Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 07:35:19 am
It is your sacred task to seek the Grail!
Spoiler: Character Sheet: (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Rules: (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Example Retinue Members (click to show/hide)
I will accept only four Knights, but questing is a fearsome and dangerous task. Few shall pass. If all members of the party are slain the quest will fail.
Please bold your actions.
Spoiler: Acknowledgements (click to show/hide)
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 07:35:58 am
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging (click to show/hide)
Waitlist (many apologies)
Spoiler: Theodolus; Sir Theodore Hughes the Vigilant (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Remalle; Sir Robert the Chronically Unprepared (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: micelus; Sir John the Inconceivably Bad at Direction (click to show/hide)
Dead List
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Deceased (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Deceased (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Deceased (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Errol; Sir Ethlehed the Deceased (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Fell Sir Uriel the Deceased (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: scriver; Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Lost (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on October 14, 2011, 07:41:09 am
Spoiler: Character Sheet: Sir Keardwall the Stony (click to show/hide)
I wouldn't miss this RtD for the world!
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 08:06:18 am
small pony
No actual mounts allowed, sorry, and I will count the traits as an informal add on which may inform gameplay but not affect rolls*, but otherwise perfectly acceptable. Nice adjective.
*Unless in there is popular desire for bonus-giving traits? I had planned for characters to be able to gain them later.
Post by: wolfchild on October 14, 2011, 08:08:24 am
Bio: Meynard is not sure because he always knows, He is the other kind of sure. If he decides on a task, he will keep on trying untill he succeeds, or there is incontrovertible proof that it is no longer possible. He Weilds hes great Warhammer "Drakhen" in the crucible of battle, His coat of arms is a field of ice blue, on which a black wolf is consuming a red sun. Other than always completeing what he sets his mind too, maynard enjoys eating, drinking, whoring and boasting, preferably all at the same time, he tends to refrain from a few of them when on a quest however, because it's not as fun when you have to get up early in the morning.
Retinue Member: Maddy, the Falcon Handler; Long time companion iof Meynard, Maddy has been entrusted with the knights Falcon, who he takes everywhere
Chivalry: 1
Post by: freeformschooler on October 14, 2011, 08:09:42 am
Bio: Sir Feyman gladly accepts his role in any quests, but is always suspicious of the motives of his fellow questers. He likes to play music, but doesn't have the opportunity very often. He fights with swords, but doesn't get too attached to his equipment.
Retinue Member: Maine the shy Minstrel. He usually follows Feyman around, blindly agreeing with him, even though he taught Feyman many things, including how to play music.
Chivalry: 1
How exciting!
Post by: scriver on October 14, 2011, 08:16:15 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 08:18:33 am
Freeform - Could you name your minstrel please? Just so it hurts that little bit more when he is crushed by a flying cow.
Post by: Sinpwn on October 14, 2011, 08:19:58 am
Bio: The stuff of legends, Conchobar is feared throughout the world. Not because of his deeds mind you, but because of his legendary ugliness. He is said to be so ugly that the heads of lesser men have shattered in his presence. It is also notable that his favored weapon is a man wearing spiked armor named Fiddles.
Traits: Unimaginably intimidating. Rediculously ugly.
Retinue member: Fiddles the man club.
Chivalry: 1
Post by: freeformschooler on October 14, 2011, 08:22:45 am
Post by: scriver on October 14, 2011, 08:24:30 am
Scriver - Sure.Actually, I don't have time doing this right now, so I don't want to take up place from those who do.. Wait list me, instead?
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 08:25:47 am
a) I think it will be activated quite soon and
b) if it is easy enough and very probably when Roll to Work ends I may have five Knights.
Nice name and weapon, I have to say.
Oh, never mind - ninjaed by scriver. You're in too!
Post by: Errol on October 14, 2011, 08:30:18 am
Name: Sir Ethlehed the Curious
Bio: It is said that curiosity killed the cat. Sir Ethlehed would remark that he is no cat and therefore perfectly safe. In fact, through absolutely dumb luck he has managed to survive everything his insatiable curiosity has brought him into, often at the cost of comically maimed retinue members. He is interested in absolutely everything and will frequently conduct experiments to satiate his curiosity. Again often at the expense of retinue. He wields a vaguely weapon-like contraption that has so far managed to elude a good description and could go horribly wrong at any moment. He also wields a sword, but it is rusty and blunt from years of neglect.
He is the kind of guy who compulsively pulls a lever to see what happens. He is also inexplicably lucky.
Retinue Member: John the Snarker. A former fool who lost all of his humour while in Ethlehed's service. Now an insufferable pessimist who finds himself right very often.
Chivalry: 1
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 08:36:15 am
Somewhere in England; sometime during the Dark Ages; around half four in the afternoon.
Your liege, King Arthur, King of the Britons, has commanded that you seek the Grail. It is for this reason that the four of you, noble Knights of the Round Table together with your faithful retinues, must travel to the French-held Castle Lombard, where, the wise man suggests, the True Grail resides. It is there, then, that you head.
Travelling since before dawn on your trusty steeds along the barely lit paths that crisscross the vast forest of Celidon, suddenly the unmistakeable sound of battle rings out! The clash of steel! The grunt of effort! The godly music of manly heroism! On your guards and more carefully continuing forth, you soon come to a clearing amongst the dense and ancient woods. Across this clearing there cuts a ditch; and across this ditch there lies a rickety and wooden bridge, fully five feet across, spanning the chasm below; and before this bridge fights the Black Knight.
He fights with the strength of many men, yet even so, as you watch, the Green Knight – for it is he the Black Knight’s foe – upon his sword catches his blow and wrestles with him nose to nose. The Green Knight breaks free from this deathly embrace; he drives the pummel of his sword into the Black Knight’s face! He pushes him back, and raises his longsword above the empty space. As the Green Knight steps forward to deliver the killing blow, the Black Knight’s blade rises faster than the eye can see: the blow is blocked, the Green Knight stopped, and the Black Knight’s boot kicks into his gut. Upon the floor the Green Knight falls, where he avoids the Black Knight’s thrust, and rolls; back again upon his feet a vicious chained mace he wields: but with his swift sword the Black Knight blocks and parries and stops and shields. The Black Knight is knocked down and on the muddy floor he lies, but as the Green Knight bears down upon him with his axe the Black Knight’s sword flies through his eyes.
His brain is pierced! He is stuck down!
With one foot on his defeated foe’s head, the Black Knight pulls his sword from the Green Knight’s face and walks back to the centre of the bridge, where he turns and sees your questing band.
“None shall pass!” bellows the voice resounding from within the Black Knight’s helmet.
“I beg your pardon?” the Knights of the Round Table gasp, as one.
“None shall pass!”
You must reach the other side of the forest before nightfall!
Post by: Sinpwn on October 14, 2011, 08:44:16 am
Post by: wolfchild on October 14, 2011, 08:47:48 am
also, what does my handler do, I just wanted to have a falcon
Post by: freeformschooler on October 14, 2011, 08:51:58 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 08:59:11 am
also, what does my handler do, I just wanted to have a falcon
Well, I guess he carries your falcon. He doesn't have to do anything, although in appropriate situations you can post for him to do something. He may give you a bonus in certain situations, he may also die. He is partly there for you to have some form of customisation, but I think their use will become more apparent as the game goes on.
For example, someone might say,
Calling upon his trusty Coconut Porter Patsy, Sir Alex fled the dragon with great haste.
and then I might think - aha! a speed bonus. For example.
Post by: scriver on October 14, 2011, 10:41:38 am
Name: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund
Bio: A large man, both tall and wide, with long reddish hair and beard. As the shape of his body might give away, Beadocáf enjoys a good meal. And a good drink. And anything feast-related, really. Despite this affection, Beadocáf is also a rather pious man, spending a lot of his money on building churches on his land, and prefers to spare his fighting skills for when God calls upon them. His colours are red and gold, and his crest is an eagle carrying a cross. His weapon of choice is a long-shafted, knobbed mace, inscribed with the words Nutu Dei. Sometimes also called the Boar, or possible the Bore, Beadocáf is never quite sure which one people mean by it.
Retinue Member: Godewine of Norwhyiche, an old friend and monk scholar witnessing his quest for chronicling purposes.
Chivalry: 1
Post by: Ultimuh on October 14, 2011, 11:55:54 am
Name:
Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception
Bio:
A knight to be reckoned with. He has a trusty steed which isn't as trusted as it should be, a shiny armor which often gets soiled in combat, a great shield wich is dent bent and sligtly curled, a sparkling balde which is often ridiculed for it's sparkles.
Then there is Goofus Ridiculus, a Jester of sorts whom he can't get rid of, even tried to impale this PUNny little man with the sparkling blade, Unfortunaly he got better.
Did I mention Uriel entirely lacks depth perception?
Retinue Member:
Goofus Ridiculus, a Jester whom was originally hired to keep Uriel The Nearsighted in good mood with witty jokes and humor.
Too bad he only know horribly bad puns, and he just can't get rid of this guy no matter what he have tried.
Chivalry: 1
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 12:13:20 pm
Dark Age science limits transportation tech to coconut shells for this quest though, sorry, no steeds yet. Although Dark Age medicine can possibly handle limb replacement. Hmm.
Now where's that Yoink fellow?
Post by: Ultimuh on October 14, 2011, 01:49:29 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 03:40:26 pm
I guess it's got a tremendously pleasing ring to it, but as the person who will have to type it most I can't really encourage that sort of thing.
Post by: Ultimuh on October 14, 2011, 04:07:59 pm
Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception
So you have said and so it
You COULD give him a shortened nickname. One that truly lives up to the Monty Pythonesque premise this RTD promises.
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 04:13:34 pm
Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception
So you have said and so itwill beis done.
You COULD give him a shortened nickname. One that truly lives up to the Monty pythonesque premise this RTD promises.
Sir Uriel The Entirely Lacking? Anyway, the idea of having promise to live up to makes me feel quite pressured. I may flee to Brazil rather than continue. I'll certainly go and rewrite the next turn.
Post by: Ultimuh on October 14, 2011, 04:15:57 pm
Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception
So you have said and so itwill beis done.
You COULD give him a shortened nickname. One that truly lives up to the Monty pythonesque premise this RTD promises.
Sir Uriel The Entirely Lacking? Anyway, the idea of having promise to live up to makes me feel quite pressured. I may flee to Brazil rather than continue. I'll certainly go and rewrite the next turn.
edit: nevermind
reedit: Uhm.. we forgot to change this part:
Quote
Retinue Member:
Goofus Ridiculus, a Jester whom was originally hired to keep Uriel The Nearsighted in good mood with witty jokes and humor.
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 04:22:18 pm
Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception
So you have said and so itwill beis done.
You COULD give him a shortened nickname. One that truly lives up to the Monty pythonesque premise this RTD promises.
Sir Uriel The Entirely Lacking? Anyway, the idea of having promise to live up to makes me feel quite pressured. I may flee to Brazil rather than continue. I'll certainly go and rewrite the next turn.
edit: nevermind
reedit: Uhm.. we forgot to change this part:QuoteRetinue Member:
Goofus Ridiculus, a Jester whom was originally hired to keep Uriel The Nearsighted in good mood with witty jokes and humor.
Fixed that. Also, I'm tired. Did I miss something about the earlier part of the post that I should nevermind about?
Post by: Ultimuh on October 14, 2011, 04:23:23 pm
Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception
So you have said and so itwill beis done.
You COULD give him a shortened nickname. One that truly lives up to the Monty pythonesque premise this RTD promises.
Sir Uriel The Entirely Lacking? Anyway, the idea of having promise to live up to makes me feel quite pressured. I may flee to Brazil rather than continue. I'll certainly go and rewrite the next turn.
edit: nevermind
reedit: Uhm.. we forgot to change this part:QuoteRetinue Member:
Goofus Ridiculus, a Jester whom was originally hired to keep Uriel The Nearsighted in good mood with witty jokes and humor.
Fixed that. Also, I'm tired. Did I miss something about the earlier part of the post that I should nevermind about?
Yer all done. ^_^
edit: Or don't, I just feel I'm in a Monty Pythonish mood at the moment. :P
Post by: Yoink on October 14, 2011, 04:35:24 pm
Sir Keardwall shall stride foward, his craggy features glaring at this miscreant, and support his brave companion Sir Feynard in his challenge.
Possibly giving a few entirely unhelpful tips and tricks regarding swordplay, since well, he knows no-one is as good with a blade as he!
Post by: Theodolus on October 14, 2011, 04:47:20 pm
Name: Sir Theodore Hughes the Vigilant
Bio: When Sir Theodore was still but a young boy he was constantly tripping over things, finding new ways to blunder in to inanimate objects and generally being a nuisance to those around him. For this he was given the sarcastic nickname 'Vigilant', which unfortunately stuck after achieving knighthood. Despite his inability to walk a straight line while stone cold sober he is loyal and always willing to head in to danger in order to help his friends. He is proficient with the morning star and shield, and has a very large streak of romanticism in his blood. His colors are green and gold and his crest is a green stag in front of a golden tree on a black background.
Retinue Member: Fauntleroy the Squire. For some unknown reason this young boy was entrusted into Sir Theodore's care for training in the knightly way of chivalry. A young chap of approximately 14 years, he's a bit scrawny to be wielding that dagger, isn't he?
Chivalry: 1
Post by: lawastooshort on October 14, 2011, 05:14:19 pm
England; the Dark Ages; by a bridge; shortly after half four in the afternoon.
Begin shouting Incomprehensibly and gesturing behind him with great urgency.
Sir Conchobar the Gruesome begins shouting incomprehensibly, waving his arms in a flurry of ugliness and gesturing behind the Black Knight with considerable urgency [5]. It is not immediately clear what this achieves; the Black Knight is stoic beneath his steel helmet. Perhaps he is flustered, perhaps he is worried: one cannot tell.
Challenge the black knight ... to a DRINKING contest
[Init vs Sir Feyman=6 vs 5]
“Noble Knight!” announces Sir Meynard the Sure, “I and my companions must pass: we are on the God-granted quest to find the Holy Grail.”
No reply comes from within the Black Knight’s steely mask.
“Being Wise and Chivalrous beyond the ken of normal men, I abhor violence: I thusly challenge you… to a DRINKING contest.”
Still no sound breaks the Black Knight’s impenetrable wall of silence.
“With… Ale!”
“Oh, all right then,” suddenly replies the Black Knight, “Here, come and take a seat in my tent. I do quite fancy a pint.”
Sir Meynard and the Black Knight cross the bridge to the fearsome stranger’s tent beside it, and the Black Knight shows Sir Meynard the row of barrels beside his meager belongings. They are filled with Ale. Black Ale. Strong and tasty Black Ale, thick like the very coal of Yorkshire itself. At the Black Knight’s beckoning, Sir Meynard sits. The Black Knight does likewise, and, opening a barrel, passes it silently over the table to Sir Meynard. He opens another, and, at Sir Meynard’s signal, the two Knights begin to drink.
... ... ... ... ... ...
Around an hour later, the bored companions of Sir Meynard mill about on the other side of the bridge. They watch the sixth empty barrel fly forcefully out of the Black Knight’s tent and collectively groan a little; Maddy the Falcon Handler shifts from foot to foot a little impatiently at his master’s excess. Suddenly, shortly after the sound of an eighth barrel being opened wafts across the chasm, the victor emerges, triumphant!
The Black Knight strolls unsteadily back to his place in front of the bridge; he carries, with, some might say, newly acquired superhuman strength, the defeated Meynard before him. He places the knight carefully upon the ground, and Maddy quickly runs over to check his master [6]. The Black Knight seems once more to ignore the gesticulating and incomprehensible Sir Conchobar: perhaps these are some of the rumoured less traditional knights, questing with a favoured idiot, an intellectually deficient who by the Grace of God is permitted to ramble nonsensically for the good of their souls.
State Entered! Incredibly Drunk!
Challenge the black knight to his game of choice - swordplay.
[Init vs Sir Meynard=5 vs 6]
Enraged but somehow not entirely surprised at his companion’s defeat, Sir Feyman the Judging steps forward towards the questers’ imposing foe, and draws his sword with an audible slicing of the air about him.
“En garde! I, Sir Feyman the Judging, challenge you for possession of this bridge!”
Sir Keardwall shall stride foward, his craggy features glaring at this miscreant, and support his brave companion Sir Feynard in his challenge.
Possibly giving a few entirely unhelpful tips and tricks regarding swordplay, since well, he knows no-one is as good with a blade as he!
At this Sir Keardwall the Stony strides purposefully forward, glaring at the Black Knight like some form of righteous rock [4]. He leans forwards to speak into Sir Feyman's ear.
"Sir; I have fought in many battles, and defeated many knights of many colours in many duels: heed what I have to say. You would do well to avoid his blade, good knight."
[Init Sir Feyman vs Black Knight = 5 vs 5]
Not quite sure what to make of his comrade's intervention, Sir Feyman turns back to the task at hand, and seconds later Sir Feyman and the Black Knight charge towards each other as one. At the last moment the Black Knight looks briefly to his rear, seemingly preoccupied; then he glances to the fore, and see the sternly featured Sir Keardwall: and then his heavy blade sweeps through the air as Sir Feyman leaps unknightly-like above him. Upon landing on the other side behind the Black Knight, Sir Feyman realises his left arm has been sliced clean off! Blood spurts out in a crimson jet! He looks behind him to see where it has fallen; and as he does so the Black Knight’s cleanly sliced body falls in two [6+1 distraction bonus] before the assembled and dumbstruck spectators!
Aghast, Maine walks over to where the severed arm lies in a pool of blood and picks it up.
Wound Acquired! Left Arm Sliced Off!
Title Gained! Slayer of the Black Knight!
Chivalry Increased! +2
As the four members of the Knights’ retinues pick up the incredibly drunk Sir Meynard, the questing Knights quest forth, Sir Keardwall muttering something to himself about I tried to bloody tell him... idiot.
... ... ... ... ... ...
Shortly before dusk, as the shadows lengthen about them on the edge of the great forest of Celidon, they come to a village. They must seek shelter for the night, but they have a little time before the darkness draws in.
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on October 14, 2011, 05:23:50 pm
Post by: Yoink on October 14, 2011, 05:25:51 pm
The brave, bearded, and still-intact knight shall stride up to the largest, most habitable-looking building (Probably an inn or similiar) and throw open the door. "Hail, villagers! We are the King's knights, sent out to do great and noble deeds in the name of God! Spread straw o'er the muck and we shall bless ye by staying here this knight. Er, night."
Post by: freeformschooler on October 14, 2011, 05:28:06 pm
Seek shelter and thank Keardwall for his excellent support.
Post by: Yoink on October 14, 2011, 05:31:34 pm
Post by: wolfchild on October 14, 2011, 07:34:08 pm
Post by: Remalle on October 15, 2011, 02:23:55 am
Name: Sir Robert the Chronically Unprepared
Bio: Robert wasn't fully trained to become a knight. He didn't wear deodorant the day they knighted him. And to top it all off, he blinked when they painted his portrait to put on his knighting licence. Yes, Sir Robert the Chronically Unprepared certainly lives down to his title. He hopes to earn a new one: Finder of the Spear of Destiny!
...wait, what do you mean we're seeking the Holy Grail? Why didn't anybody say anything?
Retinue Member: One (1) standard issue priest. If the brave knight is to fall in battle, he would have someone on hand to quickly deliver his last rites. Unfortunately Brother Matthew is a monk, not a priest, and is perhaps far too eager to pronounce Sir Robert the Chronically Unprepared dead.
Chivalry: 1
Post by: lawastooshort on October 15, 2011, 05:11:07 am
England; the Dark Ages; a village; shortly before dark.
Swagger into the nearest inn and just stand there for about a minute, then ask the barkeep if there are any rooms available.
Sir Conchobar tries to swagger into the nearest inn, but instead he stumbles and trips like a clumsy peasant and swaggers into the nearest inn's doorframe! He stubs his toe! He stands about looking miserable for a minute or two, being very obviously ignored by the innkeeper, before deciding that perhaps he should pipe up if he doesn't want to sleep standing up for the third time this week. But the inn has no more room! Conchobar and his trusty man-weapon Fiddles will have to sleep in the barn. At least it's free [1].
State Entered! Not very well rested!
Sir Keardwall shall lead on into the village, accompanied by Gertad, trudging along bearing his master's banner.
The brave, bearded, and still-intact knight shall stride up to the largest, most habitable-looking building (Probably an inn or similiar) and throw open the door.
Meanwhile, across the village, Sir Keardwall, with his trusty retainer, uses his veteran's nose to sniff out the grandest, and other, inn in the area. Like a hero of old he strides up to the doors and throws them open with a single thrust of his mighty arms!
"Hail, villagers! We are the King's knights, sent out to do great and noble deeds in the name of God! Spread straw o'er the muck and we shall bless ye by staying here this knight. Er, night."
Inside, the main hall of the inn is warm; the fire roars; the tables are filled with villagers feasting upon luxuriously cooked food - and the ale appears to flow in considerable quantity. A man, clearly the innkeeper, walks up to Sir Keardwall, and bows [6].
"Good Sir knight, we are truly honoured by your honourable presence. I think that it shall not be necessary to spread straw anywhere, for we have rooms in abundance, in which I shall gladly let a quester of God stay for free. I pray thee, take a seat: my maids shall prepare you a room, and my cook shall prepare you a boar..."
State Entered! Particularly well rested!
Seek shelter and thank Keardwall for his excellent support.
As the band of adventuring knights arrives in the village, Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, turns to his noble companion Sir Keardwall, so learned in the ways of war. He thanks him for his excellent support.
"What?!" splutters the stony and bearded warrior, "What!? You didn't listen to a bloody word you fool! I told you to avoid the bloody sword, not swing your bloody arm at it! Bloody kids nowadays eh. Won't bloody listen."
He storms off into the night to find a tavern unburdened by one-armed ingrates, leaving Sir Feyman alone to search for accommodation. He soon finds an inn, and strides in, feeling a little dejected - although his spirits rise when he sees his companion Sir Conchobar. Conchobar turns and Sir Feyman's spirits fall again. He is truly hideous. They fall even further when the ugly wonder speaks [1].
"I say. It appears there are no more rooms to be spared for humble questers such as we: you are welcome to join me and Fiddles in the barn, should you desire to. It's free, at least..."
State Entered! Quite poorly rested!
Meynard Gestures and grunts to his retinue, hoping that he will understand that Meynard wants some greasy food, lots of greasy food
Wondering exactly what it is that his master wants with his unintelligible grunting and wild flailing arms, Maddy the Falcon Handler supports Sir Meynard as far as the nearest barn, wherein he dumps the now unconscious knight before heading to a nearby inn to feast and drink and ogle the serving wenches [1]. He passes a delightful evening!
State Maintained! Incredibly Drunk!
... ... ... ... ... ...
The next morning, in various states of rest - and, in Maddy's case, undress - the knights assemble in the village square, to decide where to travel next. Onwards, to Castle Lombard? Of course - for that is where your liege King Arthur commanded you to seek the Grail!
The grumpy band of knights go forth from the village, and they have not travelled for very long before suddenly an arrow whistles past Sir Keardwall, narrowly missing his standard bearer Gertad. Out from behind some rocks ahead jump a small group of bandits! Their leader, with the offending bowman beside him, speaks; he has half a dozen further minions behind.
"O Knights! There is a toll to be paid on this path! A toll... of death!"
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on October 15, 2011, 05:28:20 am
"You miserable lickers of toadspit dare defy not only our great King Arthur, but God himself above?! Such scum as you are not even fit to grace my lance!"
Having said/shouted his piece, he casts aside his lance (in truth because he has no horse...), draws his broadsword and valiantly charges these foolish knaves. He pauses only to
Gertad will, naturally, hold his Master's standard high and true. Unless of course he seems to be losing...
Ooc: Since I was the only one to not roll a one, guess I should be charging in, eh? ;D Now, let's just hope he doesn't get shot whilst talking...
Post by: wolfchild on October 15, 2011, 05:49:21 am
Post by: micelus on October 15, 2011, 06:39:23 am
Name: Sir John the Inconceivably Bad at Direction
Bio: John was an average noble. He grew on the yoke of the dirty peasants and learned off the yoke of the filthy scholars. Not different at all. One day however, he decided to visit his poor sweet grandfather in Cornwall. Well somehow he ended up in Cairo right as the city was being sieged. A traumatic experience enough, he began his trip home immediately after. Somehow he ended up on a Viking boat to Greenland. After 5 more years of this, he finally got back to good ol England. Shame that he never actually got to Cornwall.
Retinue Member: Bat the Mongol Hippie Doctor. A fellow traveller, Sir John met him on his travels...In Timbuktu of all places. They've been through a lot together, from giant flower trolls to Jewish djinns. But the main reason they stick around is that they're both travelers and that Bat's a good doctor. Shame he's a hippie.
Chivalry: 1.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 15, 2011, 07:16:58 am
"And a pox on yer many grandchildren if you don't let us pass! A pox, I say!" Meanwhile, he readies his blade.
Post by: Sinpwn on October 15, 2011, 12:45:45 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 15, 2011, 03:55:25 pm
England; the Dark Ages; a path with bandits ahead; sometime in the morning.
Sir Keardwall, well rested and with his eyes boggling in pure fury at such events, shall glare these miscreants into silence long enough for him to give a booming speech.
Having said/shouted his piece, he casts aside his lance (in truth because he has no horse...), draws his broadsword and valiantly charges these foolish knaves. He pauses only toblather on some moreshout encouragement to his fellows, "Come, brother knights, we shall show these villains the wrath of God this day!"
Gertad will, naturally, hold his Master's standard high and true. Unless of course he seems to be losing...
Sir Keardwall the Stony, fearlessly leading the column of questing knights, glares furiously at the miscreants before him [4].
"You miserable lickers of toadspit dare defy not only our great King Arthur, but God himself above?! Such scum as you are not even fit to grace my lance!"
Holding the bandits' attention long enough to vent his stony spleen, he throws down his useless lance and draws his broadsword, charging as valiantly as a Knight of the Round Table might, and continuing to shout encouragement to his fellow questers, which doesn't seem to go down very well with some of them [1]. Sir Keardwall charges directly at the bandit chief, engaging him in noble and solitary combat; but the chief as he charges has time to nock an arrow and shoot it off: but he is so rushed he shoots blindly at his own accursed foot!
He doubles over in pain as Sir Keardwall reaches him, broadsword held high above him in both hands: he smashes it down upon the miserable wretch [6+1 well rested bonus+1 fighting an idiot bonus], cleaving him in twain! There is much blood! The bandit chief is struck down!
Title Acquired! Defeater of Bandits!
Sir Conchobar Screams like a banshee, hoists Fiddles up by his feet and charges as a venerable wall of pure repulsiveness.
Despite the patronising encouragment of Sir Keardwall, Sir Conchobar the Gruesome screams like a godforsaken banshee and lifts his man-weapon Fiddles by the feet and swings him about his head as he charges the petulant deputy bandit before him. His otherworldly scream is so fearsome [5] that the poor deputy bandit dives to the ground, taking cover behind his shiny silver shield; and alas! As Sir Conchobar charges, revelling in his most hideous visage, he catches a glimpse of himself [1] in the mirrored shield! He is repulsed! He is disgusted! He is, above all, distracted, and when he swings the heavily armoured retainer at the grovelling bandit he misses so entirely he swings round full circle and smacks the poor Fiddles' head into an adjacent rock before being carried to the ground by the weighty momentum of his forceful swing [3-1 bad rest penalty-1 distracted penalty].
The astonished minion beside the bandit deputy approaches fast and aims to thrust his sword into the prone knight's face to protect his superior, but as he does he sees the aforementioned face: he is put right off! He commences to be sick!
Sir Feyman rolls his eyes around the group of archers and waits for his companions to finish talking.
"And a pox on yer many grandchildren if you don't let us pass! A pox, I say!" Meanwhile, he readies his blade.
Sir Feyman, judging the situation, believes he has time both to listen to his comrades' interminable speeches and hysterical screaming and also to defeat the foe; chivalrously assuming the bandits may survive to have grandchildren he curses them heartily before one-handedly readying his blade for the fight. As his companions charge about him, he decides to take on the archer who so rudely opened fire on Sir Keardwall's retainer, and joins the charge.
His charge is as furious as one might expect the charge of someone who has so recently lost a limb to be; his opponent is taken entirely off guard. Sir Feyman the Judging strikes the insolent archer about the face with his single-handed swing [5-1 bad rest penalty]: it is sliced off! His face is broken! The archer is struck down!
In his drunken state, Meynard slurs a warcry and charges, fortunately the heavy warhammer is not a particularly finessful weapon anyway so drunken flailing should suffice
Somewhat less together than his comrade knights, Sir Meynard the Sure slurs some vague warcry and rushes towards the handful of bandits milling about behind their leader. He hears Sir Keardwall's ridiculously melodramatic encouragement as he runs; he feels enraged! He closes with the several bandits, flailing his hefty warhammer about his head, pausing only once to vomit ferociously in his path: he crashes into the enemy lines! His hammer connects first with one, and then with another, and then finally with a third cowardly fiend [5+1 enraged bonus+1 drunken strength bonus]. Unfortunately this flashy and possibly unintended act of martial prowess is somewhat undermined by the blows on the first two foes being but glancing; yet this failure is soon forgotten as the head of the third foe is smashed clean off! It flies into the underbrush, where it frightens a waiting squirrel. Before this horrifying scene, the two survivors attempt to fight back, but are clearly mightily disturbed, and miss with disappointing incompetence.
State Maintained! Incredibly Drunk!
There are still five survivors from the bandit posse: the grovelling deputy and his would-be saviour, the ineffectual duo before Sir Meynard, and a fifth bandit, who, seeing his master cut down, charges vengefully at Sir Keardwall, handaxe in hand and violent murder in mind. He strikes! The axe smashes down into Sir Keardwall the Stony's head! But it is but yet another glancing blow, one which the knight avoids by leaping bravely to the side, into a muddy puddle where a fleeing squirrel runs across his bearded face.
Both sides in this fight to the death draw a breath and leap back into the fray!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on October 15, 2011, 04:05:17 pm
Post by: Yoink on October 15, 2011, 04:35:49 pm
Sir Keardwall, enraged by the mud oozing from his beard, shouts his frowning head off as he takes a mighty swing with the flat of his sword to try and bash the bandit who attacked him in the side of the head.
Bandit-Slayer! :D
Post by: wolfchild on October 15, 2011, 05:35:50 pm
Post by: freeformschooler on October 15, 2011, 06:29:02 pm
"Strike, strike, strike not the cowering Feyman!~"
Feyman reconsiders. He spouts thusly: "Maine, sing me a better tune!"
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on October 15, 2011, 09:29:21 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 16, 2011, 11:33:08 am
England; the Dark Ages; a path with bandits; a little later in the morning.
Sir Keardwall, enraged by the mud oozing from his beard, shouts his frowning head off as he takes a mighty swing with the flat of his sword to try and bash the bandit who attacked him in the side of the head.
Sir Keardwall rises enraged from the mud to see the knavish bandit try to follow up his first attack with a second, and more effective. Shouting, he strikes with the flat of his sword as the bandit leaves himself open, axe held high.
"Cowardly knave! Ye have muddied my cuirass! For that I shall beat you to a pulp! You have the guts of a lamb and the brains of a pimple! I shall knock your teeth out your gassy backside! I would use your blood to touch-up the red on my crest, if it were not yellow!"
He knocks the knave's pimplish brains to a pustulent pulp [5]! They are broken! He is struck down! Sir Keardwall the Stoney, Defeater of Bandits, turns about to look around him victoriously, to find the mighty Sir Feyman hiding behind his back, singing merrily. He'd wondered where that was coming from.
Sir Feyman attempts to hide behind Keardwall and his fighting prowess while deflecting oncoming bandit strikes to the both of them. He sings a merry tune!
"Strike, strike, strike not the cowering Feyman!"
Feyman reconsiders. He spouts thusly: "Maine, sing me a better tune!"
"Strike, strike, strike not the cowering Feyman!" finishes Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight. At his master's request, the shy minstrel brings forth his trusty lute [3], and sings a tune of relatively improved craftminstrelship.
The brave three knights were fighting along,
As Sir Feyman did sing a righte merrie songe;
So strike, strike, strike not the cowering Feyman!
He'll dodge your arrow and sidestep your sword,
Even claim not to be a rich mighty Lord;
You'll not, not, not strike the cowering Feyman!
He'll cower behind a taller man,
Even when it's a fight that he began;
Quite, quite, quite hard to strike Sir Feyman!
He'll duck, he'll dive, he'll then talk jive,
Try anything just to stay alive;
Don't, don't, don't judge the cowering Feyman!
If there was ever a fight, he probably ran,
He'd surely even sell hi- arrrrrrrgh!
The song reaches an abrupt conclusion. Sir Feyman turns around, and falls to his knees in sorrow.
Sir Conchobar The Gruesome sweeps the legs of the sickened bandit out from under him and delivers a ferocious upwards strike to him as he falls, being careful not to look at the shield.
From his strategic vantage point on the ground, Sir Conchobar the Gruesome sweeps the vomiting bandit's legs from under him, majestically timing his upwards strike with Fiddles the man-weapon as the bandit falls like a forest attacked by a herd of lumberjacks [6]. He flies vigourously into the air, defenceless; he falls back to the ground! He lands on Maine the Shy Minstrel [1; randomised], standing several feet away! The bandit is shattered! He is struck down! Maine the Shy Minstrel is crushed! He is sadly struck down!
Sir Feyman: Minstrel Lost! Maine the Shy Minstrel has been struck down!
"mieeie rou soms of saws" Meynard screams, as he continues flailing
Unaware of the musical tragedy playing out behind him, Sir Meynard screams like a man afflicted with a terminal cold. He flails the mighty warhammer Drakhen around him in a veritable circle of doom: one bandit [3] is badly shocked, and flees for his life; the second [6] is punctured in the liver! He passes away! Sir Meynard feels particularly sober all of a sudden!
Elsewhere, seeing the vengeance of God wrought upon his once merry band, the deputy bandit - indeed, now the chief of the bandits - throws down his cumbersome shield and runs as fast as his now delicate digestive system will allow him. He is out of sight before the four knights have finished their prayers of victory and thanks.
Group Chivalry Increased! Valiant victory! (+1)
... ... ... ... ... ...
Some of the knights' morale boosted by their magnificent victory, some bitterly affected by their loss, the heroic band venture onwards on their quest. Onwards! To Castle Lombard!
... ... ... ... ... ...
The aforementioned knights arrive at the aforementioned castle later that very day, shortly before the hour of the eel. Sir Keardwall stonily strides up to the great castle doors, impenetrable and silent in their honest English oak. Although the doors have no beard, Sir Keardwall is reminded a little of himself. He strikes heavily with his armoured fist.
"Open up! In the name of King Arthur, King of the Britons, Defeater of the Saxons!"
A shutter is opened a few feet above the castle doors.
"What is it that you warnt, you smelly English types?"
"We wish shelter for the night, and to witness the Grail!"
"You warnt what for the when and to what the where?"
They are clearly foreign: Sir Keardwall decides to shout louder and more slowly.
"WE WISH SHELTER FOR - "
"No, no, here, let me handle this, Keardwall. Listen and learn dear boy." Sir Conchobar decides to contribute to the conversation.
"Rumour abounds that you have at Castle Lombard the true Grail! The Holy Grail that we seek for King Arthur as a God-granted quest! The Grail that will adorn his reign like yon cherry upon... upon a biscuit! We have sworn not to -"
"Eh! Good Christ Almighty! What is wrong with your ungodly face? Ah cannot look at you no longer! Ah cannot let you enter to look at my lord's 'oly Grail!"
The shutter slams shut; the closest and most keen-eared observers would later swear upon their honour that behind those shutters they were being laughed at, and ridiculed.
The Holy Grail is, according to the wise man, inside this lord's castle, whose occupants are soiling your honour!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on October 16, 2011, 12:04:43 pm
Push the other knights back, go right up to the door, take off heaviest of armor and pretend to be the newest recruit of Castle Lombard, marching in for his shift!
Spoiler: Also, Sir Feyman upon seeing his minstrel dead. (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on October 16, 2011, 12:06:23 pm
Post by: scriver on October 16, 2011, 12:43:04 pm
Post by: freeformschooler on October 16, 2011, 05:29:40 pm
But... But.. The bard! In the mud! Left to rot! HEATHENS!
My sadness was genuine, yet short. There will be more scruffy minstrels to sing my one-armed tune!
Post by: wolfchild on October 16, 2011, 05:53:46 pm
Post by: Yoink on October 16, 2011, 06:05:59 pm
Sir Keardwall's face, already set in a frown, twitched as he stared at the closed door.
"What... did... they... say?!"
He stands there, grinding his teeth for a while and glaring at the castle. His face twitched again, a couple of times, and then suddenly,
"Yeaaaaaaarrghh!"
He shall run up, draw his sword and hack and smash the door to pieces with sword and boot! Then he shall charge in and demand, at swordpoint, that the filthy foreigners hand over the rightful property of the great King Arthur. Any of them who defy the Banditslayer shall get a smack around the head with the flat of his sword, preferably non-lethal.
Now, let's see if I end up just breaking a toe and blunting my sword on the door... :P
Post by: Theodolus on October 17, 2011, 01:41:27 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 17, 2011, 02:06:37 am
Loving the writing in this! But... Did I get skipped over in the waiting list? :-)
Gosh yes, sorry about that. I nearly gave you a bonus chivalry point for the affrontery, but then I didn't. I did fix the waiting list though. And thank you :)
Post by: lawastooshort on October 17, 2011, 03:08:35 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; towards the hour of the eel.
"Ey, fellow knights! I do not trust you to much longer attempt to bargain for a look at the grail. I will handle this myself!"
Push the other knights back, go right up to the door, take off heaviest of armor and pretend to be the newest recruit of Castle Lombard, marching in for his shift!
Sir Feyman pushes his fellow knights politely but firmly back: whether keen to heroically resolve the tricky situation himself or keen to glimpse the grail alone, one cannot tell. Hiding behind a nearby bush, he removes the heaviest of his pieces of armour, and walks brazenly up to the castle door. He knocks [6].
“What is eet that you warnt, smelly Eng- oh. You do not look very English! You only ‘ave one arm!”
“I ahm your latest recruit! I ’ave come to ‘elp you ‘old out against the smelly English types that beseigeth you! Seigneur Lombard ‘imself ‘as sent for me!”
”Oh. All right then. Let ‘im in! Open the door!”
Sir Feyman walks into Castle Lombard, alone and one-armed. The door swings shut behind him.
”’Ere, what ‘as ‘appened to you, yerng man? What ‘as ‘appened to your arm? Good Lord! Those savage English types! Why don’t I take you to see our docteur before you take over for your shift on doorkeeping duty?”
...smelly English types...
Sir Keardwall's face, already set in a frown, twitched as he stared at the closed door.
"What... did... they... say?!"
He stands there, grinding his teeth for a while and glaring at the castle. His face twitched again, a couple of times, and then suddenly,
"Yeaaaaaaarrghh!"
He shall run up, draw his sword and hack and smash the door to pieces with sword and boot! Then he shall charge in and demand, at swordpoint, that the filthy foreigners hand over the rightful property of the great King Arthur. Any of them who defy the Banditslayer shall get a smack around the head with the flat of his sword, preferably non-lethal.
Now, let's see if I end up just breaking a toe and blunting my sword on the door... :P
As the door swings shut before the remaining knights, Sir Keardwall the Stony begins to twitch with anger.
"What... did... they... say?!"
The shutter above the door opens.
”Ah said, you are a smelly English type! You smell like a rotting whale! Your mother was a sailor, and your father was a sailor’s wife! Now be gone, before I insult you a second time! Wait! Third time!”
The English knight draws his sword and readies his boot, hacking and smashing at the oaken door. Alas! It stands firm, although the fine polished finish is ruined [3].
"Utilising his hangover from hell (he really should have a hangover after that)" He makes the frenchies realise that they do not want him annoyed
Sir Meynard the Sure, Sufferer of Hangovers, decides to use his power for good.
“You! Hey! French types!” he shouts, “I have a terrible hangover, and you do not want to get me annoyed! Or else!”
Surprised at the incredible loudness of his voice, he recoils in pain as he doubles the effect of the awful headache which afflicts him [2]. As he goes for a lie down somewhere out of the sunlight, a voice rings out after him over the battlements.
”Or else what, you silly English type? Will you chip my paintwork a second time? Go away and ‘ide whilst smelling like a cranberry?”
Attempt to find a sewer system or hidden entrance, proceed to crawl through it.
A small distance away, Sir Conchobar the Gruesome looks about towards the base of the mighty castle walls, hoping to find a sewer system or some secret access to bypass them, but he has no luck [2]. He glares angrily at a passing crow, who is so shocked at being the victim of this repulsive gaze it flies into the castle walls and drops to the ground before him.
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: Ultimuh on October 17, 2011, 03:15:17 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 17, 2011, 03:25:57 am
Wait.. wasn't the minstrel dead? ???
Bother, copied the wrong status spoilers. Thanks.
Edit: fixed. What an idiot.
Post by: Sinpwn on October 17, 2011, 05:47:21 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 17, 2011, 06:51:42 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 17, 2011, 06:53:57 am
Let the doorkeeper take me to the doctouour's area. When I'm done there, convince him to let me take over his shift early! E's 'ad a long day, after all. (http://e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/shh.gif)
Oh, he's going to make you take the next doorkeeping shift anyway, which will start at around the hour of the toad.
Post by: Yoink on October 17, 2011, 06:55:07 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 17, 2011, 06:57:13 am
Let the doorkeeper take me to the doctouour's area. When I'm done there, convince him to let me take over his shift early! E's 'ad a long day, after all. (http://e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/shh.gif)
Oh, he's going to make you take the next doorkeeping shift anyway, which will start at around the hour of the toad.
Oh, goodie. In that case:
Let the doorkeeper take me to 'e docteuour's off'ce, and ask when his shift is done. If it's not "now", then attempt to take a look around the area to see if I can get some insight on where the Grail might be.
Post by: wolfchild on October 17, 2011, 08:27:53 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 17, 2011, 09:25:15 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; between the hours of the eel and the toad.
Sir Keardwall, feeling a bit worn out after his vigorous assault on the door, shall simply stand and stare despondently at one of the castle's walls, trying to make it crumble in fear of his sheer stoniness. Any challenges of armwrestling shall be gratefully accepted, of course.
Sir Keardwall, requiring a short pause after his valiant but, alas, ultimately futile assault on Castle Lombard, stares despondently at the walls. Surprisingly enough, they remain erect, standing firm and defiant [4]. Worth a try, I suppose, he dejectedly thinks to himself. As he walks back from the walls his gruesome companion, Sir Conchobar, thinks fit to challenge him to an arm wrestle to idle away the time.
Challenge one of my companions to an arm wrestle while we wait for Sir Feyman to carry out his genius and fool proof plan.
Although Sir Keardwall is nearly too repulsed to answer the challenge [2], his stoniness nevertheless gives him a greater chance than lesser men might have had. He takes up the gauntlet, before taking off his gauntlet, and rolls up his sleeve. The two knights find a suitable rock upon which to lean their elbows, and, with Gertad Brownfoot and the sheathed Fiddles as an expectant audience, they commence their duel.
Sir Conchobar the Gruesome!
vs
Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits!
The two brave men face each other across the expanse of the rock, hands tightly clasped together. The bell rings! They’re off!
On the left hand side Sir Conchobar the Gruesome makes an early move: he pushes with all his might! On the right, Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits, counters with a hefty push! Conchobar strains! Keardwall bulges about the face! Sir Keardwall goes on the offensive: he stares stonily at Sir Conchobar as he attempts to crush down his arm! Barely holding out against the massed forces of Stonydom, Sir Conchobar the Gruesome flings his effort into one final push to resist his impending doom! His neck arteries pump! He grunts with superhuman force! He pushes Sir Keardwall the Stony’s arm to the rock! Triumphant, he rises, hands held aloft! There is much rejoicing!
Chivalry Increased! Arm Wrestling Triumph!
Meynard tells Maddy to send his falcon out hunting, Meynard feels like killing something but his hangover prevents him looking for something to kill himself
Meanwhile the furious Sir Meynard the Sure is in the mood for blood, but feels himself incapable of letting that blood himself. He summons his falcon handler to let loose his falcon! It flies away [1]!
In his rage and despair Sir Meynard barely notices that he no longer feels such a painful throbbing in his temples.
Let the doorkeeper take me to 'e docteuour's off'ce, and ask when his shift is done. If it's not "now", then attempt to take a look around the area to see if I can get some insight on where the Grail might be.
Inside the castle, Sir Feyman the Judging is led off to the docteur’s office, and after much inspection, and the application of a leach, the learned man of medicine gives his diagnosis [4]. It would appear that Sir Feyman is missing an arm.
But! Other than that he is well, and the doorsergeant-at-arms arrives to order him to report for duty at the door in half an hour. Meanwhile, why not visit the banqueting hall to refresh yourself? But Sir Feyman judges that his time could be better spent: he decides to seek out the Grail, which is, after all, rumoured to abide in this very castle. He sneaks through corridors; he strides through halls; he climbs long and windy stairwells! After nigh on half an hour of the most fervent searching, the brave knight finds what he is searching for: the Grail Room.
It is locked.
Not ready to let this inconvenience lay waste to his heroic scheme, Sir Feyman takes a mighty run up, and shoulder barges the door with all his force. He smashes it down like a puny dragon before the strength of an English Knight! He runs right through! He runs through so forcefully, indeed, that he tumbles across the Grail Room, skidding across the cold stone floor, and smashes straight into the Grail which rests upon a table before the corner window-opening, on display for all to see.
The Grail is knocked out: it smashes upon the ground some forty feet below [1].
Very shortly after, in response to the awful noises, several men-at-arms rush up the tower to the Grail Room to investigate. They are led by the doorsergeant-at-arms.
“Ah! Le treacherie! What is this! Ah let you into my lord’s castle and you repay me by destroying our replica of the Grail? Have at thee, scoundrel!” He draws his sword.
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on October 17, 2011, 09:31:26 am
So he was standing there when he heard something fall from above.
