Lord Brycen takes one look at the ramshackle vice wagon before rolling his eyes and giving a sad sigh. "How far this world has fallen," he mutters to no-one in particular.
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Brycen takes his winnings/earnings and pockets them.
Brycen looks back and forth as the men argue, eventually choosing to pick up a candy and (attempting to) cross the river.
Brycen picks up a small rock and gently lobs it in the direction of where a large invisible creature would have to stand to pick up the candies. If he doesn’t hit anything, he tries several more in slightly different directions.
"Well, the note did say that we were to be tested...but by marshmallows?"
”Fire it is,” Brycen says. He raids the cellar for alcohol, keeping a cask of the good stuff and using the rest as accelerant.
”How in the world could this creature have snuck so close to us so as to pin this note?”
Brycen cracks an eye open at Virro, but given his current circumstances, decides to allow his insolence to go unanswered.
”We shall go third,” Brycen says, plumping his bedroll and stretching out once more.
”And we should all stay together, lest the foul fiend return.”
”We saw no sign of the zombies either. Where there is one secret chamber, there most likely is a second. Does this area of basement seem the same size as the house above us?”
”Don’t panic, friend. We have come to assist you,” Brycen calls down the chute. He will follow Grimdell.
”Perhaps you and Grimdell should stay and guard our compassionate and illustrious employer while the rest of us recheck the house?” Brycen wants to check the rooms that the zombies came from, looking for hidden passages.
Not done with you just yet.
Brycen makes his way over to Grimdell, letting his sword carelessly fall to the floor. He starts grabbing bleeders trying to staunch the flow.
Stablized.
Brycen tries to end the zombie once and for all.
”Somebody save Grimdell. I’ll hold off this thing!”
Brycen picks his way through the grease and slashes at the remaining zombie. His precarious balance throws off his swing.
That has to be my record for a first level damage output.
Brycen’s blade continues to flash, slicing a zombie twice to divide the corpse into four neat pieces which flop to the floor.
Brycen pauses to check on Virro. Seeing that his wound has stabilized, he moves out into the hallway to present a new target.
Round 2: Brycen grimaces at the sight of so much blood on the outside of his fellow elf, adjusts his grip, and tries again.
”Time to move out,” Brycen says, bringing his sword down in an arc.
Alas, his sword swing misses and slices into the ancient mattress.
Lord Brycen leaps to his feet, drawing his sword and calling, ”Danger in Virro’s room!” He pounds the stairs racing into the room.
Brycen also partakes a couple pints of the beer. He’ll sleep in his bedroll in the main room downstairs. He also takes the first watch.
Spoiler people:
Brycen is certainly not the type to keep something like that from everybody else. Brycen would prefer to sleep on his own bedroll than whatever bedbug filled monstrosities might be found in the house. ”Besides, better not to separate ourselves in this wild and dangerous place.”
Brycen twists his mouth in disgust at both the state of the house and the tasks he must now perform in this fallen and dying world. However, he sets to it, clearing an area where they can rest and helping with dinner.
”The building it is, then.”
”Just because they were pets at one point does not mean they still are. They could just as easily have been abandoned long ago. However, if someone did want to murder us and make it look like wild beasts tore us apart, trained animals would be a good way to do it.”
”We didn’t realize we needed to prove deserving of anything of ours, but we suppose the compliment is appreciated.” He wipes the blade clean on an unblocked portion of rat flank. ”This was a ceremonial blade, a toy, a decoration, but it amused us to learn its traditional use, never realizing we would need it to survive one day. This world has changed so much since we went to sleep.”
Brycen’s sword flashes in the red light and once more strikes rat flesh.
Brycen flanks one of the two rats on Keska. He feels the inspiration from the gryphon song fade as he swipes.
Brycen moves towards the creatures, aiming to get a flanking position if possible.
His forms fail him this time however, and his swipe comes up way too short.
Brycen moves back to stand adjacent to Virro, readying an attack on a falanx that moves into range.
Brycen, seeing the other five currently entangled, takes the time to step away from in front of the wagons to aid Keska.
"Virro, cover the front," Brycen calls out.
He stands motionless with the hilt held in two hands, wound like a spring. A sharp eye sees that he is delicately balanced on the balls of his feet, able to move in any direction. No proof that he knows what he's doing, but his fighting stance appears to be very deliberate and formal, not the "desperate hack through flesh" approach of modern swordsmen.
Brycen hooks his flail back onto his pack at Grimdell's warning and smoothly draws his curve blade, the pristine metal gleaming in the weak light of the red sun.
Brycen pulls out his heavy flail, a massive rock held by ropes to a thick wooden handle not unlike the trunks of these trees. The flail is full of course, but Brycen gets enough oomph behind his swings to smash the wood to flinders.
