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[Dwarmin]

@Germ: A good rule of thumb is 50% Recovery of fired ammo. No need to get into it any deeper than that.

[germaina]

OK, thanks.  I know a lot of GMs play that very different

[Dwarmin]

Prophecy of the Raven Queen, 19th Epiphany


When he fell in battle, I could not mourn him. I could not let go, though, for I had let him die.
I injured my best friend, when he tried to offer comfort. I was a monster.

I traded away everything I owned to find him again. There was nothing more precious in the world, though, I did not nearly treasure it enough.
I broke the trust of them all, though they knew why I did it. I was a traitor.

Though the Legions of Hell stood in my way, I did not falter. At terrible cost to myself, did I brave that shadow, though it was not bravery.
I sundered my soul, just to feel his hand on my shoulder once again. I was a fool.

I found his spirit alight on the wind. He was happy where he was, though, it made him sad to see me again.
I told him to forget about me. I was a coward.

So I became a Ruler, pitiless, and dark and terrible and alone in the cold. And now the realm of my death, my reward and burden.
I cannot forget him. I was in love.

              Maybe one day he will forgive me for what I have become. Maybe one day, when I wake. He will be there.

I hope Souls can alight together.
I hope.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I know our D&D is gone and done. I figured me and Cael needed a proper ending, if an ending it is. And it about reflects my mood as of late, due to other things.
 

[Caellath]

And so his story ended.
He already expected it to end someday, the grasp of death, cold and unforgiving.

It hurt.
And she was there.

He tried his best to convey his message, to tell her to be happy and move on, but it was too late.
The strike came quick and unforgiving, his body torn apart without any chance of salvation.

Blood rose to his throat and he tried to gasp for air, but it was useless.
He crumpled to the ground and he found no comfort in the dirt.

Life quickly drained from him and his flesh became cold, as if it had never housed any feeling. He knew what was happening.
And all that came to him was her image, beautiful and majestic. He didn't know if she was crying, but he knew he wasn't by her side.

It hurt.
And it would hurt for all eternity.


...

Kathryn could feel something poking her ribs, softly at first, then more forcefully, until it is a sharp jabbing.

"Hey, wake up, sleepy head. Rise and shine, and be glad I'm poking you with my finger." Navarre says as he keeps jabbing at her ribs with a mischievous smile. "You've been sweating and twisting a lot in the bed while acting very grumpy. Nightmare?"

[Dwarmin]

Kat breathed sharply, the nightmare collapsing into shards and chips.

She had been so cold. So...dark. So alone.

But now she was back in the warm light, and Navarre was here, and why wouldn't he always be? She rose up without saying a word, before hugging him tightly. Enjoying his warmth. Almost as if confirming his existence, his solidity.

She spoke quietly and reverently. Her usual tone of speech was different...odd. In fact-though few would notice-it was the same tone of voice she had used fortelling Falors death. Which had come true, in the end...

"Navarre? You're still...here...

...Well, Stop poking me, or I'll prick thee deeply in turn. And, indeed...it was something like a nightmare. That black stallion that runs across the minds eye, leaving fiery hoofprints, after images of a bleaker fate.

They say what dreams he sends to lovers, are inevitably sweet poison. Perchance I saw another life, or a fate deferred, or one merely delayed. A cold Queen on a lonely throne.

I dreamed of losing you, because it's only thing I'm afraid of."

She shook her head. Her former strangeness faded, being replaced by her usual self. Her eyes shone dangerously, mischievously. Kathryns grip on him slacked slightly, and her hands began to roam, seeking all the good spots.

"...though it's a small fear. You're not the only man in the world, after all. Some dirt on your grave if there was enough of you to bury, a half dead posy, say a few sad words cribbed from Lons songbook, I would move on. Maybe find a man taller and better dressed. One who could afford a longer sword." She quipped, calling back to earlier words.

[Caellath]

Navarre smirks and points at his sword. The one with a blade, inside a sheath and on top of the nightstand. "I don't plan on dying so soon, dear. Death may be a harsh and inevitable mistress, but I still have some more time to enjoy myself with you."

He winks to her mischievously as he talks, his hands no more on her ribs.

When she talks about how little his death would affect her, the swashbuckler fakes a face of a man who had his heart deeply wounded.
"Oh, with a lover so good to me, people still wonder why I rush in to face enemies head-on when I lack heavy armor and good sense...If you found such man, I'm afraid he wouldn't appreciate you unless you had a beard."

He chuckles, before continuing. "And both of us know that a good sword wielded masterfully penetrates deeper than a greatsword swung by men which lack both technique and passion for their sparring partner."