"Hark! The cowardly wretches in the castle are throwing things at us!" He bellows, drawing his sword. Then he notices what it is, and his eyes bug with rage. "The Grail! The bastards have thrown the Grail at us, the ultimate act of vile treachery!" He charges roaring at the doors again, this time not taking 'no' for an answer. "They have defiled a Holy relic! They shall all be killed!"
Jeez Feyman, you better hope we don't find out what happened! :P
Post by: Sinpwn on October 17, 2011, 09:46:39 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 17, 2011, 09:57:56 am
Run to a different part of the castle and hide somewhere! While I'm there, find something to inconspicuously dress up in. A...
...DISGUISE.
EDIT: FANART!
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
I can do the other two later.
Post by: Sinpwn on October 17, 2011, 11:39:55 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 17, 2011, 11:41:11 am
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: Ultimuh on October 17, 2011, 12:16:52 pm
I might draw him like this.Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Server not found? ???
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on October 17, 2011, 12:30:17 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 17, 2011, 12:31:04 pm
EDIT: FANART!Spoiler (click to show/hide)
I can do the other two later.
Awesome. If wolfchild posts I'll try to do another turn this evening, i.e. 3-4 hours time.
Post by: Ultimuh on October 17, 2011, 12:32:14 pm
You don't want to see it anyway. >.>
So the sheer ugliness made that server crash.. I think I better avoid it then..
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on October 17, 2011, 12:54:37 pm
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: Ultimuh on October 17, 2011, 01:53:23 pm
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
THE HORROR!
Seriously however, I don't think he looks so bad.. I have seen.. worse..
Post by: wolfchild on October 17, 2011, 04:36:05 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 18, 2011, 04:17:50 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; the hour of the toad.
Run to a different part of the castle and hide somewhere! While I'm there, find something to inconspicuously dress up in. A...
...DISGUISE.
“Have at thee, scoundrel! You have smashed our Grail!” cries the French doorsergeant-at-arms as he draws his sword at Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight and Smasher of the Grail.
Sir Feyman bravely ducks under the Frenchman’s sword and flees! The French men-at-arms turn quickly about to follow, but Sir Feyman cunningly pulls a nearby rug from under their feet! They fall! In the confusion the intrepid infiltrating knight makes good his escape, finding another part of the castle in which to hide. As the alarm bell rings in the castle keep and men-at-arms start to rush about, Feyman searches for some way to disguise himself. A… disguise, perhaps, he thinks to himself.
After a couple of minutes further of frantic yet watchful searching he finds himself in the castle barn – and there, in the corner behind several resting cows, he finds a cowsuit in which to conceal himself. He hurriedly jumps inside and fastens the fastenings, and stands there cowlike amongst the interested bovines [6]. Several searching soldiers rush into the barn and prod the hay with their halberds, but to no avail! The fiendish Englishman cannot be found!
They leave, and from within the barn he hears the rushing about of armed men as the castle prepares for battle; he hears the cries, “Man the walls!”, “The English are coming!”, “Prepare the trebuchet!”
Before he realises what is happening, Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, Smasher of the Grail and Imitator of Cows is being led out into the castle grounds amongst a small herd of cattle, accompanied by several soldiers and a small group of geese. There are many Frenchtypes about; he decides the best course of action would be to play his role to the utmost: perhaps the cows will be led out to market! He will escape! He convincingly lets out a gentle moo.
In his rage Meynard starts swinging his warhammer, no specific target
Outside the castle walls, Sir Meynard realises his falcon does not seem to be returning. With his hangover gone, he uses his new-found clarity of mind to fully explore his blinding rage: he swings his warhammer frenziedly about his head! He fells a nearby tree! It falls upon him! It cracks his brain! It smashes his leg! Sir Meynard is knocked unconscious [1].
State Entered! Unconscious!
Wound Acquired! Broken leg!
Sir Keardwall had returned to his place before the walls after losing at an arm wrestling match. He had been distracted, of course, by his opponent’s sheer ugliness...
So he was standing there when he heard something fall from above.
"Hark! The cowardly wretches in the castle are throwing things at us!" He bellows, drawing his sword. Then he notices what it is, and his eyes bug with rage. "The Grail! The bastards have thrown the Grail at us, the ultimate act of vile treachery!" He charges roaring at the doors again, this time not taking 'no' for an answer. "They have defiled a Holy relic! They shall all be killed!"
Filled with furious and righteous anger, for there is no other kind available to a Knight of the Round Table who has just witnessed the destruction of one of the Seven Holy Relics of Our Lord, except perhaps burning and vengeful righteous doom-bringing anger, Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits and Loser of Armwrestles, once again draws his blessed sword and charges at the castle door, prepared for glorious vengeance or death.
He hacks upon the door with his sword! He appears to cause a split [4]!
Pulsing with adrenaline from his victory, Sir Conchobar roars with fury at the mistreatment of the Grail. He charges the door in sync with Sir Keardwall.
Beside Sir Keardwall, roaring with fury and the adrenaline of chivalrous armwrestling victory, rushes his companion Sir Conchobar the Gruesome. Wielding his man-weapon Fiddles overhead, he charges at the door. He brings Fiddles crashing down! In one mighty blow [5+1 assistance bonus] he cleaves the door in two! It crumbles, and Fiddles is bruised upon the face.
Behind the door stand half a dozen surprised yet ready Frenchtypes!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on October 18, 2011, 06:14:08 am
Post by: Yoink on October 18, 2011, 06:15:58 am
"You mangy curs! You feeble-minded vinegar-swilling dogs! You have spat upon all that is good and Holy, bared your unworthy buttocks towards God himself, and damned yourselves to an eternity in a place darker than night and more swelteringly hot than a Jerusalem Tavern! Make your peace with God, for shortly you shall meet Him! ...Tell Him Sir Alan Keardwall said hello!"
With that out of the way, he shall chaaaaarge, sword swinging to end their pitiful existences and send them screaming to the afterlife! There shall be no mercy for these blasphemers!
Post by: freeformschooler on October 18, 2011, 07:26:38 am
Post by: scriver on October 18, 2011, 07:35:58 am
the LombardsSuddenly Italians?
Also, I like the way this is going. If you keep up the injury rate, there won't be long until Baedocáf can join in on the questing. I wish you the worst of lucks! :P
Post by: freeformschooler on October 18, 2011, 07:37:14 am
the LombardsSuddenly Italians?
Also, I like the way this is going. If you keep up the injury rate, there won't be long until Baedocáf can join in on the questing. I wish you the worst of lucks! :P
Pffffffffff screw me and my first-level history class, making me mix up Castle Lombard with the not-so-grand civilization.
Post by: scriver on October 18, 2011, 07:41:34 am
Also Lombards are totally the Italian equivalent of Normans anyway so weren't you actually just making that comparison, showing off your knowledge about the origins of European tribes and their migrations? ;D
Post by: lawastooshort on October 18, 2011, 08:08:52 am
Er. Market. Yes. Quite.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 18, 2011, 08:10:28 am
Also Lombards are totally the Italian equivalent of Normans anyway so weren't you actually just making that comparison, showing off your knowledge about the origins of European tribes and their migrations? ;D
Yes.
Of all the tribes/civilizations to troll Rome, Lombards had one of the longest runs.
I actually don't know that much about it.
Post by: wolfchild on October 18, 2011, 08:13:01 am
Post by: Yoink on October 18, 2011, 08:16:45 am
Let's see if some waitlisters finally get shuffled in this turn, eh?!
Edit: Whooops, sorry, made a new page. Damnit! :-[
Post by: lawastooshort on October 18, 2011, 10:10:24 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; shortly after the hour of the toad.
"Doctors are for weaklings" Maynard would say if conscious, but he is not, you might be able to sneak a bit of doctoring in there if you do not tell him
Sir Meynard the Sure lies blasted upon the windswept heath, his leg all mangled and his mind all elsewhere, his body still and silent before the worried Maddy, Professional Falcon Handler. Maddy thinks that perhaps he should call for a doctor to attend to his master’s mangled leg; alas: for he cannot find one outside the castle walls [2]. He tears some strips from his woolen shirt and attempts to bandage the wounds, but as he pushes a bone back into the lower leg area, the pain awakens Sir Meynard in a spasm of fury: he strikes Maddy full upon the face, rendering him unconscious!
Wound Acquired! Broken leg!
Sir Keardwall, not about to let the foul deeds of these frenchmen go without a good solid tongue-lash, holds one restraining arm before Sir Conchobar as he stares down the enemy from where they stand, just inside the castle.
With that out of the way, he shall chaaaaarge, sword swinging to end their pitiful existences and send them screaming to the afterlife! There shall be no mercy for these blasphemers!
Staring hard at the enemy, Sir Keardwall restrains his companion Conchobar before launching into a long winded but noble speech on the subject of his awful enemies’ impending demise.
"You mangy curs! You feeble-minded vinegar-swilling dogs! You have spat upon all that is good and Holy, bared your unworthy buttocks towards God himself, and damned yourselves to an eternity in a place darker than night and more swelteringly hot than a Jerusalem Tavern! Make your peace with God, for shortly you shall meet Him! ...Tell Him Sir Alan Keardwall said he-!"
Before Sir Keardwall can fully finish, the Frenchtypes charge! [init vs Frenchtypes 2 vs 5]
The great castle doors are large enough to fight fully four men abreast, and thusly do the Frenchmen fight: two with halberds storm directly at Sir Keardwall. One trips and impales his halberd in the ground, disarming himself and straining his left wrist quite severely! The second strikes a vicious blow that Sir Keardwall cannot dodge! It bounces off his shining armour!
“-llo, I was going to say, you blasted fiends!” finishes Sir Keardwall the Stony and Verbose, Defeater of Bandits, “Blast you!”
He sets about the armed man first, raising his sword for an almighty blow [1]. It gets stuck in the top of the doorframe! He is disarmed! As the other Frenchman wrestles with his halberd, trying to drag it free out of the ground, Sir Keardwall offers him a hearty punch with his armoured gauntlet, knocking him to the floor [5].
Sir Conchobar begins the cleaving of the frenchmen, allowing them to get a full view of the face of the man that will end them.
Whilst chafing at the Keardwall-imposed bit, Sir Conchobar has time to reveal his gruesomeness, and lifts his visor just as the enemy doth charge. They reach him before he readies his man-weapon Fiddles, and neither sees his face in time to be repulsed! [init vs French men-at-arms 2 vs 4] [physical repulsion rolls 1, 3]. The first Frenchman lays about Sir Conchobar with his sword: he strikes a grievous blow! The brave knight tries to dodge, but is weighed down by his mighty weapon: his finger is sliced apart! The second Frenchman continues the unrelenting assault, and tries to bash the momentarily discouraged Sir Conchobar with his shield. He strikes Conchobar in the face! The shield shatters!
It is now the turn of the brave Knight of Camelot to reassert the rightful nature of things: he swings Fiddles about him in a doomly circle, striking the first French soldier with all his force! He ducks! But the fearsome weapon flies on, battering into the second Frenchman [6], sending him flying into the ranks of the soldiers behind, leaving one stunned and another mortally crushed. The second Frenchman’s spine is split! He is struck down! There are two disarmed and two armed French men-at-arms left holding out in the castle entrance; they look appalled.
Wound Acquired! Sliced Apart Finger!
Sir Feyman would pretend to be the best of cows, being led out to the market! This ruse not need to last long. And, once at the market, he could escape, and perhaps inquire about the REAL grail! It seems unlikely the French would store a replica if they had the real thing...
Busy pretending to be a cow in the hope of being led to market and freedom, Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight moos gently inside the castle as a French artillery operator lead him away with the other cattle and geese. He is veritably a convincing beast [6]. Not terribly knowledgeable in the ways of farming – he was, after all, a grand landowner, not a landworker – Sir Feyman lets himself be led into the small basket-like container that is attached so some sort of pulley system. One supposes they must have some way of measuring the weight and the worth of cattle before they are sold, he muses to himself, interested in the intricacies of an industry he has never had the occasion to see at close hand. He gently moos.
“Prepare the trebuchet for firing at the besieging English cochon-chiens!” he hears, from within the warm comfort of his cowsuit, amongst the other bustle of war breaking out in the castle courtyard. He waits to be led away to market.
Suddenly there is a loud twannnnnnnnnng, and he realises with a jolt of apprehension that he has become airborne! He has been launched over the castle walls! With a worried and drawn out moo, he flies through the air, aimed with expertise at the besieging English forces which adorn the castle grounds outside. The stricken Sir Meynard the Sure watches in horror from his prone position, seeing the dastardly French resort to flinging cattle at the brave English! He watches in horror as the aforementioned cattle approaches! He cringes in terror as the flying cow blocks out the sun! His loud shouts awaken the unconscious Maddy, who stumbles to his feet, and cringes in fright himself as he turns to see the approaching cow.
Sir Meynard gasps in shock as the airborne bovine ceases to be airborne, and lands upon the hapless Maddy! Maddy’s liver is crushed! His pancreas is punctured! He is struck down!
Sir Meynard trembles in pain and grief as the lifeless Maddy collapses upon his mangled leg!
Inside his cowsuit, Sir Feyman moos in quiet and lightly stunned confusion.
Sir Meynard: Retainer Lost! Maddy the Falcon Handler has been struck down!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on October 18, 2011, 10:19:43 am
Post by: Ultimuh on October 18, 2011, 11:07:12 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 18, 2011, 02:01:43 pm
Post by: Yoink on October 18, 2011, 04:29:50 pm
"Interrupt me with a blade whilst I'm speaking, will ye?! I shall tear ye limb from limb!"
Sir Keardwall, apopleptic at being interrupted during such a grand (to him) speech, shall set upon the frenchman he just knocked down and do just that, grasping him by the wrists and plucking his arms from the sockets like two (admittedly strangely-shaped) swords from a stone, in homage to his revered King!
Post by: wolfchild on October 18, 2011, 04:44:47 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 19, 2011, 03:08:19 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; less shortly after the hour of the toad.
Meynard ignores his pain and rips the cow apart
Lying battered upon the floor, the shock of his loss provides Sir Meynard with the strength of mind and body needed to surmount the cruel blow of the broken leg and crushed retainer, and react as any man might, given the situation. He sets about the cow! He attempts to rip the cow apart! (http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/rip+apart). He applies an esoteric form of wrestling hold not much seen in the Christian West, and brings the cow down upon the floor! He pulls off the tail! He knees it in the chest with his unbroken leg; he elbows it in the chin. He attempts to rip off the head! It comes off in his hands! The cow’s skinless skull appears in the form of a knight! Sir Feyman is revealed!
Sir Meynard is a little unsure of his own eyes, and pauses for the briefest of seconds: but it is enough for the man-cow to escape [4].
Wound Still Acquired! Broken leg!
Decide this is not the ideal time to reveal myself from my cowsuit. Moo lightly and sneak inside the castle again while its best warriors are off fighting with my fello knights!
As Sir Feyman attempts to discretely flee the murder scene, he is suddenly set upon by the frothing Meynard, outrageously strong given his appalling injury. Sir Feyman resists the best he can, but is somewhat constrained in his fighting prowess by the presence of the cowsuit, and his vision is impeded. He is kneed firmly in the stomach! He feels a little winded, and then, in a flash, the dusklit world is revealed to him in full! His cow’s head is removed!
Seizing the initiative and taking advantage of the resulting confusion, he makes good his escape, fleeing the crippled Sir Meynard as fast as the cowsuit permits, still mooing lightly to make up for his exposed head, and sneaking as best as he can past the combat unfolding in the castle gatehouse.
He finds himself once more in the castle courtyard [3]. The dozen Frenchmen milling about stare in undisguised surprise.
"Interrupt me with a blade whilst I'm speaking, will ye?! I shall tear ye limb from limb!"
Sir Keardwall, apoplectic at being interrupted during such a grand (to him) speech, shall set upon the Frenchman he just knocked down and do just that, grasping him by the wrists and plucking his arms from the sockets like two (admittedly strangely-shaped) swords from a stone, in homage to his revered King!
Transported by indignant inspiration and wishing to produce a work which would reference his revered King Arthur, Sir Keardwall the Speechmaker sets about the insolent Frenchman who interrupted his speech and is now tugging furiously at the halberd he so incompetently stuck into the gatehouse floor. Sir Keardwall grasps the Frenchman’s wrists! He pulls with all his might! He pulls with such majestic might that the Frenchman is split apart! A shower of blood graffitis the gatehouse walls in an impressionistic oeuvre that could, if one squints, be interpreted to depict a stone, wherein has been thrust a sword [6].
The Frenchman is struck down! Considerable mess is created! A man-cow sneaks past!
Perform a sweeping roundhouse kick followed by a downward smash. Insult their mothers with most vulgar of words as well.
Spattered by blood and kidneys, Sir Conchobar faces the three French men-at-arms left defending the castle entrance after Sir Keardwall’s indulgent display of horrific violence. His knightly training serves him well; taking advantage of the distraction offered by a passing man-cow he strikes before any can react; he insults their mothers! He performs a sweeping roundhouse kick, forcing back the first two foes and shattering the shins of the third! He bleeds to death! He is struck down [6]!
“And your mother smells like the sweaty crotches of a thousand broken camels, you miserable swine!”
He lets loose a downward smash with Fiddles the man-club upon the unfortunate first Frenchman. He lays stunned upon the floor!
“I would rather be savaged by a mountain goat than so much as set one eye upon thy hideous mother’s deformed visage, so fearsomely foul are her festering features!”
He stares at the last survivor.
“Your pestilent ’mère’ has the intellect of single drop of toegrease, and the reputation of a – Hey! Come back! I haven’t finished! Damn.”
The Frenchman has fled! The gatehouse is taken! The brave knights are, thus far, victorious!
Wound Still Acquired! Sliced Apart Finger!
Title Acquired! Insulter of Mothers!
Sir Keardwall and Sir Conchobar: Chivalry Increased! Magnificent feat of arms!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
edit: Slightly changed the title acronym.
Post by: Yoink on October 19, 2011, 03:28:29 am
'Twas a good try, nonetheless. Rather creative use of our grand language."
So says Sir Keardwall the Stony, giving Sir Conchobar a few pointers on glaring and bellowing, wiping a splatter of gore from his face with the back of a gauntlet. Then, it is time to press on! He shall tug his broadsword from its newly-acquired roost in the doorframe, and make ready to take the fight to these Frenchmen.
"So, Sir Conchobar, are ye ready to show these vomitous foreign curs the true might of English Steel? I am unsure where our companions have gotten to, however. Ah well, I imagine we shall be sufficient. I'll take the thirty-eight armed with heavy chain and spears, you take the deaf-mute fellow on the chamberpot with an upset stomach. Sound about a fair split? If you want, of course, I am sure I could handle him, also."
Sir Keardwall grins fiercely as he unstraps his shield from his back, proudly displaying the Keardwall family crest, which involves a stout, stony castle on a hill, with a very cross-looking red dragon guarding it.
Post by: wolfchild on October 19, 2011, 04:01:56 am
Post by: Yoink on October 19, 2011, 04:06:06 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 19, 2011, 06:13:37 am
Sir Conchobar advances with Sir Keardwall, attempting to stifle the bleeding finger as well.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 19, 2011, 07:47:30 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 19, 2011, 08:31:34 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; closer to the hour of the ram than the hour of the toad.
"Ah, you see, you have to really glare, freeze the yellow cowards in place long enough that you can speak and smite!
'Twas a good try, nonetheless. Rather creative use of our grand language."
So says Sir Keardwall the Stony, giving Sir Conchobar a few pointers on glaring and bellowing, wiping a splatter of gore from his face with the back of a gauntlet. Then, it is time to press on! He shall tug his broadsword from its newly-acquired roost in the doorframe, and make ready to take the fight to these Frenchmen.
"So, Sir Conchobar, are ye ready to show these vomitous foreign curs the true might of English Steel? I am unsure where our companions have gotten to, however. Ah well, I imagine we shall be sufficient. I'll take the thirty-eight armed with heavy chain and spears, you take the deaf-mute fellow on the chamberpot with an upset stomach. Sound about a fair split? If you want, of course, I am sure I could handle him, also."
Sir Keardwall grins fiercely as he unstraps his shield from his back, proudly displaying the Keardwall family crest, which involves a stout, stony castle on a hill, with a very cross-looking red dragon guarding it.
Sir Keardwall thus bravely spake; and now he grabs his sword and straps his shield to his arm and bravely charges! Some three dozen French spearmen oppose him, but he fearlessly advances upon them [init vs French: 3 vs 2]. He bashes one in the face with his shield: he is knocked flat, unconscious on the muddy ground. He swords one in the arm with his blade: it is cut off, flying into the waiting mass of men. He kicks one in the groin with his armoured boot: he doubles over, writhing in pain!
Yet despite their losses the French press on, outnumbering our heroic knight some thirty-five to one! Three venture forth faster than their comrades: one thrusts at Sir Keardwall with the tip of his spear. He dodges like a nimble fish! One swings with his spearhaft at Sir Keardwall’s head. He loses his balance and stuns his own comrade! One strikes true with his sharp spear’s head: he severs Sir Keardwall’s spleen! He is knocked down!
Wound Acquired Severed spleen! Heavy bleeding!
Chivalry Increased! Foolishly brave.
"Aye, let us take the fight to the enemy!"
Sir Conchobar advances with Sir Keardwall, attempting to stifle the bleeding finger as well.
Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Insulter of Mothers, follows Sir Keardwall the Overly Brave into the swirling melee in the castle courtyard whilst attempting to stop his finger bleeding [6]. He heals his wound but is so distracted he charges straight through the melee! He charges directly into a deaf-mute defecating on a chamber pot! The sick-looking deaf-mute rises and draws his sword, but too late; Sir Conchobar swings his devilish man-weapon at him. He swings so hard he trips! He falls onto the floor: his face doth land in the chamber pot! He is soiled by the Frenchman’s defecation! The pot is stuck fast upon his head!
The deaf-mute sees his chance and seizes it. He flees.
Item Acquired! Chamber pot.
"Growl! Froth! Roar!, Meynard charges after the fleeing cow"
Growling at the cow and frothing at the mouth before the castle walls, Sir Meynard roars in repulsion and charges after his fleeing bovine foe! Alas! His broken leg hinders him greatly, but using his great warhammer as a crutch he manages just about to make his way into the castle courtyard. He looks about him but sees not the deadly flying cow: he sees instead a brutal scene of horrible hand-to-hand fighting!
He is swiftly surrounded by fighting Frenchmen, who break off from stabbing Sir Keardwall to painful death to pursue their new-found hobby on a fresh English knight [1].
A vicious looking trio approach! They all wield spears with the expert handling of veterans of many and bloody battles, and they thrust them at Sir Meynard’s wounded body. Sir Meynard raises his trusty Drakhen to defend himself! He falls upon the ground! As he lies prostrate before them the Frenchmen strike: one spear snaps on his sturdy helmet, another he swats aside with his armoured gauntlet. But the third is aimed straight at his dainty heart, and he dodges it with a mobility surprising to all about: he leaps into the air with his one good leg; he vaults the assaulting French! He smashes the stabber in the back; he knocks out his knavish lungs! The Frenchman is struck down! The other two turn in a flash to face the fiendish Meynard, Defier of Grievous Leg Wounds.
Wound Still Acquired! Broken leg!
Title Acquired! Defier of Grievous Leg Wounds
Run a different direction! Again! Perhaps to the bottom levels of the castle? Curses, deja vu!
Sir Feyman the Cow-man flees through the castle in a different direction: both from the feisty French and the malicious-intented Meynard, slaloming through the battlefield with but his head protruding from his cow-disguise. He quickly loses the Englishman, who is surrounded by the enemy and disappears from view, and continues galloping through the courtyard until he is able to duck into a door on the other side [opposed roll vs wolfchild: 5 vs 1]. He finds himself in a winding staircase, which he starts descending. No one seems to have followed him down [4].
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Defier of Grievous Leg Wounds (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: wolfchild on October 19, 2011, 08:34:47 am
Meynard swings his hammer in a wide arc, attempting to brutalise his foes, or at least break their weapons
Post by: lawastooshort on October 19, 2011, 08:38:12 am
Meynard has a hammer, not a sword
Meynard swings his hammer in a wide arc, attempting to brutalise his foes, or at least break their weapons
Blast. Hold on everyone, and I'll rewrite the action.
Edit: Sorry about that. Corrected.
Post by: Yoink on October 19, 2011, 08:48:19 am
Remember... Knocked down, but not struck down! I gotta think what to do next.
Post by: Taricus on October 19, 2011, 08:53:43 am
Post by: Yoink on October 19, 2011, 09:11:19 am
Thankfully, with Medieval medical knowledge and little idea of really what that thing is, where it came from or how it benifited him in the first place, he's not unduly worried. Instead of panicking, he shall whip his sword about above his head to keep the foe at bay, shouting defiantly all the while, red in the face,
"Back, you wretched turd-sniffing bastards! Back I say! My noble severed spleen is thrice the man any of you frog-licking, piddling philanderers could ever hope to be! I shall mince the lot of ye! I'll snap ye like twigs! I'll- Oh to hell with it, come closer so I can kill you already!"
He shall fend them off from the ground with sword and glare long enough to leap to his feet and carry on the battle, trying not to slip on his misplaced spleen. Which is quite possible turning to stone right now, severed from his body as it is.
((Oh my goodness, I'm having a lot of fun with this. :P I didn't particularly expect the battle to end up like Sir Keardwall predicted, but ah well! I'll make it end as well as he'd predicted, too!))
Post by: freeformschooler on October 19, 2011, 01:48:42 pm
Sir Feyman descends the stairs to their lower level, hoping the resistance is much lower there. He cannot properly aid his companions in battle, for not only does he lack an arm, but he was trained in the intellectual rather than physical arts.
It is still a miracle he was able to get this far, though. When he is done descending, he looks around and tries to get a feel for the area.
He whispers to himself: "Blast that Meynard! Ey kneweth none of them could be fully trusted with my life. But I will progress further on my own time!"
Post by: Sinpwn on October 19, 2011, 02:01:21 pm
Sir Conchobar launches into a berserker rage, using the chamber pot as a battering
(The only thing worse than Sir Conchobar's face is Sir Conchobar's face covered in excrement.)
Post by: lawastooshort on October 20, 2011, 02:48:44 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; nearly the hour of the ram.
Sir Keardwall, now suddenly finding himself on his arse after the Frenchman’s spear made it through his armour, boggles in surprise for a moment at the sight of his spleen bouncing out across the courtyard floor.
Thankfully, with Medieval medical knowledge and little idea of really what that thing is, where it came from or how it benefited him in the first place, he's not unduly worried. Instead of panicking, he shall whip his sword about above his head to keep the foe at bay, shouting defiantly all the while, red in the face, "Back, you wretched turd-sniffing bastards! Back I say! My noble severed spleen is thrice the man any of you frog-licking, piddling philanderers could ever hope to be! I shall mince the lot of ye! I'll snap ye like twigs! I'll- Oh to hell with it, come closer so I can kill you already!" He shall fend them off from the ground with sword and glare long enough to leap to his feet and carry on the battle, trying not to slip on his misplaced spleen. Which is quite possibly turning to stone right now, severed from his body as it is.
As the Frenchmen advance upon his fallen body, Sir Keardwall cries bloody murder whilst fending them off. He whirls his sword above his reddened head! He catches one of the closest trio about the legs; they are clean removed! He smacks a second in the head, and caves in the skull! They are both knocked down! He strikes into the third man’s midriff: his sword is caught within! The Frenchman leaks out of the gaping wound, but as the fighting Sir Keardwall rises to his feet, he cannot wrest his sword out of the Frenchman’s stony heart. But at least he is struck down!
Seeing three of their comrades cut apart before them, the Frenchmen are dismayed. They continue to step forward to engage the valiant and now standing Keardwall, but with his swiftly moving shield he fends off every spear! One of them slips on a passing spleen [6]! He is struck down!
Wound Acquired Severed spleen! Heavy bleeding!
Meynard swings his hammer in a wide arc, attempting to brutalise his foes, or at least break their weapons
With two before him and uncounted numbers behind, Sir Meynard the Sure is sadly surrounded by scurrilous Frenchtypes. On his single working leg he doth pivot: his speeding hammer of doom flies about in a murderous arc! He catches one enemy full upon the temple. It doth explode! The hammer continues into another’s chest. It disappears in a mist! Yet another foe is struck by the mighty Drakhen, this time in the face. It disintegrates! And then a fourth man attempts to raise his arm to stop the foul flailing weapon, but his arm is struck clean off! As a fifth Frenchman ducks, he leaves the path open for a final surrounding Frenchman’s head to be cleaved in twain. It is smashed into tiny parts!
As Sir Meynard the Bloodthirsty ceases his death-dealing spin, he notices that the area all about him is smothered in blood and bits. He is soaked through! The French flee from his gory visage!
Wound Still Acquired! Broken leg!
RAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!!!
Sir Conchobar launches into a berserker rage, using the chamber pot as a batteringhamram, headbutting anything making noise in front of him while swinging fiddles in large arks, almost spinning on the spot.
As these various blood and bits are spread about the castle courtyard, unbeknownst to the toilet-hooded Conchobar, the valiant but sight-disadvantaged knight enters into the foulest and largest rage. He head butts a taunting Frenchman before him: he is knocked down and lightly stunned! Sir Conchobar the Gruesome almost spins on the spot, swinging Fiddles the man-club in ever-increasing radii of death! Not a single French soldier is hit! Several flee the potted barbarian; the rest back off!
One brave man steps forward to engage the mighty Conchobar however, and thrusts out his perfidious spear. It is caught by the spinning Fiddles! It flies off into a Frenchman’s brain! It is sprained! He is struck down! The brave man ducks below the rotating weapon, but Fiddles sticks down an armoured fist! He knocks the brave man unconscious! His teeth fall out!
The French forces are grievously smited; their heart for battle is wearing thin: they appear on the verge of giving up before these fearsome foes of the Round Table and their frightful assault.
Sir Feyman descends the stairs to their lower level, hoping the resistance is much lower there. He cannot properly aid his companions in battle, for not only does he lack an arm, but he was trained in the intellectual rather than physical arts.
It is still a miracle he was able to get this far, though. When he is done descending, he looks around and tries to get a feel for the area.
He whispers to himself: "Blast that Meynard! Ey kneweth none of them could be fully trusted with my life. But I will progress further on my own time!"
Away from the raucous and, one might argue, uncivilised din of battle, Sir Feyman descends the stairs to their lower level, finding that resistance is much lower there [5]. In fact, he finds nothing but an infestation of rats. Using the acute powers of his formidable intellect, he realises that, should he rid the cellar of this infestation, perhaps the cellar owner would yield some vital information pertaining to the location of the Grail!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Defier of Grievous Leg Wounds (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: wolfchild on October 20, 2011, 04:44:00 am
HOP in chase of the fleeing frenchie
Post by: Yoink on October 20, 2011, 05:40:36 am
The brave, battered and still-bellowing Sir Keardwall shall set aside his shield, place one foot upon the face of his improvised, human scabbard and wrench his sword free, then clean and sheath it and grab up his severed, trodden-on spleen in both hands. "Now, I am quite sure this thing must be important." Lacking any form of physician in the heat of battle, he will head quickly to the kitchens or similiar to find a jar, hopefully filled to the brim with some sort of pickled substance, and place the noble, wounded organ inside. He can get someone to re-attach it later!
Then it is time to catch up to Meynard, jar in one hand and sword in the other, to finish off the rest of this slimy lot.
Post by: wolfchild on October 20, 2011, 05:56:58 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 20, 2011, 06:49:29 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 20, 2011, 07:05:35 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 20, 2011, 08:28:12 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; a little past the hour of the ram.
"Aha! You see, no stomach for a real fight, these foreign types! Carry on, Sir Meynard, I shall be right along in a moment! Not like these wretches offer much more challenge than a training dummy anyhow, eh?! Now, where'd that spleen of mine get to..."
The brave, battered and still-bellowing Sir Keardwall shall set aside his shield, place one foot upon the face of his improvised, human scabbard and wrench his sword free, then clean and sheath it and grab up his severed, trodden-on spleen in both hands. "Now, I am quite sure this thing must be important." Lacking any form of physician in the heat of battle, he will head quickly to the kitchens or similiar to find a jar, hopefully filled to the brim with some sort of pickled substance, and place the noble, wounded organ inside. He can get someone to re-attach it later!
Then it is time to catch up to Meynard, jar in one hand and sword in the other, to finish off the rest of this slimy lot.
The brave Sir Keardwall the Stony, Defeater of Bandits, places his foot on the face of the Frenchman offending him even in gruesome death, and yanks upon his sword [1]. It snaps! His morale is battered! He turns his attention instead to his severed spleen, and discards his shield before diving on the slippery organ, bellowing that it must be important. Catching it in both hands, he dashes away from the battlefield with great urgency, ransacking the nearby kitchens until he finds a satisfactory receptacle in which to stow his sliced off piece. He finds a full jar of pickled eggs ! He carefully wipes the grit off the spleen and places it inside for safekeeping and, he hopes, later use [3].
Aware of his knightly contract of honour to his fellow adventurers, Sir Keardwall sprints out of the kitchen to re-enter the fight. He comes face to face with a French sergeant-at-arms! Having neither sword nor shield to fight with, he holds the jar before him like a holy relic and punches the sergeant in the face! He flies back some hundred feet, and smashes against the castle outer wall [6]: it commences to crumble! The Frenchman is struck down!
Wound Acquired Severed spleen! Heavy bleeding!
HOP in chase of the fleeing frenchie
Witness to the fresh destruction wrought upon his countrymen and their castle, the lone soldier before Sir Meynard attempts to escape his frenzied grasp; but the one-legged knight is too fast! He hops after the miscreant, and brings his mighty warhammer down upon the crown of his head. He snaps his skull! He is struck down!
Meynard Froths an Affirmative
Sir Meynard the Sure, Bringer of Gory Death, comes face to face with the Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, and together they renew the English assault on the French. They French retreat! They start to flee before this grisly sight!
Wound Still Acquired! Broken leg!
Attempt to remove chamberpot from head. Apply chamberpot to head of nearest Frenchman.
As the French soldiers stream out of the castle, they run past a preoccupied Sir Conchobar, who is attempting to remove a chamber pot from his face and head. He is not having great success [2], but in his wild and blinded flailing he happens to strike a fleeing foe in the face with his armoured bonce. He strikes him down! The French retreat soon turns into a rout; there appeareth not to be a single soldier left about.
Titles Acquired!
Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits!
Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death!
Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers!
Rid yonder cellar of yonder rats! These rats are nothing to my mighty blade!
In fact, very soon the only combat occurring in the thrice-cursed castle is in the cellar, where the still cow-attired Sir Feyman fights nobly against a swarm of fetid rodents. He slays first one; he slays another; but then one of the pustulent pests jumps up to invade his cowsuit, and slips down his leg! It starts to gnaw his foot! Arm waving about his panicked body in the stinking dark, Feyman fails to notice the last step into the cellar: he slips and is knocked out [1]!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on October 20, 2011, 08:47:55 am
Wrangle myself from my knocked out state. "Blasted rats, causing me to trip," I would say, if I were to awaken. Then smash those ratty rat mothers of rathood!
Post by: wolfchild on October 20, 2011, 09:39:28 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 20, 2011, 11:54:50 am
Post by: Ultimuh on October 20, 2011, 11:56:49 am
Attempt to find some fat or butter to loosen the chamberpot. Remove said chamberpot and store for safe keeping.
If you do that then we cannot call you The Pothead.. :-\
Post by: Yoink on October 20, 2011, 04:01:56 pm
"Come along, Gertad," bellowed Sir Keardwall, "They run like rats leaving a ship! Bring my banner!"
Sir Keardwall, gritting his teeth but hiding the pain of his severed spleen and no-doubt heavy bleeding, shall head up through the castle, accompanied by Gertad with his banner. The bold Knight, clutching his jar-o'-spleen before him, shall cut down any frenchman, fleeing or otherwise, that gets in his path, and upon reaching the castle's battlements he shall have Gertad raise his banner upon the walls.
Once that is done, he shall put down his spleen for a moment, raise both his sword and his free arm in the air, and shout to whoever may be listening for miles around, "I, Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, claim this castle and surrounding lands for England, in the Blessed name of King Arthur, defeater of the Saxons! The occupants have damned themselves before God by their destruction of a Holy Artifact, and thusly we have smote them down in the Lord's name! Long live King Arthur!"
That said, he will take his spleen and re-join his fellow knights, (excepting Feyman, obviously) sharing a few comradely jokes about the pathetic French and how his spleen could defeat them, (holding up the jar, naturally) before commnencing to looting the castle for any signs of a good sword, preferably an English sword that these dirty foreign dogs have stolen from someplace, to use instead of their own poorly-forged cast iron blades.
Edit:Oh, and Once his banner hangs upon the castle walls, Keardwall shall send Gertad back towards England to inform their King of the conquests made in his name. With a solemn, victorious frown as he speaks.
"Let the King know that the province of..." Keardwall glances about his companions, then shrugs, "Whatever-this-is, now belongs to England. Tell him how the filthy barbarians smashed the grail, and... Wait, where is Sir Feyman? Did he fall, in battle?"
He looks around from beneath stony brows, the got to his feet. He'll keep an eye out for Sir Feyman as he ransacks the castle.
He will keep one of his banners with him, just in case he conquers any more castles in his travels.
Post by: lawastooshort on October 21, 2011, 03:58:18 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; half past the hour of the ram.
Attempt to find some fat or butter to loosen the chamberpot. Remove said chamberpot and store for safe keeping.
As the battle winds down in the castle, and as the sun sets gently in the evening sky, the Knights of the Round Table congregate in the castle courtyard to compare their tallies and count their losses. The conversation is polite, but of mixed quality: Sir Meynard appears much distracted, and Sir Conchobar the Gruesome is having trouble living up to his fearsome name, as his hideous features are mercifully hidden inside a Frenchman’s chamber pot.
As Sir Keardwall heads away to attend to some private matter, Sir Conchobar seeks to rectify his sorry state, and blindly searches about the castle for some fat or suchlike to loosen the pot and aid in its removal. He happens to stumble directly into the nearby kitchen [5], where he finds some butter! He smears the butter about his face, hands reaching inside the wretched and foul smelling bowl, before yanking it forcefully off with the aid of Fiddles, his man-weapon [6+1 butter bonus]. It flies away into the air!
"Come along, Gertad," bellowed Sir Keardwall, "They run like rats leaving a ship! Bring my banner!"
Sir Keardwall, gritting his teeth but hiding the pain of his severed spleen and no-doubt heavy bleeding, shall head up through the castle, accompanied by Gertad with his banner. The bold Knight, clutching his jar-o'-spleen before him, shall cut down any frenchman, fleeing or otherwise, that gets in his path, and upon reaching the castle's battlements he shall have Gertad raise his banner upon the walls.
Once that is done, he shall put down his spleen for a moment, raise both his sword and his free arm in the air, and shout to whoever may be listening for miles around.
That said, he will take his spleen and re-join his fellow knights, (excepting Feyman, obviously) sharing a few comradely jokes about the pathetic French and how his spleen could defeat them, (holding up the jar, naturally) before commencing to looting the castle for any signs of a good sword, preferably an English sword that these dirty foreign dogs have stolen from someplace, to use instead of their own poorly-forged cast iron blades.
Once his banner hangs upon the castle walls, Keardwall shall send Gertad back towards England to inform their King of the conquests made in his name. With a solemn, victorious frown as he speaks.
He looks around from beneath stony brows, the got to his feet. He'll keep an eye out for Sir Feyman as he ransacks the castle.
He will keep one of his banners with him, just in case he conquers any more castles in his travels.
Sir Keardwall’s private matter takes him up some stairs and on to the castle walls with his faithful retainer Gertad, who hauls on his back a fair quantity of noble heraldic bannery. He meets no resistance, and he commands Gertad to raise his family crest above the conquered castle! He puts down his spleen and raises his shattered sword and free arm and doth proclaim to all who can hear for miles around,
"I, Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, claim this castle and surrounding lands for England, in the Blessed name of King Arthur, Defeater of the Saxons! The occupants have damned themselves before God by their destruction of a Holy Artefact, and thusly we have smote them down in the Lord's name! Long live King Arthur!"
Item Acquired! Castle Lombard!
As Gertad leaves, Sir Keardwall believes the best course of action would be to find a solid sword that may serve better than the one he broke in the heat of battle: he commences to looting! But alas! The first thing he finds is a final French soldier!
“’Ello!” he says, in his outrageous accent, “You claimeth this castle for King Arthur, you wretched mole-wart? Ah shall not be ‘aving that! Ah am Sir Dupont, valiant deputy of Seigneur Lombard, ‘older of this lovely castle! En garde!”
With but his jarred spleen held forth to protect him, Sir Keardwall bravely stands firm. Sir Dupont draws his sword and advances! A flying chamber pot passes by! His head is smashed! Dupont is struck down!
Sir Keardwall kneels and prays in thanks for his victory in single combat, and continues to loot his castle. He finds a sword that seems to be of adequate and possibly English quality [3], and makes his way down to the courtyard to find his companions.
Keardwall orders Gertad to return to King Arthur, some three day’s march away, to proclaim that Castle Lombard and the province of… er… the um… the surrounding English countryside now belong to England! It is a great victory!
"Let the King know that the province of..." Keardwall glances about his companions, then shrugs, "Whatever-this-is, now belongs to England. Tell him how the filthy barbarians smashed the grail, and... Wait, where is Sir Feyman? Did he fall, in battle? Sir Conchobar! I note with great joy and considerable sadness that your head hath been returned to its natural state! Sir Meynard! Wherefore goeth thou?"
Retainer Temporarily Lost! Gertad sent away!
Wound Acquired Severed spleen! Heavy bleeding!
Gasp!
Wrangle myself from my knocked out state. "Blasted rats, causing me to trip," I would say, if I were to awaken. Then smash those ratty rat mothers of rathood!
In the dingy half light of the dank cellar wherein he fell, and is being gently gnawed by rats, Sir Feyman awakes with a start. Someone appears to be chewing his toe! Ah! He remembers! The blasted rats! He kicks the wall to crush the toe-defiling rat to smithereens and then sets to stomping on the remaining rodents with his cow-shod feet [6]. Sir Feyman smashes so hard the floor begins to tremble! The walls commence to shake and crumble; the ceiling starts to tumble!
One-armed but four-legged, Sir Feyman manages to jump out of the way of the falling cellar before it smites him down, and he makes his way back up the stairs in the near-dark. He bumps into Sir Meynard!
“Aha! Sir Meynard!” he says, “Forsooth, but it is not worth the trouble descending further, there is but rubble and rat corpses in yonder cellar: I have vanquished it entirely. Let us make our way to the light of day, and reflect upon our continuing holy quest!”
With the frenchies dealt with, Meynard Hops in search of that cow, he would be willing to bet that it thought he had forgotten
“You call me Sir Meynard? Thou knowest me? A cow that speaks? What is this devilry? Out, into the light of day that I may smite you! No! Stand fast! For I shall rip thee into tiny bits right here!”
Sir Meynard hops to the cow-man and wrestles it to the ground! He rips off its left forearm! There is nought but air inside! He pulls off its udders!
Of a sudden the man-cow pushes back Sir Meynard, and has the chance to speak.
“Meynard! It is I! Sir Feyman!”
(http://img.ie/35b44.png)
Wound Still Acquired! Broken leg!
Spoiler: Yoink; Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: wolfchild on October 21, 2011, 04:10:54 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 21, 2011, 04:19:05 am
Then Sir Feyman headed up to see if the rest of the knights were dead yet.
Post by: wolfchild on October 21, 2011, 04:28:00 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 21, 2011, 04:57:25 am
Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight and Squasher of Maddy the Falcon Handler
?
Otherwise the only solution is a duel. Which at least the waitlist will enjoy.
In the red corner!
Sir Feyman the Cowman, Natural Abomination and Slayer of the Black Knight!
In the blue corner!
Sir Meynard the Hopping, Hammerer of Sure Death!
Post by: wolfchild on October 21, 2011, 05:17:57 am
Meynard will hop out of the castle, and announce anyone who will listen about feynman's disgrace
Post by: Sinpwn on October 21, 2011, 05:50:30 am
Post by: Yoink on October 21, 2011, 07:06:32 am
He will take a look around the castle for anything of worth or interest, including but not limited to:
- Alchohol
- Weaponry
- Armour
- Potential Hostages
- Alchohol
- A surgeon capable of reattaching a spleen
- Any possible Holy artefacts
- Currency!!
- Alchohol
On the subject of his companions' disagreement, he will heartily encourage a trial-by-combat, but will also suggest they try to keep themselves in decent-enough questing condition, seeing as apparently the Holy Grail is still out there needing to be found.
Also, later once he's satisfied he's seen/looted all the castle has to offer, he shall frown them into action and get a move on.
Post by: lawastooshort on October 21, 2011, 08:19:41 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; the hour of the stoat.
Sir Keardwall paces about his newly-acquired castle in the quiet following the battle, murmuring thoughtfully to his jarred spleen with a thoughtful expression on his craggy features, "Castle Lombard... Dreadful name. Needs something better... More English. Something to do with swords? Hrm. Swordpoint... No, Bladewind Castle? Nay... Maybe... No, blast it. Castle Lombard shall have to suffice for now."
He will take a look around the castle for anything of worth or interest, including but not limited to:
- Alcohol
- Weaponry
- Armour
- Potential Hostages
- Alcohol
- A surgeon capable of reattaching a spleen
- Any possible Holy artifacts
- Currency!!
- Alcohol
On the subject of his companions' disagreement, he will heartily encourage a trial-by-combat, but will also suggest they try to keep themselves in decent-enough questing condition, seeing as apparently the Holy Grail is still out there needing to be found.
Also, later once he's satisfied he's seen/looted all the castle has to offer, he shall frown them into action and get a move on.
Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Lord of Castle Lombard, paces about his keep, hoping some inspiration will strike him and name his new abode. It doesn’t. Yet! Being a man of great mental fortitude, he wallows not in despair or despondency, but decides to perform a brief inventory of the wealth of his castle. Therein he finds arms and armour of a quality no better than his own, fit for a dozen men; as well as a crumbled cellar whose door is marked “Vin”; and a non-crumbled cellar filled to the brim with barrels marked “Le Ale”; finally, he finds a pot of gold! He is quite pleased about his discoveries, and decides to inventory the castle’s occupants.
They all seem to have left the fallen castle, disappointingly, save for the surgeon who has stayed on to treat the wounded in the courtyard, who Keardwall now approaches.
“‘Tis the very same surgeon who recently diagnosed my lopped off arm!” cries the nearby Sir Feyman. “He is a splendid fellow, and excellent at his trade. I can heartily recommend him, for he recognised my condition in a flash! I am sure he will be able to tell you that you have a gaping wound in your chest and an organ in a jar!” Sir Feyman dashes off to continue his discussion with Sir Meynard, leaving Sir Keardwall to brave the surgeon on his own.
“Surgeon!” he starts, “I have been separated from my spleen; do you have a cure?”
Thus starts a long and winding conversation, which ends after some time with Sir Keardwall persuaded that his spleen will serve him best pickled in a jar of eggs, and with his heavy bleeding halted, and a foul smelling mixture of ash and horse dung being smeared about his chest. The surgeon then wraps a bandage around his manly torso and suggests he take a minute to sit down.
Title Acquired! Lord of Castle Lombard!
Retainer Temporarily Lost! Gertad sent away!
Sir Conchobar ignores the drama over squashed retainers and does a once over of the castle to see if there is anything interesting.
Just as Sir Keardwall recovers enough from his surgery to regain his senses and walk about, hoping to find some kind of Holy Artifact, he comes across Sir Conchobar, who wields before him an outsized and mighty weapon. He enquires as to what it could possibly be, and Sir Conchobar doth respond:
“Behold! For it is the Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Renowned Slayer of the Green Dragon!”
Item Acquired! The Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Renowned Slayer of the Green Dragon
Sir Conchobar kneels in thanks; both knights kneel in praise: the Lord has truly blessed them.
Give the abomination half a second to explain, and then hammer it into oblivion if the explanation is not good enough
In the courtyard Sir Meynard has followed Sir Feyman-cow above ground and about the castle, and is debating with him the merits of hammering him into oblivion. The man-cow is strongly opposed to the motion; but Sir Meynard is a persistent man.
Sir Feyman entrusted Meynard with such knowledge as: "Rest most assuredly - before I became such a sorry looking fellow, I had set out on a quest to find the Grail! And I thought I had it... but it was a fake! The Frenchmen threw a fake Grail over the walls! I am sure you lot thought it was real, but the real Grail is much more holy, and yet to be found. So I have been in the cellar, searching for both it and some advice on finding it. The cow suit and rats are a longer story, though!"
“But you squashed my falcon handler!” charges Sir Meynard, to which Sir Feyman can but apologise. Eventually, after much toing and froing, an agreement of sorts is reached, and Sir Meynard leaves the castle, proclaiming before its mighty gates:
“Hark, all! Sir Feyman has disgraced the knightly code of chivalry! He has trespassed against the good will of his fellow, and soiled my very heart! Until true restitution is found, he shall be knowne thusly by all: Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight and Squasher of Maddy the Falcon Handler! Let none say that I am not a fair man! I say this with sorrow in my heart, but forgiveness in my minde. We must go on! We voyage bravely on the God-granted quest for the Grail, which was not, it seems, here after all. Blast.”
Chivalry Increased! A forgiving nature!
Title Acquired! Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight and Squasher of Maddy the Falcon Handler!
Wound Still Acquired! Broken leg!
As Sir Meynard proclaims his disgrace to the field outside, Sir Feyman stands one-armed in the courtyard and bows his head in apologetic shame. His meditation on the impermanent nature of one’s honour is, however, soon disturbed: the talkative Sir Keardwall purposefully approaches.
“Come, brothers! Let's not bicker and argue about 'oo squashed 'oo! Unless of course you wish to resolve the issue by combat! Otherwise let us be on our way! We have a Grail to seek! Now, where should we go? We could travel to the nearby village for rumours or advice, or we could travel through yon dark forest to see what lieth beyond?”
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on October 21, 2011, 08:28:28 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 21, 2011, 08:38:22 am
Post by: Zako on October 21, 2011, 08:54:32 am
Post by: Yoink on October 21, 2011, 04:33:19 pm
"Now, whilst I am loathe to even enter one of these filthy, foreign villages, so full of heathens and pox and utterly lacking in goodwill and worship of the Lord, I do realise we need more information of where these villainous people might be hiding the Grail."
He sighs heavily to himself, one hand patting the newly-found and newly-sheathed sword at his side, a gesture that makes it clear he wouldn't be so 'loathe' to enter the village with the sole purpose of attacking it in the name of the King.
"Whilst it is always a good thing to acquire new lands and territories for the King, this is not our mission. So, we shall go forth to this village to learn the Grail's whereabouts with sword and boot, and God above help any smelly foreign peasant who refuses us!"
He raises his tankard/cup/goblet in the air as he finishes, then downs it and prepares to march, grabbing up his shield from where he left it.
Post by: wolfchild on October 21, 2011, 05:07:32 pm
I like how the guy with the broken leg just ignores the doctor standing there in the courtyard.
He dislikes doctors, you need to make him unconscious first
Meynard likes the sound of the village, and if they don't co-operate, he still has a spare smashing-into-oblivion, but first he follows the smell of ale and pillages the ale cellar for a barrel or two for on the road
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on October 21, 2011, 05:35:18 pm
I like how the guy with the broken leg just ignores the doctor standing there in the courtyard.
He dislikes doctors, you need to make him unconscious first
Poor Daniel. ;_;
Post by: lawastooshort on October 23, 2011, 04:34:04 pm
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Lombard; twenty to the hour of the magpie.
Our four brave knights gather round in the courtyard of Castle Lombard, newly captured for King Arthur, Saviour of the Britons. They seek the Grail: where should their quest take them next?
The gruesome Sir Conchobar is the first to speak up.
“The occupants of yonder village probably know what lies beyond yonder forest. Two birds with one stone and such. Although I suppose I could just revealed my hideous, disfigured and faecally enhanced face unto these two birds, should we see them, and save on stones. What say ye? "
Conchobar turns to his valiant comrade, and Lord of Castle Lombard, Sir Keardwall, who, one foot resting on a nearby chair as he contemplates, strokes his imposing, bearded chin thoughtfully with one hand whilst nursing a goblet of ale for help with the thought processes in the other, is frowning thoughtfully.
A while passes, in silence. His jar-o'-spleen sits just to one side, where it listens to the discussion as if wishing to offer helpful advice.
"Now, whilst I am loathe to even enter one of these filthy, foreign villages, so full of heathens and pox and utterly lacking in goodwill and worship of the Lord, I do realise we need more information of where these villainous people might be hiding the Grail."
Sir Keardwall, apparently still unaware that he and his companions have not yet left the green countryside of England, sighs heavily to himself, one hand patting the newly-found and newly-sheathed sword at his side, a gesture that makes it clear he wouldn't be so 'loathe' to enter the village with the sole purpose of attacking it in the name of the King.
"Whilst it is always a good thing to acquire new lands and territories for the King, this is not our mission. So, we shall go forth to this village to learn the Grail's whereabouts with sword and boot, and God above help any smelly foreign peasant who refuses us!"
Keardwall the Stony raises his goblet in the air as he finishes, then downs it and prepares to march, grabbing up his shield from where he left it.
Sir Feyman the Black Squasher of Falcons agrees: there be rumours in them thar villages! And forests are well known to be dark, and easy to lose oneself within. He realises that Sir Keardwall has so far apparently led them well, and that thanks to his combat prowess and keen intuition, not to mention lightning intellect, and thus defers to his decision.
“Let us march on!” he proclaims. “Hang on, where's Meynard?”
This latter appears almost as soon as Sir Feyman poses the question. He is in a mood even blacker than his recent close personal loss might give him cause to be: he has been rummaging around in the castle cellars. Without a word, he throws a barrel down at the floor with such force that it explodes, showering the surrounding knights with its contents. Sir Conchobar is the first, again, to speak, after touching a finger to the liquid splashed upon his armour and fearlessly tasting it.
“I say, Meynard. What the devil are you doing with a barrel of water?! What in God's name are you thinking of?!??”
… … … … … ...
England; the Dark Ages; The Village of Saint Gibsbury; half past the hour of the magpie.
The Great Black Knight I heard he fell,
He very probably went straight to hell;
I heard that he was cleaved right in twain,
After slaying a brave knight yet again;
Our saviour travelled o’er valley and hill,
In single combat did valiantly kill;
And saved us from his tyrannical reign…
As the four knights approach the nearest village, named after the fabled Saint Gibsbury, Tamer of the Vicious Eel of Stafford, joyous song does waft upon the lunchtime air to greet them.
They proceed forth unto the centre of the village, and see the originator of the joyous song, a young minstrel who goes by the name of Crannock, as the knights discover upon commanding him to yield his name. They ask what of interest lies about this putrid home of his, and he stops his song long enough to point out to this brave and noble band of knights the highlights of his village.
On the left, sires, you can see the village tavern, ‘tis a quite goode place for beer and cheer; on the right is Kevin the Blacksmith’s workshop; and yonder house is the house of Janet the Falconer, a mighty man who doth fly the village falcons.
Alas, around our village there is not much of interest, for dark forests lie thick about, as you doubtless have seen, save for towards the north, where lies the house of the olde man of Llangwllwd, who was once a wise and learned monk and now lives as a humble and modest hermit. He is our village sage. We see him little, for he lives beyond the Valley of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh. We travel not therein unless needs must, for the Black Beast has terrorised us for many a year. I shall sing a song!
The Olde Black Beast upon us all doth feast
We flee west and north and south and eas-
Ah yes, sorry. The Grail? I have but heard stories of it, brave knights, told once to me by the olde man of Llangwllwd, many years ago… You'll not find it here! But 'tis true, he may knowe. Otherwise you'll have to pass through yonder dark forest, whose rumours are so terrible I knowe them not...
Will you pass through the Valley of the Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh to seek the counsel of the Olde Man of Llangwllwd? Or stumble blindly through the Darke Forest of Yonder?
Or will you seek shelter a while in the fair village of St Gibsbury and then pass through the Valley of the Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh to seek the counsel of the Olde Man of Llangwllwd or stumble blindly through the Darke Forest of Yonder??
Post by: freeformschooler on October 23, 2011, 04:56:12 pm
Sir Feyman digs his sword into the ground, hoping it would tear the ground asunder by the very force of it, only to find it achieves no such effect. Regardless, before voting, he introduces himself to Crannock.
"I heard ye singing a tale of joy
About a knight and his valiant ploy
To strike down a soldier so black
That the Valley's Beast might to him be a snack!
But did you know, o humble fello'
That with a charge and mighty bello'
It was I who tore this foe apart
Not long after mine journey's start?"
With this tune now past him (Feyman was a fan of tunes, after all, and was sure to retire a minstrel were he to live that long, though how he would play with one arm is a mystery), Sir Feyman voted that his "fello'" knights join him on a conquest through the Valley of multiple letter A's! But this is after they get ABSOLUTELY SMASHED AT THE TAVERN.
EDIT: we should definitely hang out here at least another turn.
EDIT2: Tavern seems like a great idea.
Post by: wolfchild on October 23, 2011, 05:59:55 pm
Post by: Sinpwn on October 23, 2011, 07:26:17 pm
Post by: Yoink on October 24, 2011, 12:50:49 am
Later on, no-doubt, at the tavern after a few kegs, he will also come to the conclusion that, "Th' beer duhn't tashte forei-*hic* foreign eitherh!"
Once the drinking's done, he shall sleep it off- most likely resisting the urge to do so in the company of a willing lass, seen as he's on a quest at the moment and it wouldn't seem proper- and on the morrow set off with the others.
During the course of his drunken night out he shall tell grand, yet truthful tales of their exploits, gesturing frequently to his spleen, and attempt to recruit a new retainer or two, whose chief duty shall be carrying said mighty spleen. Doubtless these simple folk shall be in total awe of his prowess and bravery, and will jump at the chance to accompany him on his adventures!
Post by: lawastooshort on October 24, 2011, 03:40:10 am
England; the Dark Ages; Ye olde village of Saint Gibsbury; one quarter to the hour of the beagle.
”Can I, oh Knights,” asks Crannock of the assembled knights in Saint Gibsbury village square, “carry on with my song now? ‘Tis a great and majestic song telling the story of the Mighty Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh!”
“Forsooth, no!” interrupts Sir Conchobar the Gruesome. “For it doth be hammer time! Where is yon tavern! I demand to have some booze! We four knights have been adventuring long and hard, and now it doth be time to socialise with some townsfolk. Come, fellow Knights of the Round Table!”
“Not so fast!” speaks Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death. “For Maddy my dear departed falconer doth weigh heavily on my heart: I shall go speak to this Janet the Falconer, and talk of things gone by. And falcons. Perhaps he shall even join me on our quest, although if this is actually what I desire ‘tis not entirely clear. But never mind! And then, let us get hammered together in yon tavern, like we hammer our foes together in battle!”
“I neither, shall not go gently into that goode tavern,” proclaims Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight and Squasher of Maddy the Falcon Handler as he fails to tear the ground asunder with the very force of his fearsome sword. “I have but recently lost a minstrel, and I wish to speak with this here Crannock, as he calls himself, for old times’ sake. Hail, fellow admirer of the art of music!”
"I heard ye singing a tale of joy
About a knight and his valiant ploy
To strike down a soldier so black
That the Valley's Beast might to him be a snack!
But did you know, o humble fello'
That with a charge and mighty bello'
It was I who tore this foe apart
Not long after mine journey's start?"
Crannock appears to the on the verge of swooning [6].
”My Godde goode Sir, ‘twas you this valiant and noble Knight?! Surely Sir, you are a great knight, and a fearsome creator of majestic stories! Please, I begge of you: let me follow you in your quest, that I might later recount your daring deeds! And let me bring my brother Eric, who is a virtuoso in the art of the lute! He has wanted for many years to see a noble Knight of the Round Table!”
Retainer Acquired! Crannock the Minstrel!
Retainer Acquired! Eric the Lutist!
Before Sir Feyman even has the chance to boom his reply, Crannock runs off, waving his arms and singing in excited delight. Sir Feyman catches up with Sir Conchobar, who is already concentrating on his noble task in the tavern.
Alas! He is quite alone; his fearsome and gruesome visage has scared away most of the villagers who had been in his corner. Even Fiddles has averted his eyes, and is looking for an excuse to leave for the other corner of the tavern, where yon maidens drinketh merrily [1].
Sir Keardwall then follows Sir Feyman in, looking somewhat confused.
"These folk don't look foreign... They don't sound foreign..."
He begins to look wistfully at yon other corner of the tavern, where maidens drinketh merrily. He reminds himself that he is on a God-granted Holy Quest, and commands another beer be served.
After not many more beers, Keardwall can be found in yon other corner of the tavern, pausing between every third sip of ale to pour a little into his pickled spleen jar. He recounts his mighty deeds, and the story of how he lost his spleen fighting fully 38 Frenchmen singlehanded; the village folk believeth him not! Yon maidens leave for another corner of the tavern [1].
At this moment, Sir Meynard arrives: beside him walks the proud Janet, Mighty Falconer, and atop each of Janet’s shoulders there sits a Mighty Falcon [5]. For Janet is a man of action, and of heroism, and of dreams, and he wishes to seek the Grail with the noble Sir Meynard!
Retainer Acquired! Janet the Falconer!
… … … … … …
The evening passes with a great quaffing of ale, many a loud singing of song, and not too great a quantity of embarrassing indiscretions. The next morning Sir Conchobar is the first to come round in the knights’ corner of the tavern. He shoos away the goat that is trying to chew his ear, and looks about. He waits a while, rubbing his head, until his companions awaken. Before they do, Sir Conchobar is approached by a young lad.
“Goode Sir Knight,” he shyfully begins, “Hast thou considered my father’s suggestion from last night? Willst thou take me unto your service as a Shielder of Yon Face? ‘Tis a noble profession, and I see myself going far in your employ.”
Before he can answer, Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Lord of Castle Lombard awakes.
”So, comrades,” he booms, “Shall we be continuing our quest? Are we decided on proving our heroism by traversing the Terrible Valley of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh?”
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
edit: due to GM being an idiot and posting before his cup of tea.
Post by: Yoink on October 24, 2011, 04:00:19 am
Shaking his head in disappointment at the folly of these simple-minded peasants, he glanced at his armoured reflection in a nearby mirror/chamberpot, nodded with satisfaction and buckled on his sword.
"Come along then, you lot! No time to lose, hmm? Rouse yourselves, we have a valley to cross, a foul beast to fight, an old man to question, and a Grail to recover! Surely you aren't feeling the worse-for-wear after those piddling few drinks! Come on, up!"
He puts his loud voice, intimidating presence and hard boots to good use in getting his fellow Knights ready for action. He picks up his spleen before leaving, of course, and makes his way out of the tavern with a bushy-browed frown.
Post by: Zako on October 24, 2011, 04:21:25 am
Post by: wolfchild on October 24, 2011, 04:33:53 am
Meynard then continues to sing horribly, yet enthusiastically, until someone forces him to stop
Post by: Yoink on October 24, 2011, 05:30:23 am
Despite his brave face, Sir Keardwall still suffers quite the throbbing head from the
"For the love of God could you cut that out?! You'll deafen us, not to mention the entire bloody town! Save such terrible noise for scaring away yon Black Beast of Aaaargh, hmm? I imagine he, she or it would quite gladly throw themselves into the darkest and deepest chasm available merely to escape it!"
He glances over towards Feyman and Company. "Sir Feyman! Have one of your minstrels sing us a song, eh? Something more agreeable to the ears!"
Post by: wolfchild on October 24, 2011, 05:50:28 am
Keardwall forces Sir Meynard to stop. Strenuously if necessary.
Despite his brave face, Sir Keardwall still suffers quite the throbbing head from theknight's revelry, and is not quite in the mood for such awful noise.
"For the love of God could you cut that out?! You'll deafen us, not to mention the entire bloody town! Save such terrible noise for scaring away yon Black Beast of Aaaargh, hmm? I imagine he, she or it would quite gladly throw themselves into the darkest and deepest chasm available merely to escape it!"
He glances over towards Feyman and Company. "Sir Feyman! Have one of your minstrels sing us a song, eh? Something more agreeable to the ears!"
This is basically the response I was hoping for, only his singing is bad enough to make you want to commit suicide if that is the only way to stop hearing it
Post by: freeformschooler on October 24, 2011, 07:48:31 am
"Ey, indeed, let us venture out! Eric, play your fancy lute as Crannock makes some noise with a song about the Valley's Beast!" With saying this, Feyman prepared to head out to the Valley with his noble comrades. Surely they are but unstoppable now!
((I can't believe I have three retinues! Or do I? Did Janet go to someone else?))
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on October 24, 2011, 07:50:00 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 24, 2011, 07:53:56 am
((I can't believe I have three retinues! Or do I? Did Janet go to someone else?))
Arg! Post edited to compensate for GM's idiocy!
The Falconer went to Meynard, sorry.
Post by: Sinpwn on October 24, 2011, 08:27:39 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 24, 2011, 08:42:21 am
England; the Dark Ages; Ye olde village of Saint Gibsbury; one quarter to the hour of the beagle.
As Sir Conchobar accepts the service of Kenneth, Shielder of Yon Face For the Protection of Others, he looks over towards Keardwall.
“Aha! You are verily up as well! Perhaps we should travel forth unto the valley!”
Retainer Acquired! Kenneth, Shielder of Yon Face For the Protection of Others.
Sir Keardwall was readying himself for voyage and battle, deep in thought. As much as these people aren't foreigners, he mused, they certainly aren't the brightest of folk, not like in the more civilised parts. Anyone with a functioning brain would have swooned at the mere hearing of my exploits in yesterday’s battle… He checks his fine armoured appearance in a nearby chamber pot and, finding it satisfactory, buckles on his sword.
"Come along then, you lot! No time to lose, hmm? Rouse yourselves, we have a valley to cross, a foul beast to fight, an old man to question, and a Grail to recover! Surely you aren't feeling the worse-for-wear after those piddling few drinks! Come on, up!"
Keardwall puts his loud voice, intimidating presence and hard boots to good use in getting his fellow Knights of the Round Table ready for action. He picks up his spleen before leaving, of course, and makes his way out of the tavern with a bushy-browed frown. Sir Meynard follows immediately, for a mere dozen casks of ale aren’t likely to give him a problem in the morn! No! Well, perhaps once, but then the Black Knight’s Black Ale was particularly strong, and he was drinking on an empty stomach, and he’d had to get up very early that day, and also he was recovering from a slight cold.
“Come,” he suggests, “come let us face the terrors of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh with fearless hearts and a song on our lips!”
The Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, it cannot be hard,
T’will surely fold like a pack of cards;
We fear not its claws nor its teeth so sharp,
Envy not its eyes which can see in the dark;
And neither shall our courage fail,
When we see its incredible sharp spiked tail…
It is not long before Keardwall takes offence at Meynard’s mauling of all that is delicate and musical. He is, in fact, stoically concealing a vicious headache.
"For the love of God could you cut that out?! You'll deafen us, not to mention the entire bloody town! Save such terrible noise for scaring away yon Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, hmm? I imagine he, she or it would quite gladly throw themselves into the darkest and deepest chasm available merely to escape it!"
He glances over towards Feyman and Company. "Sir Feyman! Have one of your minstrels sing us a song, eh? Something more agreeable to the ears!"
"Ey, indeed! Eric, play your fancy lute as Crannock makes some noise with a song about the Valley's Beast! Let us venture out!"
We ride on to brave the er sorry…
We march on to brave the terrible beast,
We hope not to become its daily feast!
We hope to slay and be on our way,
If only to quest for another day;
I’ll sing the tale of how they find the Grail,
Pursuing it like some great white whale;
They’ll sing day and night the song I shall write,
About Sir Feyman’s miraculous might!
How Sir Feyman he thus gave meaning to the very word ‘brave’
Fighting the beast and dodging the grave,
Treating the beast like a groveling knave...
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Terrible Valley of the Hideous Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh; towards the hour of the goat.
In the Terrible Valley of the Hideous Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, the four knights march on under the afternoon sun, which dips in the sky as it approaches the hour of the goat. They have walked for many hours, along mountainous paths; beside raging torrents; under mighty trees – and their tunics are dusty with travel, their train of retainers strung out with fatigue, and their ears wearying of Eric the Minstrel’s tireless taste for singing, tuneful though it may be.
They wind on down the valley, on a tortuous and windy path that descends towards their goal: the hermitage of the Olde Man of Llangwllwd who, it is fervently believed, may well know the resting place of the one Holy Grail, last chalice of Christ.
Sir Keardwall the Keen and Stony – for it is he who has taken the lead - suddenly raises his armoured fist, and the questing column stumbles to a halt.
“I say,” he whispers loudly, “there is a cave ahead. We should approach with caution, lest we awaken the Hideous Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh.”
Suddenly Janet the Falcon Handler screams.
“Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh! The Hideous and Vile Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh! Run! Run for your lives!”
Rooted to the spot, Janet is pointing towards the very cave that Sir Keardwall Lord of Castle Lombard so recently remarked.
"‘Tis the Terrifyingly Hideous and Vile Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh!"
A giant beast, many times the size of a short man, the colour of a horrific frog, with horns the size of a large bush and eyes numbering some several dozen, has left its lair! It doth lumber up towards the questing knights, roaring its fearsome challenge as it comes!
It doth have teeth the size of a manne’s head!
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Edit: added a line space. Deleted a space.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 24, 2011, 08:51:42 am
...Running around the side of the beast as it approaches. When it's not looking, he tries to jump on its back and attack it!
Post by: Ultimuh on October 24, 2011, 09:18:32 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 24, 2011, 09:44:11 am
((I see you are avoiding a certain little white fluffy thing of doom. Is it because it is terrifyingly overpowered? :P ))
((What fluffy thing is this, again?))
((Am I forgetting one of my ANCIENT DANGEROUS HIDDEN POWERS?))
Post by: Ultimuh on October 24, 2011, 10:36:59 am
((I see you are avoiding a certain little white fluffy thing of doom. Is it because it is terrifyingly overpowered? :P ))
((What fluffy thing is this, again?))
((Am I forgetting one of my ANCIENT DANGEROUS HIDDEN POWERS?))
((Oh that was directed towards the GM, was replied with an answer so just forget what I posted ok? :P ))
Post by: Sinpwn on October 24, 2011, 10:42:01 am
Post by: wolfchild on October 24, 2011, 03:51:02 pm
Menard decides to follow his instincts and charges, while screaming ARRRGHHHHHH
Post by: Yoink on October 24, 2011, 05:33:39 pm
Sir Keardwall continued his bellowing as he began his charge, running fowards whipping his sword about his head before aiming it for the foul thing's mouth,
"-time for action! We shall not let this beast stop us! We have fought armies, we have conquered lands in the name of the King and we have drank the taverns of that-place-we-were-in dry as the Holy Land! Cheee-aaaaaaarrge!!"
Meanwhile he thinks to himself, with a fearsome frown, 'Rather rude, not giving me a chance to speak beforehand! I shall trounce it twice as soundly for such impudence!'
(Sorry for not posting earlier, timezones! :( This RtD is just classic, though.)
Post by: lawastooshort on October 25, 2011, 02:12:10 am
(Sorry for not posting earlier, timezones! :( )
No rush, I just had time to squeeze in another turn so I thought I'd see. I'll
Post by: Yoink on October 25, 2011, 02:13:41 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 25, 2011, 02:18:08 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 25, 2011, 02:48:16 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Terrible Valley of the Terrifyingly Hideous and Vile Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh; further towards the hour of the goat.
As the Giant Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, several times the size of a larger than average man, the colour of a venomous toad, with horns the size of a quite large boulder and more than four score eyes lumbers up the valley path, fearsomely roaring its challenge, the Knights of the Round Table charge into Knightly and Manly action!
"To me, to me! Our foe is in sight and battle is at hand! Ready your blades and gird your loins, for now is the--"
"ATATATATATA!"
As Sir Keardwall bellows his verbose war cry, a holy crossbow bolt flies past his ear as Sir Conchobar the Gruesome screams in his strange and foreign tongue. It flieth straight and true! It penetrates the Black Beast’s scaly hide, causing it to suffer a cruel wound from whence flows a stream of foul and hideous blood! The Black Beast is mightily angered, and Sir Keardwall continues whipping his sword about his own head as he sprints down the valley towards it.
"-time for action! We shall not let this beast stop us! We have fought armies, we have conquered lands in the name of the King and we have drank the taverns of that-place-we-were-in dry as the Holy Land! Cheee-aaaaaaarrge!!"
As Keardwall approaches the Fearsome Black Beast, as tall as two large trees, the colour of influenzic discharge, with horns the size of a small sheep and nearly a hundred eyes upon its foully disfigured face, the Black Beast swoops down to tear at the brave knight with his man’s head-sized teeth! Yet the brave Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Lord of Castle Lombard ducks beneath the attack – thinking to himself, in the heat of battle, rather rude, not giving me a chance to speak beforehand! I shall trounce it twice as soundly for such impudence! He doth attempt to trounce the beast! He strikes upon the Beast’s forward foot, but his blow bounces of the armoured toe!
The Beast has its chance! It tries to snap Keardwall’s head clean off, but mistakenly attacks a passing boulder! Keardwall is much relieved!
“ARRRGHHHHHH!”
‘Tis now the occasion for Sir Meynard to enter the fray as he hops one-legged down the mountainous path, brandishing the hammer Drakhen over his manly shoulder as he charges at the Black Beast. He swings the great hammer! He stubs his toe and trips! He is left open as the Great Black Beast swipes at him with his claws the size of healthy trout: Sir Meynard only just manages to roll out of the way!
Whilst it was distracted with its feeble attempt to gouge out Sir Meynard’s pancreas, Sir Feyman, morale boosted by Crannock’s tireless minstrelship, runs behind the Beast. He jumps on the Beast’s back! He stabs his sword into its neck! It bleeds heavily, though it seems but little weakened.
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potted Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on October 25, 2011, 03:04:03 am
"Hark, foul-smelling fiend! We shall see how tall ye are without legs! Prepare to meet whatever vile demon spawned you!"
Post by: wolfchild on October 25, 2011, 03:45:43 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 25, 2011, 04:02:39 am
I wouldn't be able to leave out any [1]s or [6]s though.
Post by: wolfchild on October 25, 2011, 04:05:28 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 25, 2011, 06:26:11 am
"I will be the slayer of both Black Beast and Black Knight!"
Post by: Sinpwn on October 25, 2011, 05:18:15 pm
Post by: Yoink on October 26, 2011, 01:30:12 am
Incidentally, do you mind me not quoting your actions in the post and not showing the dice rolls? It wasn't an especially conscious decision to remove them entirely, but it kind of happened anyway.
I wouldn't be able to leave out any [1]s or [6]s though.
I don't mind either way, personally! Sometimes seeing the roll adds to the comedic effect, but sometimes it just gives away the result before you read the action.
RtD's great either way! :D
Post by: lawastooshort on October 26, 2011, 03:26:22 am
Twentieth turn! Gosh!
England; the Dark Ages; the Terrible Valley of the Terrifyingly Hideous and Vile Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh; very close to the hour of the goat.
The Giant Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, the size of
Alas! Its raging anger seems to have quickened the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh’s blood: it strikes with renewed ferocity and speed!
Sir Conchobar once again raises his unwieldy Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Renowned Slayer of the Green Dragon, and fires at the Black Beast's head as it hurtles lengthily up the valley path. The unwieldy weight sends him off balance: he tumbles backwards! He shoots into the air! The Holy Bolt doth proceed to fall back to the earth, striking through Sir Conchobar's foot, and thusly pinning him to the ground in slight pain [1-1 horrible misfire bonus].
State Entered: Pinnede to the Grounde!
Sir Keardwall is next to assault the foul beast: he attempts to remove its stumpy legs!
“Hark, foul-smelling fiend! We shall see how tall ye are without legs! Prepare to meeeeee-!”
He is rudely interrupted as he moves to swing his sword, for the Fell Black Beast extends his horrid claws and smacks Sir Keardwall viciously about the head! He is flung unconscious against the rocky valley wall!
Item Lost: Consciousness
As Keardwall flies away, Sir Meynard steps into the breach once more! He swings Drakhen tirelessly before him, keeping the Black Beast’s clawed feet at bay: but he counts not upon the Dire Black Beast’s pointy teeth! The Beast bends its fearsome neck over the whirling hammer of death and takes a bite. He manages but to chip a tooth on Meynard’s horned helmet! Blessed be the Lord! Or Meynard!
Whilst the Vicious Black Beast swoops down to bite Sir Meynard, Sir Feyman is still clinging desperately to his bleeding and sodden neck! One-armed he cries, I will be the slayer of both Black Beast and Black Knight!, and he thus releases his grip to slice through the Beast’s neck with the aid of his sword. He slips off! He is cast upon the floor, where he lands in a state of unconsciousness! His face is bleeding! As Eric the Lutist runs up to his new-found master’s body to check for signs of life, the Beast’s tail doth whip around from behind it. Eric is sliced in two!
State of Consciousness: Unconscious
Retainer Lost: Eric hath been sliced in twain by the Blacke Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh!
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sinpwn; Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers (click to show/hide)
Post by: wolfchild on October 26, 2011, 03:43:40 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 26, 2011, 05:35:26 am
Post by: Yoink on October 26, 2011, 07:12:36 am
Doubtless he is receiving inspiring visions from both the Lord God and the Great King Arthur, but in his current state he is quite unable to contribute!
If he doth happen to awaken, however, he shall channel his Holy Righteous Anger into a mighty swing, cleaving the foul beast in twain with a manly shout of exertion,
"Fooor the Kiiiiing!"
He shall, obviously, forgoe his usual verbosity, instead focusing all the power in his throbbing, bruised head into the attack.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 26, 2011, 07:41:38 am
Post by: Yoink on October 26, 2011, 07:53:59 am
Sort of amusing that Fiddles is the only one still around since the beginning, and he's the one used as a weapon. :P
Post by: freeformschooler on October 26, 2011, 08:07:32 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 26, 2011, 08:43:31 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Terrible Valley of the Terrifyingly Hideous and Vile Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh; the hour of the goat.
The Foul Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, the size of a large mammoth, the colour of rotting cabbage, with horns the size of large pillow and nigh on three hundred eyes adorning its head, proceeds forth up the valley path, roaring, fearsome, with two knights struck down before it and two more yet persisting. It bleeds heavily, though it is hard to tell if this has weakened it thus far.
As Meynard stands before the struck down pair of knights and the stuck down Sir Conchobar, he knows that he holds their very lives bravely in his mighty armoured hands; thusly does he ferociously wield his mighty Drakhen! He doth keep swinging, with all his force, and he barely has time to notice as the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh swoops again to take a bite of the tasty morsel upon his neck.
There is a flash of teeth! There is a glint of tongue! There is, alas, a mighty spume of blood as the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh moves quicker than the brave knight, and doth bite Sir Meynard's head off!
The orphaned Drakhen swings one last time as Sir Meynard's tireless arms wield it even as his body tumbles. As his deceasd grip yields, the great warhammer flies in a forlorn arc unto the air, striking the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh in the neck. It is pulverised!
Title Acquired! Deceased.
The awful torrent of blood splatters upon Sir Feyman in great welts of liquid and deceased comrade, stirring him from his gentle sleep beside the murderous Black Beast. He groans a little as he rises to his feet; he struggles not to fall to his knees once again as he sees the awful sight of his former companion. The Beast pays him little heed; Feyman wipes some of Sir Meynard off his face and strikes with righteous anger at its tail! He slices clean through! The lutist-slaying tail is removed! The blood flows in hideous quantities [6]!
Item Acquired! Consciousness!
Item Acquired! Multiple Blood Stains!
The Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh roars in pain and rage and turns to meet Sir Feyman, raising his mighty pillow sized claws to strike. But alas! (for the Black Beast, at least) For the loss of his tail has clearly deprived him of his balance [1], and he falls to the ground! The tremendous impact, akin to a very minor earthquake, awakes the unconscious Keardwall, who was until very recently receiving an inspiring vision from the Great King Arthur!
He sees the horrifying scene before him and staggers to his feet. Sir Keardwall raises his sword and channeleth his Holy Righteous Anger into a single mighty swoop.
"Fooor the Kiiiiing!"
He doth slice off the Black Beast's finger!
As the finger falls to the ground, Sir Conchobar the Gruesome takes advantage of the Black Beast's weakness, and soundlessly removes his foot from the ground wherein it is pinned, and aims a series of merciless kicks at the Beast's heade!
"Have at you, you bastard!" he cries, as he kicks his bolted foot again and again into the evil Beast's eyes. He pokes them out! The Beast is blinded! He mercilessly continues to kick. His foot doth penetrate unto the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh's tiny brain! It is pierced! It is bruised! The Black Beast is slain!
Item Acquired! Bolt Foot!
Title Acquired! Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh!
The remaining three knights bend their knees in prayer.
Group Chivalry Increased! Valiant victory!
... ... ... ... ... ...
As the day reaches its end, the three Knights of the Round Table and their retainers reach the bottom of the Valley Once of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, and come to a small hut, surrounded by planted crops of mud; as they approach the hut, the Olde Man of Llangwllwd comes out to meet them.
"Hello! I say! Lovely day what? Have ye come to seek counsel? You would not be the first knight to come my way today! Come in, and have some tea!"
Spoiler: wolfchild; Sir Meynard the Deceased (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on October 26, 2011, 08:52:54 am
"Friend, I am not sure, nor will I ask what you mean by another knight seeking thy counsel this day, and neither shall I yet question you about our quest; Firstly, crack open a keg and pour us six of your stoutest ales! We have lost a noble companion today, and he shall be dearly missed by all!"
He turns to the others, clasping a gauntleted fist to his breast.
"Grieve not, friends, Janet, the brave Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death died not in vain! He served our great King to his last breath, and fell whilst dealing a grievious blow to the most foul of enemies! He shall be remembered! You," He claps his hands, looking towards Sir Feyman and his remaining minstrel, "Write us a song of his bravery, and then we shall drink to his memory!"
Sir Keardwall shall barge into the hut and set his jar-o'-spleen in pride of place on a table or such, and impatiently await for the Olde Man to produce some strong alchohol to begin toasting his deceased companion's memory.
Post by: wolfchild on October 26, 2011, 09:01:04 am
The spectre then opens the door to the waitinmg list, letting the next person through, and disappears
Post by: freeformschooler on October 26, 2011, 02:19:56 pm
((Song will be posted later. I'm going to draw for someone now. If turn happens to be before I get to my song, make one up for me!))
Post by: Sinpwn on October 26, 2011, 02:47:52 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on October 27, 2011, 05:21:43 am
England; the Dark Ages; the bottom of the Valley of the Dead Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh; early evening.
At the house of the Olde Man of Llangwllwd, the three Knights of the Round Table stand together before the Olde Man.
Sir Keardwall the Frowning More Sadly Than Usual speaks first, in his bellowing and sombre voice, and whilst frowning more sadly than usual.
"Friend, I am not sure, nor will I ask what you mean by another knight seeking thy counsel this day, and neither shall I yet question you about our quest; Firstly, crack open a keg and pour us six of your stoutest ales! We have lost a noble companion today, and he shall be dearly missed by all!"
He turns to the others, clasping a gauntleted fist to his breast.
"Grieve not, friends, Janet, the brave Sir Meynard the Sure, Hopping Bringer of Gory Death died not in vain! He served our great King to his last breath, and fell whilst dealing a grievious blow to the most foul of enemies! He shall be remembered! You," He claps his hands, looking towards Sir Feyman and his remaining minstrel, "Write us a song of his bravery, and then we shall drink to his memory!"
Sir Keardwall barges into the hut and sets his jar-o'-spleen in pride of place on a nearby table, waiting impatiently for the Olde Man to produce some strong alchohol to begin toasting his deceased companion's memory.
As they wait for the Olde Man to brew some tea and bring some ale, the group suddenly feels a ghostly presence about them. Feyman doth declare, "I shall compose an ode in honour of our deceased comrade: it is what he would have wanted!"
A falconer dear Sir Meynard lost,
At quite a steep emotional cost,
He was never the same after that day,
Until he bravely gave his life away:
Oh my dear departed Meynard!
When he faced the Black Knight,
He bravely drank;
Slept in his vomit all night,
And then he stank;
Oh my dear departed Meynard!
He smashed many a head off many a foe,
I'm very much sad to see him go,
The Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh dealt him quite a blow,
When he bit off his head in just one go:
Oh my dear departed Meynard!
Now we will find the Grail just for him:
We shan't give up on the slightest whim;
We will all three carry out our duty,
To bring back our God-granted booty;
For our dear departed Meynard!
As the room falls into respectful silence, Sir Feyman feels as if he has been forgiven in some strange way by some outside force – perhaps a spectre. He sighs to himself.
Title Lost! Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight is no longer known as the Squasher of Maddy!
Just then, the Olde Man of Llangwllwd comes back into the room, carrying a nicely decorated tray with several cups of tea and several pint glasses of masterwork ale upon it. As the thirsty Sir Conchobar rises to eagerly taste of both tea and ale, the Olde Man bids him to wait: he has a guest to introduce, and who now walks into the room.
"Hail! For I am Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund and Slightly Awkward to Write Due to the Accent. I have been sent here by King Arthur, Protector of the Britons, to aid you in your God-granted quest for the Holy Grail. God in his infinite wisdom has led you to me just as your dear departed comrade has fallen: I have been speaking to yon Olde Man of Llangwllwd this very morn, and he has described to me the way to the last known record of the location of the Holy Grail. 'Tis written upon the walls of the Cave of Caerbannog, and to reach it one must first traverse the Wood of Doom, pass over the Mountain of Evil, and then travel through the Forest of Hell, if I have translated correctly from the Welsh. 'Tis a difficult language. Come: let us drink our fill and then set forth. Forth to the Wood of Doom!"
... ... ... ... ... ...
"Actually let us wait until the morrow. 'Tis quite late in the day and I had an early start this morning."
... ... ... ... ... ...
The next day, the now once-again four questing Knights of the Round Table set forth. Forth to the Wood of Doom! But should they travel by the high road which passeth by a mighty Castle? Or the low road which passeth through a filthy village?
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
edit: noticed a missing d. Didn't find the name I was after though.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 27, 2011, 07:36:18 am
With that, he heads to bed. In the morning, he votes they pass through a village. Castles are dangerous!
Post by: scriver on October 27, 2011, 09:24:45 am
Beadocáf agrees enthusiasticly about the village. "DEUS VULT!"
Post by: Yoink on October 27, 2011, 09:33:54 am
"Yesh yesh, of courshe, ye art welcome on our ke-que-queshh, Sir Beadocaff. In th' name of God and King Arthur we ishh... Uhh... Go to some filthy village or somethi'gh. I suppose the peashants need putting in their placesh. Deushh Vult!"
With that said, he raises his tankard/mug/goblet high, looking blearily about,
"In th' name of Sir Meynahd th'Shhhre, Hoppi'gh Bringer of Gory Death, th'mosht talented pashifier of peasants I'sh ever met! ..'Shept myself of course."
He'll down another drink.
(Sorry for crapness, not really feeling inspired IRL at the moment. :-\ Don't want to hold the game up though!)
Post by: Sinpwn on October 27, 2011, 10:58:17 am
Post by: lawastooshort on October 27, 2011, 04:45:59 pm
England; the Dark Ages; the bottom of the Valley of the Dead Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh; morning.
As Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund stands before them, the three knights rise to meet the new-come quester.
"Sir Beatacalf Atelearn!" begins Feyman, "Greetings, calf-beater! I am Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight! We hope you will provide us with the necessary amount of strength to fetch this God-given artefact! Let us not venture near another castle for at least several days, for I fear for our retainers... Tomorrow we should make our way to the village of Stafford of which you speak; tonight I shall make my way to bed, for I require rest."
"Ah, aye, with God on our side, we shall find the Grail! And it will be a true Honour to do God's Work next to a knight like you, Sire Fairyman! I agree that we should search for this village of Stafford, I have had my fill of castles these last weeks. DEUS VULT!"
"And I, I am Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh! Hail, Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne! Let us travel to the distant village of Stafford in the morn. For now, let us toast our lost knight, for he was a valiant man. To Sir Meynard!"
"Yesh," adds Sir Keardwall, "Yesh yesh, of courshe, ye art welcome on our ke-que-queshh, Sir Beadocaff. In th' name of God and King Arthur we ishh... Uhh... Go to some filthy village or somethi'gh. I suppose the peashants need putting in their placesh. Deushh Vult!"
He raises his pint glass.
"In th' name of Sir Meynahd th'Shhhre, Hoppi'gh Bringer of Gory Death, th'mosht talented pashifier of peasants I'sh ever met! ..'Shept myse-."
Keardwall, who has been drinking heavily for over fifteen minutes, keeleth over, and doth fall asleep.
... ... ... ... ... ...
The next day the four knights set out.
England; a few days later in the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; the hour of the wasp.
After several days of long and hard travel along dusty and ancient trails, amongst dark and sinister forests, and across cold and misty heathlands, the Knights of the Round Table approach the village of Stafford in the middle of the morning. It rises from the drifting morning fog like a ghost village; a small river runs through it. Mud is everywhere: mud, and dirt. A mud farmer passes, pushing mud before him. An dirt harvester grovels about in a bush for some dirt. The distant bell of a body collector on his rounds echoes through the morning silence, which is suddenly broken by a furious cry.
"A witch! A witch!!"
As the band of knights enter the middle of the village of Stafford, they spot a mob of filthy peasants rush towards them, carrying a woman aloft and screaming.
"A witch!! A witch!!!"
The dirty commoners stop before the hygienic knights, recognising their social superiors; recognising the physical form of the natural judge. One, clearly their leader, steps forward.
"Oh knights! We have no knight in our sorry village, for he did try to free us from the terrible tyranny of the Son of the Eel of Stafford and was thusly mauled to shreds. But that is neither here nor there. We have a witch; we desire to burn her! Please, cast for us your wise and knightly judgement, that we may rid ourselves of this foul and deadly burden! Let us knowe what is righte!"
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Edit: deleted extra space in a name. Also, away so no updates for around 3 days, sorry.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 27, 2011, 05:35:38 pm
"Stop what ye're doing, villagers! Consider for yourselves a moment the right path: not guilty until proven innocent, but innocent until proven guilty. What foul thing has this woman done?"
He stops and reconsiders a moment.
"And... if she IS proven a witch... would it not be better for us holy knights of God to see to her death, rather than you humble mud farmers? After all, she may cast a trick, and turn your own fire against you! Beware!"
Of course, Sir Feyman was merely trying to avoid needless slaughter. That is what he was good at, after all. He could care less whether or not this woman cast some dastardly cantrip or mystical incantation. He could probably talk her out of her witchery if it was true, but he didn't believe in witches or magic, other than the holy magic present in God's artifacts here on Earth (such as the grail).
Post by: Sinpwn on October 27, 2011, 06:28:54 pm
Sir Conchobar approaches the maiden and speaks.
"What have ye done to provoke these townsfolk?"
Post by: scriver on October 27, 2011, 07:08:08 pm
Beadocáf orders a peasant to put his shirt on the ground before him so he does not get mud on his armour, and kneels down in silent prayer to the Lord as Godewine reads the blessing.
You are all to valiant! That is not the way of a true Knight of Christ :P
Post by: Yoink on October 28, 2011, 12:03:39 am
"Nay, my friends, we must consult the spleen! Truly blessed by the Lord himself, this revered organ has ne'er lead me afoul in all the many leagues we have traveled alongside one another! Its judgement is without fault! Truly it carries the word of God!"
With one booted foot he shall scrape a line in the dirt, then direct his imposing gaze across towards the suppose 'witch', giving a slight nod towards her. "You, the accused! Choose one side of yon line, and if the judging spleen shall land on the chosen side, ye shall be pronounced innocent! If it should land on the other, thus speaking against you, then plainly the villagers' verdict is correct, and you are indeed a witch!"
