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The Wolf leaps into the fray with gusto, laughing as he brings his greatsword down on the strange creature.
Then, when Feimramdem hooks it to the side , he swings again, the sword swiping at the creature as it's thrown off-balance by her attack.
Hey all, posting this in all my games to let people know I'll be away for a few days. My family is headed to camp later today, and I won't have Internet or my computer while I'm there. I should be back and posting Friday afternoon/evening (Eastern Time), but please push the game as needed, botting my character if you need to do so. Thanks!
The Wolf can't help chuckling at Feimramdem's last comment, and he nudges Marius with his elbow. "Here that? We're nicely shaped. Hard to tell from my perspective, so I guess I never noticed."
"Ha!" The Wolf begins to pick up speed as he approaches the door, and by the time he connects with it, he's running with a lowered shoulder.
The Wolf grins. "With all their changing about, how can you even tell the difference between them?" He gives a bark of laughter and hooks a thumb. "That way? We'll take care of them, no worries. C'mon, everyone. Marching formation, let's get us some corpses."] With nary a second thought, the big man grabs his sword, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder again, and makes roughly in the direction the man suggested.
The Wolf shakes his head and slowly places his sword tip-first to the ground, leaning it against the wall. "Listen, friend, we're no shapeshifting ghouls. Just four weary souls who only escaped recently from confinement down... wherever this is. I can't say I recall coming here, myself, but I guess I did." He grins broadly and chuckles. "In any case, we seek safety, much as I suspect you do. Escape too, if we can manage it. We're no danger to you or yours, and we'd be most grateful if you'd let us pass by."
"Bah, surely they wouldn't. They seem like fine, upstanding gentlemen, good heads on their shoulders. Let's not be overhasty."
The Wolf retches as he crosses the bodies, but he takes hold of the rope and does his best to haul himself up the chute. At the top, he takes a moment to breath the fresh(er) air before forcing a grin and calling back down. "See, it's safe. She didn't even cut the rope, or hit me, or anything!" He sits back and smiles sidelong at the tiefling. "I told them you were fine enough."
"I've got a pick and a hammer, but they're for war, not mining." The Wolf sets his hands on his hips and screws up his face in thought, staring after Feimramdem. Finally, he nods and steps forward. "I don't think we've got a choice, gents. That went for freeing our fearless leader, and it goes for this. Way I see it, we've gotta get out of here." He steps onto the first of the corpses and winces slightly, then glances back with a forced grin. "Just pretend they're, uh... mushrooms. Big ones." He shrugs and turns back to clamber up the pile and the chute.
"Hmm?" The big man goes to the sacks as well, and soon enough he finds a bulky bag with familiar equipment. Armor, a buckler, and several weapons lie within--the most fascinating a massive sword, with large quillons and parrying hooks above the ricasso. Its pommel has an ivory decoration, carved into the shape of a wolf's head. The man lifts it up and looks at it curiously. "I believe this was mine. I was called by this, I think. The White Wolf?" He looks at the others, then shrugs. "I guess that's me." The Wolf spends a brief while donning his gear, and when he's finished, he lifts the sword and sets it on his shoulder. "So, we're off to catch our captor, eh? Sounds like a jolly time."
The other human chuckles as the doctor runs off, and he flips the knife in the air. Then it clatters to the ground, and he quickly scoops it up with a nervous grin. "Well, guess that's not what I'm best at." He turns to the table, where Rakheet is helping the captive. "You holding up there? Looks like you took quite the cutting at some point. Rakheet, give me the keys, will you?" If the ratfolk offers protestation, the man folds his arms and gives a determined grin. "We need all the hands we can get. I mislike the looks of this place, and I've a feeling even a sadist-mass...isist will be good to have along. And I swear to make sure she doesn't hurt you."
The man tries to follow the conversation between rat and tiefling, but it moves quickly back and forth. As he's released from his cell, he steps out and settles on prudence. "She's right," he rumbles, looking at Rakheet. "Rakheet, right? Sounds like none of us know where we are or what we're doing here. The more of us we've got, the better our chances of finding out what's going on." He turns to Feimramdem's cell and steps forward. "Can't say I love what she's said, but the woman's helped to, er..." He opens his mouth in thought, and then shrugs and gestures at the scene. "She's helped incapacitate that thing. Let's have done with it and get out of here." With that, he moves to pick up the knife the doctor dropped when she was grabbed.