[Dwarmin]

Kat smiles-that old familiar smile, slightly canted and edgy-and sighs.

"So your saying it's all skill and no quality? Well, Steel goes deeper and lasts longer than bronze. I would prefer both to gold or silver, which cut hardly at all and dents at the slightest injury-more for the shine than the shield.

Lucky for you, I have enough of both for us to compensate for your...shortcomings." She says, nodding in an apt direction.

Kat lays her forehead against his own.

"And don't let me hear about you looking for other women. The only harsh and inevitable mistress you should have is me. Need I punish you once again? Will you ever learn?" She queried, raising an eyebrow.

[Caellath]

"My dear..." Navarre says, pushing her against the bed. "Whoever heard you talking like that would think you are actually good. It is a pity your hips aren't as fast and dexterous in their movement as your sharp tongue is to attack, I say."

"And I believe you forgot you are the one who loses during each and every of our sparring sessions, slick in sweat and out of breath, almost on the verge of fainting because you can't keep with my rhythm. You can't say you don't like my weapon...And it is a pity your magic doesn't help you any in this field." he continues, grinning mischievously.

He winks once again.
"Do you want a rematch to show who is more capable? Someday you could actually win, although I doubt it'll ever come."

[Dwarmin]

"Always the man who underestimates his opponent, who meets his match sooner than he anticipated. And, was it fainting, or perhaps I was just falling asleep from boredom? It can get tiring playing pretend, my dear. But if you require it, I shall cast away some pretty little illusions for you."

She lets herself fall onto bed. A weightless moment. Slip, slip goes the silk.

"...As for a rematch, I am always game for a good spar. I don't need magic to destroy you. My own weapons suffice for that.

Indeed, your life is already in my hands..and my hips.

But today...I will be merciful. You need but ask politely. Surrender?" Kathryn said, eyes glittering once more with humor.

[Caellath]

Navarre eyes the woman like a wolf for a moment - with truly predatory eyes, sparking perilously - before breaking the moment with a short chuckle. "I think it is you who does not understand your position, dear Kathryn. Let us see how if you can try to make good of what you have said so far."

"And surrender when I am the one who's winning? Never." he says with a wide grin, diving onto her with hunger.

[Dwarmin]

"If you won't surrender, than I'm afraid it's war, my love. En Gaurde" She says, matching his tone and rolling with his movements in perfect synchronicity.

...

Kathryn spins out, then back in. Navarre catches her in his arms. She stretches around him, teasing with the utter closeness of the divine. His laughter booms like thunder, and her gravity collides them together once again. She walks out the door and flies in the window. He says sorry. She says please. The ceiling explodes as the stars come out in their endless celestial reverie, comets and stars and planets twisting their lonely way through the black, a cosmic tragedy. She takes his hand and runs across the field of roses-not minding the thorns. He loses her in the dark. She finds him again. Their perpetual motion comes to a relative stop, a momentary surcease of this careless velocity we little people call life.

Breath in, breath out. And then they do it all over again.

...

They will buy a large house on a Hill, and have many children-with black hair and blue eyes.

Finally, they live forever.

The End.

[Doomblade187]

((Reading yours wants me to do my own ending of sorts.))

Jax crawled into his bed- it had been a long night, and he needed some rest. His mind was at war with itself once more, and it certainly didn't help. It seemed like forever ago that he had been a dedicate to Heironeous, had been serving the power of law with valor. But then things had changed. The night he had gone on the raid on the local cult of Armok. They had staked out the location at first, watching the secluded valley as the followers of the bloody god prepared for their rituals. "Keep strong in faith," the priest had said.

But he had already fallen, tempted by all of the sights he saw in front of him- the gleaming weapons, the arcane symbols, everything. He fought at the fringes of the raid that night, almost wishing that the group he was with would perish, that he could spend his life with the followers of this god instead. And indeed, many paladins had fallen then, caught off guard by the ferocious counterattack of the devotees of Armok, losing half their number to the curved blades and cruel bludgeons of the servants of the god of blood.

They had torched the camp that evening, ordering it all be destroyed, as they prepared the bodies of their fallen for return to the city. But even as he torched a tent, he had surreptitiously slipped a holy book of Armok into his haversack, and soon after, fled the paladins and their god. Because he though he had felt Armok's gaze that night, and it was something he wanted to feel again. It would prove harder than he thought, though.

[Sirus]

((Hell, why not? I'ma take some creative license here, but feel free to retcon as needed...))

Lon Gordi, half-elf bard, was going to die. Very shortly, in fact. But first he had some things to do.

