With Steel and Fire (IC/FanT/Open)

[Destriustan]

Emperor Jaehaerys II Caenennis rules from Dragonpeak, and with an iron fist crushes all who oppose him. After the recent execution of Lord Aylard of Farfront, the Roberholds of the South and Chanallons of the West raise their flags in rebellion. And in the North, Sentinel Aimar Timbermour declares the Northern Marches an independent confederacy, taking the ancient title of High King. And last but certainly not least, Sentinel Juras Zaidli claims that the Emperor is an abomination and a heretic, and with the help of the Archbishops of Asmela, declares the Holy Principality of Asmela revived. With Emperor Jaehaerys II massacring any of the rebels' subjects found in the Heartlands and sending his soldiers out against any unfortunate enough to be caught in his rage, foreign eyes look towards the rich Destriustanian soils. While the Empire's turmoil may prove profitable for some, it is certainly a great opportunity for Lords and mercenaries to gain wealth, land, and followers.

Dragonpeak, Capital of the Empire
Lord Commander Placus Crispian knelt before the Emperor, and calmly said, "Your Imperial Majesty, your Sentinels have rebelled, and we are now left with only the Heartland lords loyal to us." As he finished speaking, the assembled nobles, merchants, soldiers, and bureaucrats that handle the day-to-day business of the Empire froze, not because of the startling new, but in fear of how the Emperor would respond. Emperor Jaehaerys II didn't keep them waiting. He calmly walked up to Placus, grabbed him by the throat, and yelled, "They have rebelled!? That is what you interrupted my court to say? That they "rebelled"!? Do you think me an imbecile!?" Placus tried to speak, but the Emperor's grip was crushing his throat, and he only managed a gurgle. "I knew of this days before you thought it necessary to tell me, and I had been speaking with the Concilium Generalium before you interrupted me!" The Emperor then dropped Placus and returned to the Concilium Generalium and said, "Guards, send this pathetic old man to Carnifex Seneca for a chat?" Placus stood up and, upon hearing this, yelled, "No!", and charged the Emperor, sword drawn, only to be shot by a crossbowman and killed. The Emperor turned and said, "Someone throw him in the Black Rill before he starts to rot!"

[The Twelve Isles]

Ser Rollin Kanly
Siona Willeth
The Black Ravens Mercenary Company
On The Road To Hjallvarsted

Siona Willeth sat atop a hill, three other horsemen with her, and surveyed the tundra below. The wind whipped around them, blasting their jackets and cloaks outwards as a soft drift of snow fell. Hjallvarsted rose up in the distance, a little splotch of black against the dusty gray. She had travelled extensively in her youth, and it was not her first foray to the Continent, but in her memories the Continent was always so much more beautiful. Vineyards and charming towns, knights in gallant colors and exciting fairs. Returning to the Continent had at first been exciting to her, to finally get away from the rain and endless moors and heath of the Isles. But instead, she sat atop an ugly unbrushed horse, with three men who said they were knights but looked like bandits, and looked out over a heath even more blasted and barren than the ones she had come from. She tried to hide her disappointment with the situation at hand by ducking as far under the large collar of her cloak as she could, and looking back over her shoulder towards where she could see the rest of the Flying Ravens marching towards them. A slight cloud of dust rose up behind them, the dry tundra ground easy to kick up when there were so many people walking over it at once. Above them she could see the banners, the white and black of the companies banner, its dark flying raven displayed over a white field. Next to it flew the Imperial colors, the twin swans displayed proudly in yellow and blue.

"Not what you expected, Lady Lamplighter?" came a voice. Rollin.

Siona looked over at him and frowned, before looking back out over the tundra. "Its certainly different from the South," she said.

"Baronies and Gilded Cities this aint," responded Rollin, turning to the two scouts with them and gave orders. With a nod, one man turned his horse and rode off towards rest of the company, while the other rode towards Hjallvarsted to inform them of the Companies imminent arrival. Finally, he turned back to Siona and continued, saying, "but still. The southern territories of this nation may be far more refined in their ways, but a better time wont be had but here in the Marches."

"Ive only ever been south, where there was money to be made."

"Oh really?" said Rollin, a bemused and teasing smile on his face. Her turned his horse to begin making his way back towards the comapany, and Siona followed behind him. "And what has Lady Lamplighter ever done done south? You seem Islesish born and bread, no reason to ever cross the sea."

"I was raised by Rotha," said Siona simply. "We would save money in the Isles after caravan councils, and then head to the Continent and perform in the Gilded Cities."

Rollin scoffed. He didnt believe it for a second. "Speak it then," he said, "any true Rotha speaks in that jibber jabber of theirs." He looked over at Siona then, a self satisfied grin on his face, and laughed at the indignant look she gave him in return.

"Coisishi alm meadthan annan sìth," said Siona in Rotha. It was the traditional greeting, and would translate to walk the earth in peace.

At that, Rollin scoffed again, and responded quickly and in a perfect Rotha accent, "Alus sha laen olc sem bith thu," and you shall fear no evil.

"You speak Rotha?" said Siona, surprised, and for the third time Rollin scoffed at her.

"I speak enough to know that if you want to convince someone that you speak it, you should know more than the traditional greeting."

"Stop laughing at me Rollin," she said, "it makes you look like a little boy picking on the girl he fancies."

"And you," said Rollin, "are far from my type. I like my women fun, and preferably without baby fat still on their cheeks."

Siona shook her head, but didnt respond. It wasnt worth it to get worked up with someone like Rollin. He was far smarter than he looked, and had a surprising way with words that made it a bold game to engage with him in verbal barbs. They rode on in silence, Rollin waving his hand to the outriders of his Company when they approached. Soon the pair made it back to the wagons, and Rollin took up a position near the front. Siona gave him a simple good bye, and dismounted her own horse when she founds its real owner, a young man with scruffy yellow hair named Lochland. He thanked her for taking care of his horse, but Siona didnt have the heart to tell him his horse was a disaster. She figured he probably already knew. She took a seat by the side of the road, watching as the wagons rolled by and huddled beneath her cloak, until the one she was waiting for rolled by. She stood, and did a little jog to catch up with it, before pulling herself up inside and closing the flaps, tying them shut. It was a supply wagon, filled with pots and pans and food and ale. But it also contained a little collection of blankets, being where she had staked her claim for the march. There were three other blanket piles in there with her, where three mercenaries had claimed the wagon with her, one of them being Lochland, but it seemed it was their shift on duty and so she was alone. Siona was fine with that. They would be at Hjallvarsted soon, and she wanted to rest before hand. Leaning back into a corner created by two boxes, Siona adjusted herself so that she was comfortable, and went to sleep for the coming hour or so.

[Destriustan]

Hjallvarsted, Unofficial Capital of the North
The man kneeling before High King Wolfram Timbermour was dressed in chain and leather armor, and had recently arrived at Hjallvarsted, requesting an audience with the High King. He knelt in the middle of Hjallvarsted's Great Hall, with one long table surrounding him in a crescent shape with the North's Jarls and Thanes seated at it. "So, who are you that demands an audience with me, the High King of all the North?" The man looked up and said, "I am a member of the Flying Ravens, a mercenary company from the Twelve Isles. Our leader, Set Rollin Kanly, would like to offer his services to you." Wolfram looked at the mercenary, and then at his Jarls and Thanes and let out a laugh, and his vassals joined in. When he finally stopped laughing, he looked at the mercenary and said, "What need would we have for mercenaries? We are the fiercest warriors in all of the Empire! We're not some weak Southron Praetor who needs mercenaries to do their dirty work! We are-" Before Wolfram could continue, a man stepped out from behind his throne. He looked like the human equivalent of a serpent, and when he spoke, it sounded as if he felt eternal disdain for everything. "My liege, I would be forgetting my duties as Seneschal if I did not tell you of the threat the Baronies are if they stop bickering and decide to invade. Why not send this Flying Raven company to secure our Southwestern border? We have the money for it, and we wouldn't need to send valuable soldiers away from the front." Wolfram grumbled at this, but said to the mercenary, "Fine. Tell Ser Rollin to meet with me as soon as he's in Hjalvarsted, and that his soldiers can spend the night in my barracks." The mercenary bowed and left to report back to Ser Rollin.

