Search Posts
Dalen is quite content to leave Frankie to his fate, but luckily for his stomach, Yorad intervenes. Meredith, she sees, probably does need some help. "You alright there? I think you just sent that last one walking away with his head in hand," she gestures to the young man who'd asked where Meredith had gotten the roses that were causing her to be an object of curiosity for the locals.
Dalen is the happiest any of the others have seen her. She's in her element helping to guide the group thought the forests and moors of Iobaria almost as easily as she would have back in the Borderwood in Taldor. "It's a nice change of pace. Many in Taldor would assume the mud to mean you were an idiot," Dalen says as she falls back to walk beside the others, "Dalen Stonestep. It's nice to meet ya, Yorad." Dalen is dressed like an experienced woodswoman with a sword and bow at her back. In her right hand she uses a sturdy quarterstaff as a walking stick. Her blue eyes are bright now and her long, brunette hair is in a thick braid.
Lazarus: Really I'm just trying to see if the humor is working. It made me chuckle, but I wrote it. I don't think "Who are you writing for" is a valid question to be asking here. To me that gets into marketing and all of the complications that come with it. I would hope I was writing for everyone, but that's not possible and trying to say something like "I'm writing for everyone who likes Schlock Mercenary's humor" isn't really going to help me figure out if I'm hitting what I'm aiming for. A better question, I think, is what do you want to write? The answer to that is I want to write about two people who become friends while fending off furry, xenocidal pirates in a way that gets people to laugh and chuckle when they read it. As to who's telling the story, well, that's a little harder to say. I tend to write in third-person limited where the narrator can see into the head of the viewpoint character and not really anyone else's. So, in fairness, I should point out I was asking for the wrong thing. What I really wanted was to know if you found it funny, and it not, why?
First, a late congrats to the Mr. and Mrs. Smith! I hope that y'all get your fiftieth in another fifteen years. :) Second, I've been working on a short story and I was wondering if I could get some help on the tone of it. I'm shooting for more of a wry, slightly sarcastic sense of humor, but I think I missed rather badly. Anyone wanting to give it a read and let me know what you thought can see the text in the spoiler below. Bit of story:
"Bravo Charlie Zero-Seven-Niner, This is Tartle One. We have contacts from the alpha screen. Over." Space is mind boggling huge. "Tartle One, Bee-See-Oh-Seventy-niner. Roger. Any details yet? Over." So huge that it takes light from the primary of any system hours to reach the jump limit. "That's a negative. We'll keep you informed. Tartle Two is pulling in the Echo and Foxtrot screens just in case." So huge that even that volume of space is miniscule when compared against the distances between stars. Even so, it's an enormous volume of space when compared to ships that are best measured in units that light takes very tiny fractions of a second to traverse. Though, with radiator arrays for fusion power plants, torch drives, and communications lasers that can be picked up loud and clear from the other side of the jump limit, modern spacecraft are beacons of energy, interceptions require lots of thrust and delta-vee, a ludicrous amount of luck, or a willing target. "Tartle One, Tartle Two. Sir, we're picking u-- Status change! We just lost the Alpha through Delta screens." This should make things like minefields, pirates, or ambushes practically impossible given the odds of someone stumbling into your basket versus them just sailing away. "Tartle Two! Fireplan Echo three! We've got inbound. Zero-Seven-Niner, go evasive and random walk on vector one-six-five by three-three-five relative. Do you copy?" Of course, this flies into the cold, hard brickwall of reality where ships take courses that cost them the least amount of money and avoids the more inconvenient customs patrols. That makes the impossible only difficult. "We copy Tartle One. Be advised our max acceleration is only two gravities on the mains." If the baddies obtained the schedule for their target, difficult becomes easy. "Okay, wobble on vector one-si-" If the target is a great lumbering liner full of sophonts that would not like to learn what the inside of a maraca is like, easy turns into milk run. "Welp, our escorts just turned into vapor." At this point, having idiots flying escort is just gravy for the pirates. "Attention CPV Wattatwist, You are hereby commanded to cease your futile attempts at fleeing this space. You will shut down all of your systems except those needed for life support and prepare to be boarded." Of course, there are plenty of ways for a milk run to turn into something much worse. "Civilian Passen- Hey! This is our prize you sniveling, tailless worms! We were tracking the too-tall fools first!" Such as having your most hated enemies show up to collect the same prize. "Is it too late to just suicide?" The engineer already scrammed the powerplant. The airlocks are still fully functional if you rather die by explosive decompression than face two different races of cute, furry, xenocidal maniacs. I'm sure that the readers would love some descriptions about now.