The group had broken up three years ago. Since then, he had joined other adventuring parties, improved his skills. Still, none of them could compare to the group, and for one simple reason: none of them had Kathryn. She had settled down with Navarre ((OOC: I think, assuming I'm reading Dwarm's and Cael's posts correctly)), and he had moved on without fulfilling his promise to play at their wedding. Still, he could make amends. His notebook, battered and held together with spit and magic, was tucked in his bag with a hastily-written letter. He would leave them, along with an address, with the local innkeeper; a friendly fellow who delivered anything anywhere for the right price. He had to do it quickly, before his anti-scrying spells wore off and death found him.

---***---

The innkeeper took the precious items for an exorbitant fee, only mildly disappointed that Lon wouldn't be available to perform this coming weekend. Lon didn't begrudge the loss of gold, of course; his only concern was getting away from any innocent bystanders. His hidden pursuer either didn't understand such concepts as "collateral damage", or just didn't care.

He returned to his home, hands clenched in his pockets to hide how badly they were shaking. The "home" was little more than a shack; he lived alone. Tetra had been set free a year ago, when he first realized that he was being hunted. He had no family, no friends, no lovers. It would be better that way. The world need not remember yet another foolish bard, so long as the songs and stories survived.

As he sat down in a wicker chair, he felt his spells slipping away. It was only a matter of time now.

---***---

"Why hello there, Little Gordi. I do hope you're ready for the final act."

There he was, as if he just dropped out of the sky: Marxo. The mad bard, the slayer of so many innocents...and Lon's former teacher of the arts. He wore a jester's diamond-patterned outfit and carried a length of chain. His face, painted the color of fresh blood, was stretched in a rictus grin that somehow exposed every single one of his teeth.

Lon stood up. His hands had finally stopped shaking. "Hello to you, Master. Have you come to kill me at last?"

Marxo gave an extravagant bow, the same way that Lon used to do. "Oh come now, Gordi. Why on Earth would I want to kill you? If it's about not following in my footsteps - such potential you had! - I can assure you that I don't mind."

"You were always a terrible actor, Master", Lon replied, smiling a little. His last joke. It wasn't even all that good.

Lon drew his sword and charged towards the mad bard. Any lingering hopes about being able to strike Marxo down and survive the night vanished  - along with the sword - as the chain wrapped around the blade and wrenched it from Gordi's hands. He wasn't done yet, however: he drew two vicious daggers and whirled to and fro, slashing in desperation, hoping against hope that his War Dance would catch his foe off guard.

Suddenly, his windpipe constricted. Lon dropped both daggers to grab at the chain now around his neck, choking the life out of him. He heard Marxo's voice breathing in his ear: "I see you learned a lovely little dance. Shame that I already knew the steps." The madman pulled the chain tighter, and Lon felt his knees give way. "The curtain is falling, the audience is ready to go home. Got any last words, Gordi? Do you have an encore prepared? Or shall I simply end it here and now?"

Slowly, carefully, Lon reached into his tunic. He pulled out a rolled-up sheet of parchment and shook it open. In the darkness, Marxo couldn't read it. The madman loosened the chain, just a little bit. "Your last will and testament, Gordi? A final speech? I do love a good deathbed monologue..."

Lon smiled brightly. "Actually, it's a scroll with Explosive Runes on it. I had it made specifically to trigger in response to bardic magic."

Marxo screamed with fear and fury as he tightened the chain once more, but not before Lon managed to let out one last, perfect whistle.

Spoiler: The letter (click to show/hide)

Dearest Kathryn,

If you are reading this, then I am no longer part of this world. Let me state for the record that I'm probably rather happy here in the afterlife and do not intend to return. If, however, you were to visit using your Raven Queen powers, I wouldn't mind.

Not a day goes by when I don't regret leaving everyone behind, you and Navarre especially. I could have been your children's vagabond uncle who's always getting into trouble, but spoils them rotten with treats. That might have been nice.

In any case, here's the important part. Enclosed with this letter is my old journal. I call it "The Ballad of Kathryn". It has everything, dearest. Your training and upbringing. All the stories you told. Every adventure we had together (yes, including the hill giants *shudder*), and even some of your own I heard about second-hand. My very best work. Any bard worth his lute would pay a king's ransom to read and retell these stories. Should you ever decide to retire from the glamorous life of adventure, this journal should keep you and your family financially secure for the rest of your lives.

I know I probably disappointed you when I left without notice. Hopefully I'll be able to gain your approval once more in death.

All my love,
Lon Gordi

[Sirus]

EDIT: Holy

[Sirus]

Crap, 504 errors EVERYWHERE