Fantasia (IC)

[HotCider]

GM​

Mila
Time of Day: Night
Weather: Heavy Rain and Cold (not frosty)
Prominent Characters Mentioned: Emeline, Dark King Howne, and The Witch.
Player Characters Mentioned: Stephan and Connell.

The black witch was on her hands and knees, sprawled over the cold pale body of the queen and lapping at her throat like a dog. She sucked and kissed at the cooled sticky tissue, her porcelain face smeared in red. With each lick upon her every breath she whispered crazily, “Look at me, my lord (she’s speaking to Meldourne). Look at your goddess!”

She then straightened in the goddess’s lap and spread her arms. Her irises illuminated in the shade of blood and her raven-black hair twisted and coiled about her head and shoulders. She shouted:

“My lord! Accept me as your wife! Accept me as your goddess! Use me for your will!”

A black twister of dark power ruptured from the earth in a funnel around the goddess and its explosive force sent Connell, Stephan, and even the dark king flying several feet from the stage. The witch levitated off of her feet to hover in the air as the power whipped and coiled about her. Her gown was stripped from her body, leaving her bare and dark runes began to manifest on her porcelain flesh. The shrunken skulls that had made her necklace warped into the skulls of lesser demons and her eyes forever shifted to the color of red diamonds. As the black energy dissipated into the clouds, the transformed witch lowered upon the stage, her steps so unweighted and airy that she barely stood on the balls of her feet. She cast her enchanting eyes over to Stephan and Connell, and her form winked across the field as she suddenly stood before them. She held her hand out to Stephan to draw him toward her into her hand. The priest would be able to feel the insufferable demonic energy exuding from her, threatening to drown him like an ocean. The witch’s bloodstained lips curled into a smile as she gazed upon the priest, her black dangerously sharp nails lightly trailing across the side of his face.

“You are all that He wants,” the voice that left her resonated with a vile power. The witch had ascended into a goddess; a demonic harbinger of the dark god. Stephan would realize that he was unable to move in her presence as her power would swiftly corrupt him as soon as he dare drop his guard.

The witch cast her eyes to Connell, and she could see that his will was not as strong as the priest’s (M-Defense 2). The thief would see things that nobody else did. The witch prowled over to him, walking across a street caked in blood and mud. Her full breasts beneath the hellish necklace about her neck quivered from her slightest movements as her round hips seemed to rock to her every motion. She stopped before him, her dark nipples hard and puckered and an arousing pheromone seemed to gush from her body, invading his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, teasing his every sexual receptor. The goddess took his rough hands gently into her smooth ones and mashed his palms against her breasts, rubbing them up and down her tits as he would feel their heat and weight as her pillowy orbs molded in his hands.

I want you to do me a favor… her voice whispered deep within his conscience and seemed to take hold.

Her aroused juices tumbled down her thighs as she stepped closer to Connell her wine-red lips inches from his own as she coiled her arms about his neck. Her soft chest gave against his harder one and her fingers stroked the edges of his nape. She poured her command into his mouth:

I want you to kill the Ivorene king.

Her black hair stroked his body like feathers and wove in an out of his clothes like serpents. The goddess slid her leg up his own leg to his hip, hooking it around him to press her hot pussy against his crotch and he would feel its tantalizing heat seeping into his pants.

You’ll do that for me, won’t you Connell?

She knew his name!

King Howne was regarding the thief strangely for all he could see was Connell standing there looking transfixed. He glanced over to the witch, and after planting her magical command inside the thief’s conscience, she brought her eyes around to meet the king’s. As colossal and intimidating as the Milian king was, his eyes seemed to flee from hers as he cast them to the ground with a mental curse. Even he knew that the witch had become a monster, but he wouldn’t betray her. She had become Mila’s ultimate weapon.

The witch giggled as she glanced over at Stephan.

“Look,” she told him. She wanted him to look at Connell and how susceptible he had been to her dark magic and charms. “I told him to kill your king. He will now go to carry out that task. What do you think will happen? Maybe the king will die anyway because you’re here? They have no one to cure their wounds. Maybe his men will kill your friend before he completes his task? Or…maybe they both will die? I guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

The goddess glanced over to King Howne as she said, “I want the priest to stay with us. I don’t want him harmed. My lord wishes to use him to bring about his rebirth.”

King Howne frowned a little but obeyed. He ordered his men, “Take the priest and lock him in the dungeons. Send two scouts to secretly follow that man (Connell). I will want news as to whether he succeeds in killing the Ivorene king or fails.”

The Milian soldiers barked in acknowledgement and rushed over to Stephan to bind him. Two scouts stood near Connell prepared to follow him at a safe distance.

Strategy Update!

1. The scenario cannot be ignored.
2. Characters need a (M) Defense of 5 or more to successfully resist the goddess’s charms. Stephan due to his class has a slight passive resistance.
3. The team will have to decide to kill Connell before he kills Jorn or save them both.
4. Stephan is now a prisoner of Mila and will have to be rescued unless he submits to the tortures of the witch.
5. If Stephan submits, then his seed will bring about the dark god Meldourne.
6. The game will continue at the Allies secret camp in the woods.
**7. This concludes Chapter One!

Minions Update!
The GM will send a certain amount of enemies your character’s way. Do not create your own enemies. Do not reward yourself exp for slain enemies. Only the GM does so.
Ally/Enemy Soldiers 2 xp.
Ally/Enemy Archers 2 xp.


Reminder

Every character who joins this game will be given 5 stat points to distribute through the 5 attribute categories. All characters start at Level One, and as they earn experience, they have the ability to level up. Each time a character levels, the player will earn 5 stat. points to arrange how they like. A cleric can be customized to also pack whopping magic damage or to be as much as a tank as the knight. This game is your oyster.

Experience is awarded two ways: 1) In-game when bosses—main or minor—are defeated, and 2) by player word count. I reward literacy. The player and the GM will keep track of the experience points achieved. Every experience bar starts at 10 experience for level 1. As players level up, the experience bar will extend by 10. So for example, the experience bar of a level 2 character is 20. This means that a character must earn 20 points worth of experience in order to advance to level 3.

300 words = 1 experience point
500 words = 2 experience points
1,000 words = 3 experience points

You can keep track of your acquired experience by posting the points at the end of your post, or by writing it to your character’s character profile.

Awarded Experience

Weyland (2 enemy guards) = 4 xp

Connell (Rescue Stephan) = 10 xp

Gillian (2 enemy soldiers) = 4 xp

 

[Hard_Rom]

Weyland is still wondering why he doesn't set up a nice little smithy in a town somewhere, Get married and have a brood of brats. He's getting to old to be getting hit with swords. There's no feeling of blood running down his back and he can still move, albeitly stiffly, so he doubts he is truely injured. Still hurts like fuck! He swings out of his saddle slowly when he reins in back at the camp. His first act is to drink deeply from the first available wineskin he comes across.

It's a definite chore to get his maille off but he is glad to find no blood on the armours under-padding. It would appear others were not so lucky. It didn't look good for the priest making it out. So Weyland figures some of his experience may be needed. He feeds the smouldering fire some fuel and sets a pot of water boiling. Then he takes and places some knives and a couple of thin iron bars in the coals to be heated. It ain't priest healing, but not every warband is blessed with having a healer, but a red hot poker will stop most bleeding. Wouldn't be the first time Weyland has cauterized an arrow wound or sword cut. Nor amputated a badly smashed appendage. Fire and iron are his trade.

While the irons get hot and the water boils. Weyland digs through his saddle bags and pulls out some leather working needles. Quite a bit larger than a proper surgeon would use but then bleeding out beggars can't be choosers. He uses his dagger to cut off some of his horses tail for thread. Anyone who is worried about having a nasty scar is shit out of luck with Weylands lack of finesse with sewing up gaping wounds. Likely to get a ringing cuff across the back of the head too if they complain. The Smith lacks the bedside manner of most leeches, surgeons and priests.

The irons are glowing red when he gets back to the fire. He drinks deep from the wineskin again. Cutting and sewing up folk after a battle is never a fun job.

"Okay!" he bellows out, "Who needs stitching up?" "Bleeders first!"


296

 

[Aussie_Wolf]

Once Gillian had made it out of the city and into the surrounding forest he had simply climbed into the trees and vanished. It may not have been his own woods but wherever there was vegetation nobody was ever going to find him without some powerful magic.

He had kept an eye on the road, watching it for any stragglers and for the king to make his way back to the meeting place. It would be even more of a disaster if he had not made it out and they were totally without leadership.

However soon he saw him leading a group of bleeding men and women down the road and he breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was one fear alleviated. The king was safe and would be able to establish some sort of power before the Witch and King Howne decided to invade.

He kept a careful watch for a further ten minutes waiting for Stephan and Connell to appear but he did not see them. Perhaps they had made it past before he had gotten there but he did not think so. They had been still fighting when he had started his escape and had been closer to the platform. Barring some miracle they were either dead or captured.

Realizing that without the healer his skills would be needed he climbed down and began to make his way towards the meeting place, easily making his way through the forest without making a sound. His ribs made him wince but he decided they were not cracked. He would have to wrap them for a few days but they would heal quickly. On the other hand his shoulder was starting to become numb. He would have to get the arrow out soon and cauterize the wound before applying a poultice.

As he ran he began to gather herbs and plants he would need. There would be a lot of wounds judging from the state of the people who had passed him, and with no cleric he would definitely be busy.

He made it to the small clearing, ghosting into the midst of people like he had been there awhile and found Weyland already cauterizing several of the more badly wounded. It was not a pleasant job and he did not envy the man. He made his way to his pack and quickly examined the arrow. He was lucky, it was a bodkin. If it had been one of his he would have had to push it all the way through but luckily he could just draw this one out. Gritting his teeth he yanked it out then took off his armor then the shirt underneath.

Examining the wound he flushed it with wine then approached Weyland and had the man quickly cauterize it. The smell of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils and he grimaced. Thanking him he returned to his pack and retrieved a small mortar and pestle and began grinding up the plants he had gathered and smearing them on large leaves he had gathered. One went on his shoulder and he tied it on with a vine, then he began to walk around the campsite applying them where needed. He just hoped he did not run out before the wounded. He doubted he had the strength to make another foray into the woods.

558 +2

 

[Vailyn]

Tavern near Mila, Camp in Woods

A slender woman with long dark hair in a multitude of small braids sat on a stool beside the large stone fireplace. Her head was bent over a polished, wooden gittern and nimble fingers quickly checked the strings and tone. A storm gray cloak covered most of her small frame, a portion of a dark blue tunic could be seen at her lap and covered her legs. Long slits on the sides of the tunic were embellished with silver runic embroidery and gave miniscule glimpses of legs clad in black leggings and leather boots.

