Vindemar Ruins
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Registered: May 7, 2016 6:21:37 GMT -8
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Post by Vindemar Ruins on May 7, 2016 6:31:50 GMT -8
Vindemar Ruins
These are the ruins of Vindemar, a castle built by a great kingdom in many ages past. They say the lord who lived here was greedy and evil, and plotted against the good king with the help of dark spirits. The lord's coup was revealed and his forces defeated, but the damage had already been done. A great darkness spread across the land. The clouds blotted out the sky, the grass died, and wildlife succumbed to starvation, and its people all suffered a horrible plague that wiped them out.
No one has entered the Vindemar Ruins in many years, but they say a powerful force lives deep within a series of mysterious catacombs beneath the keep.
 Any who come here should read the quest information first!!!
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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 7, 2016 21:12:54 GMT -8
The ruins was of great interest to Attla, as well as Glavilidom. Attla was primarily pushed into entering the place by Glavilidom, his ethereal advisor. Such a place would be an excellent base of operations, and that is why Attla decided to scout it out. Besides the point, any artifacts within the ruin could certainly pay exorbitant prices to certain 'collectors' in which the Inferno Assembly had connections with. The allure of money was too great for Attla to resist.
Hobbling to a place which appeared to be what Attla deemed as 'the entrance', he paused, waiting for a response.
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Vindemar Ruins
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Registered: May 7, 2016 6:21:37 GMT -8
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Post by Vindemar Ruins on May 22, 2016 14:25:14 GMT -8
Attla, the ConnivingAttila would find the entrance, open - but recently so - a few weeks ago and this gate would be closed shut. If he tries to enter the courtyard, he will sense the absence of magic of any kind. Anti-magic. It was strong here, and seemed to push any kind of magical essence away from the area. Should Attila move into this courtyard, he would lose any and all magical powers he had - including any ability to commune or sense the ethereal spirits. He would be mortal, through and through, with nothing special about him.
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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 22, 2016 16:24:54 GMT -8
The anti-magic was a deterrent, certainly. But of course, this gave him an excellent opportunity. This castle would be nigh impenetrable from a mage assault. Attla doubted thus anti-magic would pervade the entereity of these halls, it would be after all, far too tricky to keep maintained, for any earthly beast. Therefore he pressed on, reaching for his dusty metal box and drawing out his darts. The connection with Glavilidom was severed immediately. Glavilidom therefore attempted to scout out the source of the anti-magic, forced to do so as per Attla's contract. He had experience when it came to runes or enchantments of anti-magic, he was of course a god of wisdom.
Attla stepped into the doors. Such a place would likely have traps to deter invaders, he predicted. He scoured the floor and ceiling, searching for a telltale mimic or explosive rune. He wished not to gave the doors closed behind him, for it would limit his options. Attla attempted to grab two of his darts and jam them in such a way which would force the hinges of the door to become stuck in their opened position, a necessary precaution. It would be immensely difficult to remove the obstruction, he believed.
If anything were to be there he would briskly procure a small smoke bomb and attempt to proceed further into the deathly halls of Vindemar.
