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ooc: Post your name and who you'd like to play when you ask to join, normal rules apply, blahblahblah.
Lurker cookies are too sweet, too soft, have way too much icing, and are loaded with calories.
The joiner cookies are much tastier, I assure you. (;
Oh, and if you post a quote from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail", you'll get an even better cookie.
Plot/setting next.
bic: In the Wylder Planes to the north of Zilen, a tall tower has been built.
Its exterior is covered in reflective crystal, with a one-way window here and there, so that on the whole it resembles a large, oddly-shaped mirror.
Thus, it has come to be known as the "Tower of Mirrors", and its name is often spoke with fear and awe.
Within this tower dwells its maker, the warlock Morassin, a -c-
man well-versed in the ways of magic and, it is said, not quite in possession of his wits.
Recently, rumors have circulated of foul deeds afoot within his lair, though none were brave enough to find out what was really going on...
Except for Ambassador Kestrel.
She mounted an expedition to the tower, and had quite a civil meeting with Morassin... But then things went awry.
Without warning, he -c-
attacked her and her bodyguards, slaying all of the guards but one, a new recruit called Timothy.
He watched, cowering in a corner, as the warlock trapped Ambassador Kestrel in an overly large hourglass, which slowly began dripping sand on her.
She was understandably annoyed, and began shouting at the warlock, who calmly explained to her that she would suffocate in exactly seven days.
Timothy -c-
managed to escape, and told the king of what had happened.
The news spread like wildfire, and everyone was quite shocked, horrified, and angry. Ambassador Kestrel was thought of quite fondly by all, and the treatment she received at the hands of the warlock made their blood boil.
Now a small band of heroes has assembled, and is ready to set off to rescue her from the Tower of Mirrors, despite -c-
how likely it is none of them will survive.
There are now but five days until she is covered completely in sand, and as of yet, no one knows why Morassin turned on her so suddenly.
Could it be he has more motivation than a troubled mind? -d-
Setting1: Setting: The group is at the edge of the last village before the Wylder Planes, just about to start traveling. It's midmorning, and it's a rather pretty day, aside from all the wind.
Intro1: bic: Thatch stood on the edge of a small village, the last settlement before the Wylder Planes began.
Before him stretched a vast wasteland of prairie, with occasional rolling hills and a copse or two of trees here and there.
The grass was long, and the constant wind that blew over the planes made it look rather like the sea, just as wild... Just as dangerous.
Oh, yes. Though they seemed -c-
easy enough to cross, they were fraught with peril.
Wild packs of ravenous wolves, not afraid to feast on human flesh, carnivorous birds, venomous snakes hidden in the tall grass... One could easily meet one's dxxth if one ventured there without a guide.
Thatch was a Ranger, and had learned as much as there was to know about the Wylder Planes. He had volunteered to lead this little band to the -c-
Tower of Mirrors, and as he felt the dry wind ruffle his sandy-blonde curls, he wondered if he had made the right choice.
His green eyes strayed to the animal beside him: A short, stocky Shetland Pony, white with black spots, a brown underbelly, and brown socks. His name was Jester, and he had been traveling with Thatch for many-a-year.
In fact, he'd raised him from a colt, as was the custom -c-
for Rangers. He was as fond of Jester as he'd have been of any human, and often found himself talking to the little pony, as if he could understand.
."Well, here we are, old boy... Going out in the Wylder Planes again. I know you don't like it, and neither do I, but we've got to do what we've got to do. Ranger's Duty, and all that." He said quietly, smiling just a little.
He was handsome enough,-c
a little on the short side, his countenance a little weather-beaten from all the time he spent outdoors.
His attire was simple: A long green tunic, tight green leggings, baggy brown leather boots, and a long brown cloak, clasped with the silver leaf pin that marked him as a Ranger.
His lips were already a little chapped from the dry wind of the planes, and he knew it'd be much worse soon enough.-c
."Well, no use stalling. Is everyone ready?" He said, raising his voice a little so that the others could hear him. -d-
Setting2:
Setting: It's nighttime on the Wylder Planes, and the group is gathered around a small campfire.
Tomorrow, they will walk the last few miles to the Tower of Mirrors, which they can already see at a distance.
Intro2: bic: Thatch sat by the fire, the flickering light casting odd shadows on his face.
He was frowning slightly, deep in thought about what tomorrow would bring, as he turned meat over the fire.
He'd caught a hare earlier that day, and had cut the meat into little chunks, spitting them on sticks with pieces of dried apple from his pack to make several kebabs.
Having lived on his own for so many -c-
years, he'd become rather adept at cooking (especially over a campfire), and didn't mind putting his talents to use for the benefit of his fellow travelers.
He was a Ranger, their guide across the Wylder Planes. He'd spent much time in this dangerous wilderness, and knew almost everything there was to know about it.
As a result, his countenance was rather weather-beaten, though still handsome -c-
in a rugged sort of way. His hair was short, sandy-blonde, and curly, his eyes bright green.
He was a little on the short side, but strong. Over his back hung a shortbow and a quiver of arrows, and on the back of his Shetland pony (called Jester) was a longbow and more arrows. Though he wasn't adept at using them, they were standard-issue Ranger equipment, and sometimes came in handy.
Belted -c-
around his waist was a leather sling, and on his right hip sat a pouch of stones. These were his long-range weapons of choice, and he very rarely missed when he was using his sling.
On his left hip sat a battered old rapier, which he could use well enough, though he still preferred to use his sling, if at all possible.
His garb was simple: Tight green leggings, a rough green tunic, baggy, -c-
battered brown leather boots, and a long brown cloak, fastened with the silver leaf pin that marked him as a Ranger.
Kneeling behind him was Jester, who he'd raised from a foal, as was the custom with Rangers. The pony was white, with little black dalmatian-like spots, brown socks, and a brown belly. He and the Ranger had been through much together, and often Thatch would find himself talking -c-
to his loyal beast, when he was traveling by himself.
Looking around at his companions, he sighed quietly. "So... Anyone got any plans?" -d-
 Ithtar · Thu Apr 08, 2010 @ 01:26am · 0 Comments |
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