Prefered Genres: Epic fantasy, science fiction, original RPs - if it can invoke emotions and images of awe, mystery, adventure or similar, I'm game. I also prefer to play older, more experienced male characters, as character preferences go.
Limits/ Won't Do: No series- or movie-based RPs. The classic clichés are also banned.
Online: Late night/very early morning GMT time, so... Evening/late evening central time
Other/Notes: I have a very tight work schedule currently, and thus can only promise a pace of about one or two updates per week for any given game that I sign on. Cruel but no can do, I love monies.
The samples (sorry that they're missing formatting, shouldn't be too hard to read even without it)
The Voyage Of The Fortuna - an original fantasy RP
"And therefore, gentlemen, it can be done. Of course, there might be only one man and only one ship that CAN do it, but it is possible."
Frans Pereth's words settled in the gloomy atmosphere of the conference room, sucked up by hungry ears as soon as they left his lips. Pereth himself, clad in his favourite suit, adjusted the gloves on his hands and then sat down again, falling to the plushy chair behind him and keeping a serious eye on every other person in the room. Along the long hardwood table sat serious men with serious expressions on their faces and, Pereth knew by experience, pockets bulging with serious money. Six of the nine men were humans: two were orcs, and amongst the directors of the Western Sea Trading Company sat one dwarf as well. They stared back at Pereth without betraying a hint of what they were thinking of, but he knew that what they were doing was calculating. The risks, the money involved... The profits that could be reaped. Finally, a cough from the other end of the table disturbed the silence, and a husky, silent voice spoke.
"Young Captain Frans... We've been working with you for a good while now, and we know you can get results. But what you are speaking of is, even if you have proven your doubters wrong before, simply impossible. You are not only trying to take our investments into seas that you have never even seen... But you also try to do this while racing head-to-head with the government and Lord Berik? Frankly, Captain, I see nothing but loss to be reaped from your scheme."
Frans Pereth sighed, and again the attention was on him. He really loved the chairman of the board, Mr. Willkins, he really did, but sometimes... Well, sometimes he just acted like a stubborn old goat. Pereth played around with the large, rainbow-colored feather decoration of his hat as he spoke again, with a sly smile on his lips and his words carefully intoned and calm.
"Mr. Willkins, I must speak honestly here. You and your board, you deal in minor trading. Yes, you are raking in money and customers, but look at you. Spices. Fruits. Almost any man today can charter a rowboat to the New World and come back bearing sackfuls of grenadine apples or ground strangleweed. The prices are dropping, gentlemen, and I know it because I have seen it in my payoffs as well. You also have no power over the politics of this business, nor do you have any say within the government. In short, you are like blind fools sitting on a pile of money. Sure, it is nice to hear that fortune go 'clink' underneath you, but you can see no real use for it."
The damage done, Pereth laid back and smiled as the room broke into a hubbub of murmured conversations interrupted here and there by a few shouts. Finally, Mr. Willkins grabbed a wooden gavel and banged on the table long enough to get silence before straightening the jacket of his black, sensible suit.
"Captain Pereth... We did not invite you here to insult us. Please, if you wish for your trek ever to even begin, you should treat us with silken gloves. We hold your future in our hands...
Pereth laughed. It was a calculated, forced laugh, but it still created a disturbance. Willkins raised the gavel again, ready to demand silence, but Pereth merely raised his hand and stood up. He pressed his knuckles against the table and leaned over it, staring at each member of the board in turn.
"No, you don't understand what I am saying, Mr. Willkins. It is I who is holding YOUR future in MY hands, not the other way around. Without me, this company will slump, sink and perish. It will be slow, and it might not be apparent, but it will happen. Whereas with me, you can soar to heights you have never even dreamed of. You can become KINGS to run this world."
Kings, they thought. Kings handled SERIOUS power, and being serious men they liked serious power. Frans could hear the calculations again, and he smiled because of this. He continued, now concentrating his stare on Mr. Willkins, extending his presence across the table and right in front of his nose.
"If you finance my journey, you will be the most poweful men on Valu when I come back. Riches, fame, power - you will have it all. YOU will be the men who gave money to the expedition that found the world beyond the New World first. YOU can set the rules for this world, not some stuffy government who seek to press it all into the hands of a greedy king. You will be famous, very powerful... And incredibly, incredibly rich."
Pereth sat down again, letting his words sink in again. He grabbed his hat from the table and with a graceful move flipped it onto his head, straightening out the curls of hair from under it while continuing with a happy tone.
"And if I never come back, you won't have to worry about a thing. You won't get connected to it, and I will bear all of the failure on my cold, dead shoulders. You can wash your hands and get on with the spice trading, as always, like I never existed. Gentlemen, you must see that this is a win-win situation, and you don't need a Khysti holy man peering into the future to tell you this."
