Eleas wrote:If it is too onerous, you might try writing it from their perspective. That is, in the way they would have told it. I imagine it would go something like this:
"Report? All right. Two weeks out, we smelled horse manure. By nightfall we found them. We waited and struck at midnight. Sentries were lazy and got the knife. A few survivors fled. Can't hide that good in snow though. Took some days more, then it was quiet again. Two hundred less Khaduli now. We kept some horses, killed the others. Then we rode back. Look, my throat is dry. Can we skip this bloody speech already?"
No. That's not how it will go.
It will be a tale of the Khaduli hunting one of them down like a dog, dragging him back to their priest, maybe even the Big Bad. If s/he gets dragged there, it's going to be even more gruesome. The Khaduli have turned blood sacrifice into a high art -- any ranger caught will have days of suffering before s/he is finally killed and eaten, and even then their soul will be denied solace, as it will be yanked down to the Maw of the Khaduli's dark god to be devoured again.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Eleas wrote:If it is too onerous, you might try writing it from their perspective. That is, in the way they would have told it. I imagine it would go something like this:
"Report? All right. Two weeks out, we smelled horse manure. By nightfall we found them. We waited and struck at midnight. Sentries were lazy and got the knife. A few survivors fled. Can't hide that good in snow though. Took some days more, then it was quiet again. Two hundred less Khaduli now. We kept some horses, killed the others. Then we rode back. Look, my throat is dry. Can we skip this bloody speech already?"
No. That's not how it will go.
It will be a tale of the Khaduli hunting one of them down like a dog, dragging him back to their priest, maybe even the Big Bad. If s/he gets dragged there, it's going to be even more gruesome. The Khaduli have turned blood sacrifice into a high art -- any ranger caught will have days of suffering before s/he is finally killed and eaten, and even then their soul will be denied solace, as it will be yanked down to the Maw of the Khaduli's dark god to be devoured again.
Well that's a good reason to fight to the death if I ever heard one. The Rangers are in for a tough time though, that's for sure. To have any real chance they are going to have to be mounted on horses themselves; the sort of small scale raiding they will be undertaking is something horse nomads like the Khaduli are likely old hands at. Home field advantage is perhaps the only advantage the Rangers will really have. Hopefully the terrain will help them out and a good part of the kingdom is bad horse country, but considering the warrior nobility are all lancers, I doubt they will be that lucky.
The soul of someone willing to take up a task like that is a soul that'd be fully ready, willing, and smartass enough to spit in a dark god's eye after death. Or, y'know, just stupid, but I imagine the former would be more fun to write, and definitely to read.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
"I'm told you know the Beastlands," Trizkel said to the being seated before him. The muscular drow was standing with his arms crossed, a pose calculated to intimidate. Magic glinted on a dozen jewels and talismans arrayed over his body.
The gnome leaned back in his chair, a cocky grin on his face. There was a bowl oozing some kind of smoke that irritated Trizkel's nose on the table which the gnome had been inhaling from. The scout was barely more than half the drow's height and far from imposing. He was slender and wore his blond mustaches long and his beard short. His hair was scraggly and his features were pointed like a fox. He wore a padded jerkin over patched trousers and shirt. The jerkin was covered by leather straps and spouted numerous pockets. A variety of arcana and gadgets hung on the harness or protruded from the pockets. After letting Trizkel stew for a long moment he answered. "That I do."
"We need a guide," said Trizkel.
The gnome craned his neck and looked around the drow on either side. "You're with the humans?"
"Yes," said Trizkel.
"Well, I've seen stranger things. Can't recall any of them at the moment, but I know I must have." A pair of bipedal rhinoceros creatures crossed between Trizkel his companions, momentarily obscuring the gnome's view. They heavily armed mercenaries slowly trundled over the bar with their bucket sized mugs and asked for a refill. Loudly.
"We need your help."
"And I need all drow in all the planes to die bad deaths," said the gnome. "Unfortunately, we're both going to have to live with the disappointment."
"I can pay. Generously."
"Does your payment options included taking a long jump through a Negative Energy Plane portal?"
