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Post by Vrek on Jun 27, 2009 15:58:01 GMT
Reese bit back his shock at the fact that Ironmark had so casually referred to the Blade spies, a fact that not everyone knew about, for good reason. Much less the name of a Spymaster. He wondered how a simple Legionnaire knew such valuable information in the first place. When others started talking, he shrugged off the question; the entire structure has been falling apart with the recent crisis anyways. He did feel a pag of remorse for Cosades, though. He was good at his job, and loyal. They would miss him once Vvardenfell was freed.
The Dunmer in the back spoke; Fierce and angry, probably has personal reasons for joining the trip. He'd have to channel that one into something productive, lest he get himself killed by charging Valenth.
He listened quietly and patiently as a shy Argonian said her bit, and was then supplemented by the first Dunmer that had spoken. Reese smiled, pleased by some many of the people already putting their best foot forward. With a small groan, the old man pushed himself off his impromptu chair and turned to face the group. "Some very fine deductions, little lady. But you seem to have forgotten one thing: Valenth will know about our presence the moment we take one single target, quite probably before we ever even reach one. That is what we need to be prepared for. Perhaps Valenth already knows we're coming; I wouldn't put it below him. Maybe one of the other parties being sent in takes a target, or worse, gets captured. Either way, we have to prepare for the worst possible scenario from day one. The way I see it, a showdown with Valenth is inevitable. We'll probably invade Ur last, or else we'd have to do it twice. Going to the center of the blight twice isn't something I'd take a fancy to, I don't think my poor old lungs could handle it!" He ended with a chuckle.
The laugh descended into a cough, which Reese ignored as he turned to Artmer, "And as for the spell, I'll be the closest insurance you have that you won't be taken under." He raised his hand, and moved it so his ring would shine and be more easily visible, "He'll have a harder time taking over my mind. All I need is to study some resident for a little while, see what the charm looks like. Then I'll fix you up with my own spell right-quick if you ever start coming down with it."
Finished, Reese flashed the group a large friendly smile, before lowering himself back down onto his crate. His lower back was already getting sore. He was far too old for this.
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Post by Vicorva on Jun 27, 2009 16:33:08 GMT
Dark-Feather's eyes glittered with amusement as Reese spoke- she found his manner pleasant, and was intrigued by his ring and what it might symbolise. She focused her will upon it; born under the sign of the Tower, she could sense enchantments.
As she probed the forces of his ring, she noted that there were other magical auras in the room. Nonetheless, she focused on this ring; beneath the surface of the metal, she could sense the throbbing power of a shield, and outside there was a hazy cloud that might have been illusion, but could easily have been pure willpower. She recognised the peculiar taste of the enchantment, however; Resist Illusion. She tilted her head to one side and blinked her dark eyes owlishly. Well... that's unusual... she thought. Her eyes crinkled in a smile and she hummed softly to herself under her breath with pleasure.
However, it was now that she noticed something odd about the redguard. His hands were covered in some sticky brown substance. Her gaze sharpened and she sniffed the air discreetly, but couldn't smell anything unusual.
I wonder what that is? she thought, but he moved his hands and she blinked, and the strange substance disappeared.
Her ears lowered suspiciously, and the tip of her tail danced with apprehension, but nothing terrible seemed to be about to happen.
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Post by Chaos 303030 on Jun 27, 2009 17:21:19 GMT
Ironmark sifted through the various questions and proposals flung about through the room. Infact, it seemed like the only one on the voyage who hadn't spoken up yet was the shirtless Redguard, who apparently was sleeping soundly up against the hull. The legion had anticipated the complications of Valenth's spell, but truly had waved it off, believing that the sort of hardy adventurers or Imperial agents who went on the journey would either be strong enough to resist the spell, in the case of the adventurers, or have some prior protection, in the case of the Imperials.
The old man offered up some opinions on what their journey through Vvardenfel would be like. The man had a plain eye for the truth, or at least the likely turns of events. He went on to suggest a charm to protect the members of the voyage in the event Valenth's spell took hold. Ironmark nodded in approval; a good idea, incase any proved too weak to handle the spell.
He looked around. "I don't think that hardy adventurers such as yourselves will find the spell much of a problem. You most likely have some form of natural or gained resistance or another from your travels or professions. " He laughed. "All excellent ideas, on our attack plan, mi'lady, but I think you forget to realize the reasoning behind sending seven ships in, at different locations. We aren't necessarily required to do all of this by ourselves." He smiled a bit.