I know I'm going to need to rewrite it a good bit, but any feedback would be appreciated.
By the time Lazarus is done, Dalen does look like she's been hit between the eyes. "No, no, you haven't I just..." she shakes her head, and shrugs. "Sorry, I haven't, but I guess I don't know enough about the gods to be able to know which one I should follow. When we were on that last assignment, I– I dunno– I felt something when I was running through the city or embarrassing those that would enslave others. I was happy, joyful. I felt like I'd done something to chip away at their hold on others even if it was just leaving them in an embarrassing predicament or standing in a crowd with nothing but their underwear on. Maybe that's childish of me, but it was fun."
Dalen curls up in the chair, almost being swallowed by it. As she takes the coffee, she asks, "any chance for some cream and sugar?" She ponders Lazarus' question for a moment before looking him square in the eyes. "I've never been religious, but... But I got to thinking on the way back about it. Can... can you tell me about the gods, Lazarus? Can you help me figure out if I'm supposed to follow one of them and which one to follow?"
Day job result for Dalen was 8. I tend to roll it at the beginning of the scenario.
A tired Dalen shuffles towards their cabin after they'd made good their escape. All she wants right now is to sleep. "Maybe later, Jan," she says as the ship's swaying reminds her of sitting in her aunt's lap as she rocked her to sleep as a child. The next time any of the others see her, she's curled up in her hammock fast asleep, looking at ease for the first time since this whole debacle began.
Dalen takes to the hidden paths and shadows, moving as silently as she ever did stalking deer. From crate, to barrel, to tarp she moves and hides like a whisper or a passing shadow in the night. Unfortunately, the Twisted sisters are there once again. Both now wearing little more than rags of expensive cloth. They'd been battered, bloodied, and bruised, but they would never cease in their hunt for the troublemaker. "She has to be around here somewhere!" "I know. I know! The tarted up trollop must be making her escape. We'll find her sister mine, then we'll take our time." Dalen, tired, hungry, and fed up with Cheliax slips up onto a stack of crates and follows the two of them like a cat. They never suspect a thing as she slips down braces against the lip of a massive tun. The Twisted Sisters scream as Dalen plants her boots on their backs and shoves with all of her might to push them off the docks. As they come cursing and spluttering to the surface, Dalen vanishes and resumes her quiet trek to the ship.
Dalen takes a moment to look for a way through the crowd, hoping that she squeeze by without trouble. Alas it was not meant to be. barely a minute after they'd come in, the doors slam open and the Twisted Sisters, having replaced their formerly sour expressions with ones of incensed rage, look about with wide and wild eyes. Their once find clothing is in taters, revealing scrawny legs and arms. One carries a set of fetters and manacles and the other carries an iron slave's collar and a whip. Where they'd gotten them and how they'd managed to get away from the brewing argument so quickly are far less important to Dalen than the fact that they look ready and willing to use those items and that they are looking for her. They spot her. Their eyes lock for just a moment, then Dalen moves first, hopping onto the tables and racing across them towards the pit. Patrons hoot and holler, too drunk to notice or care about the brewing trouble behind them. The Twisted Sisters curse and spit as they follow on her heels, tossing aside people and chairs. They almost catch Dalen with a lunge, but the young ranger is faster, leaping into the pit and breaking up the fight brewing between the others and the fighters. The Twisted Sisters follow, scrambling down into the pit with the others, hands taloned as they reach for Dalen only to meet Dalen's fist as she throws a haymaker right into the priestess' teeth.
