Further confirming that Maloy's wolfman is alive, as well as selectable on the specific person screen. Good luck with your turn, Maloy; I hope everything goes well on your end, and that you have a good time without the pressure to finish it quickly.
(Speaking of turns, I would like to be re-added to the turns list and am posting the first part of my recent one below. Apologies for the lack of images; this is mostly setup for the rest of it.)
Arkur Fedemnoñi slowly crept into wakefulness on the flagstones. One hand instinctively went to the back of his head. Every time he awoke he did this; every time he awoke, he knew exactly what he would find; and every time he did so he involuntarily twitched as he felt the raised scar at the back of his head stinging.
He grimaced at the sensation as he forced himself to stretch, flinching at the numbness in his legs. The straw-coated floor of the cell provided little comfort at night, nor did the manacles set into the wall above them. They’d tried using them only once – his wrists were thin enough to slip out of them every time they tried - but they still served as a bleak reminder that he was a prisoner here.
Prisoner. Not a patient. The letters branded into the wood of its gates claimed otherwise, but he had learned the truth in short order. Though this place wore a hospital’s trappings, none of those within were here to be nursed back to health.
He raised his hand to his ear, sticking a finger in to carefully scoop out the candle wax he’d stuffed in there before he slept. For the past few weeks (at least, he thought it weeks) he had taken to collecting the little blobs of wax that fell from the guards’ candles, using them to stopper his ears against the moans, snarls, and weeping that echoed through the stone of the passageways. It was always at its worst during the night.
The man pushed himself upright and limped over to the door, peering through the bars into the gloom beyond. Nothing stirred in the corridors – perhaps that meant it was early morning. It was easy to lose track of time in this blank, featureless cell. If it was, that meant it would not be long before the guards would be prowling the corridors. And when the guards walked, those who commanded them were never far behind.
A sharp qualm ran through his body at the thought. He had lost track of the times he had been dragged through the stone corridors to their workshops, but he had not forgotten the nature of each session. He had not forgotten the knives and phials of dark, bloody fluids; the scent of spoiled meat and fresh blood, and the hunched, feral creatures that snarled and dribbled bloody saliva through the bars of their cages in the corners of the room. New nightmares to add to the old.
Footsteps rang on the stone. Arkur flinched back as though the door burned, hearing the sound of keys rattling out in the gloom.
The light of the guards’ torch burned his eyes as they opened the door to his cell. He knew better than to put up any resistance as they entered and seized him by the wrists, dragging him upright and into the gloomy corridor. They wouldn’t kill him or strike him too badly, but their masters were all too willing to overlook their subjects’ blackened eyes and split lips when they were dumped into their workshops.
The other prisoners came to life as the guards half-marched, half-dragged him past. White, cataracted eyes, wide with madness, stared out from the shadows of cells. Chains rattled as the livelier inmates threw themselves at their cell doors, straining against their restraints and snarling with murderous anger. He caught only glances of their forms – twisted limbs, blistered flesh, bloodied mouths – but they were enough.
The guard’s grip on his arm went rigid, then slackened. A horrible gurgling noise came from behind him, cutting off into a wet, rattling hiss. Arkur dared a glance behind him, and was greeted by the sight of the guard sliding to the flagstones like a marionette with its strings cut, a long shard of iron protruding from the side of his neck and a red flower blooming across the fabric of his shirt. The other guard was face-down on the stone further back, blood pooling around his masked face.
For a few seconds, Arkur stood dumbstruck, stunned by the sudden demise of the guards. Then something broke, and he scrambled backwards, trying to get away from whatever had killed his captors. Thoughts of escape swam in his mind and blood pounded in his ears as he half-staggered, half-ran forward, trying to ignore the sudden outbursts of noise from the other inmates and the steady thump of boots on the stone behind him. Sweat beaded on his skin as a fire ignited in his chest, fighting against the damp cold of the stone corridors.
