Oh the pain. Oh the agony. Oh the two lots of homework I should be doing but ain't.
If anyone can recommend some badass music to listen to while I write, please do so. It helps me think.
Estimated time left: 0 hours. Turns done: 6/6 Extras: 1/1 done.SANCTUARY TURN 4: COMPETITIONThom:
Sometimes, things just didn't work in his favour. His Master had decided that the teacher was 'uneducated and inefficient', and had summarily ordered him to stop the classes. Instead, he'd had the information pumped directly into his brain, which was both unpleasant and very disorientating. Still, easier than getting humiliated by a bunch of brats for a day.
Practice. That's what he needed, or so his Master said. Practice, and money too, 'cause you can never have enough of that. So it was off to the Slums he went, in search of easy targets, and their wallets. The Warrens led everywhere, and soon he found himself on the outskirts - a no-mans-land between the Slums and the city proper. Prepared or no, this place always gave him the creeps.
Miscellaneous bits of plastic were strewn about, seemingly at random, some with the tooth marks still visible. Collapsed buildings were everywhere, foundations gnawed away. The land was unnaturally gloomy, and strange things could be glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes. This place was death, this place was desolation. And this place was a hunting grounds.
He had to be careful. Ferals would rip a Shadow to shreds, were unaffected by their powers. Ferals hated Warlocks, and a Feral in the Slums was always, always hungry. So Thom crept on, cautiously, furtive eyes watching or spots of green. Pools of Shadow bubbled at his feet, awaiting his call. Slowly, he relaxed. This would be easier than he thought...
As the sky grew dark, Thom headed back to the Warrens. He'd killed four today, a family. They'd had a modest amount of money, enough for a few meals. The father had cut his arm though, before he'd died. The cut was minor, but still irritating. But Thom knew how he'd get his revenge, even from beyond the grave. He grinned - his Master knew more than a few interesting tricks...
And elsewhere, in the Slums, in a hovel of a home, a bloodied corpse stirred.
You learnt how to make ZOMBIES! Ok, they're not really zombies. They're bodies held together and moved with little bits of Shadow, and for that reason they're relatively weak, though hard to kill. They will eventually rot away though, and they are very weak in sunlight. Also, fire kills 'em.
You got one zombie now, which is about all you can manage. Bringing one into the city is not allowed though, as it is considered an aggressive act.
Martin:
"Today is an important day. You have a choice. There are, and have always been, two styles of Shaper combat. The Oak and the Sapling."
Thom nodded, observing Art. All the while thinking to himself - what the hell kind of combat is the Sapling?
"The Oak relies on practice, and careful study. You forge for yourself a combat form that is strong, efficient, effective, and able to cope in all situations. It has its limitations, in that you do not learn how to Shape as quickly, and you must be prepared for any eventuality.
The Sapling is reflexive, reactive, responding to your foe. You Shape yourself on the fly, adapting to your environment. Your current form unsuitable? Change it. The limitations being that you find it difficult to fine tune a form to the level an Oak student would, and you must be a quick thinker.
So, boy, which do you choose?"
Martin blinked. That was a tough one. Strong, or fast? Suddenly an image jumped into his mind, of the animals that had been found in his village. The slow brutes, and the fast, though small, predators that had hunted them. And the answer was clear.
"I'll train in the way of the Sapling."
"Good choice. Any particular focus before the Arena? Remember, I want you to at least win the preliminaries."
"Yes sir. I know. I'd like to focus on speed."
"Speed?"
"Yes sir - moving quickly, agility, evasion."
"Ah. You may be worthwhile yet. Lets go to the Gardens - I know just the area for you."
You begin the way of the Sapling, with a focus on speed! I pulled those names out of my ass, so forgive me if they're cheesy.
Yeah. If you'd like, please describe a preferred form (or forms, if you want) that I can use as a baseline, otherwise I'll make it up as I go along.