A sharp strum of the strings clanged across the room and quietened the general chatter of the patrons in Ankler's Tavern. An expectant hush filled the room as the crowd turned towards the performer. It was late in the night and many have stayed longer than their norm to listen to the traveling minstrel. For someone so small and unassuming, she had a lilting voice that drew the listeners closer. The songs and stories painted vivid images in their minds as their emotions seem to be plucked here and there by the notes she strummed.

“It grows late, and I am afraid I only have time for one more song this eve.” Deep notes cascaded into higher notes and moved the listeners with a sense of longing. “Here is a tale that I have learned during my travels and said to be from the first kingdom in the land. Here is Wildling's Call.”

Dance in moonlight
beneath fullness bright
Lovers pray
for their match
Daring all regardless of cost
to be with the one, heart's own.

Dance in moonlight
beneath fullness bright
Lovers sway
under starlight
Daring the gods for love
to be with the one, heart's own.

Dance in moonlight
beneath fullness bright
Lovers hear
the Wildling's Call
Daring all to fall
to be with the one, heart's own.

Dance in moonlight
beneath fullness bright
Lovers wake
naked in dawn's light
Daring to dream
to be with the one, heart's own.

Dance in moonlight
beneath fullness bright
Lovers call
for the Wildling's touch
Daring to hope
to be with the one, heart's own,
One last night.

The melody drew to a soft, aching series of shivering notes that made the listeners yearn for something dreamed of and lost. For a moment or three, the whine of the wind blowing against the tavern, between shutters, chimneys and the crackling of the flames of the fire were the only sounds in the room. Those who gathered there were all lost in a memory of their own. The minstrel's hands carefully checked her instrument by rote and quietly waited for the others to come to the present. Some of the older songs held a rare strength to touch every person. Her amber eyes glowed warm with simple joy. She never took for granted that she would play well or hold a crowd's attention in the palm of her hand. There were too many elements that could disrupt a performance and, to her, there was no such thing as perfection.

Dancing, singing and playing for others was the one thing that she did for herself. Too much of her life was determined by her innate magic of fire. As time passed, she realized that her fate may have been written and sealed before birth. It seemed as if she was a token of an unseen game of strange events that held prominence in ways she did not know but learned of after. Be she a pawn or willing player of a bigger piece, the one thing she did for herself was perform. The search into her family's history, chasing down old tales for a hint of information and practicing the arts to keep herself in total control were something she must do. Performing was something she chose to do.

The gathering seem to awaken in ones and twos until boisterous chatter filled the hall again. Harvon, the gruff tavern keeper, made his way over to small woman. His broad smile made deep crinkles by his dark eyes. “Mai, the name Golden Siren suits you well! I cannot recall another night of entertainment that actually made this crowd silent. You are welcome to stay at the rate we have discussed and play for as long as you like. It would be a welcome change for our village. Get your meal from Orlyssa when you're ready.” He frowned for a moment. “You are much too small! Eat up and get some meat on you, girl! Chaunter, get away from there!”

Mai laughed, no chance to reply before Harvon left to yell at a drunk man and several patrons gathered around her. She spent some time talking to the village people, taking thanks, sharing news and else as she ate her meal of hearty stew and warm biscuits. The delights of such meals were far between and much better than the usual fair of jerked meat and whatever she found on the road. The atmosphere was much lighter than the beginning of the night. With rumors of war and a battle of Gods, many were worried for their livelihood and wondering if troubles will be had by all in the future. The king had kidnapped the Ivorene Queen and her execution was said to be held soon.

Full of good food and happy with her performance, Mai made her way to her room to rest. She wondered if she should stay for a while, and a sense of urgency swamped over her. Her body tensed as her instincts screamed that something was wrong. It was so strong that she checked the room and outside to see what had keyed the feeling but she found nothing. The haunting feeling remained and tangled her sleep with a restless desire to keep going. Not too long after dawn, Mai packed and made her way back onto the road towards Mila. The weather was as dark and moody as the feeling of foreboding that grew heavier with each passing hour.

Mai settled into a cycle of walking and loping run that she could hold for hours at a time. Her senses were on edge and she could not dismiss the feeling that danger awaits. Knowing that what pulled her was not a matter of sense or practicality, she made her way off the well traveled path and set into the dense woods.

Night had fallen and she took a brief moment to eat some cold meat and bread. Edgy and ill at ease, Mai knew there was no fighting the pull. She must keep going. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and kept a steady pace towards the south. When she realized there was a faint glow up ahead, Mai hesitated before carefully moving towards it.

A small fire was lite in the dip of the woods. The placement making the light harder to see from a distance. An armored group of men and woman were scattered around the fire and spoke in terse whispers. Some of them appeared to be wounded. The acrid scent of burnt hair and pungent meat filled the air. The reason became clear. A scarred warrior was closing wounds with irons heated in the fire. She winced. She could seal the wounds without causing as much damage as those irons on skin.

The largest group of people were gathered around a man whose head was shorn of most of his hair. They were taking off his blood splattered armor.

The feeling of being where she needed to be surged and Mai thoughtlessly walked out of the shadows. She didn't think about announcing herself. She carried a small pouch of herbs, powders and ointments. They needed help and she was in the right place.

Intent on doing what she needed to do, Mai walked into the camp and quietly asked, “How can I help? I know a bit of healing and have some medicine.”

Word Count: 1,327 = 4 Points​

 

[sodalitas]

Connell was following the path of the sword at full-tilt, toward Stephan and the King. He caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral vision, but then the explosive power of the dark twister generated by the witch hit him before he could register what was happening, and he was soon surprised to find himself sprawled on the ground a short distance from Stephan, his head ringing from the force.

As he struggled to his feet he felt suffocated by a power emanating from somewhere close by, and when he saw the witch standing in front of Stephan - her perfect, pure and evil skin marred only by mystic runic symbols, he was struck by the vision, growing silent and watching her just as the entire courtyard seemed to have done.

In a moment, she had turned and met his eyes with hers, and the shock of it made his every muscle freeze, rooting him in place. The vision she injected into his mind was so powerful and quick that he never doubted for a moment that it was real.

As she started walking towards him, he was so repulsed by her and so drawn to her that the competing forces made it impossible to move, or even look, away. She was in front of him now, his every sense filled with the noise of her, oblivious to anything else that was happening in the courtyard. There was only her filling his eyes, his nose, his hands.

I want you to do me a favor...

He would do anything she commanded. He would do anything she asked. He would make it his life goal to do anything she gave even the slightest suggestion that she might want someone to do.

I want you to kill the Ivorene king.

His heart sang at the thought of being able to do her bidding.

You'll do that for me, won't you Connell?

The sound of his name coming from her lips was both the most terrifying and most pleasing thing he had ever heard.

Suddenly she was back in front of Stephan again, her attention elsewhere. The ache from the absence of her stare was excruciating.

He snapped back to reality as the King was addressing his men, but Connell wasn't paying attention, he was waking up as if from a slumber. As his body began to listen to him again, his mind was already formulating a plan. It was so obvious. After all - the only way to secure peace for the city was for the war to end, wasn't it? And killing Jorn would end it. How much bloodshed would be spared by this one, last death? He did not relish the thought of killing Jorn. The King was an excellent commander and a good person. But it would not be the first time Connell had had to betray someone for the greater good.

He glanced back at Stephan regretfully as he made his way out of the courtyard and into the city. The man didn't deserve the fate that was in store for him. But Connell's own quest must come first. He knew Jorn would be making his way to the camp, but he could not risk trying to catch up with him. It was likely that there were men of their own watching the city gates to alert Jorn of enemy scouting parties and if Connell was to be spotted leaving the courtyard and not being pursued by the enemy, it would appear questionable. Instead he went deeper into the city.

For a few blocks, the city seemed deserted. The terrors occurring in the courtyard had caused all those who could to flee, abandoning the streets to either cower in shuttered homes or to distance themselves. Shortly, though, he began to see townsfolk warily peering out of windows and doorways. He continued on, and was surprised when the empty echoes of his footfalls began to give way to the normal sounds of city life. Well out of earshot of the courtyard there were people who were completely ignorant of the enormity of what had just happened. He saw a poorly dressed middle-aged woman beating the dust out of a blanket on a line. Out of a nearby tavern he heard the sounds of men calling for more ale. A bedraggled mutt ran across his path, chased by three laughing children. He stopped, staring after them for a moment. He began to hope. The city would survive. If he had an opportunity to stop this war and prevent more harm, then the city could weather this. He felt even greater resolve to press on and complete his task.

It wasn't hard to notice the scouts following him. Connell knew every cobblestone in these streets and was used to following people through them, and the absence of other city noises made the trudging of the men behind him that much more obvious. He was to have chaperones, then. That would make his job more difficult. And if they were to be captured, they might give up Connell's quest through interrogation.

He very specifically did not look behind him at the scouts. They would be wary and ready for Connell to try something, and he still didn't feel at full strength from all the fighting this morning. In addition, he didn't want to risk putting anyone else in danger. Instead, he continued on his way and finally came to the docks.

Being a large city there was a busy port, and Connell had grown up in the midst of it. The docks were expansive in order to serve merchants, the navy, and personal ships. There was a significantly smaller number of boats than would be expected for this time of year, and a there was a flurry of activity as wiser souls got ready to sail out of the city and away from danger. He made his way further down the docks to where he kept his small boat. The ships became smaller and smaller as he approached, since the docks were closer together and harder to navigate for larger ships, until the farthest end where the water became too shallow and rocky. He saw movement near where his boat was moored and broke into a jog.

A figure knelt beside his boat.

"Hey!" Connell shouted, as he began to run towards the figure, who spun around and noticed him. It was a wide eyed young man in well-made but subdued clothing, who looked like he was more comfortable around books than boats. Quickly, the man knelt and began to fumble with the line frantically. In the race between his fingers and Connell's legs, Connell was the victor.

Connell grabbed two fistfuls of shirt and hoisted the man to his feet, who yelped in fright. "What do you think you are doing?" he growled.

"I.. uh.. I was just.." stammered the man, looking pleadingly up at Connell.

"I see", he replied, and shoved the man off of the opposite end of the pier and into the bitingly cold water. He hopped into the boat and finished the man's work, freeing himself from the pier and ignoring the man's curses.

He took his seat and began to row. As he was facing the shore, he had a clear view of the docks and should have no difficulty in seeing anyone following him. He allowed himself a quick smile as he figured he had some time before his chaperones found a way to follow, and with any luck he would be out of sight by then.

He set himself to the rhythm of the row and watched the shoreline float away. He had one stop to make, and then he would rendezvous with Jorn and the others at the camp.

"Time to finish this," he thought grimly.

