Age of Saighir - #1

> Religion. You sought to advance through seminary, however were caught in scandal when one of the Bishops fornicated with a child and you were nearby.


>a trap

>half elf

>deprived

Deprived – the stars of deprivation, known to oversee even the most determined of those whom live within the realm. Your name was Ciaran, a half-elven prisoner of three years of whom failed seminary and intruding upon the church – and you also happen to be a male whom is oriented to appearing feminine.

Deprivation has lead to you baring no equipment – even your clothes are all but too torn from the constant work pressed upon you by the guards of this prison. Your strength has diminished, feeble at best – though you have learned that you can still hold your own in this forsaken prison.

Your ears, pointed though mostly human, tip ever-the-slightest downwards as you hear the cell door open, rising from where you stand on the floor at the rousing cry of, “Up to your feet, prisoner!”

Shifting to your feet, you remain still – covering yourself decently where rags disobey.

“You’ve been selected. Unbefitting of one of you damned crossbreeds, but if the Council beckons, I’m not getting in the way of it.” The guard utters – their tone gravely, perhaps a few teeth missing. You’re uncertain and unwilling to test this by looking up at them as they undo the shackles around your legs.

After they rattle to the floor, you’re pushed forwards roughly, one hand clad in leather upon your right shoulder.

“March, prisoner. Move your damned feet before I knock them out from under you.”

> “Where are we going?”
> Remain quiet. You’ll learn when you get there.

>>685514
>"Where are we going?"

“Where the hell do you think, bitch?” he scoffs, striking your ankle with a leather clad boot. His hand releases your shoulder as it collides, and you stagger forwards, just narrowly catching yourself. As you do so, you turn to face him properly at which his hand clutches the handle of his blade, free hand resting upon the scabbard.

“You’re going to the arena. Now keep moving your damned ass before I put you down here and now.”

As he draws the blade slightly from the sheath, you swallow your pride and turn around, allowing him to take you by the shoulder again and push you along.

It’s ten minutes before you stop, as another guard steps forth. You recognize this man for the amount of times he’s held you under the whip – the Warden, you’ve come to know him. You recall your memory for a moment, though it falls quiet as the guard whom transported you stands in front of the warden.

“Right, then. She’s not harmed, Edward?” the Warden inquires.

“No, mister Eitrigg, under no circumstance.” the guard responds.

You remain quiet.

“Very well, then. Dismissed, Edward, thank you,” the Warden nods his head, turning his gaze to you. “I truthfully cannot say how proud of you that I am,” Eitrigg says, resting his hand on your shoulder.

You flinch, just barely – you’ve come to be jumpy, residing in a cell for three years with consistent beatings.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, in the best attempt to be reassuring.

“Things have gone wrong with you, and if this carries on much longer, they may suspect me to be a sympathizer. I’ll offer you my consolation – it’s been tradition for the compound Warden to bestow their blade to those fighting for the chance to join the Legion, and so I’ll follow up here.”

He reaches downwards, releasing his grasp on your shoulder to do so. In doing so, he unclasps his scabbard and blade from his belt, offering it to you. It’s a shortsword, but a finely crafted blade – you’ve seen it drawn twice before.

> Take the blade and thank Eitrigg.
> Take the blade – remain quiet.
> Deny the blade.

>>685683
> Take the blade and thank eitrigg

You reach up with your right hand, grasping the scabbard of the blade tentatively before clutching it proper.

“Good luck, then. Don’t keep Salem waiting,” he nods his head, before pointing down a nearby hallway. You could see the balcony forwards, and into the arena – a sandy coliseum only befitting two people in combat. You work the sash of the scabbard around your waist, allowing it to hang lower on one side to cover your partial indecency.

As you step into the hallway, you find that it is a stairwell instead – and the door behind you closes. Down at the bottom is a gate, to your left.

As you near the final step, the gate opens.