Glaring menacingly at anyone who would dare think to question him, Keardwall shall wait til the 'witch' selects a side, then say a quick prayer- "O Mighty Lord, please speak thy Truth though this spleen on this day, and grant us a fraction of thy Wisdom,"- and cast the jar-o'-spleen (Hopefully made of strong glass!) into the air above the line scraped in the dirt. Whichever side it lands on, the innocent or guilty side, is plainly the truth, by word of God.
(...Hopefully this is a good, well-made jar! If it breaks there's gonna be Hell to pay! :P)
Post by: lawastooshort on October 28, 2011, 04:50:43 am
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; five past the hour of the wasp.
Before the cowed and assembled peasantry, Sir Feyman raises his single sword in his single arm, taking position at the front of the group of knights. He doth doubt the wisdom of the eager Sir Keardall.
"Stop what ye're doing, villagers! Consider for yourselves a moment the right path: not guilty until proven innocent, but innocent until proven guilty. What foul thing has this woman done?"
"She hath summoned the Son of the Eel of Stafford, against Saint Gibsbury's sacred will!"
Feyman stops and reconsiders a moment.
"How do you knowe it was she? And... if she IS proven a witch... would it not be better for us holy knights of God to see to her death, rather than you humble mud farmers? After all, she may cast a trick, and turn your own fire against you! Beware!"
Of course, Sir Feyman was merely trying to avoid needless slaughter. That is what he was good at, after all. He couldn't care less whether or not this woman cast some dastardly cantrip or mystical incantation. He could probably talk her out of her witchery if it was true, but he didn't believe in witches or magic, other than the holy magic present in God's artifacts here on Earth such as that for which he quested.
"Beware! She may summon the fire of the Son of the Eel of Stafford!"
Sir Conchobar gruesomely steps forth to support his brother in arms.
"Aye, and let ye not decide on a test that could kill her, be she innocent, or the wrath of the just shall rain down upon ye."
Sir Conchobar approaches the maiden and speaks.
"What have ye done to provoke these townsfolk?"
"She hath summoned the Son of the Eel of Stafford! She doth threaten to summon the fire of the Son of the Eel of Stafford!"
"No! Let her speak for herself!" bellows Conchobar, in increasing irritation.
"Indeed, the least we can do is hear the words of both witch and rabble," begins Sir Beadocáf. "But, we should beware her words, for the words of witches are like worms in your boots - you think you can trust that they are not there, but then suddenly you find your feet all sticky and with worm-squish all over them! Do not put on your allegorical boots that her words are, until we are certain they are not filled with squishy worms! I propose we let my good friend Godewine read a blessing over us before she speaks, so we are protected from the Lureish Words of the Devil's Mouthpiece."
Beadocáf orders one of the peasants to put his shirt on the ground before him so he does not get mud on his armour, and kneels down in silent prayer to the Lord as Godewine reads the blessing.
Next to the reading Godewine, Sir Keardwall sets his jarred spleen upon the muddy ground and kneels beside Sir Beadocáf. His face is thoughtful; his thoughts are on the sanctified holiness of his spleen. As Godewine finishes mumbling his incomprehensible yet holy latin words, Keardwall rises to his feet, and holds the jarred spleen aloft.
"Nay, my friends, we must consult the spleen!", Keardwall proclaims. "Truly blessed by the Lord himself, this revered organ has ne'er lead me afoul in all the many leagues we have traveled alongside one another! Its judgement is without fault! Truly it carries the word of God!" Before the astonished gaze of the knights, and the rapt onlooking peasantry, who love this kind of thing, Keardwall scrapes a line in the filth with his booted foot, and stares imposingly at the accused.
"You, the accused! Choose one side of yon line, and if the judging spleen shall land on the chosen side, ye shall be pronounced innocent! If it should land on the other, thus speaking against you, then plainly the villagers' verdict is correct, and you are indeed a witch!"
As the witch, puzzled but unquestioning, chooses a side, Keardwall utters a quick prayer for the guidance of God.
"O Mighty Lord, please speak thy Truth though this spleen on this day, and grant us a fraction of thy Wisdom."
The witch chooses the left. Keardwall casts the jar into the air and awaits God's judgement.
... ... ... ... ... ...
The jar doth smash apart [1] upon the centre [4] of the line!
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Zako on October 28, 2011, 06:08:34 am
Post by: freeformschooler on October 28, 2011, 07:16:08 am
Sir Feyman grows impatient. He waits for the witch to speak, but urges the townsfolk to not do anything hasty!
Post by: Yoink on October 28, 2011, 07:22:57 am
Sir Keardwall stands stunned for a moment, eyes wide in horror, then he darts fowards and drops to his knees with a clatter, scrabbling in the dirt to cradle his treasured, blessed and dirt-crusted spleen like a newborn child.
All 'judgement' of the accused woman is forgotten in the wake of this tragedy.
"Alas! My dearest spleen, forgive me!" He turns his eyes skyward, his stony, fearsome exterior cracking to reveal the sad, watery eyes and quivering lip of a small child who's just had their favourite toy torn from them, "God, how have I angered you so?! Whatever have I done, to deserve such a fate? Tell me!! Have I failed you, O Lord? Why?! Why take him, and not I?! Please, forgive me, God..."
Then he gets to his feet, an ugly, grim expression coming over his face as he wipes away the snot and tears with the back of a gauntlet. "Bring me a jar, you worthless curs! Preferably with pickles or such in! Do not simply stand there, lest I flay the worthless hide from your backs!"
He then glares with righteous fury at both 'witch' and peasants, clutching his spleen protectively in one bulky, armoured arm as he draws his sword with the other. His voice is filled with venom, and his hairy brows almost meet in an angry frown as he bellows,
"Guilty!! You're all guilty! Every one! Every last one!! Aaaaaaghhh!!"
He rushes at the crowd with a cry of anguish, flailing indiscriminately with the flat of his blade and iron-shod boot with all the fury of the Good Olde English Oxe. "Get ye back to your hovels! Don't dawdle, or in the name of the King you shall not have legs to get on!"
You could say he really... Vents his spleen. *Ba-dum tishh*
Post by: Zako on October 28, 2011, 08:00:56 am
Post by: Sinpwn on October 28, 2011, 03:40:04 pm
Post by: scriver on October 28, 2011, 04:08:27 pm
Beadocáf decides to not hang around while Sir Keardwall exacts God's Righteous Justice upon the peasants, and follows Conchobar into the village instead. DEUS VULT!
Post by: lawastooshort on October 31, 2011, 04:02:27 pm
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; six past the hour of the wasp.
Time seems to slow as Keardwall's spleen-jar shatters in the dirt, smashing into tiny pieces as the Holy Spleen bounces away and rolls to a stop in a small puddle.
"Townsfolk," begins Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, "Let us not be hasty; let the witch speak."
"She's a witch! She's a witch! Burn her! He said she's a witch! Burn her! Burn her!!" cry the villagers, seizing on Feyman's ill-judged slip, "Let's burn her to the ground!"
A look of impatient frustration briefly crosses Feyman's face and he crosses his arms, until he suddenly notices Sir Keardwall, Lord of Castle Lombard dart forward. He sighs, and wonders if he should restrain him, but it's too late. Much too late.
In a flash, Keardwall is on his knees, his armour clattering as he scrabbles about in the dirt like one of the peasant mud-farmers, snatching at his fallen spleen, filth-encrusted, treasured, blessed and tasked with aiding the Search for the Holy Grail by God Himself. Keardwall holds his spleen above him as if seeking redemption for his first-born, his eyes fixed directly on heaven itself as the quivering lips and wettening eyes of a small child burst through his stony warrior's exterior. The brave knight is overcome with despair.
"Alas! My dearest spleen, forgive me! God, how have I angered you so?! Whatever have I done, to deserve such a fate? Tell me!! Have I failed you, O Lord? Why?! Why take him, and not I?! Please, forgive me, God..."
When he rises back to his feet, a grim and accursed-seeming expression takes over his face as snot and tears drain over the back of his armoured fist.
"Bring me a jar, you worthless curs! Preferably with pickles or such in! Do not simply stand there, lest I flay the worthless hide from your backs!"
He holds his spleen in one hand, and draws his sword with the other, glaring righteously at the peasant mob cowering and fearful in view of the desecrated relic before them. He sports but a single frownsome brow, and his bellowing voice is venomous with anger as he rushes the offending crowd.
"Guilty!! You're all guilty! Every one! Every last one!! Aaaaaaghhh!!"
Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Lord of Castle Lombard, falls upon both peasants and witch in a state of hysterical anguish, flailing at all within reach with the flat of his sword and the iron tip of his boot as if overtaken by the spirit of a furious English Ox!
"Get ye back to your hovels! Don't dawdle, or in the name of the King you shall not have legs to get on!"
Alas! He doth strike one peasant so hard [6] that his face doth explode! He is struck down!
... ... ... ... ... ...
Before the rising madness of Sir Keardwall, his companion Sir Conchobar can do nothing. He raises an armoured palm to his helmeted face in quiet resignation and heads to the village to find something interesting.
"Truly, God Saw and Judged all equally, as his Holy Messager the Spleen of Omnitruth has shown us. I have no desire to see the wrath of a wronged knight exacted harshly upon some God-cursed peasant. Hold firm, good Conchobar," says Sir Beadocáf as he signs the Cross upon his chest, "For I too would rather see the village than these villagers. It may be God's Righteous Justice delivered by a Righteous Knight, but I have no need to see it."
... ... ... ... ... ...
The two knights walk along into the lower part of the village; that which adjoins the river of Staff, there where can be found the ford of Staff. Perhaps they were not paying adequate attention to what lay ahead, distracted as they were by the sounds of sword slapping skin and boot crushing crotch that wafted down from Keardwall's Holy Justice; perhaps the man who steps out before them has some strange and ethereal power beyond their ken. It matters not: he speaks.
"Hail, Brave Knights! Yon friend doth disgrace himself, above in the village square, and badly. A spleen is to be valued greatly, but is one spleen worth a manne's life? Is one spleen worth the bad name that shall fall upon your lord King Arthur should word of this strange possession spread beyond the borders of our parish? For indeed, your friend is unashamedly possessed by the spirit of Divine Justice, but in doing so he hath cut down an innocent! In doing so he hath not responded to the needful cry of the manne who doth work the land to serve him! He hath not judged the witch! And he hath killed an innocent mud-gatherer! Who shall gather mud now for this manne's wife? Who shall pile filth high for this manne's child? Who?!"
The old man spreads his arms wide about him, nearly as wide as his shining eyes.
"There is but one way to buy back the honour that your comrade has cost you! You must rid the Village of Stafford of the Terrible Son of the Eel of Stafford!"
He points to where the river runs past; his finger follows the river along and stops at the ford.
"It lieth within!"
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
edit: noticed a bad space.
Post by: freeformschooler on October 31, 2011, 04:07:17 pm
Post by: Sinpwn on October 31, 2011, 08:33:15 pm
Post by: scriver on November 01, 2011, 06:02:02 am
With these words, he follows Conchobar towards the ford.
Latin is silly. I make my own Latin!
Post by: Yoink on November 01, 2011, 07:06:16 am
"By God, I have taken the life of an innocent! A harmless, innocent worker of the land, a good, honest fellow, and not some smelly foreigner! All for the sake of an, admittedly Holy, spleen! I have broken my vows to uphold the King's law, and become..." His eyes widen, "...No better than the enemies we fight."
He shall turn to the nearest villager, raising his palms outwards, "Please! I must at least try to compensate this poor man's family for my misdeed! Certainly, perhaps yon peasants may breed like rabbits, but such does not mean one can simply walk around taking out one's rage upon them! Alas, I of course cannot bring him back, nor repair the damage I have done to mine knightly reputation, but 'tis something I must do."
Sir Keardwall the Smiter of Innocents shall ask directions to the dead man's
With that done, he will return to grab up both sword and spleen and re-join his comrades, full of sorrow at what he's done.
"My companions, I can imagine what thou art thinking, and in truth I am also: That I have become some kind of terrible monster! Indeed, I have done a terrible thing, but I shall endeavour to redeem myself in the name of the Lord in my service to our quest. I beg of thee, allow me to fight this beast, this 'Son of the Eel of Stafford', one-on-one! I must do penace, and if I should fall, then plainly 'tis merely the manifestation of God's anger at my deeds!"
He shall hold his head high, his grim countenace full of sorrow, and prepare to fight the fiend in single combat, thus (hopefully) redeeming himself in the name of the Lord, restoring his reputation and proving himself worthy of this Quest once more!
Post by: lawastooshort on November 01, 2011, 08:38:34 am
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; eleven past the hour of the wasp.
Running out of patience before Sir Keardwall’s vengeful outburst, Sir Feyman dashes into the melee, grabbing the witch one-handed about the waist and running off towards the other knights [6], who are preparing to face the Son of the Eel of Stafford to restore King Arthur’s honour. Suddenly he remembers to put her down.
”My goode knight! How can I ever repay you? Please, let me join your service, until I have repaid my life’s debt to you. I begge of thee!”
Retainer Acquired! Melga the Possible Witch!
… … … … … …
Back in the village square, Sir Keardwall slowly comes to his senses, and with a slight groan of horror he lets his sword drop from his trembling fingers. He stares about the filthy square, and then rests eyes fixed upon the muddy corpse of the deceased dirt-farmer, a limp heap in the muck which was once his life’s work.
"Good Lord, what have I done? By God, I have taken the life of an innocent! A harmless, innocent worker of the land, a good, honest fellow, and not some smelly foreigner! All for the sake of an, admittedly Holy, spleen! I have broken my vows to uphold the King's law, and become..." – and here Keardwall’s eyes widen with sorrow, regret, and shame – "... no better than the enemies we fight."
Palms raised outwards, he turns to the nearest villager, beseeching their forgiveness.
"Please! I must at least try to compensate this poor man's family for my misdeed! Certainly, perhaps yon peasants may breed like rabbits, but such does not mean one can simply walk around taking out one's rage upon them! Alas, I of course cannot bring him back, nor repair the damage I have done to mine knightly reputation, but 'tis something I must do."
Sir Keardwall the Stony Smiter of Filthy Innocents cries to the mob before him to direct him to the dead peasant’s abode, and as they do he lifts the body before him, and carries the mud-soaked corpse through the streets. His head hands in shame as he reaches the door of the departed. He places the corpse upon the floor and knocks.
The man’s widow opens; she doth see the corpse! She doth wail!
Keardwall kneels and crosses himself before her, confessing his crime and admitting his shame and his sorrow.
“Please,” he says, “I did not mean to cost you your husband and your household’s only source of income; I will regret my actions for the rest of my days. Take my second castle as some form of compensation: perhaps it will provide enough for you and your doubtless numerous children.”
The widow looks down at the deed to Castle Lombard that Keardwall holds out, and accepts the kindly gesture [5]. She turns her head over her shoulder and screams out:
”Come on kids! We be moving house! We’ve hit the jackpot!”
She steps over the body lying in the doorway and walks out of the village, a line of children following behind her.
Title Lost! No longer Lord of Castle Lombard!
Item Lost! Castle Lombard!
… … … … … …
Feyman arrives just in time to hear Sir Conchobar, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh turn towards the ford and address the old man.
"We shall destroy this fiend, but on the condition that you put this foolish witch trial business behind you and leave the judging to the righteous,” speaks Conchobar, “And do not speak such foul heresies of the Holy Spleen of Sir Keardwall, or you may find yourself in a similar situation to that of which a certain maiden of questionable morals has found herself in. Carried off by Sir Feyman the Judging, it seems. Anyway."
Sir Conchobar seeks the agreement of his fellows before heading off to the fearsome ford. Sir Beadocáf, for one, roundly agrees; upon fulfillment of a certain condition.
"Indeed I will go to slay this vile Eely Bastarde, but I travel only with my long-time friend Godwine of Norwhyche, who is but a scholar and nay a Warrior. To do this task, I require of you to provide me with a squire, ad utrumque paratus, both strong, and brave, and clever. Coniunctis viribus Deus vincit! We go now to investigate the ford, and I expect the squire-to-be to join us as soon as possible, for if we are not attacked by then, we will be seeking this Childe of the Eel ourselves post prandium, when the sun starts its decline."
”A squire my goode knight? I am sure [6] that some kindly orphan can be found! I will make haste and seek out the son of the sergeant of the guard without delay: his father was slain by this very same foul eel but the other week, and will need a male role model in his life, or something!”
Retainer Acquired! Hagley the Squire!
The old man turns to dash off, and runs straight into the arriving Keardwall.
… … … … … …
"My companions,” wails this latter, “I can imagine what thou art thinking, and in truth I am also: That I have become some kind of terrible monster! Indeed, I have done a terrible thing, but I shall endeavour to redeem myself in the name of the Lord in my service to our quest. I beg of thee, allow me to fight this beast, this 'Son of the Eel of Stafford', one-on-one! I must do penace, and if I should fall, then plainly 'tis merely the manifestation of God's anger at my deeds!"
He holds his head high, stony features chiseled into sorrow, and prepares himself to fight the Son of the Eel of Stafford in single combat to redeem himself, to restore his honour, and prove himself worth of continuing the God-granted Quest for the Holy Grail.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the ford of Stafford; twenty to the hour of the swallow.
Three knights and three further onlookers stand about in the early evening, a short distance from the ford of Stafford, which doth ford the river Staff. They are watching Sir Keardwall, once Lord of Castle Lombard, now but a shadow of his former glory, ready himself for single combat with the son of one of the most dangerous eels that the age has known: the Eel of Stafford.
As the brave and contrite knight kneels in prayer for the Lord’s guidance and protection in the grim task ahead, suddenly the Son of the Eel of Stafford doth strike! It leaps fully five feet from the water’s edge: it flies towards Keardwall’s left eye! As it is about to make contact Keardwall ducks to one side, and the vicious eel sends itself flying over his shoulder where it smacks into the ground below. Each combatant turns to face the other.
Keardwall quickly draws his sword and aims a blow at the Son of the Eel of Stafford’s head: it wriggles away! It jumps back off the ground, and flies towards Keardwall’s chest, and the two worthy fighters fall to the ground as they wrestle each other in the watery filth: but it is not so watery as to yet give the eel the advantage.
After some minutes Keardwall wrests the eel from his armoured breast and throws it to the floor, where he strives to crush it beneath his boot, but the eel slips away into the rushing water to regain the upper hand. Keardwall chases after him! The eel is out of sight however, within seconds, diving beneath the raging torrent and swimming about between Keardwall’s heavy armoured boots. He thinks he catches a glance; he stomps his foot! He smashes his heel! He misses the slippery bastardly eel!
With a deafening howl of terrifying and bestial wrath, the eel leaps out of the water four yards from Keardwall, and flies directly at his stony face! Sir Keardwall parries the eel with a sword that moves as swift as an eagle, drawing his blade from low to high as he splits the eel in two! The eel’s tail flies off to the right! The eel’s head flies off to the left! The still living head bites off Sir Keardwall’s knee! It gnaweth upon it in a foul and excruciating manner! Keardwall gasps in pain!
There is but one course of action left for Keardwall to follow: he yanks off the nearly severed knee to which the half-eel is now attached, and he strikes it hard upon a nearby rock! The Son of the Eel of Stafford is smited to smithereens! Its brain is as papier-mâché sodden and crushed by the rain and strewn about! Keardwall is victorious!
Great Pain Acquired! Thine knee has been gnawed upon!
Item Lost! Left leg below the knee!
Title Acquired! Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Destroyer of the Son of the Eel of Stafford, Terror of the West!
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on November 01, 2011, 10:27:16 am
"I think..." He mutters, mostly to himself, "I think that I shall need not one, but two new jars..."
Then he shall set aside the leg, sheath his sword and drop to his knees, as painful as that may be, and commence to praying.
"Dear Lord above, I thank thee for granting me the strength to slay this beast, thus saving this long-suffering village from its clutches! Leg or no leg, I shall take this as a sign, that I am to continue on this Holy Quest in thy name, and no matter how many limbs it may cost me, I shall have success! Amen!"
With that done, he will attempt to stand, possibly using his sword as a crutch if necessary, though he is loathe to sully his blade so. Gritting his teeth to hide the pain, he will gather up both leg and spleen before heading back village-wards, pausing to say to his fellows, "I must find a jar or two, it seems. Then we shall continue onwards," and to the old man and whichever other villagers are present,
"I can only hope that the death of this foul creature has redeemed myself somewhat in your eyes. But hear this," He shall wear his most impressive, powerful expression as he says this, looking off over the horizon, "From this day I shall not rest until I and my noble companions have recovered the Holy Grail, restoring the great King Arthur's power and extending his benevolent, God-Given rule to enchance the lives of all good villagefolk such as thyselves!"
With all that speechifying out of the way he shall get a
(Blergh so rambly! Blame... Well, me for being half asleep. :P )
Post by: Sinpwn on November 01, 2011, 02:00:46 pm
Post by: scriver on November 01, 2011, 05:40:32 pm
Hang around and let Godewine take care of the kneeless leg.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 01, 2011, 05:44:58 pm
Sir Feyman follows the group wherever they go next.
Post by: Yoink on November 02, 2011, 04:37:14 am
Sir Keardwall shall allow this Godewine to see to his severed leg, but any signs of malpractice and he shall slap him in the face with the Holy Spleen!
To Sir Feyman, his expression remaining sober despite his companion's praise: "Aye, 'twould seem likely, though I do hope I shall have truly earnt such a grand title. Let us hope that these villagers shall remember me as a hero delivering them from evil, and not a monster just as bad as that I have slain this day!"
Once the doctorin' is finished, he shall insist upon a brief stop at the village tavern before they continue their quest, where he shall cheer himself up with a few tankards of the local brew, as well as buy drinks for any locals in the establisment.
(I just had to post to accept the ministrations of Godewine, and just look how I rambled. :-\ Also: wow, I really didn't expect the whole 'single combat with the terrifying deadly beast' to end well! :o In fact I thought I'd end up back on the wait list. Truly, Keardwall is badass!)
Post by: lawastooshort on November 02, 2011, 05:17:36 am
I really didn't expect the whole 'single combat with the terrifying deadly beast' to end well!
You were quite lucky on two dodges: the first where he would have chewed Keardwall's eye out at the beginning [5], and the second when he nearly bit his face off but he parried and sliced the Eel apart [6]. You did get off lightly, even with a missing knee: luckily it was only the Son and not a fully grown eel. Nevertheless, 'twas quite a feat of arms.
I'll try to update in a few hours.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 02, 2011, 07:53:36 am
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; five to the hour of the swallow.
As Sir Keardwall finishes battering the Son of the Eel of Stafford’s evil and cunning brains out upon a nearby rock, he wobbles for the briefest of seconds, and grunts in pain as he looks down upon his mangled limb.
"I think..." he mutters, mostly to himself, "I think that I shall need not one, but two new jars..."
He places his lower leg down on the watery mud by the riverside, sheaths his sword, and kneels to pray.
… … … … … …
"Dear Lord above, I thank thee for granting me the strength to slay this beast, thus saving this long-suffering village from its clutches! Leg or no leg, I shall take this as a sign that I am to continue on this Holy Quest in thy name, and no matter how many limbs it may cost me, I shall have success! Amen!"
Just as he is about to rise, his companion Conchobar approaches from behind, and heartily slaps him on the back, nearly heartily enough to knock the one and a half legged knight to the floor! But not quite [5]!
"Well done, Keardwall! That feat has surely redeemed you in the eyes of all!"
"Keardwall, EXCELLENT work!” concurs the smiling Sir Feyman, “At this rate, your full title will be a four-scroll masterpiece spoken of by legends when we're done with our adventure!”
"Aye, 'twould seem likely,” modestly admits Keardwall, “Though I do hope I shall have truly earnt such a grand title. Let us hope that these villagers shall remember me as a hero delivering them from evil, and not a monster just as bad as that I have slain this day!"
Gritting his teeth to hide the pain of keeping his balance and of standing up, Keardwall rises to his feet, only to fall flat on his face in the mud [1]. He decides he will have to resort to misusing his blade, and props himself up with it as he gathers his lower leg and spleen in his left hand, keeping himself up with the sword in his right. He decides to head back to the village.
… … … … … …
"I must find a jar or two, it seems. Then we shall continue onwards," says Keardwall to his companions, before turning to the old man and the hundreds of other villagers present, "I can only hope that the death of this foul creature has redeemed me somewhat in your eyes. But hear this," he declares, wearing his most impressive, powerful expression and looking off over the horizon, "from this day I shall not rest until I and my noble companions have recovered the Holy Grail, restoring the great King Arthur's power and extending his benevolent, God-Given rule to enhance the lives of all good villagefolk such as thyselves! I swear it!"
He has barely hopped two steps back towards the village when Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne interrupts his painful march.
"Knight Keardwall, stay thine course for a moment! Before we continue, let Godewine have a look at your wound. He is a scholar of many things, surely he can come up with a treatment."
"Yes... I suppose such could be a could idea,” admits Keardwall, “if I am to effectively continue on this quest. 'Tis not as important perhaps as mine swordarm, but still, a missing leg could cause problems."
As Feyman and Conchobar head with great haste towards the village inn with the olde man, Beadocáf ‘s faithful friend Godewine of Norwhyiche kneels down in the dirt beside Sir Keardwall, and examines his bloody knee while Keardwall holds his Holy Spleen at the ready, so as to be able to bash him about the head with it should any funny business occur. Godewine is able to staunch the bleeding, but it is beyond his surgical skill to replace the severed lower leg – although he tells a tale of a man he once knewe, who did replace his fallen limb with one made of woode and did march about upon it! Perhaps, Sir Keardwall, this could be considered if a suitable piece of woode doth be found in the future?
“Come, Keardwall,” speaks once more Beadocáf the Rotund, “Let us rejoin our companions, who are undoubtedly in the village tavern toasting your success. Let us join them and cheer up your stony visage! ‘Tis but a leg, after all!”
… … … … … …
In the tavern of the village of Stafford, Keardwall enters with Beadocáf and sees Conchobar and Feyman chatting eagerly with the old man at the bar.
“Drinks for every villager present!” declares Keardwall, “Today we mourn not just a lower leg, but a noble peasant who I have unjustly slain. I hope in ridding yon village of this terrible evil, the Son of the Eel of Stafford, that I have in some small measure made up for this unchivalrous error.”
When he is done speaking, Conchobar turns to him and Beadocáf, his face slightly grey and his voice surprisingly low.
“Brothers,” he gruesomely whispers, “drink your fill this night, for on the morrow we must set forth. We must travel to the Cave of Caerbannog: and first we must cross the Wood of Doom! Whilst ye have been doctoring the olde man hath been regaling us with many a tale of the knights who have entered these foul woods, and who have never come out…”
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the village of Stafford; the next day.
After a joyous evening, during which both the spleen and the lower leg of the valiant Keardwall found their way into well made jars of pickling ingredients, the brave four knights awaken to the sound of crowing cockerels and bustling villagers going about their daily business free from the terror of the tyrannical eel. Mud is being farmed at an astonishing speed; peasants are singing as they work. Somewhere in a doorway lies an innocent but now forgotten corpse – for the life of a peasant is cheap – and somewhere in the village sounds a large and ancient drum, beaten upon to give the harvesters their traditional spring rhythm to work to. The morning sun shines, the sky is free of clouds: all is as a new beginning for the once oppressed village.
The magnificent four set forth to the honeyed sound of Crannock’s pleasant voice.
… … … … … …
Sir Keardwall he did lose a limb,
But at least the Eel did not vanquish him,
He strove, he fought, he wrestled, he diced,
The Eel flew at him but then he sliced,
Oh brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Keardwall!
The undead fiend did bite off his knee,
Or at least it has been told thusly to me:
I could not watch nor steal a glance,
I could not bear to risk the chance,
Of seeing such a gruesome sight,
Lest I bring back up my meal from last night;
Oh brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Keardwall!
He freed a village from being oppressed,
And has every right to feel slightly depressed:
He lost his spleen first to the French,
And then gave his castle to an ungrateful wench,
He lost his leg to a terrible eel,
But never once did his fear he reveal;
Oh brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Keardwall!
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Wood of Doom; later the same day.
Not for the first time in their Holy Quest, the four knights find themselves travelling on foot along the sinewy paths that crisscross a dark and foreboding forest. ‘Tis the Wood of Doom in which they march, a Wood which has claimed many a life of many a knight! Shafts of sunlight pierce the dense canopy of tightly packed trees and the path wends first this way and then that, squelching slightly underfoot in the damp ground beneath. Crannock the Minstrel has long since fallen silent, the oppressive atmosphere and the mouldy air sapping his will to express the joy of life through the medium of song. He hums miserably and quietly to himself, hoping for some new questly event to come along for him to turn into legend. Suddenly…
“HALT!”
The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight, the fiercest creature for yards about, hath spoken! It towers above yon Knights of the Round Table!
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on November 02, 2011, 10:30:19 am
Post by: Yoink on November 02, 2011, 04:09:03 pm
"You are the dreaded Three-Headed Knight of yon Wood of Doom?! You are the fiercest creature for yards around?! Pfah! How many yards do I stand away from ye?" He squints at the forest floor between he and the creature for a moment, before looking back, stony features showing derision,
"Looks to me to be about... Twenty or so yards. So then I suppose that makes you the fiercest creature for nineteen yards about!"
With that taunt sent on its way, Sir Keardwall shall attempt to glare the beast into submission, balancing on one leg with various jars of pickled body parts cradled in one arm, the other hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Surrender in the name of King Arthur, and perhaps we shall make like merciful God and forgive the sight of thy ugly heads and let them remain attached to thy shoulders!"
Post by: scriver on November 04, 2011, 05:57:59 am
He pauses, for a moment, studying the three-headed robber knight in front of them. "However, it would be a mockery of God's Justice to allow one man with the wit of three to face only one of us. Therefore, I put forth that each and one of your heads shall face one of our fellowship in turn. Of course, to ensure thou dost not cheat, the two of your heads that are nay in battle must be knocked out. After the first duel is over, the next head will be awoken and have it's turn. I, as a Servant of God, nominate myself as Nonpartisan Referee and Arbiter, to make sure it is all Fair according to God's Will. Now, if you agree to these Terms of Most Valorous and Knightly Wager of Battle, I adjure you thee to choose which one of thine heads to be the first Champion, so that I may knock the two others out with Mine Mace and Holy Fist of God."
((Because why do battle of arms when a battle of wits is so much more fun? :D))
Post by: freeformschooler on November 04, 2011, 08:22:53 am
Feyman raises and lowers his eyebrows in the general direction of the EEEVIL three headed knight several times before speaking.
"Listen buddy. You're not the first roadblock in our quest for the Legitimately Holy Grail, and you won't be the last. This arm here? This arm was lost on scarier foes than thou. I suggest you move over and let us pass!"
Post by: lawastooshort on November 04, 2011, 10:50:32 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Wood of Doom; nearly lunchtime.
Though their loyal retainers trembleth before the mighty Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, the four brave knights trembleth not! They stand tall and defiant before the evil monstrosity that blocks their path. Side by side with Sir Conchobar, Keardwall is surprisingly the first to speak as a fearsome hairy frown adorns his derisive face.
"You are the dreaded Three-Headed Knight of yon Wood of Doom?! You are the fiercest creature for yards around?! Pfah! How many yards do I stand away from ye?" The squinting Keardwall measures the forest floor between him and the creature for a moment before snorting out a laughing conclusion.
"Looks to me to be about... Twenty or so yards. So then I suppose that makes you the fiercest creature for nineteen yards around!"
Viciously taunting the unfortunate beast, the former Lord of Castle Lombard attempts to glare the beast into submission whilst cradling his Exterior Spleen of Omnitruth and his Jarred Leg of Imbalance in his left hand. With the right hand on his sword hilt he lays out his demands.
"Surrender in the name of King Arthur, and perhaps we shall make like merciful God and forgive the sight of thy ugly heads and let them remain attached to thy shoulders!"
Although three heads means three pairs of eyes to receive this fearsome glare the Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom submits not [3]! Indeed, three heads here in fact seems to mean three great mouths with which to laugh and to bellow three hearty “No!”s.
… … … … … …
The music loving Feyman then steps forward, frenziedly manipulating his manly eyebrows.
"Listen buddy. You're not the first roadblock in our quest for the Legitimately Holy Grail, and you won't be the last. This arm here? This arm was lost on scarier foes than thou. I suggest you move over and let us pass!"
“Foes scarier than I? Er, than us? That cannot be! The Holy Grail? I care n- er we care not for such trifling matters! You cannot threaten us with your manic eyebrows and your missing arm! You cannot pass! ‘T’would be easier for a rotund man to pass through the eye of a herring than for a mere knight to pass through the Wood of Doom in which we stand guard!”
… … … … … …
After another failed attempt at submission [3], it is left to the fearsomely gruesome Sir Conchobar, Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh lest we forget, to glare uglily at the three mighty heads. He wields Fiddles at the Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, summoning all his disgusting ugliness as hard as he can.
"Foolish abomination, we outnumber your heads at a rate of... Uhh... Um... At least four to one! What say ye, fiend?!"
“Pfah! You threaten us [6], knight? Then let us fight! Show us our foolishness, if you so believe it to be so! Fight us in single combat! Fight us or halt!”
Seeing his companion hastily begin to ready Fiddles for battle, Sir Beadocáf steps forth, glancing at the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight before proudly proclaiming:
"Nay, I say, we are the Chosen Knights-Errant of King Arthur and the Lord, and we halt for none but the righteous! If thou - or ye - art insistent on standing in our way, I believe this matter must certainly be solved by Holy Trial by Combat, whereby God will favour the Knight in Right!" Beadocáf pauses to study the three-headed robber knight before him.
"However, it would be a mockery of God's Justice to allow one man with the wit of three to face only one of us as you propose. Therefore, I put forth that each and every one of your heads shall face one of our fellowship in turn. Of course, to ensure thou dost not cheat, the two of your heads that are nay in battle must be knocked out. After the first duel is over, the next head will be awoken and have its turn. I, as a Servant of God, nominate myself as Nonpartisan Referee and Arbiter, to make sure it is all Faire according to God's Will. Now, if you agree to these Terms of Most Valorous and Knightly Wager of Battle, I adjure you to choose which one of thine heads to be the first Champion, so that I may knock the two others out with Mine Mace and Holy Fist of God."
The mighty Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom agrees [6]!
“But! As it is now yon party that is the challenger, and your terms that we accept, it is we that shall choose the weapon! And we pick… an item from yon fruit basket!” The mighty Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom motions towards a hitherto unnoticed and tastefully arranged fruit basket positioned on a nearby tree stump.
“Choose your first challenger, and choose your first fruit! Ye shall not pass, with honour or without! Our centre head shall fight first: and shall choose a prune! Beware!”
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on November 04, 2011, 10:56:41 am
"I shall challenge the center head! And for my fruit, my weapon of choice, I shall choose the very most deadly fruit of all..."
He then reached into the fruit basket, and plucked out the spiniest, scariest fruitweapon he could find:
"A pineapple!"
Post by: Taricus on November 04, 2011, 10:59:01 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 04, 2011, 11:06:02 am
Use the self defense against fruit! just kill him!
IT IS ONLY HONORABLE TO FIGHT DUEDLY FRUITARMS WITH DUEDLY FRUITARMS.
(http://img.ie/b0903.png)
Post by: Zako on November 04, 2011, 12:41:23 pm
Post by: Yoink on November 04, 2011, 02:24:51 pm
He patted one palm on the trusty sword sheathed at his side, staring in disbelief as Sir Feyman approached the challenger(s). "Why, this is madness! Whomsoever heard of something so ridiculous as a Knightly Trial by fruit?" He addresses the three-headed foe, "Are ye too much of a coward to face us blade-to-blade, knowing that ye would end such a contest with thy head count decreased by not one, nor two, but three?"
Sir Keardwall's craggy features twitch, into something that could possibly be a smirk, and he
"Ah yes, the pineapple! Good choice, Sir Feyman! Now, wielding such a grand fruit, I suggest thou does attempt to hold it by the green scraggly bit," He gestures to the leaves of the pineapple, "Then swing, and bash yon fiend over the center head with it."
With that he nods sobrely to Sir Feyman, wishes him good luck and
(And yeah, this should be epic! 'Pineapple, I choose you!' :D )
Post by: Sinpwn on November 04, 2011, 02:39:36 pm
"DURIAN! THE KING OF FRUIT!!!"
He then wandered off to look for some small animals to practice on.
Post by: Ultimuh on November 04, 2011, 04:16:28 pm
Sure it's not from Monty Python, but it SHOULD work, or not.. depending on the GM's mood. :P
Post by: scriver on November 04, 2011, 06:29:53 pm
Bring down the mace upon their unguarded heads. Don't hold back.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 05, 2011, 09:49:20 am
Spoiler: THIS IS GONNA BE GREAT (click to show/hide)
Post by: lawastooshort on November 07, 2011, 08:35:25 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Wood of Doom; lunchtime.
Once the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom laid down their fearsome challenge, the fearless Sir Feyman stepped forward! He ground his teeth inwardly at Beatacalf’s scheming cowardice, but outwardly grinned at the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom’s conceit: Feyman would take him down!
"I shall challenge the centre head! And for my fruit, my weapon of choice, I shall choose the very most deadly fruit of all..."
He then reached into the fruit basket, and plucked out the spiniest, scariest fruitweapon he could find:
"A pineapple!"
The centre head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom shrank back in slight terror!
… … … … … …
Beside the fearless Feyman, Sir Keardwall looks puzzled, indeed almost offended as he watches the proceedings, patting one palm on the trusty sword sheathed at his side, and staring in disbelief as Sir Feyman approaches the challenger(s).
"...Fruit? We shall fight with fruit?! Why, this is madness! Whosoever heard of something so ridiculous as a Knightly Trial by fruit?" Keardwall begins, his keen knightly sensibilities outraged, "Are ye too much of a coward to face us blade-to-blade, knowing that ye would end such a contest with thy head count decreased by not one, nor two, but three?"
As Sir Keardwall smirks forward on one leg, he offers some pertinent advice to Sir Feyman on his approaching fruitduel, seeing as he is an expert in all forms of martial combat, including* cleaving foes with his sword, punching foreigners into walls, inadvertently slaying with his internal organs, and of course toppling armies with pieces of fruit.
*(but not limited to)
"Ah yes, the pineapple! Good choice, Sir Feyman! Now, wielding such a grand fruit, I suggest thou dost attempt to hold it by the green scraggly bit," and with this Keardwall gestures to the leaves of the pineapple, "Then swing, and bash yon fiend over the centre head with it. Should be rather simple really, eh what?"
Keardwall pivots on his remaining leg and hobbles back towards his other companions, stumbling to a stop by Sir Beadocáf to thoughtfully ask in a lowered and almost reverent voice as he fishes about in his jar of leg,
"Tell me my learned companion; doth a gherkin count as a fruit or as a vegetable?"
… … … … … …
Whilst Beadocáf and Keardwall ponder the question of the gherkin, Sir Conchobar strides purposefully to the fruit basket and strokes his chin.
He triumphantly holds above his head his choice.
"HAIL DURIAN! THE KING OF FRUIT!!!"
Ever the professional, Conchobar briefly kneels in prayer before wandering off for some practice with his new weapon.
… … … … … …
As a small vole flies past them and lands with a violent thud a few feet away, Sir Feyman and the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight approach each other. Beadocáf steps up.
"Now, if ye who will not be fighting the first duel wouldst be so kind and remove your helmets and bow, so that I, as Nonpartisan Referee and Arbiter, may deliver a Brutal Smack of Fairness unto your non-combatant heads with mine mace, we shall begin the first duel. Deo gratias, Dominus vobiscum, et hoc genus omne."
A distance away in the undergrowth there is a loud smash and the screech of a smitten squirrel.
The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight kneels, and the left and the right hands remove the helmets from the left and the right heads in preparation for the forthcoming combat. Beadocáf unsheathes his mace.
Upon the left head Beadocáf doth unleash a Brutal Smack [4]: the left head is knocked out! He proceeds to the other side of the combatant, and delivers a Blow of Fairness unto the right head [4]. The right head is also rendered unconscious! With parity installed and one man with one head ready to fight one man with one head, the Knightly Trial by fruit can commence!
Somewhere in a bush nearby a pigeon shrieks its last shriek as Conchobar’s preparatory rampage continues.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Wood of Doom; five past the hour of lunch.
In a small and idyllic clearing amongst the fell trees of the Wood of Doom Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, stands face to face and some fifteen feet away from the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, its centre head flanked by two heads rendered unconscious by Sir Beadocáf’s Parity Enforcing Mace of Justice. Not far away gently tinkles the delicate water of a dainty stream, and on the side of the clearing which receives the afternoon sunlight a small meadow is starting its springtime bloom: the leaves on the trees encircling this most Holy Duel are beginning to take on their full aspect of glorious English greenery. On a tree stump to one side of the clearing stands a tastefully arranged fruit basket.
All is reverentially silent, but for the terrified howl of a nearby mouse, and the triumphant shout of the pursuing Sir Conchobar, who is learning to wield his durian with terrible effect.
Sir Beadocáf’s manly voice booms through the reverential near-silence.
“Ready?!”
Sir Feyman nods. A third of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom does likewise.
Feyman draws his pineapple. His foe unsheathes his prune.
Spoiler: In the Red Corner (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Feyman’s advance (click to show/hide)
As the two fighters rush towards each other, the near-silence is once again broken.
“Go on Feyman! Just kill him! Use thine self defence against fruit!” shouts one of the onlookers.
[Init Sir Feyman vs the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom: 2 vs 4]
Sir Feyman bravely rushes forth, brandishing his pineapple about his head by the green scraggly bit – but alas! Before he can strike the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight, this latter thrusts forward with his deadly prune! Yet it slips from his grasp [1]! The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight stumbles!
Seizing his chance, the intrepid Feyman brings his pineapple crashing down upon the head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight with righteous vigor [6]. ‘Tis quite a stunning [3+1] wound! The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight doth reel! But he is made of stern stuff, and is not yet ready to yield. He bends down to pick up his prune: and Feyman the Paragon of Chivalry allows him with knightly grace!
[Init Sir Feyman vs the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom: 5 vs 3 (utilising Chivalry based initiative reroll!)]
The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight lumbers forward for a second pass, but nimble Sir Feyman is quicker: he crushes the pineapple upon his foe’s head. The pineapple is ripped apart! Feyman is at the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight’s terrible mercy [1]!
With the menacing prune held close to his face, the unarmed Feyman yields to the multiheaded monstrosity before him, and dejectedly walks back to the watching knights. He avoids their gaze and inspects his shoes.
Chivalry Decreased! -1
… … … … … …
Adhering to the agreed upon rules of the duel, Sir Beadocáf sadly splashes water on the left head to revive him, before proceeding to the knocking out of the centre head, which he does, just after the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight issues his fiery challenge.
“So! I have defeated the first: it is 1-0 to us! Bring forth yon next challenger, and I shall defeat him too!”
Just then Sir Conchobar appears from out of the nearby undergrowth in pursuit of a fox and hears the challenge. He stops his pursuit to discuss with Keardwall the order in which they should fight: the decision goes Sir Conchobar’s way! He steps up, and holds his durian firmly in front of him, although not so firmly as to pierce his own hands with the mighty thorns. Before Conchobar stands once again the Dreaded and Thus-Far Victorious Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom.
[Init Sir Conchobar vs the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom: 1 vs 4]
The brave Three-Headed Knight is not afraid of the durian, and rushes forth to engage with Sir Conchobar, successfully avoiding any sight of his hideous face! He strikes at Conchobar with the prune, aiming a deadly blow at the Knight of the Round Table’s eyes [4], but Conchobar ducks aside, flatfooting the Three-Headed foe and enabling a ferocious blow to the face of the left head [6]. It is split asunder [6+1]! The Dreaded Three-Headed Knight is knocked to the ground! The impact awakens the right and central heads! They are furious with unrighteous anger!
Title Acquired: Sir Conchobar the Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, Splitter of the Left Head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom!
With both heads awake and their vanquisher kneeling in prayer, the knavish Two-Headed Knight storms towards Sir Conchobar, hoping to catch him unawares, whirling the prune in a vicious and deadly circle about his heads.
Hearing and turning, Sir Conchobar quickly raises his durian above him to protect himself from the awful prune, but the blows that rain down are so furious and powerful that it is soon swatted aside! Conchobar is still upon his praying knees as the horrible Two-Headed Knight brings his prune down in one last terrible blow when suddenly Sir Keardwall intervenes: he hurls his gherkin at the dastardly Two-Headed Knight [5].
Pickled with the finest spices in Christendom, the gherkin flies straight and true [6]. It pierces both of the Two-Headed Knight’s heads! Its skulls are battered! Its brains are sliced apart! The monstrosity is struck down! The Two-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom’s lifeless body crashes to the ground!
Sir Conchobar once again kneels in prayer.
Title Acquired: Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Destroyer of the Son of the Eel of Stafford, Terror of the West, and Slayer of the Two-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom!
… … … … … …
It is shortly after lunchtime, in England, during the Dark Ages. The Cave of Caerbannog is rumoured to lie but half a day’s march ahead, and in it the brave Knights of the Round Table hope to discover the location of the Holy Grail. Having just defeated the Terrible Two-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, they regroup to discuss their next move.
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Edit: Gosh, I've just realised how long that is. Sorry!
Post by: Sinpwn on November 07, 2011, 09:43:54 am
"I thank ye, Sir Keardwall. Without your timely aid, that dastardly fiend would game made a fine mess of me. I believe we should head to The Cave of Caerbannog, as it is not far and may hold the secrets for finding the Grail."
Post by: freeformschooler on November 07, 2011, 09:49:53 am
Sir Feyman, imbued with newfound trust for Keardwall and Conchobar, pats both of them on the back. "Well done, my friends, well done! Truly, there is nothing that can make short work of us as long as we're together,"
Feyman also agrees with Conchobar as to the next path.