Trizkel ground his teeth in frustration. "If there's no way that you'll help us, there's no reason for me not to kill you. There are a lot of bad ways to die. They aren't nearly as unpleasant as what I'm going to do to you."
"There's the drow attitude I know and love," said the gnome. "Do you know what I call that? Grounds for self defense, that's what that is."
"Go ahead and reach for it," Trizkel replied. "You're fast, but not fast enough."
"Boys," said Sylvetria, mightily resisting the impulse to roll her eyes. "Triz, my beloved husband, you need to back off. Right now. It's now working."
Trizkel snarled, but turned away and stalked to the other side of the bar.
"You married a drow?" said the gnome. "You're crazier than a whole damn clutch of Slaad."
"Master Deepburrow," said Sylvetria, letting the comment slide by, "our friend is in great danger. We have to go to the Beastlands to try and save him."
"Drow don't have friends," grumbled the gnome.
"Maybe," said Sylvetria, "but I do. A good man is going to die if you don't help us. We need to speak to the Cat Lord."
"The Cat Lord?" asked Deepburrow. "Why didn't you say so?"
"You'll help us?" Sylvetria asked.
"Of course I will," said Deepburrow. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is near his palace? Cat mages, shadow panther stalkers, dragon eating great tigers, and the gods only know what other kinds of lethal feline. They're capricious as a demon horde and as merciless as Yugoloth mercenaries. It would be an absolute pleasure to convey a drow to the general vicinity of the Catlord's demesne."
"General vicinity?"
"Good gods woman, do you think I've been there my self? Hells no. Actually the Hells are considerably safer. I can get reasonably close and point you in the general direction. For the right fee."
"Of course," said Sylvetria. "You'll get every penny."
Last edited by Imperial Overlord on 2009-12-04 05:29pm, edited 1 time in total.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Now it's time to see if loving on the servants of the Cat Lord will grant protection to his realm.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Lania pulled the collar of her fur lined coat closer around her throat. "Too cold?" asked Nalifan, his breath emerging in puffs of fog.
"The wind," she said, shivering.
The drow gestured toward towards her and muttered a few words. A warm orange glow engulfed her and drove away the cold. "For all problems, an appropriate solution." A gust of wind caused him to sway softly in the air.
Both of them were suspended two hundred feet in the air. Below them soldiers marched through the snow in formation. In between the blocks of men that were the various companies of the army were five cadres of mages protected by soldiers armed with crossbows and tower shields. At the sides and fore of the army were the heavy cavalry, the hereditary warrior elite and the lords they were sworn to along with the champions of the Trinity.
Nalifan threw a bolt of crimson light across the sky and the infantry condensed into a denser formation while the heavy cavalry prepared to counter charge. The two flyers swayed as the wind gusted fiercely. Lania gasped.
"You're perfectly safe," said Nalifan. "My magic will support you."
"I would feel safer if there was something solid under my feet. Or under my ass. I heard you had a flying horse."
He grinned. "A flying demon horse. He'll bite your face off given the opportunity. I only bring him out for battle."
She changed the subject. "How are things going?"
"They're slow. Clumsy. The Khaduli were easily twice as good. It's about as good as could be expected."
"That doesn't sound good."
"It's what can be expected under the circumstances," Nalifan replied. "This is an army built around feudal levies around a core of a semi-professional royal army and augmented with ecclesiastical shock troops and a green and barely integrated mage cadre. The Khaduli are fighting in their traditional manner, now united under a undisputed ruler and with years of experience and success. No Vanyard army could be their equal."
"So we're doomed?"
"Hardly. We're doomed if the only thing we do is fight their army with our army while under equal footing and what kind of fool fights like that? No, I'm going to bleed the Khaduli white, force them to fight under conditions that favor us, and break their backs. I have more irons in the fire than merely an army of men."
A trickle of men and women trudged north over snow laden roads. Feet trampled soft snow into a hard pack as refugees fled north. They were a tiny fraction of the population of southern Vanyard, but few could be convinced to evacuate in the middle of winter on the word of an inhuman foreigner.
Thousands travelled north, but tens of thousands remained behind. Families huddled in inns and barns during too cold nights as they moved with their greatest treasures carried on their backs or upon beasts of burdens. Some fell by the wayside and lay frozen in the snow. Others were robbed or extorted by those who had need food and shelter. They were the lucky ones. The unlucky stayed behind.