[The Twelve Isles]

Ser Rollin Kanly
Siona Willeth
The Black Ravens Mercenary Company
Hjallvarsted

Rollin watched as the Black Ravens pushed past one another, clambering into the gates and pulling the wagons through, fighting with their supplies and horses to keep it all in order. He watched, looking over his shoulder, as a group of guards from Hjallvarsted sat back on a pigsty bench and laughed at them all. Look at those stupid foreigners, their laughs seemed to say, mucking about like idiots. They'll be out of here tomorrow no doubt, and then their few survivors will come crying back to us to show them how real warriors fight. One of them caught Rollin watching him, and scowled.

"What are you looking at foreigner?" he called over, and his friend straightened up as well.

"Not much," replied Rollin, before looking away and searching the crowd. He found his query quickly, her silk cloak standing out sharply with its gold trimmings. "Siona!" he called, and she paused in untying a wagon to look over at him.

"Hah!" Laughed one of the guards, jabbing his friend in the ribs with his elbow to get his attention. "Look at that! The foreigner has to have women fill out his ranks! Some commander he is, eh?" Rollin simply ignored them.

"What is it?" called Siona.

"Get a horse," said Rollin, "you're coming with me to meet the High King." Siona watched him a moment, processing what was said in her mind, before quickly dropping the ropes for her wagon and running over to her friend Lochland to gather his horse. As she did so, Rollin scanned the crowd more, picking out two more members of his company and pointing at them as he called them over to him. They came running up, and he ordered them to get their horses and their armor, to look the part of handsome knights. Or at the very least, the best any Imperial knight could, considering how smudged and rough they all appeared. Still, if they wore their armor and colors it would add a hint of professionalism to his meeting he hoped.

He waited by the entrance to the square his company had been given to use as their own, silently enduring while the two guards continued to laugh and point, making fun of him. When Siona and his two knights had arrived, he nodded to all three before turning his own horse and setting off down the road. As he passed by the guards, he extended his left foot, and caught one of them in the chest, knocking him over. He grinned to himself in amusement as he watched the man fall into a muddy patch, and curse at him fervently as he rode past. "Who the hell do you think you are you fucking cock!" the guard yelled after him.

"Be quicker next time, and maybe you wont look like a fool," said Rollin, riding off into the streets. Him and his small processions wound their way through the buildings, past a market and separating the crowds in front of them. They received army stares, they certainly were different. It didn't seem like it was every day foreigners arrived in Hjallvarsted, especially ones wearing shields that displayed the Twins Swans of the Empire. The people of the Isles were even more xenophobic than the Northern Marches, only ever leaving their islands to fish for the whale or destroy those who had attacked them first.

It was a relatively short walk however, Hjallvarsted was far from a large city, at least compared to something like Townhill in the Isles, or the Gilded Cities to the south. Or rather, it was less smaller and more so compact. The people here seemed to have built up, rather than outwards, making trips to and fro much quicker. So in short time, Rollin found himself in front of the High Kings keep, staring down at a guard who had approached.

"State your business here, foreigner," he said.

Rollin sat up a little straighter, hoping to impress upon the man just who he was, and said, "I am Ser Rollin Kanly, of House Kanly of Mournly Isle, Commander of the Flying Ravens. I come to meet with your High King, upon his own request."

[Destriustan]

The guard at the gate looked at them, looked at his papers, and then back at them and said, "One moment, Ser Rollin." He then turned to the younger guard next to him and said, "Ranulf Voss, åpne den forbannede porten!" The younger guard nodded and ran into the gatehouse. Moments later the portcullis was raised and guards on the other side opened the gate. "Go on ahead, Islander." The guard practically spat the last part at Rollin. Inside the Great Hall, the High King looked up once the gate opened, and said, "Jarl Aelfhelm, give me a moment." The High King stood from his throne, and began walking towards Rollin and his party, accompanied by several Huscarls and his Seneschal. When he reached Rollin, he said, "So you're the Islander mercenary that I've heard about. I am High King Wolfram Tibermour, and this is my Seneschal, Bercthun of Mynyddpool. He has convinced me to hear out your offer, so you better start talking." He raised his axe to emphasize.

[SF n F]

Damnage
Sister Abacus
The Flaming Tiger Tavern
Hjallvarsted

To the outside world, it was yet another grimy tavern in a seedy part of town. The inhabitants had built up, but they had also built down. In this case, that meant a storage cellar that looked like it had been around before the city was founded and smelled even worse. The walls were lined with dilapidated wine shelves most of the contents of whose bottles had long since turned to vinegar. Damnage liked it. It tended to discourage prying eyes. Tonight, twenty people, give or take, sat in the spaces between the shelves, having a quick meal in the dim light.

Damnage knew every name, but he could barely match any of their most rudimentary skills. It was, he had learned, one of the differences between demons and 'noids. Demons--even turned ones like him--were capable of what by 'noid standards was tremendous precision and feats of memory, but struggled to learn the local languages. After ten years, he found himself just barely capable of holding a simple conversation.

And at the moment, he was using every iota of skill that he had acquired.

The Angels had Damnage running an evac detail. The not-so-local AWP's had finally let their arrogance boil over and decided that there wasn't enough world for each of them to have it all. It was war--and around here that came in a rather nasty variety where they killed off the civilians as well as each other. Hence the evac rescues.

The refugee's name was Todd. He was just blossoming into the beginnings of manhood, as 'noids counted their days, and blonde hair--now unkempt but showing that it had not always been so--showed above a short red beard and a few days' growth of stunble.

"But what if the only choice you have is to kill or be killed?" he asked.

"The trick," Damnage replied, "is to keep yourself out of--what's the word?--situations...like that. Look at us now. If we had stayed, you would all have been rounded up and then you would have been just in that place. But we're going now so that it will never happen. No killing neede--."

"Stop, villains! By order of the King, you are all under arrest!"

It was more of a bark than anything recognizable as speech. It came from the first of a small horde of lightly armed and armored thugs to all but pour in through the doorway--all the easier since there was no door. Todd tensed and went for the knife that he kept hidden in his robes. Damnage put his hand on the young 'noid's shoulder.

His other hand was on his lips...as he covered up a laugh. But it didn't stay there long. The undemon found the situation to be so funny that he actually bent over laughing.

The head thug was not as amused. “Did I make a joke?” he asked. “Is something humorous here?”

Damnage straightened up. “No,” he replied, “you ARE a joke—and it is VERY humorous.”

“In that case, this will be absolutely hilarious—KILL HIM!”

From the far wall, three of the guards, armed with crossbows, let fly. The arrows reached their target, but instead of hitting they went right through. The thug cursed. Damnage snickered.

“Well, if that's not funny enough for you, KILL THE ONE NEXT TO HIM!”

Damnage just stood there, looking shocked—but something unseen pushed Todd to the ground before the arrows could arrive. He felt pressure against his mouth. “Shhhhhhh,” whispered a mysterious voice into his ear, “play dead and we all might make it out of this alive.”

“I believe a little introduction is in order,” Damnage said from where he was standing. “Have any of you ever heard of illusoin magic? Well you're going to be doing a whole lot more than hearing about it today!”

The head thug scoffed. “Illusion?” he said. “You mean you can't do anything for real?”

“Me?” Damnage replied. “No, I can't—but I'm just an illusion.” And with that, he disappeared, only to reappear right next to the head thug. With one hand, he lifted the 'noid off the ground and borught them face to face, where the other thugs dared not loose another volley for fear of hitting him.

