Fantasy Bounty Hunter Quest

>>551466
>You were a soldier of the Empire once, a captain and a deserter. You are well-versed in the arts of war and death is no stranger to you.

>>551466
>>You were an Askuzai, riders of the white Tickflies, eaters of men.

>You were a soldier of the Empire once, a captain and a deserter. You are well-versed in the arts of war and death is no stranger to you.

>>551466
>>You are a Symbiont. Your flesh is permanently bound to the mind-eel that hangs limp from the nape of your neck, providing you powers beyond the comprehension of ordinary men, but bleeding madness into the edges of your consciouness.

>You are a Zwerg, dwarves from below the tall mountains of the north, fearsome mercenaries of His Majesty and of the Empire.

Why do people always choose for the boring humans?

>>551540
for real. Lets get something different in here

>>551540
More relatable I guess.

Also, I'll be posting every 15-30 minutes hopefully that pace is ok in this board, not really familiar with it.

>>551466
>>You are a Symbiont. Your flesh is permanently bound to the mind-eel that hangs limp from the nape of your neck, providing you powers beyond the comprehension of ordinary men, but bleeding madness into the edges of your consciouness.

This look interesting.

>>551466
>Symbiont.

>>551554
You'd better let us know when you're closing the votes or people will get upset about the total changing

>>551580
Yep.

Voting closed. Writin'

You were born beneath the mountains, born by the heat of the eternal flames. The halls were vast and the wine was strong. Your people are a hardy people and a suspicious people. Disciplined from birth, trained for warcraft or metalcraft. Then shipped to the surface world to serve for coin and glory.

You've fought for the Empire, you've fought for His Majesty. You've hewn men twice large into pieces thrice small. Born of fire, tempered in battle and blood, you rose to the rank of captain. And then...they wanted to control you, ensure your total servitude. But the Zwerg are a proud people, and a stubborn people, they bend their knees to no one. They fight as they choose, for whom they choose.

So they used force.

They stuck upon you the terrible mind-eel, sought to control you with vicious parasites. But they were fools. That you could resist the mind-eel, that you could use its powers with losing your own mind, this they could not surmise. You slaughtered them like calves before the festival and walked into shadow.

There are those that seek your for your desertion. There are those that seek your for your powers. But you walk alone, and still, you answer to no man.

Fickle as fire, cool as steel between the waters, they call you...

>

>>551667

Manfred the Mad

>>551667
Aureum Draconem
(Golden Dragon)

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They call you Manfred the Mad. The Empire has dubbed you Aureum Draconem, the Golden Dragon, for your eyes. You quite like that one. Your hunt has led you to Wyeton, a small hamlet near the coast of the Black Sea. Officially it belongs to the Empire, but the governing lord lives too far away collect taxes and provide protection. The town therefore hires its own.

Your mark is hiding somewhere in these lands or in the surrounding countryside. 500 Florins is a sum that can provide strong drink for a few weeks. A worthy enough quest.

You pull your hood tighter over your squat head, leering at the grimy patrons of the tavern. The mind-eel stirs and slides slowly between your shoulder-blades like a living, oily ponytail. Pain crawls up from your spine to your eyes, you grit your teeth and allow it to pass. The mind-eel is ornery today. You taste the salt of your lips, your dry tongue feels across the dry fissures. Across the tables a small group whispers conspiratorially and a child screams for more honey-treats.

You adjust your belt and make your way to the counter.

The Tavernmaster notices your small form, but not your face.
"Better not be asking for no grog little young'n." He chuckles. Mistaken for a child. Not the first time it's happened, nor the last.

>You return the greeting with a steel-eyed gaze
>You Ignore the greeting, take a seat at the counter and order a drink
>You tap into the mind-eel's powers and sear his mind with a psychic wave of pain. Insult demands reprimand.

>>551867
>You return the greeting with a steel-eyed gaze

>>551867
>Return the greeting with a steel-eyed gaze.

>>551867
>sear his mind with a psychic blast and force him to pour us a drink

>>551867
>ignore and order

Wow you guys really thinnk the golden dragon would be bothered by this? He just wants his drink he doesnt have time to get upset.

Still there OP? I'm interested what our mission will be

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You pull back your hood slightly and return the greeting with a steel-eyed stare. The tavernmaster stammers an apology, but you pay him no mind and take a seat. The other patrons of the tavern have now taken an interest. A Zwerg in their backwoods town? Mystery or mischief must be afoot. And they are right.

