The Kingdom of Belrow
Committed
Roleplay posts: 86 
Player's online availability : Most days
Registered: Apr 10, 2016 2:54:12 GMT -8
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Post by The Kingdom of Belrow on Apr 22, 2016 5:56:21 GMT -8
 Outside the walls of Kalkador near the northen border of the nation lies the staging grounds. A vast complex of black pillars and half buried buildings which all centered around three half raised platforms of black stone and strange sigils. In front of its seemingly main entrance, marked by two large heads that lay mostly buried beneath the sands, a network of tents had been erected. Erected in all shapes and sizes these tents housed the living adventurers that had answered the call to help take down the beast. Most lay empty, as the call had only just been made, but Galgor, High Guardian of Belrow was hopeful. |
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on Apr 22, 2016 8:56:15 GMT -8
He could see the architectural soup of destroyed buildings, mixed in with the sheer, onyx-black pillars. It astounded him, why they made it such a pain to get to the campsite. His fragile frame a supreme hindrance, as he tried to move through the wreckage, every so often tripping, or grazing his knee. His passwall would be of no help in this sort of environment. And that deeply frustrated him.
The black platforms were finally close, the home stretch, as it is. He eyes the campsite next to them. So he, and whoever might have taken the quest have to meet here? He quickly scanned the area to see if anyone of interest, or if relation to the quest, was there. No-one in particular stood out to Attla, he only saw the usual ghoulish inhabitants of Belrow, patrolling the campsite. He huffed, knowing full well he would have to wait for them to arrive.
He projected his voice across the campsite, to see if anyone was nearby. It was worth a shot at least, if any if them were nearby it would inform him of their prescence.
"So, who else is taking the quest?"
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Istolil Torviir
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Age: 246 in elf years about 31 in human years
Physical Description: Istolil is a tall dark elf man in his early thirties. His skin is a dark purplish hue and his light grey hair is tied into a tight ponytail. He is small in stature standing at an insignificant five foot eight an oddity compared to the other members of his race. He has a burn on the right side of his face from a alchemy lesson gone awry.
Clothes and Equipment: Istolil wears a black cloak that hides dark green clothing embroidered with the designs of his family house.
Istolil carries with him a spellbook that was given to him when he was a child as well as a journal that he frequently writes in.
He also carries with him an old long sword passed down to him from his father sheathed in a leather holder bearing the symbol of his house.
Registered: Apr 19, 2016 14:35:15 GMT -8
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Post by Istolil Torviir on Apr 23, 2016 13:19:02 GMT -8
Istolil made his through the sea of half destroyed buildings, wading through the coarse sand. He was sweating profusely in his dark robes, he hated the heat but was prepared to endure the scolding heat to find what he needed in the necromatic ruins. Finally he came upon the campsite, he sighed in relief and headed towards the thin man in the middle of the camp. He smirked slightly when the man asked who else was joining in the quest and said in a tired almost annoyed tone, "I suppose I'll be accompanying you and whoever else is coming." The Dark elf opened his satchel he carried with him and pulled from it a book with a rune glowing a strange dull purple color on its front cover. He sat himself against a rock and began to read ignoring the man.