I imagine if Dalen ever goes back to Cheliax after this, she's going to have to be in disguise. That's what? 6 Acolytes, a nobleman, a noblewoman, and a priestess that she's ticked off or embarrassed? Not to mention the bride and groom and the dozen or so other people that she's personally caused the injury or embarrassment of. Hope the inclusion of the Priestess and the Noblewoman was at least entertaining. :)
While Jan's intervention had saved her, Dalen's crash landing from dodging the Priestess' mace had knocked the breath from her and she lags behind the others. At least until she hears an enraged priestess and an enraged noblewoman shrieking, as they point at and pursue her with single-minded intensity. The familial resemblance is uncanny as they snarl in fury. Not good! Not good!
She turns and bounces off of a large man with a round belly and an alcohol-reddened face just as they launch themselves at her. She stumbles back between the two wrathful old women, then tucks her legs under her as she rolls under the table and pops back to her feet. The unfortunate drunk howls in pain as fingernails like tiny daggers claw at his face before he's tossed aside. The two women look around, lips pursed and eyes wild with rage. Dalen doesn't wait to see if they spot her and runs like mad. She clambers up onto the stage as if the barrels holding it were merely steps up to a porch. The woman spot her and follow along, determined that this troublemaker wasn't going to get away. The young woodswoman dives over Frankie as he shouts his farewell to New York, wherever that was, and somersaults down the other side with all of the grace and agility her uncle had trained into her. The acrobatics buy her enough time to make it to the crowd, but she's not more than a few steps ahead of the priestess and the noblewoman. Desperately, she looks for anyway to slow them down, but most of the crowd is moving out of the way as fast as they can. Thankfully, one thing that's always true no matter where you go is young lovers being young lovers and oblivious to the world around them while in each other's company. She finds a pair of Asmodean alcotlyes (Are these guys just everywhere!) and pulls the handsome young man from his equally attractive girlfriend and literally tosses him into the two women chasing her. The young woman barely has time to get out an indignant "Hey!" before she's pulled along by Dalen. "Hey! What are you doing?!" "Something that's about to get you into a lot of trouble," Dalen answers as she stops, turns the acolyte around, and shoves her right into the priestess lips first. Some time bought, Dalen makes a mad dash to catch up to the others.
While Meredith then Frankie distracts the gathered crowd, Dalen nods to Jan and points to the acolytes. "Belt and cords, then tie up the happy infernal couple," she tells him before racing off up the aisle.
Surprisingly deft hands grab the cords and throw them around the couple as she puts a boot to the bride's backside. A big grin is plastered to her face as she pulls the ropes tight. "You may now kiss the– WOAH!" Dalen's eyes go wide as the Priestess with the sour expression comes at the pathfinder with a mace and a snarl. Dalen turns and pushes off with both feet, sending the tangle of bride and groom to crash into the acolytes, and sending all four of them out of harm's way as Dalen lands on her back before the enraged Asmodean priestess. Well, it was fun while it lasted, she thinks as she sees the mace rise into the air.