Your mark, Riddel Kantelef, is not a nice man, even by criminal scum standards. Five women murdered. Two of them raped and strangled to death by his bare hands. You've seen the bodies yourself. Well, not that it matters-- not to you or the governing lord. The lords want an easy way to keep their peasants pleasantly sedated. You just want your 500 florins.
"Well, sir. What can I getcha?" You skim the fissures of your lips again with your tongue. Alas, you spent your last florin getting here.
"Just information." You take out the bounty notice and show the tavernmaster the pencil sketch of Riddel.
"You've seen this man?" The tavernmaster squints at the sketch. "His name is Riddel, Riddel Kantelef. But he could be going by a different name." The tavern has grown silent, all ears at attention to your conversation.
"Can't say that I've heard anyone by that name. He a criminal or something?"
"Something. Are you sure? Look closely now."
"Well...he does look like that new farmhand over at the Leford plantation. Came by to town a couple times to buy tools. Came in here too, didn't much like the look of him. It could be him. Not as much hair now, but yeah the eyes are about the same. Whatcha say he do?"
"I didn't." You roll up the bounty notice. "Where is this Leford plantation?"
"Oh not too far, bout a mile up the road and another mile away from the coast." You get up to leave. "Ah-but the Leford's don't let anyone in their estate. The guards shoot on sight." The mind-eel twitches. Another spasm of pain crawls up to your eyes. This time you smile.
"I'll be fine."

You exit the tavern.

>You head directly for the estate, the sun is still high you can be there before nightfall, a frontal approach is best
>You head for the hills and make camp, better to wait till nightfall, don't wanna spook the mark
>Write-in

> Return the greeting with a steel-eyed gaze

Ask if he has any [i]real[/i] alcohol.

>>552079

> Directly to the estate

We meet with the owner, tell him our business. If he runs we take him dead instead of alive. Simple.

>>552079
>>You head for the hills and make camp, better to wait till nightfall, don't wanna spook the mark

Is he wanted for alive or dead?

>>552119
Either. Alive will get you a little extra coin (the townsman like to see people quartered). Dead will get a little less hassle.

>>552079
>>>You head directly for the estate, the sun is still high you can be there before nightfall, a frontal approach is best
But can we approach the estate through the forest or whatever is there?

I think getting in without being spotted will give us the best chance

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Hesitation is only time wasted. The sun is still high and these hills will be pitch black by sunset, besides, a frontal approach is best.

The dirt path is muddy from last night's rain. Semi-liquid pools of muck have cropped up like blackheads on the road. A cool sea-breeze comes in the from the west. A mile into the road, the path forks. Forward, the road extends into flat land. To the east, the road narrows into a path cutting through brambles and forest. You turn toward the eastern path. A wooden signpost with a picture of an outstretched hand and the words "STOP!" in large letters tries to ward away any would-be visitors.

Someone cries out in the distance.
"Help! Help! Thief! Thief! Get that thief!" You turn toward the direction of the noise. A scrawny young lad, just old enough to have chin-hairs, is running full sprint across the main road with a sack of flour under his arm. In the distance, a fat man waddles to catch up with him, though the effort is futile. An ox-cart lies parked by the road behind him. The fat man takes out a crossbow and starts loading a bolt into the chamber.

>You help the fat man; Fat men are merchants and merchants have florins, these are immutable facts
>You help the thief, you never liked merchants. Money hungry milk-drinkers hiding behind gold. Disgusting.
>You go on your way. This is none of your business.

>>552276
If the thief will be running past within our arm's reach, stretch it out to stop him. Otherwise we're too badass to care.

>>552311

Backing

>>552276

> LARIATO!

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You sigh and step back into the main road. The boy sees you emerge and panics, trying to cut across the road toward the coast--but too quick, he slips on the mud and careens forward. You grab his chest before he falls, and grab the sack of flour from his hand. He's shivering in fear. Or maybe cold, his clothes are in tatters.
"Hah. Hah. Good job there Zwerg. Hah. Hah. I'll take it from here." He walks up to you and you throw the sack of flour to him. He hands you a couple of florins, then grabs the boy's arm and twists it viciously behind his back, forcing the boy to his bare knees in the mud. "That'll teach you to steal from me boy. Why don't we take a little visit to the sheriff. See what the penalty is for theft, hmm?"
"Please sir. I just need some bread for my sister. I'll pay you back. Please, she's sick and she needs food."
"Ha! A likely story. You tell that sob story every time you get caught? Hmm? Not this time. Dirty thief!" The merchant kicks the boy in side of his stomach. "What are you still doing here Zwerg? You've done your part. I've paid you. Go off now. Go on." The merchant drags the boy up by his hair.