Arkur managed only a few steps before he felt a hand clasp his shoulder and haul him backward. He staggered, trying to prise the fingers off, but each one was sheathed in cold metal and had a grip as firm as a corpse’s. Gritting his teeth, he whirled about to face them.
The pair were strangers, both clad in dark, rough-spun cloaks, hoods drawn up over their heads. Arkur caught sight of a tell-tale gleam of metal beneath one, while the other had a swathe of material pulled up to obscure their face – only their eyes could be seen, cold and pale, staring at him through the gloom. Neither looked particularly friendly, the low light lending a sinister, even ghoulish cast to their appearances.
“Come with us,” The one with the fabric-clad face extended a hand down to him. “We need your help, brother.”
Arkur’s instinctual protest died in his throat at that. Whatever they were, however sinister they might have looked and sounded, they were offering him a way out of this hell. He grasped the fabric-clad one’s proffered hand, nodding his thanks to his apparent ally as the man pulled him upright.
“What-? Who are you?”
The man shook his head by way of reply, eyes flicking warily between the slowly-cooling body and the ends of the corridor.
“Not now,” He muttered, gesturing toward one of the bodies. “Put his uniform on and follow me. Need to get out of here, before the guards figure out they’re missing.”
One particularly swift exchange of tattered rags for the guard’s scarred, dented armor later and with a travelling cloak hastily thrown over his form, Arkur found himself being led through the gloom of the corridors. It was slow going; often, they were forced to hide in the shadows of alcoves as one of the prisoners was hauled past by guards, or walk past them with their heads carefully lowered and their faces hidden. Several times he feared they were becoming lost in the maze of cells and tunnels that lay beneath this place, only for them to turn another corner and recognise a familiar stretch of tunnel. They were headed for the courtyard.
Ducking into a cramped alcove to avoid another patrolling guard, one of the two men turned to him, placing a finger to his lips. The other one departed as soon as he had made the motion, slipping through the open door ahead of him with surprising speed and silence for one so massive.
“Stay here and don’t make a noise. We’ll be back soon.”
Arkur slumped down into the niche, mind awhirl. He shifted uncomfortably in his armor; he was drenched in sweat despite the chill in the air, and the blood that had leaked inside was beginning to dry. There was a table and a pair of chairs set into the alcove, littered with the detritus of what looked like an old meal; though the bones lying on the plate were dusty and well-chewed, he couldn't help the sharp pang of hunger that rose in his stomach at the sight.
“What in the devil’s name are you doing here, guardsman?”
Arkur’s breath caught in his throat as he turned to face the source of the voice: a tall, dark-eyed hammerman in bronze and copper armor, his breastplate emblazoned with the sigil of the guards. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Arkur, as though trying to place him; Arkur risked a glance to his sides, but neither of his erstwhile allies had returned.
“I- I’m new here, sir.” Arkur almost cringed at the sheer implausibility of the lie as soon as it passed his lips. The guard raised an eyebrow at his words, walking toward him for a closer look.
“Hm...” The guard’s eyes narrowed to slits as he considered him. “Really, now? Mh. I suppose they must have forgotten to tell me about that.”
“My- I’m sorry, sir. I thought-”
“Come now,” The guard said, sharply. “Tell me, what’s the day’s password?”
“Wh-what?” Arkur stuttered, almost choking. The guard’s hand shifted to his side, unlimbering the heavy form of a large bronze mallet as his face shifted to a sharp glare.
“The day’s password, guardsman. Now!”
“I- I don’t have it! They forgot-!”
“You lie.” The guard growled, stepping toward him. “I ain’t seen your face around here before, and the captain’s said nothing about ‘new guards’. Much less one with those marks –”
His eyes darted about, frantically. His rescuers were gone. There was no time to think. Arkur reached out half-blindly, seizing a tankard from the table and swinging it hard into the man’s temple. There was a dull clunk as it rebounded off the side of his bare head, sending the guard staggering; a sharp, flailing elbow caught him in the nose for good measure, sending him to the floor in a cursing, ungainly heap as Arkur rushed out through the door and into the courtyard.