Trap:
Information. That's what he needed. Crazy prophecy or no, he wanted to know what the hell he was getting himself into. All he knew was that damn near everything outside of the city was probably dangerous, and that was no help. He needed to know their strengths, their weaknesses. And so he hunted down one of the guards, and an academic, and began to talk.
Two hours later, he stood up and stretched his legs. He felt a bit more prepared now, and it seemed the guards were well prepared, which was nice. Still, he felt he needed a weapon more than ever, and enquired where he could obtain one. He was pleasantly surprised when the guard offered him a 'slasher', and advice on how to use it. It was similar to a scythe, though different, and the guards used it with considerable skill.
But it just wasn't his sort of weapon. He spent the rest of the day at the markets, and managed to get one, rather strange, dagger. The stallkeeper had called it a 'bloodthirster', whatever that meant, and it was made out of some strange, oddly light, material. Oh well. It'd do for now, especially if he got the hang of the 'slasher'.
You get a slasher, and a bloodthirster (Warlock ceremonial knife). You didn't reply to the Warping offer, so you miss out this turn. Want to try and create a weapon using your powers?
As for information:
Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, and exist for all sorts of reasons, although they all stem from Shapers. Some are strong, efficient killers, while others are little more than mishapien blobs. Most pose no threat, though you do get the odd aggressive one. The real nasties inhabit the denser forests, so avoid them and you should be fine.
Ferals are the embodiment of a predator. Cunning, intelligent, fast, agile, strong, remorseless, merciless, fearless. Their spit is acid, and their claws and teeth will cut through steel, while their flexinble tail can punch through stone walls. They only have one real weakness - the skin on their throats is unarmoured, and losing a large amount of blood is very fatal for Ferals. Be aware, though they may be killed by other means, Ferals adapt and change, and what may injure one will not injure it again if it returns, and may have no effect on the others.
Deep in Feral territory live tribes of sentient Ferals, armoured with thick metal spikes. They've dined on metals, and are now literally one-person armies, with awesome powers. Don't screw with them though, and they won't screw with you.
Bandits are everyday people, with the average abilities for their respective Castes. No real threat on an expedition such as this, they work alone or in small groups, and aren't particularly powerful, with some exceptions.
The real threat is the Tech-Heads. Amazingly agressive, inhuman, forever lusting for battle. Humans who have literally combined their bodies with machinery to make twisting monstrosities. With all the power of a bulldozer, they are terrors in close combat, though they lack speed and agility. They also pack a range of primitive and not-so primitive ranged weaponry, often jury rigged.
Their weakness is their unpredictability, their aggressiveness, which can be utilised against them, and, most importantly, their reliance on metals. A Metalmorph is accompanying the expedition, and he will disable any Tech-heads that pose a threat. Feral guards also have an opportunity, as they can withstand close combat long enough to severely damage a Tech-Head's mechanics.
Theo:
Kill. Kill. Kill. KILL.
With the bloody mantra running through his head, Theo waited. He hung from the ceiling, nigh invisible, camouflaged in the gloom. His claws were outstretched, and his mouth hung open, occasionally allowing a droplet of acid to fall and sizzle on the floor. His chest barely moved. And he waited.
Then, the time came. With a slow squeal, the door swung open, and a guard furtively peeked inside, weapon at the ready. Food delivery. He was in for a surprise though. Theo would be feeding on more than cheap off-cuts tonight.
With nary a sound, he lowered himself down, claws wrapping around the guard's neck. He didn't know what was happening until he was dead, head seperated from body. With a triumphant snarl, Theo dropped to the ground, and escaped, though not before drinking his fill of blood. Soon, he'd be free, and then he'd have his revenge.
The other guards posed no threat. In a bloodrage, not even the Empaths could stop him, and he stormed through the cells, slaughtering all he saw. Then, finally, he found himself in the light, in the open air. What a sight he must be, dripping with blood, crimson teeth bared in a snarl of rage. He smelled fear, and he revelled in it. No guards would stop him. He would kill, and he would feast!