Are you asking me? I'm trying to distract her. We're in separate cells, so I figured if she pays attention to me you'll have a chance to sneak.
The large man on one bunk of the humans' cell wakes with a start, rolling as if to his feet. He doesn't quite stick the landing, though, and with a shout and a heavy thud he slams down onto the floor. He's large, although not obscenely so, and his clothing looks as though it was once quite fine and brightly colored--although now they're faded, tattered, and covered in dirt and grime. The man himself pushes to his knees and looks around, his eyes wide with surprise and confusion. His hair is chopped short enough to avoid his eyes, and again looks as though it once might have been a fashionable style, but is now ragged-ended and matted across his forehead. Across his jaw is a rough and dirty beard. He stumbles to his feet and looks around the room, noting the other inhabitants of the cells, as well as the man on the table and the woman carving his leg. Seeing the rat creature trying to break free, he slams his hands against the bars and rattles them back and forth as hard as he can. "Hey!" he calls, his voice hoarse; he coughs, and it takes on a deeper, less rasping tone. "What'd he do? Hope nothing I did."
I'm checking in, saw the acceptance and thanks for the opportunity! I'll look over the information to see if any changes happened to affect my build. EDIT: With the loss of dedications, Gauntlet Shield became rather annoying to make work--it was essentially an extra talent being spent for no real benefit. I swapped it for the new Bashing Shield talent, and the Wolf now uses a buckler instead of a spiked gauntlet in his off-hand.
Alright, Loup Blanc's submission is mechanically finished in this profile! He's waking up with no knowledge of his name, taking a moniker from the white wolf furs that adorn his armor, and relying on vague memories of being a warrior-for-hire who maintained a sense of justice. I'd be unsurprised if there are issues here, so if anyone wants to take a look, that'd be wonderful! I included the custom Martial Tradition in its own spoiler, so if there are issues there let me know. And of course overall what you think! An Impossible Foe: Ha! Let me assure you of one thing, first, lad--there's no such thing. Sure, it might seem like quite a challenge when you size 'em up, but impossible? Doubtful. Everything has a weakness, lad. You just have to find it. Now, as far as a truly tough foe, one that seems like it can't be felled?
You know what the two strongest weapons I have are? No, not the sword, nor the pick, though I admit that spike does a bang-up job when it's needed. Hope and resolve, lad. Those are my best assets, apart from the rugged good looks, of course. Y'see, when I'm up there in front, wavin' about this great hunk o' steel, my job isn't just to beat the piss out of whoever's in the way. It's to keep their attention, and hold the line. It doesn't matter so much if I put them down, because I have allies at my back to do that as well. I'm there to get in their face and keep them busy long enough for everyone else to do their job. So, an enemy I can't defeat? I do what I do every time: stand up in front and give them something to think about. And I'll do it with a smile on my face.
The Old Wolf pauses and looks over his shoulder at the man. "And? You're not telling us something."
"Then it's reasonable that he's the source." The Old Wolf regards the mausoleum, and shifts the sword in his grip. "Can we go inside?"
The Old Wolf pauses as he comes to the end of the trail, his narrowed eyes gazing up the hill. It's all leading here. He glances over his shoulder toward the town, but with everything pointing to the cemetery, there doesn't seem much point in not investigating there, first. Shrugging his sword to a more comfortable position, he strides forward, into the land of the dead.
The Old Wolf is restless in the inn, despite the fine bedding, and he's risen early when the rest of the party comes down for breakfast. Exploring the village seems like a good way to start the investigation to discover what's happening here, and when the group stumbles on a murder scene, he surveys things with a grim eye.
Kara's chatter and the constable's response seem to slip right by the man, whose narrowed eyes take in the scene without comment. About the time the lawman stops talking, he squints, turns north, and stalks off without a word, following the blood trail, with his sword resting in its usual place on his shoulder.
Undead in the cemetery at nights. The Old Wolf nods and walks off with more or less in stride with Antonius, and a similar mindset. Bounties of mortal men could wait; deeper darkness and supernatural evil required more immediate attention, and action.
The Wolf grunts at the barmaid's tale, and he also orders meat and something strong to drink. Sounds like there's work to do. His eyes drift to the strange young man, wondering if he might be able to shed any light on these goings-on... if only he would talk.