Today is your lucky, lucky day," the undemon said. "I'm turned. I can remember the days when I would--literally--eat the likes of you alve. Now you get to live long lives—and you wish that I had every second of them."

"And you think that I'm afraid to die," the thug asked between gritted teeth. "My remains would be found. Yours would not."

Damnage smirked again. This 'noid was particularly pathetic. He was making the mistake of presuming many things, but his biggest mistake was in thinking that all illusions had to be illusions of sight. "Ohhh crrraaaampsss," Damnage said.

One of the underthugs mannaged a short scream before he joined the rest of the rabble on the floor writhing. Damnage set the head thug--the only one he hadn't hit with that illusion--back down and regarded him with some modicum of seriousness. "Look at your toy soldiers," he said. "I can do that to you AND anyone else who crosses my path...OR I can just turn it all off. It's up to you. Let these people go."

Superthug just scoffed. It was plain that he had to feel things himself to figure out what they were like. Not a problem.

“...or your problems can come in waves.” The undemon waved his fingers and let a wave of pain wash over the 'noid. He winced. Damnage dropped his 'noid form, letting Superthug see his real face...and reached his tongue out a few inches just to make things more enjoyable.

“All. Right.” the 'noid said.

“So good that you could see reason,” Damnage said. “Or was that 'feel.' I'll let off on the pain now.” He resumed his human form.

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that I can just order my men to kill every one of you now that they're no longer--.”

“Blind men don't make very good soldiers.” Superthug took another look, and could see his troops were reaching around as if they were indeed blind.

“Your turn,” Damnage said. And his face was the last thing that Lord Toidi Elbongi, Captain of the Imperial Security Force, saw for the next 24 hours.

Unfortunately, he had underlings.

Four hours later:

“But what happened?” Todd asked. “How could you--?”

“It's like this: when it looked like I bent over double, I stayed that way. I cast an illusion of myself over the area, though, to make it appear as though I stood up. Actually, I first stood next to you—that's how I saved your life when the arrows flew—and then walked over and stood RIGHT NEXT to that secret service guy. That's where I stood until I dropped those illusions and got us out of trouble.”

“But you picked him up like he was a feather!”

“I'm a turned demon, dude. I'm stronger than you are.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now I hand you over to my boss, Sister Abacus. She's the patron angel of Discipline and Dilligence. And if you think my magic is cool, you should see what she's got.”

“Like?”

“I won't give you too many details, but they're called 'Smite Counters,'” and you DON'T want to be in one of those when it goes off.”

“What ha--.”

“STOP, VILLAINS!” this time it came from Lord No Regnah, LIEUTENANT of the Imperial Security force.

Damnage sighed. “Here we go again,” he said.

* * *
OOC: Yes, “Toidi Elbongi” IS “ignoble idiot” spelled backward.

[Destriustan]

Hjallvarsted City Guard Headquarters
Vaktkaptein Cuthwin Collier was in a terrible mood. He had just been woken up in the middle of the night by his second-in-command, Vaktløytnant Aethelthrith Lorimer, who told him in her condescending tone that "witches and demons" had been spotted at some shady inn in the Nedreby District, and now he had to investigate. Even worse, the peasants had gone to both the Northern Krigstempelet, to get help from the Kampprester, and the Southron Lux Ecclesia to enlist the Daemonium Images. So now he had to deal with the bickering Pontificia Generalis Æmulare and Krigsfar Bryning, who both blamed each other for their failure to find any "witches or demons." Cuthwin walked up to a small stage and looked over the assembled guardsmen, many who were grumbling at being forced to march down to the slum of Nedreby in the middle of the night, and boomed, "Fellow Gardister, due to reports of demons, witches, and warlocks in the Nedreby District, we are heading down there to investigate. Now we'll probably just find the usual Gledelig Salt dealers and maybe a few Blodig Blad thugs, but be prepared for anything. For the North!" The Gardister repeated his shout, and followed him down to the Flaming Tiger Tavern.

[SF n F]

The cell was your usual repressive jail 101--the dank stone walls hadn't been cleaned in a dog's age, no one wanted to know what the dried-up piles on the floor were from and everything was flat. These things suited Damnage just fine. Turned or not, he was, after all, still a demon. He could stand sitting on the makeshift bench in his cell rather than hanging from a ceiling beam. Demons could be surprisingly adaptable. Only one thing really bothered him--the place was cold. They had designed Damnage's species to be able to survive being burned at the stake, but this left the Red Gargoyle extremely bothered by a chill.

Lleh Sa Edur, the sweeper they had sent to the Tiger after some bleeding orifice had turned in the group that Damnage was evacuating, had subconscious control over illusions. So much so that, when Damnage had given him the usual case of cramps, he had responded to it by merely letting loose a long, noisy fart. Redur Neve, made things even worse: when he heard ol' Edur relieve his personal pressure, he just laughed.

Things went downhill from there. It was only the fact that Damnage was using a different 'noid form that kept him from being killed on the spot. As it was, he had been able to talk the sweepers into taking them all into custody...which led to the demon cooling his hide in that dingy, damp, cold cell.

Really, Damnage could have just waited things out and pretended to be a 'noid, but the cold got to him after a while. Everyone was in his own separate cell and on one could see anyone else, so Damnage decided to use that spell that every demon knew, the fireball. Mind you, it was just going to be a little fireball, nothing too conspicuous, just something to warm him up a little bit. So he stretched out his hands and began to chant the spell.

At first, things went smoothly. Just sitting in his cell, Damnage was able to make the spell almost invisible and start cranking out pulses of warmth. It even had a side benefit. From the jail outside the cell, Damnage could hear the guard in the cell block starting to snore. No doubt he was feeling more comfortable too.

“Dude, he's sleeping!” came a half-whispered voice from somewhere else in the cell block.

Damnage grimaced. “Dude” was a word that only he used, which meant that the person trying to make conversation must have known him and must be trying to speak directly with him. A small spark appeared between the turned demon's hands.

“You go to sleep too!”

“But we could get away! All you have to do is use your magic powers and--!”

The spark got bigger.

“There is no magic! Go to sleep!”

“But aren't you that demon who works with angels? Can't you--?”

By now, the flame was quite visible in the air between Damnage's hands, and it was taking most of his concentration to keep the thing from blowing up right in his fingers.

“You're listening to too many stories! Go to sleep!”

“But, dude--!”

It was then that Damnage made his Big Mistake. In his annoyance, he slapped his hand in the air at the sound coming through the walls.

He should've never done that.

The fireball flared to life, full throttle, unstoppable. All that Damnage had the time to do was use his other hand to propel it toward the door as hissed a frustrated

“Oh sh--!”

BOOM!

Outside the cell, the mindless wonder who had been sleeping suddenly oozd into awakenness.

“Huh? What was—hey! Somebody's trying to break out! Summon the guards! HELP!!”

And things went downhill from there.

OOC: Remember to read the names backwards!

[Mackjaracotavon]

King Leo VIII of Cretia looked on at the growing turmoil in the Imperial Heartlands with mild curiosity. His vassals and courtiers, and even his military advisers, held concern that Emperor Jaehaerys II's aggressive behavior would put the kingdom's sovereignty and existence at risk. While he took this into account and ordered a buildup of naval and army forces in preparation for an inevitable conflict, as well as fletchers and blacksmiths who were paid to meet the increased demands of the growing military forces, he opted to remain neutral in the rebel uprisings that have been plaguing the Empire.

The Church of the Canon, on the other hand, saw differently, as Canonist minorities and Cretians currently visiting the Empire in search of local business opportunities were getting caught in the middle of all the fighting. His Holy Reverence, High Pontiff Jude I, knew something needed to be done to restore order in the region and protect both the Church and the Kingdom. He looked to the newly-appointed Grand Inquisitor of the White Inquisition, Holy Sir Geralt of Rivia, as the man finished cleaning and polishing his sword, and he pondered what to do. The Church of the Canon was not an aggressive religion, nor was it violent beyond reason against those who did not adhere to the faith, and the White Inquisition existed solely to protect those of the faith, neutralize voidal cults, banish or redeem demonic entities, and destroy voidal and unnatural creatures. Outside of these roles, they acted as peacekeepers in times of conflict and provided humanitarian aid in times of disaster and disease. It was for this reason that both the Church and the Inquisition, while not openly recognized across the globe, were at least respected amongst the world nations.