Dalen eyes the crowd of Asmodean clergy as a reckless abandon takes over her. Her heart thunders in her chest and a part of her wants to create as much chaos as possible, then revel in it. For the first time, she understands why the fey enjoy playing tricks on mortals. It's the rush, the sheer excitement of proving that you're faster and cleverer, and the looks on your victim's faces. A downright evil grin bares Dalen's teeth as she recalls the look of the two Asmodeans she'd literally disrobed. The woman's expression was golden, but the man's sheer embarrassment was priceless as he was left with little but small scrap of fabric to protect his dignity. They rob others of their freedom. I suppose it's only right to rob them of their dignity, she muses as she spots what she's looking for. A bride all in black and a groom in crimson stand before a priestess that bears a remarkable resemblance to the woman Dalen had bowled over just a few minutes ago. Next to them stand a couple of young acolytes with nice long strips of fabric and rope belts. She taps Jan and Frankie on their shoulders as her eyes gleam wickedly. "Can you two and Denair help me with something," Dalen asks. "I think we need to make this wedding a lot more memorable. Think the four of us can strip those five and tie them up all nice and pretty. It's only fair to rob them of their dignity after they've been robbing everyone of their freedom."
Any of those look good to me. :) === In case it wasn't clear in the game post, this video shows what Dalen's basically doing. Apologies for the quality and length. I couldn't find a clip with just the scene in it. 7:36ish is where the relevant part ends. Oh, and she's definitely doing this on purpose. No question about it here. :P
Dalen scrambles to get out from under the pile, and winds up kicking the noblewoman in the face when she tries to gouge her legs with wickedly sharp nails. She leaves the screeching woman to clutch at her busted nose and sprints to catch up with the others, while contemplating the carnage she'd unintentionally wreaked. === Seeing the supplies and the men, she gets an idea. A feigned stumble takes her into the gathered workers, and stomping on two sets of toes, before she falls. "I-I'm soooo sorry," she stammers in apology as she turns and stands, slamming the pommel of the greatword on her back into the groin of a third. She whips around at the man's cry of pain, cracking a fourth man in the knee with scabbard at her hip. Apologies and cries of pain come from the knot as Dalen turns into a "klutz."
[ooc]I'm sure a 10's not going to cut it, cue the Hijinks. Dalen grins even more fiercely at Dyrom's offer and laughs at the fading catcalls behind her. Unfortunately, it was not a distraction she could afford, and she runs almost full tilt into the crowd with a yelp. She bowls over a couple starting to sneak away. Her stumbling steps after that carry her through the bodyguards turning to see what the commotion was about; then, she trips over the skirts of the well-to-do woman they are guarding. Her gaunt face and expression make her look like she'd eaten something sour while smelling something foul, and her eyes widen in shock as a young, fairly attractive woman, who is armed to the teeth, smacks into her and begins to fall as she turns in an attempt to free her feet from the tangle of lace and cloth. In desperation, Dalen's hands snap out and grab at whatever she can reach to stop her fall. One hand snags a fist-full of some expensive black fabric that makes up the jacket of the hugely obese man standing in the small ring marked by the bodyguards just as he notices something is happening. He gives Dalen a look of surprised bemusement as she begins to pull him after her. The other gets tangled in the bodice of the woman, who opens her mouth to cry out in surprise or anger. Dalen quickly decides it's anger as she sees the fire in the woman's eyes. Time slows down and gives Dalen a chance to truly appreciate the disaster in every detail, from the wrinkles in the woman's sharply angular face to the way her hand is taloning and beginning to move towards her face. This, she decides, is not going to end well. That is when her head hits the cobbles and stars explode in her vision. A moment later, the others land on top of her in a tangled heap.
Dalen, not all that skilled in the arts of persuasion, decides to go for the option that gives her a better chance of success and gives her a measure of satisfaction. She picks out the two most attractive of the Asmodians and pulls out her long knife. Two quick swipes open robes and slice through belts. She passes between them and turns around on her heels. She shoves her fingers into the necks of the robes, grabbing a fistful of each, and pushes them away before jerking her hands down to slip them off their shoulders and complete the work her blade had started. As the two Asmodians stumble out of their ruined vestments, Dalen puts her pinkies in the corners of her mouth and lets out a shrill whistle. she cries with a laugh before bringing up the rear of the group.
Hey y'all, I posted a playtest for a setting I'm working on. If you're interested in seeing how GURPS works, give it a read.
|