Unfortunately, it was not to be. Guards soon swarmed him, trapping him, cornering him. What had seemed like easy prey had exploded into fire, or simply stepped out of existence. He had to flee, to feed another day. And so he ran, clambering up the wall he was backed against, sprinting away before the guards could follow. He leapt, down into the murky darkness, and landed in an alleyway. Something was wrong. Something smelled wrong here.
Almost against his will, Theo looked up, into the cruellest eyes he'd ever seen. He lashed out, but the blows were blocked with ungodly ease, with a fluidity that made Theo look like a stumbling toddler by comparison. Then, a force, stronger than anything he'd ever felt before, battered him, pinning him against the wall of the alley. He tried to shriek, but he couldn't. The guards would be welcome saviours from this dead thing. But they didn't come, and Theo could only struggle fruitlessly as his vision faded to black.
You've been kidnapped. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Still, in all fairness, the guards would have slit your throat and bled you out, so you probably got off lightly.
Cullos:
He needed cash. He wanted those weapons. Still, that was a lot of money, and he'd earned barely a fraction of that with his escapades before. He returned to the guards the next day, disappointed.
Soon, though, his spirits lifted. There were flyers all over the city for a 'Race' on today. There was a substantial prize for the winner, more than enough to cover the price of the weapons. He wasn't half bad at running, if he didn't say so himself, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He stood a fair chance, and that was better than no chance at all. Still, the guards seemed less than enthusiastic.
"Hah! You, race? You'll come dead last. That's a Feral event, and everyone knows it. You won't stand a chance - those buggers are like greased lightning."
"I'm fast enoguh"
"Yeah right. Tell you what, I'll give you two units if you don't come dead last. Hows that for a deal, Mr. Confident?"
"Sounds a fine deal to me. Look forward to saying goodbye to your money"
Ignoring the guards as they burst into laughter, Cullos walked off. The race started soon, and all he had to do was not finish last. How hard could it be?
As it turned out, very hard indeed. The 'Race' was less of a race as it was an insane collection of inhumanly difficult obstacles. All the other competitiors were Ferals, just as the guards had predicted, and Cullos felt decidedly out of place. Still, he couldn't back out now.
He removed his tunic, revealing rippling tattoos underneath. They semed to shimmer and move, and were clearly magical. His runes, his marks, they would give him what he needed to win. Or so he hoped, anyway. He stood patiently, waiting for the race to begin. All he had to do was not lose...
And he failed, miserably. The others left him in the dust, gasping for air. He damn near broke his legs on the obstacles, and he could swear his feet were one giant blister. He was completely, toatally, utterly drained, but at least it was nearly over. He could see the finish.
Painfully, he jogged over the finishing line, seeing the guard leader's face. Strangely enough, it wasn't triumphant, but rather, incredulous.
"You lucky bastard. Here's the money."
Confused, Cullos followed the guard's gaze. There, in the distance, he saw a lone Feral, resolutely limping towards the finish line, in a kind of half-run. It was clearly injured, and he knew he would have lost were it not for that fact. Still, luck was on his side. Time to get at least one of those swords...
You get one of those swords from the previous turn. That's all though, although you may get more as things progress. We'll assume you trounce the guards in a sword duel following this, so they'll leave you alone 'bout the swords. Cause I'm forgetful and lazy, no armour. I feel I've been nice enough (especially it was only a fluke I remembered the... unique events of this race)
Joseph:
Damn it, damn it, damn it. Not only did his stomach still ache, but now the Link knew they were onto him. And he only had himself to blame. Revealing his understanding had been a dumb move, and now the whole plan could come crashing down on their heads.
He'd spent the first half of the day tracking down the competitor, the one who the Link had been chasing. Probably an escapee from over the mountains, it pained Joseph to think his actions may have caused the recapture of the Artificier. He had to help him, somehow. First though, he'd have to find the Link.