"Your Holy Reverence." a soft, feminine voice said behind him. Jude turned around to see his counterpart: Her Holy Reverence, Catherine II. Her humble cloth and purple sash denoted her rank as the High Mother of the church, and the leader of the nuns.

"Your Holy Reverence." Jude returned with a curt bob of the head. It was normal for both the High Mother and High Pontiff to use and respond to the same form of address, as they both held the highest rank within the Canonist hierarchy. Jude and Catherine, behind the curtain of professionalism, were very close friends, and saw eye to eye on a lot of things.

"Sister Margaret went to the Imperial Heartland to purchase medicinal salves a few months ago, and has not returned. I fear something terrible has happened..." Catherine said. She looked down in worry, and Jude knew why.

"To think that a sister of the faith would go missing in these difficult times..." he remarked, before looking to Geralt. "Grand Inquisitor." he called. Geralt turned around to face him.

"Aye." he responded bluntly.

"A sister of the faith has gone missing in a foreign land in the grip of civil war. Assemble the men and take the next available boat to the Imperial Heartland to look for her. Whatever you do, be careful not to anger the Emperor, and try to stay neutral in their conflict. But do not hesitate to act if your aid is requested, nor hesitate to protect the innocent against the horrors of the void." Jude ordered.

"Of course, Your Holy Reverence. I shall do so at once." Geralt responded with a bow.

"GOD bless you in your endeavors." Jude said, before Geralt took his leave.

(OOC Note: I hope this is a good enough introduction. I'm trying to get back into RP after a bit of a hiatus.)

[Destriustan]

The cell was your usual repressive jail 101--the dank stone walls hadn't been cleaned in a dog's age, no one wanted to know what the dried-up piles on the floor were from and everything was flat. These things suited Damnage just fine. Turned or not, he was, after all, still a demon. He could stand sitting on the makeshift bench in his cell rather than hanging from a ceiling beam. Demons could be surprisingly adaptable. Only one thing really bothered him--the place was cold. They had designed Damnage's species to be able to survive being burned at the stake, but this left the Red Gargoyle extremely bothered by a chill.

Lleh Sa Edur, the sweeper they had sent to the Tiger after some bleeding orifice had turned in the group that Damnage was evacuating, had subconscious control over illusions. So much so that, when Damnage had given him the usual case of cramps, he had responded to it by merely letting loose a long, noisy fart. Redur Neve, made things even worse: when he heard ol' Edur relieve his personal pressure, he just laughed.

Things went downhill from there. It was only the fact that Damnage was using a different 'noid form that kept him from being killed on the spot. As it was, he had been able to talk the sweepers into taking them all into custody...which led to the demon cooling his hide in that dingy, damp, cold cell.

Really, Damnage could have just waited things out and pretended to be a 'noid, but the cold got to him after a while. Everyone was in his own separate cell and on one could see anyone else, so Damnage decided to use that spell that every demon knew, the fireball. Mind you, it was just going to be a little fireball, nothing too conspicuous, just something to warm him up a little bit. So he stretched out his hands and began to chant the spell.

At first, things went smoothly. Just sitting in his cell, Damnage was able to make the spell almost invisible and start cranking out pulses of warmth. It even had a side benefit. From the jail outside the cell, Damnage could hear the guard in the cell block starting to snore. No doubt he was feeling more comfortable too.

“Dude, he's sleeping!” came a half-whispered voice from somewhere else in the cell block.

Damnage grimaced. “Dude” was a word that only he used, which meant that the person trying to make conversation must have known him and must be trying to speak directly with him. A small spark appeared between the turned demon's hands.

“You go to sleep too!”

“But we could get away! All you have to do is use your magic powers and--!”

The spark got bigger.

“There is no magic! Go to sleep!”

“But aren't you that demon who works with angels? Can't you--?”

By now, the flame was quite visible in the air between Damnage's hands, and it was taking most of his concentration to keep the thing from blowing up right in his fingers.

“You're listening to too many stories! Go to sleep!”

“But, dude--!”

It was then that Damnage made his Big Mistake. In his annoyance, he slapped his hand in the air at the sound coming through the walls.

He should've never done that.

The fireball flared to life, full throttle, unstoppable. All that Damnage had the time to do was use his other hand to propel it toward the door as hissed a frustrated

“Oh sh--!”

BOOM!

Outside the cell, the mindless wonder who had been sleeping suddenly oozd into awakenness.

“Huh? What was—hey! Somebody's trying to break out! Summon the guards! HELP!!”

And things went downhill from there.

OOC: Remember to read the names backwards!

Vaktkaptein Cuthwin had just poured a nice, cold ale when a loud BOOM caused him to spill it all over himself. Cursing, he quickly pulled on his cuirass, leggings, and coif, grabbed his axe and shield, and marched off with several other Gardister to the cells, only to find Fangevokteren Gundulf gibbering nonsense about the only suspect they had casting spells and something called a "dude". Cuthwin knocked him aside and marched down the stairs, ready to face whatever wizard, demon, or wytch awaited him.

King Leo VIII of Cretia looked on at the growing turmoil in the Imperial Heartlands with mild curiosity. His vassals and courtiers, and even his military advisers, held concern that Emperor Jaehaerys II's aggressive behavior would put the kingdom's sovereignty and existence at risk. While he took this into account and ordered a buildup of naval and army forces in preparation for an inevitable conflict, as well as fletchers and blacksmiths who were paid to meet the increased demands of the growing military forces, he opted to remain neutral in the rebel uprisings that have been plaguing the Empire.

The Church of the Canon, on the other hand, saw differently, as Canonist minorities and Cretians currently visiting the Empire in search of local business opportunities were getting caught in the middle of all the fighting. His Holy Reverence, High Pontiff Jude I, knew something needed to be done to restore order in the region and protect both the Church and the Kingdom. He looked to the newly-appointed Grand Inquisitor of the White Inquisition, Holy Sir Geralt of Rivia, as the man finished cleaning and polishing his sword, and he pondered what to do. The Church of the Canon was not an aggressive religion, nor was it violent beyond reason against those who did not adhere to the faith, and the White Inquisition existed solely to protect those of the faith, neutralize voidal cults, banish or redeem demonic entities, and destroy voidal and unnatural creatures. Outside of these roles, they acted as peacekeepers in times of conflict and provided humanitarian aid in times of disaster and disease. It was for this reason that both the Church and the Inquisition, while not openly recognized across the globe, were at least respected amongst the world nations.

"Your Holy Reverence." a soft, feminine voice said behind him. Jude turned around to see his counterpart: Her Holy Reverence, Catherine II. Her humble cloth and purple sash denoted her rank as the High Mother of the church, and the leader of the nuns.

"Your Holy Reverence." Jude returned with a curt bob of the head. It was normal for both the High Mother and High Pontiff to use and respond to the same form of address, as they both held the highest rank within the Canonist hierarchy. Jude and Catherine, behind the curtain of professionalism, were very close friends, and saw eye to eye on a lot of things.

"Sister Margaret went to the Imperial Heartland to purchase medicinal salves a few months ago, and has not returned. I fear something terrible has happened..." Catherine said. She looked down in worry, and Jude knew why.

"To think that a sister of the faith would go missing in these difficult times..." he remarked, before looking to Geralt. "Grand Inquisitor." he called. Geralt turned around to face him.

"Aye." he responded bluntly.