Post by: scriver on November 07, 2011, 09:51:18 am
Post by: Yoink on November 07, 2011, 06:19:10 pm
So saying, he shall briefly kneel in prayer, thanking his Lord for granting him the strength and speed to slay the Two-Headed knave, and then he rises, jars tucked under one arm, and nods to the others, his stony face turned grim. "Yes, onwards! 'Tis an enormous task before us!"
And yes, good Lord that was hilarious! :D
Post by: lawastooshort on November 08, 2011, 03:30:22 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Wood of Doom; half past lunchtime.
The four brave Knights of the Round Table kneel, united in Holy Prayer to the God who has sent them on their sacred quest. It is a prayer of thanks, and a prayer of victory: for the lifeless corpse of the knavish Two-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom lies before them; and about them lies yet another swathe of English countryside liberated from evil and restored to the benevolent rule of King Arthur, King of the Britons. Finishing their prayer, Sir Beadocáf stands with the decisiveness of a true man of heroic action.
"Onwards!"
More thoughtfully, Sir Conchobar turns to Sir Keardwall.
"I thank ye, Sir Keardwall. Without your timely aid, that dastardly fiend would game made a fine mess of me. I believe we should head to the Cave of Caerbannog, as it is not far and may hold the secrets for finding the Grail. There are rumoured to lie within various and many terrible dangers, and though I fear the wrath of God for my pride, I fear not these terrible dangers."
"Ah, 'twas nothing, my friend," says Sir Keardwall with his knightly modesty, going to pluck the victorious and brain-splattered gherkin from the ground and plop it back into its jar. "Truly the Lord guided mine aim, and gave strength to the throw."
Feyman rises, and agrees with Conchobar, patting he and Keardwall on the back.
"Well done, my friends, well done! Truly, there is nothing that can make short work of us as long as we're together: I fear these terrible dangers no more than thee! Keardwall, are you ready to press ahead?"
"Yes, onwards!” nods the stony faced knight, with his jars tucked under his arm, “'Tis an enormous task before us!"
… … … … … …
The knights press ahead. As they venture further into the Wood of Doom, and nearer the foothills of the Mountain of Evil, the weather closes in, and the temperature drops. A bitter chill strikes the heart of the knights and their retinues as they begin to wonder exactly what creature of terror must have given this mountain its name; it has been some time since the song of Crannock the Minstrel has been heard. It has been some time since the sunlight broke through the canopy overhead, and it has been longer still that the adventuring group have been trudging onwards and upwards. The Cave of Caerbannog is clearly not as close as the old Welsh rumours say.
Rain sets in: the knights trudge on. Their thighs begin to ache with the effort of pushing their heavy arms and armour up the ever increasing gradient; their sodden clothes begin to hang about their bodies, offering no protection against the ever increasing wind piercing them through with cold. The path seems to thin, then, barely minutes later, seems to vanish entirely. The noise of the wind becomes almost as chilling as its cold, a savage howling about the ears that pierces the heart of even the bravest knight. It is close to nightfall. Lightning cracks overhead.
Suddenly the way before them seems to level out! In the near-dark, a castle looms out of the trees. The lights within shine brightly through the various windows! There is shelter from the storm!
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on November 08, 2011, 05:06:32 am
He will head up to this castle, bang upon the door/drawbridge and shout out to any gatekeepers, "Hark! Open up! We are friends, Knights of the great King Arthur out upon a quest for the Holy Grail! We seek shelter from this bleak
He shall stand there, straight-backed and resolute despite the rain seeping into his precious jars, awaiting a response.
Post by: scriver on November 08, 2011, 05:58:35 am
Follow Keardwall up to the castle and greet it's inhabitants. "Pax tibi, advenus amic!"
More mangled Latin :D
Post by: Sinpwn on November 08, 2011, 06:47:49 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 08, 2011, 07:21:14 am
Post by: lawastooshort on November 08, 2011, 11:14:52 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Mountain of Evil; nearly dinner time.
"Aha, friends! Yon castle shall offer us a warm berth out of the storm!" squints Sir Keardwall, pointing up at the castle ahead, "Whoever resides within will of course have no objections to sheltering four Knights of King Arthur, out upon a Holy Quest as we are! Come, let us make haste, we shall eat well this
His plan is greeted with approval.
"A fine idea, good Sir Keardwall,” declares Sir Beadocáf, “Truly we need food, and drink, and rejuvenation, and mine squire needs to polish mine mighty boot before it rusts! Pax tibi, advenus amic!" added the learned knight.
"Aye! Onwards, lads!" echoed the gruffer Sir Conchobar, “A victory such as that which we have just won deserves a rest and a feast: I demand to have both!”
Already making his way forth, Sir Feyman doesn’t even stop to reply.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Anthrax; dinner time.
After another endless slog towards the castle in the pouring rain, with the wind whistling past their ears and a wolf howling in the distance, the knights struggle to the vast oaken door of the castle before them. From the stone above shine windows lit from within by roaring fires; across the walls floats the inviting smell of roasting boars. Keardwall pounds upon the door with his armoured fist.
"Hark! Open the door! Open the door! We are friends, Knights of the great King Arthur out upon a quest for the Holy Grail! We seek shelter from this bleak
He stands there, straight-backed and resolute despite the rain seeping into his precious jars. The great door creaks open, and the tired and one legged Keardwall falls unresolutely onto the stone floor before his companions can hold him upright. Looking up, he sees the faces of three young women dressed all in white. They are eager to greet the knights.
“Hello! Hello! Welcome, gentle knights, to Castle Anthrax!”
“Castle Anthrax?” The learned Sir Beadocáf is first to reply, in a confused tone, “Not sure I’ve heard of that one before.”
The spokeslady seems disappointed.
“I know… It’s not a very good name, is it?” She brightens, and looks once again at the valiant knights before her. “Oh, but we are nice! And we will attend to your every need!”
“Do you have a feast?” asks Beadocáf, feeling quite un-rotund.
“A feast? Oh! But you are all clearly tired, and must first rest a while! What are your names, O brave knights?”
The four soaked and frozen knights introduce themselves, and the young lady leads them inside.
… … … … … …
The young spokeslady leads the four knights up a narrow and winding staircase to a set of luxuriously decorated rooms, talking incessantly as she does so.
“Oh, I'm afraid our life must seem very dull and quiet compared to yours. We are but 8 score young blondes and brunettes, all between 18 and 19-and-a-half, cut off in this castle with no one to protect us! Oh, ‘tis a lonely life. Bathing... dressing... undressing... knitting exciting underwear... We are just not used to handsome knights! And for four to come along all at once! Gosh!”
Suddenly the four knights are separated; equally as suddenly they are set upon by scores of young ladies! Some brush their hair! Some suggestively eat fruit! Some claim to be doctors, and try to proceed with examinations!
The knights are in mortal peril!
Sir Feyman, being as friendly as possible, is the most at risk: he is surrounded by young women! He engages in polite conversation! He agrees to let one of the doctors inspect his wounds [1-1 friendliness penalty]! They suggest he is wounded beneath his armoured skirt!
Chivalry decreased! Not quite resisting temptation! -1!
In the adjacent room, Sir Keardwall hears the screams of his companions, and rises immediately from the chair upon which he has been thrust down. He realises what is afoot [6]! He pushes his way past the mob of adoring nubile young women to the door. He escapes! He rushes to the next room to burst open the door of Sir Beadocáf’s chambers: he is sprawled helpless on a large and soft looking bed! He is attempting to fend off a dozen eager young ladies! He no longer looks sure of himself! [3= -1 penalty to next attempt at resistance!]
“Beadocáf! On your feet brave knight!” bellows Keardwall, “Ye cannot fall for yon women! We are on a Holy Quest of God! We must flee!”
“But they say I am very learned! They like my Latin phrases! Oh Keardwall, do please let us stay! Just for a while!”
… … … … … …
In the room next door, the unbelievably hideous Sir Conchobar the Gruesome is left well alone, unaware of the terrible fate awaiting his brave companions. He dozes off on the lovely bed [2+2 gruesomeness bonus].
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on November 08, 2011, 11:54:33 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 08, 2011, 01:30:30 pm
"There is something terribly wrong with this castle. No damsels would be willing to throw themselves onto four rough-looking blokes right out of nowhere. It must be a trap. I will warn the others!"
Post by: Yoink on November 08, 2011, 04:17:39 pm
"Sir Beatacalf, we are on a Holy Quest in the service of God and the King! We cannot be dallying with such loose, virtueless women!
Not even dazzlingly beautiful loose, virtueless women! Come, we must be on our way, and in thy prayers you can ask God to forgive such impure thoughts!"
He then furtively leans towards Beatacalf, casting a glance about the room for any Pious types before raising a hand and saying, quietly,
"Besides, Questing Heroes get all the chicks! 'Twill be time a-plenty for such things later!"
Having explained things to his less-experienced-in-questing companion, Sir Keardwall shall open up the top of the First Jar, reach a hand into its icky depths and bring forth the Holy Spleen of Keardwall, its dirt-crusted, battered rankness (not to mention the smell) sending these attractive, woman-shaped servants of the Devil fleeing! Then he grabs the smitten Sir Beatacalf and drags him bodily out of the castle to safety; possibly sampling any strong drink these villainous females have stocked in the place on his way!
Post by: Ultimuh on November 08, 2011, 04:40:07 pm
What sadistic fate do you have you in store for those knights who fail to resist temptation? :P
Post by: freeformschooler on November 08, 2011, 06:10:19 pm
Post by: scriver on November 09, 2011, 03:27:17 am
Beadocáf attempts to gain strength to resist the Dreadful Temptation by thinking of that Fair Maiden that he has sworn on his Name and Honour to stay faithful to until they can be together, even if their courtly love will always be forbidden and unattainable, and their families locked in bloody Feud until the End of Days.
...
...
...What? What Drama? They totally did that all the time back then. It's nothing special about that :P
Also Asparagus.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 09, 2011, 07:44:13 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Anthrax; dinner time.
Alone in his comfortably furnished room, Sir Conchobar the Gruesome dreams about delicious bacon: plate upon plate of the sweet smelling stuff! His stomach rumbles hard! He stirs from his sleep! He feels much refreshed from his Nap of Knightly Power! He checks his sword is still strapped on and rushes out of the room, his survival instinct sensing that something is seriously wrong [4].
But what?!
Knightly Power Nap Bonus Acquired: One +1 bonus to be applied before the end of the following day!
… … … … … …
A few rooms away, Sir Feyman senses the same suspicious wrongness, and suddenly jumps to his feet, fleeing from the women into the hallway outside his room.
"There is something terribly wrong with this castle. No damsels would be willing to throw themselves onto four rough-looking blokes right out of nowhere. It must be a trap. I will warn the others!"
He only flees so far as another gaggle of attractive young ladies: they eagerly surround him [2]. One brings up the subject of spanking! Sir Feyman turns red! His ears are dirtied! He fails to warn his comrades! His mind is befuddled! His life is become as a living Hell! He falleth nearly into temptation but manages to avert his eyes and piously addresses the ceiling.
“Lord, why dost thou desert me in mine hour of need!”
Chivalry Penalty Incurred -1 Chivalry (Dirtied Ears!)
… … … … … …
Two rooms away, Keardwall and Beadocáf are in vigorous debate.
“Oh good Sire Kardboard, do please let us stay! Just for a while! Can you not see we are in the middle of reciting Our Lord's Litany of Chastity? Surely such pious women..."
"Well, ah... I... Erm... No!" Keardwall has a short moment of weakness before bellowing, with a stern and stony glare at these ladies, "Sir Beatacalf, we are on a Holy Quest in the service of God and the King! We cannot be dallying with such loose, virtueless women! Not even dazzlingly beautiful loose, virtueless, lovely, young and eager women! Come, we must be on our way, and in thy prayers you can ask God to forgive such impure thoughts!"
Beadocáf looks around him, suddenly realising his terrible predicament: for a knight to lose his honour is a fate worse than death! "...I mean, of course! We must continue onwards, velocius quam asparagi coquantur! Though, I suppose, cooking something up here wouldn't take very long either, and I am starv- No! My faith must not waver!"
Beadocáf attempts to gain strength to resist the Dreadful Temptation by thinking of that Fair Maiden to whom he has sworn on his Name and Honour to stay faithful until they can be together, even if their courtly love will always be forbidden and unattainable, and their families locked in bloody Feud until the End of Days. He manageth not [3-1].
Chivalry Penalty Incurred -1 Chivalry (Staring longingly at a barely dressed young lady!)
Seeing his brave questing companion’s will falter, Sir Keardwall opens up the top of his First Jar, and reaches into its depths to bring forth the dirt-crusted and battered rankness of the Holy Spleen of Keardwall. He holds it before him as one would hold a crucifix before a foul creature of the devil! But the nubile young ladies are greatly attracted by this manly wound and this Holy Artifact: they heartily appreciate the knightly scars! [1] They gather round to touch it. They propose some strong liquor!
“Ooh, I suppose we could stay for just one!” Keardwall falters!
Questing Heroes get all the chicks! I forgot they totally dig scars! he thinks to himself.
Chivalry Penalty Incurred -1 Chivalry (Being brushed against by a young lady!)
Confusion Penalty Acquired: -1 to next roll (They love thy Holy Spleen! They must be Especially Virtuous! Perhaps we should sit and talk and drink!)
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Sinpwn on November 09, 2011, 08:02:53 am
"COMRADES! STEEL YE WILL! THESE FOUL SUCCUBI HAVE WORMED THEIR WAY INTO YOUR SOULS AS A WORM WOULD AN APPLE! STAND STRONG IN YOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS AND RESIST THESE FOUL TEMPTATIONS! FOR THE GRAIL! FOR BACON!!!"
Edit: And yes, use the +1 nap bonus of great justice.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 09, 2011, 08:09:38 am
Sir Feyman does his best to resist the looming temptation. He knows everything is wrong here, but these damsels are so beautiful!
"No, no, no... I must not give in! Wait a moment..."
Sir Feyman backs away a few steps from the crowd. "MELGA! If you're there somewhere, help rid me of these foul, clingy maidens! I must find Keardwall and Beatacalf!"
Post by: Yoink on November 09, 2011, 11:05:06 am
However, the resolute knight shall still try! His stony features looking rather less sure than usual, he manages, "I-I... Er, I must be going, um, I have a Holy Quest this
However, should that fail, should the brave Knight Sir Keardwall be unnable to escape this web of treachery, he shall receive a vision! A vision to set him back on his righteous path, to lead him out of this trap, to preserve his Pious Dignity and Valour!
Once he has dispelled this foul witchcraft from his mind, the Knight will put away his pickle(teehee), glare disapprovingly at these wenches and drag Sir Beatacalf bodily from the premises, shouting to his other companions to follow as he goes!
Post by: scriver on November 09, 2011, 10:03:23 pm
I find it amusing that this has been the obstacle hardest to overcome.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 09, 2011, 10:12:06 pm
I find it amusing that this has been the obstacle hardest to overcome.
Now that you point it out, it actually is quite hilarious.
Post by: Yoink on November 10, 2011, 12:34:08 am
...Wait, had a thought: If just looking at these maidens is causing us to lose chivalry, perhaps we'd actually lose less if we just took the sword 'n' mace route! ;D
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on November 10, 2011, 12:43:04 am
the sword 'n' mace route
This. This so hard if you keep losing chivalry. I think it's in Keardwall's character at least anyway. :3
Post by: scriver on November 10, 2011, 12:45:11 am
Also it would probably be an awful hit to our chivalry score.
Alsoalso I'm having a very hard time not adding
Post by: Yoink on November 10, 2011, 12:47:31 am
Alsoalso I'm having a very hard time not addingpenis jokesdouble entendres to all my sentences.
Ahaha, I wonder how many chivalry points La would detract for that? :P
But yes, this could be trouble. I thought the Holy Spleen would actually come in handy in this situation, but no... Hopefully my sternly admonishing Vision from God/the King/Keardwall Senior shall set us back on the path of righteousness!
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on November 10, 2011, 12:57:31 am
Post by: lawastooshort on November 10, 2011, 07:34:08 am
England; the Dark Ages; Castle Anthrax; shortly after dinner time.
Time is running out in Castle Anthrax: the Knights of the Round Table face their fiercest assault yet, and many are close to losing their honour! Terrible multiheaded beasts the size of houses are nothing to these brave men, but a young maiden wishing to receive a spanking? Nothing in all their years spent in the dojo has prepared them for such a test! They shall have to perform great feats of knightly heroism!
Alone in the corridor, apart from the dozens of beautiful and distressing damsels that surround him, Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight does his best to resist the looming temptation. Everything about this is wrong!
"No, no, no... I must not give in! Wait a moment..." Feyman has a flash of inspiration, and backs away a few steps before calling out in desperation. "MELGA! If you're there somewhere, help rid me of these foul, clingy maidens! They desire for me to spank them! I must find Keardwall and Beatacalf!"
Melga the Possible Witch arrives nearly instantly, before the lovely damsels can approach much further. She glares at them with a hateful intensity! She turns to Sir Feyman!
“My Lord! If anyone doth deserve a spanking, surely that person must be me? For I am not a witch! I am a very naughty girl! Spank me!”
A chorus of echoing cries rings out [1].
“And then me! And me! And me! Yes! Spank me! And meee!”
Retainer Lost: Melga the Possible Witch is a very naughty girl!
… … … … … …
Two rooms along, Sir Beadocáf is also slipping into temptation: indeed, in his mind he is already slipping into something a little more comfortable. Well I suppose Mine Fair Maiden wouldst not mind if I had a little fun on the side... No dammit this is not what Courtly Love is supposed to be all about! Pull yourself together man! I must send for Godewine. He knoweth much about chastity and faithfulness and counseling!
"This is the Devil's work! All these naughty, naughty women of filthy, filthy minds, they all need to be punish- Argh, I mean, surely a man of God can help me! Godewine! I need thine aid!”
Beside Beadocáf Sir Keardwall is flabbergasted. These young women admire his Holy Spleen? They propose a masterwork cup of fine liquor? Surely it would be unchivalrous to refuse?
But no!
He knows that he must try, before his stony face slips further into disgrace and uncertainty.
"I-I... Er, I must be going, I um, I have a er Holy Quest this
He attempts to brusquely, and, if one might add, rudely barge his way past the waiting women, ignoring the contact with the lovely soft feminine shoulders that this inevitably brings about. But he only gets as far as the door [3-1] when suddenly it bursts open upon his face! Godewine of Norwhyiche doth enter!
“Ooh, I say! You should have called upon me earlier sire Beadocáf; you know I do like to administer a good spanking!”
As Beadocáf falls to his knees in despair seeing his last hope of rescue fail him [1], the brave knight Sir Keardwall’s eyes glaze over. He receives a vision from King Arthur himself! A vision of pious dignity and valour! A vision that sets him back on the righteous path, dispelling the foul witchcraft from his mind [5]!
He pops his pickle back in. He drags the kneeling Beadocáf by the scruff of the neck out of the open door. Beadocáf wails and screams, his waving arms betraying his distress.
“Godewine! Godewine! Quickly my friend! Tally not or ye shall surely be lost!”
But Godewine of Norwhyiche respondeth not; the only sound that comes from the room is a flurry of giggles and the rustle of exceptionally crafted knitted underwear.
... … … … … …
In the hallway Keardwall wrestles to hold back the grieving Beadocáf; Sir Feyman backs into the struggling pair as he flees the advances of Naughty Melga the Possible Witch and the dozens of beautiful young women behind her. With Beadocáf in one hand and the other on his weapon, Keardwall stands back to back with Sir Feyman as the nubile horde approach! All seemeth lost!
… … … … … …
Suddenly the door further along the hallway bursts open as Sir Conchobar smashes it down with his wrathful foot! Shooting his ugly face in all directions, he screams incomprehensibly as he quickly takes stock of the situation. He bellows at the top of his voice [5+1]!
COMRADES! STEEL YE WILL! THESE FOUL SUCCUBI HAVE WORMED THEIR WAY INTO YOUR SOULS AS A WORM WOULD AN APPLE! STAND STRONG IN YOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS AND RESIST THESE FOUL TEMPTATIONS! FOR THE GRAIL! FOR BACON!!!
His Holy Righteousness blasts back the advancing army of damsels in undress! His Iron Will reinforces the resistance of his companions! He glares at the fine young ladies; he keeps them at bay! Feyman and Keardwall come to their senses, but Beadocáf is trying to return to the lusty maidens! He struggles to break free from Keardwall’s restraining arm.
“Beadocáf!” shouts Keardwall, “It is too late! He is already taken! Think of the King! Think of the Holy Quest! Think of Britain! There is nothing you can do to save him now!”
”Godewinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnne!
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
Retainer Lost! Godwine of Norwhyiche has been seduced!
… … … … … …
Sir Keardwall leads the way down the twisting steps of Castle Anthrax, his heavy armoured boots pounding upon the stone floor as he flees the greatest test he has ever known. The knights are victorious, but at such a cost! Feyman follows bewilderedly behind the stony faced knight, dragging a sobbing Beadocáf bashing down the stairs one handed behind him as he runs; the gruesome Sir Conchobar brings up the rear, so to speak, wielding his fearsome man-weapon (Fiddles) to keep the young blondes and brunettes at a distance.
Suddenly Keardwall reaches the castle door. He gives a mighty kick; the door swings open. The knights stumble out into the black and howling night, the wind and rain lashing about them.
Beadocáf collapses to the floor in grief.
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
edit: missed an 'e'
Post by: scriver on November 10, 2011, 07:47:58 am
Also interesting how they got to the middle-aged monk but not my adolescent squire. Truly Hagley is strong in both faith and will! Or maybe Godewine was just a creepy old geezer with a late-life crisis.
Quote
wielding his fearsome man-weapon (Fiddles) to keep the young blondes and brunettes at a distance.
Verily, did I give out a loud laughter ;D
Post by: freeformschooler on November 10, 2011, 08:04:27 am
Suggest to my companions we find shelter somewhere else, perhaps in a grove somewhere or something.
Post by: Sinpwn on November 10, 2011, 08:14:59 am
Post by: Zako on November 10, 2011, 08:24:30 am
Post by: scriver on November 10, 2011, 08:44:05 am
Post by: Yoink on November 10, 2011, 03:42:07 pm
"Worry not, Sir Beatacalf! 'Tis a pity what happened to your monk, but no use crying over spilt milk! We shall find you a new one to cheer you up, what say thee?" So saying, Keardwall will keep an eye out for any monasteries or similiar, quite prepared to make a large detour if it means obtaining a new monk for his
Also, if he sees any decent-sized, smooth branch lying about, he will cut it to shape with his sword to make himself a crutch. Of course, it will still be hard going carrying jars at the same time, but at least in times of need he can always drop the crutch...
Also, that was... Just hilarious. :D Yes, I truly started shaking with laughter at Melga's appearance. Oh jeez, classic right there!
And yes, I mainly refer to Sir Beatacalf as Sir Beatacalf since I can't be bothered figuring out how to do accents on my computer. :P
Post by: lawastooshort on November 11, 2011, 05:33:59 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Mountain of Evil; well after dinner time.
“Companions!” manages Sir Feyman the Judging, after some time spent catching his breath in the downpour leaning against Castle Anthrax’s terrible walls, “We must find shelter elsewhere. Perhaps we can find a welcoming grove or something! Somewhere away from this god-forsaken rain!”
“Feyman is right,” speaks the iron-willed Conchobar, “We must not dwell on our losses; we have resisted a great evil today, and we must continue to wherever we were going. Dost thou remember?”
“Verily indeed,” echoes Beadocáf, “We are headed towards the Cave of Caerbannog. Come, comrades! I believe it is this way!”
As Sir Beadocáf leads the way down the other side of the Mountain of Evil, Keardwall hops beside him, extending his sympathy as well as his gauntleted hand, with which he heartily thumps the grieving knight upon the back.
"Worry not, Sir Beatacalf! 'Tis a pity what happened to your monk, but no use crying over spilt milk! We shall find you a new one to cheer you up, what say thee? If we should come across a monastery or other source of new monk, I propose that we rest awhile there, to seek a replacement for your poor Godewine.”
As he hops, he looks about for suitable branches to carve into a crutch, but none seem quite right to him; the wood seems all twisted and grey. The knights continue to descend. Before them, could they see it through the relentless rain, spreads the Forest of Hell.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; a small hut in the Forest of Hell; night time.
After an hour spent trudging downhill in their flight from the lusty maidens of Castle Anthrax, the four knights come to a small clearing. The rain has eased off; some of the clouds seem to disperse, and the moon softly illuminates the first break in the forbiddingly dense trees that our brave questers have come across since leaving the castle. In the middle of the clearing there is a hut. The smoke from the remains of a small fire escapes welcomingly from a small hole in the roof.
As the knights approach the hut, an old man stoops out from under the low entrance. He stands before the hut, white eyes staring blindly at the newcomers before him.
“Yes?”
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: scriver on November 11, 2011, 05:55:42 am
As Sir Beadocáf leads the way down the other side of the Mountain of Evil, Keardwall hops beside him, extending his sympathy as well as his gauntleted hand, with which he heartily thumps the grieving knight upon the back.
I can just picture him beating Beado in the back for every little hope he takes, all the way down ;)
Quote
the relentless rain
We have a new soundtrack. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoFxUJtSp4g)
Also, I'll write an action later but now I have to start getting ready so I don't miss the bus.
Post by: Sinpwn on November 11, 2011, 06:40:05 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 11, 2011, 08:30:28 am
Post by: scriver on November 11, 2011, 09:40:01 am
Also he never got the damned boots polished and is worried that they might rust.
Post by: Yoink on November 12, 2011, 07:59:10 am
"We seek shelter this
He pauses for a moment, then adds, "Oh, and if you happen to know anything about the Grail, that could be handy too, of course!"
Keardwall is obviously hoping to rush in there, guzzle the stranger's entire cellar of alchohol and pass out on the floor, pushing the shameful incident at Castle Anthrax from his mind.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 14, 2011, 09:40:46 am
England; the Dark Ages; a small hut in the Forest of Hell; night time.
The four questing knights stand in the interminable drizzle before the soothsayer’s hut in the depths of the Forest of Hell, hunger gnawing at their stomachs and at their wills. Sir Beadocáf stands silently, too concerned about his gently rusting [2] boots to utter a single learned phrase, leaving Sir Conchobar first to approach the old man.
“Hail! I am Sir Conchob-“
“Arrrgh! Get thy face away from me! Get thee gone from here, foul monster of the dark! Thy very presence doth disturb my mind! You shall have no shelter this night: you must sleep in the barn [1]!”
Conchobar leaps back in amazement, for apparently his ugliness effects even the blind!
Title Acquired: Sir Conchobar the Miraculously Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, Splitter of the Left Head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom!
Sir Feyman too is astonished; too much to talk, in any case. He lets Sir Keardwall, the smooth-talker, talk his way into the old man’s hut.
"You there!" Keardwall bellows as he hops across the clearing, an imposing yet strange figure with his armour, missing leg and collection of jars, "We seek shelter this night! We are four Knights of King Arthur, sent out to quest for the Holy Grail! Let us warm ourselves by the fire a while, and perhaps the Good Lord God shall smile upon ye."
He pauses for a moment, then adds, "Oh, and if you happen to know anything about the Grail, that could be handy too, of course!"
A crash of thunder blasts overhead. Beadocáf winces. The rain pours once more.
“The Grail?” The old man laughs. Lightning flashes. “I knowe of the Grail…”
… … … … … …
The three knights sit about the soothsayer’s dying fire, drinking tea as the old man lies on a bed of stinking animal skins in the half-light.
“There is a cave… A cave which no man has ever entered!”
“And the Grail,” asks Feyman, “the Grail is there?”
“No, no,” interrupts Beadocáf, “the last known location is there, scribed upon the walls of the living rock itself! I told you before, when we spoke to the old man before last. Beati pauperes spiritu, as they say, what,” he adds.
The old man laughs to himself again.
“There is much danger… much mortal danger… and beyond the Cave, there will lie the Gorge of Eternal Peril, which no man has ever traversed!”
“But the Grail?” demands Feyman, “Where is the Grail?”
“Seek you the Bridge of Death…”
“The Bridge of Death?”
“You must cross… the Bridge of Death! That which no man has ever crossed!”
The soothsayer laughs, mocking and sinister; a wisp of smoke appears and then, when it passes, the old man is gone.
… … … … … ….
“Good Lord,” exclaims Feyman, “What foul magick is this? Is this the work of a witch?”
There is the sound, suddenly, of movement behind the three knights. They turn to see a black cat run off into the night.
“Conchobar!” Beadocáf cries out, “Conchobar, come quickly! The old man! Have you seen the old man?”
No sound breaks the insistent whisper of the pouring rain.
Keardwall, Beadocáf, and Feyman rush out, and discover why Conchobar answers not.
… … … … … …
Sir Conchobar the Miraculously Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, Splitter of the Left Head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom is standing in the middle of the clearing, face drawn tight with abject terror. Before him stands a knight of enormous height, a knight who is of more fearsome and gruesome countenance than Conchobar himself!
Conchobar’s three comrades look round the clearing, now made smaller by the ring of horned knights lining its inner edges; they look up at the enormous knight. They gasp in horror at his horrifying visage! They gasp at the wetness of Conchobar’s pants [1]!
Title Acquired: Sir Conchobar the Miraculously Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, Splitter of the Left Head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, Wetter of Pants!
“Wh – who are you?” manages Keardwall [5]. The knight before him has imposing black eyebrows, and wears a helmet encrusted with antlers the breadth of a tall man’s height and the colour of a thousand bleached skulls.
“We… We are the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’!”
“No!” Feyman cries out, staggering in pain as he soils himself [2], “Not the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’!”
“The same! We are the keepers of the Sacred Words!”
“Those who hear them,” points out the learned Beadocáf, controlling himself admirably [5], “Seldom live to tell the tale.”
“If you wish to pass through this forest alive... the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ demand… a sacrifice!”
Spoiler: freeformschooler; Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: Zako on November 14, 2011, 11:36:46 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 14, 2011, 11:42:47 am
"NO! We cannot defeat the Knights who say 'Ni'! A sacrifice is required, but what will it be? WHAT WILL IT BE!?"
Post by: Sinpwn on November 14, 2011, 12:53:11 pm
"It is no use, surely such a sacrifice would be impossible to aquire!"
Post by: Firelordsky on November 14, 2011, 08:05:29 pm
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: Yoink on November 14, 2011, 09:59:10 pm
He doesn't say that too loudly though, and although his hand rests on the hilt of his sword and his face is as stony and resolute as ever, he is prepared to consider whatever solutions his companions might come up with. Unless they're silly, of course.
(Haven't watched Monty Python's Holy Grail in years, not sure what to do in this situation! :P )
Post by: Sinpwn on November 14, 2011, 10:01:50 pm
(Haven't watched Monty Python's Holy Grail in years, not sure what to do in this situation! :P )Say "It" for great justice.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 14, 2011, 10:02:00 pm
(Haven't watched Monty Python's Holy Grail in years, not sure what to do in this situation! :P )
Hint: Both Conchobar and me do.
NINJAS
Post by: lawastooshort on November 15, 2011, 03:04:32 am
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: scriver on November 15, 2011, 10:49:08 am
Sorry for taking time. Skyrim happened :D
Post by: lawastooshort on November 15, 2011, 11:01:09 am
England; the Dark Ages; a small clearing in the Forest of Hell; a quarter past night time.
Before the assembled Knights Who Say ‘Ni’, Sir Beadocáf addresses his fellow questers, wisely restraining his bodily liquids [4].
"I say, let us hear what these Knights willst have of us, then decide whether or not it is a Sacrifice of God or the Devil!”
Sir Keardwall raises one craggy brow and turns his gaze to his companions. "A sacrifice, eh? Well, yon tall fool looks a fitting enough 'sacrifice' to me."
Staggering with the effort of controlling his bowels [5], Sir Feyman recoils in horror at this foolish idea!
"NO! We cannot defeat the Knights who say 'Ni-arrrrghh’!”
Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight has uttered the Sacred Word! He once again loses controls of his bowels [1]! He is in great pain! Sir Conchobar, attempting to move inconspicuously away from the knights, tries to save Feyman’s honour and pants.
“Feyman!” he shouts, “Sayeth not the word! Sayeth not the Sacred Word of ‘Ni-arrrrrrrrrrrgghh!’”
Sir Conchobar, Wetter of Pants wets his pants profusely! Feyman collapses in a ball of soiled underwear beside him! Keardwall falls to the floor [2], beset by a sudden cramp of the stomach! The Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ spot Conchobar attempting to move inconspicuously away [2]!
Title Acquired! Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear!
“Flee not, O Gruesome Knight!” speaks the leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’, “Return here that I punish you for trying to avoid our Sacred Sacrifice! Or I shall not hesitate to say ‘Ni’ a second time, and you may lose more than your sense of personal hygiene!”
… … … … … …
The Leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ stands before the cowering Knights of the Round Table.
“You have tried to avoid paying your passage with our Sacred Sacrifice! You shall pay the price! You must carry out the Sacred Task of The Knights of ‘Ni’! You must proceed to the Hillock of Fate, deep within the Forest of Hell, and, once there, once upon the summit of the Hillock of Fate, you must cut down the tallest tree on the Hillock’s brow… with this herring!”
The Leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ holds before him a small Baltic Herring, some six inches long.
“If you return, having accomplished this Sacred Task, which no man hath done before, then we shall accompany you to the cave which you seek. If you do not! Then beware!”
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on November 15, 2011, 12:26:35 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on November 15, 2011, 04:36:36 pm
However that's a lovely opening to a sentence.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 15, 2011, 04:44:22 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on November 15, 2011, 04:55:15 pm
Post by: Sinpwn on November 15, 2011, 09:23:59 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on November 16, 2011, 04:19:14 am
attempting to convince my comrades that strapping the herring the Fiddles' face is a superb idea.
Gosh, it is a superb idea.
Post by: scriver on November 16, 2011, 09:17:20 am
Head to the hillock of fate, attempting to convince my comrades that strapping the herring the Fiddles' face is a superb idea.
Baedocáf is easily convinced, and offers to recite from the Holy Litany of Bondage so that it will he bound by the Strength of God.
Post by: Yoink on November 16, 2011, 06:18:38 pm
He is not in such a good mood, however, frowning darkly as he meanders meekly along with his less-corageous companions. "The day I do not solve a problem with sword and boot," He mutters unhappily to himself, "Is the day I take up comfort eating."
He'll munch idly on his pickled eggs as he goes along, swiftly becoming bored with this foolishness.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 17, 2011, 09:40:55 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Forest of Hell; half past night time.
“I shall take the Herring,” volunteers Sir Feyman, despite his soiled underwear. Keardwall surely cannot be trusted with such a thing: it seems likely that now, with their quest nearing its glorious climax, the moment Feyman turned his back he would find that Herring thrust murderously between his shoulder blades. Keardwall gave off the impression of being a bumbling and overly verbose simple hero type, but Feyman judged that there was more to him than met the eye.
Unlike those dunces Conchobar or Beadocáf! No sir! Feyman himself was the right man for this job; more rightly attuned for such sacred tasks! He had never seen a more intelligent knight!
… … … … … …
As the Knights of the Round Table head to the Hillock of Fate, Sir Keardwall bravely follows along behind, idly munching on a spleen infused pickled egg [3].
“Anyone fancy a pickled egg?” he frowns to his companions. “No? Oh.” His enthusiasm waning, he starts to lag behind the others. "The day I can’t solve a problem with sword and boot," he mutters unhappily to himself, "is the day I bloody well take up comfort eating. Oh. Wait. Blast.”
… … … … … …
Along the way, with Feyman striding haughtily at the front and Keardwall sulking miserably at the rear, Sir Conchobar is arguing the merits of strapping the Herring to his man-weapon and giving the tree in question a mighty good whack. Beadocáf is easily convinced, and offers to recite from the Holy Litany of Bondage so that it will be bound by the Strength of God, which is precisely what he sets to doing as soon as the four knights and their retinues arrive upon the Hillock of Fate a few minutes later. He kneels in the mud beneath the Tree in Question, and commences to mumbling in a quiet drone.
Herringus fortuna juvat… contraria contrarii curantor… um… fluctuat nec mergitur biggus treeus ipso facto morituri te saluant…
“Bloody hell,” complains Keardwall, “When did a sword ever bloody fail? Eh? Bloody Latin. Don’t know what it ever bloody did for us.”
“I say Feyman,” starts Conchobar, getting his man-weapon out, “Be a good chap and pass me that Herring will you?”
“What?!” exclaims Feyman, as he realises what’s going on, “Give you the Herring? You’re not rightly attuned for this kind of sacred task! It is I the most intellig-er Sacred among us! It is I that should cut down the Tree with the Herring! Put down your man-weapon Sir Conchobar, and let me handle it.”
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Hillock of Fate; not long before dawn.
Despite Sir Beadocáf’s support, Sir Conchobar prevaileth not in the friendly conversation which doth follow [1+1 vs 3], and a short while later Sir Feyman kneels down in the mud before the mighty Tree in Question. He holds the Herring in both hands before him, as if an offering unto God; his eyes are tightly closed in meditative thought.
With a spring in his step Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, and Soiler of Underwear opens his eyes and rises to his feet. He approaches the Tallest Tree in Question, and draws the Herring. It glistens silver in the moonlight, exuding an aura of deadly efficiency.
Feyman takes a swing at the Tree.
The Herring doth break! The Tree doth not!
Spoiler: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on November 17, 2011, 09:52:55 am
Post by: Sinpwn on November 17, 2011, 11:48:45 am
Sir Conchobar scoops up the broken fish and shoves it into Fiddles' mouth, then swings him at the tree with a roar!
Post by: freeformschooler on November 17, 2011, 11:51:01 am
"As much as I desire to let my anger finish this silly quest, now I believe it is time for my companions to help me out. I'm sorry, for I should have trusted you all in the first place. Quests like this are not to be completed by one single arm!"
Post by: scriver on November 17, 2011, 04:20:26 pm
"My Sirs Knight! If we each take a piece of yonder broken Herringe, and smear it upon our weapons, we can all strike the tree together, without failing the demands of the Foul Knights! Truly it is a cunning plan I have deviced that'll outsmart them in so."
Post by: Yoink on November 17, 2011, 04:29:05 pm
"Aye, truly a good plan! Give me that herring, and I shall snap yon tree like a matchstick! For the King!"
He moves to grab the herring, rub bits of it on his sword and then attack the tree.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 17, 2011, 04:32:55 pm
I have nothing better to do than update my action appropriately. Action roleplaying!
Post by: Sinpwn on November 17, 2011, 05:47:56 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on November 18, 2011, 07:09:56 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Hillock of Fate; dawn.
Sir Feyman is furious. Those dastardly tall knights have led them astray! Mere dastardliness shall not stop him, however: he is the Slayer of the Black Knight! Soiler of Underwear! He draws his sword and yells a mighty war cry as he charges the Tree of Evil Tallness.
"ARGLHARGLBARGL!"
"Sir Feyman, no!” interrupts Sir Conchobar, “This must be dealt with honorably! We are Knights of God and King Arthur! We have given our word to complete this Sacred Task! Give me the Herring!"
Sir Feyman stops in his tracks as he hears Conchobar’s wise words, and reconsiders.
"As much as I desire to let my anger finish this silly quest, now I believe it is time for my companions to help me out. I'm sorry, for I should have trusted you all in the first place. Quests like this are not to be completed by one single arm! I truly have learned a useful life lesson ‘pon this day! Here, Sir Conchobar, take the Herring. I am sorry that I have broken it so."
Sir Feyman hands the broken Herring to his friend, who scoops it up and shoves it into his man-weapon. Hoisting Fiddles upon his shoulder, Conchobar prepares to charge the Tall Tree, when suddenly the wise and clever Sir Beadocáf interrupts in his turn. He has a cunning plan!
"My Sirs Knight! Stop this madness! If we each take a piece of yonder broken Herringe, and smear it upon our weapons and perhaps ourselves, we can all strike the tree together, without failing the demands of the Foul Knights! Truly it is a cunning plan I have devised that'll outsmart them in so, or something."
Sir Feyman agrees.
“Good Lord, Beadocáf, I must take back what I implied about your intellig-er Sacred Attunedness, ‘tis a splendid idea! Conchobar, pass around yon Herring that we may smear it upon our swords and, perhaps, ourselves!”
At this suggestion Sir Keardwall also perks up, and stops sulkily chewing on his pickled egg in irritation at this ridiculously non-violent sacred nonsense.
"Aye, truly a good plan! Give me that herring, and I shall snap yon tree like a matchstick!"
He joins his companions in sharing bits of the Holy Broken Herringe, and the four knights kneel in holy prayer, and rub fish upon their weapons.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Hillock of Fate; a quarter past dawn.
“For the KINNNNNNNNNNNNNG!!!!!!”
Conchobar is first to rise to his feet, Fiddle’s head smeared in Holy Herringe Paste and prayers of hope uttered to the Lord. He swings Fiddles the man-club about his head in a mighty arc, and he connects face with tree! A small crack doth appear on yon trunke [3]!
Beadocáf the Rotund steps up next, his knobbed mace dripping with Herringe remnants. He delivers a terrifying blow [6+1]! The trunk doth explode in tiny shards! The tree is toppled! It falls at an alarming pace!
As the knights scatter in alarm, there is one poor soul who stands transfixed before the awe-inspiring power of nature.
"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!! HAGLEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!! RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Hagley the Squire is struck down!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Rotund, Sacred Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Hillock of Fate!
Retinue Member Lost: Hagley the Squire hath been crushed by the Tree!
… … … … … …
Around the gathered knights appear, suddenly, the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’. Their leader speaks.
“Knights of the Round Table! You have completed the Sacred Task, which no man has ever completed before! You are brave men, and good! You have completed your task; and so shall we fulfill our promise. We shall lead you to the Cave of Caerbannog! But be warned! No man has ever entered yon cave and lived!”
The Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ form a guard of honour around the Knights of the Round Table; the column moves out as the sun rises above the Forest of Hell.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; the Cave of Caerbannog; midday.
As the sun weakly reaches its highest point, the knights can be found riding on foot towards a looming and massive rock face riddled with cave openings. A foreboding atmosphere descends upon the group, and the leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ turns and demands silence with his finger. The air seems to fill with mist.
The group strides forward a dozen or more paces. The leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ halts, and signals with his eyes towards the entrance of the cave.
The wind rises a little. Green mist floats up from the depths of the cave. Bones are littered about the entrance. The silence is total.
“Behold the Cave of Caerbannog! Ye must approach with great silence!”
Keardwall turns to Feyman.
“Keep me covered. I’m going in.”
“Covered? With wha-“
“SHIT!” cries the leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’, “It’s too late! There he is! RUN AWAY!”
As dozens of Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ flee in terror from the cave, the four questers turn as one towards the entrance. A large white rabbit lollops few yards out.
Keardwall turns to the leader of the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’.
“Where? Behind the rabbit?”
“It is the rabbit!!”
“You cretin!” interrupts Feyman.
“You tit! I soiled my armour I was so scared!” admits Keardwall [1].
Title Acquired: Sir Keardwall the Exteriorly Spleened, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Destroyer of the Son of the Eel of Stafford, Terror of the West, Slayer of the Two-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom and Soiler of Armour!
“That rabbit’s got a vicious streak! It’s a killer! He guards the Cave of Caerbannog!”
“Oh, bugger off! It’s just a bloody rabbit!”
The Cave of Caerbannog lies before the Knights of the Round Table! The location of the Grail lies written on the walls of the living rock within!
Post by: scriver on November 18, 2011, 07:21:04 am
Retinue Member Lost: Hagley the Squire hath been crushed by the Tree!
I didn't even get a BIG NO! :(
Post by: Sinpwn on November 18, 2011, 07:39:44 am
Post by: lawastooshort on November 18, 2011, 07:40:06 am
Retinue Member Lost: Hagley the Squire hath been crushed by the Tree!
I didn't even get a BIG NO! :(
I'm sorry. Fixed.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 18, 2011, 08:26:17 am
Post by: Yoink on November 18, 2011, 09:04:20 am
Sir Keardwall shall idly suggest a rabbit-punting contest to Sir Conchobar as he heads onwards with the others.
Post by: Sinpwn on November 18, 2011, 09:37:20 am
Post by: Ultimuh on November 18, 2011, 10:09:02 am
Post by: scriver on November 18, 2011, 10:18:31 am
Beadocáf goes forth to the rock and punts it in the rabbit-head's general direction.
Man do I wish Godewine was still around now. Every monk comes equipped with a Holy Hand Grenade in it's starting inventory, you know. It's the only way to get those.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 18, 2011, 10:23:52 am
Please let there be lots of death so that we on the waiting list can do some holy quests.
It's only a bloody rabbit.
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: Ultimuh on November 18, 2011, 10:27:16 am
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: lawastooshort on November 21, 2011, 07:12:33 am
England; the Dark Ages; the Mouth of the Cave of Caerbannog.
As Beadocáf mourns, the others begin to brave the cave. Conchobar heads down, light heartedly chuckling to himself about something or other, with Feyman more warily following behind. Sir Keardwall shouts down from above.
"I say, Sir Conchobar! How far do ye think you could kick that thing? I bet you a gold euroshilling I could punt it further than you!"
Conchobar turns, a touching smile spreading across his foul and grimacing features.
“I agree. We shall see who is truly the best at rabbit punting! We shall have us some sport this day!”
The jesting shouts of the pair bring Beadocáf out of his teary daydream in a jump of horror.
"No! There shall be no ungodly Punting of the Lord's Critters from you, 'lest I be forced to recite from mine Lord's Litany of Curses upon ye! The only thing that shallt be Punted is yonder Round Rock to the Rabbit's Head, so that I can cook it for dinner, for I have not eaten in several long amounts of time, and the much sorrow that has befallen me has made my stomach rumbly! I declare that we shall compete in who among us can punt the rock into the rabbit instead. DEUS VULT!"
“Pffah!” cries back Keardwall, ignoring the learned knight’s ridiculous suggestion [1], “A rock? How do you propose we cook a bloody rock? Come on Conchobar, let’s up and at ‘im!”
