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/qst/ - Quests

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There are screams and yells. The sound of men eschewing the lie of civilization and all it's domestic trappings.The world around you is a blur of churning steel and flesh with you standing on a transient spot of calm. You are upon your wyrd.

Who are you?

-Are you from here?
Cling to the spirit of man/ walks the lands as a two legged beast
Lost to war/ hope still lives
My allies are many/ I am never alone with all these ghosts
Still in control/ Completely out of fucking control
-Touched by the other side
yes/ no
Feral claw/ honed steel
Spring/ summer/ fall/ winter

I'll be back in a few hours to review the highest number of votes for each choice.

>Who are you?
Thallos the Defiler.

>-Are you from here?
no. War has brought us far from home

>Walks the lands as a two legged beast.
We were a man once, long ago.

Lost to war. There is only the next battlefield.

I am never alone with all these ghosts. We buried them all. Death refuses to claim us.

Completely out of fucking control. The red mist is all you see anymore.

>-Touched by the other side
yes. The silent voices of thousands scream at us in fear and hatred.

Feral claws. The blessings of the ancients can corrupt the flesh.

>winter-Crimson Snow
Thallos the Defiler. This land of snow and rock is as far removed as the humid jungles and beaches of your youth, but that was a life time ago. The slave ships carried you and your tribe to another land, and then after you murdered your masters, taken weregild for a stolen life brought you to another far away land.

You are in the winter of your life, a lifetime of war, petty battle, and death has left you grizzled in mind, body and spirit. Everyone you would call brother or kin is dead, and you stopped trying to replace them many seasons ago. Slowly words and thoughts started to have less meaning than the truth of steel and strength. Old traditions forgotten as foreign tattoos began to cover your skin. Ritual scars intermingle with battle earned trophies that adorn thin skin over muscles that refuse to wither with age. Shattered and gnarled hands barely suffice for anything other than gripping the half of weapons, or ending lives.

Two winters ago the spirits started to whisper in your ears, they are overbearing now, urging without words, guiding your limbs, even when you are tired, even when you want to die. There is still a road ahead of you to pave with carnage.

your sideways view of the world swings back into focus. A pool of your own blood, your hand reaching just in front of you for a dropped weapon.
Pillaged scraps/ Echos of glory
-Primary means
Morning star/ Dacian falx
-Secondary means
cestus/ hatchets
the last things that matter/ as you, as all around you, ruins.
Echoes of glory- armor that us equal parts trophy and defense.

Dacian. Fucking. FALX

Cestus. Punch all the faces.

>The last things that matter
Notched and pitted, scarred and scuffed but still sharp, still strong. Just like us.
Pillaged scraps

Morning star


as you, as all around you, ruins.
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Reaching out to your gloved hand to the Dacian Falx, the strange sickle like weapon, neither a sword nor a polearm feels right. The Cestus around your knuckles is as much a weapon as a permanent brace, keeping the ruined hand in one piece. Fingers slowly form an unbreakable rictus grip around the weapon as bones pop and tendons snap into place. You ask your body to move, it grudgingly complies.

Hauling yourself up the weight of a spiked club and twin hatchets around your waist feels right. They clatter against armor heavy enough to be another man. There used to be a story somewhere in it when reputations and people's fear still mattered. Back when there were still friends to brag with. Bits and peices here and there, trinkets from good kills, fallen allies. Now the armor was pragmatic collection blackened oil and ash rubbed slab alloy caked with old blood. How long had it been since you left it?

The though was idle, flying away in winter wind, lost in death wails and howls of madness around you. Somewhere in you the desire to kill bubbles up again. A growl from the depths that never leaves your lips. Berserk fury without passion, self imposed exile to limitless slaughter. The reason was a pointless as the destination, there was only the journey. Fight to fight, brawls turned murder, duty as a mercenary, finally you found yourself again after long decades wandering into a war. Lacking lips, a permanent grin works across the wax melted features of your face.The invisible dead drag your heavy legs forward from a slumbering shuffle into crushing advance across the frost.
Dacian Falx- Overly thick and cancerously pitted, the edge is still honed sharp despite the chips making it nearly saw like. Nearly twice the size any normal falx, this is the bastard child of a sickle and a parade sword.