"A sister of the faith has gone missing in a foreign land in the grip of civil war. Assemble the men and take the next available boat to the Imperial Heartland to look for her. Whatever you do, be careful not to anger the Emperor, and try to stay neutral in their conflict. But do not hesitate to act if your aid is requested, nor hesitate to protect the innocent against the horrors of the void." Jude ordered.

"Of course, Your Holy Reverence. I shall do so at once." Geralt responded with a bow.

"GOD bless you in your endeavors." Jude said, before Geralt took his leave.

Monsieur Victor De Villiers scowled at the captives his soldiers brought before him. His hawkish features and scars intimidated all but one: a young woman wearing a nun's habit, who had only been praying since her capture. He walked towards her and grabbed her, shouting, "Who are thou praying to? Is it Altissimi, the One True God? Or is it one of the barbaric heathen faiths of the foreigners?" She remained unmoved, and only whispered, "The Creator." She then returned to her prayers. Now Monsieur Victor was not a pious man, but he was a cruel one, and he saw this as an exusce to punish her. "This "Creator" of yours is a false god, and so you will be punished as a heretic. Men, send her to forced labor. I believe Comte Palatin Alexandre Crevier has been looking for new slaves." He expected her to break down, as so many had before her, but she simply continued her prayers, and he was left raging against the other prisoners.

[SF n F]

She stood about five feet, three inches, and her body was almost as wide as it was tall. This is not to say that she was obese--her body was more like a lump of pure muscle. A hormed helm adorned her blonde-haired crown, and she wore the combat armor of a long-extinct tribe of warriors.

And she was all that stood between Damnage and the outermost of the five layers of guards that had been rushing into the dungeon that he had managed to round up ten prisoners from and start rushing out of it. Unfortunately, they had stayed home--and they were magically warded against illusions.

Damnage smiled a friendly smile.

"Sister Abacus," he said, "well met."

She scowled.

"Blew another spell, I see," she replied. "If I swore, I'd swear that you're incompetent. All you had to do was wait these simpletons out, but what do you do? Try to throw a fireball in the middle of this province's most heavily-guarded prison. When are you going to learn?"

"I was only trying to warm the place up a little..."

It was then that the head of the guards, who had managed to get himself into the thick of things, chose to make his presence known.

"No, Captain Cuthwin," said Sister Abacus, "I am not a witch. I am a Patron Angel." At that, she unfurled her wings, causing several of the guards to drop to their knees and begin praying.

Cuthwin, however, wasn't having any of it.

"Very well, then, Captain," Abacus said, scowling even more deeply than usual. "You leave me no choice."

A congregation of strange balloons appeared, one over each of the guards.

"I am the Patron of the Heavenly Virtue of Temperance. This is how I introduce those in my care to...discipline. It is called the Smite Counter." They were roughly oblong, and purple in color, with purple circles on their left sides. Across the oblong ran a yellow bar.

At Cuthwin's command, the guards all surged, hands going to weapons. As they did, an audible clicking was heard from the oblong spells and the bars grew shorter, towards the right--all except Cuthwin's. A few of the apparitions ran completely out of yellow. As each one did, a loud bell sounded, and the space where the yellow bar had been was replaced with a large, flashing word "SMITE!" Two antennae extended down from opposite sides of the apparitions, and ZAP! lightning struck the hapless soul below each of the Smite Counterspells.

Those who remained conscious stopped moving forward and stared back and forth in fear and confusion.

"As long as you retain your discipline, and think only pure thoughts, you have nothing to fear from a Smite Counter," Abacus said. "But step out of line, and..."

As she had spoken, Damnage had moved over to one of the prisoners. As she finished, he raised her hood, revealing a young and very pretty face.

"Smile now, dear," he said. "Hey, BOYZZZ!!!"

It took a moment for the demon's plan, and why he, too, was grinning, to dawn on her, but when it did she smiled the mos alluring smile she could possibly smile, spread her legs slilghtly and squared her shoulders.

In another five seconds, Cuthwin was the only guard left standing. Damnage's grin turned beaming—but he DID notice that Cuthwin was somehow immune to Abacus' spell.

“Thank you, my dear,” Damnage said.

“The pleasure was mine,” the prisoner replied, pulling her hood back over her head.

“So...you are pure of heart,” Abacus said. “That is good. Perhaps I can reason with you, then. I do not have time to go over each individual case with you, Captain, but not one of your captives is guilty of the crimes that your government has charged them with. And, since several of them are charged with Blasphemy, this makes it a crime against the diety that is MY patron. Hence my involvement here.” She raised her hand, and the Smite Counter over Cuthwin disappeared.

Again, Cuthwin was unconvinced.

Before he could strike, Damnage loosed a consussion wave on him—but, somehow familiar with abysmal combat magic, Cuthwin ducked it like a pro. That's the problem with cuncussion waves: they're two-dimensional. They can be easily avoided if you know how to deal with them.

This wasn't a problem, however, as avoiding the wave slowed Cuthwin just long enough that Sister Abacus was able to draw her sword.

The stone set at the hilt and the blade glowed. Lightning flashed over the blade.

It was only a few seconds before Cuthwin joined his fellows in unconsciousness. Yet, so skillful was Abacus that there wasn't a single scratch on him.


“You MORON!” yelled Abacus. “Do you have any idea of the extent to which your impulsiveness has jeopardized our mission? There's a war coming and your actions here may have just sacrificed the one person who could have prevented it!”

“I...didn't...realize.”

“OF COURSE NOT! You're always too busy catering to your base desires! Ohhh, I'm hungry! Ohh, I'm cold! Well you'd better learn to suck it up, buttercup, because your incompetence has led you into a new assignment—as a prison slave!”

“A...slave?”

“That's right. We're monitoring a Person of Interest in a nearby Slave Labor camp. I hate to say this, but your ability as an infiltrator, pitiful though it is, made you a candidtate for this one. She's a young cleric, utterly respectful. This is a standard CAP—Comfort, Abet, Protect. MAXIMUM ANONYMITY! DON'T mess it up!

“Other information,” Abacus continued, “that you will need is...”

OOC: I RP in the tradition that one cannot describe the words or actions of any characters other than one's own, so I couldn't make our man Cuthwin seem nearly as hostile as I wished. I intended that he be a legitimate threat to the entire party, and the only one of the guard force who is immune to Sister Abacus' Smite Counters. That's the weakness in the spell: Cuthwin's THOUGHTS are always pure, by his standard. The Smite Counter only punishes those who can't meet live by their own rules. This is how I'm writing him, anyway. Of course, Destruistan is welcome to correct any mistakes I may be making.

Please forgive me if I made a few very general statements about Cuthwin's actions. I tried as hard as I could not to put words in his mouth or weapons in his hand. I apologize for the extent to which I failed.

P.S. I hope nobody minded the modern-day slider bar I used in the Smite Counters. I figured that if they had the magical ability to pull it off, they'd have an analog.

[Destriustan]

She stood about five feet, three inches, and her body was almost as wide as it was tall. This is not to say that she was obese--her body was more like a lump of pure muscle. A hormed helm adorned her blonde-haired crown, and she wore the combat armor of a long-extinct tribe of warriors.

And she was all that stood between Damnage and the outermost of the five layers of guards that had been rushing into the dungeon that he had managed to round up ten prisoners from and start rushing out of it. Unfortunately, they had stayed home--and they were magically warded against illusions.

Damnage smiled a friendly smile.

"Sister Abacus," he said, "well met."

She scowled.

"Blew another spell, I see," she replied. "If I swore, I'd swear that you're incompetent. All you had to do was wait these simpletons out, but what do you do? Try to throw a fireball in the middle of this province's most heavily-guarded prison. When are you going to learn?"

"I was only trying to warm the place up a little..."

It was then that the head of the guards, who had managed to get himself into the thick of things, chose to make his presence known.

"No, Captain Cuthwin," said Sister Abacus, "I am not a witch. I am a Patron Angel." At that, she unfurled her wings, causing several of the guards to drop to their knees and begin praying.