A trapdoor opened and a deckhand came down. He stood in a solid salute, accompanied by a loud 'Sir!'. Ironmark nodded, and the deckhand marched over to his desk, slightly hindered by the crowding of the room. "Deckhand Jorvan McKinely reporting, Sir! We are crossing through the dome now, Sir!" Ironmark shook his head and waved him away. The deckhand marched jovially back to the deck, happy to have been of some meager service to his captain.
The rain stopped. The air became much warmer, much more uncomfortable, and a strong wind could be heard howling outside. The thumps of feet on the top deck slowed, troubled by the heavy blight. Ironmark turned to face the group. "It seems that we've reached Vvardenfel. Now, the first thing that you need to do when we land is purchase garb that makes you look more like inlanders. Shawls, heavy robes, anything. As long as you don't dress too differently, the spell Valenth's put on the population should work for us.
He got up again. "Any ques-" Ironmark was cut off by a sudden cacophony of noises, ranging from ear shattering to disturbing. The ship shook with a resounding boom, echoed from across the water. Screams went up from the top deck and McKinely once more came down. This time, however, he fell down the trap door hatch, a dagger firmly in his gut. A single skeleton dropped down afterwards, and passed infront of the sleeping Redguard, advancing menacingly on the group. The Redguard openned his eyes as Ironmark readied his weapon and was on his feet with his rapier in a matter of seconds. He cut hard into the skeleton's sword arm, the ebony blade finely slicing it in half at the femur. He sheathed the cutlass, grasped it's head, and snapped it around. It's magic thoroughly dispersed, it collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Ironmark put out a yell. "Everyone on deck, NOW!" Ironmark and the Redguard quickly ascended, leaving the others to follow.
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Post by webster52402 on Jun 27, 2009 17:55:54 GMT
Artmer was definitely not happy with what Ironmark had said, and it showed on his face, as his lips pulled back in something resembling a small snarl. In other words, they had been sent in, being told that 'Oh, you'll be fine! You are hale and hearty adventurers, warriors all, and will certainly be able to resist any spell that the NEREVARINE has come up with! Go, for the good of Nirn!'.
A mix of sadness and reluctance panged through his heart, and he turned his gaze away from the others, delving back into his thoughts. What if he wasn't a warrior? He didn't have magic to protect him, and he didn't have all that much willpower... He wasn't the traditional hale and hearty adventurer, he had come here to return to his home, and to try and make a difference, get it back to normal. He had come so he wouldn't be scared anymore, wouldn't have to keep running while others died for him...
His thoughts broke off with an almost audible snapping sound, as all of a sudden a ruckus broke out on deck. In a flash, he was on his feet, his gaze jumping to the hatch that led to the upper decks, just in time to see it thrown open. Letting out a startled scream as the deckhand of earlier came rushing down to greet them, a dagger planted firmly in his stomach, he took a few rapid steps back, pressing himself against the hull as the body rolled, with a heavy thumping sound, limbs flailing limply as he sagged to the deck, ruby red blood pooling around him...
Shaking, he was already nervous, and it was only made worse by the appearance of a skeleton right behind it. Though a Redguard warrior quickly dispatched it with a well placed slice and a rather over the top 'break the neck' execution style - which he was surprised worked, considering the nature of a skeleton - it still left him quite visibly shaken. His gaze danced from the fallen skeleton, to the fallen deckhand, to the hatch that the Redguard had already vanished through, his tongue darting across his lips nervously. Though he had known the danger... He hadn't expected to be forced to fight so fast.
His breathing was coming shallow and fast, his hyperventilation causing a few splotches of varying colors to appear in front of his eyes. That man earlier had been slain so quickly... He was laying, right there, at his feet... Brutally attacked, and here he was, without any way to defend himself.
Reaching a trembling hand down, he grasped the iron dagger that was in the dead deckhand's stomach, trying his hardest to keep from retching at the feeling of warm, sticky blood that coated the handle. He failed, and managed to gag once, but raising his other arm, he pressed it to his lips, and managed to avoid simply throwing up over everyone there. Pulling the dagger from the deceased man with a soft, liquid squelching sound that caused his guts to churn again, he was at last armed... Though he held the blade awkwardly, unused to its weight in his hand. Anyone looking at him would probably be able to tell that he had never used one before.
However, he didn't follow the Redguard just yet, and instead took a step to the side, clearing the path to the hatch for the others. He would go out in a moment, right now he was shaking so bad, he'd likely cut himself to ribbons before he hurt the enemy at all. Pressing his wrist more firmly into his lips, his eyes drifted closed, trying to block out the sounds of battle above him. He just had to get his bearings...