[ BOSS FIGHT: Guard Prospect Salem ]
> 12/12 HP :: 0/0 BP :: 10 DEF
> PLAYER TURN

>>685743
> kite him around the arena until we find an opportunity to strike, then do so quickly

Rolled 8 (1d20)

>>685781
>>685743
forgot roll

You step into the arena, and the gate shuts behind you. Clutching Eitrigg’s shortsword, you draw it from the scabbard, allowing the weight to cover your indecency as you bare the blade in front of yourself. To even the most basic of eyes, most prisoners being sent to watch one fight for their freedom, you are untrained.

The man you’re facing is a Guard – one of the newer recruits, at that. He’s clad in the usual uniform of a guard, a white gambison and black trousers and tanned leather boots of a fine brown. Unlike Edward, the guard whom escorted you, he does not wear gauntlets of leather – instead gauntlets of plate.

Upon his chest, he wears a breastplate, backing it with a fine mail shirt. His right arm bares a pauldron and armguard, but nothing more from there – the left bares an armguard and no pauldron.

And in his hands, is a flanged mace – not like a flail, no, but a true mace, one toted by the Paladins of the Church whom flank their Bishops in battle.

As you remain light on your feet, dancing around your target, he comes to be easily confused in your luck, and you thrust your blade into his exposed guard.

> Rolled 8: 0.5x modifier – 4 DMG. 10 DEF resulted in 3 DMG.

Your blade barely scathes him, thrusting form unopposed as you manage to run it through a few links of chainmail. You take to stumbling past him, over-extending your lithe form in your lunge.

He attempts to capitalize upon your stumble, however, and lurches around – swinging the mace to retaliate.

> Roll to beat the Golden Number of 12 to avoid damage.

Rolled 8 (1d20)

>>685952
well, shit

> Rolled 8: took 5 DMG - enemy modifier of 0.5x revoked 2.5 DMG.

The mace collides with your lower back. His hit is restrained, as if he’s holding back, although it definitely hurt. You don’t feel as if it damaged any bone or cartilage, but the muscles in your back go tense as you hit the ground on your stomach. The shortsword ends up a small bit away from you.

Clutching the sword’s handle, you force yourself to roll to the side, avoiding another swing from his mace as it comes down. He doesn’t know how to fight, it seems – a good thing for yourself.

“Fight on, Ciaran!” Warden Eitrigg hollers from the balcony as you stagger to your feet.

Salem leaves you no quarter, however, turning his attention back unto you.

[ PLAYER TURN ]

Rolled 17 (1d20)

>>686007
>using 5 BP for a Randy Orton RKO on this bitch

You break off into a sprint before he can even get his bearings. Your bare feet strike the rock of the wall to the right of you, clutching the short sword ever so tight. As soon as your feet hit the wall, you bounce off – elated and prepared, swinging your left arm forth and around Salem’s neck. As soon as he sees you coming – he lets out a scream.

For one moment, ferocity roars through your bloods – and with a howling cry of vigor, you plunge the shortsword into the nape of the guard’s exposed neck, hauling him down with your weight. You draw the blade from the nape of his neck, huffing on your back.

Salem has gone still, and crimson stains the rags nearest your waist, and your thighs. You hear a handful of guards slamming on the gate that you suppose Salem entered from, though you hear Eitrigg shout.

“Stand down! Stand down!” His words echo throughout the small arena, stunting the constant battering until it stops completely.

[ BOSS FIGHT: Guard Prospect Salem ]
> 0/12 HP :: 0/0 BP :: 10 DEF
> Fight over.

It’s a moment before Eitrigg parts the group of guards slamming against the gate. They form rank at his sides, however, and trail him into the coliseum as you move to stand.

“Shoulders,” he utters to the odd five or six guards whom stand upon the gate, motioning for them to cover the gate.

You push yourself up, taking care to avoid revealing your lack of rags to cover yourself with.

“Uncanny way to fight. Ferocity and vigor, all in one – I can’t say that I’m certain you knew what you were doing, though Salem knew that he offered his life to test you,” Eitrigg speaks, whereas the guards in the middle part around him to recover the body.

“You’ll be joining the Penal Legion, crossbreed. From there, the Council will give you a chance to redeem yourself.” The remaining two guards step forwards as you sheath the sword, taking hold of you under your armpits by surprise.