More murmurs. More conversation. Discussion, arguments, rebuttals and counterpoints. Finally, Mr. Willkins raised his hand and then nodded, solemnly.
"Very well, Captain Pereth. You have... Convinced us. When will you leave?"
Frans Pereth smiled as he heard those words.
---
He smiled right now as well when he remembered those words. They had been spoken two weeks ago, and now fourteen hectic days later the moment he had been waiting for was almost at hand. He could barely WAIT.
Finishing trimming his beard and moustache in front of the mirror, he quickly ran his hand through his curly hair and then placed a forest-green hat on top of it, checking quickly that his matching suit was donned well and the way it was supposed to. Pereth reached down to the bucket of water next to the sink and splashed a few handfuls onto his face before finishing off with the merest touch of wax on his moustache. Finally, Frans Pereth smiled into the mirror: and what smiled back was the most trustworthy sea captain you could ever hope to meet. With that out of the way, the captain of The Fortuna stepped out of the small apartment provided to him by the Western Sea Trading Company and into the streets of Hekstad.
The morning sun played on the wavetops and bathed Pereth in its radiance. He scanned the horizon and noted down the different ships that he saw by habit. The small fishing boats scurried here and there for catches while the huge trading caravels loomed on the horizon, like large blobs that didn't seem to move at all even though they were either embarking or coming from a journey of many months to the New World. The smaller Navy galleons that flanked them were given a cursory glance, and even if he didn't see it he could still imagine the flaming-red symbol of the king of Barista that was painted on each sail on those ships. Grinning and tipping his hat to a passing lady, Pereth took course towards the docks, and mainly the inn known as The King's Bounty.
The news about Pereth's expedition had spread through the grapevine like wildfire. It didn't mean that many people wanted to join on it: in fact, his first mate had had to resort to some not-so-accepted methods for conscripting sailors for the ship. Pereth knew that before dusk tomorrow when they would set sail several would chicken out and never show up at the ship. He had counted about 40 sailors so far, but he needed more. If push came to shove, he'd hire more once reaching the New World, but that would interfere with his plans somewhat and he had decided to try and avoid it more than anything. Brooding over his thoughts, Frans shooed away a few seagulls that were flying above him with his hat and gave a pair of passing guardsmen a most calculated nod and bow.
The inn sat at the waterfront, practically next door to the numerous warfs and piers that spanned the coastline of Hekstad. A part of the King's Bounty was built on stilts: and while those parts were merely storage space and attics, it did give the building an unique look as it leaned over the sea, as if reaching out towards the horizon far away. Pereth took his hat off and shook his hair back into proper place as he entered the King's Bounty through the front door. The barman, a jovial old sailor who was an old friend and employee of Pereth's, greeted his visitor and nodded towards a corner table on the ground floor of the inn. Pereth returned the greeting and then headed for the table and the small, balding man sitting at it with a huge ledger in his hands.
Rob "Snouty" Dockwell had gotten his nickname after a loose sail had smacked him in the face and flattened his nose. He had never gotten a doctor to fix it, and now it had settled into a state where it was twice as wide and half as lengthy as on normal men. He was not a very bright man, but kept the books tidy and helped Frans run things on board. He had been his chosen first mate for years now, and Snouty had grown to respect his friend after seeing him surpass impossible odds and some really hairy situations. Now, Snouty gripped his huge ledger of money and crew matters on "The Fortuna" and smiled through runny eyes at Pereth as he sat down at the table. Snouty rummaged through his leather vest before sticking his fingers into the pocket of his dirty woolen vest and pulled out a pouch of chewing tobacco, offering it to his captain. Pereth declined with a smile and a non-threatening but firm hand gesture, and Snouty nodded before biting off a portion to chew on.
"G'morning, nhah, Captain. So today's the last day, nhah?", asked Snouty, wiping his eyes with a finger and then cleaning it on his woollen vest. Pereth nodded and Snouty spread his ledger open, pulling out an inkwell and a quill pen as he did so.
"Indeed, Snouty. You know the drill: it's the last day, and we're short some men. If someone asks to sign up, tell them we're full and can't hire. Then offer half the regular wages once they start to leave. The usual works, Snouty: I don't want to be bankrupt by the time I reach the New World, no? Also, make sure that the storage is stocked on the ship and that all sailors receive their discs."
