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Sendor War: Sandy Wields Childbearing Hips to Great Devestation on the Battlefield

Page history last edited by rgs 14 years, 11 months ago

Logfile from Ten.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--<* The Front Lines *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

         This is a hilly area on the outskirts of southern Sendor. Bludguni and Myrrish troops face each other across a wide valley. With the spring thaw, the entire valley has been churned into a disgusting, bloody mud by the two armies. Bludguni forces currently hold the pass and the high ground, and are camped behind the hills. The Myrddion army is camped a little distance away, by a stream fed from a different, cleaner valley without a handy pass. Up near the head of the valley, the Bludgun army has left behind a huge mass grave that is said to be haunted.

Near the Myrrish camp, far away from the actual front lines as to be considered fairly 'safe' at the moment, is the de-facto command center and entertainment establishment in the area, a tavern called the Blushing Rosalia. It's somewhat the worse for wear, but the many officers and adventurers in the army provide the owners with a steady supply of coin.

Not far from the Blushing Rosalia are the numerous tents that make up the field hospital, where the wounded are brought back to be healed. The air near those tents smells of whiskey and herbal poultices.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Myrrish Camp <MC>         Fort Getty's <FG>         Road To Sendor <RTS>

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Ceres has arrived.

Sophia has arrived.

Skirmishes abound in various places and in various degrees of intensity upon the front lines. The stalemate between teh Bludguni and Myrrish forces has caused small troop movements and little fights and clashes here and there to be the order of the day with the frequency and intensity growing now that the spring thaw has arrived. For the most part these skirmishes are between the various troops and holdings of the armies but the occasional mercenary adventurer can be found here as well, making his or her way across the lines towards one of the established base camps. Sometimes the Bludguni may find such a person or person(s) and find them easy pickings for quick plundering or a joy-ride of the battle. This would be one of those times when that was not the case for the lone adventurer for this particular episode happens to be Arngrim.

Essentially a one man unit, or five, unto himself, the huge dranei stands in the middle of a broken band of fel orcs and bugbears at the closing of what looks like a fairly one-sided matchup. A few yet live though most look like they've been hit repeatedly by massive sledge hammers or had blocks of adamant dropped on them. The giant-blooded currently has one fel orc wrapped up with a single immense arm and pressed up against his chest, slowly crushing him as he speaks. "So sorry. But maybe you sould have taken dance lessons, no?"

Not to far away one of the bugbears stirs and begins to raise a crossbow, aiming at Arngrims back. The man seems oblivious to the threat.

Beyond the front lines, a bonfire rages. Beyond the front lines, men dance and sing. Ahead of the line, a sith'makar emerges, leaning against the shoulders of one Srassha, a great beast whose muzzle nips the sky--or her rider's helmet. She has it in her jaws while he laughingly jumps for it. As much as a man in armor may, but he tries--roaring something at her in the Old Tongue, rough hisses and spits related to the joviality of the occasion.

And then one has to realize where they are. Srassha blinks when he stops paying attention to her. Blinks great big eyes that are round and then narrowed, reptilian. He stares, too, and the helmet falls unheeded into the bloodied grass.

"...mrm, well. Hey, Hammer. Who said you'd get to have all the fun?"

There are a number of sources for the dancing; the fire is an important one, high spirits is another. Thirdly? The bards have decided to play or sing, or just join the dancing as well. One said bard isn't dancing, but is offering her voice, even if it's just notes to go up and down with the beat of the drum, perched on a support off to one side.

From behind the bugbear comes a sound suspiciously like a "tsk tsk". Following that sound is the solid *THUNK* of a heavy mace cracking into the bugbear's head. Sophia looks up, seeming like she's just gotten back from checking on another group of warriors, the cleric's mace gleaming with an azure light. She looks up towards the giant-blooded one, and chuckles a bit despite the situation. Of course, this type of environment isn't exactly new to her...

--------------------  At a glance around The Front Lines  --------------------

Sophia           53s 5'8"     153 Lb                                 

    A young highborn woman in priestly attire.                                 