… … … … … …
Sheathing their sword and man-weapon respectively, Keardwall and Conchobar sprint down the rocky cave face towards the rabbit like joyous brothers. Or, rather, Conchobar sprints down, and Keardwall hops energetically after him! He catches up! He overtakes! Keardwall is fully fifteen feet in front of the two-legged monstrosity, and bears down upon the Beast of Caerbannog! He takes a swing with his single foot! He falls flat on his back [2]!
The cunning fiend realises the injured man poses no mortal threat to him: the rabbit bounds forwards with its fearsomely strong back legs. It leaps straight over Sir Keardwall! Conchobar thunders towards the rabbit! The rabbit leaps directly at his throat!
Sir Conchobar manages to raise his arm in front of him just in time. The rabbit bites it off!
Wound Acquired: Right arm bitten off!
Feyman sees his friend suffer this grievous wound, and speeds his descent into the cave mouth. He draws his sword with his one good arm, and charges at the beast!
The rabbit charges back! It charges viciously up the slope of the cave mouth towards Feyman: Feyman manages to control his bowels! ‘Tis a small victory, but a victory nonetheless! Bravely and expertly waving his sword from side to side in front of him in a blind panic, Feyman somehow keeps the Beast of Caerbannog at bay as it leaps up and down, striving to lick out the poor knight’s eyeballs.
… … … … … …
“Dear God,” exclaims Beadocáf, above, “The vengeance of God is wrought upon us! We have not been pure enough upon His Quest! We must use the rock! Brothers! WE MUST PUNT THE ROCK!”
He reaches down to pick up yon round rock: it is a large and deadly looking thing [4]!
… … … … … …
Back in the midst of the violent melee below, Keardwall is attempting to get back on his feet just as the Beast of Caerbannog bounds viciously down the cave mouth towards him, an evil glint in his beady eyes. Keardwall raises his sword above his head! The rabbit flies towards his face! Keardwall raises his Jar of Leg before him! A large and deadly rock doth strike him upon the head! He is knocked down!
“Bugger,” mutters Beadocáf to himself, above [1].
Once more the rabbit sees Keardwall fall before him at the mere terrifying sight of the teeth filled bundle of fur: he turns about in midair! He lunges at the most gruesome Sir Conchobar! Sir Conchobar wields his man-weapon one handed at the rabbit’s face: he strikes him into the air!
But alas; in the air the Beast of Caerbannog is in his element, and he glides with grace and force directly back towards Sir Conchobar. Time slows as he glides silently towards the horrified Conchobar’s throat! Not a sound is to be heard! Outside of this horrible yet irresistible ballet of death not a movement can be discerned! Conchobar drops his man-weapon and raises his single arm in desperate self-defence. A piercing and terrifying scream of vengeful rabbit shatters the silence: it ends only when the Beast of Caerbannog descends upon Conchobar, knocking him brutally to the ground. The Beast of Caerbannog bites off Sir Conchobar’s throat! The rabbit rips apart his ribs! He licks his liver! He nibbles his nerves! He breaks his bronchi! He savages his face! None can tell!
Sir Conchobar the Miraculously Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, Splitter of the Left Head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, Wetter of Pants is horrifically struck down by the Beast of Caerbannog!
Title Acquired! Sir Conchobar the Deceased Yet Miraculously Gruesome, Potless Insulter of Mothers and Piercer of the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh, Splitter of the Left Head of the Dreaded Three-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, Wetter of Pants!
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!” wails Kenneth, “I hath failed in my dutie!”
The feasting rabbit leaps towards Kenneth! He tears off his legs!
Post by: Yoink on November 21, 2011, 08:13:19 am
Grimacing at his foolish attempt to kick a rabbit with one foot in the first place, he uses his knightly abdominals to get to his feet and draw his sword, bellowing angrily as he seeks bloody vengeance for the cruelly slain Sir Conchobar!
"Have at thee, foul rodent! I shall make ye regret the day thy mother twitched her nose at thy father! Your fluffy round tail shall decorate my banner as ye burn in Hell for all eternity! God give me strength to slay this beast!"
Red-faced and filled with Holy Fury, Keardwall will rain his righteous sword-blows down upon the unassuming beast, muttering his forgiveness to Sir Conchobar's shade should he strike the latter's mortal remains in the process.
Post by: scriver on November 21, 2011, 08:59:22 am
"Conchobar! Ad perpetuam memoriam!
While the rabbit is still stuck in slow-motion, leap dramatically through the air to Conchobar's hideous corpse, grab the The Holy Crossbow of Beersheba from it and point it at that critter most foule. "Let me be thine vessel of vengeance for this Thine Knighte, my Lord of Heavens! And let his spirit guide me as I let fly this Bolte of Redemptious Justice upon yonder Nemesis! Mortui vivos docent!"
Fire at the pesky little rodent.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 21, 2011, 09:01:30 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 21, 2011, 09:52:21 am
"I shall avenge ye, Conchobar! Fiddles, join me in battle! Crannock, sing me a war song!" And with this, Feyman joins the combined assault on the terrible beast. He runs and swings his mighty sword at the rabbit-monster's head!
I think the only way I can get over how terrible I feel when a PC dies is to practice more :(
Don't worry, eventually you will be an evil game master, gleefully giggling as players shed one single manly/womanly tear each for their lost character!
Post by: Zako on November 21, 2011, 11:05:46 am
LOOK AT THE BONES!!!
Post by: lawastooshort on November 21, 2011, 05:22:04 pm
England; the Dark Ages; Tuesday; the Cave of Caerbannog.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” cries Sir Feyman the Judging, in a dramatically low pitch! “I will never forgive mysellllllllllllllllllllllllllf!” Flashes of Conchobar’s faithful merriness pass by in his mind as he watches aghast as Sir Beadocáf acrobatically leaps through the air to the late knight’s hideous and hideously mutilated corpse, hand outstretched to grab the Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Renowned Slayer of the Green Dragon from its resting place on Sir Conchobar’s disgusting back.
"Conchobar! Ad perpetuam memoriam!” he cries, in slow motion, "Let me be thine vessel of vengeance for this Thine Knighte, my Lord of Heavens! And let his spirit guide me when I let fly yon Bolte of Redemptious Justice upon yonder Nemesis! Mortui vivos doce-arggggg!"
Sir Beadocáf’s outstretched hand flies into the gaping maw of the Beast of Caerbannog [1]! The jaws fly shut! The hand is severed! The rabbit swallows it whole!
Wound Acquired: Right hand bitten off by a rabbit!
… … … … … …
Sir Keardwall seems to stand shocked into speechlessness for a moment by the sight of the gruesome death of the gruesome knight until suddenly time and vocal pitch both seem to regain a semblance of normality.
"Conchobar! No! What was I thinking? A one-legged manne cannot do sych a thinge as kicke! Blast my foolish exuberance! Have at thee, foul rodent! I shall make ye regret the day thy mother twitched her nose at thy father, if ‘ee was not a ‘amster! Your fluffy round tail shall decorate my banner as ye burn in Hell for all eternity! God give me strength to slay this beast!"
Suddenly the red-faced Keardwall, inspired by Holy Fury, joins Sir Feyman and Fiddles the man-club in righteous and violent assault upon the evil doombunny. The rabbit-monster, sated on a diet of half a man and another’s fist, is slovenly and slow to react! Or so it seems! First Keardwall rains blow after blow down upon the beast with his great broadsword: but the rabbit raises a might paw to parry them away! He eats Sir Keardwall’s sword with one evil bite!
Item Lost: Broadsword!
Sir Feyman then encourages Sir Conchobar’s faithful Fiddles, his man-weapon, to avenge himself upon the evil rabbit, but he knows not how to fight! He attempts to smash the rabbit in twain by the method of falling straight upon him! The rabbit doth dodge!
Feyman is next in line to bring his God-Guided sword down upon the heathenly beast.
"Come on, Crannock! Strike up a merry tune that we slay this heathenly beast!"
Oh God, oh no, what a terrible blow,
To see Sir Conchobar sent down below,
We shall not dwell: he was sent to Hell,
His face did look like it was squashed by a bell,
A terrible creature foul and Fell,
But he was OUR Brave Conchobar!
We'll smite the rabbit, we'll smite the beast!
We'll turn him into a lovely feast,
A pate, a soup, a paste, a broth,
We'll make that terrible fiend feel our wrath,
And avenge our Poor Conchobar!
Sometimes ones companions one can't pick,
And sometimes their faces make you physically sick,
But Conchobar he slew the Black Beast,
In bravery he was far from the least,
He split the Head in the Wood of Doom,
And now with battle we'll cheer our gloom,
We'll drink a barrel at the nearest bar,
After slaying this rabbit for old Conchobar,
Feyman kill kill KILL for Conchobaaaar!
Feyman strikes the rabbit once! He strikes it twice! He doth crush its skull with the flat of his blade! Sir Feyman loses all sense of restraint, tormented as his mind is by the woe of loss! “For Conchobaaaar!” he shouts as the Beast of Caerbannog is beaten to smithereens in righteous anger! A paste of rabbit is formed upon the very rock itself! A fine mist of blood fills the air as fluffy bunny fur rains down from the skies above them!
Sir Conchobar’s mortal remains are vandalised beyond all recognition in the brutal scene that accompanies the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog’s horrific yet righteous death [6]!
Title Acquired: Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear and Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog!
… … … … … …
The three remaining knights take a moment to reflect: Keardwall takes a few deep breaths.
“Shit, Feyman,” he blurts out, “Bloody hell.”
“Bloody hell,” Feyman replies, wiping rabbit blood off his face, “Shit.”
“Fu-argggggg” joins in Beadocáf, wiping some of Sir Conchobar's liver out of his eye, “That bloody rabbit bit my bloody hand off! The little shi- ooh, what’s that sound?”
In the distance, deeper down into the Cave of Caerbannog, comes a gentle cry of distress.
“Help! Help!”
Post by: freeformschooler on November 21, 2011, 10:30:30 pm
Post by: Yoink on November 22, 2011, 06:52:36 am
Keardwall rummages about in the rabbit's remains for his sword(or what's left of it), sheaths it, gathers up his jars, and says a quick, saddened prayer over the deceased... Splattered... Remains of Sir Conchobar, before being swiftly distracted by the prospect of a damsel to rescue. He'll head onwards with Sir Feyman, not before offering to let Sir Beatacalf borrow some jar-space for his hand.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 22, 2011, 07:13:48 am
Keardwall sheathes his sword,
The rabbit ate it.
Post by: Yoink on November 22, 2011, 07:36:06 am
Post by: scriver on November 23, 2011, 07:26:20 am
"Onwards we go, then. Per aspera ad astra!"
(Sorry for taking so long again)
Post by: lawastooshort on November 23, 2011, 09:45:13 am
England; the Dark Ages; half past Tuesday; the Cave of Caerbannog.
"Ah, dear Sire Knight Conchobar,” begins Beadocáf, “Omnes vulnerant, postuma necat or omnes feriunt, ultima necat. A truly worthy companion, sed mors vincit omnia."
“What?” asks Keardwall, “And do you know your ruddy hand’s come off? I’ve got a jar that’s useful for that kind of thing if you care to share. Anyway. 'Tis a shame, Sir Conchobar, but know this: Ye died bravely, and in the Holy service of the Great King Arthur! Rest in Peace, my friend."
Keardwall gathers up his jars before setting them down again to rummage about in the terrifying rabbit’s remains to see if anything’s left of his once mighty broadsword. The skin on his hand starts burning with the horrific rabbit’s atrocious stomach acid! He finds not even a hilt! He lets out a bellowing cry of distress [1]!
“I say,” says Feyman, “That reminds me! Venture onward with me, boys, for we did hear a fairer cry of distress mere minutes ago, and my last fair damsel desired for me to spank her! And you all know how well that turned out." Feyman wistfully thinks back to how things could have been, but is swiftly interrupted.
“Right-oh,” Keardwall agrees, “Although I think we should say a prayer for the deceased… splattered… mutilated… the… er… gosh, that’s horrible. What the bloody hell came over you Sir Feyman? Well, let’s just leave him spread all over the rock there I suppose. Probably easiest. Should clean up with a spot of rain and luck. Unless you care to utter some more Latin at him, Sir Beatacalf? Come on, let’s go. No one can resist a good bit of damsel rescuing.”
“Eh what sorry? Oh. Yes. The jar. I’d be delighted, dear fellow. I was just wondering how one would reattach such a limb. Sure Godewyne would have known… Blast those damsels! Here I am, missing a hand, and he probably doesn’t even nee- gosh. He’s probably got both his hands f- hmm. I say. Now. Is it a goat’s bladder, or perhaps you are supposed to stick both severedities and stumps into an anthill for three days and five moons? Surely there’s some arsenic involved somehow too…”
Beadocáf’s eyes glaze over for a second and then spark back to life.
“That’s it! A goat’s bladder soaked in arsenic can be used to reattach limbs [5]! Gosh, I wonder what else I’d know if I’d paid more attention to master Scrydan when I was a boy. Hey! Keardwall! I say! Come back! I need a goat! Feyman! Blast.”
Picking up his severed hand and the Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Beadocáf jogs on down the cave mouth to catch up with his fellow knights.
"Onwards we go, then. Per aspera ad astra!”
… … … … … …
Onwards, indeed, trek the brave knights. Through the darkness they trek, ever downwards and ever deeper, taking care in their assorted states not to trip and fall on a slimy rock or a greasy stair.
From time to time they hear once more, Help! Help! and their noble thoughts of chivalric damsel rescuing spur them on. After fully ten minutes of heart stopping night-black tension and stumbling they suddenly come out of the main tunnel they have been following and into an enormous cavern lit the whole way round by burning torches. And there, at the far end, they see a figure, clearly chained to the wall. Clearly in need of rescuing! Clearly in distress!
And clearly, as they approach, far too bearded to be a damsel, or at least one they might particularly want to rescue.
“Hello?! I say! Would you mind awfully getting me out of here? I was off looking for the location of the Holy Grail, in fact, with my fool – don’t know if you’ve seen him about? – anyway, I was looking for this inscription, but instead I found this lever, so I pulled it, of course, and fell through this hole, and then this bloody great Beast leapt out and beat me senseless, and then, well, when I came round I was chained to this bloody rock, splayed apart waiting for this ferocious bloody rabbit to come and peck my liver off and… oh, how rude of me. Sir Ethlehed the Curious at your service! How do you do!”
Spoiler: Errol; Sir Ethlehed the Curious (click to show/hide)
((I don't know if I should keep the speech in italics - I did it first to break it up when there is a great deal of text without quoted actions to break it up... But I'm not sure now. I'm open to suggestions, as always. Also, scriver, no problem :) ))
Post by: freeformschooler on November 23, 2011, 09:51:04 am
Post by: Errol on November 23, 2011, 09:58:42 am
Sir Ethlehed calls for his jester.
Post by: Yoink on November 23, 2011, 03:19:37 pm
"I say! Ye do not look overly damsel-like to mine eyes! No matter, a fellow knight is far more use to us than any... Irrestible, fair-skinned, possibly naught-- Err!" He quickly trails off on that subject, frowning to hide his embarrassment, and hops fowards, setting aside his jars as he makes to tear the chains from the wall with his bare hands, calling on his God, King and Spleen for strength! He then clears his throat and works up to one of his grand, half-spoken, half-bellowed speeches,
"Welcome to our noble band, fellow Knight! We shall find the Grail, and bring much Glory to the name of King Arthur, and let no man, damsel or beast stand in our way!" One small question, however- Exactly how did ye end up here? If that.... Demonic, rabbit-faced creature we slew was the beast, it certainly did not look like one to be taking prisoners! I mean, 'twas hardly as high as my ankles! Er, ankle. And no opposable thumbs are certain to make chains and torches and the like a bit tricky."
Post by: freeformschooler on November 23, 2011, 03:23:38 pm
DUELING GMS
EDIT: OR HE DID BEFORE I UPDATED.
Post by: lawastooshort on November 24, 2011, 03:02:20 am
I just realize that lawas has finally caught up to me.
DUELING GMS
EDIT: OR HE DID BEFORE I UPDATED.
;) I will try to update today... If scriver can tear himself away from skyrim... (if that's it...)
Post by: Errol on November 24, 2011, 05:48:40 am
"Welcome to our noble band, fellow Knight! We shall find the Grail, and bring much Glory to the name of King Arthur, and let no man, damsel or beast stand in our way!" One small question, however- Exactly how did ye end up here? If that.... Demonic, rabbit-faced creature we slew was the beast, it certainly did not look like one to be taking prisoners! I mean, 'twas hardly as high as my ankles! Er, ankle. And no opposable thumbs are certain to make chains and torches and the like a bit tricky."
"Noble Sir Keardwell, this rabbit, this most foul beast does not take prisoners, but it is cunning enough to ensure that it always has enough meat to chew on even if no more foolhardy travelers arrive for a while, for it only feasts on human flesh. I cannot express my gratitude for being saved from the fate of being used as winter supply, which would be most excruating and inconvenient indeed."
Post by: scriver on November 24, 2011, 10:44:30 am
Post by: lawastooshort on November 24, 2011, 04:35:03 pm
England; the Dark Ages; half past Tuesday; deep within the Cave of Caerbannog.
Sir Keardwall squints at the captive, momentarily nonplussed.
"I say! Ye do not look overly damsel-like to mine eyes! No matter, a fellow knight is far more use to us than any irresistible, fair-skinned, lithe-limbed, nubile, scantily-clad, possibly naught-- Err!"
Keardwall puts down his jars and moves towards Sir Ethlehed.
"Um. Yes. Er. Welcome to our noble band, fellow Knight! We shall find the Grail, and bring much Glory to the name of King Arthur, and let no man, damsel or beast stand in our way! One small question, however - Exactly how did ye end up here? If that... demonic, rabbit-faced creature we slew was the beast, it certainly did not look like one to be taking prisoners! I mean, 'twas hardly as high as my ankles! Well, the attached one. Not the one in the jar. That’s actually quite high up, I suppose. For an ankle. And no opposable thumbs are certain to make chains and torches and the like a bit tricky."
“It was the Devil's Rabbit, and the Devil's work, mark my words,” ventures Sir Beadocáf, the learned, “Surely it must've used its Dark Powers to imprison him!”
"Aye,” continues Ethlehed, ”Noble Sir Keardwall, this rabbit, this most foul beast, this terrible fiend, this terror of the night - it does not take prisoners, but is cunning enough to ensure that it always has enough meat to chew on even if no more foolhardy travelers arrive for a while, for it only feasts on human flesh. It did beat me unconscious and then chain me up: I cannot express my gratitude for being saved from the fate of being used as winter supply, which would have been most excruciating and inconvenient indeed."
Title Acquired: Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names!
“Sir Etheledehed did you say?! Oh, bloody hell,” grunts Sir Feyman, “I thought you were a bloody damsel. Perhaps,” he thinks aloud to himself, “Perhaps it is better this way after all… Anyway… Sir Etheleledehehehed, I say, do you perhaps know the location of yon fabled Holy Grail?"
“Well, there was that tale of an inscription around this Cave of Caerbannog, according to legend, Sir Feyman. Perhaps the good Sirs could help me find it? I think I saw it somewhere, but you never can tell with inscriptions… perhaps the fool has found it?”
“Indeed: now, I think, is the time to find the inscription!" interrupts the brave Sir Beadocáf while Ethlehed pauses to shout at the top of his voice for his fool before carrying on, “Oh, by the way, did you slay the foul beast? It would be most inconvenient to have it appear here...”
Not even waiting to answer, the noble Sir Feyman prepares to rip apart the chains that bind Sir Ethlehed to his rocky prison, just as Sir Keardwall marches up to do the very same.
“No, Sir Keardwall! I can handle this alone!” shouts Feyman. “Actually wait. I have but one arm. Blast. Help me Sir Keardwall, for I have but one arm!”
As Keardwall tugs upon one end, Feyman pulls upon the other: they burst the chain apart with their bare hands! The links of chain shatter, sliding down the rock face to the ground, as Sir Ethlehed does likewise. Sir Ethlehed slides so hard he doth seem to penetrate the ground! He crashes through the rocky floor! He disappears into a cavern below! Falling over fifty feet through the darkness, he lands upon a strange and squishy form. John the Snarker’s head is broken! John the Snarker’s brains pop out! John the Snarker’s brains are crushed by Sir Ethlehed! John the Snarker is struck down! Sir Ethlehed’s nose is smashed!
Retinue Member Lost: John the Snarker has been struck down.
Wound Acquired: Smashed nose!
Sir Ethlehed stands, wiping some kind of unidentifiable slime from his face. There before his eyes lies the very inscription that he seeks! The location of the Holy Grail!
It seems to be written in Welsh.
Spoiler: Errol; Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names (click to show/hide)
Post by: Errol on November 25, 2011, 04:13:08 am
Post by: lawastooshort on November 25, 2011, 05:18:21 am
I can see positives (carrying on! the waitlist getting a go! overtaking freeformschooler!) and negatives (other source materials not
Post by: Yoink on November 25, 2011, 05:24:36 am
"Ethlehead my friend! Are ye alright? What in blazes did ye land on?!" A few small pebbles clattered down to punctuate his words.
He'll remain up top, looking about for a safer, and slightly less deadly (and damaging to his jars) path down there.
I love that Gertad is like, the longest-lived retainer, and that mainly because I sent him away early on. :P And I'd be glad to keep going, this is a terrific RtD! Plenty of Knightly things we could do, really. Perhaps liberating some Holy text or other from a rival kingdom, or perhaps a land across the sea? But of course, it's up to you. :)
Post by: lawastooshort on November 25, 2011, 05:51:43 am
I love that Gertad is like, the longest-lived retainer, and that mainly because I sent him away early on. :P
Yes, he's going to come back soon...
Quote
And I'd be glad to keep going, this is a terrific RtD! Plenty of Knightly things we could do, really. Perhaps liberating some Holy text or other from a rival kingdom, or perhaps a land across the sea? But of course, it's up to you. :)
Yes, at the moment I am leaning towards carrying on. If anyone has any ideas for typical quests and in particular typical quest items and foes, or foes you would like to see, please feel free to contribute via posting or PMing.
(also, if we carry on, I can learn to get over my PC death-guilt! through practice!)
Post by: scriver on November 25, 2011, 06:02:13 am
"Curse my strictly Saxon ancestry!" He yelled, banging his fist on the inscription. "And damn the Welsh for making up such a silly language (obviously just a scipher to mess with us Anglic types). This is impossible to read! There's not even any vowels! Alas, if only Godewyne was here!" The rotund knight kneels in front of the scripture, praying to the Lord. Surely he would need His Divine Inspiration to break this infernal code!
Post by: Errol on November 25, 2011, 08:40:41 am
Post by: lawastooshort on November 25, 2011, 09:10:24 am
Perhaps the kingdom has run out of coconuts?
Oh, blimey. Excellent idea.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 25, 2011, 09:32:37 am
Sir Feyman was flabbergasted. "A trap floor? Here? It is like a trap door, but dirtier! Holding on, Sir Ethlehedehed, I'm coming for you!" And so Sir Feyman followed the others down to the dark pit.
EDIT: Wait, for a quest I say we venture for Excalibur, then fight over who gets to hold it like sissies.
Post by: Yoink on November 25, 2011, 01:36:57 pm
Perhaps with some enchanted way of breathing underwater, or of course we might have to find that first! ...Or some anachronistic diving gear? :P
Post by: lawastooshort on November 25, 2011, 04:04:08 pm
Yes, more quests indeed!
EDIT: Wait, for a quest I say we venture for Excalibur, then fight over who gets to hold it like sissies.
I guess you could take turns. Anyway, more quests it will be then! I have a couple of ideas.
Perhaps with some enchanted way of breathing underwater, or of course we might have to find that first! ...Or some anachronistic diving gear? :P
Yeah... enchanted underwater breathing doesn't sound very realistic to me.
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
Ooh, I'll try to get the turn done over the weekend, which reminds me - all this talk about further quests... half of you will be bitten to death by the time it matters!!!1
Post by: scriver on November 25, 2011, 04:09:45 pm
I have a couple of ideas.
Does anyone of them include Norwegians, vikings or steampunk ninjas mayhaps? ;D
Post by: lawastooshort on November 25, 2011, 05:21:17 pm
I have a couple of ideas.
Does anyone of them include Norwegians, vikings or steampunk ninjas mayhaps? ;D
Oh gosh no, I'm saving them for when I can type enough to run two rtds again ;)
Post by: lawastooshort on November 27, 2011, 08:54:50 am
Forty third turn!
England; the Dark Ages; half past Tuesday; deep within the Cave of Caerbannog.
“Oh blast. John? Is that you John? Oh bother. Sorry. I er… SHIT! What’s happened to my bloody nose?! Ooh, what’s this? Oh, I say. Chaps? Chaps? I appear to have found the location of the Holy Grail!”
Keardwall pokes his head over the newly-created hole in the floor, stony features set in concern and mild surprise as he blasts out a reply. Dust and debris, shaken loose by his bellowing and manly voice, clatter down below as he leans.
"Ethlehead my friend! Are ye alright? What in blazes did ye land on?!"
“I er… I seem to have landed on my fool. Do you know any Welsh?”
… … … … … …
Above, Sir Feyman looks flabbergasted.
"A trap floor? Here? It is like a trap door, but dirtier! Holding on, Sir Ethlehedehed, I'm coming for you!" he shouts, as he jumps straight through the hole in the floor [1].
"Oh bloody hell," he continues, a second later, "I seem to have smashed my nose!"
Wound Acquired: Smashed nose!
Another second later another blast of profanity flies upwards through the dark hole as Crannock joins him.
"Sorry sire... I... er..."
Wound Acquired: Smashed face!
... ... ... ... ... ...
Keardwall, mindful of his jars, searches about the cavern for a safer and less direct route down to Sir Ethlehed [3], and after a few minutes finds his two companions, Beadocàf following carefully behind. The knights gather round the evidently Holy Inscription carved upon the very living rock of the cave wall itself. Beadocàf peers over the edge of his glasses, leaning forwards in the gloom, a darkening frown spreading across his scholarly features.
"Curse my strictly Saxon ancestry!" he yells, as he reaches the end of his patience, banging his fist on the inscription and knocking cracks into it. "And damn the Welsh for making up such a silly language. This is impossible to read! There's not even any vowels! Alas, if only Godewyne was here! Damn the Welsh, damn the lovely women, and damn the bloody French! I believe we will need the intervention of Our Lord to break this infernal and silly code. Omnius patrium asperges et ovium...”
Beadocàf trails off into silence as he kneels and prays with great intensity.
Suddenly a great light appears in the sky! It seems as if the clouds part! The face of Beadocàf strains as if in deepest constipation! A choir seems to sing, and suddenly the Holy Inscription cracks into pieces and falls from the wall. In its place a map draws itself out of the thin air and of the minerals of the rock: a map towards the Grail! Beadocàf's eyes glaze over, and he falls to the floor.
… … … … … …
A few minutes pass between Beadocàf's sitting upright and his being able to coherently talk, but talk he does. In English! Praise be!
“Sirs... I was in deepest concentration, and the Lord did speak unto me! He revealed to me the location of the Grail, and He has drawn it upon the very rock itself! We must exit the cave, and take the next left, whereupon we shall find the Bridge of Death. We must use the Bridge of Death to cross the Gorge of Eternal Peril, which is of a nameless and unmeasurable depth! Once across the Gorge of Eternal Peril, we must walk to the Lake of L'Homard, and there, in the centre of the Lake, lies an Isle: the Isle of L'Homard. And there, in the centre of the Isle, there lies a castle: Castle L'Homard. And there! In the centre of the castle! There lies... the Grail!”
“Ah...” remarks Keardwall, “Castle L'Homard, not Lombard! Bugger. I see.”
“Er...” more bravely remarks Ethelhed, “the Bridge of Death?”
Spoiler: Errol; Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on November 27, 2011, 09:05:59 am
Post by: Yoink on November 27, 2011, 09:51:23 am
As he hops along, he shall keep a hopeful eye out for any age-old, long-forgotten artefact weapons that might happen to be lying about in the cave. Or any servicable blades belonging to the Beast's past victims, of course!
Post by: scriver on November 27, 2011, 11:12:59 am
Post by: Errol on November 27, 2011, 02:12:51 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on November 29, 2011, 04:53:47 am
England; the Dark Ages; a quarter to Wednesday; the Cave of Caerbannog.
Beadocáf rises from his Dramatic and Holy Trance, having seen the Way.
"Come, mine friends! As God has shown me the Way, so I will show it to you! It is this way!"
“Aye, good work Beatacalf,” announces Sir Feyman, patting Beadocáf on the back, "With face and nose smashed in, I have nothing to fear! Onwards towards the Bridge of Death, my companions!" He struts off, leaving Ethlehed to bravely proclaim to Keardwall:
"Onwards, comrades! Glory or Death! Although, I do say that the first option sounds more enticing! IN NOMINE DEI!"
But Keardwall listeneth not! For he is too busy scrabbling around in the dust and rubble of the cave, looking for any age-old, long forgotten artifa-arrrrrrrrrgggghhh!
”I say, chaps. Could you help me up? I seem to have fallen through a hole.”
Wound Acquired: Smashed nose!
… … … … … …
The brave knights make their way, exiting the Cave of Caerbannog, taking the next left, and trekking onwards through the misty afternoon, Keardwall trudging miserably along behind the others on his one good leg.
"Bloody hell, who names these bloody places... It's either some foreign-sounding nonsense or something involving Death or Doom or Peril... Pfah! Death?! Peril?! Ha! I laugh in the face of peril! Well, usually. It’s worse than the bloody food, I tell you. All bloody fancy foreign stuff, and vegetables. Vegetables! Really. What’s wrong with a good steak and a good potato, eh. Bloody hell."
… … … … … …
The knights reach the end of their path and cross a stile. They look about to find themselves lost in a huge, beautifully barren and breathtaking landscape of vast valleys and mountains sloping off into the distance, the greater peaks crowned by tufts of cloud, the distance lost in the northern mists. They rest a few seconds and get their breath back.
“Look!” cries Beadocáf, pointing into the middle distance, “There it is!”
“The Bridge of Death!” utters Feyman.
“Oh, great...” mumbles Sir Ethlehed to himself.
On the side of the mountain beside them is a crudely fashioned milestone, which bears an arrow, and the words "Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh! 5 miles"
“God be praised!” decides Beadocáf, turning to his companions and pointing ahead, “This must be the gorge of which the old man spoke in Turn Thirty-five!”
The knights continue along a rather perilous looking track edging along the side of the mountain, Beadocáf in the lead. They climb higher. The path becomes more slippery, more dangerous. Every now and then a small rock is knocked aside and tumbles into the abyss. They pass another milestone: "Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh! 4 miles". Though is it dangerous and difficult going, they march on, with tension in their faces. As they climb, Sir Beadocáf turns to Sir Feyman and Sir Ethlehed.
“We must find…” he pants, “the Bridge of Death…”
“Oh, great…” blurts out Ethlehed to himself.
“The Bridge is guarded by a bridgekeeper, who asks each traveller three questions. And he who answers the three questions can cross in safety.”
“And if you get a question” asks Ethlehed warily, “wrong?”
“You are cast into the Gorge of Eternal Peril.”
… … … … … …
The knights struggle along, a little downhill now. The mist grows. Sir Keardwall stops and points. They peer.
A rickety old bridge crosses the gorge, with mist swirling up from below. The other side is out of sight. Beside the bridge an old man stands: ‘tis the blind soothsayer from Turn Thirty-five! Sir Feyman turns to the group.
“He's the Keeper of the Bridge. It's the old man!”
Sir Beadocáf swallows hard.
“So who’s er… who’s going to answer the questions?”
… … … … … …
Retroactive Chivalry Awards Activated!
Spoiler: Whoops! Got so carried away by your heroism I forgot! (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: Errol; Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names (click to show/hide)
Post by: Errol on November 29, 2011, 08:57:51 am
Post by: freeformschooler on November 29, 2011, 09:03:17 am
Post by: Yoink on November 29, 2011, 10:46:30 am
He shall stand there, jars under one arm as he watches the proceedings, rather more worried about his lack of weaponry than any silly 'question' business. "Doesn't look too formidable to me," He mutters to himself, "I'm sure a good strike of the sword would sort the nosy old fool out, and teach him a lesson to play tricks on Questing Knights!"
Post by: scriver on November 29, 2011, 06:43:16 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on November 30, 2011, 10:58:48 am
England; the Dark Ages; nearly Wednesday; the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
“Sir Beadocáf!” ventures Sir Ethlehed, ”Worry not, for it is I that shall answer the questions! There are only five, it cannot be so hard!”
“Three.”
“Three what?”
“There are only three questions.”
“Oh. Right. Yes. I shall answer the five questions!”
"Ah, but of course!” proclaims Beadocáf, “It is only fitting that our newest comrade is the first to fall to his- I mean, pass the bridge, of course! Now, good Sire Ethelerede, prove thine worth to God and King!"
Sir Feyman is in agreement, knowing the routines of these question-askers and being nearly positive the questions will be TRICK questions!
“I say, Ethalhead, you are indeed quite fit for the first question-answerer!"
“Oh bloody hell,” continues Sir Ethlehed to himself, striding forward.
… … … … … …
Keardwall watches, perplexed, standing there clutching his jars and body parts in one hand, feeling a rising panic attack the more he considers the lack of sword in the other.
“Stupid bloody questions. Doesn't look too formidable to me,“ he mutters to himself, "I'm sure a good strike of the sword would sort the nosy old fool out, and teach him a lesson to play tricks on Questing Knights! Blast that bloody rabbit for bloody eating my blasted sword!"
Despite his disdain for the deadliness of the questioning to come, he nevertheless flinches a little as he sees Sir Ethlehed approach the blind soothsayer.
“Hail, old man. Ask me the questions. I am not afraid.”
“He who approaches the Bridge of Death
Must answer me
These questions three!
Ere the other side he see.
What is your name?”
“Sir Ethlehed”
“What is your quest?”
“To seek the Holy Grail!”
“What is your favourite colour?”
“Blue.”
“Right. Off you go.”
Sir Ethlehed strides across into the mist, disappearing from the view of his three waiting companions.
Title Acquired: Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names, Taker of the Bridge of Doom!
Chivalry Increased: +1
… … … … … …
Post by: freeformschooler on November 30, 2011, 11:21:48 am
Post by: Zako on November 30, 2011, 12:29:30 pm
Post by: scriver on November 30, 2011, 07:15:51 pm
...
...Watch in horror.
Post by: freeformschooler on November 30, 2011, 07:23:04 pm
Oh well, I'll leave it.
Post by: Yoink on December 01, 2011, 02:44:52 am
He shall even throw multiple gherkins, should Sir Feyman's life be in danger! Yes, he is that heroic!
Post by: lawastooshort on December 01, 2011, 10:14:20 am
England; the Dark Ages; Wednesday; the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
"I say, Sir Ethelhad, nice work! Who knew the questions would be so challenging?" exclaims Sir Feyman, as he steps forth to cross the bridge.
As the wise Sir Beadocáf looks on in horror, face covered by his chubby fingers, Feyman strides confidently across the rickety wooden walkway, imperiously barging past the blind old bridgekeeper. Keardwall’s frown increases in intensity as the blind man speaks. He squints like a rock towards the bridge.
“Eh! You great one armed oaf! What about the bloody questions!
He who approaches the Bridge of Death
Must answer me
These questions three!
Ere the other side he see!
Everyone knows that! Come back!”
“Oh Christ, he’s done it now,” blurts out Beadocáf, as he peeks through his hands to see the bridgekeeper rush after Feyman, hand outstretched. The old man reaches out to Feyman’s shoulder.
“I said, what about the blo-“
The old man is interrupted by a blood curdling scream.
“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! FEYMANNNNNNN! Don’t touch him you haggardy old scrote!! I’ll have you!!!”
Keardwall sprints onto the bridge, holding his jars in one hand and opening them with the other, fishing out a Holy Gherkin of Ranged Destruction and flinging it as violently as he can towards the dirty old man.
It misses!
Feyman wrestles with the old man’s surprisingly powerful grasp, and flees across the bridge, the blind questioner ambling quickly behind him.
“Feyman! Run! I shall hold them off! Save yourselves!”
As he runs on one leg, horribly unbalanced but nevertheless making good progress along the huge expanse of the cavernous gap beneath, Keardwall grabs another Holy Gherkin of Ranged Destruction, and hurls it wantonly at the nasty bridgekeeper!
It hits!
It ricochets!
It… oh shit!
As the defenceless old man tumbles in slow motion over the side ropes of the bridge, Keardwall watches in horror as the Holy Gherkin of Ranged Destruction flies back in an arc over him, sailing towards the terrified watching Beadocáf. It hits the end of the bridge! It severs the end of the bridge! The end of the Bridge of Death tumbles down into the Gorge of Eternal Peril, an endless number of feet below! Sir Feyman, mere inches from solid ground at the opposite end, just has time to grab hold of a rung of the Bridge of Death as it drops beneath him.
The rung of the Bridge of Death snaps!
Sir Feyman manages to grab the rung below!
The next rung of the Bridge of Death snaps!
Sir Feyman grabs another rung, which holds, and he dangles precariously from the rickety and fallen bridge. With his single arm he hangs there, glancing over his shoulder at the horrifying spectacle playing out above the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
Some hundred feet behind Feyman, Sir Keardwall slips as the Bridge of Death starts to disappear under him. He just has time to grab hold of a rung of the bridge as it drops into the abyss, swinging towards the far end of the gorge.
The rung of the Bridge of Death snaps!
Keardwall manages to grab hold of the rung below!
The next rung of the Bridge of Death snaps!
He grasps at the rung after that!
The rung of the Bridge of Death after that snaps!
A hundred rungs of the Bridge of Death snap in quick succession, splitting into dust and splinters and dry rot as Keardwall hurtles downwards into the Gorge of Eternal Peril shouting obscenity after stony English obscenity.
“BLOODY FOREIGN BRIDGES! BEADOCAF!!!” start Keardwall’s last heard uttered words, “TAKE CARE OF MY SPLEENE! PROMISE ME THAT YOU WILL SEE THAT NONE SHALL DO IT HARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGH!!!!!!”
Titles Acquired: Sir Keardwall the Deceased, Creator of the Holy Exterior Spleen of Keardwall, Stony Defeater of Bandits, Destroyer of the Son of the Eel of Stafford, (the Terror of the West), Slayer of the Two-Headed Knight of the Wood of Doom, Soiler of Armour, Destroyer of the Bridge of Death and Saviour of Sir Feyman the Judging, Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear and Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog
… … … … … …
As Keardwall’s dying wishes vanish into the swirling mists of the Gorge of Eternal Peril, a large glass jar flies through the air towards the astonished Beadocáf. It is the Jar of the Holy Exterior Spleen of Keardwall!
It shatters at his feet.
“Do it harrrrrrrgh?”
… … … … … …
On the other side of the Gorge, hidden from sight by the monstrous mists, Beadocáf can hear Ethlehed cry out.
“Feyman! Hold on goode Sir! Hold on! I shall pull you up! Oh shit, it’s the cops!”
… … … … … …
Post by: freeformschooler on December 01, 2011, 10:20:35 am
Post by: Errol on December 01, 2011, 10:27:04 am
Pull up Sir Feyman! Talk off the cops! If Feyman is pulled up and the cops are not willing to cooperate, fend them off while Feyman makes an escape! If I'm not done when they arrive, ask them to help me pull up Sir Feyman, for no cop wants to be responsible, even indirectly, for having a honourable Sir die. If they try to subdue me afterwards, I can still kick them in the shins.
Post by: scriver on December 01, 2011, 10:44:20 am
After taking this oath, Beadocáf attempts to figure out a way to maintain both the Spleen of the Passed and his own hand. And also a way over the chasm.
Post by: Yoink on December 01, 2011, 10:51:06 am
I love that brave Sir Keardwall died saving Sir Feyman the unfairly suspicious, too! ;D Well, at least he lives on via his Holy Spleen.
Edit: Also, in my current time/location I find myself sadly unable to let loose the great belly laughter that I feel building up reading that update... Thus, I shall re-read it tomorrow with the proper reactions to the goings-on! Thanks for being a bloody hilarious GM, La!
Post by: Zako on December 01, 2011, 12:07:40 pm
Post by: freeformschooler on December 01, 2011, 12:20:29 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on December 02, 2011, 08:38:46 am
England; the Dark Ages; Wednesday; the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
From the far side of the abyss, Sir Beadocáf hears Sir Feyman shout into the deep and fatal chasm as he wonders how to keep both the Holy Exterior Spleen of Keardwall and his own hand well-preserved.
"FORGIVE ME, O KEARDWALL! I shall see to it that your legacy lives on-on-on-on-on!”
The last syllable echoes across the chasm walls, disappearing into the misty depths as Keardwall did before it. Beadocáf joins the lament.
"Do not worry, Expired Sire Keardwall! I shall take thine conservated remains to the -" He pauses for a moment, then turns his face up to Heaven instead, "- Archbishop of Canterbury, where it shallt be placed amongst the most holy relics of God's Chosen Few - for truly thou hasth dunne ye Duty To the Lord, and he hast called you home to Him. Ah, indeed, morte magis metuenda senectus. I swear it will be so! It shallt be recorded into mine Holy Quaerentus Acta, so that I do not forget it when this Quest for the Lord's Grail is over."
And so saying, Sir Beadocáf stuffs his hand into one pocket of his surcoat, and the Holy Exterior Spleen of Keardwall into the other, and sets to considering the choices available to him in the task of rejoining his companions.
… … … … … …
“Now pull me up, Ethlehed,” shouts Sir Feyman, dangling from the shattered bridge on the far side of the gorge, “It should have been I that died, not he!"
"Do not fret!” comes the reply, and Ethlehed leans down on his stomach, edging across the cliff edge, “All that matters now is that we survive and complete our quest! Take my hand Feyma- oh blast, wait, you can’t let go, can you. Hmm.”
Ethlehed reaches down with his right hand, gripping the remnants of the bridge tightly with his left, edging ever closer to Sir Feyman’s one remaining arm.
“Surely God will have a place by his side for the most honourable Sir Keardnnnnggah!"
The last syllable is lost in a grunt of heroic and manly effort: Ethlehed grabs hold of Feyman’s wrist and pulls him up! He drags him over the side of the chasm! Sir Feyman is saved!
Title Acquired: Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names, Taker of the Bridge of Doom, Rescuer of Sir Feyman!
… … … … … …
Sir Ethlehed the Curious, Knower of Names, Taker of the Bridge of Doom, Rescuer of Sir Feyman, lies panting on the ground, face down, blue with the effort of dragging up a brave and manly knight in full plate armour. At length, he pushes himself up and turns to face away from the Gorge of Eternal Peril, only to see a police car pull up. The two cops drag a bedraggled looking knight out of the back seat and march him towards Ethlehed and Feyman
“Bloody hell,” mutters Ethlehed, “I forgot about them…”
The cops approach.
“So,” says one, turning to the arrested knight, “Sir Uriel, are these your accomplices? Come on man, own up you little blighter! It will be easier for you in the long run! Ten years in the clink or twenty eh, it’s up to you!”
“Sirs! Comrades! Fellow Knights of the Round Table!” cries the newcomer, Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception, “Flee for your lives! These fiends have inflicted upon me unspeakable horrors! They hast taken away my sword! They have addressed me uncouthly! They have taken my spectacles! I will hold them off. You must complete your quest! Run away!”
“Bugger that!” answers Ethlehed, “One for all and all that. Take this, foul usurpers!” he continues, kicking the cops in the shins one after the other, “Come, goode Sirs, let us flee together whilst they are bent double in Holy Pain!”
“Hang on…” interrupts Feyman, fully recovered from his frightful brush with Eternal Peril, “What about Beadocáf? We can’t just leave him there?”
“Ah. Yes. Beadocáf. Bloody hell,” mutters Ethlehed, “I forgot about him… BEADOCAF!” he shouts, in his most fearsome and loud voice, “Beadocáf! You must cross the Gorge! Beadocáf! You must JUMP!”
“Bloody hell Ethlehed, that’s a marvelous idea,” concurs Feyman, before also raising his voice to shout, “Come on man, jump! Beadocáf! ‘Tis but a flea’s hop from side to side! Oh blast. Ethlehed, the cops are getting back up. We must run away! Beadocáf! We shall meet again! I swear it!”
… … … … … …
“Jump?!” wonders Beadocáf, incredulous and stranded, “From my side to thine? I’m wearing full plate armour for Godde’s Sake! I’m not really terribly athletic in any case. Hmm. Perhaps if I had not eaten that last boar I could have managed it. Oh good Lord, what is that commotion? My companions sound as if they are in mortal danger! I must join them!”
Beadocáf paces up and down for several minutes along the cliff edge, deep in thought and calculation.
… …. … … … …
The three knights flee, running as fast as their armour permits them across the savage mountainside, stumbling across head-sized rocks and sinking into ankle-deep mudpools as they try to outpace the two cops behind. The mist closes in, and Ethlehed pushes ahead. He runs head first into an imposing figure, suddenly looming from the mist! An imposing and particularly rotund figure!
Ethlehed staggers backwards for a second.
“Oh. I say. How the blazes did you get here? What a mightily heroic act, Sir Beadocáf!”
“Oh. Well,” mumbles Beadocáf, sheepishly, “I er… I was pacing up and down, hoping for the Lord’s Courage so as to be able to take the mighty leap across yon Devil’s Chasm, and all of a sudden I found I’d paced quite far, and then, suddenly before me did appear a milestone, which read ‘Bridge. Five minutes’, with an arrow, so I er… Well. You see. Here I am. Apparently the Lake of L'Homard isn’t very far in this direction. I see you are in considerable haste to get ther- Ah. Who are these fellows?”
“Come on chaps,” shouts the first police officer, panting up to the talking knights, “You’re under arrest. Come quietly please.”
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Post by: Errol on December 02, 2011, 09:16:57 am
If the cops turn around, he shall charge at them mightily!
Post by: Ultimuh on December 02, 2011, 01:04:26 pm
No we must run!
Shouts Sir Uriel as he attempts to grab Sir Ethlehed before he does anything rash.
Post by: Theodolus on December 02, 2011, 01:08:18 pm
Post by: Ultimuh on December 02, 2011, 01:12:44 pm
Perhaps my minds was subconsciously blocking it out?