1301 words = 4 xp​

 

[HotCider]

The knight could only be stubborn for so long. He was pale and blood streamed and frothed at the corners of his mouth as his breath left his lungs on hoarse breaths. His legs were heavy and it wasn't due to his greaves. His body was growing weaker and weaker until his next step caused his ankle to roll. His balance collapsed, and he was unable to recover it. His knights rushed to catch him.

“Sire!” they cried as arms reached out to catch him.

The party stopped and several soldiers cautiously pulled security while the king was collected. His arms were slung about their shoulders again, and with a quick once over, the men knew that he was in critical condition.

“He’s weakening,” a soldier informed.

“Damn that witch!” another cursed.

“This...is nothing,” Jorn said breathlessly.

“Do not speak, My King. Conserve your strength.”

Such sympathizing words would have normally made Jorn growl, but his vision was fading, he was growing cold and yet his skull felt as though it were on fire.

I’m...going to die, he thought negatively. He wasn't a quitter but the witch had gotten him good - right through his armor. He would have needed to have dodged it on a prayer.

He could feel his boots dragging jn the mud as his men swiftly carried him to the camp. He wanted to help them move him, but he couldn't. He was tired. He was done. If he was to leave this life, right then and there, now wouldn't have been a better time. The Milians had taken his parents and now, his only sister. He had nothing left to care for.

“Medic!” one of the knights carrying Jorn cried out to the camp.

The king was dragged over to one of the open mats and laid down. Soldiers then quickly went to work removing his armor, mail, and tunic.

“Bring the irons!” another called.

It was the first thing they thought to do without taking the time to actually examine the gash beneath his sternum.

How can I help? I know a bit of healing and have some medicine.

The soldiers looked to the mysterious woman who had approached them. They had never seen her before in their lives.

“Intruder!” a soldier cried.

“It’s the witch in disguise!” a superstitious one claimed.

The camp was full of the sounds of several soldiers drawing their swords. Everyone was on edge that even an innocent wanderer would have been murdered if suspected to be Milian.

Word Count 424 +1​

 

[HotCider]

GM​

Mila Castle
Time of Day: Night
Weather: Heavy Rain and Cold (not frosty)
Prominent Characters Mentioned: The Witch
Player Characters Mentioned: Connell and Stephan.

The scouts stood on the bank of the river, watching as the thief slowly eluded into the night’s fog. Strangely, the beings dispersed into black wisps, vanishing like the flames of candles.


The Dark Castle of Mila – The Dungeons

The priest’s cell was cold, hard, and rank of the musk of a cellar and the rot of a decomposing rat far in the dark corner. Its belly bubbled like foam in a pot with maggots that ate greedily at its corpse and a few fat round backs of hunched over rat kin gnawed on its limbs and bones.

There wasn’t a single bit of light in the dungeon. It was so dark that the man wouldn’t have been able to see a stranger if one was to be standing before him. Amidst the silence, the squeal of a dungeon door reverberated down the hall and several footsteps were heard—guards maybe. They visited Stephan every now and then to force water down his throat and to try and feed him a foul-tasting porridge. That single helping of food and water was all he would get for the night and morn.

I wish to be alone.

The voice was familiar to him. If he gazed upon the darkness before him, blossoming before his eyes was a being that glowed in a divine light. Her moondust skin lit the room in a silver hue and the witch walked toward Stephan on the balls of her feet as though her feet touched the floor to root herself. Her appearance was much different than from what he remembered—different than what it had been some hours ago.

Her hair was as white as moonlight and a thin white cloth draped her head like a cowl and weaved down the swells and curves of her body. The cloth clung to her fat tits and hid snuggly between the round cheeks of her ass that quivered to her every motion. She wore golden bangles on her arms, and a golden necklace with a diamond so big that it could have funded an entire country sat within the valley that was her cleavage. Her lips and fan-like lashes were dusted in gold and her eyes were an enchanting blue. The witch approached the priest until her glowing form illuminated his own.

Stephan had been stripped of all of his gear and clothes, leaving him at the mercy of the dingy environment and the creatures in his cell. His arms and legs were chained, forcing his body into a vertical “X”. His wrists and ankles were pinned to the walls.

“Stephan Openheimer,” her voice hummed with a power and delicately seeped into his ears like honey.

For a moment, the witch goddess regarded him in silence before the corners of her lips curled into a smile. Her hypnosis didn’t seem to work on him like it did the others. That was to be expected if he truly had been a holy man.

“I’ve come here to politely ask you a favor,” she began. The goddess stepped closer to the bound man and raised her hands to post them to either side of his head. Her breasts smashed like warm pillows against his bare chest, the cold rock between them cutting his flesh a little. Her plump lips shined like honey as she stared up at him from beneath half-lidded blues. “How long has it been since you last been with a woman? And was the woman a goddess? I can do amazing things for you Stephan. I can make you feel pleasures that your mortal body would never experience from any other girl. Pleasures it would barely be able to stand.”

She turned and rested her cheek against his shoulder, her lengthy layers of snow-white hair began to rise and brush against his arms and thighs like delicate feathers. She listened to his heartbeat and smiled.

“I want you to fuck me, Stephan,” the goddess frankly revealed. “I want to feel your holy cock explode inside of me. I know that you desire me for you’re a man, and what man can refuse a goddess?”

Lifting her head, she gazed into his eyes with the sweetness of a naïve girl. “That’s not all…I know that you’ll fuck me Stephan because if you don’t, your friend the Ivorene king, maybe Connell, maybe all who had suffered trying to save that pathetic little wretch—that pitiful excuse for a goddess—maybe all of them will die because you’re not there to save them. If you fuck me Connell, I give you my word that I will let you go out of this prison, unharmed…”

She then glanced off to the side as an impish smirk cocked on her face. “Well, maybe a little. I do like it rough. I will let you go to your friends and maybe you can save the king from Connell.”

“Hmph!” she giggled, raising a curled hand to her lips. “The king might die before Connell even completes his mission. Wouldn’t that be boring? What a weak spirit…”


Strategy Update!

1. Decisions determine how this story goes. Some decisions hold consequences, and others rewards. Some decisions may present undesired results, while others desired results. In the end, there is no wrong decision for it adds meat to the story.
2. Characters need a (M) Defense of 5 or more to successfully resist the goddess’s charms. Stephan due to his class has a slight passive resistance.
3. The team will have to decide to kill Connell before he kills Jorn or save them both.
4. Stephan is now a prisoner of Mila and will have to be rescued unless he submits to the tortures of the witch.
5. If Stephan submits, then his seed will bring about the dark god Meldourne.
6. The Witch WILL keep her promise and let Stephan go unscathed if he chooses to give her what she desires.

Minions

None at this time.


Reminder

Every character who joins this game will be given 5 stat points to distribute through the 5 attribute categories. All characters start at Level One, and as they earn experience, they have the ability to level up. Each time a character levels, the player will earn 5 stat. points to arrange how they like. A cleric can be customized to also pack whopping magic damage or to be as much as a tank as the knight. This game is your oyster.

Experience is awarded two ways: 1) In-game when bosses—main or minor—are defeated, and 2) by player word count. I reward literacy. The player and the GM will keep track of the experience points achieved. Every experience bar starts at 10 experience for level 1. As players level up, the experience bar will extend by 10. So for example, the experience bar of a level 2 character is 20. This means that a character must earn 20 points worth of experience in order to advance to level 3.

300 words = 1 experience point
500 words = 2 experience points
1,000 words = 3 experience points

You can keep track of your acquired experience by posting the points at the end of your post, or by writing it to your character’s character profile.

Awarded Experience

None at this time.

 

[Aussie_Wolf]

Gillian heard the cries and rushed over. He saw a woman surrounded by the kings guards with swords leveled at her and then Jorn lying on a mat, deprived of his armor with a foul gash in his stomach. It was bleeding slowly but steadily and the shirt around it was caked in blood. Damn the wound would have to be closed quickly but it would have to be cleaned thoroughly lest it get infected.

He looked to the woman who had been approaching the king and studied her. She had what was obviously a journeyman's pack and what looked like some kind of stringed instrument strapped to her back. In her hand she carried a small pouch that he could smell had herbs and other healing stuffs in and her face had not a trace of Milian to it. It was just that she was a stranger and the king lay dying that was getting her in trouble.

"Hold. She is no threat, in fact she may be able to help the king. The healing herbs I smell in that pouch are powerful and may speed his recovery but we need to work fast. Let her approach as I am going to need all the help I can get. Tell Master Weyland to heat up his best iron and have it ready. I am going to have to clean and sew this would first before he seals it though."

He looked around at the men who had not moved and sighed. "Well hurry up, your king is dying and I don't have the time to hold your hands. You," he said pointing, "Tell Weyland. You get me some hot water in a bowl, You strips of cloth and lots of it and you idiots let her go."

He then turned back to Jorn and drawing his dagger cut his shirt off revealing the wound. Luckily it was not all that wide as he had first thought because of the amount of blood, but it was deep. It looked to have been made by a spear or something similar and he was worried about what damage could have been down to Jorn inside. Still the blood was running red with no trace of any foul smells so hopefully he would be okay.

He waited for the water to be brought and then cleaned the wound as best he could and then began to sew it up. He tried to do a much better job than he had on the other men, but he was still using the same materials. It was still going to be crude. Finally he finished and looked at the woman. "I don't know what herbs or medicines you have but I have a poultice I can put on this for ten minutes before it is sealed and then one that can be put inside the bandages afterwards. I also have some for the fevers he will likely suffer afterwards but it is not strong. The right herbs and ingredients do not grow in this area. Whatever you could do for him would be greatly appreciated and go a long way to endear you to his people," he said gesturing around at everyone that was trying to look busy while staring at the three of them.

549 words +2xp

 

[rBo3guK]

The weather wasnt even close to changing from the heavy rain to the cold that hung around in the air. The situation was getting grimmer by the second. Soon, it would become even worse. For all of the group.

Stephan was running away from the failure of a mission that he participated in. Emeline, their target, was killed and is now being consumed by the Witch. The King is just standing there. But atleast the Executioner is dead. Today was by all means not a good day, from the weather to Stephan's mood. But that wasnt the top of his worries. He had to escape before it was too late. But it was.

The Witch called to her lord and absorbed the power of Emeline through her blood, transforming into a demonic goddess. The moment of transformation released so much power, Connell and Stephan were both pushed back, halting their escape fully. The Witch, emanating powerful dark magic, hypnotised Connell. Stephan was held in place by the dark magic, barely resisting it. He knew that if he diverted any of his focus and tried to run, he would immediatly get overpowered by the dark magic coming at him. Stephan had nothing to do but to comply to whatever the Witch said. However, she seemingly dissapeared somewhere for a brief moment, but the dark magic was still holding Stephan down. After some time, the Witch reappeared back infront of Stephan and said:

Look, I told him to kill your king. He will now go to carry out that task. What do you think will happen? Maybe the king will die anyway because you’re here? They have no one to cure their wounds. Maybe his men will kill your friend before he completes his task? Or… maybe they both will die? I guess you’ll have to wait and find out.