Ceres            28s 5'8"     130 Lb     Grey Elf          Female   

    Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful                           

Darshan           0s 6'4"     274 Lb     Sith'makar        Male     

    Darkly scaled sith in blacksmith's clothes and iron                       

Arngrim          11m 8'9"     1045 Lb    Giant-Blood                 

    An impossibly colossal man. Did we mention he's huge?                     

==============================================================================

Arngrim releases the orc with a gesture of his huge arm and sends the creature sprawling to the ground with a meaty and wet sounding thud. "Run away." he says while turning just in time to see the Bugbear fall to the ground courtesy of Sophia and then both the music of the bard and the nickname give to him by Darshan registers in his ears. "Hammer?" he intones, "..Hammer?" He chuckles a little bit and says, "...That is a strange name." He nods his head to them all and then gestures to Sophia and then down to the Bugbear, "My thanks."

So it goes. The song of the battlefield, the song of the camp. The song of giant lizards, of steel and maw, of battle-yells of...female clerics. It's a theme among the priestesses of Althea, marked with maces and the ever-more-fierce frying pan, and gives the sith'makar pause. The man approaching him, too--a man in spiked armor with a great blade across his back. Maugrim's blade, the one that, you know, just screams 'I'm compensating for something.'

And Darshan starts laughing again. Laughing--before doing what paladins do best. Drawing his own, and, howling, running after the other, and shoving shoulder into steel into steel into steel. He shoves the warrior right towards the giant, a metal warrior now with windmilling arms, and toppling like a tower towards the mountain.

The cleric might not be a warrior born, but she's good enough when the situation calls for it. She swings out at another bugbear nearby, sending him to the ground in a heap as she murmurs under her breath, "Althea keep you." Apparently she's not quite as bloodthirsty as some others might be, but she's trying to get the job done so that the lines don't start to fall towards the medvac tents.

The space of an instant passes and in that time, Arngrim's great-maul, an enormous obsidian column treated with gold and adamant, is in grasp and whirling around at the incoming armored warrior. There is a horrible impact and a sound of metal warping and compressing as the giant sized weapon catches the warrior and then literally sends him spinning through the air, end over end, for a visible distance. Arngrim completes the rotation and brings the weapon back up towards his back again to watch the flight of the dark warrior and then he says simply, "There is too much death and thirst for blood here. The bludguni recklessly attack whatever is in sight.."

Darshan straightens, and one has to look with a gentle smile on the priestesses of Althea, if one is a Daeusite. One has to, even if one is a lizard, and he does--he does, stepping around the wardog pile. "You mean that," he says after a time, into the silence after the warrior flees. "You mrm, really mean that." Apparently it's amazing to him, and he looks at them--the bugbears, the Maugrimite, the...the piles of them, and the piles beyond. The blood-on-the-field and the blood beyond it, the sort of thing that will be watering the grass for weeks to come, and generations later will wonder that the grass isn't red. He looks down at that earth, that grass, and lifts a booted foot--it comes up red. "It's like the spring. Young males, challenging, not mrm, thinking. Only...there is alot more blood. And the women laughing on the sides. That is missing, too."

Sophia shakes her head, "The only one laughing would be back in Bludgun. But it feels good to be back here, after all that's gone before." She sighs a bit, lowering her mace as the battle, for the moment, has ceased in this area. "At some point the battles should end. But what can one do when facing an opponent so eager than to try and match them?"

The giant man is silent as he listens and it would seem, at one point, that he has wisdom to offer for he opens his mouth...pauses..and then says.. "..I don't know."

He straps his weapon back to his back, seemingly unconcerned for another attack but considering rumor of him being able to pull trees up by the roots he probably has his pick of weaponry, "..That is to say.." he ammends, "One should fight for what they believe in and give their all in battle so as to survive." He then seems to recognize Sophia's calling and he mutters, "This is not a place for a cleric of the Holy Mother."

The tail flickers, and Darshan lets the blade settle. Not putting it away, oh no, but it does hang awkwardly there, in one hand, not quite suited for that hold, and the paladin never having learned much around it. "Then it's good she has friends, Hammer. Mrm...but since when does one tell a woman what to do? Ours come with teeth and claws and temper, and..." he trails off, and looks at Sophia, with a light frown, and grabs a piece of the hide armor the bugbear had worn, and slakes the blade across't it. "I am sure she hides them somewhere," equitably.

