"Hi ho, Silver, let's go!"

(OOC: I don't remember his horse's name. Not using his usual horse as Old Paint Bucket is not really a war horse, after all. I assume we're going now.)

---

"I'm just reading through your formspring here, and your responses to many questions seem to indicate that you are ready and willing to sacrifice realism/believability for the sake of (sometimes) marginal increases in gameplay quality. Why is this?"
"Because until I see gamers sincerely demanding that if they get winged in the gut with a bullet that they spend the next three hours bleeding out on the ground before permanently dying, they probably are too." - J.E. Sawyer

"Silver" isn't really a warhorse either, just less of a peacehorse than Old Paint Bucket.

No dissenters, then?

Also, what little the guild can give you- no detections, just a general sense of doom- she's out there somewhere, northeast probably.

Order of battle is the party, Andrea, two archers, two professional men at arms and- anyone else you're trying to bring along? Andrea's lot look level headed enough, she wouldn't have chosen them otherwise.

Which means they're sensible enough to actually be bricking it, and trying not to let that show.

Out and away, then- not easy through the mass and mess of people in the street, a few torches lit, held well away from anything- like most of the town- inflammable; carts and packhorses of the disturbed and preparing to flee, of the spirited and willing to resist, the place stands a fair chance of doing itself some damage through sheer chaos.


To the trees, to the north road and the paths that branch off it, along one of which- there is the occasional fiery hoofprint, isolated, rarely a sequence of two or three; what? One hoof, alone, one scorched branch?

The only thing that makes sense is that she's mocking, deliberately leaving broken fragments of trail here and there, and waiting to see- it certainly feels as though you're being watched.

Along one of the trails, movement. A large being- not on horseback, gait's wrong. Not human- too big. Too many big things carried- not an animal. Moving quickly. How do you react?

(OOC: Don't tell me he ripped off Fallout and made himself a Super Mutant or a talking Deathclaw.)

"Halt! Identify yourself!"

---

"I'm just reading through your formspring here, and your responses to many questions seem to indicate that you are ready and willing to sacrifice realism/believability for the sake of (sometimes) marginal increases in gameplay quality. Why is this?"
"Because until I see gamers sincerely demanding that if they get winged in the gut with a bullet that they spend the next three hours bleeding out on the ground before permanently dying, they probably are too." - J.E. Sawyer

OOC:

Dude, lay off the Fallout references. Just take a break from them for a while, OK?

(OOC: Hi ho Silver was a Lone Ranger one. But yeah, I'll lay off the Fallout stuff.)

---

"I'm just reading through your formspring here, and your responses to many questions seem to indicate that you are ready and willing to sacrifice realism/believability for the sake of (sometimes) marginal increases in gameplay quality. Why is this?"
"Because until I see gamers sincerely demanding that if they get winged in the gut with a bullet that they spend the next three hours bleeding out on the ground before permanently dying, they probably are too." - J.E. Sawyer

OOC:

Silver was OK, I got that. It's the mutants and stuff. It's like... you're getting typecast, you know?

The figure halts several hundred yards away on hearing the challenge and starts to speak. Upon realising that you can’t make out what he’s saying he slowly starts to approach – halting 20 feet away.

You see what appears to be an ogre standing in front of you, wearing a smorgasbord of leather armour and backpack. In one arm he has a tower shield that would better serve as a castle door (indeed those who are keen enough of eye can see the remnants of a hinge on one side). A brutal axe hangs from his waist and he has a crossbow that looks more like a small ballista in his other arm – currently pointed at the ground.

He gazes over the group and starts to speak.

First in a deep guttural sound

Then again in a harsher sound

Then again in a deep musical sound

Then finally in svartalfven (common tongue)
“Me Dirt Deadhead. You come”

OOC:

Unless I am much mistaken, Verone speaks Elvish, at least adequately.

OOC I will wait for V's response.

Any other responses in the meantime?

Larric is actually somewhat relieved to see a giant ferocious ogre instead of Calvern, but he recognizes the sounds of Elvish and waits for Verone to translate that, since he figures that whatever the big (fellow? beast? Larric's jury is still out on that) said in Elvish is probably important.

Verone's eyes suddenly started to narrow as the ogre spoke a language that, although he couldn't recognize, was definitely distinct from the first. Bilingual...that's unusual enough in the stereotypically-civilized races, much less an outwardly-dumb 'barbarian.' And then elvish, sounding more than a little strange on the lips of such a decidedly non-elven figure. Eyebrows make a bid for the twin safeties of his hairline and the brim of The Hat as some brief work picks out the words through the accent forced on them by vocal chords the size of an elf's entire head. That gives enough of a delay that the ogre continues in common, which produces an amused twist to the mage's lips as he replies in the elven tongue,

---

Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.

Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Vanas
-'I think a relativistic paladin has its own problems.
Lack of skin error, please reboot.'


Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)

Just how big is this ogre, anyway?

If he's using a repurposed castle door as a shield...

---

Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.

Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Vanas
-'I think a relativistic paladin has its own problems.
Lack of skin error, please reboot.'


Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)

From the description, I don't think it's a drawbridge, it's an interior door. And relative to his physical size it's a big damn shield...

Dirt is just over nine feet tall & just over 3 foot wide at the shoulders. Simon’s right – it’s an interior door being used as a tower shield.

Addressing Verone in elvin once more:

(OOC: Well, at least he's not called Shrek. I would have to punch myself if I had to resort to Shrek jokes.)

"What is he saying?"Alfred asks as he eyes Dirt/Deadhead suspiciously.

---

"I'm just reading through your formspring here, and your responses to many questions seem to indicate that you are ready and willing to sacrifice realism/believability for the sake of (sometimes) marginal increases in gameplay quality. Why is this?"
"Because until I see gamers sincerely demanding that if they get winged in the gut with a bullet that they spend the next three hours bleeding out on the ground before permanently dying, they probably are too." - J.E. Sawyer

Looking at Alfred - "Hel-low"

"Umm. Hello." He remains uncertain of whether to go for his hammer or not. He decides to give the others a chance to make absolutely certain he's friendly.

---

"I'm just reading through your formspring here, and your responses to many questions seem to indicate that you are ready and willing to sacrifice realism/believability for the sake of (sometimes) marginal increases in gameplay quality. Why is this?"
"Because until I see gamers sincerely demanding that if they get winged in the gut with a bullet that they spend the next three hours bleeding out on the ground before permanently dying, they probably are too." - J.E. Sawyer

Verone carefully does not say anything on the subject of 'bloody elvish' as he turns back to the rest of the party and summarizes in a low tone, "He's quite well-spoken, although it's hard not to be in elvish. Sort of how the language works. Anyway, he's wondering who we are, and remarking that we're loaded for bear. Oh, and when he pointed to the hills at the end there, it was to mention that the banner of the twelfth was raised on the far side of them."

---

Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.

Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Vanas
-'I think a relativistic paladin has its own problems.
Lack of skin error, please reboot.'


Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)

"Are you sure he didn't mean 'twentieth?' That would... um..." Larric's eyes go wide. "Don't tell me there's two armies of them in the county now?!"

OOC

Simon is right, twentieth not twelfth. My bad. Sorry.

OOC:

I'm sticking with Larric's interpretation.

(OOC: Yeah, we'd have no idea, in character, that you misspoke.)

"Do you mind not saying that out loud?" grumbles Alfred in annoyance. "I'm hoping the ogre can't read but if it turns out to be true, could you be a bit quieter about it? Morale is shaky enough as it is."

---

"I'm just reading through your formspring here, and your responses to many questions seem to indicate that you are ready and willing to sacrifice realism/believability for the sake of (sometimes) marginal increases in gameplay quality. Why is this?"
"Because until I see gamers sincerely demanding that if they get winged in the gut with a bullet that they spend the next three hours bleeding out on the ground before permanently dying, they probably are too." - J.E. Sawyer

The mad panic is over, and normality can resume...until the next mad panic, which is not far on the horizon.

Just to add to the current confusion, the Authrani Army has tried and given up on the notion of non- sequential numbered units, as being more likely to cause chaos in their own logistic chain than confusion to the enemy, and starts at one and counts up.

The hard core of the army is its' heavy cavalry, usually supplemented by lighter units from the member states;

First through Tenth are Chevalier regiments, fully armoured warriors on fully armoured horses, often with retinue- essentially the feudal side. Eleventh through Twenty- Fifth are Cataphract, partially armoured warriors with more versatile load and developed drill than the headlong thrust of the lower numbered and more senior Chevalier units. Past that you get demi- heavy Cuirassiers, and then down through Lancer, Hobelar, Chasseur and towards all- and- sundry.

Twelfth Cataphract are one of the more senior of the branch, and are (by the reputation that maybe only Alfred would have any reason to know) somewhat ramrod- arsed, proud of their close adherence to the manual of arms, the tables of organisation and the existing laws of war. They would be almost as appalled by the actions and makeup of a bunch of bloodthirsty lunatics like the Twentieth as most of you are- and more horrified, because they have less excuse for not doing anything about it.

I'm pretty certain that was just a slip of the tongue. Although, do carry on.