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Post by Vicorva on Jun 27, 2009 18:19:36 GMT
Dark's eyes flashed and she only just managed to repress a low growl when Ironmark explained his theory on resisting the spell of the Nerevarine. It was so careless, she found it offensive. So what if she had a strong will- the Nerevarine's was bound to be stronger, and it could easily drive her insane to constantly resist the pull of magic- she knew this well, having had various spells thrown at her in her childhood and been commanded to throw them off.
She had just decided to tell Ironmark exactly what she thought of his plan when there was a loud crash and a body fell from the ceiling, pooling blood on the floor. She leapt to her feet, moving into a crouch and releasing a snarl that was more fright than fight as she watched the blood pool on the ground.
The smell of blood... she shook her head, and backed away. A skeleton dropped but was immediately despatched, but she was busy. Drawing her bow, she stepped into it, bending it and stringing it, although fumbling a little over the top loop.
Everything seemed to be in complete turmoil. "EVERYONE ON DECK!" Ironmark bellowed, as if they couldn't see for themselves that all hell had broken loose.
Trembling, slightly, she knocked an arrow to her bow, but didn't draw it. She couldn't go up there... she didn't have the experience... all she had was a bow and her own body. She'd never foughtm undead before. Who knew what kind of hellish strength they might have?
Arkay would never have been born if they dead were meant to rise... she thought. The dunmer was moving over to the body... what was he doing?
She blanched as he pulled a dagger out of it, and blood poured more freely. Shuddering, she looked up at the hatch that led up deck, where there was much rushing around, and then back to the dunmer. He looked exactly how she felt.
The small, sandy argonian went and stood beside him. "You're holding that like it's a snake you mean to turn on your enemies before it bites you yourself," she said quietly. She stood sideways-on to the hatch, only her head and arms facing it- her whole body was facing the wall instead. She drew her bow, placing three fingers beneath the arrow and pulling until the fletching could rub her horn. It had taken her a long time to learn not to twist her upper body when shooting, and she still had to go through the whole process mentally before shooting, but she looked as battle-ready as any archer- save for the dismay on her face.
"I'll go when you go," she suggested to him, more to keep herself from breaking down from nerves than anything else. Hopefully, it would help him too. "If you have an archer covering you and I have an extra pair of eyes, we might actually survive this."
She didn't look particularly inclined to move, her tail was swishing like mad, and nearly bumped into the jack-of-all-trades.
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Post by DarkNova50 on Jun 27, 2009 18:20:50 GMT
The group's discussion of their mission, which touched upon the thoroughly unsettling possibility of being taken in by Valenth's mass dominate spell, was interrupted by the entrance of a deckhand from above, informing them that they were passing through the dome...the last barrier seperating Vvardenfell from the rest of Tamriel.
Although she could not actually see the barrier, stowed away below deck as she was, Terra could have sworn she knew the precise moment they passed through the dome, her skin crawling with exhileration as the immense magical energy washed over her. She felt an instinctive draw to the barrier, representing such a massive source of raw magical energy. The fact that it stood as the Empire's last line of defense against the traitorous Nerevarine was only a vague objection in her mind, as her lifelong requirement to draw in outside sources of magic manifested itself...
It was only the sudden death of the deckhand from just moments before, and the subsequent battle that took place, that managed to draw Terra's attention back to the situation at hand. Shortly after, the Captain ordered the group onto the deck, before storming up himself.
Terra spat bitterly under her breath, her gentle demeanour quickly dissipating in the face of the coming battle. "Great...so much for catching Valenth unaware," she grumbled, removing her jacket and gently dropping it on the floor. She made a passing glance at the others as she adorned her leather gloves, before sprinting for the deck above.
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Post by webster52402 on Jun 27, 2009 18:41:36 GMT
Artmer's reverie was shattered again as he was spoken to - and bumped lightly by Dark-Feather's swishing tail - though this time, it was a bit more pleasant to have happen. Though there was no distinctive hiss to tell him which of the group from earlier had spoken to him, there was still a slight accent that she couldn't completely erase that told him who was speaking. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes it wasn't a disapproving warrior that was about to chastise him for cowardice standing before him, but the rather gentle-looking Argonian woman.
Forcing a smile behind his lips, though it was tremulous, he lowered his wrist from his mouth, though doing so caused the acrid smell of blood to strengthen. Pushing back down another gag, he slowly nodded.