Post by: freeformschooler on December 02, 2011, 01:13:40 pm
Feyman then backed up a step. "There is an alternate solution, however, which requires less red parchment. Leave Sir Uriel with us and return to your homes, never to so much as glance this way again!"
Post by: scriver on December 04, 2011, 07:25:24 am
"And that, you see, is why we live in this most Blessed of self-perpetuating Dictatorships, the violence inherent in the system keeping the working class repressed and content. Because, really, that is what it is all about!" He pauses, then gives the police-men a sly look, and says with utmost disdain: "Why, you are not communists, are you?"
((Sorry for taking so long again))
Post by: lawastooshort on December 05, 2011, 07:53:09 am
England; the Dark Ages; Wednesday; near the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
Sir Uriel sees Ethlehed fidgeting about with his sword hilt, as if making to draw his sword and commit some kind of rash atrocity. He bursts into action!
”No, we must run!” he cries, as he dashes over to the surprised knight, tackling him to the ground before grabbing him up and hoisting him over his shoulder. “Ethlehed, we must live to find the Grail! Run away!”
“Oi! Stop right there son!” shouts the lead police constable, barging past Sirs Feyman and Beadocáf, “That’s kidnap that is! Come back you blighter! Leave the poor knight in peace! Oi!”
Enraged by the uncivilised voices of the chasing constables, Uriel only runs faster. He sprints away carrying Sir Ethlehed like a large armour plated sack of potatoes! The cops start to lose ground! Alas, for Sir Uriel misjudges his step, and trips upon a tuft of grass protruding from the marshy ground. He falls into a puddle! His face is drowned in mud! He drops Sir Ethlehed!
“Bloody hell Uriel,” exclaims Ethlehed, brushing himself off as he gets to his feet, “What the bloody hell was that? Oh shit, the cops! Right. I see.”
Sir Ethlehed looks down at his fellow knight. He nods in silent knightly understanding, and then he swiftly points behind the fast approaching police officers and appears to succumb to nameless terror, shrieking a bit for dramatic effect as he falls to the ground in apparent fear. He falls backwards onto Sir Uriel! He rolls off! He falls into a puddle! His face is drowned in mud!
… … … … … …
Stricken with sudden apprehension and wondering what could so terrify such a brave and manly knight, the two police constables quickly halt and turn around, only to see Sir Feyman bearing down upon them fast, sword drawn and angry frown hard at work.
“Hold it right there, policemen! You've got it all wrong!" says Feyman, lifting his head back and pointing his sword at the cops. "This sword was forged in the smoldering heart of an angelic dragon. Do you have a fancy sword? I don't think so. You’ve just got a fancy stick. Therefore, you're under arrest! Aha!”
Feyman backs up a step and lowers his sword in a conciliatory manner.
"There is an alternate solution, however, which requires much less red parchment. Leave Sir Uriel with us and return to your homes, never to so much as glance this way again!"
The two police officers realise they have come face to face with their social superiors. Their faces are beginning to show their doubt when they are cruelly assailed by Feyman’s brave brother in arms!
"Ah, my companion is correcte, no doubt! Indeed, because in this glorious Systeme of Governemente, granted us by the Divine Will of Our Lord God, we of sanguinius nobilis have a right, nay, a duty to exploit the poor workers, while hanging on to Holy Imperialist Dogma, so to say, and to perpetuate the economic and social differences in our society which is the basis of all that is Just and Right in the world. Why, if not for our Sacrosanct Privileges, the world might degrade into some vile, anarcho-syndicalist commune! We’d all be blasted mud harvesters!"
Beadocáf goes at length into explaining the workings of the Lord's Chosen Feudalism as the unfortunate pair look on, stopping only to deliver well-put quotes in mangled Latin.
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday; slightly further from the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
"… and that, you see, is why we live in this most Blessed of self-perpetuating Dictatorships, the violence inherent in the system keeping the working class repressed and content. Because, really, that is what it is all about!"
He pauses, then gives the policemen a sly look, and says with utmost disdain: "Why, you are not communists, are you? I once met a communist. Terrible fellow. Smelt like a Belgian. You’re not Belgians, are you?"
But the glassy-eyed policemen respondeth not! Beadocáf pokes one accusingly in the chest.
He topples over.
They have been struck down by terrible boredom!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Merciless, Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
… … … … … …
Feyman and Beadocáf help their mud stained questing companions out of their puddle and to their feet, and Sir Beadocáf reminds them of their direction. They set off, accompanied by the learned Beadocaf’s mumblings on the etymology of Englishe Place Names.
“So, you see, in fact, Lac de L’Homard, in English, we’d translate it as ‘the Sea of Fate’. From the Greek of course. Wonderful language you know. Wonderful people too, in fact. Well, they were. They smell of waffles now. Can’t abide waffles. But of course, that’s another word we got from the Greeks, although of course the waffle itself is more of an English invention, from the time of Saint Barnacle, who was ship-wrecked on the northern coast of Bournemouth, back in 763. A Tuesday, I believe. Of course, statistically, a great deal of shipwrecks occur on Tuesdays. More so than any other day in fact. Anyway, Barnacle, he was a tremendous historian you know, one of the first to chronicle the struggles of Saint Gespid the Burnt, whose writings I terrifically enjoyed when I was a lad, I have to say…”
… … … … … …
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday; the Sea of Fate.
Suddenly the four knights appear at the edge of a vast lake. They look across the water, only to see an unending expanse disappearing into the ever present mist. How can they cross to Castle L’Homard? Must they swim to the Grail?
No!
For suddenly the air is filled with ethereal music, as if a choir of hidden angels bless the holy questers, and out of the mist appears a wonderful barge silently and slowly drifting towards them. They gaze in wonder. The mysterious boat comes to where they are standing bewitched at the water’s edge. As they are about to step in, a ragged figure looks up at them with his watery blank eyes.
“Oh, bloody hell,” points out Sir Feyman, “Not him again.”
“He who would cross the Sea of Fate,” pounces the soothsayer,
“Must answer me these questions twenty-eight!”
He stares blindly and expectantly at the heroic foursome.
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Post by: freeformschooler on December 05, 2011, 08:39:44 am
Post by: Errol on December 05, 2011, 11:13:06 am
Gag the geezer and be done with it. Then, tie him up for weaponization at a later point.
Those who would attack a Holy Knight/
Must first answer these questions eight!
Post by: lawastooshort on December 07, 2011, 03:27:43 am
Although Ultimuh hasn't been online for three days, so I'll let him off.
But scriver! You're certainly not the messiah! Oh no!
Tomorrow I shall carry out autoing. Do any waitlisters want to suggest what Sir Beadocaf should do? It's hard to say whether this will improve or harm his chances of survival.
Post by: scriver on December 07, 2011, 06:30:36 am
"Heathen!" Beadocáf shouts at the man as he starts wading out in the water towards the boat, swinging his Mighty Steelen Fist of God above his head. "Witch! I demand you give us your boat at once, or I shall hold you personally responsible for the deaths of two Good Sirs Knight and Champions of King Arthur, to who's death your words led them! And also give you a forceful Baptism of Reinforced Interrogation until you repent thine sinful pagan ways! Like I did many your kind in Estonia and Finland during God's Holy Crusades!"
Post by: lawastooshort on December 07, 2011, 07:06:50 am
Does anyone want to suggest an action for Sir Uriel?
Edit: Gosh, well, I have heard the awful truth. The North! I may write the turn today!
Post by: lawastooshort on December 07, 2011, 11:00:51 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday; the Sea of Fate.
"How could he have survived!? How!?"
Sir Feyman is livid. An entire Holy Quest’s worth of frustration and loss erupts into a poignant and moving expression of manly anger. Feyman throws his sword into the lake!
"Fine. FINE! I will answer your two thousand and forty eight bloody questions! Ask away, you miserable old le- oh BUGGER."
Feyman watches his sword sink into the lake!
"Heathen!" shouts Beadocáf at the old man as he starts wading out in the water towards the boat, swinging his Mighty Steelen Fist of God above his head. "Witch! I demand you give us your boat at once, or I shall hold you personally responsible for the deaths of two Good Sirs Knight and Champions of King Arthur, to whose death your words led them! And also give you a forceful Baptism of Reinforced Interrogation until you repent thy sinful pagan ways! Like I did many your kind in Estonia and Finland during God's Holy Crusades!"
“I say, Beadocáf, steady on old chap,” mutters Sir Ethlehed, standing beside the impotently raging Feyman in a state of utter bafflement. He stares first at the old soothsayer, and then at Sir Feyman, and then at Sir Beadocáf wading away, and then once more at the old soothsayer, just to be sure. He is struck by a most excellent idea! He is debaffled!
“No need to interrogate him, I reckon, or to put up with his blasted interrogation” he continues, quickly grabbing the old blind man ahead of Beadocáf and starting to gag him with a scarf, “’Ere, we’ll just gag the geezer and be done with it,” says Ethlehed, as he starts tying the old man’s arms behind his back, “I’ve a mind to use him as a man club, in the manner of yon mighty heroes of old,” he finishes, as he blindfolds the frail retiree. “’Ere, I’ve got a bloody rhyme for you, mate. Look:
Those who would attack a Holy Knight,
Must first answer these questions e-
- oh, blast. Doesn’t work in the slightest does it. Doesn’t scan or rhyme at all. Bother. Blast. Eh! Eh, Beadocáf. Beadocáf! Eh! What the bloody hell! Give him back! I said steady on! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?! Oh bloody hell. Well, that’s that eh. Wasn’t a witch then, obviously.”
Ethlehed watches the old man sink into the lake!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne the Merciless Drowner of Old Men, Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
In silence, the knights climb into the boat, which glides off smoothly across the water.
“Bloody hell Beadocáf,” complains Ethlehed, “That was a bit much, don’t you think?”
… … … … … …
The boat carries them across the magical lake. They land and get out of the boat, stumbling across the small sandy beach with their faces suffused with heavenly radiance, and fall to their knees. Castle L’Homard lies before them!
“God be praised!” bellows Beadocáf.
“My word!” utters Uriel.
“Ehhhh!” echoes Ethlehed, “’Ang on, what’s that?!”
“SHIT!” shrieks Feyman, fumbling about for his sword, “A flower troll! Coming at us!”
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Post by: scriver on December 07, 2011, 11:34:01 am
Beadocáf has no time for silly but intellectually stimulating rhymes and riddles!
Post by: Errol on December 07, 2011, 12:54:38 pm
Post by: scriver on December 07, 2011, 02:33:15 pm
Post by: freeformschooler on December 07, 2011, 02:53:19 pm
Post by: scriver on December 07, 2011, 04:17:44 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on December 08, 2011, 11:06:34 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday; L’Isle de L’Homard.
“Blast!” exclaims Sir Feyman, “I did but recently discard my sword, and now a flower troll? What devilry is this?!”
"Gods!! I did not come this far to be slewn by a boisterous blossom!" points out Beadocáf as he unslings his Holy Crossbow of Beersheba in readiness to shoot the beast.
“No!!! This fiend is MINE,” shouts Sir Ethlehed, pushing aside his companions. Sir Beadocáf tumbles to the ground as Ethlehed bursts forward, leaving his companion fallen to the floor and cursing his impetuousness.
“Blast it, Ethlehed! I should have tossed you into yon lake! I say, Feyman, what the devil do you think you’re doing? Have you dropped a contact lens? I’d gladly lend a hand, but I’m rather busy at the moment. Fighting a flower troll, don’t you know,” finishes Beadocáf, as he gets to his feet and brings the Holy Crossbow of Beersheba to his shoulder.
“Eureka! Or something,” announces Feyman, as he stops stooping about the ground and pushes past Beadocáf, knocking him down and then running towards the flower troll at top speed. “I really don’t know why I was searching about yon beach for pebbles to wield!” he wonders breathlessly, ”The answer lieth before mine eyes!”
“Bloody hell Feyman, you oaf! Come back here! I shall take down this monstrosity!” decides Beadocáf, getting to his feet and starting to prepare his Holy Crossbow of Beersheba for firing once more.
… … … … … …
Oblivious to the Holy Crossbow rising to Beadocáf’s shoulder several dozen yards behind him, Ethlehed continues his brave assault, charging at the top of his voice towards the dastardly flower troll.
“MNNNNYARRRRRRRRRRRGHL!!”
“Noooooooooo! Ethlehed! Stay your… er… complicated looking bladey thing! This foul beast is mine!”
“No way, Sir Feyman, I desire the honour of slaying this monster! I shall not yield! I must not!”
“No no,” attempts to explain Feyman, “Let me explain! I want to wield the monster! I must!”
“I don’t follow…” admits Ethlehed, looking bewildered as Feyman sprints up and smacks the hulking beast down to the floor with a one armed rugby tackle. “Ah! I see! You are immobilising the brute so I can nobly behead him with my… er… sharp contraption! Well done Sir Feyman! Most heroic I must say! Now, stand aside please! Let me handle this: I am far better armed and er... Yes. Anyway.”
Ethlehed brings his… er… pointy thing in a metallic arc of death overhead, and it smashes down upon the flower troll’s dainty neck!
It is bruised in twain!
The spine is severed! The ears are burst! The head is removed! The flower troll is struck down!
Title Acquired: Sir Ethlehed the Curious Flower Troll Slayer, Knower of Names, Taker of the Bridge of Doom, and Rescuer of Sir Feyman!
“Noooooooooooooooooo!” laments the one armed Feyman as he gets back to his feet, “I wanted that to replace my sword you dolt! How can I storm Castle L’Homard with one arm and no sword?! Oh bloody hell. Who’s going to take me seriously wielding a headless flower troll in combat? Eh? I’ll bloody show ‘em! I’ll do it anyway! Bloody French!”
Feyman bends to hoist up the flower troll’s bleeding and flower strewn corpse, before remembering how to lift correctly, and then bends his knees, trying as best he can to keep his back straight.
He lifts the headless corpse onto his shoulder, preparing to wield it in the forthcoming siege!
He wobbles under the weight!
He staggers about as the troll begins to sway from side to side!
“Good god man,” blurts out Feyman, “Don’t just stand there! Help me, Ethlehed! Grab his leg or something, help me gain a solid grip, this corpse has caught the wind and means to escape my grasp!”
… … … … … …
“I say,” says the hitherto silent Sir Uriel to Beadocáf, as he peers into the mildly distant combat, “Yon headless troll lives on! It is gaining the upper hand upon our comrades! It thrusts poor Feyman from side to side! We must aid our fellow knights! Charrrrggge!!”
Sir Uriel charges forth to reinforce his ailing comrades!
Sir Uriel trips upon a nearby rock! He falls to the ground! He smashes his kidney!
Wound Acquired: Smashed Kidney!
“Beadocáf!” he moans from the floor, “You must do something! That troll shall be the end of us all! Open fire with yon crossbow!”
As the two men wrestle with the troll corpse some fifty yards ahead, Beadocáf, urged on by Uriel’s desperate pleas for intervention, finally fully raises his Holy Crossbow of Beersheba. He takes aim! He fires!
The recoil is horrendous!
He is flung back many feet! He flies back into the boat! His heavy armour smashes directly through the floor! The metallic weight crashes through the hull! Beadocáf and the boat begin to sink!
… … … … … …
“ARGGGGGLLLLLLBARGL!!!”
“Ethlehed?”
“GNNNNNNNARRGGGGGGGLFARG!!!!”
“What’s the matter?”
“FNNNNNGGNNNGNNNGARHHHH!!!!!”
“Ooh, I say. Do you know you have a troll’s leg pinned to your thigh?”
Wound Acquired: Ethlehed: Pierced thigh!
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Post by: Errol on December 08, 2011, 12:23:29 pm
I can haz chivalry plz?
Post by: freeformschooler on December 08, 2011, 06:15:37 pm
Sir Feyman thus attempts to save Sir Beatacalf before Ethledeheded, wielding his mighty flower troll corpse!
Post by: scriver on December 08, 2011, 07:50:31 pm
"By King and God! We have more important things to pursue than group hugs!"
Post by: lawastooshort on December 09, 2011, 06:02:44 am
RETROSPECTIVE CHIVALRY INCREASE: ACTIVATE!
Sir Ethlehed: +1 chivalry (slaying a foul beast!) (one that just wanted to talk about flowers!)
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday; L’Isle de L’Homard.
“Oh blast and buggrit!” cries Beadocáf, sitting in the two foot deep water by the beach’s edge, “I’m never going to get the rust out of these boots at this rate!” He shifts his weight a little in preparation of getting to his feet and starts to rise. “Oh blazes and bother. What’s the bloody hell’s that strange crunchy fee- oh no! It cannot be! Forsooth! It is! And my bath is not till April!”
Beadocáf falls backwards in despair! His one hand covers his eyes in disbelief! His behind is wet through!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne of the Sandy Crotch, Merciless Drowner of Old Men and Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
… … … … … …
“Worry not, yon Beadocáf!” shouts Sir Ethlehed, “I shall save you! Oh blast. I have a flower troll pinned to me. I say.”
“Worry not, good Sir Ethethethethethlehed!” echoes Sir Feyman, “I have time to remove yon flower troll and save the Saxon too! Here,” he continues, as he tries to gain a firm grip on the troll and plant his feet sturdily upon the ground, “Hold tight on yon rock and I shall give this blasted thing a hearty tug. Ready? Heave!”
Feyman pulls upon the pinned flower troll! He gives a mighty tug! He flies backwards several feet! Sir Ethlehed lets out a stoically muted cry of anguish!
“There,” concludes Feyman, “Think I got the bugger!” He gets back to his feet, proudly wielding the now liberated flower troll corpse. “OH SHIT! Erm. Sorry, old chap.”
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Left leg pulled off!
Weapon Acquired: Sir Feyman: Headless Flower Troll Corpse! With knightly leg attachment!
… … … … … …
"My apologies about your… erm… thigh, Ethlehead," says Feyman, looking down at his poor companion, "At least it’s still attached to my troll, eh? If we find a wise man and enough goat’s urine we may be able to reattach the blighter! I say, Beatacalf!” he continues, as he turns towards the sinking ship, “I will save you alongside Ethelhead, but I will save you first! It would be awfully poor form of me if I cannot outrun a newly one legged man, it must be said. Come, Sir Ethdelehed, chin up and all that, we have a knight to save!”
Feyman begins his sprint towards the distant waterline, a few feet beyond which the gravely afflicted Beadocáf is starting again to rise to his feet.
Beadocáf slips backwards in the lake!
“Dear God,” wails Feyman, “Yon situation doth become urgent! Brave Beadocáf flaileth about desperately amidst the rising waters! I have not the time to reach him before he is doomed! I must wield my mighty flower troll corpse!”
Feyman stops in confusion.
“Hmm. I must stop in conf… er, to think. I believe this operation shall depend on some rather delicate calculations of angles. Damn and blast!” he curses, as he sees Sir Ethlehed hop by to Beadocáf’s rescue, “Damn it Ethlehed, I have vowed to save yon helpless knight before ye! Oh balls then, be damned with you, delicate calculations! Have at you, you sinister lake!”
Feyman commences to spinning the headless corpse furiously in a circle about his shoulder! He spins so furiously that Sir Ethlehed’s leg is finally torn free! It flies away towards the sun! The flower troll’s blood showers out like a pustulent rainstorm! It spins out at tremendous speed! It is of such volume that it knocks the hopping Ethlehed to his feet, and he slides forwards upon the ground. His face is full of sand! His nose is smashed!
Wound Acquired: Re-smashed nose!
… … … … … …
His face covered in troll blood, Feyman is oblivious to the carnage being wreaked upon Sir Ethlehed’s nose, and carries out his hastily thought through plan. He releases the headless flower troll corpse! It arcs into the air towards the watching Beadocáf! The stricken Saxon sees the troll corpse descend towards him. Beelzebub’s bedpot! he thinks to himself, as he tries to dodge the incoming Samaritroll. He dives desperately out of the way! He gets a face full of sand! His head hits a rock! His nose is smashed!
Wound Acquired: Smashed nose!
As Beadocáf spits the sand from his mouth, he sees the Samaritroll speed towards him. It lands just behind his feet! The enormous shock waves propel him violently out of the water. He flies rotundly through the air! He lands upon Sir Feyman!
He is saved!
Sir Feyman’s nose is smashed!
Wound Acquired: Re-smashed nose!
"By King and God, Sir Feyman!” bellows Beadocáf to the brave knight underneath him, “We have more important things to pursue than group hugs! Get up, good man! We have a castle to besiege!”
Title Acquired: Sir Feyman the Judging Saviour of Sir Beadocáf, Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear and Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog!
Suddenly, Sir Ethlehed’s leg descends from its attempted orbit.
Wound Acquired: Ethlehed: Smashed face!
Item Acquired: Ethlehed: Left leg!
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
… … … … … …
Spoiler: GM Note spoiler (click to show/hide)
Post by: scriver on December 09, 2011, 06:17:07 am
I wonder what's keeping him, though. Very well. Time for the Genevan criminal underworld to get a new Boss?
Post by: Ultimuh on December 09, 2011, 09:03:13 am
Brother came back from.. studying in another town for some months.
Any way, I'm back.
Uriel attempts to do something heroic! Despite his Smashed Kidney and Lack Of Depth Perception.
edit: changed action.
editedit: changed it back again, due to promise of either great fame or demise.
Post by: Errol on December 09, 2011, 10:20:16 am
Post by: scriver on December 09, 2011, 11:38:06 am
Post by: freeformschooler on December 09, 2011, 11:53:43 am
Post by: Remalle on December 09, 2011, 02:34:19 pm
Post by: freeformschooler on December 09, 2011, 02:37:40 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on December 13, 2011, 09:48:27 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday lunchtime; L’Isle de L’Homard.
“Onwards, men!” cries Sir Beadocáf, rallying the knights on the Plage de l’Homard. “Oh, hang about, my nose appears to be smashed. Hold on men!” corrects Sir Beadocáf, “My nose appears to be smashed! Can’t go into battle with a smashed nose, what?”
“No, I say, that wouldn’t do at all, Sir Beatac-arrrrg!”
Beadocáf draws his knobbed mace to rectify the problem, and delivers a mighty smash to the back of his head! He misses! He smashes Sir Feyman’s face!
Wound Acquired: Sir Feyman: Re-smashed Face! (Ye face is covered in blood! -1 to seeing until it is cleaned off!)
“Oh, terribly sorry old bean, didn’t see you there underneath me. I’m quite rotund you know. Here, allow me to fix that.”
Beadocáf swings his knobbed mace to rectify the problem, and delivers a mighty smash to the back of Sir Feyman’s head! He misses! He hits the back of his own head! The force unsmashes Sir Beadocáf’s nose out of his face! His left eye pops out!
Wound Healed: Sir Beadocáf: Nose Unsmashed!
Wound Acquired: Sir Beadocáf: Left Eye Popped Out! (Thine aiming is affected! -1 to aiming until it is popped back in!)
“Oh bloody hell,” continues Beadocáf, “Well, I should probably just get up. Or shall we have another group hug?”
“No no, Sir Beatacough,” strains Feyman, beginning to feel quite uncomfortable under his portly companion, “I think ‘t’would be best to get on our wa-arrgh!”
Feyman passes out from the weight!
Wound Acquired: Sir Feyman: Squashed Unconscious!
… … … … … …
Strapping his leg to his back, Sir Ethlehed pulls himself up a few feet away, and walks over to the pair of crutches lying about conveniently by the beach. Alas! He has but one leg! He falls!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Re-smashed Face! (Yon face is smeared all over with blood! -1 to seeing until it is wiped away!)
… … … … … …
The merry cohort make their way overland, walking and hobbling the short distance along the water’s edge towards the great castle, with Sir Uriel heroically carrying the unconscious, bleeding and mumbling Sir Feyman on his back, despite his Smashed Kidney.
"Damn it, Beatacough!” mumbles Feyman, “Onwards we go... to the eel pond… careful now…"
… … … … … …
The vast and looming stone walls of the castle approach; Castle L’Homard, last known resting place of the Holy Grail, stands tall and majestic before the four Knights of the Round Table. They look up at the rising and awesome fortifications blocking their way.
“Chaaaaarge!” commences Sir Uriel, heroically, “For God and King Arthurrrrrr!!”
He throws Sir Feyman to the ground! The impact smashes his face!
Wound Acquired: Sir Feyman: Re-smashed Face! (Ye face is covered in blood! And dirt! -2 to seeing until it is cleaned off!)
“Chaaaaaaaaaarge!” continues Sir Uriel, as he begins his heroic single-handed taking of Castle L’Homard.
Sir Feyman comes round! The impact has clearly shaken him awake!
Wound Healed: Sir Feyman: Knocked Conscious!
“Chaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrghhh!” concludes Sir Uriel, running at full speed into the castle wall and knocking himself unconscious, despite his Smashed Kidney.
The impact smashes his face!
Wound Acquired: Sir Uriel: Smashed Face!
Wound Acquired: Sir Uriel: Knocked Unconscious!
… … … … … …
As Sir Uriel lies face down in the mud beneath the castle walls, the three remaining knights kneel in thanks.
“God be praised!” utters Feyman, “The deaths of many fine knights will this day be avenged!”
The knights bend their heads in prayer before the castle for which they have searched for over fifty turns. Suddenly a voice comes from the battlements.
“Ha ha! Hello! Smelly English K...niggets ... of Monsieur Arthur King, who has the brain of a duck, you know!”
Sir Uriel awakes in fright! The four knights look up!
“We French persons outwit you a second time, perfidious English mousedropping hoarders... how you say: Begorrah!”
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Spoiler: GM’s note (click to show/hide)
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on December 13, 2011, 10:18:31 am
Post by: Ultimuh on December 13, 2011, 10:20:20 am
Post by: Errol on December 13, 2011, 10:44:35 am
Post by: lawastooshort on December 13, 2011, 10:52:19 am
Hmm.. should I not gain chivalry for carrying...
Why not! I will retroactivate some next turn.
Engage in a battle of insults with the potty-mouthed frenchman until he curls up whimpering in a corner, most conveniently hitting the door-opening lever!
Examples would help me out in a writing sense, the French are historically good at insulting, the English less so. Although I suppose there's no good you coming out with the mother of all insults and then rolling [1]. Although that could determine the reply, I suppose. I may need to work out an insult mechanism.
Post by: Ultimuh on December 13, 2011, 11:16:02 am
Sir Uriel will then make use of Ethlehe'd distraction
and search the walls for a gate or some other entrance. (wether Goofus is here or not)
All while being heroic about it despite of Sir uriel's Smahsed face, Smashed Kidney and Lack of Depth Perception!
Post by: freeformschooler on December 13, 2011, 12:07:17 pm
Post by: scriver on December 13, 2011, 06:01:31 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on December 14, 2011, 08:46:49 am
RETROSPECTIVE CHIVALRY INCREASE: ACTIVATE!
Sir Uriel: +1 chivalry (Carrying his gravely wounded colleague!)
RETROSPECTIVE CHIVALRY DECREASE: ACTIVATE!
Sir Uriel: -1 chivalry (Throwing his gravely wounded colleague viciously to the floor!)
RETROSPECTIVE CHIVALRY INCREASE: ACTIVATE!
Sir Uriel: +1 chivalry (Bravely charging the French singlehanded!)
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday lunchtime; Chateau de L’Homard.
“How dare you,” shouts back Sir Ethlehed to the unseen Frenchman, “How dare you insult our King Arthur like that! Why, you miserable toad licki-“
“Why what? Miserable? I am a very ‘appy man! I am very ‘appy because I see a silly English type before me, who is clearly ready for a good taunting!” The Frenchman sticks his head over the battlements. “Now, how you English say: I one more time, I unclog my nose towards you, sons of a window-dresser, so, you think you could out-clever us French fellows with your silly knees-bent creeping about advancing behaviour?” He stops to point at Sir Uriel, doing his best to sneakily search the walls for some undefended entrance, and makes a crude sound with his mouth. It sounds a bit like a fart. “Get away from mah castle! I wave my private parts at your aunties, you brightly-coloured, mealy-templed, cranberry-smelling, electric donkey-bottom biters!”
Sir Uriel hastily retreats, unable to find a secret entrance under this relentless barrage of insults, and orders Goofus to the front to reinforce Sir Ethlehed’s feeble efforts.
“Sir Ethlehed,” starts Goofus, “May I suggest you bang on the door? They may well fall for that. It worked for Sir Uriel and I at the Siege of Crandon’s Peak.”
“Very good. Yes. Good idea. Come, Feyman, back me up my good fellow. Come Uriel, be not disheartened by failure! Where’s Beadocáf?”
The three knights advance on the castle’s main gate. Sir Ethlehed booms a resounding crash of a knock on the door. He hits so hard he maims his hand!
Wound Acquired: Injured hand!
“Blast! Buggrit! Damn! Ouch! Well, luckily it’s not broken, eh. Right. In the name of the Lord,” he announces, “We demand entrance to this sacred castle! Open the door!”
The Frenchman above appears to be joined by several of his comrades. The brave Knights of the Round Table hear a chorus of jeers rain down from above.
“No chance, you English bed-wetting types. We burst our pimples at you and call your door-opening request a silly thing, you tiny-brained wipers of other people's bottoms!”
The disheartened knights can just about make out a series of outrageously accented laughs behind the battlements that defy them so rudely.
“Damn it,” mutters Ethlehed to his companions, “I’m not doing especially well at this insulting business. Well, there’s only one option left.” He turns his face back towards the battlements above. “If you do not open these doors at once, we shall take this castle by force...”
“I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction!”
A bucket of castle waste is thrown over the battlements.
It lands directly in Ethlehed’s face!
“In the name of God... and the glory of our...”
Another bucket of what one would politely describe as human ordure flies down upon Ethlehed.
It hits him directly in the eye!
Wound Acquired: Ordure in the eye! (-1 to seeing until it is cleaned!)
His face is covered!
He feels quite ashamed!
The French lean over the battlements amidst cries of laughter and jeers.
Chivalry Decreased: Sir Ethlehed: Covered in defecation and shame!
… … … … … …
The three knights retreat from the castle gates, walking back towards Sir Beadocáf, who appears to be levering his eye back in with his knobbed mace.
He puts the mace down as they approach.
“I say! Good as new, what? Any news? Blimey. Do you know how filthy you all are?”
Wound Healed: Eye popped back in!
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Post by: Errol on December 14, 2011, 09:31:30 am
I think I am not using yon correctly.
Post by: Zako on December 14, 2011, 09:53:21 am
Post by: freeformschooler on December 15, 2011, 08:26:32 am
Post by: scriver on December 15, 2011, 09:14:40 am
Post by: Ultimuh on December 15, 2011, 10:41:29 am
May involve some Batman Gambitry (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BatmanGambit).
Spoiler: OOC (click to show/hide)
Post by: lawastooshort on December 19, 2011, 07:22:31 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday lunchtime; Chateau de L’Homard.
A short distance from the castle gates, the four knights huddle together.
“We need to devise yon battle-plan!” screams Sir Ethlehed, smearing human waste all over his face and rubbing it vigorously into his eyes. He hops off screaming wildly! He hops face first into the castle wall!
Wound Acquired: Ordure firmly in the eyes! (-2 to seeing until it is cleaned!)
Wound Acquired: Re-re-smashed nose!
Wound Acquired: Unconscious!
“Well,” proposes Sir Uriel, “That is one possible course of action, I suppose. Now, what I propose is that I er… well… Yes. No! A plan! I have it! ‘Tis foolproof! I shall march valiantly up to the castle gates, challenge the perfidious French-type to a duel, and then surrender. Then, upon being taken captive, I shall leap free, and open the castle gates, thus letting you, my brave companions, into the castle! Right!” he finishes, galloping towards the fortress, “Prepare yourselves for yon glory, brave friends! Hide by yon castle gates as soon as I am inside!”
… … … … … …
As his companion Sir Uriel marches valiantly up to the castle gates, Sir Beadocáf also decides that some form of subterfuge or infiltration might be the best way to defeat the French, and accordingly decides to take a stroll around the castle walls whilst Uriel distracts them. The French, heavy smokers as they are, are sure to have installed proper ventilation, so it strikes him that perhaps a ventilation shaft might be a likely target. He remembers well his history lessons and the fate of the impregnable castle in the Holy Land that fell to just such an attack.
“I wonder why they smoke so much though?” he wonders, as he hears a loud knocking on the castle gate in the distance.
He carries on walking, now out of sight of his companions before the castle.
“Perhaps it is to serve as some form of perfume? To mask another odour? I have heard, of course, that many tribes in the Baltic smoke as a sign of respect,” he continues, as he hears a loud cry of En Garde! ring out from the gates on the other side of the castle.
He turns another corner of the vast stone walls and the lake comes back into view.
“Aha! I knew it! Here be yon ventilation shaft! Odd that it should be so low ‘pon the ground, but never mind! No time to be picky, I suppose,” he decides, as he hears a distant shout of, he assumes, feigned terror from the castle gates.
“Oh! Help! Help! I surrender! Help! Oh blast. Rope? I wasn’t expecting any bloody rope. Eh! I say! Stop that!”
“Sir Uriel seems to be playing his part to perfection,” Beadocáf continues, “Good man, eh! Now, let’s get infiltrating this ventilation shaft, what?”
… … … … … …
Sir Feyman, as Sir Uriel had suggested, had waited for several minutes after his companion had let himself be taken captive before taking up his position by the gates of Castle L’Homard, and now he had been standing there for long enough to start getting a little fidgety. Bored, maybe. Jealous, even, that his questing comrades were having all the fun whilst he had been left to stand outside waiting for the filthy faced Ethlehed to wake up.
He could swear he just heard a distant cry of distress. Help, help, it had sounded like, I’m stuck in a sewage pipe! Blast and bugrit!
No, he must have imagined it. His eagerness for battle was clearly getting the better of him as it sometimes used to when he was but a young squire.
No, but there it was again! Feyman was sure he could recognise Sir Beadocáf’s learned and rotund voice even in the heat of battle, and this was a quiet Thursday afternoon. Blast it! Beadocáf must have been captured! The dastardly French must be torturing him! They were trying to make him… wait. What were they trying to make him do? Was it a trap? No, he wouldn’t move. The instructions had been clear: he would wait discreetly by the castle gates until Uriel opened them for Feyman and Ethlehed to charge valiantly in!
State Acquired: Sir Beadocáf: Rotundly stuck in a sewage pipe!
Good lord! There it was again! No! It was a diff- Gosh! It was clearly Uriel’s voice this time! Had the French-types taken him too? Were they on to their cunning plan? Help, help, it sounded like, I’m imprisoned in a cell! Help! Oh, bloody hell. It was possible, thinks Feyman. Uriel had gone unarmed into the lion’s den after all, so to speak. Blast. It must be a trap! It must!
State Acquired: Sir Uriel: Imprisoned in a cell!
… … … … … …
Even if yon cries be a trap, Sir Feyman decides bravely to himself, if my comrades are in grave danger I must act! What would my dear departed Keardwall do? By Jove! Yes! I have it!
… … … … … …
As Sir Ethlehed starts to come round at the foot of the castle wall, he seems to see Sir Feyman walk some distance away from the castle. He is wielding his Headless Flower Troll one handed, and twirling it in the air with considerable force.
Ethlehed rolls over onto his back, and contemplates getting up. As he does so, he sees the blurry figure of Sir Feyman charge with the bravery and force of fully a hundred knights up towards the gates of Castle L’Homard! Sir Feyman bellows a ferocious battle cry! He twirls his Headless Flower Troll! He reaches the gate! The Headless Flower Troll smashes brutally against the vast oak! The gate splinters in twain! The wood splinters into tiny bits! The gate is taken!
“Oooh, bloody hell,” says Ethlehed, “I’d best get a move on! Why’s everything so brown and blurry? What the devil is that awful smell? Oh well, no time for that. Charrrge!! For King Arthur!”
State Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Conscious!
… … … … … …
“Chaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggge!!!” cries Feyman, rushing like a one armed bull armed with a headless flower troll through the ruins of the castle gate, “Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggee!!!!”
Feyman bursts into the castle courtyard. He surprises four French men-at-arms sitting about smoking. They turn to face him, and move to get up. They seem too surprised to sound the alarm!
Chivalry Increased! Taken the castle gates!
… … … … … …
Spoiler: Ultimuh; Sir Uriel Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception (click to show/hide)
Post by: scriver on December 19, 2011, 08:04:43 am
State Acquired: Sir Beadocáf: Rotundly stuck in a sewage pipe!
:D
This reminds me of th Swedish king Erik XIV, who was very paranoid. He had a secret door in his childhood room (the real door to that room has like a dozen locks on it too) which leads to his toilet. Said toilet was also part of a secret passage to a safe room in case they were attacked.
Poor guy proved his paranoia were justified in the end too. He ended up inprisoned by two of his younger brothers and poisoned to death in his prison.
Post by: Zako on December 19, 2011, 08:07:36 am
Also, of course half of you had to go get yourselves into trouble. I had to have seen that coming...
Post by: Ultimuh on December 19, 2011, 08:15:02 am
Sir Uriel spends some time in his cell to think of a heroic escape plan,
exploiting the various weaknesses of these Frenchmen.
The plan should also involve some macguyvering (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MacGyvering).
Since there is no 'Macguyver' in this era,
Sir Uriel temporarily renames himself Macguyver to ensure his planning adds up.
Post by: freeformschooler on December 19, 2011, 08:38:08 am
Post by: Errol on December 19, 2011, 11:56:50 am
Although, getting through the gate would be somewhat advisable.
Post by: scriver on December 19, 2011, 06:17:48 pm
Pull yonder belly in, push yonder Beadocáf in! If nothing else works, prepare for an early fast this year.
Post by: lawastooshort on December 20, 2011, 06:20:28 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, half past lunchtime; Chateau de L’Homard.
Suddenly, in the courtyard of Castle L’Homard, all hell breaks loose, shattering the congenial serenity of the extended lunch breaks for which the French are so famous, as Sir Feyman the Glorious charges into the castle singlehandedly – and singlearmedly, in fact – ferociously wielding his trusty Headless Flower Troll.
Title Acquired: Sir Feyman the Glorious Judging Saviour of Sir Beadocáf and Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear and Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog!
The three smoking French men-at-arms leap up to defend their castle! They charge towards Sir Feyman!
“Charrrrge! Chaaaarge!! For King Arthurrrr!!!”
Suddenly, the three smoking Frenchmen halt their charge and give way to the screaming Englishman who flails past smeared in fecal matter: Sir Ethlehed runs straight past the French foe! He falls head over heels into the castle well!
State Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: In a well!
Wounds Healed: Sir Ethlehed: Face cleaned!
State Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: One third drowning in a well!
The French men-at-arms mutter Gallicly to themselves about les milords rosbifs un peu eccentriques before shrugging stereotypically.
“Allons-y! Le chaarrrge!!”
They draw their swords! They engage Sir Feyman in le combat mortel!
… … … … … …
Elsewhere in the castle, the guards who were so recently guarding the perfidious – or brave, depending on one’s allegiance – Sir Uriel, realise that it is at least half past lunchtime, and leave.
“Gosh!” thinks Uriel to himself, “How fortunate that yon French types have such a weakness as to be so fond of their overly fancy cooking! I must act fast whilst I have the chance to escape! Hmm. I should devise some kind of… heroic escape plan…”
Title Acquired: Sir Uriel “Temporary MacGyver” Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception!
“Hmm… Well, ‘tis a good start! And at least my place of captivity is rather pleasant… it could be worse!”
… … … … … …
Somewhere worse and lower down in the castle, Sir Beadocáf is in a slight predicament. Or is it a dilemma? Or a dichotomy? Or is it in fact a sewage pipe?
“Ye gods!” realises Beadocáf, “’Tis most certainly a sewage pipe!”
Wound Acquired: Ordure in the eyes! (-1 to seeing until it is cleaned!)
Wound Acquired: Disgusting odour! (-1 to enemy to hit rolls until cleaned!)
… … … … … …
“Hmm,” Uriel continues, “Hmm. Twist that a bit. Aha. Yes. A bit more tape. Hmm. Perhaps if I… Yes. Attach the er… Perfect. I’ll just... Yep. Aha! Right! Excellent!”
… … … … … …
Meanwhile, back again lower down in the castle, Sir Beadocáf is mentally giving some form and structure to what he realises is, in fact, a dilemma. “Either,” he postulates alone in the silence of the sewage pipe, “Either I must fast, which I disapprove of in general, or I must pull yon belly in. Blast. I wonder if that really is a dilemma? Perhaps, for I’d prefer to do neither, but I can’t hang about here, I suppose, I imagine my hapless comrades have some need of me. Blast. Hmm. If only Godewine were still here, the poor chap.”
… … … … … …
Meanwhile, again, in another and strangely familiar castle, far far away…
“More spanking, Mr Godewine? Oh, please Mr Godewine, spank us some more!”
“Yes! And then spank me!”
“And me!”
“And me too!”
… … … … … …
“Goofus?” asks Sir Uriel, “Do you er… do you think you could pass me those keys?”
… … … … … …
“Come on Beadocáf,” grunts Beadocáf, to himself, “Pull that blasted belly in man! Pull! Heave!!”
Suddenly!
Pop!
Sir Beadocáf the Notoriously Rotund pops out of his sewage pipe and rolls about on the floor. He looks up! He sees Sir Feyman in vicious and brutal combat with three French types!
He sees Feyman bust one Frenchman in the face with his flower troll!
His face flyeth away at the speed of a swallow! It doth escape the confines of the castle! He falls writhing to the floor!
Beadocáf sees the second man-at-arms charge at Feyman with sword overhead in both hands; Feyman sidesteps, and aims a solid blow of flower troll at the Frenchman’s chest! His spleen is split in twain! He is struck down!
As the flower troll continues on its deadly arc, Feyman turns in a full circle in three small tidy steps, raises the flower troll above his head in a smooth and fluid motion, and, with a single step forward, brings the headless troll corpse crashing down upon the helmeted head of the last man-at-arms. He is cut straight down the middle! His body falls into two halves! He is struck down!
Beadocáf sees great quantities of blood!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne of the Sandy Crotch, Merciless Drowner of Old Men and Notoriously Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
… … … … … …
Suddenly, Sir Uriel bursts heroically into the castle courtyard, unarmed but waving his arms valiantly about in the air! He hears a slight gurgle! He hears a faint cry!
“Help! Help!”
A dozen French types appear at the door of the keep. They rush down the stairs towards the brave English
… … … … … …
Post by: scriver on December 20, 2011, 07:35:32 am
"Aha!" Cries Baedocáf and turns to his comrades. "Those stairs must lead to the Tower Room were they keep the Most Holiest of Grails! Once more through the French my friends! Follow mine smell! DEUS VULT! (Also totally good to see you again bros)"
Fire the Holy Crossbow of Bersheeba then CHARGE THOSE HEATHEN FRANKS IN THE NAME OF THE LORD AND KING AND POPE AND COUNTRY
Post by: Ultimuh on December 20, 2011, 07:43:21 am
all while comically avoiding these Frenchmen.
Alas, he have forgotten to UnMaguyvering himself, tough this might be a good thing?
Post by: freeformschooler on December 20, 2011, 07:50:59 am
Post by: Errol on December 20, 2011, 10:43:27 am
Post by: lawastooshort on December 21, 2011, 06:47:52 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, half past lunchtime; Chateau de L’Homard.
"Aha!" shouts Beadocáf, turning to his comrades, "Those stairs must lead to the Tower Room where they keep the Most Holiest of Grails! Once more through the French my friends! Follow mine smell! DEUS VULT!” he cries, excitedly shooting the Holy Crossbow of Beersheba into his leg.
“Chaaarrrrrghhh!” he bellows, stumbling forwards flat on his face and leaving his severed left leg behind him.
“Oh. Blast,” he continues, as a French-type runs towards him, sword raised and an angry snarl upon his face.
“Le chaaarrrrrghhhhhh!”
The angry French-type runs straight past Beadocáf! He falls into a well!
Wound Acquired: Beadocáf: Left leg shot off!
… … … … … …
Meanwhile, somewhere in a well, Sir Ethlehed is stuck. He appears to be two-thirds drowned!
… … … … … …
Beside the stricken Sir Beadocáf, Sir Feyman is also keen to leap into battle against the heathen usurper. No Frenchman could hold them now!
"I say, Beadocáf! It must be so. Let us charge through! Charrrrge!! For King Arthur and Englannnndd!!!”
Feyman charges valiantly at the mass of incoming French men-at-arms. He is afflicted by a mild case of fatigue! He in unable to properly lift the weight of his flower troll corpse! It remains anchored firmly to the ground! ‘Tis indeed a heavy arm for a one-armed man to wield.
Horrifyingly, a Frenchman chooses just this moment to single out the poor tiring knight: he charges through the melee straight at Feyman! He struggles to draw his sword! It is rusted fast in the sheath!
“Le merde!” mumbles the confounded foe incorrectly, aiming instead a kick at Feyman’s private regions. The clang of armoured boot against armoured crotch-plate rings out across the castle!
… … … … … …
“Worry not, Sir Ethlehed! Yea, for my noble hearing doth detect that yon cries of help are yours, and I am running fearlessly to yon rescue!” cries Sir Uriel, as he dodges the swinging maces and thrusting swords of half a dozen violent men-at-arms and sprints towards the castle well. “I say! Have you tried using yon weapon-like contraption to haul yonself up?”
“Aha! Is that you, Sir Uriel? Thank you for the guidance! I shall give that a go!”
The dialogue ceases for some time, the comparative silence pierced only by the raging melee going on behind Uriel and the manly grunts of effort coming from the well.
Sir Ethlehed nears the top!
Suddenly, a French man-at-arms dashes past, jumping head first down the well! He knocks Ethlehed back down! He starts drowning!
“I say, Sir Ethlehed,” says, indeed, Sir Uriel, “If yon weapon contraption worketh not, perhaps I could toss you this rope?”
Sir Uriel tosses the rope!
He misses the well entirely!
“Damn and blast my total lack of depth perception!” curses Uriel, “Well, there is only one thing left to try!”
Sir Uriel tosses the rope again!
Sir Ethlehed is saved!
Title Acquired: Sir Uriel Rope-Tosser “Temporary MacGyver” Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception!