Sophia gives Darshan a bit of a grin, showing her teeth. "Not quite, I leave the temper to my relatives." She glances up towards the giant, and simply says, "Can you think of a place that needs more healing than /this/ one? My duty calls me here, and so here I am."

The large man just stares at Darshan, raising an eyebrow and looking uncertain of just what the sith-makar is getting at. He then turns his attention back to Sophia as she speaks and he notes, "This is not the worst of wars. Much of the atrocity is due to how prolonged it has been. Bickering on either side and neglect." He then gestures absently with a meaty hand, "However, you are right. Where else should you be? THere is no need of ones such as ourselves in Alexandria. This whole region needs our attention. Not a single city."

"Mrm...then. For all we know, the claws may be hidden in the sleeves of her robes, or mrm, she may wear a helm most of the time. We should check the bugbear for bitemarks," Darshan adds, in that same, proof-of-reason tone, that jester's cant that has had him peeling so many potatoes since his arrival. And it dips into an all-out grin. He lets the teeth show, too. "Ah. Mrm, the relatives. That is why there are paladins like me," and the humor shows there, too. And he stops, and seems to realize what he'd just said.

Sophia hmphs at Darshan, "I'm rather offended that you'd think I'd want to bite into a bugbear. Give me credit for taste, please." She gives Darshan a wry look, "Do I need to let Agril know you're displaying a sense of humor? He'd be mortified."

"God's forbid you should have a sense of humor. Shame on you, lizard." says Arngrim, sounding amused now. "You will be stripped of your title and sent back to your jungle empires before long. Your quest for knighthood ended on the account of a laugh in the middle of a blood soaked battlefield."

"...perhaps," the sith adds, still staring into space. It doesn't last long--he's yanked back to the roar of crowds, the slam of fist against flesh, the crying of men as they dodge the blades of glaives and giants. The sith pauses again, and straightens, and offers a bow all at once solemn and practiced, but never suited, no, never suited to something made of tail, or scale. "One mrm, will begin with the penance forthwith. And gods...I've been thinking on that. They think to hand me bandages and salves back home. Mrm...bandages! I would as stab someone," he adds, holding up hand and starting away from the bugpile.

The sound of nearby skrimishing also draws Arngrim's attention and he rumbles, "We should be away from here. I was going to the Myrrish camp when I was ambushed. Which way? It will be good to come in with allies so I am not mistaken for Bludguni due to my size and strength. Tth. Humans."

Sophia hrms, "This way, we can get back to the Myrrish lines. They know me pretty well around here." She leads off, mace still out as she keeps her shield raised, the emblem visible for the Myrrish to recognize.

Sophia goes OOC.

Sophia has left.

Laughter. "It's over this--" and the sith pauses. Stares. "This--ahhh. Look for the sounds of singing," wry. "I'm mrm, sure they're still at it. And large fires. Someone had started a party just late..." Srassha turns up, butting against him. And when Sophia points the direction, well, he follows. Daeus is a smart man. When Althea says there's food at home, he listens.

Sandy has arrived.

Sandy appears.

 Really, she does.

 Right behind Darshan.

 In fact, right behind Darshan near one of the entrenchments here on the front lines. She shovs him right into the mud.

THUD! SPLAT! The mud, she goes flying, splooshing the soldiers across from him and across Srassha's face, who looks everything and surprised. The sploosh goes in accent with the far-away drumbeats of the camp, an objective he'd been /heading towards/, and out, away from the danger. When he'd run into danger, itself.

Child-bearing hips.

And right now, his face is in the mud. /He/ looks surprised, and tenses, moving to roll. Waiting for the next fall, for the next blow. There are bugbears about. Ogres, and worse.

Arngrim just sort of stares as this happens. He really has nothing to add. It's all sorts of horrid and hilarious all at once. "Uh."

"Ahahahaha," says Sandy to Darshan. Then she jabs a finger at Arngrim. "What the fuck are you looking at, fatboy?" she demands. Then she kicks Darshan in the side. "Get on your feet, *paladin*." She glances around the camped out men here on the front lines. "Fuck, where are all the Bludgunners? I thought for sure I'd have a chance to set at least a few on fire."