The Old Wolf stands and watches alongside Antonius at first, but he begins moving off with a final nod to the priest, and he falls into stride with Kara. "You raise a point, little one. There must be a cause for this evil. We should find it."
The Old Wolf turns to regard the priest, and lets Kara finish her speech before speaking his own thoughts. "Did you say Tarascon? That's the name of a town, isn't it?" He sets his sword back on his shoulder and glances at the silent youth. "Is he some sort of nobleman?"
The Wolf looks over his shoulder at Antonius, and the look they pass for a moment says everything that needs saying. He turns back to the crowd as Kara speaks. "The little one talks much, but she speaks truth. Evil must be destroyed. We will not open the coffin." He drops his gaze to his side, looking at the halfling now. "Kara--burn it."
The Old Wolf stares back at the priest in silence, but he nods when Ausk comments. Without a word, he strides forward toward the coffin, his eyes cold and stern. If anyone tries to stop him, he pushes past.
The Old Wolf steps up without hesitation or ceremony, and calls out. "Why do you not burn the body?"
The Old Wolf steps off the raft and looks down the road. He heaves his sword to his shoulder, where it rests in its familiar position, the weight settling with a soft metallic clink over his mail. After a few more seconds of silent contemplation, he grunts. "We'd best move. Storm won't wait. Should see what's happening down there, too. Usually means trouble when folks gather at a church."
The Old Wolf watches the man warily when he joins them in the raft, but after a few moments' thought he turns his eyes back to the swamp, his sword ready at his feet.
The Old Wolf continues to stare at the man, and now he opens his senses once more to the divine and profane, wondering if there's truly something more powerful at work here. So long as his senses don't discover that evil lurks here, though, he shakes his head. "Leave the lanterns for now. He's an odd one, but he seems harmless enough. This may not be a bad place to rest. I'll keep an eye on our host for now."
The Old Wolf thought about adding his two copper, but upon seeing Antonius experimenting with a lantern, he simply keeps his watch closely on this strange man.
When Kara passes up the now glowing sword, the Wolf grunts what's probably thanks, although it sounds a tad confused as well. In the shack, he stares at the young man, sword ready but not attacking. What was it she said about a madman? Beware his blood. He turns the phrase over in his mind, trying to make sense of it. The first half wasn't so difficult, The evil of night shall descend on the land, or perhaps the night of evil. The second, though... when near at hand was the only phrase he could parse out, and it wasn't necessarily a single section. He keeps his place looking at this strange young man, waiting to see if the others have any input.
When the ladder drops, the Wolf drops Kara--not simply flopping her to the raft, but lowering her back down. "On second thought, I'll go first after all." He glances down at Kara and gives a smile that only looks a little forced. "If you want to help, you could hand me my sword once I'm up?"
The Old Wolf keeps staring up at the house for a few seconds, and then nods. "Alright. Be careful." He squats down and offers his hands as a foothold to lift the halfling up and heft her to the doorway if he can.
"Agreed." The Old Wolf readies his sword, resting on his shoulder where he can easily move it into a full swing in combat. "I'll go first." When the raft is close enough to the house, the Wolf steps up and pounds on the door with his free hand, opening it if there's no response after a few seconds.
"There's no evil here, little one," the Wolf replies to Kara's question, but by then the damage is done. He watches on wordlessly as Carloni stamps away, simply swallowing another spoonful of stew. When Valana comes out, he turns his gaze on her, but no emotion plays across his face. Even when she gazes into his eyes before dropping the tiles, the Old Wolf only stares back, his cold eyes watching, waiting. With the mention of walking dead and rains of blood, though, his brow furrows and his eyes seem to fall out of focus, looking far beyond a beautiful woman or her fortune tiles. When Scarengi offers further hospitality, he nods. "Of course. Again, our thanks." The dead will walk... Where have I seen that before. The Wolf drops his gaze to the pommel of his sword, carved in the likeness that gave him his only name. More trouble. Gold will have to wait.
The Old Wolf moves forward with the others, graciously bowing his head and accepting the stew. "My thanks." He takes a seat on one of the logs and begins to eat, listening as the others engage in more conversation.
The Old Wolf regards these new faces with a hard look for a moment, but then he clambers to land. After another second of thought, he sets his sword on his shoulder and nods to Kara. "I see no reason not to. They offer hospitality. It's good to eat with common folk." Nevertheless, the Wolf remains wary as he moves toward the strangers, and once he's close enough, he pauses a moment to open his senses to the supernatural, seeking out any oddities that may lurk here.