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The Kingdom of Belrow
Committed
Roleplay posts: 86
Player's online availability : Most days
Registered: Apr 10, 2016 2:54:12 GMT -8
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Post by The Kingdom of Belrow on Apr 29, 2016 2:00:13 GMT -8
From the ruins of the city, during the fifth day since the word had been spread the Grand Army marched from the tunnels into the light once more. Swarming from the ruins of the once great city they moved like liquid. Hundreds of undead soldiers marched, perfectly silent, the only sound from them was the beat of the feet on the sand, and the rattle of their armor. They reached the staging grounds at the main entrance to the ruins. There the sense of chaos ended, these hundreds of dead began to create huge blocks, each one containing over a hundred guardians. To the living sightseers it was a harrowing experience. After five minutes the last soldier had reached it's place. Creating ten blocks of a hundred troops. One thousand dead stood, perfectly in unions. Any general would shed a tear at the precise movements that they had enacted, not a sound was said, not a single collision. Then out of the ruins came the next wave. Huge scarab like creatures came out of the darkness. Bright green eyes shining in the dark. From the distance they looked like a foul creature of nature, but as they became closer to the light, it could be plainly seen these where not natural. The eyes where that of bright crystals pulsing with inner light, their bodies made of the same materials as the buildings themselves. The worse thing of all about them was not in their looks but in their sound, or the lack of thereof. Instead of moving on the scuttling legs they had, the floated lazily through the air, levitating half a meter off the ground. When they reached the waiting undead, they moved between the ranks above the dead, tending to armor plates, or exposed or rotting flesh, fixing and mending. Their long spindly legs being used as fine instruments. The last thing to rise from the ruins created an earthquake in the very sand. Vibrating sounds could be heard across the desert of hundreds of miles. For out of the ruins rose one of the platforms themselves. Centuries of sand tumbled off its walls as it rose from the ground. Getting wider and wider, creating the shape of a black pyramid. Finally it stood over twenty meters tall. From inside, where once the platform stood, a giant crystal rose from its mass, setting itself like a green vivid beacon at the top of the machine. Once this crystal was in place, the true horror of the war machine was realized. The air was full of magic, it could be felt even by those without powers themselves. The war machine began to rise above the ruins, into the very sky. Once it was higher then the tallest buildings in the sand, it began to slowly float towards the staging grounds, slowly levitating over the dozens of ruined buildings. Once clear of the entrance way it slowly lowered itself to the ground and assumed its positionat the end of the waiting army, a single massive black monolith, basking the dead in unnatural green light blazing from the huge crystal at its peak. The grand army was ready once more.  |
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on May 3, 2016 0:11:23 GMT -8
Attla was awestruck as the army moved with such fluidity. He envied the size and order this army managed to keep; he always had trouble commanding his various underlings in the Inferno Assembly. He could plainly see the militaristic prowess of the Kingdom of Belrow by this act; such an army, devoid of pain and no concept of morale would make Belrow a truly terrible foe in battle.
Noting the brief introduction of the dark elf, or brief dismissal, he supposed, he began to hobble over to the man. People of such a nature are always a pain to work with - they always speak out of their asses, therir cold nature is more of a way to appear better than they actually are, a form of defense. Attla enjoyed getting under their skin. An opportunity to annoy this elf is a simply delectable idea. He wetted his lips, a small smirk manifesting itself upon his face.
He swiftly shot out an arm, gripping the book, ripping the book straight from the elf's hands. He blocked further attempts to take back the book, placing his body between the elf and the book.
"What's this book, eh?"
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Dr. Anton Bartlett
New
Roleplay posts: 9
Age: 36
Physical Description:
Anton is a dark-skinned human male of average height with a shaved head and dark eyes. He is of moderate build, his body having picked up some weight as his metabolism has begun to decline. Although he isn't of optimal physical fitness, Anton maintains proper grooming as his fingernails are always neatly clipped and his skin clean of blemishes, boils, and other markings. There are a few lines on his forehead, a result of stress from numerous failed experiments.
Clothes and Equipment: Anton prefers to wear fancy, lavish clothing that would be associated with those of aristocratic status despite him not being born of exceptional wealth or status. He strictly upkeeps his clothes and they are not without a single wrinkle or stain. Typically, Anton can be seen wearing a blue and gold coat, a white and gold shirt with matching pants, and blue and gold boots. Always carried with him is a golden cane mounted with a mysterious red gemstone.
Registered: Apr 24, 2016 11:10:04 GMT -8
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Post by Dr. Anton Bartlett on May 7, 2016 10:50:27 GMT -8
Lavi arrived just in time to watch the spectacle unfold. It was a chilling sight. He had squared off against plenty of undead before but never had he seen them so organized and well equipped. The foes he faced were merely reanimated skeletons that he woke up while crawling dungeons. The army that rose before them was on a much higher tier. Severely outnumbered, Lavi did not dare to raise his sword against their might. To prevent his from being mistaken as cowardice, he puffed his chest out to show that he still withheld his confidence. Taking notice of what appeared an elf and another human conversing — the presence of actual living beings bringing about relief to Lavi — he assumed that they were also there to take up the quest and he approached them. Concern riddled his mind as he wondered just how the massive army fit into the upcoming venture.
"So...are you guys here for the job?" Lavi inquired, scratching the back of his head. He offered them a weak grin to show that he meant no harm. "I don't suppose they are," he joked in relevance to the amassed undead.