Frans pulled out a small wooden disc from the pocket of his jacket, twirling it between his fingers with expertise. It was completely smooth and black in color, except for an engraved sigil which was painted silver: the symbol of The Fortuna. Snouty nodded and wiped his brow, pushing away some strands of dirty brown hair from his forehead. The top of his head was already bald and it was beginning to spread slowly, but Snouty furiously denied that any balding was taking place if anyone asked it. He dipped the quill pen into the ink and carefully wrote down date and place onto a fresh page of the ledger.
"As good as, nhah, done, sir."
"Good man", replied Pereth and stood up. He stood up from the table and collected his hat back onto his head. As he turned around, the familiar sight of a glass of rum sitting on the bar desk greeted him. Pereth warmed a genuine, heart-warming smile at the innkeeper before he drank down the liquid, laid a few small gold coins on the table and then strode out into the morning light anew. Even after such a brief stint the salty air felt wonderful to Pereth's nose. It brought to him a sense of adventure, of light-hearted derring-do that would lead him into the annals of history. There was no stopping now: with images of glory and immense wealth dancing around in his head, Frans Pereth headed down to the docks, towards The Fortuna that was spending her days and nights moored to a pier until it was time to set sail.
Around this all, the city of Hekstad began to awaken.
Frans Pereth's words settled in the gloomy atmosphere of the conference room, sucked up by hungry ears as soon as they left his lips. Pereth himself, clad in his favourite suit, adjusted the gloves on his hands and then sat down again, falling to the plushy chair behind him and keeping a serious eye on every other person in the room. Along the long hardwood table sat serious men with serious expressions on their faces and, Pereth knew by experience, pockets bulging with serious money. Six of the nine men were humans: two were orcs, and amongst the directors of the Western Sea Trading Company sat one dwarf as well. They stared back at Pereth without betraying a hint of what they were thinking of, but he knew that what they were doing was calculating. The risks, the money involved... The profits that could be reaped. Finally, a cough from the other end of the table disturbed the silence, and a husky, silent voice spoke.
"Young Captain Frans... We've been working with you for a good while now, and we know you can get results. But what you are speaking of is, even if you have proven your doubters wrong before, simply impossible. You are not only trying to take our investments into seas that you have never even seen... But you also try to do this while racing head-to-head with the government and Lord Berik? Frankly, Captain, I see nothing but loss to be reaped from your scheme."
Frans Pereth sighed, and again the attention was on him. He really loved the chairman of the board, Mr. Willkins, he really did, but sometimes... Well, sometimes he just acted like a stubborn old goat. Pereth played around with the large, rainbow-colored feather decoration of his hat as he spoke again, with a sly smile on his lips and his words carefully intoned and calm.
"Mr. Willkins, I must speak honestly here. You and your board, you deal in minor trading. Yes, you are raking in money and customers, but look at you. Spices. Fruits. Almost any man today can charter a rowboat to the New World and come back bearing sackfuls of grenadine apples or ground strangleweed. The prices are dropping, gentlemen, and I know it because I have seen it in my payoffs as well. You also have no power over the politics of this business, nor do you have any say within the government. In short, you are like blind fools sitting on a pile of money. Sure, it is nice to hear that fortune go 'clink' underneath you, but you can see no real use for it."
The damage done, Pereth laid back and smiled as the room broke into a hubbub of murmured conversations interrupted here and there by a few shouts. Finally, Mr. Willkins grabbed a wooden gavel and banged on the table long enough to get silence before straightening the jacket of his black, sensible suit.
"Captain Pereth... We did not invite you here to insult us. Please, if you wish for your trek ever to even begin, you should treat us with silken gloves. We hold your future in our hands...
Pereth laughed. It was a calculated, forced laugh, but it still created a disturbance. Willkins raised the gavel again, ready to demand silence, but Pereth merely raised his hand and stood up. He pressed his knuckles against the table and leaned over it, staring at each member of the board in turn.
"No, you don't understand what I am saying, Mr. Willkins. It is I who is holding YOUR future in MY hands, not the other way around. Without me, this company will slump, sink and perish. It will be slow, and it might not be apparent, but it will happen. Whereas with me, you can soar to heights you have never even dreamed of. You can become KINGS to run this world."
Kings, they thought. Kings handled SERIOUS power, and being serious men they liked serious power. Frans could hear the calculations again, and he smiled because of this. He continued, now concentrating his stare on Mr. Willkins, extending his presence across the table and right in front of his nose.
"If you finance my journey, you will be the most poweful men on Valu when I come back. Riches, fame, power - you will have it all. YOU will be the men who gave money to the expedition that found the world beyond the New World first. YOU can set the rules for this world, not some stuffy government who seek to press it all into the hands of a greedy king. You will be famous, very powerful... And incredibly, incredibly rich."