Hard eyes gazed north from the other side of the Serpent River. Even with breeze, the temperature wasn't much below freezing. The Khaduli scouts were inured to hardship and warm under fur, felt, and leather. The snow under their horses' hooves was old and marked with the paw prints of a hundred scavenging animals. A clan had died not far from here, but that did not disturb them. Everything died. In the end, even the Khaduli were meat. That was how things were and how things would ever be. They had little fear of death, for everything came to the god in the end. There only concern was how they were going to put the next nation to the sword.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
"How much more fucking jungle until we get there?" Trizkel asked. Ahead of them the perpetual sunset was barely visible through the trees.
"What ya grousing about long legs?" said Wuffel Deepburrow. The gnome was walking just behind Trizkel, falling in the wake the drow hacked through the underbrush. "Not making good enough time for ya? You've only rushed into three ambushes so far. Wanna go for four?"
"All spotted before they were sprung and all easily dealt with," said Trizkel. "The Cat Lord."
"The Cat Lord's Prowl," corrected the gnome. "And trust me, I'm eager to get rid of you. I'm taking you there as fast as I can."
"Haven't seen many cats yet," said Mikos.
"Of course not," said Deepburrow. "We're near the prowl. It's kitty-kat paradise. If you lived right next to paradise and had an invitation to move in, wouldn't you do it? Now admittedly cats are just dumb animals, but since you're 'friends' with a drow, you don't have any grounds to look down on anyone else's intelligence. So cats, being smarter than you, move into paradise. But being cats, sometimes they go prowling outside."
"Which means we could stumble across one at anytime," said Mikos.
"Except they're hunting cats," said Deepburrow. "Hunting cats from the Beastlands. Stronger, smarter, sneakier than merely mortal animals. Some of them people smart. You'll find them when they bite through your skull."
"Your low opinion of my sensory capabilities is amusing," said Trizkel. "But I begin to tire of your insults. The prospect of cutting off your legs and leaving your for the cats is gaining appeal."
"Love you too you drow motherfucker."
They trudged uphill in silence. Behind them a crescent moon hung low in the perpetual twilight sky. Below them the jungle gave way to rolling plains of tall grass and scattered clumps of forest. "The Prowl," said Deepburrow. "Far as I go. The Cat Lord's place moves around. You'll have to talk with the kitties to find it or get lucky. Either way I'm gone. Thanks for paying in advance."
Mikos watched the gnome vanish back into the jungle. "Think he screwed us?"
"Of course I did!" the gnome yelled back. "I took you right were you wanted to go. You couldn't get more screwed this side of the Abyss!"
"Good ears," said the Dalesman.
"Not really," said Elvarra.
"Everything is relative," replied Mikos.
Elvarra made a dismissive motion with her hand. "If he has failed us, I will kill him. Horribly."
"Trust me princess, I had no doubts on that score."
"He got a little green around the gills when Nalifan started throwing people into the fireplace in the study," Trizkel confided.
A puzzled expression appeared on Elvarra's face. "Why?"
"I can tell you from first hand experience that it's big enough to fit a fat human and a roaring fire at the same time," said Trizkel. "A fat man, a fire, and the leg of the drow pinning the human inside while he burns."
"You should talk," Elvarra said. "I've never seen you to go to work on anyone."
Sylvetria eyed her husband. "What can I say?" said Trizkel. "I don't have any taste for it."
"If you weren't such a good killer it would be shameful to be seen with you," said Elvarra.
"And that's why I'm married to Sylvetria and you're sleeping with Nalifan," replied Trizkel.
"More than just sleeping," said Elvarra softly. "I miss more than his absence from my bed."
Sylvetria put her hand on Elvarra's shoulder. "We'll find him."
Elvarra shrugged her arm off. "Enough of this indulgence. Our goal awaits." She started walking forward through the tall grass.
"She's still afraid to show softness," Trizkel said softly, his lips mere inches from his wife's ears. "Don't let her insecurities bother you."
"She hides pain behind arrogance," said Sylvetria. "She has my pity and my friendship, but I will never show her the first."