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The Kingdom of Belrow
Committed
Roleplay posts: 86
Player's online availability : Most days
Registered: Apr 10, 2016 2:54:12 GMT -8
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Post by The Kingdom of Belrow on May 9, 2016 2:42:13 GMT -8
Attla, the Conniving Istolil Torviir Dr. Anton BartlettThe silent army had stood motionless for several days. The only movement being that of the large scarab constructs that moved lazily though the air above the dead. Although the living remained in their own private tents the dead did not show any discomfort being outside in the blitering heat. Riding on a chariot drawn by two skeletal horses Galgor approached the tent where the living mercenaries where sleeping. Stepping off his horse he opened the flap of the large tent and stared into the living space. The three men where standing around a central meeting area. Several chairs had been set up around a large table and several sleeping mats had been placed on the rough sewn fabric floor. "Welcome...to the the First Detachment of the Grand Army. It has been...long since we have...walked. Now, does everyone...understand what are about to face?" Galgor asked the trio as they turned to face the new being that had entered their tent.
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Dr. Anton Bartlett
New
Roleplay posts: 9
Age: 36
Physical Description:
Anton is a dark-skinned human male of average height with a shaved head and dark eyes. He is of moderate build, his body having picked up some weight as his metabolism has begun to decline. Although he isn't of optimal physical fitness, Anton maintains proper grooming as his fingernails are always neatly clipped and his skin clean of blemishes, boils, and other markings. There are a few lines on his forehead, a result of stress from numerous failed experiments.
Clothes and Equipment: Anton prefers to wear fancy, lavish clothing that would be associated with those of aristocratic status despite him not being born of exceptional wealth or status. He strictly upkeeps his clothes and they are not without a single wrinkle or stain. Typically, Anton can be seen wearing a blue and gold coat, a white and gold shirt with matching pants, and blue and gold boots. Always carried with him is a golden cane mounted with a mysterious red gemstone.
Registered: Apr 24, 2016 11:10:04 GMT -8
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Post by Dr. Anton Bartlett on May 11, 2016 9:20:37 GMT -8
As the days passed it became evident to Lavi that the undead army would be of no trouble to them. He settled into his tent rather nicely for it was much better to have actual shelter than sleeping along the road. Roughing it in the deserts wasn't exactly quaint. When Galgor entered Lavi was somewhat taken by surprise by his sudden appearance and intimidating presence. He didn't want that to be known, however so he kept up the tough exterior that he entered the staging grounds with.
"A refresher wouldn't hurt," Lavi said in response to Galgor.
Based off the information he received upon deciding to take the quest, he possessed a fundamental idea of what awaited them. More details never hurt, though, especially when one was planning to go into battle.
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on May 12, 2016 16:26:27 GMT -8
Attla dropped the book, uninterested. A newcomer was here. What was his name? He frankly didn't care. Asking names would require him to disclose his own and Attla did not wish to have his location found out. His affiliation with the Inferno Assembly meant he was a criminal and he couldn't evade that fact. If found out, he risked persecution from the local authorities; no doubt he has a price on his head. Even if they were undead, taking chances is a foolish maneuver.
However, secrecy breeds suspicion he thought.
He decided on a compromise. To tell a fake name, a fake identity.
"Top of the morning to you! My name is Favian, Favian Kaufman."
He bowed as he said this, they would have no way of knowing his actual identity.
"And your name is?" He queried to Lavi.
Understanding the nature of the Kingdom of Belrow, Attla was not surprised to see the deathly form of Galgor. What he was surprised by, was his abrupt entrance. Attla had been engrossed in examining the two men before him, thus causing him not to hear the sound of the skeletal chariot, when it arrived at the site. As such, he did not expect Galgor to enter at such a time.
Slightly shocked, Attla bowed suddenly - Galgor looked as if he were a high-ranking official, before answering back, this time keeping his cool, as well as keeping up his facade.
"No, please do explain."
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Dr. Anton Bartlett
New
Roleplay posts: 9
Age: 36
Physical Description:
Anton is a dark-skinned human male of average height with a shaved head and dark eyes. He is of moderate build, his body having picked up some weight as his metabolism has begun to decline. Although he isn't of optimal physical fitness, Anton maintains proper grooming as his fingernails are always neatly clipped and his skin clean of blemishes, boils, and other markings. There are a few lines on his forehead, a result of stress from numerous failed experiments.
Clothes and Equipment: Anton prefers to wear fancy, lavish clothing that would be associated with those of aristocratic status despite him not being born of exceptional wealth or status. He strictly upkeeps his clothes and they are not without a single wrinkle or stain. Typically, Anton can be seen wearing a blue and gold coat, a white and gold shirt with matching pants, and blue and gold boots. Always carried with him is a golden cane mounted with a mysterious red gemstone.