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Post by Dietrich the Sadist on May 23, 2016 12:57:49 GMT -8
Attla, the Conniving Vindemar was a very quiet, very placid place. There were no sounds of whistling air; no drip-drops of water; no scurrying of rats. It seemed entirely devoid of life, sound, and was certainly devoid of magic of any kind. The sheer silence would be enough to drive ordinary men mad, should they stay here for the night. Attila would find this place exactly like that: quiet and placid, and devoid of anything. The walls were dry, constructed of some old stone and polished long ago; the floor was dry too, and maybe at one point it was a light grey in color, but it was no as black as the darkest night. Columns supported the ceilings, also black. There were several hallways and rooms stretching out from the center of the keep And then, a bootstep. And another. And another. They came slowly, but whoever the person was they wanted their approach to be heard. They wanted Attila to know that he was not alone. Making his way around one of the walls of one of the hallways, he slowly appeared from the darkness. It was Dietrich the Sadist. He was a Brother, of the Brotherhood, and had been since their crusade against the Wickans some years ago. But he did not wear the white surcoat and black cross of the Brothers, and he did not don the plated armor he had been given by the Vessian Empire. Rather, he wore some dark, twisted, beaten plate armor. Perhaps, even, he had rid himself of the vows and oaths he had taken as a Brother - now he was something else entirely. He was a killer, a murderer... a Sadist. The former OrdenMarschall of the Brothers of the Sword stood quiet a distance down a hallway from Attila, and within the darkness he'd be hard to see. But if Attila knew anything about the Brothers, he would know this was the dreaded OrdenMarschall, Hochmeister Konrad's right-hand man, and the executioner of the Duchy of Audria. "I'm glad you came," he said in a hushed whisper. At that moment Attila would probably hear at least a dozen more footsteps as armored mercenaries came out of the other hallways to surround him with weapons: swords, axes, shields, maces, and other items grabbed from dead bodies on the battlefield. If Attila tried to move, he would find the mercenaries would push him back to the middle of where he was. One of the mercenaries had blood pouring from his stomach, as if he had been stabbed; truth was, he had been stabbed, but was miraculously alive somehow.. Dietrich himself drew a long, executioner-style long sword from his back and started walking towards Attila and the other mercenaries, dragging the tip of the blade on the ground behind him as he approached very slowly. "Do you know where you are?" Dietrich asked in a sinister and ambiguous manner. "This is Vindemar Keep. Or at least, what is left of it. They say you can't die here." Dietrich was now amongst the group and put one hand on the stabbed mercenaries shoulder. "My friend here proves that theory is true; we stabbed him, and his wound would have killed an ordinary man, but you see he yet lives." Dietrich turned his head and hollered into another room, "we're ready." Some old hag hobbled out from another room, panting terribly. Her voice was strained and scratchy when she spoke from beneath her dark robes. "We must leave this place soon, Dietrich, my lord! The lack of magic is most... unnerving." Dietrich nodded his head at the old hag and turned back to Attila. "We'll be finished here soon enough," he said. "Bind him." The twelve mercenaries would work together to wrestle with Attila, attempt to restrain him, and attempt to tie his wrists and ankles. Should any of these mercenaries be stabbed, cut, or otherwise injured they would shrug it off and continue trying to bind Attila up; they were apparently brainwashed and heeded the command of Dietrich. Assuming you complyOnce Attila was bound, the mercenaries would lie him face down on the ground. If he writhed around the mercenaries would restrain him as best they could. "Now comes the fun part," Dietrich grinned as he picked his executioners sword up and placed it on the back of Attila's neck. "Know why they call me the Sadist, Attila," he asked casual like, as if killing and torturing did not bother him. "Because I love to torture my prisoners before I kill them. Sometimes, I like to hang them up and watch the vultures pick out their insides. Sometimes I like to strangle them with their own intestines. I've even eaten their organs while they still live." Dietrich chuckled, "there's nothing like eating someone alive. You eat what you kill, that's what pa always taught me." Dietrich laughed but finally exhaled deeply... He brought the large executioner sword into the air and with one mighty blow brought it down onto Attila's neck, beheading him. His head would be hanging onto his body by a few strips of skin for sure, because of the angle of the swing. But the mighty Vessian Knight bent down and grabbed Attila's hair before ripping the head completely off and holding it up till they were both face to face (or in this case, head-to-head). Dietrich laughed and chuckled, hollered and giggled as he looked at the body-less head. But Attila was not dead, oh no. He was very much alive. It was the curse of Vindemar Keep that kept him alive. He could still talk, see, hear, feel, think, and smell. He simply had no body! "How do you feel, my good man?" Dietrich asked Attila, enjoying every minute of this.
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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 28, 2016 8:27:58 GMT -8
"Oh I'm fine my good friend!" He responded.
Well he tried to respond. He physiologically couldn't respond. The airways would have been incised, therefore vocal function could not occur. He had no voice, no way of speaking, no way of screaming. In technicality, the blow from the axe would have caused only a slight amount of pain, as the primary neck-based nerves were severed. Therefore he would no way of feeling it, as they ceased to function.
Therefore all that Agtla could do was bide his time, prepare for Glavilidom to do something or the rather. He could not do anything. He was stuck. Hysteria does nothing, therefore he steeled his nerves and prepared for whatever his 'torturer' may have in mind.
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