Cuthwin, however, wasn't having any of it.

"Very well, then, Captain," Abacus said, scowling even more deeply than usual. "You leave me no choice."

A congregation of strange balloons appeared, one over each of the guards.

"I am the Patron of the Heavenly Virtue of Temperance. This is how I introduce those in my care to...discipline. It is called the Smite Counter." They were roughly oblong, and purple in color, with purple circles on their left sides. Across the oblong ran a yellow bar.

At Cuthwin's command, the guards all surged, hands going to weapons. As they did, an audible clicking was heard from the oblong spells and the bars grew shorter, towards the right--all except Cuthwin's. A few of the apparitions ran completely out of yellow. As each one did, a loud bell sounded, and the space where the yellow bar had been was replaced with a large, flashing word "SMITE!" Two antennae extended down from opposite sides of the apparitions, and ZAP! lightning struck the hapless soul below each of the Smite Counterspells.

Those who remained conscious stopped moving forward and stared back and forth in fear and confusion.

"As long as you retain your discipline, and think only pure thoughts, you have nothing to fear from a Smite Counter," Abacus said. "But step out of line, and..."

As she had spoken, Damnage had moved over to one of the prisoners. As she finished, he raised her hood, revealing a young and very pretty face.

"Smile now, dear," he said. "Hey, BOYZZZ!!!"

It took a moment for the demon's plan, and why he, too, was grinning, to dawn on her, but when it did she smiled the mos alluring smile she could possibly smile, spread her legs slilghtly and squared her shoulders.

In another five seconds, Cuthwin was the only guard left standing. Damnage's grin turned beaming—but he DID notice that Cuthwin was somehow immune to Abacus' spell.

“Thank you, my dear,” Damnage said.

“The pleasure was mine,” the prisoner replied, pulling her hood back over her head.

“So...you are pure of heart,” Abacus said. “That is good. Perhaps I can reason with you, then. I do not have time to go over each individual case with you, Captain, but not one of your captives is guilty of the crimes that your government has charged them with. And, since several of them are charged with Blasphemy, this makes it a crime against the diety that is MY patron. Hence my involvement here.” She raised her hand, and the Smite Counter over Cuthwin disappeared.

Again, Cuthwin was unconvinced.

Before he could strike, Damnage loosed a consussion wave on him—but, somehow familiar with abysmal combat magic, Cuthwin ducked it like a pro. That's the problem with cuncussion waves: they're two-dimensional. They can be easily avoided if you know how to deal with them.

This wasn't a problem, however, as avoiding the wave slowed Cuthwin just long enough that Sister Abacus was able to draw her sword.

The stone set at the hilt and the blade glowed. Lightning flashed over the blade.

It was only a few seconds before Cuthwin joined his fellows in unconsciousness. Yet, so skillful was Abacus that there wasn't a single scratch on him.


“You MORON!” yelled Abacus. “Do you have any idea of the extent to which your impulsiveness has jeopardized our mission? There's a war coming and your actions here may have just sacrificed the one person who could have prevented it!”

“I...didn't...realize.”

“OF COURSE NOT! You're always too busy catering to your base desires! Ohhh, I'm hungry! Ohh, I'm cold! Well you'd better learn to suck it up, buttercup, because your incompetence has led you into a new assignment—as a prison slave!”

“A...slave?”

“That's right. We're monitoring a Person of Interest in a nearby Slave Labor camp. I hate to say this, but your ability as an infiltrator, pitiful though it is, made you a candidtate for this one. She's a young cleric, utterly respectful. This is a standard CAP—Comfort, Abet, Protect. MAXIMUM ANONYMITY! DON'T mess it up!

“Other information,” Abacus continued, “that you will need is...”

OOC: I RP in the tradition that one cannot describe the words or actions of any characters other than one's own, so I couldn't make our man Cuthwin seem nearly as hostile as I wished. I intended that he be a legitimate threat to the entire party, and the only one of the guard force who is immune to Sister Abacus' Smite Counters. That's the weakness in the spell: Cuthwin's THOUGHTS are always pure, by his standard. The Smite Counter only punishes those who can't meet live by their own rules. This is how I'm writing him, anyway. Of course, Destruistan is welcome to correct any mistakes I may be making.

Please forgive me if I made a few very general statements about Cuthwin's actions. I tried as hard as I could not to put words in his mouth or weapons in his hand. I apologize for the extent to which I failed.

P.S. I hope nobody minded the modern-day slider bar I used in the Smite Counters. I figured that if they had the magical ability to pull it off, they'd have an analog.

Fangehull, Hjallvarsted's Main Prison

Cuthwin wallked through a grey haze towards a castle. He was dressed in purple and black silk robes, much to expensive for most nobles, and he was aware of a black crystalline sword in his hand. He wondered how he had gotten such a beautiful sword, as it was of an exotic design. It's handle was inscribed with a strange script that read, "Se sȳndor-bona-slays, se ruination hen qrīdronnor." He had know idea what it meant, but he felt powerful just holding it. As he reached the dragon adorned gates of the castle, however, his vision began to swirl and he heard a distant voice shouting, "Vaktkaptein Cuthwin! Cuthwin, dammit, wake up!" He tried to swat away the voice, as he felt that he needed to open the gates, but he was pulled upwards, screaming.
Cuthwin awoke to see Vaktløytnant Aethelthrith's usually emotionless face light up with joy for a brief moment, before returning to its statue-like appearance. "Wha-what in the name of Dryadalis was that thing!?" Aethelthrith only shrugged and handed him a flak of whisky, mumbling, "I don't know. All I saw was that prisoner, what did he say his name was? Damnage? Say something to that Valkyrie, and then I was out. Everyone else says the same thing or something similar. You kept mumbling something while you were out though, "Say siendor-bona-slash, se ruination hen griffondor?" Cuthwin frowned. "No, it's pronounced "Se sȳndor-bona-slays, se ruination hen qrīdronnor." Aethelthrith looked shocked, as did Cuthwin, but he only grinned like a madman, took a swig of whisky, and fell unconscious.

Larmes de Dieu, Monsieur De Villiers' Slave Camp

Victor De Villiers looked at the gory mess that had been an unfortunate slave that accidentally angered him. "Découpeur!" Victor roared. A small man wearing dark chain and leathers stepped forward, his hawkish features hidden by the black cloak he had on. "Bring me the nun. I wish for her to clean up this beautiful mess. But make her use her bare hands. Maybe that will finally brake that bothersome "faith" of hers." Découpeur nodded, and went to retrieve Sister Margaret. When she entered the tent, she flinched at the sight of the gore, but only whispered a prayer for the poor slave's soul. De Villiers' face went scarlet with rage, and he clouted her on the ear. "You will clean this mess with your hands within the hour, or this'll be another slave's fate!" He wanted her to break down, but she only nodded and went to work, praying all the while. De Villiers stormed out of the tent, and every servant, slave, and soldier gave him plenty of room for fear of being the next stain on the floor.

[Mackjaracotavon]

Senntisten, The Capital

Holy Sir Geralt of Rivia, having assembled men a few hours ago, was acquiring provisions for the trip, to be delivered to the small harbor town of Ruunfield along the northern coastline.

"How much do you want for these supplies?" Geralt asked the merchant. The man responded to the Grand Inquisitor with the cock of an eyebrow.

"Seven hundred and fifty regals." the merchant said. Geralt, having been told that the prices were lower than that, was less than pleased.

"I was told these supplies would be five hundred." he said.

"By whom, if I may ask? Because from where I stand, you were misinformed." the merchant said, and Geralt could tell he was trying to extort the church. Whether for money for himself or to try to pay off an accumulated debt, the Grand Inquisitor didn't have time to figure out. He would have to have one of the Pontiffs talk to the man about it later. Knowing the merchant wouldn't budge, and wanting to do anything but put a sword in front of the man's face to tell him not to extort a church official, he gave the man the seven hundred fifty regals for the supplies. With the payment rendered, he went to his horse and hopped on, before riding out of town towards the harbor at Ruunfield.