Stephan could not believe what she said. While he knew she was powerful, the idea of implanting ideas into one's mind was beyond Stephan. If she did the same with Stephan, he would be truly doomed. Then the Witch turned to Howne and said something again, but Stephan was a little distracted by his own thoughts and only heard parts from her statement:

I want the priest ... I dont want him harmed ... lord wishes ... bring ... his rebirth.

Take the priest ... the dungeons ... scouts ... follow that man ... news ... whether ... in killing the Ivorene king...

Stephan snapped back to reality after hearing something about the Ivorene king, dissaproving of this situation. He was then approached by Milian soldiers as they binded his hands. Stephan had nothing to do, simply because he would be caught by the Witch if he tried to run.

The following hours were uneventful. Stephan was taken captive and dragged off to the Dark Castle of Mila, where he was locked up in a dungeon, stripped of his gear and chained up on the wall. Out of all possibilities, this was one Stephan did not plan out. He was eager for any opportunity to escape, even if it meant losing his life. All was better than being chained up. Besides, the conditions in the cell were below living standarts - pitch darkness, rodents, possibly rotting bodies, which would explain the horrible smell. For somebody as important as Stephan in the plan, they did not provide him with good enough conditions. He could get sick and possibly die. However, that was not a possibility - Stephan was a cleric after all. From time to time guards came by and fed him some absolutely disguisting porridge and some water, definately not enough to survive.

After many moments of boredom and being chained up, Stephan heard a somewhat familiar voice outside the door.

I wish to be alone.

Stephan peeked up as the door slowly opened, letting some much needed light into the dark dark cell. If before he didnt care about inspecting the dark room, now he did. He finally saw what was making the poor smell in the room. There was a dead rat in the corner of the cell, polluting the air. He then looked back up at the person that was entering.

At first, he did not recognise who this beautiful woman was: white hair, blue eyes, gorgeous looks and beautiful curves.

Stephan Openheimer, I’ve come here to politely ask you a favor,

As she continued, Stephan slowly recognised the voice. It was the Witch herself. But she didnt look how she did before. She didnt have blood all over her and skulls, but rather, very revealing clothes and incredible forms. She came closer and pressed herself closer to Stephan, continuing:

How long has it been since you last been with a woman? And was the woman a goddess? I can do amazing things for you Stephan. I can make you feel pleasures that your mortal body would never experience from any other girl. Pleasures it would barely be able to stand.

He knew exactly why he was brought here and not hurt. He knew exactly what he was needed for. But he wasnt going to comply.

I want you to fuck me, Stephan, I want to feel your holy cock explode inside of me. I know that you desire me for you’re a man, and what man can refuse a goddess?

The Witch proposed a truly interesting offer: what man could deny? And as much being a man tempted Stephan, he had to resist. If he let his wild side overtake him, it could mean the end of all holy.

That’s not all…I know that you’ll fuck me Stephan because if you don’t, your friend the Ivorene king, maybe Connell, maybe all who had suffered trying to save that pathetic little wretch—that pitiful excuse for a goddess—maybe all of them will die because you’re not there to save them. If you fuck me Stephan, I give you my word that I will let you go out of this prison, unharmed…

Stephan didnt believe those words. She would not let him out, especially unharmed. Why risk failing the mission? But what risk is there when the Witch would get what she wanted? The Witch continued, smiling.

Well, maybe a little. I do like it rough. I will let you go to your friends and maybe you can save the king from Connell.

Now it sounded more like it.

The king might die before Connell even completes his mission. Wouldn’t that be boring? What a weak spirit…

Stephan was tired of getting told all of these things. He shook about in his chains for a brief moment, waking his body up. It didnt feel good, but it was needed to push the Witch away from his body, despite how heavenly it felt. He cleared his throat and talked:

And why do you need my seed? And how can i trust that you will let me go unharmed? Besides, im sure Jorn can handle it. He's not alone. Just watch, i'll get out of here without you getting me inside of you. That's a promise that you cant impact on. Im not like Connell, i wont break under your magic. Infact, i wont break under anything. That is my final word.

Stephan finished his decently sized speech and looked back at the Witch, still hanging on the chains. Before she replied, he remembered to add one more thing:

Oh and, even if you want me to fuck you, dont even think it'll be possible until i get an upgrade in my living conditions. Im going to catch all sorts of diseases in here.

Stephan finished off, waiting for a response, although not very enthusiastic on it, seeing as he can just be kept in there and not let out until he succumbs.


Words 1302 +4

 

[Stalzyn]

"Protect the King!" Mattroy barked out as they stormed through the gate. With shaky hands he held his sword, his eyes on the stage, gazing at the lifeless body of his Queen. His friend. For what seemed like eternity he stood transfixed, his eyes heavy than the clouds. Out of the corner of his eye Mattroy saw an arrow coming his direction gratefully breaking the trance.

"Projectiles coming!" He yelled out as he shifted his body, the arrow piercing and sticking to the muddy ground. A soldier at his far right wasn't so lucky as the arrow made contact with his skull, pinning him to a wooden a pole. With shields up the soldiers marched in front of their king... gracefully taking the hit meant for him.

Mattroy only shook his head when Jorn snapped at a soldier holding his arm. The courage and pride was something Beloran instilled before leaving. A dry smile split his rugged face even as he dodged another whooshing arrow.
"Damn those cowards." Mattroy cursed. He hated archers; to him anyone who attacks from afar is a coward. Immediately they crossed the gate he ordered the anchors holding the gate to be shot... thus sealing the gate. It'll take a moment for them to get it up again, giving them time to escape into the un-tracked, where they will set up camp to heal and re-strategize before returning home.

*****

"Ah!" Grant yelled out heatedly frustrated, he was angry at his ineffectuality to help his friend. "Fuck!" He snapped banging his fist on the wooden table at the center of his tent. He was no healer, had no knowledge of herbs and potions. There was also no healer around and taking the king to one in the city ahead was as risky as taking the three day journey back home. Hiring a healer from the city was also not advisable as anyone can be a stool pigeon to the dark King. Despite himself Mattroy had ordered the soldiers to hand over the King to the blacksmith. Though his methods be crude, it was a fighting chance. It was Hope.

He was still staring down at the now rumpled map on his table when the commotion outside started. His hands reflexively flew to the hilts of his twin axes, hanging on both sides of his waist. Coming out of the tent he was surprised to find just a woman, surrounded by the men, with sword drawn. He could understand the reason for their paranoia yet just in case she was a detour, his eyes immediately started scanning the surrounding. Not noticing anything he focused back on the woman.

"Hold." Gillian called out to the guards. "She is no threat, in fact she may be able to help the king. The
healing herbs I smell in that pouch are powerful and may speed his
recovery but we need to work fast. Let her approach as I am going to
need all the help I can get. Tell Master Weyland to heat up his best iron
and have it ready. I am going to have to clean and sew this would first
before he seals it though."

Mattroy regarded the woman again, then withdrew his hand from his hilt. The men still hadn't bulged, even after Gillian urged them on again. They turned questioning gaze to Mattroy, unsure of what to do.

"Do as the elf say. I want every feet moving." Mattroy instructed. He walked to the three and said to the woman, "I'll forever be in your debt if you can bring him back to us."
When they brought the requested pieces of clothing and bucket of water, he squatted to observe what Gillian was doing. Even as he watched the elf work, out of the corner of his eye he monitored the stranger... still suspicious of her true intentions.
"How did she get past the watch?" Mattroy questioned inwardly, remembering to have positioned men at every possible entrance.

633 words +2xp

 

[sodalitas]

Minutes passed as Connell worked, until his aching shoulders started creaking in time with the oars. He was relieved when he finally found a spot to shore the rowboat. He clambered out of the boat, his boots disappearing into the water until they found purchase on the rocky ground, and he heaved the boat up onto the stony shore. He grunted as he dragged it further onto the shore, the wood of the boat groaning as its hull scraped along the gravel until it finally found rest behind some undergrowth. He reached inside and collected his sword out of the bilge down in the center, drying it on his shirt as he sloshed his way up the small incline and onto the flatter land above.

He would have to move quickly. Squads patrolled the lands around the city and a lone man might be accosted, regardless of their allegiances. He travelled parallel to the water, heading in the general direction of Jorn’s camp. His clothes dried somewhat as he went, as much as the night’s drizzle would let it, and after a while he found the road. He decided to risk it – the risk of running into a patrol was offset by the increase in speed he would have from taking worn and levelled ground.

He took a detour on the way. A moderate farm was nearby: with a field of wheat, a sizeable garden, and a small pen of animals. He knew it well, though the couple that ran the farm had never seen him. He approached quietly off the path, and took up position behind a large, gnarled oak tree within sight of the farmhouse. He waited, watching the farm. The woman was working in the garden. She moved with the slow, deliberate motions of the elderly. She and her husband had run this farm for years and never had children, so the upkeep of the farm had been steadily declining with their age. The few meager animals wandered aimlessly, nibbling on grass and weeds. The light rain muted sounds and he let the hum of it keep away the chaos of the thoughts and plans he had been musing over, and just sat and relished the moment. He watched the woman slowly take the steps up and enter the house. The animals wandered further. Eventually he saw movement on the road, and the old man came into view. He was returning from errands, a walking stick helping to carry him back. Connell waited until he finished the journey and joined his wife in the house. Now that he knew where they both were, he could keep tabs on them and move about without risk of being surprised.

Slipping from his vantage point and creeping up to the farmhouse, avoiding the windows, he continued along the wall to the back – listening intently for noises alerting him to the farmers’ location inside. He turned the corner and came to an old porch. It was in disrepair but still solid, and so the aging farmer hadn’t needed to spend his valuable energy on it yet. Reaching with his right hand down and between two planks and feeling around, Connell soon found the rope he had tied the last time he was here. He quickly untied it with his dexterous fingers. When done, the plank was released and was now free to swing on its nail and reveal an opening. Connell reached in up to his shoulder and carefully pulled out a sack. He set it aside and reattached the plank and rope, before taking it back with him along the house and back to the tree.

Now resupplied, he made for the direction of the camp. He knew there would be scouts as he neared, and after reciting the correct phrase they would allow him to pass. The easiest way to get into the camp was as himself, as he was expected. Besides, he needed to bring word of Stephan. There was no reason the healer had to share Jorn's fate, and whatever the witch had planned for him was not in anyone's best interest - he was sure of that.

Time passed, and soon Connell was approaching the camp. He did so obviously, a soldier separated from his squad and regrouping. That much was true, at least.