"You're very wise."
"I know. Let's catch up before she gets jumped by a tiger."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
It needs to be explained to the Drow that to humans the smell of burning man-flesh is a hardwired Bad Thing. I'm not sure they quite grasp that. Also, burning a man alive properly requires burning him slowly so he doesn't die the second he breathes in flames. So it smells even worse.
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)
Remember, by our standards this is an incredibly primitive culture. Magic aside, they really don't know much about how things work, even (especially) themselves.
"Not much longer now," Nalifan said. The drow was kneeling in the snow, his eyes gazing sightless into the distance. In his mind's eye the image of a field covered with a thin layer of snow fell away. He rose. "Snows melting south of the river. They'll have fodder for their herds."
Behind him stood a half circle of men. "They'll be coming. Get the army ready to march."
"To the Bastion Bridge?" asked Handren.
"To start with," said Nalifan. "They won't attack there."
"It's the only crossing, especially with the Serpent swollen from the spring melt."
"It's the only mundane crossing," Nalifan replied. "One they will suspect is rigged and they know is heavily fortified. Even with magic enough to blast holes in the walls and slaughter defenders, they will pay a heavy price in blood to attempt the crossing and they might not succeed. No, the Bastion is a poor choice for them."
"So they'll use magic to force the river?"
"Yes," said the drow. "They aren't subtle or particularly skillful weavers of spells, but their anthrophagic and thanatological rituals give them a lot of power to throw around. The horde is too big to hide and crossing piecemeal is suicide. We'll see them coming in enough time to meet them."
"Forcing a river crossing is dangerous and bloody business," said Duke Ericorn. "If you can keep their sorcerers off our back, we could smash them if we catch them before they cross."
The King of Tribes tore the meat off a thigh bone with strong, white teeth. Two years ago a blow from a mace had destroyed his lower jaw and shattered most of his teeth. Now there was nothing to show that he had ever taken such a wound. He passed the bone to the man on his right. Krazad took it and bit off another strand of flesh. Both men ate human flesh every day. The hunger was upon them as it was upon their god.
The King of Tribes burped loudly. His hands and face were smeared with red. "The witches have said that the snows are melting in the north," he said loudly. "Our scouts confirm this." The men around his fire nodded and muttered. They were great men, each one a storied warrior and leader of men or a magician of fell potency. Witches passed among them, trays holding cuts of human meat in their hands.
Radiku, a middle aged warrior with strands of grey hairs among the black, nibbled on a rib and then cast it into the fire. "These ones are different. They command strength enough to destroy a tribe, even if it was the least of the twelve. Destroy it with magic." He tossed the rib into the fire.
"Did the god come to you in a dream and promise all your victories would be easy Radiku?" asked Krazad. The Carnivora mimicked his action, tossing the thigh bone into the flames. "We face two obstacles. The river and their whore-witch. The river is easy to overcome. We have tamed its like before. The black skinned whore is clever and has enough power to be reckoned with, but once his tricks run out he will fall before our strength and we will have our way with him."
"I didn't know you liked boys," said Gristu, the youngest warrior at the circle. He face was marked with zig-zag ritual scars. "Maybe I should give you some as a gift if you're finished with girls." The warriors around the fire howled. Even the King of Tribes grinned.
"When I'm finished with girls you can eat my flesh," replied Krazad. "I certainly won't have any use of it then." There was another round of laughter. "As for boys, they taste better than mutton."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
The door to the queen's solar swung open and Nalifan strode in. "Excuse the intrusion your majesty," said the drow. "We need to speak. Alone."
The queen's ladies in waiting fluttered around like a flock of birds who had just found a cat in their midst. "This is most improper," said Lady Holliswood, the senior of those present and a would be tyrant.
Nalifan ignored her. "Now, your majesty."
"Leave us," said Alyssia. "All of you." There was a moment of shock and then resignation. The women began to drift out of the room.
"Him to," Nalifan said, pointing at Ralsen.
"My protector as well?" the queen asked. Ralsen merely stood and stared.
"Most definitely," said Nalifan. "Send him away."