That--that--that /voice/. Instantly, the sith's face clouds over, darkens. Thunderclouds rolling in, and he rolls over, and--mud, too. He's not so noble as that. Not nearly so, because mud goes flying, a passing-by the elf's ears as he gets up, however slowly, to his feet. Scowling. "Mrm...my Lady Distain. Do you as yet still live?" He looks at Arngrim, and back again, though mostly at Arngrim, as though Daring Him to Say a Word.

And speak a word he does! "I had heard rumors, and even seen her a few times from afar, but I see the rumors are true. I'd never thought I'd see an elf so full of venom and spite and the cruel corruption of men. It is horrifying and yet strangely arousing." says Arngrim.

Sandy looks pleased by Arngrim's description at firwst. Then he says the last line and she looks horrified. "..there was a mental image I never wanted, needed, or cared to have brought to my attention. Say something like that again and *you'll* have to do for the whole 'setting on fire' thing." She eyes Darshan. "Gods, so fucking lazy for a paladin."

"She /as/ /yet/ /lives/," mutters the paladin, and swipes at the mud on his visage. His otherwise...shiny...visage. The armor he'd repaired and shined just that morning. The armor he'd tenderly cared for. The armor he'd...

And so on and so forth.

And then his face sort of...breaks. He looks at one and then them both, and backs away. "Mrm, by one's troth, you may have her!"

Arngrim grimaces as the threat to be set on fire is sent his way and he straightens up and seems to freeze for a few seconds before relaxing, "i'd rather not. Elves breaks easy even though this one is is probably cooked well. It will take a different sort of man to reign this one in and I am -not- he. Aye she stands before you, alive. I do not think death would hold this one for long. A ghost, if nothing else."

Sandy quickly goes to sweep Darshan's leg out from under him again. Just to put him back in the mud. She laughs bitterly whether she's succesful or not. "Anyways, I have some people to see here on the front. Good luck, Darshan. Don't fall over on too many people, fatty." She tells that to Arngrim and then begins to march off.

"And most elves are of delicate countenance, and mrm, one has no doubts, this one is no exception," wryly, "A lamb may wear the skin of a wolf, but it is /a lamb yet underneath!/" he roars the last words, hand cupped to either side of his muzzle. There in the mud. There's no telling what makes him do it, except as the sith struggles to his feet again, he looks pissed off. And glares at the elf. And glares at Arngrim. "If she comes back, merely mrm, duck. The resulting fire will singe a goblin or two. I call this an argument for the greater good."

"I am -not- fat!" protests Arngrim, "What do you think I'm made out of plush? This is all muscle!" But his plea probably goes on deaf or uncaring ears as Sandy begins to march off and he seems disinclined to make a big issue out of it. He checks his stomach a few times, as if uncertain if he let himself go or not, and then eh responds to Darshan, "She is what she is. If all elves were expected to act a certain way we'd not have any surprises..I suppose.."

"Mrm...one is convinced...there are three, distinct species," the sith says after a few moments, head tilted to the side. "There are those that punch, mrm, those that give flowers, and those that sing. Despite the violence, one fears the flower-givers most of all." The tail twitches again, and he swipes more of the mud away, and takes a step towards the camp. "If they have formal names, one never learned."

"Ah.." says ARngrim, "I would not ever think I am more 'learned' then someone but it seems that I am. There are the High Elves, children of the dawn they are. Snooty and lofty and full of magic. I don't trust them. They are their nation builders. Then the Grey Elves whom you know for their music and crafting and artistry and love of adventure. They are more 'down to earth' one might assume but they are too flighty to settle in one place for overly long. Most dangerous are the Wild Elves and closest to fey. Wild and untamed they be. As close to human tribes of barbarians as any elf can be. Then there are those unspeakable ones of darkness and shadow. The Shadow Elves..."

Neynos has connected.