Pereth sat down again, letting his words sink in again. He grabbed his hat from the table and with a graceful move flipped it onto his head, straightening out the curls of hair from under it while continuing with a happy tone.
"And if I never come back, you won't have to worry about a thing. You won't get connected to it, and I will bear all of the failure on my cold, dead shoulders. You can wash your hands and get on with the spice trading, as always, like I never existed. Gentlemen, you must see that this is a win-win situation, and you don't need a Khysti holy man peering into the future to tell you this."
More murmurs. More conversation. Discussion, arguments, rebuttals and counterpoints. Finally, Mr. Willkins raised his hand and then nodded, solemnly.
"Very well, Captain Pereth. You have... Convinced us. When will you leave?"
Frans Pereth smiled as he heard those words.
---
He smiled right now as well when he remembered those words. They had been spoken two weeks ago, and now fourteen hectic days later the moment he had been waiting for was almost at hand. He could barely WAIT.
Finishing trimming his beard and moustache in front of the mirror, he quickly ran his hand through his curly hair and then placed a forest-green hat on top of it, checking quickly that his matching suit was donned well and the way it was supposed to. Pereth reached down to the bucket of water next to the sink and splashed a few handfuls onto his face before finishing off with the merest touch of wax on his moustache. Finally, Frans Pereth smiled into the mirror: and what smiled back was the most trustworthy sea captain you could ever hope to meet. With that out of the way, the captain of The Fortuna stepped out of the small apartment provided to him by the Western Sea Trading Company and into the streets of Hekstad.
The morning sun played on the wavetops and bathed Pereth in its radiance. He scanned the horizon and noted down the different ships that he saw by habit. The small fishing boats scurried here and there for catches while the huge trading caravels loomed on the horizon, like large blobs that didn't seem to move at all even though they were either embarking or coming from a journey of many months to the New World. The smaller Navy galleons that flanked them were given a cursory glance, and even if he didn't see it he could still imagine the flaming-red symbol of the king of Barista that was painted on each sail on those ships. Grinning and tipping his hat to a passing lady, Pereth took course towards the docks, and mainly the inn known as The King's Bounty.
The news about Pereth's expedition had spread through the grapevine like wildfire. It didn't mean that many people wanted to join on it: in fact, his first mate had had to resort to some not-so-accepted methods for conscripting sailors for the ship. Pereth knew that before dusk tomorrow when they would set sail several would chicken out and never show up at the ship. He had counted about 40 sailors so far, but he needed more. If push came to shove, he'd hire more once reaching the New World, but that would interfere with his plans somewhat and he had decided to try and avoid it more than anything. Brooding over his thoughts, Frans shooed away a few seagulls that were flying above him with his hat and gave a pair of passing guardsmen a most calculated nod and bow.
The inn sat at the waterfront, practically next door to the numerous warfs and piers that spanned the coastline of Hekstad. A part of the King's Bounty was built on stilts: and while those parts were merely storage space and attics, it did give the building an unique look as it leaned over the sea, as if reaching out towards the horizon far away. Pereth took his hat off and shook his hair back into proper place as he entered the King's Bounty through the front door. The barman, a jovial old sailor who was an old friend and employee of Pereth's, greeted his visitor and nodded towards a corner table on the ground floor of the inn. Pereth returned the greeting and then headed for the table and the small, balding man sitting at it with a huge ledger in his hands.
Rob "Snouty" Dockwell had gotten his nickname after a loose sail had smacked him in the face and flattened his nose. He had never gotten a doctor to fix it, and now it had settled into a state where it was twice as wide and half as lengthy as on normal men. He was not a very bright man, but kept the books tidy and helped Frans run things on board. He had been his chosen first mate for years now, and Snouty had grown to respect his friend after seeing him surpass impossible odds and some really hairy situations. Now, Snouty gripped his huge ledger of money and crew matters on "The Fortuna" and smiled through runny eyes at Pereth as he sat down at the table. Snouty rummaged through his leather vest before sticking his fingers into the pocket of his dirty woolen vest and pulled out a pouch of chewing tobacco, offering it to his captain. Pereth declined with a smile and a non-threatening but firm hand gesture, and Snouty nodded before biting off a portion to chew on.
"G'morning, nhah, Captain. So today's the last day, nhah?", asked Snouty, wiping his eyes with a finger and then cleaning it on his woollen vest. Pereth nodded and Snouty spread his ledger open, pulling out an inkwell and a quill pen as he did so.
"Indeed, Snouty. You know the drill: it's the last day, and we're short some men. If someone asks to sign up, tell them we're full and can't hire. Then offer half the regular wages once they start to leave. The usual works, Snouty: I don't want to be bankrupt by the time I reach the New World, no? Also, make sure that the storage is stocked on the ship and that all sailors receive their discs."