Alyssia nodded. "Go," she said to Ralsen. The knight bowed and walked out. She waited until the door was closed. "Now," she said, turning back to the drow, "what is so important?"
Darmira watched as Nalifan walked towards her, his boots barely touching the top of the melting slush. "About time you showed up," she said. "Half the day is gone."
"Household matters. If my generals can't get the fucking army marching without me holding their hands I should know now, yes?"
"Yes," she said as he walked by her side. One of her household knights passed the reigns of the horse to the drow. "Also, you might want to reconsider traveling without your own personal brothel."
"Where would the fun be in that?" asked the drow. "Austerity isn't any fun and it will come soon enough."
Darmira considered pressing the point and then changed the subject. "How do you do that?"
"What?"
"Walk on top of the snow?"
"Elf magic. Very old elf magic. Some of your rangers probably know the trick." He swung into the saddle. "Shall we join to rest of our army?"
"Finally," she said. "Although we don't have far to go."
"Big armies move slowly, those with foot soldiers even more so and that's without winter. Get used to it."
"You don't seem worried by it."
"I'm not. You can't hide the movement of an army that large from a diviner of my power. Of course, that cuts both ways. They'll know we're coming to meet them."
"Forcing a river crossing, light horse against knights and heavy footmen? We'll butcher them. I suppose they're relying on sorcery to change that?"
"Of course they are," said Nalifan. "They have more than enough power to create their own bridge and turn every one of your men into torches."
"Odd thing to smile over."
"Their mages are used to swinging a hammer at long lines of hobbled cattle. I, on the other hand, am from a people for whom magic is only slightly less natural than breathing and have been trained for longer than a human life time to win a wizard-war. I'm the only one who is on familiar ground and I don't intend to let the Khaduli get a firm footing."
"Pretty words, but we haven't won."
"I'm a wizard. Our words shake the multiverse to its foundations."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Nal's at the level where that kind of arrogance is fully justified.
There's an interesting question(and follow-ups) that's only just occurred to me. What happens if he dies on Planet Geas(whatever the proper name for the place is)? Would he revert to his primary clone immediately? Would that clone be compelled to make its own way to Planet Geas without knowing why, or even be directly drawn there by the force of the Summoning and Binding spell's residual effect? Would the Binding simply keep his spirit on that plane until the duration elapses? If it does, would one of his clones activate anyway, with inevitable hilarity ensuing when the resurrected Nal meets his possibly Soulless clone in the future?
Baughn wrote:Hm. Might be a bit off-topic, but what, if anything, do souls do in this universe?
Since it's D&D, they migrate to the appropriate Outer Plane if they don't get lost along the way or directed somewhere else. As they've changed exactly how the clone spell works over various editions, I'll simply address the version Nalifan uses. The clone is empty until filled by a soul and it will draw Nalifan's soul to it. As for what happens to the geas, that depends on whether it is anchored in his mortal flesh (as is conventional) or has hooks into his soul.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Baughn wrote:Okay, but you mentioned a clone possibly waking up without a soul. How does this differ from waking up with one?
I don't recall doing so. In any case, Nal's clones won't wake up without one. Previous versions of the spell totally avoid the question and can have multiple copies try and murder each other to be the single "true" person.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Baughn wrote:You're right, you didn't. consequences did. Thanks for answering anyway, though.
Hm, so what's the purpose of the brain in this universe? Cooling the blood?
I didn't invent D&D's cosmology so technically you can't blame that particular mess on me. The best explanation I have is the soul is software generated by and run on the meat body brain. It can be translated into incorporeal soul stuff, but runs better on meat (which would explain why the afterlifes are physical realms). It the brain is damaged, the soft ware is still there, it just can't be run as well on the crappy hardware and some parts of the program might not work at all.
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
It lives! A sentiment which, very soon, will not apply to the Khaduli.
Conversion Table:
2000 Mockingbirds = 2 Kilomockingbirds
Basic Unit of Laryngitis = 1 Hoarsepower
453.6 Graham Crackers = 1 Pound Cake
1 Kilogram of Falling Figs - 1 Fig Newton
Time Between Slipping on a Banana Peel and Smacking the Pavement = 1 Bananosecond
Half of a Large Intestine = 1 Semicolon
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)