- - - - -

Your gaze shifts around the small party clustered around the campfire. It’s barely broken dawn, and you were one of the first to wake an hour ago. Proper sleep on a bedroll was some of the first that you’d ever had the chance to come by.

It has been approximately one week since you slayed Salem and secured your position in the Penal Legion. You’re still fairly weak, and combined with your meager height of 5’8” and feminine form, most have come to call you “Little Ciaran”, as if it were taunting.

You had regaled your comrades, or at least this small scouting party – composed of a male orc, male dwarf, and female human – of how you came to be in the Penal Legion, and they seemed intrigued by the story, as few half elves succeeded in bidding their freedom.

“An’ y’found yer release from Irestead th’morn t’follow?”

You nod your head.

> “What about you, dwarf?”
> “What about you, orc?”
> “What about you, human?”

>>686096
>what about you, orc?

File: half elf - Ciaran.png (199KB, 329x656px) Image search: [Google]

199KB, 329x656px

“What about you, orc?” you ask, turning your attention to the green-skinned fellow. He’s relatively massive – at least twice the size of the dwarf in terms of width, and you’re uncertain of how tall he would be when standing. He wears a padded gambison without sleeves, and a pair of darkly coloured, patchwork trousers, and leather boots.

Standing, facing him, and against his arm, you’re certain that his arm would be at least as half as big as you are in terms of muscle – a true Orc, nonetheless, if the tusk-like protrusions of his bottom canines were anything to say about that.

“Okgus prisoner. Held many days. Given Okgus axe, told to fight. Okgus no fight. Send Okgus here, tell Okgus use ears.”

The orc’s explanation is rough around the edges, yet quaint. You nod politely, and shift your attention to the dwarf, ginger-bearded and even yet half your height. Okgus totes no weapon.

“Name’s Gillebride. I’m in ‘ere ‘cause o’ the bloody tall bastards thinkin’ they’re real quaint – now ain’t nobody o’ my family thrown a hammer at a fancy dinner party – but somebody o’ my family threw a hammer durin’ a dinner party.” He bares a breastplate instead of a gambison, on top of a warhammer resting at his side.

Quaint.

Your gaze shifts to the girl – she’s been ever so quiet, though you haven’t understood a lick of why. A pretty young woman, with ginger hair and green eyes, wearing a padded white gambison and arrow quiver.

“Sylvie very quiet. Bad people hurt – hurt no more,” Okgus butts in, tracing your gaze.

You yourself bare a padded gambison and breastplate, if not only to protect yourself. In a field of looking to do some damage, you’re outdone by most – baring a wooden buckler and Eitrigg’s shortsword, wearing a pair of black trousers and guarding your feet from the elements with leather boots, with braided brown hair and hazel eyes.

Like all of your comrades, you bare the mark of Elegarde – the head of a wolf with the horns of a bull – upon your neck, marked into your flesh by a hot iron.

> “What do you mean by that, Okgus?”
> “Right, then. Have we seen anything of the Three Kingdoms?”
> “Okay, then. We should move on.”

>>686226
> “Right, then. Have we seen anything of the Three Kingdoms?”

“Right then. Have we seen anything of the Three Kingdoms?” you turn your gaze amongst the three. Contrary to even your own belief, Sylvie – or at least the girl you suppose to be Sylvie under Okgus’ statement – is the first one to speak. Her tone is soft, and it’s difficult to hear, though despite her delicate tone.

“There was a patrol going westbound. We could catch them by surprise from the rear.”

When she tips her head up, you find – in your delight – that she is one of the Tanari, judging from her tanned skin and pointed ears. You turn your attention upwards, glancing out to the west; at least by your suspicion.

“How many did y’see?” Gillebride inquires, to which he receives an answer in the form of held up fingers. She favours the quiet, it seems.

“Four. Let’s get our keisters goin’, no sense in dawdlin’.” Gillebride pushes himself up, nearly stumbling over his beard into the flames. Okgus clutches his shoulder to prevent this, and nudges him away as he himself stands up.

Sylvie stands – and you’re the last to do so.

“Take lead, little Ciaran. Okgus follow.”

“Might as well folla’ the big guy,” Gillebride sighs. “Even if that means followin’ the half-knife ear.”