The low light of the evening stung his eyes as he darted out onto the frosted earth. The main gate was shut. He could see a pair of dark lumps sprawled out near it, just the right size and shape to be a body. Arkur’s heart clenched sharply in fear, beating its rapid tattoo in his chest – perhaps his erstwhile allies had been found and slain. He would need to find another way out, and fast; already he could hear the sound of outraged shouts from the tower, as the wreckage of their earlier actions was finally uncovered.
Yet for all that he looked about the courtyard, he could see no other way out but the gates. The walls were solid, smooth stone; even if he was strong enough to climb them, there were no hand-holds to support his slight form. Those in the keep would cut him down in a heartbeat. Rushing back into the tower was no option, even without the height he’d have to jump from. Arkur’s heart began to hammer in his ears, and he nearly leapt into the air outright as a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Wheeling around, he found his rescuers returned, as if by magic – the towering brute’s gloves were reddened and his cloak dirtied, but the other man seemed entirely unruffled.
“Told you we’d be back.” The livelier of the two commented, a grin audible in his voice. He stabbed a finger toward the wooden gates of the castle. “Now, come! Follow us!”
No further words were needed. The two of them ran, and Arkur followed, past the looming shadow of the main keep, past raised stones and lumps of earth. Their boots crunched frosted grass underfoot, each motion accompanied by a series of muffled shouts and a terrible din from behind them. Surely, it would not be long before they began to be pursued. Arkur thought of the dark, bloody workshops and mouldering cells that lay beneath his feet and physically shook the memory from his head. Move!
Voices echoed somewhere behind them as they rushed across the courtyard, scrambling and skidding down the side of the depression where the main gates loomed. The guards lay still on the floor, heads twisted to unnatural angles. The first of his rescuers slammed into it shoulder-first, growling as the doors resisted his weight; the second joined in moments later, straining with the effort of shifting the heavy wooden gate. It creaked on old hinges, groaning like a dying animal as the shouting and clanking of metal-clad figures came closer and closer –
And then they were out, spilling into the rapidly-falling dark, running across the fields with the earth crunching underfoot and the breath exploding from his mouth in hot, steaming clouds. Arkur had no clue where they were going, but he barely cared. He couldn’t stop now. Twice he caught distant shouting on the wind, and twice he found himself digging into reserves of energy he didn’t know he had to keep running, trailing behind the heels of his stronger, faster rescuers. They ran until he collapsed, legs buckling from exhaustion; the lights of his former prison had long since faded into the darkness of the horizon.
“I think we lost them,” The first remarked, shedding his traveller’s cloak. His features were rough and scarred, worn down by the marks of old fights and blotted on one side by some odd tattoo, but there was a disarming warmth to his voice and manner. “Citoj is circling back to make sure they’re gone.”
Arkur managed a wheezing groan in reply. His chest felt like it was full of hot embers from the exertion of the chase. His rescuer paused for a moment, before carefully slipping an arm under his and pulling him upright, propping him upright against the rough trunk of a nearby tree before he continued to talk.
“Good news: you’re still alive and kicking. Bad news: half the realm wants us dead.” He folded his arms over his chest, giving an almost casual shrug of his armoured shoulders. “You’ve been out of the war for years, and that was before those rubsitot got their hands on you.”
“War-?” Arkur’s voice was barely above a whisper, sanded down into near-uselessness from years of disuse and parched by the chase they’d endured. “What-?”
“It’ll come back in time, my brother.” His rescuer answered, nodding to the other man as his hulking form emerged from the shadows of the treeline. “Right now we need to focus on gettin’ you to safety. Didn’t plan this whole thing out just for you ta’ die in the damn woods…”
“W-who?” His voice was fading in and out of Arkur’s hearing, now that the rush of the chase was wearing off. Exhaustion was setting in fast, greying out the edges of his vision and rendering his limbs heavy as lead. “Who are you…?”
“Who am I?” The man grinned. “You can call me Aril.”
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 475855 times)