720 words +2 xp LEVEL UP​

 

[Vailyn]

The thick tension of the camp spiked as Mai walked over to the group surrounding the prone, partially armored warrior. In moments, men and women bristling with fear-laced adrenaline and protective instincts surrounded Mai. She held her hands palm up above her waist to show that she was not holding a weapon and pushed the hood of her cloak back to show her face.

The fall of hard, cold rain had eased to a drizzle and halted for the moment. Dark, malcontent clouds rumbled like disobedient giants stomping the skies. Crackles of lightning strewn across the skies in counter to the booming thunder. A drop of icy rain rolled off the edge of the cloak and slid down Mai's face when she pushed the hood back. The tiny drip of ice was a welcome contrast of intense scrutiny.

"I mean no harm. I am a wandering minstrel and I have some skills with healing. If you allow me, I can use what I have to help your friend there and any others that may need assistance." Mai slowly untied the loop holding a small pouch of herbs on the black silk belt. "I have a steady hand to sew wounds and a skill with fire to cleanly sear the skin closed with little risk of infection. Please take these herbs and make a tea with it. It will help fight the fever and ease sharp pain."

A tall elven man with mottled dark hair and mud splattered leather armor called out to the rest and spoke in her favor. She gave the feverfew and willow bark packets to one of the soldiers. There were potions to dull pain and cause one to sleep but she wasn't sure if any of those would be necessary. "Could someone gather the wounded that need care and have them wait near the fire?"

She dropped her travel pack and instrument case as the base of the tree. A spot that will shelter her things if the rain began to fall again. She used one of her tiny braids to wrap around the rest of her hair and knotted it at the back of her head. She knelt next to the wounded warrior and placed her hand on top of the elf's to take the needle and thread. "Please, allow me. My name is Mai."

Carefully, she touched and prodded the jagged wound. "Try to keep still and take even breathes. Do not draw too deep or shallow. Even breathes are best. Tell me if there is a spike of pain." She told the wounded man. Even with the wound sewn, it bled to cover Mai's fingers. She pulled out clean cloths and used one to wipe away the blood.

Someone came by and gave her a cup of the herbal brew she had given out. Mai flashed a smile of thanks and returned to tend the man. She held the cup between her hands and leeched away the heat until the tea was warm instead of piping hot. She helped to raise the man's head. His shortly cropped hair felt oddly soft. A sheen of perspiration from the pain and rain covered him. Mai helped him drink until the cup was empty. She could feel fever raging inside him and a bone deep chill that crept beneath it. Splaying her fingers wide, Mai concentrated to help his body fight the cold. The cold was the body's reaction to blood loss and infection. Her hands stroked across his arms and chest, along his side and legs. Once she could feel that she had pushed the cold away for the time being, she set her gaze on the wound and went to work.

Mai drew one of her daggers and cut the stitching apart. Something inside was bleeding and she needed to stop it before she could do anything else. Careful prodding showed her the large cut inside of him. It wasn't large but it bled heavily. She turned her will to her dagger and heated the blade. With a quick dab, she cauterized the small internal cut and then sewed the gaping wound together. She tempered the dagger and a soft sibilant sizzle hissed as the wound was closed.

A wildness paced inside of Mai. Each time she used her magic, a thrill shivered along her nerves and tingled up her spine. To balance the shifting lure of magic, Mai held herself in a waking mediation that allowed her mind to be clear and her body posed to react at a moment's notice. Within the cage of will, a wildness paced with keen eyes, eager to be loosed.

She wiped her hands on a cloth and dug inside the pouch for herbs to make a compress. She threw the herbs into the empty tin cup, splashed a bit of water and mixed it with her finger. She put the soggy mess on the wound and wrapped bandages to keep it in place.

"Here, you must drink. You've lost a fair share of blood and it needs to be replenished. Is there a broth? One of birds or small game would work well. Make sure to break the bones." She helped him drink a cup and half of water before he pushed her away. "Make sure he's covered. A fever is healthy as long as he can drink water. Broth will be better. He won't be able to eat anything hard for a day or two. I'll make another compress for him in a few hours. The wound will need to be checked and changed every few hours until the danger is passed."

A small group of men and woman waited for Mai near the fire as she had requested. She took a hefty swallow of water for herself before she became lost in the work of helping and healing others. She spoke softly to those she tended, asking them how they felt or gave direction in what to do as she worked on them. Mai did not realize that when she did not speak softly to the wounded, she hummed a soothing melody that put those within earmark at ease.

Mai had learned that the group's leader was named Jorn and he was the one she had tended to first. The elf man was a well known ranger called Ghost of the Woods. The one to have caused the stench of burnt hair and skin was a large, giant of man called Weyland, the Smith. Someone, a friend of the party has been captured and many whispered worry about his faith.

It appeared that the current warrior in charge is a knight named Mattroy Grant. He glowered his worry over Jorn. She made her way to the tent to check on him and put a new compress of herbs on the wound. Her instincts stated that Jorn and his group are important to the peace of the land. She will do her best to help him and his cause.

1164 Words = +3 EXP​

 

[HotCider]

Jorn could barely keep track of what was going on. He felt so cold and tired. Everyone and everything was in a haze. It was then Gillian came before his eyes, hovering over him with a knife. He had no reason to feel apprehensive for he knew the elf would try to help him.

“Stephan…Connell…did they make it?” Jorn asked.

His tunic was sliced open by the elf’s knife and he could tell that Gillian was too focused on preserving his life. When they dumped water on his gash, Jorn sucked in an agonizing breath and his fists curled into tight shaking fists to resist the paroxysm of pain that overwhelmed his abdomen. It only got worse when Gillian started to sew him up, his chest quickly rising and falling with each of his breaths as he tried to breathe and not pass out from the crude surgery. His work was handed over to some woman he had never seen before, and Jorn gave her the most feral of looks when she started to prod his wound and then tried to coach him in how to breathe.

“Have you even reared a child yet? And you’re telling me how to breathe?” Jorn scoffed, and it was expected. He was feverish and in excruciating pain. He was also talking to a stranger that his men entrusted with his life. Good goddess…

Jorn then noticed Mattroy at his side, and he asked again, “Mattroy; Stephan; Connell; did they escape?”

He was then suddenly having a concoction forced upon him. He scowled deeply and even as Mai tried to force it against his lips, he refused to drink, turning his cheek as he stubbornly berated Mattroy: “You’re just letting her force feed me poison?”

It didn’t seem to matter how stubborn he was or how much he tried to resist, she still forced the edge of the bowl against his lips and tipped the hot liquid against his face. With a growl—more at himself for yielding—he started to drink her brew, his eyes clenching closed in disgust until the cup had been emptied. Resting his head back, Jorn sighed in relief that the cup was finished.

“Tasted like damn weeds.”

The woman then rested her hands on his body and that was when he felt her power. It was like a hot blanket spreading over his chilled flesh as her hands stroked over the scars and contours of his muscles. Jorn’s blonde brows rose in surprise and nervousness as he thought in dread, Witch…

She wasn’t the same one…well, they couldn’t tell. She could have easily been the witch in disguise, but then why would she help him? She had tried to kill him.

Jorn’s ice-blue orbs then sharply went to Mattroy again as though he was crazy. Who the hell was this girl and why was everyone so lenient about her presence? When she drew her dagger, Jorn tensed a bit and winced when she cut the threads of his stitching. He was angry now.

“Stitch me up, and then cut me open again?” he snarled.

Several soldiers watching the girl saw the smoke suddenly rising from her dagger. They quickly rushed to the king’s side to ground his arms and legs. Jorn nervously glanced around at his men and then back at Mai who seemed to be more interested in the work she was doing rather than patient care…bitch. The hilt of a knife was placed between his teeth and his eyes shrank when he saw the heat suddenly coming off of her dagger.

Jorn watched her lower the dagger to his stomach and there was not only a loud hiss but a muffled cry as he fought to keep his teeth clenched on the knife. His body tensed up from the sharp searing pain, and as he settled down, he returned to breathing, trying his best to keep oxygen flowing through his body. He couldn’t afford to faint. Not when his men needed him most. It unfortunately hadn’t been over as he felt the sting of a needle and soon after another scalding of her heated blade.

Gods was it over yet? When the knife was removed from his teeth, Jorn exhaustedly breathed, “I felt like I was dying all over again.”

Jorn was finished with the woman’s drinks and other witchcraft for the time being. He refused the water and just wanted to rest and not be messed with.

“Get her away from me,” Jorn ordered. “Don’t let her out of your sight until we know for sure what she’s here for.”

Jorn wasn’t about to go complacent on some stranger in the camp. He didn’t even care that she had helped him. Mai would find herself back to being treated like an intruder as the soldiers would take her away and sit her down by the fire to keep close watch of her.

The king then attempted to sit up and winced—clearly that hadn’t been a good idea. His frustration was apparent on his face. Jorn wasn’t used to being the man sitting a battle out. He called for Gillian, Mattroy, and Weyland’s attention, having not noticed Connell’s quiet return. The soldiers knew he was an ally and so hadn’t treated him like they had treated Mai.

“We can’t stay here, and we can’t leave our men behind,” Jorn told them. He then looked to Gillian. “Can you cover our tracks? Do you know how to make a false trail to lead the enemy away from here?”

He then looked to Weyland and Mattroy. “I don’t know that girl, and I don’t trust anyone who comes waltzing up to our camp. From now on, Weyland will be doing the healing here. The best he can with that piece of hot iron. I want you (Mattroy) to keep an eye on that girl. She’s a witch (he revealed). I felt her power passing through me. I don’t know if she’s the same witch who killed Emeline, and I’m not about to find out, but if she makes any moves that would prove me right, you kill her. You take her head right off, understand? (he’s saying this to Mattroy) Everyone needs to take a moment to rest, eat, and drink because we’re—“ Jorn frowned knowing that he couldn’t go with them. “You (the group), lead by…the general.” He had just promoted Mattroy since he was no longer the General of the Ivorene Army. He hadn’t truly accepted it yet but for the moment, he accepted that he was now the Ivorene King. “Will go get the priest, and I only pray to Eloria that you all will return lest Ivorene be finished.”

Word Count 1117 +3​

 

[HotCider]

GM​

Mila Castle
Time of Day: Night
Weather: Heavy Rain and Cold (not frosty)
Prominent Characters Mentioned: The Witch, Dark King Howne, and the Head Hunter.
Player Characters Mentioned: Connell and Stephan.

The goddess felt Stephan shake her off and she leaned back with a soft frown. When he began to speak, asking her questions, and spouting his hopefully drib-drab. She rolled her blue eyes and crouched before the priest as he spoke. Her heart-shaped bottom billowed from the tension she was placing on her muscles, the white silk of her robes conformed like liquid vanilla against her plump rump, sliding into the cleavage of her ass. She balanced her feathery weight upon crystal heels and she rested her hands against his hips, her glittering nails pressing almost wickedly into his flesh as her full, glistening lips hovered so close to his flaccid penis. Her blue eyes as clear as the freshest lake and crisp enough to drink peered up at Stephan from beneath her Mother Mary cowl in the most teasing manner.