Larmes de Dieu, Monsieur De Villiers' Slave Camp

Sister Margaret was fairly strong willed, as most nuns were. Though she had been forcibly stripped of her habit and had been left with nothing but rags, she refused to give in and break. As she prayed silently to herself and cleaned up the mess as she was ordered to do so, she felt GOD and the protecting wings of the archangel Azrael shield her from harm. She knew she had to escape somehow and return to Cretia and the church. Her inability to fight meant that she had to rely on patience and faith alone, and pray that GOD would guide her back home. She otherwise worked quickly, leaving no spot untouched as she otherwise would have washing a young child.

[Viraliz]

Orden Ashwood
Dragonpeak, Capital of the Empire

High Ranger Orden Ashwood looked at the scene unfolding in front of him. Seeing the emperor overcome with rage was disturbing. Not because he feared the emperor, but he knew that the chance that his people would become drawn into a long war against this rebels rather than finding a peaceful solution.

“No matter”, Orden thought. “I have received a command from my father and need to to deliver our pledge to the Emperor no matter my personal opinion.”

He walked to the herald in the room and asked when it was his time to speak to the emperor.


Jathnas Ashwood
Forest Watch, The Old Forest

Jathnas stood on his balcony and looked over his fortress and the stretch of the forest beyond it. He heard the sound of arrows hitting practice targets below him and smiled with pride. His people were one of the foremost archers in the realm and he knew they would do their best in the coming war against the emperors enemies, however he felt that the war was something he wished he could avoid.

According to the ancient treaties his people were bound to fight for the emperor and protect the border and he would do it no matter what. This oath was almost as the sacred pact with the forest and to fail it would surely bring devestation to the forest.

Tip tap. Jathnas could hear the sound of footsteps behind him and turned around seeing his daughter the Forest Speaker Alisana, her hair was brown as the bark of the trees and her eyes were glowing with a green luster, making them seem more like emeralds than normal eyes.

“Father, I have spoken with the craftsmen and the other speakers and so far preparations are well underway for our army. A fortnight more and our newly blessed weapons and armors will be ready against any threat.” Alisana spoke in the ancient language of the forest dwellers. “The speakers are currently blessing the last of our armors and weapons making sure that our armory is fully stocked. However I am not sure how large our reserves are and we should maybe reconsider joining the war.”

Jathnas shook his head and said, “We cannot my daughter. The ancient treaty binds us to the Emperor for as long as they grant us the right to the forest. We cannot go against the treaty as long as they maintain their part of it. It would diminish our honor as much as breaking our bond with the forest. No, Alisana we need to weather this storm as we have weathered so many before, and we will become stronger for it.”

[Destriustan]

Dragonpoint Throne Room
The Imperial Herald, a fat, elderly Heartlander looked up and scoffed. "It's your funeral, woodman." He then stood up straight and let out blasts on his trumpet. "Humbly requesting an audience with his Imperial Majesty, by the grace of the gods the Emperor of Destriustan, by the grace of the gods the Archon of Adrax, Keeper of the Dragons, Last of the Blood of Old Dest, Emperor Jaehaerys II Caenennis, High Ranger Orden Ashwood of the Forbidden Woods, son of Warden of the Forest Jathnas Ashwood." At the mention of the High Ranger, murmurs rang oout through the hall as the lords and nobles saw Orden. The Emperor, however, smiled and walked towards the High Ranger, accompanied by his Dragonguard, who's red and black plate mail clanked. "Ah, welcome High Ranger! My father spoke highly of your people's skill as archers. Now, tell me what this meeting is about."

[Viraliz]

Orden Ashwood
Dragonpeak, Capital of the Empire


"My esteemed emperor, I have been sent by my father to inform you that House Ashwood is ready to assist you in any way you see fitting to deal with this rebellion. We have not forgotten our treaty and still swear by our everlasting loyalty to you and your dynasty. Furthermore our scouts near the norhtern borders have informed us of that the Northern Marches are preparing to march to war. We could start a skirmishing campaign against them and disrupt the overland trade if you would find that agreeable to your plans. Otherwise we will wait your command."

[SF n F]

It was just one of those days.

1. When Smitesalot got done cutting him a new oriface with her teeth (and the rest of her mouth, as one employs it for speech),
2. AFTER the guards of the prison he was escaping from turned his AWESOME ILLUSION into a joke,
3. AFTER Annoyaloth jinxed his spell in the dungeon,
4. AFTER Smitesalot practically extorted him into a new assignment
5. Along comes Fartsalot with Damnage's new identity.

HE WAS GOING TO BE BRATTY LITTLE GIRL!

This was just too much. The Damnage names were coming out.

Damnage never told anybody what Damnage names were, but he used them on...just about everybody. Unfortunately, one of his victims had found out about it and started calling him “brimstone breath,” and it had stuck, but it had been a while since he had heard that name.

Smitesalot, of course, was Sister Abacus. Damnage wasn't even sure he rememberd Annoyaloth's actual name. It didn't matter. And Fartsalot—that would be the former Avenging Angel turned Patron of Gentle Humor, Brother Flatus. And YES, that WAS how he avenged.

They had found a young lady on her way to the slave fields—the same ones as their little agent, Sister Needsaprayer—who had died in the process of getting there. The plan was that Damnage would take on the dead girl's form and they would use him to replace her in the slave fields. They knew that the six-foot three-inch tall Damnage would have no trouble imitating someone a full foot shorter than he was—he had done it before, numerous times, right in front of them—so all that was left—to them at least—was to show up and make the switch.

Damnage had been wondering how they were going to get the people around the dead chick to lose their memory...and then he saw Fartsalot.

Yeah. That was one of his new powers. It wasn't enough that the guy could fart up an earthquake if he got angry enough, or blast an entire Sanitation Detail from the abys back where it came from with a single well-placed shot. No, Brother Flatus had also acquired Fine Control. He could even fart amnesia gas. Damnage was too jealous to be disgusted.

And just when Damnage had thought that it couldn't get much worse, and he wsa going to have to be an old hag...things got worse. He was going to have to be a young hag. If he had been old, they might have given him some resopect for his age. If he had been pretty—well, he cou ld use that capital directly. But this girl—her name was Bolb--had the misfortune of being neither. This girl could expect a beating every time she so much as sneezed.

Which didn't exactly put a smile on his face as he was placed in the queue, sent through processing and casually sidestepped one shiv stuck to a table and another one in a guard's hand on his way in tot he killing fields. It could have been worse. The guard could not have been trying to stab someone else.

OOC: Wish I'd had time to write a more detailed post, maybe even some dialog between Flatus and Damnage. There aren't enough hours in the day.

[Destriustan]

Dragonpeak
The Emperor nodded sagely once Orden finished speaking. "Yes, the Imperatoris Oculum has warned me of the Northmen's movements for quite some time now. I am gracious for your House's continual loyalty to the Empire, and would be most pleased if you told your father to meet with General Septentrionalis in Adrax. And give this to your father." He pulls a scroll out of his robe and passes it to Orden. "It's a map I had the Magiam Conventus create for all leal servants of the Empire. It shows where all our troops are at any given time. Your family should be honored to have one." The Emperor smiles wolfishly. "But, if you were to lose it or let it fall into the hands of my enemies, you will feel such pain that Nihil would feel like paradise." After finishing his threat, the Emperor turns and walks away, followed by his Dragon Guards.