You look at the florins in your hand. Then you quietly pocket them and move into the woods. Florins are florins.

As the tavernmaster promised, the road continues for another mile before opening into a vast stretch of land. Spiceweed covers the fertile earth like hair on a head. Little green men work the fields mechanically. Elf slaves with little mind-eels hanging from the back of their necks. Symbionts like yourself, but completely enslaved. Your own mind-eel stirs, you ignore the pain and look around.

There are 4 watchtowers, one at each corner of the plantation. All of them are manned by guards with crossbows. Three more guards patrol the land on horseback, keeping watch over the elves. The road leads directly into the middle of the plantation where a modest 3-story estate stands like a castle among the fields.

>You hail one of the guards
>You calmly walk toward the estate
>You approach stealthily, hiding behind tall grass and crawling between boulders and trees
>Write-in

>>552554
> hail one of the guards

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You step out of the forest toward one of the guard towers. "Hail! Is this the Leford Plantation?" Immediately all is commotion. You hear the click of a dozen crossbow bolts snap into place.
"You're not supposed to be here Zwerg. We have orders to shoot on site." Calls out a guard.
"I have some business in the Leford Plantation, is this the Leford Plantation?"
"Didn't you hear me Zwerg? Get out of here or we'll shoot!"
"I heard you just fine. But perhaps you didn't hear me." You raise your hand, allowing power to dribble out of the base of your neck through your spine into your chest, through your heart, into your arm, then out your arm. An invisible force pulls the guard out of his tower, like a loose tooth. He screams as he plummets toward the earth. You arrest his fall just inches before impact. He's still screaming, expecting the fatal fall. When it does not come, he opens his eyes and looks around. The other guards bring their crossbows to bear on you in panic.
"W-what are you? Let him go! Let him go or we shoot!" Intense pleasure washes over you in waves. You have to remember who you are. Manfred. Golden Dragon. You release the man and he falls harmlessly to the floor. Pain replaces pleasure. You grit your teeth.
"Now then. I'll ask one more time. Is. This. The Leford Plantation?"
"Y-yes. Yes."
"Good. I'm looking for someone. I've word he's hiding here. A farmhand. His name is Riddel Kantelef, though he may be going by a different name."
"Riddel. No. There's no one here by that name." You take out the bounty notice and step forward, keeping your eye on the crossbows.
"He'll have shaved his hair I believe. Is there anyone that looks like this?" The guard looks over the notice, his eyes go wide. "So there is someone."
"Yeah...but, he said his name was Johnny..." You snatch the bounty back from him and stuff it in your pocket.
"Yes. So where I can find him? Is he still here?"
"Y-yeah...murder and rape...my god. We had no idea."

>"I'll wait here. Bring him to me. Tell him his Uncle is here to see him about the inheritance."
>"You'd better take me to him."
>"Tell me where he is. I'll sort this out and be out of your hair in a few minutes."
>Write in

Ok, looks like thats it for tonight. I'll be back tomorrow at 10 AM EST sharp to continue

>>553043
Okay, see you next time

>>552834
>>"You'd better take me to him."

Ok, gents, let get started. I'll wait 15 minutes for a few more votes then start writing.

>>552834
>>"You'd better take me to him."
Just to keep things simple

"You had better take me to him." You step out of the forest.
"Wait a minute. Wait! I can't-I can't just let you in. You're trespassing, I have to confer with Mrs. Leford, make sure your story checks out and then--"
"Listen to me. This man, this Riddel. He is a vicious killer. He feels no remorse. He feels no mercy. He has killed and he will kill again. Now either you take me to him, or...whatever happens next is on your head." You lift your hand menacingly.

But it's an empty threat, you've used as much power as you can for the day, anymore and you risk losing yourself to the mind-eel. Last time that happened...you've drunk a lot strong drink since then. Still, the earlier demonstration is still fresh in the guard's head, his face whitens and he starts to sweat.
"A-alright. Just stay calm. Follow me." He waves to the guards in the towers and they reluctantly lower their crossbows. The sun is high and moving fast toward the horizon. You pull down on your hood to keep the light from your eyes. The guard leads you across a road that cuts through the middle of the spice fields, away from the main estate. The guards on horseback stop their patrols to stare, you pay them no mind, focusing instead on the blank-eyed elves tending to the fields.