The sith blinks, once, blinks once and stares after the elf's retreating form. "You are...describing her as 'wild and untamed,'" he says after a time, the words...oh, diplomatic would barely seem to cover it. Curiously flat, curiously even. "Mrm...the only other choice would be the elves of shadow, and I don't see the mark of Maugrim on her skin," wry, "Only in her /temper/. Mrm...perhaps there are more than three species." And yet he looks at the elf like a piece of log that's just revealed itself, a knotted piece of wood given to curious children, with nuggets on the inside, to be ripped at and poked at by curious child-claws, until the puzzle be solved.

"I do not consider her a wild elf. She, I believe, works the magic of machines and such things are anathema to the most fey of the fair folk." says Arngrim, "And you mean the Shadow Sorceress. Tis her mark on the Shadow Elves, not the Emperor of Tyrants. I imagine the Emperor has little care for elven kind. Legends say that it was he who tried to destroy their home in the feywild." Arngrim pauses and then grins as if expecting confusion on how he knows so much, "I was once due for a role in the priesthood. I took interest in old stories and legends."

"The Tyrant...mrm. Old hatred can make a man blind," Darshan says, squinting hard at nothing, and everything, in particular. "...I never thought to mrm, find ally among the elves. Do they...have other names? As the Lord of Snot is also the Emperor of Tyrants, or...Taara's is the Sorceress of Shadows?" A pause, then a slow smile. A thoughtful one, a curious one--a touch of teeth comes with it, there, half-shadowed. "And what made you choose some other path? Was the calling mrm, not enough? Or just another one stronger?"

"They all have other names. To the elder races they are known as they are known but to the sons of men their names and legends are legion, such that one culture may worship Daeus under a different guise and never realize that it be the same god as the one in distant Myriddon. They are ineffable beings both impossibly distant and close enough to be beyond perception.." Arngrim quiets, looking as if he's somewhere else for a moment and then he says, "Another path awaited me. One of less responsiblity..I suppose. I decided not to follow in my tribes traditions and became a free soul. I paid for it as much as I benefited from it but... It is the past.."

"Quiet, then sudden, barked laughter. "Never let it mrm, be said a Son of the Iron Mountain be afraid to buck tradition. They tell me how he traveled with Coyote, and Coyote..." the sith lets the words fade, and looks back behind them. The darkened sky stretches over the expanse of battlefield, of blood, of worn bugbears with glowing eyes swinging claw at snarling dwarf and elf alike. "...reminds us to take a break every now and then," wry. "Mrm...but officially, one /still/ has no sense of humor. One would appreciate it were you to...forget...some of what you saw today."

"if you must know, I was to follow a path as a Sunguard of Daeus." Arngrim smirks and then rumbles, "Doesn't the sun laugh? PFft. You are all too serious. Much too serious for your own good. His is a faith both lofty and simple. From great sky scraping cathederals to simple candles lit in alcoves. Do not feel bound to be 'serious'." Arngrim gestures dismissively, "Come. We go. We linger too long. The dead walk when night falls the dead rise."

Darshan stares, then snorts--and it turns to laughter. A hissing, bark of a laugh--it's no human laugh, but a reptilian one. Srassha leans in to nudge her rider, moving her big feet in anticipation. /Food/ that says, and she nudges him again. "Gods...one is serious. One has responsibilities. If I don't embrace them, who--*grunt*--will?" he grasps hold of the saddlehorn, and creaking leather, hauls himself up. Barding, leather shakes and shimmies, a light war-jingle over the roar of orcan battle-cry.

(New BB message (18/9) posted to 'Sendor War' by Whirlpool: Latest News.)

================================= Sendor War =================================

Message: 18/9                      Posted        Author

Latest News.                       Thu Apr 16    Whirlpool

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A group of goblin sappers were discovered by a peculiar bard, now hailed as 'Atar the Hero'. They came up, accidentally, through one of the latrines. The tunnels were collapsed and the plan of the sappers foiled! 

 Rumors, darker rumors, spread of several men on the front lines having been killed during the night, their throats torn out and their corpses drained of blood. Such rumors are being shot down by the commanders, but the tales have enough strength to them, along with the dissapearance of several men from the ranks, to give them credence.

==============================================================================

"Responsiblities need not make one serious. They just make one responsible. Now go." Arngrim says, "I will follow."

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