Frans pulled out a small wooden disc from the pocket of his jacket, twirling it between his fingers with expertise. It was completely smooth and black in color, except for an engraved sigil which was painted silver: the symbol of The Fortuna. Snouty nodded and wiped his brow, pushing away some strands of dirty brown hair from his forehead. The top of his head was already bald and it was beginning to spread slowly, but Snouty furiously denied that any balding was taking place if anyone asked it. He dipped the quill pen into the ink and carefully wrote down date and place onto a fresh page of the ledger.
"As good as, nhah, done, sir."
"Good man", replied Pereth and stood up. He stood up from the table and collected his hat back onto his head. As he turned around, the familiar sight of a glass of rum sitting on the bar desk greeted him. Pereth warmed a genuine, heart-warming smile at the innkeeper before he drank down the liquid, laid a few small gold coins on the table and then strode out into the morning light anew. Even after such a brief stint the salty air felt wonderful to Pereth's nose. It brought to him a sense of adventure, of light-hearted derring-do that would lead him into the annals of history. There was no stopping now: with images of glory and immense wealth dancing around in his head, Frans Pereth headed down to the docks, towards The Fortuna that was spending her days and nights moored to a pier until it was time to set sail.
Around this all, the city of Hekstad began to awaken.
an original fantasy RP involving the act of deicide. Good times
”Well? What do you divine?”
The large troll known as Grimlug growled as he watched his three shamans work their magic in front of him. The orcs wore leather skirts and had smeared their bare upper bodies with colorful paints and crude tattoos, in an attempt to appease the spirits of their ancestors, Grimlug knew that much. Their other instruments were a mystery to the master hunter: small animal bones, polished and carved with runes of power, were held in plain clay cups and sometimes arranged in intricate patterns on the dusty ground. On a nearby sapling hang the gutted and garroted corpse of a rabbit that had been sacrificed in order to ensure success for the magic. Its blood was now held in a separate cup, and currently the shamans were busy sprinkling powdered parts of the organ of a mountain lion into it, hoping for greater success than in the days before.
They were at the foothills of the mountains around the city of Thorak, having camped there after another wild goose-chase Grimlug had led his party on. The caravan's four wagons formed a semi-circle at the edge of the forest, and the huge troll had withdrawn to the side to consult with his advisors while the rest of his party ate, drank and generally killed time until they would begin marching again. The echoes of laughter and the skittering of the goblins reached Grimlug's experienced ears, but he ignored them for now.
Grimlug was beginning to grow weary of this charade: of the sharp, stinging smell of the shamans' herbs and incenses, of their chants and incantations, of his greatest moment going nowhere fast. Grimlug sneered as the shamans said their spells in a trance, scratching the hard ground beneath his clawed feet with the Fleshtearer, his pride and joy. The claws, once belonging to a dragon of great power, tore into the ground and left scratches as easily as if the dirt was soft snow. He wanted to hunt the gods, to feel divine flesh break in his grasp, to hear the lament of those who once stood above him. To stalk and kill the ultimate prey! And yet they remained elusive and out of his reach, mere shadows on the edges of reality even though they were now flesh and blood. It pained Grimlug to be this lacking in knowledge, and every further attempt on his shamans' part which failed only proved to increase this pain. He hadn't killed anything in days, owing to the speed at which he had demanded the party move at, and it made him even more irritated.
Suddenly, one of the shamans slumped backwards, his eyes rolling upwards until only the whites were showing. The orc's body began to twitch and tremble, and soon bright-red blood flowed out of his nostrils as the waves of power racked his brain and body. The other two quickly moved to their comrades side, holding the shaman's trembling carcass as he reached the peak of his trance. Then, as soon as the communication with the spirits began, it was over. The orc was let down to the ground, weak and gasping for air, but this did not concern Grimlug all that much. He stood up, eyes blazing with curiosity. The tall troll stepped onto the shamans' instruments, reached down and grabbed the shaman by his head with one huge hand, the claws pinning his shaking head enough to get the orc to focus on Grimlug's face.
“Speak, orc! Speak! Tell me of the visions you saw! Tell me everything!”
His other two advisors attempted to stop Grimlug from roughhousing the suffering shaman, but the huntmaster would have none of it. Slowly, he pulled the orc into a half-sitting position, not caring about the whimpers and grunts of pain. Again, he shook the orc for a bit, his face twisting into a snarl.
“Speak! Speak, you useless worm! Where are They? Where can I find Them?”