“But Stephan,” she whimpered pathetically, her warm breath playing along his shaft. “I want you so bad Stephan. Can’t you see?”

She thrust out her chest, her hands reaching up to slide down her golden breastplate to reveal her pink, hardened nipples that pressed so forcefully against the white silk of her robes.

“I want you so badly Stephan, can’t you see?” she began to whine like a wanton whore and she rubbed her hard buds up and down his thighs, his cock dipping between her hot pillowy breasts. She grasped her generous bosom and squeezed her tits together, sandwiching his dick between them as she began to slide up and down his length.

“I will give you an upgrade Stephan,” she said, her glossy lips talking centimeters from the tip of his penis. “Only if you agree to fuck me. Do you think I would want to fuck you in this rot-infested prison? No; we will go somewhere nice. Somewhere men would dream to fuck a woman like me. But you just have to agree Stephan. Just give in. Your lips speak righteously but in your heart, you want me. You want to explore my temple.”

The goddess released her breasts, and the weighted orbs of flesh bobbed back into their natural place. She began to ease back, her hood falling away to drop her moon-silver strands of hair to the dungeon floor. She arched her back, bridging before him with the fat lips of her pussy hovering dangerously close to his cock. She was already wet. Her nectar was leaving her on crystal drops that ran between her ass cheeks to puddle upon floor. She reached a hand between her legs and with her fingers, parted her delectable folds for Stephan to view her pink palace, her juicy weeping tunnel. The smell of her pussy was an outrageously sweet pheromone that would wash up his body and begin to flood his senses. It could have been the same pheromone that had assaulted Connell, coaxing him to do her diabolical bidding.

Her cheeks were flushed pink as she stared up at Stephan from between her fat tits and continued to tempt him with her breathy pleas: “Look at me Stephan. My temple cries for you. You just need to go inside. It is okay. I will give you what you desire and return you to your people. No harm will have been done. Please, Stephan. You’re the only one who can stop Connell and save your king. Don’t their lives matter?”

Clack! Her crystal heel posted against the wall, craning her hips higher so that her succulent lips were right beneath Stephan’s cock and he could feel the heat and slick wetness of her pussy brushing him.

“Ah! I can feel your cock. You just have to tell me you want in Stephan!” the goddess said in her aroused excitement.

As she leaned her weight upon her shoulders, her other hand grasped one of her breasts, her fingers parted around her standing nipple and rolled it in her fluster.

“Uh! Please Stephan!”

The whine of the dungeon door sounded as two soldiers hurriedly clanked down the hall.

“Goddess Marshika!” they revealed her name. “The scouts returned. They have lost the thief.”

The soldiers froze before the door of Stephan’s dungeon stunned and mesmerized by the glowing beauty who had been spilled out across the floor at the priest’s feet. The goddess looked toward the two soldiers, her expression nonchalant but there was a hidden disappointment at the news. Stephan was lucky.

Slowly lowering her hips, she settled her bottom back upon the ground and dropped her leg. Sitting up right, she adjusted her plate and clothing and rose to her feet, drawing her hood back over her head. The goddess cast her eyes to Stephan like a feline and smirked.

“Think about it,” was all she told him as she took her leave. The wicked smirk never left her face for she knew that even if he managed to resist her temptations, she had left him feeling a certain way. Her magic would continue to torment him, bombarding him with dreams of fucking her over and over again to the point that he wouldn’t know what was a dream and what was reality. She figured that the torture would eventually lead him to wanting her back. Wanting her to finish what had almost started, so that he could relieve himself.

Marshika left with the soldiers who followed at a distance behind her, feeling slightly frenzied by her lingering sexual aroma and her exotic beauty alone. They couldn’t believe that the priest had managed to resist her.

The goddess strode all the way back to the throne room where King Howne sat with his large chin within his gauntleted hand. He was scowling at the black puppets that the goddess had sent to follow the thief. They didn’t listen to him. They hadn’t even moved when he tried to question them, but when the goddess returned, their heads snapped in her direction.

“Why are you here?” Marshika questioned.

She walked over to the dark king and surprised him by sitting on his lap. King Howne sat back with a blank look on his face, unsure of how to react. The goddess looked back at him and smiled innocently before she returned her attention to her dolls.

The shadow puppets knelt, bowing their heads, as they reported, “The thief escaped us over the water, my queen.”

“Why didn’t you follow him?” the goddess asked.

“We can only follow the target if he is in sight.”

“And how did he elude you?”

“He used the fog.”

Marshika sighed in exasperation and waved her servants away.

“My men would have easily followed him even if they had to swim,” King Howne grumbled. Sometimes, he felt that the goddess’s magic was unnecessary, but she insisted on experimenting with her newly acquired strength.

“It is all right. I was actually hoping that they would fail so that I could use someone else.”

A black spire of smoke rose from the polished floor, twisting into a tower before it began to expand into the body of a man, but it had the head of an ugly creature. Its ears were long and curled like the lynx, its nose like a cat, and the tusks of an orc that stood vertically from its lower jaw. The creature was dressed like a rogue. His boiled-leather fist hammered against his light-armored chest as he bent over into a bow.

“My goddess,” he greeted, his voice wispy and cracked in its depth.

“You are the Head Hunter, am I correct?” Marshika asked.

The head hunter straightened and the corners of his mouth curled in a smile. “I am. What do you wish of me?”

“How would you like to be King of Ivorene?” she asked.

His ears swiveled curiously and the slitted pupils of his yellow eyes dilated.

“I…do not know what to say,” the hunter replied.

“The Ivorene Queen is dead, and so that means her brother, the general, is now king. He is gravely wounded in the woods on the outskirts of this castle. I have sent his own friend to kill him, but I suspect that he might not finish the job. I want you to take the king’s head and become the Ivorene King.”

The head hunter’s lips parted, revealing his jagged teeth in a malicious grin. He laughed at such a proposal. “I am…shocked. I am here to do you a service and here you give me the mandate of Ivorene.”

The goddess smiled. “You are doing me a service. Aren’t you tired of wearing that ugly head of yours? You can become handsome again. You would become the most desired man in Ivorene. What woman would not want to become the wife of the king?”

The head hunter chuckled. “You say he is in the woods?”

“He is, and bedridden. He will not be able to defend himself.”

The head hunter purred with intrigue and then bowed once more. “I will do as you wish. I will take his head and become king. Ivorene and Mila will finally be allied and at peace.”

The goddess waved her hand toward the hunter. “Go with my blessing dear hunter. Return to me when you have succeeded.”

“I will,” the head hunter vowed and disappeared in a black plume.

King Howne frowned at all this…scheming. “You send the thief and now you send a monster…”

Marshika turned to the king curiously. “You sound disappointed.”

“I wanted to be the one to kill him. My soul desires it.”

“It is best this way, my king. The two kingdoms will no longer have to fight. They will be united under Meldourne when he comes.”

King Howne abruptly stood, dumping the goddess from his lap. She managed to catch herself and scowled as the dark king strode off to his chambers.

“Maybe I want a war,” he growled. “Maybe all I want to see is Ivorene burned to the ground!”

The goddess glared at his back and said nothing.


Strategy Update!

1. Decisions determine how this story goes. Some decisions hold consequences, and others rewards. Some decisions may present undesired results, while others desired results. In the end, there is no wrong decision for it adds meat to the story.
2. Characters need a (M) Defense of 5 or more to successfully resist the goddess’s charms. Stephan due to his class has a slight passive resistance.
3. The team will have to decide to kill Connell before he kills Jorn or save them both.
4. Stephan is now a prisoner of Mila and will have to be rescued unless he submits to the tortures of the witch.
5. If Stephan submits, then his seed will bring about the dark god Meldourne.
6. The Witch WILL keep her promise and let Stephan go unscathed if he chooses to give her what she desires.
7. Because Connell eluded her servants, the witch has sent out a Head Hunter to carry out the mission if the thief fails. Stopping him is a matter of who is left to guard the king.


Minions

None at this time.


Reminder

Every character who joins this game will be given 5 stat points to distribute through the 5 attribute categories. All characters start at Level One, and as they earn experience, they have the ability to level up. Each time a character levels, the player will earn 5 stat. points to arrange how they like. A cleric can be customized to also pack whopping magic damage or to be as much as a tank as the knight. This game is your oyster.

Experience is awarded two ways: 1) In-game when bosses—main or minor—are defeated, and 2) by player word count. I reward literacy. The player and the GM will keep track of the experience points achieved. Every experience bar starts at 10 experience for level 1. As players level up, the experience bar will extend by 10. So for example, the experience bar of a level 2 character is 20. This means that a character must earn 20 points worth of experience in order to advance to level 3.

300 words = 1 experience point
500 words = 2 experience points
1,000 words = 3 experience points

You can keep track of your acquired experience by posting the points at the end of your post, or by writing it to your character’s character profile.

Awarded Experience

None at this time.

 

[Hard_Rom]

Weyland laughs to himself. Now he is the groups healer. He wonders if he should ask for a pay increase. Poor bastards! He directs that thought to whomever finds themselves under his medical care. There is a reason a good modern day party has priests, elfs and magi as members. You would be better of with a barber as healer than a blacksmith. Unless you were burnt bad maybe. And so, he is quite content to concentrate on getting water to boil while the girl and the elf ministers to the wounded king and party members.

The King should consider himself lucky she is here. If she wanted him dead, she could have ignored his bleeding wound and blamed his inevitable death on the elf. Who has the touch of his kind with herbs and such but is not a trained healer. Weyland would have burnt the wound out regardless, just to be sure. And then probably opened it up again in three days to burn out the putrifying flesh or fill the wound with maggots to eat the dead and diseased flesh.

He can see the King's point about trusting arcanist magic users generally though. Even village wise women have been known to consort with demons. You just never really know where their powers come from. Not that he is an expert on magic-users, it's just everyone knows that.

Weyland breaks out a few skins of wine and hands them out. Most look like they could use a drink. Nothing like a defeat and lost comrades to put a touch of despondency in a mercs heart. The girl's softly hummed melodies do take the edge of things. Hard to be sad when birds are singing.

If he is to be healer, Weyland will go check on those who he might have some credentials to look after. The horses. He and horses have always got along. It may seem to be a baser occupation but a properly shoed horse requires some attention to detail. No two horses are alike, each requiring a custom shaped shoe. He goes down the horseline checking for loose shoes and checking horse condition. Never know when the band could find themselves riding hard to avoid capture.