Upon stifling your fire and bringing your party westbound, you manage to catch up with the reported patrol. Notioning around the group, you get Okgus up front and Gillebride at his side, with yourself and Sylvie near the rear; effectively taking command to prepare for a fight.

Issuing the order to go, it shifts into a fight ahead as Okgus runs in, shouting in Orcish – surprising the small band of Forest Elf rangers. You manage to close distance particularly well.

[ Ciaran’s Turn ]

> Write-in. 5/5 HP :: 5/5 BP :: 7 DEF. Roll 1d20 when attacking, GN 7.

>>686318
>engage one of the elves in nonlethal combat, trying to pommel smash or shield bash them

Rolled 20 (1d20)

>>686318
>>686333

You break into a sprint, heading for the nearest Forest Elf. They’re all clad in leather – most of it covers their body, though there are open gaps. Your gaze turns upon them as you descend upon them like a rabid animal – swinging your shield upwards and, with the loud noise of crushing bone, striking them in the nose with the middle of your shield. This act proceeds into a piledriver that utilizes your weight to your advantage.

Upon this slam, the Forest Elf that you had engaged decides to take a nap right then and there, blood remaining on your buckler as you reach down and draw your shortsword as one of the Forest Elves descends upon you, cutlass at the ready.

> Gillebride: 1d22 + 3 = 16+3 (19)
> Sylvie: 1d22 + 3 = 20+3 (23) – CRIT
> Okgus: 1d20 = 18*0.5 (9)

As you gaze back, you come to learn that Gillebride is a fierce little man, going as far as to brutalize his opponent by headbutting them in the groin and then swinging the hammer into their jaw once they fall.

Sylvie has embedded a small volley’s worth of arrows into the Forest Elf before they even descended upon you – and Okgus has one pinned down in what appears to be the gentlest way possible.

“Okgus no like tree elf man.” He confides in the Forest Elf, causing them to squirm against the orc’s grip. The green-skinned goliath taunts him with laughter.

> Interrogate the Forest Elf that Okgus has pinned down.
> Execute the Forest Elf that Okgus has pinned down.

>>686360
>Interrogate the Forest Elf that Okgus has pinned down.

You go ahead and drop the buckler on the floor as Gillebride turns to pilfering the Elves for their bounties. The stout little man goes as far as to take one of their daggers and start cutting off fingers for trophies.

Sylvie turns her attention away, longbow at the ready. The wood is willow – the rope tied tight and the Tanari’s aim true. You were wrong about her being a human, definitely.

You clutch your shortsword, glancing down at the blade – mentally estimating the length as you kneel down before the Forest Elf pinned by Okgus. You can feel the orc’s giddy breath on your face as he turns his head, and your gaze falls upon the Forest Elf.

You gently trace lines with the tip of the shortsword, trying your damnedest to not hurt him.

“Tell me what you know, treewalker,” you speak your words calmly. "Else my friend will teach you how much he likes you." You're quick to make a threat, attempting to get the point across a lot quicker.

> Roll 1d20 to gauge interrogation attempt.

Rolled 13 (1d20)

>>686386
>politely ask him where the bomb is

“You’re going to tell me what I’d like to know, treewalker. My offer still stands,” you idly notion with your left hand to Okgus, whom allows a little bit of drool to fall upon the Forest Elf’s hair. You allow the tip of the shortsword to rest against the ground, cupping your hand around the pommel of the sword.

“I – I’ll tell you, please, let me go,” he pleads.

“Tell me, first.” You quickly retaliate.

“There’s a forward camp, to – to the west, we were heading – one of our Magisters –“ Gillebride steps forth, baring his warhammer. He nudges you back, and proceeds to clock one out on the Forest Elf.

He justifies himself, or at least, attempts to. “We ain’t interrogators, lass. We’re bloody scouts. Time te’ git west and see this camp fer ourselves.”

You stand up, grasping the shortsword a bit tighter as you slip it into its sheath. You kneel down, grasping your wooden buckler – glancing over the Forest Elves one more time to see if anything of use resides on their corpses. Nothing but blades and loose arrows, of which Sylvie has taken to looting.