Their mind-eels hang openly from the nape of their neck, forcing them into a pleasurable servitude they can never escape. Their naked green skin stands out among the fiery orange of the spiceweed stalks. The rich smell of earth and water and the acrid aroma of spiceweed fills the air.
"So you're a bounty hunter h-huh?" The guard attempts to make conversation to humanize you. Typical surface behavior.

>"No. I just like walking around with bounty notices in my pockets and asking about dangerous men."
>"Yes."
>"When the money is good, yes."
>You ignore the guard and continue in silence
>Write-in

>>555753
> "Florins are Florins I suppose"

You don't answer him at first, still focused on the elves. Then you turn your head away. "Florins are Florins, I suppose." The guard nods furiously, perhaps more from relief than agreement.
"How long you've been in the business?"
"Three years."
"You must've seen a lot in your travels. Seen all that...out in the world." The guard looks out into the horizon. "I've wanted to get out this place myself. Boring work, you know? Tedious work. But, it pays well so I keep at it. I've been saving up, though, got almost 300 Florins saved up. Just a few more and I can start living out on the road. Nothing but fresh wind and the dirt path!" He chuckles. When he sees he you don't care to respond he simply continues. "I learned my letters you know? I can survive out there. I'm pretty good with this too." He lifts up his crossbow, clearly struggling to keep it aloft. "I just don't wanna spend the rest of life here in his place, looking over the horizon, wondering what's beyond it. Well, I guess you know that feeling. But still a Zwerg bounty hunter. I thought you folk were mostly soldiers or craftsman?"

Your thoughts turn to the din and clash of battle. Mail and blade on blade and hot choking dust. Multitudinous screams, a rich tapestry of sounds and smells. Nothing quite like war on this fair earth, nothing at once so terrible and so totally satisfying. Your heart quickens just to think of it, your blood cools in memory of the bloodshed. How clear it is in your mind's eye! The purple of the tall shields, and the black riders with faces painted in purple, the great masts held aloft and flowing flags on the wind, that eerie, godless silent moment before the cry to charge. You start to tremble. Your hand closes around the hilt of your short sword.

"Here it is. I think I hear Johnny-er-Riddel, hammering away in there." You shake away the visions. Here. Now. This moment. Before you is a small barn, you can hear someone groaning and hammering something inside. You bring your forefinger, straight, to your lips. The guard understands immediately. You point to yourself and toward the front of the barn. You point to the guard and gesture toward the back of the barn. The guard understands and slinks off to the side to take his position.

>"Riddel. Riddel Kantelef! Come out in the name of Lord Huston, servant to the Empire!"
>You sneak inside the barn, hoping to catch Riddel by surprise
>You borrow the mind-eel's powers (roll 1d20) and blow the barn doors from their hinges
>Write-in

>>555820
Let's sneak in, no point in bashing the barn doors and costing us florins we don't have at the moment.

>>555820
>>You sneak inside the barn, hoping to catch Riddel by surprise

The cleaner this goes the better. You crouch low to the ground (which is low indeed) and move forward toward the barn. The clanking of the hammer within grows louder as you approach. The stale smell of dung wafts out under the barn doors. You time your entry with the sound of the hammer, so that you remain hidden.

The inside of the barn is dark, lit only by a single lamp hanging from a wall. Near the wall a man wearing humble garments is hammering straight a bent rake. His back is toward you and he hasn't noticed you yet. Slowly, hiding behind the tall bales of you approach closer to the man, trying to get a look at his face to confirm his identity. The lamplight throws shadow on his face so that you cannot tell his features. You reach for your sword. You bend your knees ready to spring out. You reach forward for the hem of the man's trousers. Then the backdoor bursts open. The guard stands there with his crossbow pointed at the man's chest.

Whatever doubt you had of this farmhand's identity is quelled in an instant. He leaps forward with the power of a tickfly, slamming into the guard and knocking the crossbow out of his hands. The delicate trigger mechanism fires from the impact and the bolt buries itself into the guard's left leg. The guard screams out then is promptly silenced by a blow to the head from Riddel. Riddel takes the crossbow and grabs a few bolts from the guard's quiver. He looks behind him, sees you, and then starts sprinting into the fields.

You release your grip on your blade and move forward to inspect the guard. The bolt is lodged in a 30 degree angle into his left thigh. Riddel did him a favor knocking him out, the bolt has struck a major artery in the leg and the guard will bleed out in a few minutes if the wound is not closed. You look out across the fields, Riddel is already half way to the surrounding woods.