Slowly, the orc spoke, in a voice that was somewhere between a croak and a whisper. “Kamr'th... A dancer... Shadows that follow... Beware, beware...” Then the stress overcame the strained shaman: his head slumped down, his eyes closed and his breathing dropped down to an irregular wheezing. Grimlug cursed to himself and then let the orc drop on the hard ground, not really caring for his well-being anymore. But what the shaman had said was good enough for Grimlug: he would clutch any straw, follow any lead if there was even a remote chance of him finding what he so desperately desired. He rose up, stretching his back before he grabbed his other weapon from the ground. Holding the staff over his shoulder, Grimlug glanced sharply at the unconscious shaman before he turned to his comrades.
“Take Grothar to the wagon and tend to him. I will not have him die with the information still fresh in his brain. We move as soon as the rest of the boys are ready.”
Not waiting for a response, Grimlug strode back towards the main camp through a thicket of young trees. The troll trampled over saplings, not heeding the splintering wood beneath his feet as he went on. Only one idea burned in his mind: Kamr'th. The great city to the north-east. He couldn't say he was particularly fond of it: neither was the city particularly fond of him or his hunting party. Grimlug seldom showed his face there, only doing so to do trade with the animal carcasses and items that they collected on their trips: once or twice he had been there to accept a mission on the behalf of Ol' Sootface, but that was it. The city was not his grounds: the people, the buildings, it all screamed at him like an open insult to his face. However, now Grimlug merely bit his fangs together and stomached the disgust he felt at such a large gathering of people. If there was prey to be hunted in that city, he would hunt there. As simple as that.
Reaching the main camp, Grimlug stood to full height, observing the grounds for his caravan master Lucille. Seeing no signs of her, Grimlug roared in displeasure and hacked down a nearby young tree with one swing of his staff-like weapon, the heavy blade on the other end cleaving through the sapling with brute strength. A goblin sprang from a nearby bush, black robes flailing about as the small creature tried to sprint past Grimlug. Maybe the whelp had been setting up traps for small game or doing something else, it did not matter to the troll. A backhand from the troll sent the goblin flat onto its face on the ground, and before it could move Grimlug had already placed one of his mighty clawed feet on top of him, applying pressure on the frail creature's body with his bulk.
“Whelp! Where is the woman? I need her.”
The goblin could only whimper in response, and the frustrated Grimlug had no further time to spend on such miserable excuses of life. One good kick sent the goblin rolling away in a ball of green skin, black robes and pain, and then Grimlug continued further into the camp, banging his staff on the ground as he went. Around him, orcs and trolls stopped their gambling games and fistfights and looked at their leader, attentive as he bellowed.
“A'right, you runts! Listen up! We're moving! Get your worthless hides to work or I'll smack the lot of you! And send the woman to me, once she appears. MOVE!”
Grunting a chorus of half-hearted replies, the hunters and other people settled to work. The caravan mercenaries, a bunch of humans clad in black armor this time, stopped their primitive dice games and got up, reaching for their marching gear. Grimlug set off towards his wagon, eyeballing a few lazy trolls on his way, when he was confronted by the person he was originally looking for. Lucille, his caravan master: a human girl of some decades of age, Lucille was plain. At least to troll eyes: then again, every human was plain and uninteresting to Grimlug. She stood much shorter than the troll, and her black hair framed an unattractive face. Her clothes consisted of a leather tunic and some commoner's pants, with a sword strapped at her hip on the right side and a leather whip on the left. By all accounts she had no position to be in this party: however, in her small home village she had been the only one to face down Grimlug as the angry troll had declared a challenge to the townsfolk in an effort to find worthy members for his troupe. She had lost, of course, and for that she even now carried scars on her chest, but it had been impressive enough for Grimlug to invite her along instead of eating her right there and then. Besides, she was good with numbers, something that eluded Grimlug's hardwired mind.
“You, woman. Get the caravan moving. We ride north, and fast. We must reach the big city as soon as possible. Whip the boys if they get lazy on the march, and they give you any cheek I'll rip it off. You got that?”
Lucille nodded and smiled at the large humanoid, but this gesture was lost on Grimlug.
“As you wish. We need to stop for supplies in about a three days' time, but can go on for half a week if we're fast enough. I'll cage up the goblins if things seem to be too slow, then.”
Grimlug grinned and placed his elongated head in front of her face, kneeling down as he did so. With a horrible sneer on his face, the troll chuckled, sending air wheezing out of his nose and into her face. Grimlug knew she hated it, and she knew he loved to do it.
“Oy, that'd be good. And give 'em a kick if they get too troublesome.”