"Yeah... I've never had to use one in a real fight before. I wasn't exactly warlike in my life before this." He explained weakly, slightly grateful to see that she looked as disturbed by the thought of fighting those things up above as he did. Though a small part of him wanted to mention that she was using arrows against skeletons, he shoved the thought to one side, for it would only make him even LESS inclined to actually go out.
Artmer shimmied to one side as the argonian's tail whipped around, almost frantically, readjusting his grip on the dagger he had removed from the deckhand nervously. She would follow behind him into the battle above... And there had been a few people that had gone up before them - notably a mage and a rather strong warrior, which heartened him a bit - so it wasn't like they would be fighting alone... All these things he told himself, to actually get him moving.
Heaving a shuddering breath, he nodded to the argonian in front of him, and turned towards the hatch. "I appreciate the help..." He murmured quietly to her, before proceeding up the steps that led through the hatch - which, he noted with some disdain, were slicked slightly with the blood of the deckhand that had fallen onto them - towards the deck. His dagger was held in a warding stance. At least, what was supposed to be a warding stance, likely he looked like he was just holding it at arm's length like it were going to explode at any second.
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Post by FC4 on Jun 27, 2009 21:17:30 GMT
Majulin looked at the Altmer as she haughtily suggested they remain cool, calm and collected. His eyes were the only sign of the fiery displeasure he held for her comment. Of course I will remain calm. My anger will manifest in the plunge of my blade in the heart of my enemies. It would be insulting to my people to behave otherwise in battle and life. He convinced himself, taking one deep breath.
He did not like the mood that his fellow dunmer was setting for the whole group. True, Valenth was strong. True, he would be hard to kill. But as the Argonian woman had pointed out, he could be beaten if they had the right equipment. They just had to cut off his powersources. His souls and his tools.
Majulin took little time in deciding he liked the Argonian. She lacked the warrior spirit, one could see, but she had the mind of a general. Planning, seeking out the weakness of the enemy. A warrior needed a general. They fulfilled two different, yet vital roles in war and battle, and were equally revered by the Redoran. It was the cowardice of Hlaalu, to hide and strike in shadows and flee from battle, that Majulin disdained.
Majulin uncrossed his arms, thumbing his pockets. Something was wrong. He had that feeling in his stomach, that itch in his arm, that sense of foreboding as they were told about how they might resist this dominating spell of the Nerevarine. Majulin was not worrying about it. He was focusing on that feeling of discomfort.
"Sir, we're passing through the Dome!" That's it! Majulin reasoned; he was feeling the Blight around them... the curse of his people. The magic of Dagoth Ur. A magic he had felt a few years ago, when the Blight had begun, before the Nerevarine began his ill fated quest.
The thuds and ruckus above made Majulin tense, and as the skeleton ran into the room through the hatch, Majulin reached for his silver longsword. The 'sleeping' Redguard was faster, however, dispatching the undead quickly. Majulin kept his hand on his sword, pausing in his step forward.
Fighting on a ship... you have to keep your balance in check. Control your sword even more and tighter than on land, because each swing can send you off balance. Footwork... keep myself spread and balanced. He reviewed sailing combat in his mind, having trained only a brief time in it. And rarely using it. While he was, the hesitant Dunmer and Argonian were discussing something over the dead sailor's body, before the Dunmer went up the hatch. Majulin, mentally ready for the battle, moved forward, and grabbed the corpse of the sailor.
With respect, he picked up the man and hauled him over to the nearby wall, getting his body out the way of the hatch ladder. "Head up, and I will follow after. I'll keep them from getting close range." He told her calmly, resting the sailor in a prone space and turning to the hatch.
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Post by Tom Bombadil on Jun 28, 2009 3:06:08 GMT
OOC: This isn't my first post, by the way. My last one was at the bottom of the first page. Just saying that because I tend to miss those posts often.
IC:
Babur's quill was motionless over his list for a moment as he processed what Ironmark said. Finally, with considerably more dismay on his face, he jotted down "Ironmark says wing it" as the answer for the last question on the page. And fate would have it so that last dismal note would conclude his list, for the increase in the environment's volume alarmed the orc. He had been in storms at sea before. None of them had ended well (most storms at sea don't, especially when they interrupt some important event; it was just one of those odd patterns of life).
Then the skeleton fell, in both senses of the word. Wordlessly, while the others either headed for the surface, cleared the way for others to do so, or stayed, Babur quickly darted ('darted' being used loosely in the context of an orc moving quickly) back to the cabins. Not in order to run away, though. He made towards his cabin as quickly as he could without losing his balance (a difficult task, at which he on one instance failed). Flinging open the door, he seized his scimitar, which he had merely covered with his sheets. It wasn't a pretty blade; there was little fear of it being stolen by some miscreant, who could probably find a finer weapon with much less effort.