As he'd suspected, it wasn't easy. The obvious mind of before was now well hidden, and he had to delve far deeper than he would've liked into the collective mind of the city to find it again. It made his head hurt, but at least he'd found him again. He was moving quite quickly, lurking in the shadier parts of the city, by the looks of things. He couldn't feel any other minds nearby, which was a good sign for the Artificier, unless he'd already been killed. Stealthily, he followed the trail, making sure to remain hidden this time. Suddenly, it vanished - it was as if the Link had ceased to exist. Puzzled, Joseph recklessly dived even deeper into the city to try and find the Link, but to no avail.
Puzzled, he looked around, going down the alley he'd last traced the Link to. Halfway through, he stopped. He'd found what he was looking for.
It was a door. Wooden, aged, and inscribed with hundreds of strange symbols, the same symbols that expedition leader had been so interested in. Beyond the door was... blankness. He couldn't sense anything. It was as if it was a hole in the world. Still, he'd found what he'd needed. He'd found the Links hiding place. Tomorrow, he'd return, and repay the Link for the sucker punch of yesterday.
You found the hideout. This has important plot significance, and this is about the time you guys start breaking canon. Hard.
The race that Cullos (flukily) didn't lose!
The Sanctuary Festival
Day 4: The Races
Tania winced as the all-too-familiar twinge shot up her left leg. The Shapers hadn't wanted her to run, so soon after the operation, but what did they know? She'd been waiting far too long for this already – after all, a Feral that couldn't run was no use to anyone. Eventually they'd backed down, realising her decision was final. She was glad for that, at least; she wasn't sure she could have stood up to them had they continued to oppose her.
Today was the day – the Races. Traditionally, only Ferals entered the competition – no one else stood a chance. Once, Tania would have had a fair chance of winning, or at least placing, but that was before she'd had her tendons ripped out. Now, her goal was simply to finish. If she could do that, she was happy. And so she stretched, ignoring the pain in her legs, the one thing the Shapers couldn't heal.
Sue had come, ostensibly to show her support, although at the moment she was busy sharing the latest gossip to anyone who would listen.
“Did you hear about it? Why, it's so terrible, that poor boy's just up and disappeared. I wonder what happened to him, its not like he'd just run off after performing so well...”
Tania tuned her out. Frankly, she didn't give a damn. She only had a little while left to prepare, and her legs still hurt like hell whenever she tried to bend them. Seeing her discomfort, Sue stopped mid-story to offer her help. One touch, and the tension in her muscles melted away. Having Shaper friends had a few advantages, at least, even if they were all nutters.
Stretching one last time, Tania Changed. An itching spread over her, lasting just a few moments, before being replaced with a delicious coolness and a feeling of raw power. A new mind surfaced beside her own, alien yet familiar. Confidence surged through her as she collapsed onto all fours, tail sprouting out behind her. It was time to race.
With the other competitiors, she walked away, giving Sue one last glance as she did so. The crazy old bat was still talking, though she did take the time to give Tania a cheery wave. For a moment she wished she was beside Sue, waving on the other competitors as she had done for so many years. It was too late to back out now though, and so she sank into the other mind, relinquishing control. It couldn't feel fear, after all.
Then, with a bang, they were off. The professionals soon broke away from the rest of the pack, covering the track in great bounds. Tania contented herself with a steady pace, one that she could continue for hours, if need be. She'd need to save her energy for the obstacles up ahead. The first few were simple, just holes a few metres wide. Tania crossed them without even thinking, marvelling at the reflexes she thought she'd lost forever. The next few were harder, however. A series of rickety platforms over a deep gap, a stone wall several metres high, and a treacherously narrow ledge.
The breath rushed out of her as she leaped onto the first platform, claws scrabbling for purchase on the polished surface. That had hurt, but there was no time to stop now. With a grunt, she launched herself to the next platform, and then the next. She didn't care about the other competitors now – her legs were clamouring for her attention, and they were getting it. But she wan't going to stop now, or she'd never live it down. And with that thought, she crested the final platform, leaping to the other side. Her legs almost buckled on the landing, but she'd made it. Now she just had to get past the wall.