“Right,” you scoff. “Right.”

“Fight not. Okgus think bad.”

> “We’re returning to the handler, then, with what we know. Stop by the campsite and pack up and get a move on.”
> “Then we’re pushing west, dwarf.”

>>686421
>back to the camp, paying close attention to this dwarf's mannerisms

>>686441
go for it

“We’re going back to the handler, Gillebride. They need to know if they have a Magister in the area.” You comment, securing the sash around your waist as you step over one of the Forest Elves. You take the head of the party, as Okgus falls in behind you. Sylvei takes to the far rear.

“Yer goin’ back tae th’ handler, but hell if I ain’t goin’ ta’ put these elves through th’ringer,” he scoffs – withdrawing a flask as he waddles along in tune with the rest of the groups’ steps as you draw eastbound.

“We all put through ring thing,” Okgus shuts Gillebride’s argument down early. “We all.”

“He’s correct – we’re all going to put them through the ringer by the time we’re done here. It’s the only reason we’re out, we may as well ensure that it is done.”

> Information gained: Gillebride is a heavy drinker. Perhaps you can spike his alcohol?

“We will be joining for a full force assault, will we not?” Sylvie cuts in.

“Knowin’ th’handlers, probably, lass. Probably.” Gillebride answers.

It takes you roughly forty five minutes to gather your things from the campsite and move on to the main camp of Elegarde in this region, in a place known as Fenrir’s Pass. It’s a ridged-in area, although with the way the camp is set up, the men of the Cohort’s Quarter hold the high ground.

Your group disperses behind you as you step into the encampment. A few moments of searching around leads you to find one of the officers of the camp – the Handlers, so the Penal Legion call them – a Sergeant-at-Arms of whom goes by the name Eric. Eric is a gray-haired man with a beard down to his neck, baring what was, in comparison to Salem's gear, fullplate. A Knight sent to look over prisoners.

“Sir - we’ve located one of their encampments, westbound from where you had my party monitoring foot traffic. They have a Magister, however – it may not be particularly safe to mount an assault at this time,” you inform him – subtly chastising his intended decision; as the Penal Legion will be at the helm of the advance into the camp.

“And we’ll be striking after dark, now that you’ve provided this information, prisoner.”

> “Why strike after dark?”
> “Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.”
> Remain quiet.

>>686453
> “Understood, sir. Current orders?.”

“Understood, sire. Current orders?” You inquire, clasping your hands behind your back.

“Take the time to prepare yourself in any way necessary to move. Come to me if you have anything to make note of that may assist the raid. Dismissed, Ciaran.” Eric waves a plated hand, and you turn heel and step away from the Sergeant-at-Arms.

You’ve been given a short three hours of which to prepare, going as far as to seek out the nearest fire and set down your buckler and take a seat once you’re a suitable distance away from Eric.

At a first glance, there are a few unknown faces, though you do recognize Sylvie and Okgus from the crowd. There’s a half-orc here, though they don’t seem particularly intent on listening to anyone, keeping quietly to themselves as they fletch something from a fair stick. You elect to make small talk.

> “We’ll be mobile after dark.”
> “Okgus, I take it you aren’t one to fight?”
> “Sylvie, you’re a Tanari – how badly is this climate affecting you?”

>>686467
>ask Sylvie about the tanari, we are half-tanari after all

You bring your knees up to your chest, crossing your arms and shifting your gaze to the crackling fire. Winter had gone, though the temperature remains miniscule. You’ve become a fair bit sluggish in this climate due to your Tanari heritage, and you suspect that Sylvie isn’t doing very well here either due to it. Your gaze shifts to the tan-skinned elf, before you cock your head slightly to the side.

“Sylvie – you’re a Tanari, correct?” you bring yourself to ask, whereas she turns her attention to you, finally – green gaze faltering for a moment as she peers at the smoldering ashes of the fire.

“I am. Why do you ask, halfling?” she replies, as to which you bite your lower lip. “I’m a halfing Tanari, although I was raised in the Kingdom. I don’t know much about the Tanari,” you respond. “and I’d like to, if that’s okay.”