By the time he returned, he found that either Ironmark's orders were not taken entirely seriously, or the two standing by the hatch decided it was better to defend below than attack above. In any case, it would be rude to force his way past the warrior and archer. As he advanced, his eyes fell on the fallen sailor briefly, telling him that there would be a good bit of a fight waiting for them above. "No sense dallying, sir and madame. Shall we have at them?" he said with a nod to the hatch, referring to the enemy in general.
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Post by Vicorva on Jun 28, 2009 8:43:47 GMT
OOC: Chaos, I'm saying there are other kind of undead up on board. Hope that's alright. IC:
Dark was so tense, her relief at Malujin's words barely made a difference. She advanced a few steps, only a step behind Artmer, the darkness of her eyes making it impossible to see where she was looking, though they followed every movement through the hatch.
"No sense in dallying, sir and madame," came a rough voice. Like Dark, he had clearly assimilated well into imperial culture, for when she glanced at him, she was surprised to see it was the orc. "Shall we have at them?" he said with a nod.
Dark steeled herself. "I'm only a journeyman," she explained through bared teeth, her nerves evident. "And I have no armour." Despite her nerves, her hands were steady, and she moved onwards, following in Malujin's wake.
It was chaos up on deck. Strange, fleshy mounds were flailing there arms with inhuman strength. Rotting zombies charged in groups of two or three. And a skeleton charged right for where she and Artmer were standing.
"Don't move," she warned, not wishing for him to get in her cross-sights. The skeleton ran nearer and nearer, brandishing an axe. She aimed carefully. It was nearly in arms' reach; it raised its weapon. She held her breath, and her heart nearly stopped beating.
Phtt! An arrow hit it straight in the skull, ricocheting off to bury itself in the wall. The skull flew from the skeleton's neck. The skeleton stood there for a moment, doing nothing, but then the magic sustaining it failed and it collapsed to the ground.
She turned to a knot of zombies heading for Terra's back. She aimed carefully, but with more haste this time, loosing five arrows, one which sailed out to sea, one which hit a shoulder, and three which hit their marks, downing a zombie each.
She hissed a curse of her homeland, before taking another arrow from her hip and knocking it to her bow. I need to be more careful! she thought. But really, the problem was that in battle, there wasn't time to be careful, and she did not yet have the expertise to shoot before thinking, or to aim so quickly at such difficult and imprecise moving targets.
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Post by webster52402 on Jun 28, 2009 9:28:49 GMT
Sure enough, as Artmer emerged onto the deck, everything was chaos around him. He was stunned by the ferocity of the battle, as crew and adventurer alike battled all across the deck's surface. The movement of the ship on the waves only seemed to further enhance the surreal nature of the carnage around them, causing the opponents to tip and sway in his gaze curiously. And, just as unsurprisingly, the first thing that happened was that a skeleton with an axe came screaming out of the fray, wielding it with an obvious intent to kill. With a startled yelp, Artmer began to leap forward, and probably die on the skeleton's axe trying to fend it off, when he heard the voice of the Argonian woman that he had heard earlier. She had apparently made good on her promise to come and help him, though the message that she told him wasn't exactly a good one for him to follow through with. Don't move? When this thing was bearing down on him? Nevertheless, he was practically frozen in place anyway, so he simply stood on tremulous legs, his dagger shivering in the air in front of him, as the creature got closer to them. With a curious, creaking sound like a frog at night (OOC: That's the only way I can think of to describe that skeleton sound... What an odd little noise they make. xD) it came to bear, raising its axe high. Squeezing his eyes shut, Artmer raised his dagger in a futile gesture to try and fend the coming blow off, just praying that he could deflect it. Instead, a gust of air rushed past his ear, shortly followed by a sharp, crackling sound. Jumping in place from the unexpected noise, and thinking for sure that a blow had been landed on him, he had just not felt it yet, he cracked open his eyes to see the skeleton standing before them, axe still raised, but headless. Blinking in surprise, he lowered his dagger as the thing wavered on unsteady legs, swaying almost drunkenly, before collapsing in on itself, its heavy axe landing with an audible thumping sound in the center of its now dislodged bones. With a sigh of relief, Artmer scooted forward to hopefully recover the axe that it had dropped instead, thinking that its weight would be a better weapon against the skeletons and zombies that milled about the deck. About as soon as he reached the pile of bones, though it wasn't that far, just a single step and a half, from the fray burst another skeleton, this time wielding a hand and a half sword. Artmer had been focused on the axe that he had