The Old Wolf slams the final frog to the earth with his great blade, then hauls it back to his shoulder and turns to look at Kara. "I'd do that. Drinking blood tends to mean I kill you next." With that, he moves to gather the frogs together and stow them in the boat to keep moving.
Now ready, standing with his sword in hand, the Old Wolf takes steps forward, plants his feet, and brings his massive blade about in a powerful swing, aimed at the last frog.
The Wolf is muddled in thought, his mind drifting like the raft itself for a moment, when the frogs attack. He grabs his sword, but the frogs are on them before he has a chance to respond.
The Wolf turns almost immediately as the croc starts to swim away, and he splashes to the boat in seconds. "Give her here." He reaches out and lays a hand on Kara's wound as he closes his eyes. Not yet. Not for this one. She's too pure. Although there's no visible surge of energy or anything, the blood stops flowing and the wound even starts to close, and after a moment Kara once again draws breath.
The Old Wolf lets out a growl and moves toward the second croc, his powerful strides pushing him through the water and giving strength to another swing of his massive sword.
As the sword smashes into only water, though, he clenches his jaw. I'm not going corpse to some ugly beast.
The Old Wolf grimaces as blood is shed, especially as more comes from the lively halfling. He brings his blade around with redoubled strength, trying to catch the crocodile as it comes out of the water.
The Old Wolf is the first to react, raising his sword and leaping into the water as Kara is knocked loose. He attempts to move toward the halfling while also swiping at the beast, a powerful overhand smash sending up a spray of murky water.
The Wolf brushes away Kara's hands and finishes donning his armor: hauberk, leggings, and boot coverings, along with his thick leather gauntlets. As the storm clouds start blowing in, he nods at the suggestion of finding dry land and shelter. He grips his sword anew, along with his long pike, and throws his pack over his shoulder, ready to disembark but also ready to fight if necessary.
The Old Wolf looks up at the night sky after Erial comments on it, but the moon usually doesn't concern him greatly. He tries to keep track of full moons, since some monsters react to them, but was it a complete disc when they set out into the swamp? After a moment, he shakes his head. "Something's odd here, to be sure." He keeps tugging on his mail leggings, grunting but calmly adjusting when they catch on his worn woolen trousers.
Without even opening his eyes, the Old Wolf reaches out and grabs the back of Kara's shirt with one big hand, and easily lifts her into the air. "It's just a phrase, little one. An old saying. Don't take it literally." He opens his gaze, and the icy blue orbs stare into the halfling's own eyes. "Put out your light and stop trying to start a fire. We need quiet." He looks around. "This is strange, though. You're right about that. You want to help, keep watch while I don my armor." The Wolf sets Kara back onto the boat's floorboards, grabs his mail, and begins to put it back on.
Why am I hunting this man? The question only enters the Wolf's mind once, as he's crouched in the boat with the others. He's just removed his armor, knowing its weight might quickly drag him down in the murk, and while the experience won't be his end, it would doubtlessly be a great inconvenience. The thought comes drifting in like their boat through the swamp, lazy and unexpected, though not truly surprising. He ruminates on it for but a moment before brushing it away. Because sometimes, Man is the most terrible monster of all. So thinking, he leans forward and narrows his creased eyes, trying to peer ever further into the depths of this foggy, dingy place. As the fog thickens, he glances at the nearby elf, muttering under his breath. A prayer, a chant. The ghost of a smile passes over the Old Wolf's lips, and one hand brushes the pendant around his neck. It's so worn with age, tarnished and battered and dirty, that he isn't even sure what god it's meant to petition, but that doesn't cause him discomfort. Either it still works, or it was never meant to. His other hand closes around the grip of his sword--equally worn, but a far more tangible defense against evil. His pike may have greater reach, but he has yet to face a foe that doesn't fall against a slab of raw iron with a wolf's-head pommel. Still, though, a prayer can't hurt. The Old Wolf clears his throat, a guttural growl, and coughs once, a spat of phlegm falling to the boat's floor. "I am the sword against the darkness, the shield against the wicked. I do not lay my blade to rest, and neither am I laid to rest myself. Let this continue until my time is truly done, and let my time remain unfinished for many more nights." The litany is less rehearsed and more improvised, but the point is clear. |