“We are a reclusive race. You are rather talkative, even for a halfling, although I fear that isn’t surprising if you’re half human. A race built upon elegance, even in our seclusion,” Sylvie’s words draw your interest, and you bring yourself to let them lull you for a few moments. “To be a Tanari is to be prepared to fight with grace; to be unwilling to do so is non sequitur. A fallacy within itself.”

“Strongest in the desert, I suppose you may find noteworthy if you do intend to follow this Legion to the end of the known world. We do not easily handle winter climates, so the temperature here is not yet unbearable albeit . . . difficult,” she notes. “It will hopefully get better as this campaign goes onwards.”

> “How badly does the climate affect you?”
> “So that explains why you fight so well with that bow, does it?”
> “Right, thank you, Sylvie.” (wait for 3 hours)

>>686484
>ask for her to show us how to shoot while we wait

“You seem to be really good with your bow,” you admit – glancing over Sylvie. The bow isn’t presently visible on her – she must stow it away, you figure, or maybe she utilizes a personal link with the arcane to render it herself. It’s been three years, and given your time spent seeking out your chances with seminary to become one of the Council’s warbound bishops, you’re woefully uncertain as to the limits of arcane magicka or the Tanari in such an investment.

“Thank-you,” Sylvie smiles courteously, although the faint crease of her lips fades as she sits up some. “You know how to handle yourself, although you’re rather risque in your swordplay.”

She’s at least polite enough to return the comment, you find, and your mind does trace to the faintest interest of whether or not she could provide training in archery.

“I don’t know if I find swordplay to be my forte,” you remark, “I think that I may want to invest in archery, however. Could you teach me?” you ask, flicking your ears a little lower as to play on a pleading face.

It makes the full-blooded Tanari giggle softly, to which your face heats up ever so slightly. An embarrassed reaction, rather than one of an endearing nature – as you hadn’t intended for them to respond in such a way.

“If you’re interested, I suppose it would help if you understood key points in archery to make this much easier in the case that it might save your life. Come along, then, crossbreed.” The woman stands to her feet, motioning with her hand to one of the nearby fields. They kept sparing room in these camps to provide resting place for the wounded, if the time should come. That was one of the few things covered in your training – locations in the shade should be bare of tents.

Then again, your training was worthless, you figure as you stand to your feet and step around the small crowd at the fire to follow the Tanari woman. Upon better inspection of Sylvie, you come to learn that the ginger colour of her hair was misidentified due to the lighting – much more of a brown.

After passing over the field, she turns her attention to one of the nearest trees. You hadn’t kept your gaze on her long enough to identify where she concealed her bow, if any, though she alters the bowstring slightly.

“You’ll be taking a few shots at the tree there, and I’ll be free to gauge you on your effectiveness.” Sylvie explains – shifting her grasp on the bow and offering it to you. With timid hand, you clutch the bow; gripping it in such a manner as to rely upon your right hand for drawing the bowstring.

You press the crest of the arrow against the bowstring, before beginning to draw it back.

> Roll 1d20 in order to fire at the tree. The Golden Number in this circumstance is 13 and all three shots will judge your proficiency with bow and arrow.

Rolled 2, 7, 18 = 27 (3d20)

>>688593
imma firin mah b0w

Your grasp shifts on the bow uncomfortably as you prepare your first shot. Sylvie corrects your posture after you fire and miss, using her hand to press you into straightening your back a little more. She offers you a second arrow, of which you take. Notching it back, you come relatively close to hitting your mark; though it glides by the tree, just as the first did.

She corrects your footing, nudging your feet around with the tip of her boot in order to do so. Once you’re settled to her specifications, she offers you the third arrow.

As you knock it back, she utters a few words of confidence, at which you remove the slack from the bowstring – clutching the arrow close to the fletching – after which you fire, releasing the bowstring and sending the arrow down the rough fifteen meters between you and the tree.

When you move forwards to recollect the arrows and check for the damages, you find that the arrowhead entirely embedded within the bark of the tree – attempting to remove it lead to it snapping, and Sylvie voices her discomfort with a grunt.