intended to wield, so he didn't notice it until it was already in striking distance. Catching the flash of the blade out of the corner of his eye, he turned towards it with a cry of fear, raising his dagger again to defend. With the same curious croak that its comrade earlier had given, the skeleton swung in a powerful downstroke, its blade flashing evilly with bloodlust. Once again, Artmer raised his dagger high, and much to his surprise, was greeted with the sound of metal upon metal. Though his happiness soon faded as he felt the shock of the impact, jarring his arms... And he heard the sound of tearing steel. With a shriek, the heavier sword cleaved right into the edge of the dagger - for he had guarded with the edge of the blade, a big no no in blade combat, rather than the flat of the blade - and stuck firmly in the softer central metal, both swords locking themselves together. Staggering from the force of the blow, Artmer lucked out in that the skeleton, not having any real padding to absorb the shock of the blow, had had its grip weakened substantially by the impact, the hilt of the sword slipping from its hands as it scrabbled to hold onto it. Shocked, Artmer looked at the entwined blades, a slow realization that he had just disarmed the thing - albeit by a stroke of good fortune - dawning. He let out a giddy laugh as he realized that he was still alive, and that the thing didn't have a blade to att... *CRACK* Artmer grunted, dropping the combined sword and dagger to the ground as the skeleton took a swift step forward and simply punched the hapless Dunmer right in the face. The combined weapons awkwardly skittered across the surface of the deck, before sailing right off the edge, slipping beneath the railing that Artmer suddenly found himself against, a ringing settling into his head as he reeled from the blow he had received. For a thing that didn't have any muscles, it certainly hit like a ton of bricks... OOC: I'm going to enjoy Artmer's inexperience at this far too much.
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Post by FC4 on Jun 28, 2009 13:41:53 GMT
Majulin shimmied up the ladder after her, drawing his blade the moment he stepped up on deck. The Argonian already took out one skeleton, and was in the process of sending arrows at several others. Majulin took a few swayed steps away from the hatch to make room for the orc, settled his hand on his hilt, grabbed the pommel and end of his sword handle with his other hand, and spread his feet.
Instantly he felt more at balance with the ship in his spread out stance. However, it would decrease his overall movement abilities. Keep both hands on the sword to keep control. Try to move with the ship, keeping spread and center of gravity low. Majulin recited in his head.
*CRACK*
The weak dunmer skidded past Majulin into the railing as a skeletal warrior slugged him, and Majulin used this opportunity to test out his lessons for the first time in years since he learned. Stepping between the skeleton and the fallen comrade, Majulin held his sword before him.
The skeleton trod forward with a creak like old wood, stooping to pick up the axe Artmer had been trying to retrieve. Effortlessly the undead freed it from the wood of the deck, and with both hands drew back the axe, stumbling forward to take out the warrior before him.
Wordlessly Majulin shifted his blade to the left, the flat of the silver longsword catching the shaft of the axe and deflecting it. Not skipping a beat he twisted both hands to his left a few degrees, exposing the edge of the blade to the skeleton, and extended his right arm while flicking his wrist and stepping forward with one leg.
The resulting controlled strike bit into the neck vertebrae of the skeleton with the middle of his sword, where the blade was sturdier. The silver cut into the unholy creature and cracked the neck from the swift, controlled force of the strike. The head lolled, neck barely on, but Majulin twisted his hands to the right, sending the flat of the blade into the bottom of the skull. It was the finishing blow that knocked the head right off, and sent the skeleton crashing to the ground.
Feeling accomplished in his capacity to follow his old lessons, Majulin moved to stand between Artmer and the Argonian, giving him a view of both and allowing him to see if any attackers came. He was suddenly glad the Redoran Army was outfitted with silver longswords, forged with the killing of the unholy in mind. Any other type of blade, minus Ebony, would be unable to maintain a sturdy edge with such use. But I still need to keep the edge condition in mind.
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Post by Tom Bombadil on Jun 28, 2009 15:12:35 GMT
Babur climbed up after Dark-Feather and Majulin to the scene of the deck, where several engagements were already taking place. His scimitar was sheathed- he hadn't wanted to attempt to climb through a small space behind two others with a sharp object waving about. Despite this forethought, the decision proved to be unwise.
Upon reaching the deck, Babur observed the fighting of the others, and had time to see who was adept at what- one dunmer not trained for fighting, an archer of moderate skill, and the dunmer who had ascended before him, who proved to be more skilled than he had first thought upon seeing him.
