toothed youth with fading bruises across his face.
“What I want to know is where you got enough money to pay for someone to sleep with you!” Another stockier youth called from across the room, inciting a few laughs from the other adolescents summoned, the smaller youths face reddened.
“Perhaps you should ask your sister if coin changed hand!” The wiry youth replied angrily, rousing another peal of laughter from the crowd.
The bigger youth pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning on and strode across the room.
“I’m going to knock out the rest of you teeth, little man.”
The stocky youth threw a few powerful punches at the wiry youth but they were dodged with some skill, most likely from previous practice.
“You’re going to have to hit me first, ox cock!”
The other dozen or so youths were cheering the fight on, moving into a ring almost subconsciously.
“Enough!”
The word was not shouted but carried to every ear in the longhouse, filled with authority and substance. The youths quickly broke the ring with accustomed speed, all turning to face the man who had entered.
They knew him from reputation, and if they were like any other cowed youth of their age they would fear him too. However they looked on the warrior with awe and respect, knowing his deeds in battle from many tales told around the campfire. He was tall of height and large of build, although the night was cold enough to mist his breath he was bare-chested, his legs and feet wrapped in fine grey wolf hide. From a chill crawler skin girdle hung his two blades, famously named Dusk and Dawn, the blades themselves glowing with an inner light the colour of their namesakes. The mans scarred face was framed in a mane of black hair, braided at what seemed random and affixed with tokens such as feathers and bone. The weather beaten face spoke of many battles, the pale grey eyes hard from the gruesome sights the man has witnessed.
The warrior looked around the room, noting each individual that was present.
“You are wondering why I have called you here, only you and not all the youths in the village.” He walked quietly in to the hall, every move supple yet commanding.
“I have asked for you to be here, because I and others have noticed your potential for greatness.”
He moved towards a large high-backed chair and sat down gracefully, motioning the others to sit in front of him.
“Crom, as you know, has given all his children his strength to survive in this world. However to some he imparted an extra part of him, a small spark of his immense anger. That spark is within me, and potentially in you.”
He paused long enough to let the thought sink in, eventually he leaned forward and pointed to someone in the crowd.
“Senkar, you fought off two Vanir with a broken arm and a split scalp.”
He pointed to another, the wiry youth from before.
“Jaser, you fought one of the best fighters in the village and did not get a scratch until your anger got the better of you.”
He pointed to the bigger youth who Jaser was just fighting with.
“Brinnon, I saw you myself at the Gala lift a rock men older and bigger couldn't budge.”
The warrior leaned back in the chair.
“These are traits of The Rage which you can learn to control, with enough practice you can be stronger, faster and feel no pain. Those who master The Rage can even influence those around them, improving prowess in allies and inciting fear into the enemy.”
The warrior paused once again to collect his thoughts.
“The Rage is a tangible thing, like the Shaman who draws his power from the ether, we can draw on The Rage to manifest itself in us as strength and dexterity. At the moment you draw The Rage from instinct, but when you learn to control it you can wield it like a blade, or an axe, or a hammer.”
“Beware though, The Rage can turn on you if you let it. It will consume your will until your vision goes red and you remember nothing more until you wake up drained, if you’re lucky to wake up at all.”
“I can see The Rage affects each of you differently, for some it is near the surface, only awaiting a trigger to release, but it is untamed and weak.”
Brinnon looked at the floor as the warriors eyes cast over him.
“Others have The Rage buried deep and requires a great deal of anger for it to emerge, the result is usually the Red Mist as I have already described.”
Jaser fingered his broken teeth as he thought on this.
“I can teach you to put a collar on The Rage, to keep it chained until you release it like an arrow from a bow. I will warn you now though, the training will be extreme, I will break some of you, but if you endure you could become a great warrior - perhaps surpassing me.” He added, smiling.
“I will only offer this choice once, if you do not want to be a part of this then leave now, and hope The Rage does not consume you.”
None of the youths moved, as the warrior expected, only those without the spark would choose to leave and he could already see The Rage in each pair of eyes in the hall.
“Good, then let the training begin…”
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
OK, I'm well past due another post.
I suppose this is going to turn into a kind of random story blog, since I just started writing a little (or big) story during lunch at work. The night before I got to thinking of the start and it has come out well. There are also other stories previously written I can post so I have some backup material if things go quiet.
But no spoilers for that story now, what I can tell you is how I chose the name of this blog.
I, am an avid player for the MMORPG Age of Conan.
I've been playing since launch and I am still with a good, friendly Guild.
The Guild has it's own forum and a few months ago someone started a Role Playing thread. After a few posts from various others I made my own and enjoyed the chance to create a story for my characters in the game. The thread is huge now and we regularly swap sections of stories that tie into each other. It's basically as twisted as a Lost episode!
Now, after posting my latest tribute to the story, I decided to start a side story to help explain a little about my characters ability as a barbarian.
I called the story the Art of Rage, and I will post it after I form an intro for it as it needs a bit of explaining for non-players and those who don't read our RP thread.
So for now, stay tuned. :)
I suppose this is going to turn into a kind of random story blog, since I just started writing a little (or big) story during lunch at work. The night before I got to thinking of the start and it has come out well. There are also other stories previously written I can post so I have some backup material if things go quiet.
But no spoilers for that story now, what I can tell you is how I chose the name of this blog.
I, am an avid player for the MMORPG Age of Conan.
I've been playing since launch and I am still with a good, friendly Guild.
The Guild has it's own forum and a few months ago someone started a Role Playing thread. After a few posts from various others I made my own and enjoyed the chance to create a story for my characters in the game. The thread is huge now and we regularly swap sections of stories that tie into each other. It's basically as twisted as a Lost episode!
Now, after posting my latest tribute to the story, I decided to start a side story to help explain a little about my characters ability as a barbarian.
I called the story the Art of Rage, and I will post it after I form an intro for it as it needs a bit of explaining for non-players and those who don't read our RP thread.
So for now, stay tuned. :)
Thursday, 1 April 2010
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