>You dress the guard's wound
>You leave the guard and give chase to Riddel
>Write-in

>>555938
>>You dress the guard's wound
This is a soldiers responsibility

>>555997
Hmm, these low turnouts are disconcerting. I think I'll wait until later today to continue, hopefully more people join (or the people that joined earlier come back). We will continue at 6:00 PM EST sharp.

>>556058
I think that's just what this board is like unfortunately. Your quest is pretty good for a first time thing, so take heart from that.

>>555938
>>You dress the guard's wound
>>556058
Low turnouts are a goddamned theme on this board. Especially for neat, original quests like yours.

>>556067
What he said, plus it's early morning on a sunday.

Alright gents I'm back and slightly earlier than I promised.

As before we'll wait the customary 15 minutes before starting.

>>555938
>You dress the guard's wound

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The bleeding is fatal if left untreated. In the numerous wars you've served in, you've played many roles, worn many hats. The worst is always the role of medic. Always. A sword in your hand or a bow or an axe, or a pony between your legs and a target in the far distance, hatred you could handle, the swift blows, bear, but seeing a boy, not even old enough to sprout chin-hairs, a manling at most, with his hands cut off, his eye popped in, or his entrails spilled over on his hands like taffy, that was another thing entirely.

With time, you do medic work long enough and things change. You stop caring so much, you start measuring people by probability and statistics. You stop seeing rank and nobility, even sides. You start chewing spiceweed or drinking saltrum and singing lullabies in the dark, long before people are asleep. You stop sleeping.

Well, it never came that far for you. But it came close. And you've seen it happen to others. Medics are really the closest to the vital nerve of war, they feel it's every impulse like a tuned organ. Every vibration. You take out your pocket-knife and cut around the wound, exposing the bare flesh. Part of the trouser fiber has wound into the wound like a fishing line.

>Roll 1d100+25 (+10 War Vet, +7 Combat Medic Exp, +5 Seen this wound before, +3 Patient sedated (kind of))
>TN: 30 (+10 No specialized tools, +10 Hit a major artery, +6 Complication (cloth in wound), +4 Been a while)

Rolled 44 + 25 (1d100 + 25)

>>558243

First things first, you break off the ends of the bolt. The head of the bolt is lodged deep in the leg, hopefully it hasn't shattered or detached from the body. Then you start cutting around the flesh of the leg and slowly removing the bits of wood still stuck inside the wound. Thankfully the head is still intact and still attached to the shaft. It comes out rather easily. The cloth doesn't pose much trouble either, it's wound tightly around the base of the shaft so it comes out with the bolt.

The next part is the hardest, the bleeding is torrential. You tear off the strip of cloth from the trousers and tightly bind the wound. You also take out some snap-powder and rub it through the cloth, sealing the wound from the inside. It'll be months before he goes back to normal, but the bleeding has stopped. You check his pulse, a little fast, but well within acceptable bounds. You make a makeshift splint from one of the bolts in his quiver and set the leg straight.

Meanwhile, looking out into the fields, you cannot see Riddel among them. More guards have arrived to tend to the injured guard. They take him away on horseback. Three guards keep watch on you with their crossbows.

"No sudden moves Zwerg." Your mark lost. Your cover blown. Stinking of blood and dung. And now being patronized by some half-wit imbecile with a weapon he can barely fire. You're about return fire with a few choice words when a woman, dressed in red satin from toe to tip but for her hands (which have pure white gloves) rides in on a horse.

"Please put the weapons away. Such barbarism is unseemly." Says the woman. The guards stand at attention immediately. "My apologizes Zwerg. My men are in need of discipline and training. Help is hard to find in these backwoods, a difficulty I am sure you can appreciate." She elegantly dismounts her horse and steps toward you. "I am Madam Leford, owner of this plantation." She offers one of her gloved hands to your lips.

>Accept the courtesy
>Say nothing, just stare at her
>Write-in

Man today is really not my day is it? Last post for today since it looks like this is ghost thread. I'll try again next weekend.

>>558589
>Accept the courtesy


>Breddy Güd Quest
>No fekkin players
>SAO quest has a bunch of players
Woe is me, for such are the injustices of our most cruel existence

>>558589
>Accept the courtesy

>>558589
>Accept the courtesy

Sorry to see the rough start, hopefully we can continue the quest for Florins