Any further analysis was cut short. After the few seconds during which Babur watched the scene between the two dunmer and skeleton, just as Majulin parried an axe blow, the orc felt a bony hand close around his neck.
Instinctively his hands shot up to rip it from him, but even as he did so, his assailant began clawing at his face with its other hand. The skeleton was unarmed, but its enchantment did not teach it fear or hesitation. The thing ripped at any flesh it could find and tried to strangle Babur on the spot. The pilgrim seized the choking-hand with his own, jerking it from side to side. He felt the skin of his neck being torn by the process, but that was unavoidable. He could not reach his scimitar- even if he could draw it out, he was too close to try to slash at the abomination.
Nearly blinded from the skeleton's onslaught, Babur thrust his free arm out to the skeleton's clavicle and pulled as hard as he could, simultaneously shoving the skeleton away with a rough kick to the pelvis. The bone loosed, and the weakened arm lost its grip, its owner staggering back. Babur wasted not another moment. He put a hand on his sword's hilt and drew it out, throwing himself back on his enemy without hesitation. His first blow was aimed at the skeleton's good arm- and it landed, with a kind of *PAK* sound of two hard objects colliding.
The skeleton drew back from the impact, but charged forward a moment later. It has no nerves or muscles; there is only magic holding the bones together anymore. Remembering this might have helped a few moments ago, but there was not time to dwell on that. He sidestepped the charging bones, landing an ugly blow with the blunt of his sword on the back of its head, which cracked and loosed from the axis.
For a skeleton, this was a most effective tactic. Shatter the body, and the magic would falter. The more fleshy undead, though, did not suffer such a weakness. Babur found that his fight, which had left him with a sore neck and bleeding face wounds, had brought him to the deck's railing, as he saw his opponent's skull roll un-lifelessly over into the water. Turning about he found himself being backed into that same railing by two of the aforementioned fleshy undead. Babur slashed at them fruitlessly. They felt no pain from such attacks, and the orc resorted to kicking them back when they came too close.
His advantage, though, was that the undead were mindless. They did not acknowledge the fact that as he repelled them, Babur was separating them by a short distance. Once he could easily stand between the two and not be pressed against the railing, he turned to his right and put a slash just under the zombie's ribcage, exposing rotting flesh and bones. Repositioning himself, he charged into it, making it stumble backwards as Babur thrust his hand into the wound, lifting the creature up and over the edge of the ship. A stunned moment of "I can't believe that worked" overtook him for the moment before he remembered the second creature advancing on him, which he addressed with more blows, trying to see if he could cripple it.
A thought dawned on Babur. As his melee attacks were proving quite futile, he stepped back a few paces and drew a small red vial from his pocket- a weak potion intended to heal minor lacerations. Gripping it in his hand, he stepped forward to meet the advancing zombie, smashing the healing potion into its chest. The effect was quite agreeable. The undead person reeled back, both from impact and the hole being burned into its chest. The torso was soon too weak to support it- it crumpled to the ground. Invigorated, Babur steadied himself to meet anything else that would come to meet him.
OOC: Sorry, rushed.
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Post by Vrek on Jun 28, 2009 17:38:07 GMT
The air... Already so heavy this far from the volcano. Reese bit back the urge to cough, try to expel the tainted air from his body. But if he started coughing now, it'd be too long before he reached the top rung of the ladder. He had to get up there, lest someone die on the very first leg of the invasion.
With a small effort, he reached the top of the ladder, and pulled himself on deck with a grunt. Fortunately, everyone else that had come on deck kept the battles away from the hatch, and distracting any of the dead that would have come nearer. As he pushed himself up, he looked around, getting his bearing's on the battle. The Orc seemed to do alright by himself, as a zombie lay helpless crumpled near him. The Argonian girl and the two Dunmer seemed alright, having formed a sort of teamwork, if their proximity was any indication. Ironmark and the sleeping Redguard also seemed to be doing just fine. Even the sailors were fighting back of fleeing with minimal casualties.
Reese had never been one for direct combat, so instead of rushing in like everyone else, he scanned across the deck, till he found a skirmish he could contribute to. A sailor using a large wooden club to fight off a shortsword wielding skeleton. He flung his arm at the skeleton, with a small red blast flying from his fingertips. The fireball wouldn't burn very well, but it had a large blast that would happen on impact. On a human it would likely not do more then knock the person down, causing only superficial damage, but on a skeleton... As soon as the blast hit, pieces of the skeleton flew in every direction, with the torso and head flying into the distance, splashing into the sea some thirty feet away. A few seconds later, every bit of bone from the undead tumbled off the boat as well, seeking to reform with the still active skeleton. Though it was still alive, it would not see combat for a very long time.