Grimlug straightened up, letting out a bellowing, raspy laugh that shook his chest plate up and down. Traveling felt good, it sent a tingle up his spine and into his every limb. Traveling meant advancing, and advancing meant getting closer to what Grimlug wanted. As Lucille ran off, shouting orders to the hunters and trappers, Grimlug made his way to his wagon, pushing aside the leather flaps to take a glance inside. Amongst the shamans' trinkets and amulets lay Grothar, still unconscious, tended by the other two with wet rags and medicinal herbs. Grimlug grinned as he spoke, holding one leather flap out of his face with his clawed gauntlet.
“And yous better pray he doesn't croak any time soon, or you'll all get to see yer fathers and great-fathers before yer time.”
Around him, the camp began to disintegrate and pack up. They would move soon. The faint smell of blood rose into Grimlug's nostrils and made him salivate at the mere thought: the thought of killing and the thought of hunting.
The large troll known as Grimlug growled as he watched his three shamans work their magic in front of him. The orcs wore leather skirts and had smeared their bare upper bodies with colorful paints and crude tattoos, in an attempt to appease the spirits of their ancestors, Grimlug knew that much. Their other instruments were a mystery to the master hunter: small animal bones, polished and carved with runes of power, were held in plain clay cups and sometimes arranged in intricate patterns on the dusty ground. On a nearby sapling hang the gutted and garroted corpse of a rabbit that had been sacrificed in order to ensure success for the magic. Its blood was now held in a separate cup, and currently the shamans were busy sprinkling powdered parts of the organ of a mountain lion into it, hoping for greater success than in the days before.
They were at the foothills of the mountains around the city of Thorak, having camped there after another wild goose-chase Grimlug had led his party on. The caravan's four wagons formed a semi-circle at the edge of the forest, and the huge troll had withdrawn to the side to consult with his advisors while the rest of his party ate, drank and generally killed time until they would begin marching again. The echoes of laughter and the skittering of the goblins reached Grimlug's experienced ears, but he ignored them for now.
Grimlug was beginning to grow weary of this charade: of the sharp, stinging smell of the shamans' herbs and incenses, of their chants and incantations, of his greatest moment going nowhere fast. Grimlug sneered as the shamans said their spells in a trance, scratching the hard ground beneath his clawed feet with the Fleshtearer, his pride and joy. The claws, once belonging to a dragon of great power, tore into the ground and left scratches as easily as if the dirt was soft snow. He wanted to hunt the gods, to feel divine flesh break in his grasp, to hear the lament of those who once stood above him. To stalk and kill the ultimate prey! And yet they remained elusive and out of his reach, mere shadows on the edges of reality even though they were now flesh and blood. It pained Grimlug to be this lacking in knowledge, and every further attempt on his shamans' part which failed only proved to increase this pain. He hadn't killed anything in days, owing to the speed at which he had demanded the party move at, and it made him even more irritated.
Suddenly, one of the shamans slumped backwards, his eyes rolling upwards until only the whites were showing. The orc's body began to twitch and tremble, and soon bright-red blood flowed out of his nostrils as the waves of power racked his brain and body. The other two quickly moved to their comrades side, holding the shaman's trembling carcass as he reached the peak of his trance. Then, as soon as the communication with the spirits began, it was over. The orc was let down to the ground, weak and gasping for air, but this did not concern Grimlug all that much. He stood up, eyes blazing with curiosity. The tall troll stepped onto the shamans' instruments, reached down and grabbed the shaman by his head with one huge hand, the claws pinning his shaking head enough to get the orc to focus on Grimlug's face.
“Speak, orc! Speak! Tell me of the visions you saw! Tell me everything!”
His other two advisors attempted to stop Grimlug from roughhousing the suffering shaman, but the huntmaster would have none of it. Slowly, he pulled the orc into a half-sitting position, not caring about the whimpers and grunts of pain. Again, he shook the orc for a bit, his face twisting into a snarl.
“Speak! Speak, you useless worm! Where are They? Where can I find Them?”
Slowly, the orc spoke, in a voice that was somewhere between a croak and a whisper. “Kamr'th... A dancer... Shadows that follow... Beware, beware...” Then the stress overcame the strained shaman: his head slumped down, his eyes closed and his breathing dropped down to an irregular wheezing. Grimlug cursed to himself and then let the orc drop on the hard ground, not really caring for his well-being anymore. But what the shaman had said was good enough for Grimlug: he would clutch any straw, follow any lead if there was even a remote chance of him finding what he so desperately desired. He rose up, stretching his back before he grabbed his other weapon from the ground. Holding the staff over his shoulder, Grimlug glanced sharply at the unconscious shaman before he turned to his comrades.
“Take Grothar to the wagon and tend to him. I will not have him die with the information still fresh in his brain. We move as soon as the rest of the boys are ready.”