Brycen seems mollified slightly at Menra's supportive words of belief. Once clear of the city, Lord Brycen takes point, keeping a look out all around as the walk, with his hand resting on his sword hilt. Sometimes he draws a few inches as he starts at a noise, and it's blade glints weakly like metal, not the expected ceramic.
Lord Brycen says nothing during the merchant's tirade, though the pleasure garden do hold some appeal. He flinched from the unholy water, but again stays silent. As the gates close, he comments mostly to himself, "I never thought I would miss the stuck up clerics of Sibilan preaching honour and virtue above all else."
As the new elf arrives, Brycen reaches for something hanging from his neck, but again it isn't there. He grimaces slightly at the smells coming from the man.
The half-elf self-consciously tightens his grip protectively. "It was presented to us as a gift from our father on our 21st name day. A ceremonial trinket at the time, though it amused us at the time to learn its use. Now I believe we shall be grateful for the skill in the times ahead." The elf's accent is completely unknown. He continues, relaxing only slightly. "We are called Lord Brycen of Thrushberry, Prince of Aerisael, second in line to the throne of our royal father, King Rathiel the Fourth. As our royal brother is most likely dead, it falls upon us to claim the throne, though first we must locate our realm, or what has become of it, and restore our kingdom to its former glory." He pauses, then adds with a sigh, "No doubt you would consider us either full of lies or completely insane...it matters not, most people do, but we will not hide who we are, or rather, who we were. There is always a chance some soul we meet in this gods-forsaken land would know of Aerisael. Doth your library contain any mentions of our realm?" he concludes, directing his question to Menra.
Standing silently to the side is a handsome half-elven warrior. Though his clothes are ordinary, he possesses an air of wealth, authority, and arrogance. His hands rest on the pummel of his exotic curved sword resting in its scabbard. He silently scans the crowd, as well as each of his companions, and emotions frolic across his face: sometimes angry, sometimes disgusted, but mostly just sad. As the breeze stirs up a particularly potent collection of smells, his nose wrinkles and his hand moves to grab something hanging from his neck...except there is nothing there, and the sadness returns in full force to his features.
"It appears that you lot all have the honour of assisting us in the restoration of the elven kingdom of Aerisael. You may also assist us in our quest to locate to stasis pods of our royal brethren. Congratulations."
Lord Brycen stands prepared to rule what's left of the world.
Just noticed you're using Background skills, so I gave Brycen ranks in knowledge nobility and history. Not class skills, so the bonus is pathetic. For him, his nobility knowledge is out of date and history is his recent events, so it all works out.
Here is Nazard's recently awakened prince, Lord Brycen Thrushberry. His stats and backstory are in the profile.
"Explore more, yes. I would like your group to try further up river...perhaps a few days' travel, again, taking care to avoid contact with any Skraeling settlements, and determine if it's navigable beyond that lake you discovered. Of course, we'll take tomorrow as a day of rest and mourning for our lost compatriots."
If there are more, than I've forgotten about them. Everybody who went on this team has been accounted for. It's a long, sad journey back to the colonial campsite, and well past dark by the time you arrive back. Shouts go up as your torchlight is spotted, and Lord Brycen, Sir Kheiron, Falcon Gray, Harrolayne, and Imogene are on hand to greet you. Hopeful faces on the men are dashed as you return alone and empty-handed. The women's faces are expressionless. "I am truly sorry for your loss. For the loss of the whole colony," Lord Brycen says, his face filled with sincere pain and sympathy.
Lord Brycen nods. "Do not misunderstand me. You are most welcome in our camp. We are new to these lands, and any help that you can offer us to survive will be most appreciated." He bows slightly, then turns to Sir Kheiron. "If you all will excuse me, I believe I shall retire to my tent. Sir Kheiron, let me know if the apparition returns." With the ease of a seasoned swordsman, Lord Brycen doesn't even wait for Sir Kheiron's nod before sheathing his sword and heading for his tent. He stops in shock as his sword misses its mark in the leather and crashes to the ground, bouncing several times before landing 10 feet away. "What the--?" he mutters as he moves over to retrieve the weapon. He sheathes it more carefully, succeeding in securing his weapon, shrugs, and heads off. "Damn, I'm tired."
"It would seem that that was not the answer she was looking for, Mr. Noche'Wa," Lord Brycen observes dryly, never losing his composure, though his knuckles upon the hilt of his sword are as white as ghosts themselves. "I would ask that, in future diplomatic endeavours with restless spirits, you not make decisions on behalf of all of us without consultation. Perhaps your people don't feel this way, but back home, we take the undead very seriously."
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