Larmes de Dieu
Monsieur De Villiers marched proudly past several slaves digging a new trench. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of them stopped to rest, so he pulled out his mace. His mace, which he had named Joyeux Donneur, was made of silver, with a serrated head made to look like a skull. He decided it was the perfect time to play his favorite game. He called it Balle Crâne, or Skull Ball. It always seemed to cow the slaves and raise the men's spirits, except for the sourpuss Monsieur Cédric Malet, who never took part in any of his fun "games." This angered De Villiers, but he could do nothing about it do to Malet being here on Grand Duke Mariote Chanallon's personal request, but he soon perked up. "Guard!" De Villiers yelled. Once the terrified guard arrived, he chuckled. "Have that Sister Margaret come watch us play Balle Crâne with that slave there." He points to the slouching slave, who tries to resume working, but is only dragged away. De Villiers continues on, excited for a good old game of Balle Crâne.

[Mackjaracotavon]

Ruunfield Harbor, aboard the merchant ship Lady Grace

Geralt of Rivia and his fellow inquisitors were helping the merchants to stuff the rest of the cargo and supplies for the long trip to the Empire. It was midday, and the trade winds were fairly strong. Having just arrived on Horseback, they hadn't had enough time to get settled in on board.

"Thanks for the help, Inquisitor. Bloody wind kept blowin' the cargo 'round. Anyways, yer help loadin', for transport for ye and yer men. A deal's a deal." the merchant said thankfully after the last crate was loaded.

"You're welcome, sailor. Are we ready to cast off?" Geralt asked.

"Aye. Best get comfortable, it'll be a long trip." the merchant replied. Upon his order, the crew began to cast off. Releasing the mooring lines, unfurling sails, and overall getting the ship out of harbor looked quite trivial, and they were soon underway, bound for the Imperial lands. The armor of an inquisitor wasn't just protective gear against melee attacks, ranged attacks and magic. It was also a badge of office, a symbol of pride, and a symbol of defense for all GOD's children. The Inquisition earned a positive reputation for their works in dealing with demons, void cults and monsters as well as helping those in need and providing relief and peacekeeping in disaster areas and disease-ridden towns. Those who donned its armor were highly respected, more so than the church they protected. They expected that the Imperials would show them that respect, as they had no intention of breaking the peace.

Larmes de Dieu
Sister Margaret had just finished cleaning up the body, her hands covered in blood. She was about to tell the man who enslaved her that she had finished, when she heard something called "Balle Crâne. She wasn't sure what that was, but decided to shrug it off as being something unimportant.

[Destriustan]

Silens Mare
The Wailing Wraith was a small galley, with twenty-five oars and two-hundred crew, not counting the galley-slaves. Captain Oros Taeth, a privateer in service to the self-proclaimed "King of the Seas and Wind," Yalen Dokar, spotted a merchant ship. He yelled down to his men. "Ship off starboard bow! Prepare for boarding!" The pirates scurried to equip themselves with their scimitars and crossbows, and prepared for battle. A trumpet sounded and the Wailing Wraith raised the flag of the Kingdom of the Seas and Wind, a black skull on a sea of blue. Their ship was fast and nimble, and they soon pulled up off the port bow of the merchant ship, which had the name Lady Grace painted on the side. "Why hello there, Lady Grace, you're in the territory of Yalen Dokar, King of the Seas and Wind, and you seem to have neglected to pay the Royal Tithe. The way I see it, you've got tow choices; give us all your valuables, or will take them and your crew as slaves." He then noticed the group of heavily armed men in white armor. He didn't think they'd be a challenge, so he pointed and yelled, "Oi, that's some nice armor there. Would catch a pretty price in Ar'tal. How about you fellas just hand over you armor too. As token of goodwill of course."

[SF n F]

Larmes de Dieu

Where was Smitesalot when you needed her?

Back in the Old Days, Danmage knew that he would regard the way that the slavors treated their slaves with glee, but he had come to new realizations since his turning. Now, he realized that beating them senseless at every excuse—and even a few times without an excuse—destroyed their morale and kept them from getting their work done.

Case in point: a little game they liked to play. They called it head ball. The thugs in charge formed a circle, and then the Chief Thug, armed with a specially-made mace and on horseback, rode into the circle where the victim was kept. The object wasn't to kill the victim, though—that would be a mark of poor skill. No, the object was to cause maximum pain and disfigurement without rendering the victim unconscious. And if the Chief Thug had a bad outing, maybe one of the thugs would get a beating while he was at it—not as severe, mind you.

They had “played a round” on Bolb's first day in the slave camp. One of the other slaves—at twenty-five or so, one of the oldest men in the camp—had given out while digging a trench. That was all the excuse that Monsieur de Vilest—Chief Thug—needed. The worn out slave—his name was Mitciv—was hauled into the “arena” and beaten until he could no longer stand—and then beaten even more. As he watched Vilest crack the backs of the man's hands, Damnage was of two minds. On the one hand, it was all he could do to hold himself back from taking out the whole rabble. Two, maybe three concussion waves and de Vilest would be the only one left standing. The rest would be easy. On the other, it would be the height of ease to corrupt these scum. You either find the bribe that best suits their leader or torture a few of the higher-ups—or maybe a little bit of both. Nothing to it. Fortunately, Danmnage did not have the burdon of deciding his course of action.

But the Angels had left strict instructions: Damnage was to maintain cover at all costs. No heroics. Just monitor the situation and keep Sister Margaret alive so that they could get word of what was being done at the camp to her government. But Damnage wasn't sure that they were being honest with him. Letting her live would be bad for their business.

Demons like Damnage reporduced by laying—and fertilizing—eggs in host bodies. It wasn't widely known, but Angels did much the same thing. The main difference was that the bodies the Angels used had to be dead before the process started—not long dead, but dead nonetheless. Thus, Damnage couldn't be sure that what he was really doing was keeping Sister Margaret from being too badly disfigured before malnutrition and overworking took their course and she...ended up becoming the newest, whizbang Angel. It only made sense.

But Mictiv did have one game-changing trait. He moaned all day long as they put him on a table in the middle in the hot sun in the middle of the camp. It got so blasted annoying that Damnage couldn't sleep—or as close to it as he could get—during the day. So the demon did what any self-respecting demon would do and came to him that night, tail barb out and venom gland as full as he could make it.

To Damnage's surprise, Mictive still had enough cognizance left to recognize someone else nearby him.

“Who—who's there?” asked the 'noid.

“Think of me as a friend,” Damnage replied.

“You're going to let me die?”

“I'm going to take away your pain.”

“Please let me die. Don't make me—.”

Things happened relativaly rapidly after that point. Damnage stung the 'noid. The spaded tail of a Red Gargoyle Demon can deliver a narcotic through its stinger. It would help Mictiv to relax and heal—but it never got the chance. Damnage didn't know where the 'noid's strength came from, but he screamed. He was actually strong enough to scream, just once, at the top of his lungs. This roused the guards, who turned a jaundiced eye or two in Mictiv's direction. This wasn't much of a problem, because by then Damnage had long since gone invisible. It wasn't much of a problem, but it did pose a problem—despite themselves, they put the place on lockdown before they decided Mictive, who had faced off to sleep for the first time in a few days, was too far gone for another beating. Damnage had to leave a false trail of stung guards in order to get back to where the illusion of Bolb that he had left behind was “sleeping.” His luck had held on that account and on one had tried to rouse the insignifigant slave.

Only thing left to do was ride out the storm that was going to come when the Vilest one discovered that someone was shooting up his guards with “black magic” drugs.

He decided to postpone making contact with the one called “Sister Margaret.”

[SF n F]

Damnage wasn't even completely sure where he was anymore. It had happened that quickly. Smitesalot had just appeared one evening and told him that the camp assignment had been canceled and he was to leave. His next stop, he was told, was to be the local capital city...but he was still looking for directions on how to get there.

Danmange had done this sort of thing before. Before he had turned, he had lived among the 'noids and learned how to blend in. Now, as far as any of them could tell, he was a traveling merchant and bard. Since he had turned, he had needed to forgo his pickpocketing and thieving skills, but they had turned out to be less important than he had thought.

So he made the occasional trade and sang the occasional ballad and went on his way.