… … … … … …
Post by: freeformschooler on December 21, 2011, 06:56:30 am
Post by: Ultimuh on December 21, 2011, 07:19:47 am
Sir Uriel attempts to pull Sir Ethlehed from the well, but only if Sir Ethlehed manages to grab hold of the rope.
All while valiantly attempting to fend off any interfering Frenchmen.
Post by: Errol on December 21, 2011, 02:47:16 pm
Post by: scriver on December 21, 2011, 06:26:07 pm
I have a feeling dear old Beatacalf is doing bad because of how he hasn't said much in Latin lately.
Post by: Zako on December 21, 2011, 09:47:55 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on December 22, 2011, 06:39:21 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, about dessert time; Chateau de L’Homard.
“Yon Crannock?! Are ye there?”
“Yes, milord?”
“Then play us a blasted song, Crannock! ‘Tis what I pay ye for, after all!”
… … … … … …
The brave knights quested two by two hurrah, hurrah!
The brave knights quested two by two hurrah, hurrah!
The brave knights quested two by two,
And fiendish monsters they did slew,
And they fearlessly did quest,
For to find the Grail.
… … … … … …
Despite his brief request for a musical interlude, the enraged Feyman can barely restrain himself.
"My precious groin! How dare ye resort to such cheap tricks, Frenchman? I should cut you in twain for this!” he bellows, before recalling his noble status. Feyman kicks the French-type in the head! It is kicked in twain! The Frenchman beside him surrenders in sniveling fear!
Item Acquired: Feyman: French prisoner!
Alas, there is another French-type who is less impressed by the flying half-brain that narrowly misses him, and instead decides to angrily draw his battleaxe. He charges at Sir Feyman! But his axe is large! His axe is slow! Sir Feyman dodges the blow, and elbows him in the face! He is strewn upon the muddy ground!
… … … … … …
They lost their limbs oh limb by limb hurrah, hurrah!
They lost their limbs oh limb by limb hurrah, hurrah!
They lost their limbs oh limb by limb,
And never met an enchanter called Tim,
But they bravely quested on,
For to find the Grail.
… … … … … …
Behind this most vicious combat Sir Ethlehed is valiantly gripping a rope. He is in a well!
“Heave, Sir Uriel! Heave!”
“I’m trying to heave, my dear companion, but these confounded Frenchmen keep interfering! Here!” cries Uriel, waving his sparkling sword at an approaching Frank whilst holding Ethlehed and the rope in his left hand, “Take this, you dastardly cross-channel type!”
Uriel swings his shiny blade at the Frenchman’s face! It is split into many parts! His neck is gouged! His brain is minced! He is struck down!
“Righty-ho,” continues Sir Uriel, “I’ve got a minute now! Hold on, my dear Sir!”
… … … … … …
The knights they fell in various ways hurrah, hurrah!
The knights they fell in various ways hurrah, hurrah!
Every way was a noble way,
And eventually their foes they did slay,
Just so they all could quest on,
For to find the Grail.
… … … … … …
Sir Uriel heaves! Sir Ethlehed holds!
Sir Ethlehed flies out of the well at considerable speed!
He is propulsed across the castle courtyard as if by the Hand of God!
He flies helmet first through a crowd of French men-at-arms! One’s head is pierced! Another’s intestines are burst! A third’s heart is severed! Another’s lungs are bruised! They are all struck down!
Sir Ethlehed hits the castle keep door! It is crushed in twain! Sir Ethlehed is rendered unconscious!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Quite Unconscious!
… … … … … …
Sir Meynard’s head was bit clean off, hurrah, hurrah!
Sir Meynard’s head was bit clean off, hurrah, hurrah!
Sir Meynard’s head was bit clean off,
The Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh did barely cough,
When he swallowed Meynard’s head,
While he quested for the Grail.
… … … … … …
A vengeful looking French-type rushes towards Ethlehed’s unprotected body, waving his Gallic mace and attempting to strike a cowardly blow. He misses! He hits the castle keep wall! It beginneth to crumble!
… … … … … …
Conchobar’s throat was ripped apart, hurrah, hurrah!
Conchobar’s throat was ripped apart, hurrah, hurrah!
Conchobar’s throat was ripped apart,
Before Feyman desecrated his heart,
But he valiantly fell for the King,
While he quested for the Grail.
… … … … … …
“Oh, dear buggery, Huns and Hornication!” cries out Beadocáf, as he wildly throws the Holy Crossbow of Beersheba at the advancing French to slow them down. He throws it straight at the cobbled ground! It smashes into smithereens!
Item Lost: Holy Crossbow of Beersheba, Renowned Slayer of the Green Dragon!
“Oh. Blast. Oh well,” Beadocáf mumbles despondently to himself, absentmindedly spitting on his leg and re-attaching it to his body. He sprints rotundly off in the direction of an advancing Frenchman. The Frenchman flees before the repulsive smell! He passes out from the pain! His windpipe is crushed! His lungs are smashed! He is struck down!
Wound Healed: Left leg re-attached!
… … … … … …
Sir Feyman he was saved from a fall, hurrah, hurrah!
Sir Feyman he was saved from a fall, hurrah, hurrah!
Sir Feyman he was saved from a fall,
By the most Glorious of them all,
Sir Keardwall and his Spleen,
Both quested for the Grail.
… … … … … …
Suddenly, the few remaining men-at-arms scatter as a vast and imposing looking knight strides out of the castle keep through the shattered doorway and over Sir Ethlehed’s unconscious form.
‘Tis the Lord of Castle L’Homard!
… … … … … …
Now but four brave knights remain hurrah, hurrah!
Now but four brave knights remain hurrah, hurrah!
Now but four brave knights remain,
They stab and they pierce and they crush and they brain,
But they only slay their foes,
For to find the Grail!
… … … … … …
“I say, Crannock,” shouts Feyman, over the din of battle, “I would have preferred something more… dirge-like, if you could bear it in mind for next time…”
“Very good Sir.”
“No, but it was charming nonetheless.”
“Thank you Sir. Very kind of you Sir.”
… … … … … …
Post by: Errol on December 22, 2011, 06:46:16 am
Continue to lie down and see what happens next. Not being in mortal peril all the time is kind of nice.
Post by: lawastooshort on December 22, 2011, 06:49:57 am
I say! My status appears to be missing.
So it was. Deleted a [/spoiler] by accident at the last minute. Sorry!
Post by: scriver on December 22, 2011, 07:26:45 am
While going the way to sweet Ath
While going the way to sweet Ath
A stick in my hand and a
A
Johnny I hardly knew ye
...Isn't it?
Or perhaps more:
You haven't an arm, you haven't a leg
You haven't an arm, you haven't a leg
You haven't an arm you haven't a leg
You're a
You'll have to be left with a bowl out to beg
Oh johnny I hardly knew ye
edit: heh.
Post by: Zako on December 22, 2011, 08:33:20 am
:'(
'Tis truely a thing of beauty. I cannot help but feel proud to have played even a small part in this thread.
Post by: Ultimuh on December 22, 2011, 10:45:24 am
Sir Uriel prepares to make toast of the Frenchmen.
Oh the humanity! Goofus starts spewing out puns about french toastery!
Let's just hope it works in our favor!
Post by: scriver on December 22, 2011, 12:19:27 pm
"Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!"
Post by: freeformschooler on December 22, 2011, 05:45:45 pm
Post by: Powder Miner on December 23, 2011, 06:11:01 pm
Post by: lawastooshort on December 23, 2011, 06:33:49 pm
Judging by the fact you're hosting this, lawastooshort, it would seem your wrist is better. Any chance of a roll to be a gentleman spy revive?
It's not! I'm sure you asked the same question in the rbags thread. Doing 4-5 turns of this a week is about the most I can manage at the moment. However, I do want to revive it in the New Year, hopefully first or second week in January. I have POSSIBLE BAD NEWS ALERT now decided that I will probably end this once the Grail has been discovered as was my original intention, so even if it's not totally better I should be able to type enough to revive the gentleman spies.
Post by: Powder Miner on December 23, 2011, 07:46:54 pm
>.> <.<
Sorry. I feel bad now.
Post by: lawastooshort on December 24, 2011, 02:02:10 am
Post by: lawastooshort on December 28, 2011, 06:18:37 pm
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, about time to bring out the cheeseboard; Chateau de L’Homard.
"STOP THIS NONSENSE!" cries Goofus, as Crannock's song comes to a joyous end. "Stop this, for I have an announcement to make!"
The entire castle courtyard comes to screeching halt. Silence reigns.
"My announcement," continues Goofus, as the assembled knights and men-at-arms gather round and lean in to hear, "My announcement," says Goofus, pausing dramatically, "is - "
"Yes?" interrupts a passing Frenchman.
"My announcement is that my lord Sir Uriel is..." Goofus pauses to give Sir Uriel time to draw his sword, "Is..."
Suddenly, Sir Ethlehed jumps to his feet! He starts screaming and running in a crazy circle! He scandalously ruins Goofus's cunning pun! He flees to the left! He flies to the right! He draws his deadly-sharp contraption! He leaps up and slays the Lord of Chateau L'Homard himself with one fell swoop! He falls back down! He falls asleep!
Title Acquired: Sir Ethlehed the Curious Flower Troll Slayer, Knower of Names, Taker of the Bridge of Doom, Rescuer of Sir Feyman and Slayer of Lord L'Homard!
Chivalry Increased: Sir Ethlehed: Slew the Lord of Castle L'Homard!
"You bastard, Ethlehed!" cries Goofus, "You've ruined my flow! These French-types were going to quiver in their boots at the thought of how my lord Sir Uriel would make toast out of them! French toast! Do you see? And about how he was going to monkey about with their fates until they surrendered like cheese! How he was going to make cheese on toast out of them! How his sword was going to kiss them – French kiss them! - till they smelt like onions! How - "
Goofus is interrupted once again!
"Hohoho!" laughs Beadocáf, manically, "I have a leg! Heeheehee! Aut viam inveniam aut faciam aut tombiam! Charrrrgggeee!!!"
Beadocáf speeds furiously forth! He runs up the stairs towards the castle keep door! He trips! He falls off the stairs! Beadocáf tumbles to the ground, smashing his face.
Wound Acquired: Smashed face!
"That'll teach you, you bastard!" cries out Goofus, "I have a whole collections of quips and puns and bons mots and you all keep ruining them! I've been practising for days! Now, listen up Frenchies, I'm -"
"I say," interrupts Feyman, belatedly and addressing his prisoner, "Tackle that other... oh, where's he gone? Oh blast, Sir Ethlehed has had his way with him in his sleep! Blast and buggrit! Well, never mind, eh. Smash up the other Frenchies, will ye?" he cries, "Else I'll smash yer face off! You wouldn't want that, would ye?"
Sir Feyman's prisoner doesn't want that! He flees up the stairs towards the castle keep door! The enraged Feyman follows, yanking out his weapon and roughly swinging it about as he sprints up the steps. He trips! He falls! He crashes to the ground, smashing his face off!
Item Lost: One French prisoner!
Wound Acquired: Face smashed off!
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" bellows Goofus, enraged, "Again! Knight after knight after knight, you're all ruining my day! My big moment! You twits! I've been following yon Sir Uriel for years, and I finally get to show off my anti-French punnery and you all mess it up! Not a silent knight in sight! You'll all be late knights if you're not careful! Now come on!" he continues, turning purple and towards the remaining French men-at arms, "You Frogs! Leg it! I will have no merci! Ha! Did you see what I did there! Twice! Ha! No, thrice! Et encore une fois! You dare resist me, Le Mighty Goofus?! What Gaul! Will you complain? Will you wine?! If you think you can fight my deadly puns your screws must be Toulouse! The Good Sir Uriel will make toast of you, you silly French-types! FRENCH TOAST! Le grarrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgrrgghhhrrgh!!!un!"
Suddenly Goofus turns bright red! He begins to expand! Years of pent up frustration and underappreciated punnery well up inside him! 'Tis the paille finale that broke the back du chameau!
Goofus explodes!
He showers the onlooking knights and men-at-arms in splinters of Goofus and shards of deadly pun! A cruelly shattered slice of his spine flies mere inches above the sleeping Sir Ethlehed's face, lopping off the tip of his nose! A sliver of sharpened pun shrapnels towards Sir Uriel's eyes! He jumps out of the way! He lands on a nearby rock! Sir Feyman shelters behind his severed face! Sir Beadocáf nimbly dodges behind a cobble!
The French-types, alas, are some what less fortunate: hypnotised and stupified by the inhumane and senseless barrage of battering and bothering bad puns, they are, to a man, unable to dodge the hideous remains of the raging Goofus. A liver pierces one! A spleen bludgeons another! A shinbone fells a third! A hip shatters a fourth! Another drowns in the river of blood flowing through the air! 'Twould be a foul and repulsive sight were they not the enemies of God!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: No tip of the nose! -1 to smelling!
Wound Acquired: Sir Uriel: Face re-smashed! Face covered in blood: -1 to seeing!
Retinue Member Lost: Sir Uriel: Goofus exploded! It looks like you have part of his thigh on your surcoat! Although it's slightly hairier than the average thigh!
Title Acquired: Sir Uriel Rope-Tosser “Temporary MacGyver” Ultim The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception, Looser of the Punultimate Weapon!
When the smoke finally clears and the brave Knights of the Round Table finally rise to their feet, except for Sir Ethlehed, who has bravely slept though the fatal explosion and the ensuing loss of his nose, they look around, peering through the mist.
Not a soul but them remains in the castle courtyard! The way to the Grail is clear!
… … … … … …
Post by: Ultimuh on December 28, 2011, 07:06:39 pm
Sir Uriel stands there in disbelief before he bursts out. "That was BLOODY GLORIOUS!"
Never has he seen such a spectacular scene, he is in a complete ecstatic mood.
Will it remain as his Retinue Member is lost? Will he break down sobbing at the loss of his old friend?
Or will he go completely insane due to the glorious scene which was just witnessed?
(I personally hope for the third and that it will result in a glorified scene of madness, backstabbing, lots of insane laughter and cruelty of which so many villains strive to achieve.
LET THE DICE ROLL AND DECIDE!)
Post by: freeformschooler on December 29, 2011, 09:24:10 am
Post by: scriver on December 30, 2011, 07:40:33 am
"Ah! Finally! The Grail is mine! Mine! Faber est suae quisque fortunae!"
Post by: Errol on January 02, 2012, 06:04:45 am
Sorry for the wait. Been to a friend's over the weekend.
Post by: lawastooshort on January 04, 2012, 10:12:30 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, about dessert time; Keep of the Chateau de L’Homard.
As his three companions dash past him and up the stairs towards the Grail, they hear the ecstatically joyous Sir Uriel break down behind them, rooted to the spot and suddenly bursting out.
"That was BLOODY GLORIOUS! Never have I seen such a spectacular scene! Never have I witnessed so clearly the work of God! Never before have I realised so clearly that it is I that must have the Grail! ‘Tis a sign! My dear Sirs, ‘tis a sign from the Lord Himself!”
… … … … … …
Alas, for the dear Sirs have all departed and hear not!
Sir Beadocáf is in the lead, sprinting up the winding stone staircase towards the Grail Room, enthusiastically wiping blood onto his face as he does so and accidentally smashing it with his armoured fist!
Wound Acquired: Sir Beadocáf: Smashed face! (Blood in the eyes: further -1 penalty to rolls involving seeing)
He stumbles blindly into the Holy Grail Room. He lifts the nearest chair above his head!
Item Acquired: Chair!
"Ahahahahaha! Finally! The Grail is mine! Mine! Faber est suae quisque fortun-arghh!!”
“Enough of your bloody Latin!” cries out Sir Ethlehed, who has fortuitously come to and sprinted one-leggedly up the stairs to bludgeon Beadocáf from behind with his detached and pierced leg, “E-bloody-nough!”
He smashes him across the room with his leg!
… … … … … …
“Arrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrghgh!” cries Beadocáf, as he hurtles through the nearby open window and through the air towards the ground, “I must protect yon Grail with my Body to Cushion yon Fall!”
Ethlehed looks through the open window with a slight air of regret, before heading over to the Holy Grail Altar and mumbling to himself.
“Bloody Latin. Decline that, you bastard!!”
Wound Acquired: Sir Beadocáf: Smashed Legs! (-2 penalty to rolls involving legs)
Item Smashed: Chair
Chivalry Decreased: Sir Ethlehed: Knocking companions out the window!
Ethlehed kneels in prayer before the altar upon which sits the One True and Holy Grail. He feels the blessing of God upon him. He opens his eyes and rises to his feet, arms outstretched.
He feels the sword of Sir Uriel upon him! Sir Uriel is stabbing him viciously in the back! He stumbles forward, unable to reach the Grail!
“Nooooooooooo! ‘Tis for meeeeee! Alone!! Ahahahahhahahahahaha!”
Suddenly, Sir Uriel’s sword pokes through Sir Ethlehed’s chest! Sir Ethlehed’s liver is on the pointy end!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: No liver!
Sir Uriel grabs the liver! He raises it in the air! He takes a bite! He runs off, gibbering to himself!
“Ahahahah! Mine!! The Grail!!! All mine!!!!”
State Acquired: Sir Uriel: Gone mad!
Item Acquired: Sir Uriel: Possibly Holy Liver!
Chivalry Decreased: Sir Uriel: Madness-induced backstabbing!
Title Acquired: Mad Sir Uriel Rope-Tosser Ultim, The Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception!
… … … … … …
Having been knocked to the floor by Sir Uriel bursting past him on his madness-sped flight up the stairs, Sir Feyman finally enters the Grail Room. He knows what he must do. He enters just as Sir Uriel runs back out, gibbering to himself and holding something dark and bloody between his hands. His face appears to be smashed and covered in blood.
Feyman ignores Uriel as he tumbles painfully down the stairs behind him, and walks to the far corner of the room where Sir Ethlehed is lying face down next to the altar upon which sits the One True and Holy Grail.
Wound Acquired: Sir Uriel: Badly bruised body!
He kneels in praise and thanks before the altar. He is surprised; he wholeheartedly expected one last ultimate final challenge before getting to touch it.
Surely it couldn’t be this easy to fulfill God’s Holy Will?
Feyman is not quite sure why, but he is suddenly inspired to open his eyes. He sees a strange movement reflected in the Grail.
He turns to see a twenty foot tall lobster poised and ready to strike!
It looks superpissed!
… … … … … …
Post by: Errol on January 04, 2012, 10:44:15 am
Post by: Ultimuh on January 04, 2012, 10:52:32 am
Only one can have the Holy Grail! Sir Uriel The Mad clearly sees this now.
The die has been cast, there is no turning back.
It's either do or die, he must have his precious grail.
Let the true and final battle of the holy grail commence!
Post by: freeformschooler on January 04, 2012, 11:08:40 am
Post by: lawastooshort on January 05, 2012, 02:40:09 am
Post by: scriver on January 05, 2012, 03:18:01 am
Post by: lawastooshort on January 05, 2012, 08:46:08 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, well past dessert time; Keep of the Chateau de L’Homard.
“Chaaarrrgge!” shouts Sir Ethlehed, recklessly, as he wildly swings his weapon, sprinting dramatically towards the sixty foot long lobster before him. "For the King and the Grail!”
He hops nobly forwards, and wildly swings his strange weapon at the enormous beast – but alas! He has no liver! He fumbles and his weapon flies with great speed out of his injured hand!
Item Lost: Sir Ethlehed: Weapon contraption stuck in the ceiling!
With vicious speed and an orangey-pink blur, the giant lobster’s left claw rises and falls: it descends upon Sir Ethlehed’s remaining leg. The leg is snapped right off! The stump doth bleed heavily!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Right leg snapped right off!
Undismayed by this unfortunate turn of events, Ethlehed draws his pierced thigh – the thigh which so recently sent Sir Beadocáf flying to his doom – and bellows a fierce cry of defiance!
“Grragjhhhhgrh!!”
… … … … … …
Doom? Not at all! For at this very minute the once-believed-stricken Beadocáf can – if one looks very closely indeed – be seen sneaking back into the castle keep, and making his way gingerly through the Grail Room door. He sees a terrible scene before him!
“Grragjhhhhgrh!!” cries Ethlehed, in knightly rage, “Grraglbargleragggggrjhhhhgrh!!”
He seems to be kneeling in a sea of blood!
“Have this, you big lobstery bastard!” he cries, wielding his pierced thigh and swinging it horrifically towards the lobster’s face. He impales the lobster’s eyes on his severed limb! The lobster reels in severe pain, and swipes blindly with his right hand claw. Ethlehed’s left arm is ripped clean off! He is in quite bad shape!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Left arm ripped clean off!
As the terrifying lobster raises its evil jaws above the stricken Sir Ethlehed, it seems that the brave and God-fearing knight has met his blood-curdling doom!
Chivalry Increased: Sir Ethlehed: Noble sacrifice!
… … … … … …
“Ahahahahahahahhahahahahha! The Grail! I have it!” screams Sir Uriel, as he bounces painfully down the winding stairs of the stone keep, grasping Sir Ethlehed’s liver firmly in both hands.
“Oh blast! I seem to have dropped the blighter!” he realises, as he approaches the bottom of the stairs.
Sir Uriel comes to a bumpy halt.
“Hmm. I say. I wonder what that squelchy feeling was? Noooo! I’ve lost the Grail! I’ve sat on the Holy Grail of Christ Himself! I must find another! Nooooooo!!”
Item Lost: Sir Uriel: Possibly Holy Liver!
… … … … … …
“Noooooooooooooo!” cries Sir Feyman, in a hair-raising and patriotic bellow, “Nooooooooooooooooooooo!!” he continues, as he sprints heroically to Sir Ethlehed’s aid, drawing his Headless Flower Troll Corpse as he does so, “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!! Arg, the blood!!!! Blast.”
Feyman slips on the lake of blood covering the floor! The lobster diverts his attention towards this dangerous and radiantly brave newcomer: he raises his abominable mandibles above the music-loving knight. His jaw descends and crashes shut!
But Feyman has rolled away just in time, and spots a weak point in the lobster’s armour! He hefts the troll corpse upwards with the last of his one arm’s strength, and thrusts it right into the foul lobster’s unprotected throat.
There is massive damage!
The lobster’s throat it pierced! Its tongue is severed! Its windpipe is crushed! The troll corpse penetrates the brain! It enters a crazy death throe!
… … … … … …
“Ahahahha! Good, good…” mumbles Beadocáf to himself, as he beholds the frightful scene at the top of the castle keep unfold, “Knights and lobster all are occupied in mortal struggle… I shall take my chance and swipe yon Holy Grail, and my name shall be revered by all Englishmen throughout time! King Arthur shall grant me the most attractive damsel of the land as my wife! My lands will be expanded fivefold!"
He tries to sneak past the dueling combatants, when suddenly the lobster utters a terrifying howl! A howl of death!
In a flash, the lobster seems to thrash about, spasm-ing the last of its life away. Its spiked tail flails towards the shadow in which Beadocáf is sneaking, although Beadocáf sees it not, such is the quantity of ordure and blood upon the surface of his eyes. He feels it though! He feels the searing pain! He tastes the burning terror! He hears the dripping blood! He smells the warm wetness of failure!
Wound Acquired: Sir Beadocáf: Legs flailed off! (further -5 penalty to rolls involving legs)
Chivalry Decreased: Sir Beadocáf: Attempted sneakiness!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne of the Sandy Crotch, Sneaky and Merciless Drowner of Old Men and Notoriously Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
… … … … … …
As Sir Feyman steps back to admire his handiwork, and to step out of the reach of the blindly and furiously swinging giant lobster claws, he suddenly bumps into Sir Uriel, who has sneaked back up the stairs, past the scene of tremendous carnage, and to the Holy Grail Altar.
Sir Uriel is knocked off his stride!
He totters towards yon nearby open window!
But forsooth! He manages to recover his balance, and stumbles back towards the Altar, and leans forward… The Holy Grail doth appear to be within his grasp!
… … … … … …
Suddenly, the lobster’s death throes cease, and the awful beast crashes to the ground, slain by the wondrous Sir Feyman. But it has the last laugh! Sir Ethlehed is nowhere to be seen!
Wound Acquired: Sir Ethlehed: Crushed to smithereens by a giant lobster corpse!
Chivalry Increased: Sir Ethlehed: The Ultimate Sacrifice!
Title Acquired: Ultimately Noble Sir Ethlehed the Deceased Yet Curious Flower Troll Slayer, Knower of Names, Taker of the Bridge of Doom, and Rescuer of Sir Feyman!
Title Acquired: Sir Feyman the Glorious Judging Saviour of Sir Beadocáf and Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear, Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog and Destroyer of the Vicious Lobster of the Grail!
The Grail is all but liberated!
… … … … … …
Post by: scriver on January 05, 2012, 09:40:45 am
Post by: Errol on January 05, 2012, 09:47:37 am
Post by: Ultimuh on January 05, 2012, 11:46:43 am
Well that would only be expected.
Should my status not be updated?
Post by: lawastooshort on January 05, 2012, 11:49:14 am
Death by falling (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DisneyVillainDeath) eh?
Well that would only be expected.
Should my status not be updated?
No! You live! 'Tis the lobster victim who died!
Quote from: me
But forsooth! He manages to recover his balance
Post by: Ultimuh on January 05, 2012, 11:51:08 am
Death by falling (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DisneyVillainDeath) eh?
Well that would only be expected.
Should my status not be updated?
No! You live! 'Tis the lobster victim who died!Quote from: meBut forsooth! He manages to recover his balance
Well in that case..
Sir Uriel The Mad succumbs to complete and utterly crazed madness.
(The Dorfy way, with a pinch of The Joker and a dash of Kefka Pallazio.
oh and let's not forget a whole dose of Gollum.)
He MUST retrieve the grail! It's his alone to have!
Post by: freeformschooler on January 05, 2012, 11:52:54 am
He grabbed the Holy Grail with a careful touch. "Don't all ye knights believe it is proper for I to carry and deliver the grail?"
Of course, Sir Feyman was merely worried that his comrades might break the thing upon so much as touching it. He stroked the Grail gently, eyes filled with equal parts awe and disbelief.
Post by: scriver on January 06, 2012, 04:05:18 am
If Sir Feyman refuses to handle it over, charge! To much has been lost, and too much is to gain, for it to be any other way!
Post by: lawastooshort on January 06, 2012, 08:22:29 am
England; the Dark Ages; Thursday, nearly time for coffee; Keep of the Chateau de L’Homard, Site of the Holy Grail of Christ.
"You have all done well, my compatriots!” announces Sir Feyman, “But alas, with the loss of Sir Ethelethelethelethelehed, I am now the most chivalrous among us! Crannock, compose a song to celebrate my most glorious victory!"
… … … … … …
Oh we oh we oh – the knights they, the knights they, the knights they, are knights!!
Noble and important knights!
Original chief minstrel singing in yon castle keep;
I shall sing until ye weep!
And I sing thus:
“Hold on a minute Crannock,” interrupts Feyman, “I wasn’t quite finished. Here, fellow questers! Don't all ye knights believe it is proper for I to carry and deliver the grail? For the Glory of England and the Grace of God? Yes? Good. Right. Now, carry on, Crannock."
… … … … … …
He wants his hands on the Grail!
Come on move aside please,
Hands on the Grail!
He wants his hands on the Grail!
Come on move aside now,
Hands on the Grail!
… … … … … …
With a worried look, Sir Feyman carefully but determinedly grabs the Holy Grail from its Holy Altar, his eyes widened with awe and disbelief.
He cradles it gently in his arms! He begins to stroke it with reverence and respect! A Holy Aura of light and warmth appears to fill the room! The sound of angels seems to waft across the castle keep!
… … … … … …
Suddenly, the magical and most Holy Scene is shattered.
“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahha! Mine! ‘Tis all mine! My Holiesssst!!”
Sir Uriel Ultim looses a roaring laughter, fell and terrible!
Sir Uriel Ultim is taken by a fell mood!
He charges manically towards Sir Feyman! He is wielding a masterwork backpack! He swings at Feyman. Feyman ducks! Feyman gently places the Grail back upon the Altar, wincing in spiritual pain as the light and warmth seem to recede, and the pleasant sound of angelic harmonies is replaced by the sound of Crannock singing once again.
… … … … … ...
He’s got to put the Grail down,
Feelings are high, usurpers all around;
You say your name is Uriel:
Well Feyman’s going to send you to Hell!
Crazy on the left, legless on the right,
Feyman will fight you all through the night;
Do the right thing, dingalingaling,
I’m sure you’d like to hear me sing!
… … … … … …
Sir Feyman draws his Headless Flower Troll Corpse. Sir Uriel lifts his backpack over his head! He swipes down with a massive and brutal blow that Feyman barely manages to parry. Sir Uriel seems possessed by a vicious and demonic strength! He cackles hideously to himself!
“Ahahahahah! Mine! Mine!!”
Uriel the Mad hammers down blow upon blow upon blow with his masterwork ferret-leather backpack upon the increasingly helpless Sir Feyman the Valiant, his troll corpse being battered closer and closer towards his face as he seeks to shield himself from the assault of his Grail-maddened erstwhile companion. Feyman is upon his knees! He is leaning dramatically backwards! Sir Uriel is cackling horrifically to himself!
“Ahahahahhahah! My Grailcious!”
… … … … … …
The knights they, the knights they, the knights they, are knights!!
They like to fight now!
The knights they, the knights they, the knights they, aha!
… … … … … …
All of a sudden, Feyman is knocked back to the floor. He appears defenceless! Uriel raises his masterwork ferret-leather backpack which menaces with spikes of madness two-handed above his head. Feyman raises his one good arm across his face in a universal gesture of plaintive terror! His pants feel warm! His armour feels damp! His breeches feel stained!
Uriel’s two hands wielding his masterwork ferret-leather backpack which menaces with spikes of madness and bands of death crash down upon Sir Feyman! Feyman manages to roll out of the way at the last second! He sticks out a foot! He trips Sir Uriel!
Sir Uriel staggers madly forth. He tumbles out of yon nearby open window!
“Ahahahahahahahahahahaaarrrgghhhhh!!”
Title Acquired: Fell Sir Uriel the Mad Rope-Tosser Ultim, Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception and Sanity, Wielder of the Menacing Backpack!
Wound Acquired: Fell Sir Uriel: Smashed to pieces ‘pon the ground! Fell to his death! A tragic Pun!
Title Acquired: Fell Sir Uriel the Deceased Mad Rope-Tosser Ultim, Entirely Lacking in Depth Perception and Sanity, Wielder of the Menacing Backpack!
… … … … … …
Relieved – in more ways than one – Sir Feyman rises back to his feet. He reaches out once more towards the Grail. He hears a stumpy bleeding voice behind him!
"Naiy!" cries Sir Beadocáf, his voice breaking into a higher pitch. "I am the most holiest among us! It is to be my honour to carry the Grail and deliver it unto our King! DEUS VULT! Chaarrrrgee!"
Sir Feyman turns to see the heavily injured Beadocáf charge towards him on his two bleeding stumps!
“Et tu, Beadocáf? Ha! You carry the Grail?! But you have no legs and only one hand! You are so smeared about with feces I can’t imagine you could even see yon Grail! Have at you, you heathen! Taste my Headless Flower Troll Corpse as it connects viciously with yon filthy feces covered features! Avast!”
Sir Beadocáf wobbles towards Sir Feyman, left hand raised and holding his semi-Holy knobbed mace. He is possessed of a fearsome look of anger!
“Chaarrrggee!” he repeats, “The Grail should be for me alone! Too much is at stake to let an uneducated idiot such as you carry such a relic! Charrrggggge!”
Sir Beadocáf continues to charge wobblingly towards Sir Feyman, leaving a soaking trail of blood behind him. The giant lobster corpse glistens in the sinking sunlight.
… … … … … …
You have to fight for the Grail!
Violent single combat, oh yes,
Fight for the Grail!
You have to fight for the Grail!
The pinnacle of Knighthood,
Fight for the Grail!
… … … … … …
“Ave yon Holy Grail! Morituri te salutant!” Beadocáf cries, as he slowly gets nearer, “Aut yon Grail, aut nihilis!”
“Well ‘ave some bloody nihilis then, shortarse!” exclaims Feyman as Beadocáf suddenly stumbles into range, “Ave this you Latin bastard!”
Sir Feyman forcefully smacks Sir Beadocáf with his troll corpse! Sir Beadocáf flies forth out of a nearby open window! He flies for some considerable distance!
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne of the Order of the Latinate Sandy Crotch, Sneaky and Merciless Drowner of Old Men and Notoriously Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
“Ave atque valeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhh!!!”
Title Acquired: Sir Beadocáf Aethlearne of the Order of the Latinate Sandy Crotch, Deceased Sneaky and Merciless Drowner of Old Men and Notoriously Rotund Feller of the Tallest Tree on the Holy Hillock of Fate!
… … … … … …
He saw a knight named Beadocaf:
He had been chopped most right in half;
He gave him a mighty slap,
Splattered him across all corners of the map;
Ding dong, a ring dong,
Sir Feyman he can do no wrong!
Do the right thing, fight for your honour,
Because Feyman’s going to make you a goner!
… … … … … …
Alone at the top of the keep of Castle L’Homard, Feyman takes a deep breath. He removes his helmet, and makes the sign of the cross upon his chest out of respect for his fallen companions.
“Redde Feymani quae sunt Feymani, as you might say eh, my dear Beadocáf…”
He kneels before the Altar of the Holy Grail. A warm and luxurious light appears to fill the room, spreading through the numerous nearby open windows. A harmony of angels seems to drown out all other noise, until all Sir Feyman can hear is their beautiful voices and the sound of the blood beating in his ears. ‘Tis a blessed relief from the hideous music of yon minstrel Crannock.
Sir Feyman grasps the Holy Grail! He raises it reverently above his head! The Holy Beams of Light surround him!
Title Acquired: Saint Sir Feyman, Discoverer of the Holy Grail of Christ, Glorious Judging Saviour of Sir Beadocáf and Slayer of the Black Knight, Soiler of Underwear, Fiendish Smasher of the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog and Destroyer of the Vicious Lobster of Chateau L’Homard!
Chivalry Increased: Saint Sir Feyman is the sole surviving discoverer of the Holy Grail of Christ!
… … … … … …
Now he has found the Holy Grail,
He’s the bestest knight of all time;
Found the Holy Grail!
Now he has found the Holy Grail,
Name remembered forever;
Found the H-oh my God what have I done? What is this terrible song? I have besmirched my craft! Arrrrrgggggrrrghhhhhhhrhhhrhrhhrhr!
With a sudden cry of terror, Crannock abruptly ceases his singing and flees towards a nearby open window! He hurls himself to his death! The Grail has claimed its final victim!
… … … … … …
Post by: scriver on January 06, 2012, 09:23:14 am
Post by: Yoink on January 06, 2012, 09:29:16 am
Post by: Zako on January 06, 2012, 09:39:52 am
THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4AoOa-Fz2kw)
(I also like to imagine that the grail scene was the same as the scene above.)
Post by: Tiruin on January 06, 2012, 09:49:05 am
This is the end though? :-\
Post by: freeformschooler on January 06, 2012, 10:07:01 am
And, in the case that you're doing an epilogue...
Sir Feyman delivers the grail.
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on January 06, 2012, 10:17:17 am
Post by: Theodolus on January 06, 2012, 10:33:07 am
Post by: scriver on January 06, 2012, 10:55:32 am
Sir Feyman delivers the grail.
I don't know about you, but I'm hoping for a 1 ;D
I suppose the final addition to Feymans title will be "saint", no?
It's a shame it had to end this way, though. And Keardwall's damn spleen was lost with Baedocáf... Hm... They never did find his body (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/NeverFoundTheBody), did they? I guess...
...Months later, a legless, one-handed and thoroughly ragged vagabond crawls into the Canterbury Cathedral, refusing to meet with anyone but the Archbishop himself. When he is finally recieved, he brings out a Very Well Pickelled Spleen and retells the story of Sir Keardwall and that this Holy Appendage once belonged him, and should be considered a holy relic in it's own right, even if the good sir have not been kanonised himself. When asked of how he knows all this and came into possession of the Spleen, the vagabond grows silent, and says simply: "I am many things, but an oath-breaker, I am not" before he leaves, humbled, never to be seen again.
So ends the tale of Baedocáf, Most Scholarly and Latiniest among Kniggits.
:D
Post by: Ultimuh on January 06, 2012, 01:38:32 pm
It was a most satisfactionary death, splendidly well played. :D
Post by: Remalle on January 07, 2012, 03:31:39 am
Post by: Errol on January 07, 2012, 04:03:09 am
Post by: lawastooshort on January 09, 2012, 10:15:57 am
England; the Dark Ages; Tuesday.
Somewhere in deepest, darkest England, in the darkest depths of the Dark Ages – on a Tuesday – a lone knight marches along a dark – and deep – forest path with long, purposeful, heavy strides. He seems to have carried a great weight upon his shoulders and, indeed, in his heart; a weight that seems to get lighter with every step he takes.
In fact, the nearer the knight gets towards his quest’s end, the lighter his heart begins to feel; the straighter his back begins to stand; the prouder his feet begin to rise and fall as they propel him onwards to everlasting glory.
As he begins to reach a realisation of his accomplishments, and of the horrors he has left behind, he starts to whistle: a melody born out of pure chivalric joie-de-vivre.
Even the losses that this music reminds him of – for this brave knight has lost many a merry music maker – cannot silence the noble song.
He marches on.
He whistles.
… … … … … …
Around a corner, without warning, the trees that encumber the edges of this particular forest path part; light spreads in where once there was darkness, and a vast plain opens before the knight’s eyes.
The sight of yon mighty Castle of Camelot, on a small rise not so very far away, fills our valiant knight’s heart with joy.
As he approaches the castle walls, his incessant whistling finds words coalescing in the air about him, forming into a song that stirs within him fond memories of his many minstrels. Tears stream manfully down his bronzed cheeks in memory and in gratitude.
I found the Grail, and I’m okay,
I sleep all night and I quest all day.
And lo! For from the mighty castle walls doth come an echo: Camelot’s musical minstrels have sighted the approaching knight, and honour him with yon sound of music!
He found the Grail, and he’s okay!
He sleeps all night and he quests all day!
… … … … … …
Hearing the magical minstrels of Camelot fills our brave knight’s heart with longing, and he strides up to the castle gates with the manly gait befitting a heroic Knight of the Round Table returning successfully from a God-granted quest.
I’m Sir Feyman and I’m alright,
I slay fell beasts ‘cause I’m a Holy Knight.
The echo reverberates from the walls above!
He’s Sir Feyman and he’s alright,
He slays fell beasts ‘cause he’s a Holy Knight.
… … … … … …
A dozen English men-at-arms peer over the walls, gasping when they recognise the renowned heraldry ‘pon this valiant English knight’s surcoat. The rumbling chains of the rising portcullis barely drown out the glorious English voice singing gloriously beneath the watching soldiers.
I didn’t cut down the Tree, I ate my lunch,
I went to the lavatory.
Last Thursday I found the Grail,
A knightly epitome.
Sir Feyman – for it is he, our wondrous and musical knight – walks through the castle gatehouse, to a roaring echo of minstrels and faithful men-at-arms.
Beadocáf cut down the tree, Feyman ate lunch,
And went to the lavatory.
On Thursday he found the Grail,
Our knightly epitome!
… … … … … ..
Saint Sir Feyman – for it is thus, his full title – marches through the bustling castle courtyard, a courtyard full of life: market criers selling their wares; men-at-arms exercising; fair dames promenading; various knights watching the fair dames promenading. As he and his knightly aura enter, the courtyard’s occupants turn, as one, to catch a glimpse of the legend walking amongst them. A slow applause begins to build.
I don’t cut down trees, I fight and quest,
Then hark as my minstrels sing.
I got rescued by Sir Keardwall,
A knight most astonishing.
A dozen dozen minstrels join the hundreds of onlookers in echoing this glorious truth.
He don’t cut down trees, he fights and quests,
Hark as the minstrels sing.
He got rescued by Sir Keardwall,
A knight most astonishing!
… … … … … …
Saint Sir Feyman reaches the castle keep, seat of the great King Arthur, King of Britons and Defeater of the Saxons himself! He pulls open the great oaken door with his vast muscular and weather beaten arms. The solid doors creak under the weight of time itself.
Feyman strides forth unto yon Reception Desk.
“I have come to deliver yon Holy Grail of Christ unto our King.”
“Have you got an appointment?”
“I… er… I don’t, no, sorry.”
“You’ll have to take a seat then, I’m afraid. I’ll see what I can do.”
… … … … … …
As the receptionist looks down his carefully scribed list of appointments, the temporarily dispelled heroic and joyful fervour returns to Feyman’s heart, and the song to his lips.
I cut down beasts, I wear high heels,
Suspenders and a bra!
I fight for Old King Arthur,
Just like my dear Papa!
The studious receptionist echoes this lusty chant, glancing hopefully up at the handsome knight before him!
He cuts down beasts, he wears high heels,
Suspenders and a bra!
He fights for Our King Arthur,
Just like his dear Papa!
Yon receptionist continueth yon songe!
Oh he’s Sir Feyman and he’s okay!
He sought the Grail and went all the way!
He brought it back, we praise his name,
Forever and a day!
The blushing receptionist suddenly comes to a halt, looking first down his list of rendez-vous, and then back up to the joyfully whistling Feyman.
“I’m… I’m afraid he can’t see you today, Sir Feyman. Can you try again tomorrow? Say, at 9 o’clock sharp? He might be able to squeeze you in. Can’t guarantee anything though. Terribly sorry.“
… … … … … …
Post by: Powder Miner on January 09, 2012, 06:36:20 pm
Post by: scriver on January 10, 2012, 04:36:47 am
Post by: lawastooshort on January 10, 2012, 06:16:32 am
Much has been written regarding the origin and true nature of England’s holiest relic, the Spleen of Keardwall, or the Holy Exterior Spleen of the Blessed Keardwall, to give it its full and correct name, but it has to be admitted that of all the surviving relics of ancient Christendom, the Spleen is perhaps the only to resist the doubts of modern science.
Although the DNA testing revealing the spleen to be, at least in sections, more than 3% pickled egg has not yet been adequately explained, radiocarbon dating has indeed revealed that, if the origin itself is not authentic, the age certainly is (see Creek & Jorgensen, Cam. 2009 pp291-364). Since its first arrival in Canterbury Cathedral, no evidence has been unearthed to cast serious doubt on the first tale of how it came to be. Perhaps the last word will have to be the first: the account of its arrival in Canterbury by Saint Æðelwalh, the incumbent Archbishop of the time:
...This nighte, a legless, one-handed and thoroughly ragged vagabond did crawl into the Cathedral, refusing to meet with anyone but the Archbishop himself. When at lengthe I finished my ministrations and did finally receive the manne, he did bring out a Very Well Pickelled Spleen and retold the story of Sir Keardwall and that this Holy Appendage once belonged him, and should be considered a holy relic in its own ryghte, even if the good Sir has not been canonised himself. When asked of how he knew all this and came into possession of the Spleen, the vagabond grew silent, saying simply: "I am many things, but an oath-breaker, I am not,” at which point he left, and I have not seene him synce. Osric, my page, who liketh greatly and shamefully the warblings of yon minstrels, and is believed by me to spend much time listening unto them at yon nearby tavern, claimeth that one of the party of the Blessed Discoverers of the Grail, led by Saint Feyman himself, was rumoured to march into combat without the aid of his legges, and with but one hand, and has also repeated a tale similar to that of the vagabonde concerning this Sir Keardwall…
It is interesting to note that careful study of the archived manuscripts of Canterbury Cathedral reveals that, within twenty years of Æðelwalh’s above commentary, one Keardwall, Knyghte, is added to the Liste of Great Englyshe Saintes.
Further explanation as to the Appendage’s origin can be sought, and indeed found, in several of the sagas and shorter poems passed on from minstrel to poet to folk singer through the mists of time. Of course, the veracity of the facts recounted in such sources should always be considered carefully: they tend to deal in legend and myth rather than verifiable historical fact. What can probably be considered with some certainty to be myth rather than fact are the many miraculous properties attributed to the Spleen, and the belief that, should England ever come under mortal threat, the Holy Exterior Spleen of the Blessed Keardwall shall come once more to life to vanquish the enemies of Queen and country. It has certainly never been verified that the Spleen was present either in the Low Countries in June 1815 or in Berlin in May 1945, even though its location throughout time has not always been accurately recorded. It is true, however, that it has gone missing on several occasions, most recently in the scandal of 1906, and when it was removed for safekeeping in 1940.
Post by: Yoink on January 10, 2012, 06:20:49 am
The Holy Spleen lives on! ...And somewhere, somehow, the Holy Leg sits and sulks at its sibling's great fame. :P
Post by: Tiruin on January 10, 2012, 06:22:50 am
Post by: scriver on January 10, 2012, 06:56:30 am
Post by: lawastooshort on April 05, 2012, 05:13:35 am
From Le Livre du Graal, unattributed authorship, 11th century:
And at King Arthur’s behest was a great tableau created to be passed downe the ages, and upon this holy image was displayed the likeness of Saint Feyman in his raising of the Holy Grail of Christ; and lo, yon image was mounted on the walls of Canterbury Cathedral for all to see, until ye great evile did spread upon the worlde and the holy likeness was withdrawn unto darkness, and thusly ended the last chapter of its search.
(http://tnypic.net/2b385.png)
Post by: Tiruin on April 05, 2012, 05:16:07 am
Edit: Upon seeing the spoiler: *Speechless*
Wow.
Post by: lawastooshort on April 05, 2012, 05:26:36 am
Spoiler: Oops (click to show/hide)
Post by: SeriousConcentrate on April 05, 2012, 05:46:02 am
Post by: lawastooshort on April 05, 2012, 05:49:27 am
Wait, what? Did you donate and get that, or are Toady & Threetoe fans of this RTD? :o
I would love to say the latter, but not as far as I know. I requested it after donating.
Post by: freeformschooler on April 05, 2012, 07:32:33 am
It... it's glorious. Thanks for that. Reminds me that I haven't donated in a while :-\