310

 

[Stalzyn]

There were so many things he wanted say, so many things he needed to get out... to lash out at the king, but unfortunately Jorn wasn't ready.
Mattroy ordered the men to transfer Jorn into a tent, and instructed the best of his men to guard the entrance.

Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the girl's face. He very much understood Jorn's apprehension towards trusting the witch. Yet still, he couldn't sense anything I'll as he stared into her eyes, maybe the heavy downpour was clouding his senses. Brushing his fingers through his damp hair, he started off towards her position.

Her head was slightly bowed low, her blue black hair covering her face and doing its own part in protecting her from the rain. Mattroy could have almost sworn he saw her hair turn dark red when she was healing the king. Her legs were bounded together by the ankles and her wrists tied behind her. Two guards stood by her side, each doing their best to stop the persistent liquid from covering their sight.
"Take her inside and make a fire to keep her warm " he said to them. Though with what he had seen her do with fire, the chance of her being cold was unlikely. Not wanting her to think he cares he added, "She's to still remain under watch. We still don't know anything about her."

As the men moved to untie her feet, he walked away towards Gillian's tent. Standing at the entrance, he called Daius, a short blonde soldier of 6'1 with a scar crossing from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Daius has saved Mattroy's life more than once during their encampment at the northern border.
"Take three of our best riders and return to Ivoria, tell the council all that has happened and return immediately with both a healer and the Ivorian Knights. King Howne must feel the wrath of Ivoria. Must feel the pain I felt when Emeline was forever taken from my reach."
Daius nodded and made to go with his task when he added, "and get me the blacksmith, Weyland he is called. Bring him to this tent."
In his blind rage, Mattroy has forgotten that without the royal ring found only on Jorn, without that insignia, that permission... the council will never permit his request for the Ivorian Knights.

"Hope you don't mind my intrusion." Mattroy said wearing a dry smile on. He pretended not to have seen him roll up a scroll and placed it in his sack. He turned his gaze to the elven bow hung on the nail stuck to the wooden stick holding the tent.
His brows arched on sighting the intricate markings on it. The elvish writing on it was something that he couldn't decipher. While he waited for the blacksmith, he decided to find out the tale behind the bow and maybe the scroll too. By so doing may cross the boundaries of acquintances.
"Nice art... you made it yourself?" He asked running his fingers on the markings. "Hope you don't mind me touching... I just couldn't resist." He ended smiling genuinely.


457 words.......+ 1 exp There were so many things he wanted say, so many things he needed to get out... to lash out at the king, but unfortunately Jorn wasn't ready.
Mattroy ordered the men to transfer Jorn into a tent, and instructed the best of his men to guard the entrance.

Lightning crackled in the sky, illuminating the girl's face. He very much understood Jorn's apprehension towards trusting the witch. Yet still, he couldn't sense anything I'll as he stared into her eyes, maybe the heavy downpour was clouding his senses. Brushing his fingers through his damp hair, he started off towards her position.

Her head was slightly bowed low, her blue black hair covering her face and doing its own part in protecting her from the rain. Mattroy could have almost sworn he saw her hair turn dark red when she was healing the king. Her legs were bounded together by the ankles and her wrists tied behind her. Two guards stood by her side, each doing their best to stop the persistent liquid from covering their sight.
"Take her inside and make a fire to keep her warm " he said to them. Though with what he had seen her do with fire, the chance of her being cold was unlikely. Not wanting her to think he cares he added, "She's to still remain under watch. We still don't know anything about her."

As the men moved to untie her feet, he walked away towards Gillian who was standing near the King, he called Daius, a short blonde soldier of 6'1 with a scar crossing from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Daius has saved Mattroy's life more than once during their encampment at the northern border.
"Take three of our best riders and return to Ivoria, tell the council all that has happened and return immediately with both a healer and the Ivorian Knights. King Howne must feel the wrath of Ivoria. Must feel the pain I felt when Emeline uwas forever taken from my reach."
Daius nodded and made to go with his task when he added, "and get me the blacksmith, Weyland he is called. Bring him to the king's tent."
In his blind rage, Mattroy has forgotten that without the royal ring found only on Jorn, without that insignia, that permission... the council will never permit his request for the Ivorian Knights.

"I'm having him moved inside where he can be properly guarded, you can continue your aid on him." Mattroy explained then nodded to the ready men to take Jorn inside.
Standing by the elf's side, he motioned to the guards who were leading Mai into a tent at the edge.
"What do you think of the healer?" He asked nodding towards her direction.

457 words.......+ 1 exp

 

[sodalitas]

There was a group of soldiers watching the drama unfold around their King. Among them were professional mercenaries, Ivorene soldiers, and commoners without much experience but whom had joined the cause behind Jorn. Among them too was Connell. He watched from amongst them, having been allowed into the camp without much effort and immediately merging in with the rest of them to get the lay of the land. Jorn had clearly survived his injury and been as well attended to ask he possibly could have without Stephan. Connell thought it unlikely that he would be succumbing to his wounds.

Moving through the crowd, keeping his head down and blending in. Everyone’s attention was on Jorn and the woman who had stumbled upon the camp. He could see Mattroy – he had recognized him instantly. So he was in charge now, and would be overly cautious with the injured king, especially just after Emeline’s death. He wouldn’t trust the mercenaries that Jorn had been using, he would use his own men to guard the king.

Connell watched as Mattroy’s men arrested the woman and took her into one of the tents, and transferred Jorn back into his. The observers started to disperse, and Connell went with them. People were mostly milling about, focusing on the menial tasks of maintaining camp, or helping with the injured, or otherwise trying to avoid thinking about the results of the day by losing themselves in activity. He passed a few tents containing soldiers huddled together out of the rain, whispering about what Jorn might do next. He found an empty tent, slipped inside and, crouching in the corner, opened his pack. Inside, among other things, was a small cloth bag containing a stoppered glass vial. He emptied the powder it contained into a palm, and began to rub it into his hair. In a few minutes his blonde hair had become a mousy brown. He finished by adding a bit to the short hair on his face, having not had a chance to shave in some days. The darker color made the hair more visible, adding to the effect of changing his appearance that much more.

He needed some time out of the rain for the dye to work properly, and he was exhausted. It was not uncommon to find soldiers sleeping at any given time, given the nature of the shifts required for the watch, so he stretched out on an empty bedroll and settled into a fitful sleep.

414 words +1 xp​

 

[Aussie_Wolf]

Gillian looked at the man and nodded. It seemed as if he was in charge now and it looked as if the whole dynamic of the camp was going to change. Jorn was a leader who listened and then planned. This man seemed to have his own ideas and wanted things done his way. He also had some severe prejudices and one of them seemed to be against magic.

Well maybe he was wrong about that and it was only female mages he was worried about. Still it was stupid of these men to be suspicious of the girl. Could they not tell she was a fire mage and although powerful not that well trained. He had felt her magic when she had heated up the dagger to seal the kings wound, both inside and out, and even that simple spell had energies threatening to spiral out of control from her. There was no way she was the witch they had faced in the courtyard.

"I would say she is who she says she is. Oh no doubt there is more to her story than what she told us, but is she the witch that you fear... no. Her magic is wild and untamed and we must be careful of it, although I think she knows this, but she herself is not evil. No child of evil would have tried so hard to save the king."

He looked at Mattroy and studied his face searching for something then nodded as if finding an answer there. "Think on this General. I had sewn the wound shut and it only needed the kiss of a hot iron to seal it. I had done my best and it had not been good enough. I freely admit that. Would the king have survived, I do not know. I packed his wound with all the healing herbs I had left and they may have helped, however she was the one who spotted the bleeding inside and opened him back up. She stopped it and repacked my herbs and gave him better ones as well, and stitched him up better than I had and sealed up the flesh much better than Master Weyland could. The king should be thanking her not distrusting her. Thanks to her he will have a small scar on his body instead of a large burn mark."

Sighing Gillian looked towards the tent. "I understand why he distrusts her, just as I understand why you and some of the men do. Unfortunately I think you are going to need her if we are going to rescue the priest. You also have a choice to make. Someone is going to have to remain behind in camp to look after the wounded and keep watch for the Milan army coming after us. it is going to have to be someone you can trust but also someone powerful enough to hold out until help comes. Not an easy task. I don't envy you that decision."

Looking around Gillian gestures to the rest of the wounded. "Now if you will excuse me, you have taken away one of our healers tonight so I best see what little aide my herbs can do for the injured." With that he gives a slight nod to the man and walks off to tend to the wounded.

557 +2

 

[Hard_Rom]

Weyland finishes inspecting the condition of the mounts and returns to the main camp. It's a struggle to get his maille hauberk back on, he is stiffening up from the blow between the shoulders. But at least the wine is dulling the pain somewhat. He slings his shield over his shoulder with a grunt of pain and then puts on his oiled hard weather cloak over the shield. A water logged shield is heavy and cumbersome. He crams his helmet over his wet hair before pulling the cloak's hood up.

The whole operation has turned into a walking clusterfuck, in his opinion. The King badly wounded, the rescue a complete fuckup and now the magic using girl under arrest. The more he thinks about that the more it annoys him. It's not right to go clapping people in irons without due process. In Weyland's homeland, the Great Charter protects folk from arrest without cause. After watching one young girl get her head cut off by the supposed enemy, seeing another arrested and tied up by the supposed good guys rankles him. Even if she is a magic-user.

As he walks up to Mattroy's tent he overhears Gillian putting in a word for the girl. In his experience, Elfs are usually found on the side of Good and have powers or at least the knack of determining who is speaking truthfully.

"Gillian, after you have a look at the wounded come back," he says as the Elf walks past after leaving the General's tent, "We need to all get on the same page as to what to do next."

He ducks under the tent flap and enters Mattroy's tent.

"The Elf is right," he tells Mattroy, "If she wanted the King dead, we would be building his funeral pyre as we speak." "And even not being a cleric and proper healer she is better than the Elf and I'm not even in the same class as her."

"Plus it isn't right to arrest someone with cause, just on suspicion. If you do that you aren't any better than the Witch and her kind. And if that is the case, I hear she pays better."

Sore, wet and annoyed, Weyland takes a long drink from his wineskin.