Hissing like a burst kettle, she hauled herself up, arm over aching arm. Had she been uninjured, she could have cleared the thing in two bounds. But she was injured, and so she took her time, making sure each claw-hold was secure before shifting her weight, It took forever, but it worked, and that's what mattered. Finally, she hauled herself up and over the edge of the wall, dropping like a stone down the other side. The landing was painful, but it gave her an excuse to catch her breath, before crossing the bridge.
Of the three, this was actually the easiest. It forced you to travel slowly, but Tania wasn't complaining. A few times a gust of wind caught the rickety structure, but she just waited it out. She didn't trust her legs to keep their grip when the whole 'bridge' (really little more than a thin pole with supports) was swaying. It was with a sigh of relief that she finally made it to the other side, though she could not help issuing a hiss of despair when she saw the final obstacle.
Another gap, far larger than any she could hope to simply leap across. Emerging from the hole at several points were wooden columns, some bearing the gouges of the others' passing. Tania cursed under her breath as she ran towards it, feeling the complaints of her aching muscles. Momentum was key here – if she stopped, she fell.
Screeching like a banchee, Tania leapt. At the last moment, she twisted, claws latching on to a support. Without hesitating, she pushed herself off again, leaping towards the next support, and the next, roaring with pain on every bound. When she finally landed, disbelieving, on solid ground, she collapsed almost immediately. But it didn't matter – she could afford to take a break. She was on the home straight!
All that was left now were a few small holes, a few hurdles, and the final stretch of flat ground before the finish line. She could do this, it was nothing compared to what she'd already done. Just as soon, as she'd caught her breath, she told herself. But it didn't seem to come, and when she tried she stand, her legs refused to support her, dumping her back to the ground, hissing furiously. This couldn't be happening, she was almost there!
Screeching, she tried to get up, again and again, but her legs were useless, unable to carry her weight. Then, in her despair, she heard a voice, a voice she never thought she'd hear again, haunting, wise and yet so young.
“There is always Hope.”
Tome was a fat one to talk, he was the one who'd taken Hope away from her. None of them had suspected Tome, young as he was, but he'd been playing them all for fools from the very beginning. He'd killed Hope for his own shadowy purposes, and now he was back from the dead to get her too. Well, she'd show him. With renewed vigour, she rose to her feet, red-hot fire flooding her veins. Surrenduring to the beast, she roared, and charged forward at the spectre, waiting just out of reach. Grinning, he turned and ran, somehow remaining just in front of her snapping jaws.
When she came back to herself, Tome was gone, if he'd ever been there at all. In her rage, she'd cleared the final obstacles with ease. She'd come stone cold last of course, but that didn't matter. She'd made it, and proved all the naysayers wrong. Sue was waiting there, gnarled old hands miraculously stealing away the aches and the pains. There was only one thing missing; she had someone to visit.
It was late afternoon now, and she was human again, thick clothing obscuring her form. In one hand she clutched a bunch of flowers, a shining black, specially made by Sue. Slowly, she walked down the old path, counting off the familiar rows until she found the marker she was looking for. Reaching out, she brushed away the creeper, her hands tracing the familiar engraving on the tombstone.
“Hope will not be forgotten.”
Stooping, she laid the flowers on the grave. Then, thinking, she extended one finger, the very tip transformed into a claw. Slowly, carefully, she etched out a single word at the bottom, before turning and walking away.
“Thanks.”
It doesn't get any easier. The next update may take even longer, as I have no computer access this whole weekend. Not to mention I haven't actually written out the canon events of the next day yet - day 4 was as far as I got.
As always, point out any mistakes.
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Topic: Changing Lands - A Roleplaying Epic! (Read 13043 times)