Not waiting for a response, Grimlug strode back towards the main camp through a thicket of young trees. The troll trampled over saplings, not heeding the splintering wood beneath his feet as he went on. Only one idea burned in his mind: Kamr'th. The great city to the north-east. He couldn't say he was particularly fond of it: neither was the city particularly fond of him or his hunting party. Grimlug seldom showed his face there, only doing so to do trade with the animal carcasses and items that they collected on their trips: once or twice he had been there to accept a mission on the behalf of Ol' Sootface, but that was it. The city was not his grounds: the people, the buildings, it all screamed at him like an open insult to his face. However, now Grimlug merely bit his fangs together and stomached the disgust he felt at such a large gathering of people. If there was prey to be hunted in that city, he would hunt there. As simple as that.
Reaching the main camp, Grimlug stood to full height, observing the grounds for his caravan master Lucille. Seeing no signs of her, Grimlug roared in displeasure and hacked down a nearby young tree with one swing of his staff-like weapon, the heavy blade on the other end cleaving through the sapling with brute strength. A goblin sprang from a nearby bush, black robes flailing about as the small creature tried to sprint past Grimlug. Maybe the whelp had been setting up traps for small game or doing something else, it did not matter to the troll. A backhand from the troll sent the goblin flat onto its face on the ground, and before it could move Grimlug had already placed one of his mighty clawed feet on top of him, applying pressure on the frail creature's body with his bulk.
“Whelp! Where is the woman? I need her.”
The goblin could only whimper in response, and the frustrated Grimlug had no further time to spend on such miserable excuses of life. One good kick sent the goblin rolling away in a ball of green skin, black robes and pain, and then Grimlug continued further into the camp, banging his staff on the ground as he went. Around him, orcs and trolls stopped their gambling games and fistfights and looked at their leader, attentive as he bellowed.
“A'right, you runts! Listen up! We're moving! Get your worthless hides to work or I'll smack the lot of you! And send the woman to me, once she appears. MOVE!”
Grunting a chorus of half-hearted replies, the hunters and other people settled to work. The caravan mercenaries, a bunch of humans clad in black armor this time, stopped their primitive dice games and got up, reaching for their marching gear. Grimlug set off towards his wagon, eyeballing a few lazy trolls on his way, when he was confronted by the person he was originally looking for. Lucille, his caravan master: a human girl of some decades of age, Lucille was plain. At least to troll eyes: then again, every human was plain and uninteresting to Grimlug. She stood much shorter than the troll, and her black hair framed an unattractive face. Her clothes consisted of a leather tunic and some commoner's pants, with a sword strapped at her hip on the right side and a leather whip on the left. By all accounts she had no position to be in this party: however, in her small home village she had been the only one to face down Grimlug as the angry troll had declared a challenge to the townsfolk in an effort to find worthy members for his troupe. She had lost, of course, and for that she even now carried scars on her chest, but it had been impressive enough for Grimlug to invite her along instead of eating her right there and then. Besides, she was good with numbers, something that eluded Grimlug's hardwired mind.
“You, woman. Get the caravan moving. We ride north, and fast. We must reach the big city as soon as possible. Whip the boys if they get lazy on the march, and they give you any cheek I'll rip it off. You got that?”
Lucille nodded and smiled at the large humanoid, but this gesture was lost on Grimlug.
“As you wish. We need to stop for supplies in about a three days' time, but can go on for half a week if we're fast enough. I'll cage up the goblins if things seem to be too slow, then.”
Grimlug grinned and placed his elongated head in front of her face, kneeling down as he did so. With a horrible sneer on his face, the troll chuckled, sending air wheezing out of his nose and into her face. Grimlug knew she hated it, and she knew he loved to do it.
“Oy, that'd be good. And give 'em a kick if they get too troublesome.”
Grimlug straightened up, letting out a bellowing, raspy laugh that shook his chest plate up and down. Traveling felt good, it sent a tingle up his spine and into his every limb. Traveling meant advancing, and advancing meant getting closer to what Grimlug wanted. As Lucille ran off, shouting orders to the hunters and trappers, Grimlug made his way to his wagon, pushing aside the leather flaps to take a glance inside. Amongst the shamans' trinkets and amulets lay Grothar, still unconscious, tended by the other two with wet rags and medicinal herbs. Grimlug grinned as he spoke, holding one leather flap out of his face with his clawed gauntlet.
“And yous better pray he doesn't croak any time soon, or you'll all get to see yer fathers and great-fathers before yer time.”
Around him, the camp began to disintegrate and pack up. They would move soon. The faint smell of blood rose into Grimlug's nostrils and made him salivate at the mere thought: the thought of killing and the thought of hunting.