401

 

[Stalzyn]

Mattroy nods back and watched as the elf left the tent, he then turned to a portrait hung on a pole at the center of the tent. It was a painting of Emeline... a week before the kidnap. There she wore a white silk gown, stopping before her knee, a gold see-through vest, a smile that can melt stony heart and eyes that can break a priest's resolve. She was a radiant of beauty, an epitome of divinity and perfection.
Involuntarily his fingers moved towards the picture and reflexively flew to the hilt of his axes when the tent suddenly opened again.
"The elf is right," came the person behind, he recognized the voice as that of the blacksmith Weyland. He relaxes his shoulder then turned to face the man.
"If she wanted the King dead, we would be
building his funeral pyre as we speak."
"And even not being a cleric and proper healer she is better than the Elf and I'm
not even in the same class as her."
"That's true." Mattroy inaudibly agreed
"Plus it isn't right to arrest someone with cause, just on suspicion. If you do that you aren't any better than the Witch and her kind. And if that is the case, I hear
she pays better."
"Now hold on a second Weyland. I fear both you and the elf has mistaken intent to be unjust and uncalled for. Mila knows that Jorn, the last of the royal line and king of Ivoria did not perish in battle, Marshika knows that the king is too gravely injured to be thrown on horseback and transported home at this hour and under this weather.
"She knows, my friend, that we'll surely camp for the Knight and which better place to take refuge than in the woods.
Mattroy gripped his armor and parted it from his body, he flexed his shoulders, an audible pop emanating as they cracked.
"I know this woman Weyland. I've encountered her before, during the great war. She was the backbone behind King Lorbane, I believe I understand how she thinks, logically and tactically she has captured our only healer, now she has sent an assassin, one pretending to be of service to the king yet as venomous as a desert cobra.
Mattroy paused and then stared at the man, wanting to read his expression.
"You think I'm arresting her without a cause, you forget that I'm only a soldier, taking orders like every fellow in this camp. The order was for me to keep an eye on her, to keep her in sight till we know what her real intent for us is. You don't wish for bread and it falls from the sky. No! A healer can't just appear from nowhere when we need one the most." Feeling like he had talked a lot, he asked... "How much can you lay for Jorn?"

Again he watched the man expression closely, he was no mind reader but at least he could read both eyes and body movement. Mattroy had a plan, one that will ensure both Jorn's safety till they return and keep his gaze affixed on the fire mage's activities. One that he hopes will balance the scale they need for infiltrating the dungeon and possibly rescue the healer.
A plan that needs trustworthy men for it to properly executed. Men that holds the king's interest at heart.


557 words = +2 xp

 

[sodalitas]

As soon as he closed his eyes, the visions started. He saw the witch, in all her exquisite nakedness striding towards him, shaking her finger back and forth in front of her face, a pout on her lips. “No rest for you, not until you keep your promise.” He shook his head, trying to force away the vision, but to no avail. “Tsk tsk tsk,” she chided, stepping closer, and now her waggling finger was reaching out and touched him over his heart, and he felt a shock of pain. Her finger slowly traced down his chest, a searing line of fire in its wake, as she leant forward to whisper in his ear. “Kill him for me like you promised. I’m waiting.” As the last syllable left her lips, her finger reached his groin and she cupped him, the trail of fire erupting in intense pain. He woke with a cry, falling out of his bed and grabbing his balls protectively. He lied there, gasping for a moment or two, before he realized he was fine. Physically, anyways.

He clambered to his feet and out of the tent, the night air cooling and focusing him. He made his way towards the King’s tent. As he rounded the side of a wagon and the tent came into view, he adopted another of his personas. His step snapped into a measured pace, his body straightened, his forehead creased in continuous disapproval, and his eyes hardened. He marched forwards to a stop and surveyed the scene, until he found what he was looking for. A group of soldiers huddled together whispering about the day’s events. He strode towards them and glowered.

“What in tarnation are you lagabouts yapping about? Are you soldiers or are you fishmonger’s wives gossiping around the market? Get back to your posts or hit your cots and rest up for tomorrow, at which point you can try again to be useful since you’ve obviously fucked that up today...” he continued berating the men while he took in the scene. At this moment there seemed to be two soldiers guarding the entrance to the tent, in full armor. There were not many torches lit around the immediate area, both because of the rain and not wanting to announce the camp’s location. The tent was large and made of heavy canvas, difficult to cut through quickly. It was set in place with ropes attached to large spikes hammered into the ground with a sledge, difficult to pull out quickly. “… and that’s an order!” he finished. The men, shocked and embarrassed, ran off to their tents.

Sargent Wyllis then strode off, making his rounds. He inspected two horses, three guards and a tent and found them all wanting. Anyone unfortunate enough to suffer his gaze found themselves called out and told to correct it or be on latrine duty for a week. He made sure to chew out the last of these within earshot of the soldiers guarding Mai’s tent, so that when he told them he was going to check on the prisoner they let him straight in, thankful that all they got was a disapproving glare.

He entered the tent and stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light of the fire. The tent was small, the fire in the middle and the woman was perched on the side of one of the cots, her hands bound by rope. Her belongings were in a pile beside the cot, and there was not much else in the room. She was a beautiful, almost delicate woman, but she had a fierceness to her that was becoming. When he came in she looked up at him – he wasn’t sure if he saw defiance in her gaze, or disapproval, or if she was putting on a brave face. He knelt in front of her and whispered conspiringly, “It is not safe for you here. The men are afraid of you despite the help you brought.” He pulled a dagger and slashed through her bonds, freeing her. “I will create a distraction, and then you should run.”

688 words +2 xp​

 

[rBo3guK]

As Stephan was talking to the Witch, she crouched before him. It was sort of unexpected, but he had an idea of what would go down. As she went down, Stephan couldnt resist to pay attention to her buns. As beautiful as it was, he quickly turned away his attention. Then, out of nowhere, the Witch placed her hands on his hips, almost tearing into Stephan's flesh. It was pleasant but also painful at the same time. The Witch then began to speak, her lips being dangerously close to his groin:

But Stephan, I want you so bad Stephan. Can’t you see?

Stephan ignored her temptations with struggle, before she dropped her chestplace, revealing her breasts.

I want you so badly Stephan, can’t you see?

The Witch said, before taking his dick and sandwiching it between her tits. Stephan gasped and barely contained himself, resisting to the best of his abilities.

I will give you an upgrade Stephan, only if you agree to fuck me. Do you think I would want to fuck you in this rot-infested prison? No; we will go somewhere nice. Somewhere men would dream to fuck a woman like me. But you just have to agree Stephan. Just give in. Your lips speak righteously but in your heart, you want me. You want to explore my temple.

Stephan listened, becoming more and more interested. But he had to keep his cool, because he knew what harm could be done if he submitted. The Witch let go of his dick, before she leaned back, letting Stephan get a look of her "pink temple". He quickly turned away in an attempt to resist the Witch.

Look at me Stephan. My temple cries for you. You just need to go inside. It is okay. I will give you what you desire and return you to your people. No harm will have been done. Please, Stephan. You’re the only one who can stop Connell and save your king. Don’t their lives matter?

Stephan did not look at her. And while it was true, that he was the only one who could potentionally save them both, he would do more harm than good if he accepted the offer to explore the "pink palace", or the "temple". The Witch then repositioned herself so that the "temple" would be right under Stephan's "explorer", teasing him even more.

Ah! I can feel your cock. You just have to tell me you want in Stephan!

The Witch continued to tease Stephan, but he refused with all of his holy might.

Uh! Please Stephan!

Said the Witch, before footsteps were heard in the hall outside the cell. Stephan perked his head up, focusing on them.

Goddess Marshika! The scouts returned. They have lost the thief.

Two soldiers looked inside the cell, telling the news. Atleast now Stephan had a better understanding of what was going on - and he knew the Goddess's name. Marshika. The soldiers, quickly evaluating the situation that was inside the cell, were amazed by Stephan's ability to resist Marshika. Marshika stood up and redressed, giving Stephan a sly look.

Think about it.

Said Marshika as she left Stephan alone to ponder in his thoughts. This truly would be a difficult time. But Stephan hoped he could escape from here... He couldnt let Marshika's plan become true, no matter how tempting it would be or what he would have to sacrifice.


Words 568 - +2 exp

 

[Aussie_Wolf]

Gillian decides to leave the army and return to his woods. He was here to save the goddess and they failed to do that. He must report back to his elders and find out what they wanted him to do now.

He gathered his equipment and vanished into the night. Soon the Ghost would once again be haunting his own woods where he was supposed to be.

 

[Stalzyn]

He landed so lightly causing nothing but a ripple on the surface of the green pool. The sewer was four foot one tall and So narrow that only one person can pass at a time. Mae landed behind him, the sound from her drop not louder than his. As planned the Ivorian Knight above quickly closed the lid and hurried off to a vantage point.

Mattroy lit a touch and held it up with his left hand; with his right he kept a steady light grip on the hilt of his sword. He squinted his eyes as the light from the burning wood chased back the darkness. At a snail's pace he continued inside, his eyes darted from one slimy cold wall to the other and then to the roughly domed shaped ceiling wall stretching a few inches above his head. He had dropped his armor, instead putting on the cheap leather armor the guards at the palace courtyard wears.

Yes, the plan was to infiltrate through the sewer, straight into the dungeon; silently take out any opposition while finding the cell where the healer is kept. Get keys from one of the guards and free the healer. Escape through the same way, up into the empty courtyard and out into the street. Simple. Only that he didn't anticipate the stench of the sewer to be this strong. He could feel the damp air on his face, threatening to rob of him of oxygen. The reeking, pungent odor of the water, due to the fact that he had crouched he could even feel the hot air exuding from the disturbed water.

They treaded off in silence, the General not wanting to risk thirsting the foul smell on his tongue kept to himself like he had done along the way.

Bringing his head up, he could just make out a bend ahead... rats squealing on the other side and the incessant sound of water dripping told him they were close to the kitchen. As they navigated the window of the towers directly opposite the castle. The Knight was to stay as close to the lid as possible so as to ensure their escape.
Now directly under the kitchen lid Mattroy threw the touch into the water, quenching the fire. Mattroy turned the lid and as slowly and quietly as ever removed it. Poking his head he scanned the pathway before going up.

"Hurry up with that stew Alice... I'm taking this bread to the new prisoner." He heard someone say from the kitchen. Mattroy glanced towards the approaching voice and back into the sewer, "Come on, hurry up." He urged stretching his arm to help her up.

From the voice he could discern the person was a female, evidently a cook. Obviously heading to the dungeon to serve their healer. As he helped Mae up he debated whether to kill or knock her out if she sees them. Mae was up now, just when the wooden door of the kitchen creaked and opened. With nowhere to hide Mattroy had one course of action apart from murder, he rushed to the side and when she had shut the door struck at the back of her neck knocking her out. The tray she was holding fell, spilling the food she was carrying. Mattroy bent and hastily started picking the crumbs back into the plate.

"Can you play servant Mae, until we know which guard is with the key?" He asked coming back up with the tray, the food now arranged as it should be. At the other end of the pathway was a door leading to the dungeon... he imagined there would be top of the notch security there and in as much as he'd like to kill the murderers of Emeline, he opted for more subtle ways. Reasoning that there was a code or cipher the guards use. A system that if not followed might alert the guards deeper down to suspicion.
He smirked noticing the look on her face, surely this wasn't her trade. "Only till we get the key." He added.

698 words............... +2 exp.

 

[KattDclaw]

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