“I’m sorry,” you reply – to which she smiles and shrugs it off. “It’s perfectly fine. You’re still learning.” She responds, reaching a hand out to you.

Once she reaches out, you offer the bow back, and she grasps it.

Time from there shifts on, towards the impending fight with the elves that hold their northwest encampment. A group from the penal legion is left behind to hold their ground, though it comes down to your scouting party being selected to lead formation in order to lead the rest of the Penal Legion to the supposed encampment.

This gives you a moment to prepare to enter the camp, since from your position, you’re working as the vanguard – a Half Elf with shortsword and buckler, an Orc with his fists, a Dwarf with a hammer, and a Tanari with a bow. An interesting turn of events, despite the odd turn of the Dwarf’s mean streak and Orc’s pacifism.

You do, however, take the time to draw your shortsword from your left side. Though, the sound of marching feet does alert an Elven sentry – clad in full plate. He shouts in incomprehensible tongue – words you don’t fondly recall, as Sylvie perks up and notches back an arrow.

“Oi, Okgus – wi’mme, lad, we’re goin’ t’ae go around ‘em.” Gillebride calls out to your Orcish comrade, and both of them part – leaving yourself and Sylvie as men and women of all sorts of weaker and mild equipment charge by as the alerted Sentry descends upon you.

Player Turn
[ Elven Sentry ]
> 30/30 HP :: 0/0 BP :: 15 DEF

Rolled 13 (1d20)

>>688945
>engage, being sure to stay out of Sylvie's line of fire

You clutch the shortsword, the blade roughly five inches shorter than the average gladius wielded by the Legionnaires of the Puritan Quarter. It’s a fair bit slimmer, as well, almost akin to a dirk, though from your time of using it, it is definitely a solid blade.

As the sentry brings himself closer to you, you draw back – becoming lighter on your feet as blood begins to pump through your veins. The sentry swings his weapon – a curved sword – towards you. In doing so, he staggers, and you swing your blade upwards through his guard. As you do so, you quickly draw it back into a feint, keeping him distracted for Sylvie to act – though you bring the wooden buckler upwards and through his guard, slamming it into his neck.

As soon as the buckler strikes the sentry, he reaches upwards with his free hand – grasp loosening upon his scimitar as he attempts to regain control of himself.

> Sylvie: 1d22 + 3 = 16 + 3 (19) – 19 – 4 (15 DEF) = 15 DMG

Sylvie notches the bow back, and just as the arrow comes to rest upon the bowstring, she releases a shot into one of the limited openings of the sentry’s armour. The iron arrow, once let loose, pierces the sentry’s limited chainmail undergarment as you shift around him. It seems to embed just under his right shoulder – crippling his ability to engage you.

Enemy Turn
[ Elven Sentry ]
> 15/30 HP :: 0/0 BP :: 15 DEF

Clutching his cutlass loosely, he advances upon you – solidifying his grip in his off hand much rather than his dominant hand. He swings the blade at you, coming down towards your shoulder in a slashing attack.

> Sentry: 1d20 = 17*0.5 = 8.5 DMG – 1 DMG due to CRIPPLED RIGHT ARM.

> Roll 1d20 with a GN of 7 to defend yourself. A critical number will result in parry and riposte maneouvre.

Rolled 4 (1d20)

>>689072
roll to defend, hope he drops his weapon

File: sylvie's interception.png (58KB, 500x350px) Image search: [Google]

58KB, 500x350px

> Sylvie: 1d20 = 15 (interception)

Sylvie breaks into a sprint just out of the corner of your eye. She manages to obscure her bow once more, deities know where – as the blade barely comes into contact with yourself before she lunges her bow forwards, catching the blade against the arrow rest of her recurve bow. She forces him back and into a stagger, before moving for distance behind you.

A lucky favour, as if that blade came any closer, you were going to lose your neck. Your loose grasp on your shortsword tightens as you gain a fair enough opening on the Sentry to finish the fight for good.

> Roll 1d20 in order to finish off the Sentry. A +2 modifier will be added to your final roll due to his crippled state.

Rolled 4 (1d20)

>>689155
ROLL TO CURBSTOMP