Cestus- Chipped and corroded. Oversized knuckleduster improving as a hammer.

MorningStar- small studded metal ball on the end of a three foot stick. Tends to break as often as it breaks others.

Hatchets- Abnormally long hafts paired with unusually light heads, many have died to these strange weapons. Light enough to throw

Full Plate armor- Big, heavy, and metal.
Traits, skills and stats
Traits based on history:
>no. War has brought us far from home
From a place that never existed: Thallos draws strength from the battlefield, storms, and other transient moments and places. Stability is his anathema. Gains a bonus in unfamiliar settings for combat. Becomes sluggish in familiar lands.
>Walks the lands as a two legged beast.
Butcher: Natural affinity for dismemberment and disembowelment with edged weapons.
>Lost to war. There is only the next battlefield.
Abomination: whispers of your existence haunt men of arms. Enemies will be driven to either flee or attack in fury during combat initiation.
> I am never alone with all these ghosts. We buried them all. Death refuses to claim us.
Blessed by the dead: blessing or curse, the dead are at your back, pushing. No matter how weary, your feet will always move, your arm will always swing. Sleep never comes, and the whispers never stop. Unlimited functional endurance, no sleep. Most have never seen you eat.
>Completely out of fucking control. The red mist is all you see anymore.
Feral Berserker: You move faster after a kill, and get a guaranteed first hit action during the beginning of combat. You can't disengage from battle though, nor can anyone else >:D
>yes. The silent voices of thousands scream at us in fear and hatred.
Painless: The years without sleep have deadened the nerves for both pleasure and pain. Even once knocked down you get back up. Its likely the only thing that will stop you is truly grievous physical damage.
>Feral claws. The blessings of the ancients can corrupt the flesh.
Gouging- Fighting you in unarmed combat is a mistake. You specialize in mutilation of others. Any fighting move is dirty, and carries with it a chance of disabling an opponent.

Leg breaker- Aim for the knees, ankles or feet. Permanently hobble or incapacitate an enemy. Likely to connect but leaves yourself more exposed during the attack.
Neck crush- Horrifically strong grip. Crush a windpipe and/or break a neck in a grapple action. First time is a charm, after that most enemies wise up if they are strong enough to resist.
Reaping strike- A telegraphed wild two handed overhead spin and swing that leads into a fully extended one arm swing from the pommel. Can break lesser weapons. Deals 4x damage.
Thallos "the Defiler"
180/300HP (something knocked you flat on your ass for a bit.)
passive: recover 30 HP per turn in combat.
passive: survive one fatal bow.
armor: hope someone brought a can opener.
Slow: tend to go a little slow with that old age and heavy pile of armor.
GM commentary: Thallos is a mortal character and can die. Mechanics wise he is not Arch Magnus.
Thallos is a shit fuck who has a lot of sneaky skills, but is slow and durable. Each good kill speeds him up, so play to that and use skills accordingly in the right situation. Despite the big pool of HP, Thallos is not of heroic strength either.

Around you a small force of well armed and armored soldiers are fighting a horde of naked savages lead by some sort of foul wizard. One of the feral warriors stares at your apparent resurrection, his breaths condensing in the winter wind, blood riming his unkempt blond bearded mouth.

>attack savage: how?
>attack warriors: how?
>draw attention to self/ announce presence
>Attack Savage; How?

Crash into him like a glacier of violence. Rip and tear with the Dacian Falx
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This, let's gooo
The mangy blond haired man in front of you appears in your mind's eye as a collection of organs and viscera, behind his youthful face is meat and skull. Its something that used to bother you, looking at people. Even the fairest maiden, you knew what was underneath and it stripped away beauty as sure as flensing blades.

He shrieks and charges at you, a stone spear breaks on your helmet, and the follow up of claws and a small dagger really try. If this had been a properly armed warrior, it might have done damage. You remind yourself that you could have just broken the boy's neck and been done with it. However, violence calls to you.

Your body isin't awake yet, but the Falx comes around in a lazy underhanded arc, clipping the youth's feet out from under him and leaving the legs a bloody mess. He sits there dazed, the pain hasn't reached his brain yet. It won't. You bring the weighty blade down several times, quartering his torso like a roast pig. Warm guts and blood spill out steaming into the snow.