The old Redguard looked around, spending no time enjoying his victory, instead looking around for another fight to contribute to.
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Post by Chaos 303030 on Jun 28, 2009 18:23:57 GMT
(OOC: Part of the reason why I wished you'd have gotten up to the deck before 4:00 AM (For me) last night, because I knew you'd all post while I slept. Its okay though, you did admirably, cept on the part that we're 'winning the battle.')
The air above the cabin was dusty and choking. Only by virtue of being out to see could one view any good distance away, as they were in an area where the blight was at its weakest, though it's presence was still quite strong, and quite effective. In the distance, off both sides of the deck you can see balls of brilliant, orange fire raining down upon fellow ships. Their screams echo across the eerily still water, cut off from the tides and any outside sources of wind by the unnatural dome around Vvardenfel. And though their screams are shrill, and haunting, what is more disturbing is the sight greeting you. Sailors and undead, both creatures of flesh and creatures of bone, battle across a rain slicked and, recently, blood slicked surface, the boat tilting from side to side. Skeletal champions, in rusted legionnaire armor stand at the back of the vessel, forming a circle around a particular spot, unmoving. They watch as their weaker, unarmored brethren slay and be slayed; every minute or so they part and another skeleton appears from inside the circle. Ships in the distance could be seen breaking apart from massive explosions. Some skeletons began hauling sailors back near, but not into the circle. And though some sailors fought well, the battle was not going well. There were simply too many reinforcements for the skeletons arriving, and bit by bit, the sailors were being slaughtered.
Cyrus and Ironmark were fighting admirably, as was a huge argonian up by the wheel. The argonian, amazing as he was, was destroying groups of ten skeletons in single combat. Cyrus and Ironmark were near each other, both covering the other's back. Bones and decapitated, dead flesh slid across the surface of the deck, blades and clubs flashing, and resounding cracks blaring every time a hit was scored. And as the last sailor, the last member of the actual crew and not just a passenger fell, the skeletons stopped. One of the undead legionnaires raised his hand and hissed something out, at which point the rest of the undead present simply stopped, backed up, and formed a line between the group and the circle. A bright, scalding red light came up from the back of the ship; the undead formed an impossible line through which no member of the group could see. They were backed up near the hatch, unable to advance and unable to flee. The undead, as one, in perfect unison, moved to the side and kneeled, forming a pathway. They looked like a macabre parody of a king's court, solemnly waiting for their lord to pass through.
The circle, directly at the end of the path, parted and kneeled as the red light receded. And standing there, in the unliving, non-breathing bones was Valenth Helul, Nerevarine, God Killer, and traitor. He strode casually down the row, whistling a jaunty tune as he did. He was swathed in thick black robes, a loose shawl that clung to his skeletal visage, all adorned with rich, blue gems, that glittered as though filled with souls. He reached the end of the row, and before any member could react, flicked his wrist at them. A soft green light flashed in-front of the passenger's eyes, and suddenly they found them unable to control their muscles; they were stuck in whatever pose they had been in moments before, now only able to speak and roll their eyes in their sockets. And if a skeleton could have smiled, Valenth would have been right now.
He looked around at them and let out an unnatural, haunting laugh. "So this is what Tamriel sends me? A bunch of rag-tag fools, hoping to secure my tools, my souls, and my heart? What can you possibly hope to accomplish here, in the face of a god?" He laughed again, his inky black sword dangling in it's hilt. "Still, I suppose that talent isn't all absent here. The only reason I spared this ship is because I knew for a fact that powerful souls are aboard, which I garnered from the fact that the leader of house Hlaalu's son is aboard this ship. This I learned through my brilliant interrogation of every high ranking member of Redoran. Some of the more...'honorable', or 'stubborn' should I say, refused to cooperate. So I took what I needed from them, and being the brilliant person I am, added their souls to my work force." He paced back and forth across the deck, laughing and having small sighs after each heavy laugh. His voice had an unearthly, grating quality to it, but for some reason, it was also soothing, and easy to trust. The kind of voice that made you want to sit, and obey. "Back to why I'm here, however. First, I'll take any last questions or remarks you may have before I destroy you. Second, you'll give me the lizard, and I'll make sure that your deaths are slightly less painful. Third, I'll kill you all. How's that sound for you all?" His posture betrayed what would have been a smile on a normal mer's face.
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