Registered: Apr 24, 2016 11:10:04 GMT -8
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Post by Dr. Anton Bartlett on May 15, 2016 11:15:28 GMT -8
Lavi nodded to the other human who introduced himself a Favian Kaufman. Strange name.
"I'm Lavi. No last name. We don't use them where I come from."
The island from which Lavi hailed had a very small population to where everyone knew each other and their families. The closest that Lavi had to a full name was Lavi, son of his father's name.
Once their small exchange was over he looked to Galgor with hopes he would further fill them in.
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The Kingdom of Belrow
Committed
Roleplay posts: 86
Player's online availability : Most days
Registered: Apr 10, 2016 2:54:12 GMT -8
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Post by The Kingdom of Belrow on May 19, 2016 1:49:18 GMT -8
Dr. Anton Bartlett@smarmy (Sorry for the wait, I've been studying for exams) "Good morning" Said Galgor hoarsely at the pair. "You might not be ...aware but currently their is... a small crisis currently appearing in... Aadean. Our lord...Ralakor has personally gone...to lead the main army...in defense of it. We are to continue...our own mission." Galgor walked into the middle of the tent and waved his hand at the table at the center of the room. Etechings in the dark wood began to form, showing a map of the Land Tiller States. "We are to...attack a creature that is currently...infesting a area of the Land Tillers land...aptly named the...Necromancy ruins. This creature...is powerful beyond belief. It can command the living to be completely under its...sway. No matter what deal...it tries to bargin with you... to accept any will doom you to a fate worse then death. I can...assure you. It minions...are still living...but follow most of the conventions of a undead corpse. Impossible to kill, fearless...as well as remorseless. This...will not be easy for any of us...are there any questions?"
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Attla, the Conniving
Committed
life
Roleplay posts: 84
Age: 27
Physical Description: A shrewd and bent over nomad, deprived of food at a young age, giving him malnutrition. His thin bones and muscle weaken him physically. He is just 5 foot 5 inches and has a weak and flimsy gait.
He is usually wearing a form of battered cloak, over black robes that hang loosely across his protruding figure.
His weakness extends to his legs, where he cannot run effectively. Instead, he must hobble at a slow pace, making him simple to outrun.
To most people he would be considered an outcast, a useless fruit of society, living off the work of others in a parasitical one-sided form of symbiosis.
His face is droopy, his eyelids purple, a permenant state caused by his lack of sleep. He is an insomniac and thusly has use magical means to get himself to sleep.
He has beard, congealed with silver and brown hairs, which is spewed haphazardly across his chin, in an ugly show of his unclealiness.
His hair is a mess of dirt and grime. It is hard to gauge of his hair is brown, or it is merely the mud that lumps together inside of it.
His eyes, a brilliant green iris, contrasted by the vicious red tendrils in his eyes, a sign of bleariness and tiredness.
His nose is long and angular, ending at the near hidden, slim mouth stuck in a grimace of pain and anguish.
He near always has a thin cover of sweat across his body, with little pieces of grit mixed in, like a foul soup.
Clothes and Equipment: As mentioned, he has a black, torn and weak robe, covering a small fleece of sheep's wool. Over this robe, a battered and torn black cloak covers him fully. His is connected to his robe by a simple headwrap, creating a black hood to shield himself from the sun with.
He wears large leather boots, worn and old, with obvious mistreatment. No attempt to clean his boots has been made.
He carries a twisted and gnarled ironwood root, as a walking stick and makeshift weapon. He uses it as a way of casting magic, using it to gather energy in the same way a lightning rod would conduct lightning.
Underneath his robe he carries a satchel. In the satchel he keeps a small coin purse, and a small box where he keeps various nefarious equipment, such as lock-picks, needles, small daggers and some throwing darts, all of these stolen or created by him.
Registered: Mar 18, 2016 23:24:09 GMT -8
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Post by Attla, the Conniving on May 19, 2016 23:14:14 GMT -8
He was sure he would not be mentally suaded, by any creature. If such a problem were to arise, he would have Glavilidom dispel the attempt. He had failsafe runes of Glavilidom already formed upon his scalp; one can never not be too cautious.
He did not have fear of such a beast, whatever it may be; he would not be fighting upon the front line and if the outcome was dire he could of course escape easily. He was not wary, just prepared.
A thought popped into his mind. His face assumed a curious, intrigued visage.
"Say, will this 'beast' have an aversion to flame?"
If so, he would have a very effective counter to this beast.
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