That seems to have gotten some attention. A group of 8 malnourished but furious warriors stop hacking at a fallen knight like figure, and rush at you. Somewhere an archer took a potshot at you, but it bounced off your armored knee. The charging figures seem to be armored in rags and leathers, one of them is wearing a reccently pilfered metal helm.

>you have a moment before they close on you, and can choose your initial action, follow up action, and list plans.
>grab the closest one with our off hand. Headbutt him and toss him at the others. Whichever one looks like the boss, split him in half
Pick up a part of the flesh mountain we just made, hurl it at the nearest enemy to blind them then come round with a telegraphed swipe, the reaping swipe i think its called. he should be unable to see with blood in his eyes. Once he is dead carry on the momentum and try to use wide arcing strikes to fell a lot of enemies or create space. AoE strieks help a lot in a crowd.
-use choke skill, use reaping strike
-throw bits, use reaping strike, AOE.
8 hostiles to start
210/300 hp

The group of men charge you. Finally they come into sight and details start becoming clearer. Knives, spears, and cudgels. There are two pretty big ones in the group with wooden post driving mauls.

You use the hooked end of your Falx to skewer and hurl a chunk of meat into the oncoming mob. With a slightly weak throw, the chunk of fallen warrior never makes it to them. Your vicious windup does not deter the crowd, but the subsequent strike downward was apparently for more than just show. A redheaded man is neatly bisected from head to crotch; guts and gore spilling out and causing another young man to trip over the mess. Not loosing momentum you simply grab a rail thin boy, hardly able to be called an adult. Your horrific old man hand launches out like a neck seeking missile. The powerful grip immediately snaps his neck and the corpse's head lolls to the side. Before you can react a maul comes down on top of your head, but before you can even fall backwards another smacks you in the gut sending you backwards. The fresh kills and taste of blood in your mouth have really got your heart going. You feel...almost alive again. An arrow harmlessly rings off your armor. Eventually that little fucker is going to get lucky.

-80HP, damage taken negates innate regeneration.
3/3 Kills. speed penalty removed for this combat session. wroth mechanical unlocked. wroth is now building.
1/10 wroth. at 10 wroth things happen.
130/300 hp

3 of the men who saw your immediate murder turned and fled after your inital brutal murder, and now watch from the sidelines. The two maul armed warriors and a single man with a bow remain.

Get in close with the maul wielders. cestus strikes to the eyes and joints and then truly rip and tear. That bowman won't be able to get a good shot off with us in the mix
(hostile 2, fumble)
A downward chop plants your falx about one third it's length into the dirt. With surprisngly momentum you charge into the two men. The first maul wielder takes a wild overhead swing, attempting to mimic your reaping blow but the hammer slips out of his hand and smacks the other warrior solidly in the face breaking his nose and splitting a lip. tough bastard.
(hostile 19-4)
Your grip crushes the cestus into your hand, bones popping shortly before the mass of scarred bronze and twisted hemp ropes liberate the man's face from it's bony skull prison. Too much of a temptaiton...you grab his jaw and plant your foot onto his chest. This could have been smarter, but the bloodlust is going now. Too late. You wrench his mandible free with a series of sinewy rips and chunk it at his friend. There is dim recognition that a hammer hit you in the shoulder, momentarily threatening to dislocate it before you close the distance faster than someone in full plate should. The archer panics as another arrow simply pings off your armored hide and runs as you close to grappling range. A brutal shoulder from you cracks a something in his chest before you grab ahold of the man's floating ribs, digging into his abdomen painfully. Hot foul breath pours out from your twisted face as you huff in exertion, yanking and twisting. The hammer again. This time you twist to let the archer take the blow, his friend gasping in rage as he pulps his head. You throw the corpse against the last man standing and charge.

He puts his hands up to defend his face; the thing is, a loincloth is a truly worthless accessory. Your fearsome grip crushes and subsequently remove's the mans concern for reproduction. Agonized screams spill fourth before you walk over and retrieve your Falx, dispatching the prostrate victim with a vicious stab and twist.

160HP. no damage taken. 30 regneeration. 4/10 wroth.
Something feels right.

>tilt your head to the sky and scream, go fucking nuts.
>Surge forward and murder the men who ran, bathe in the red.
>throw your hatchets at them instead, use your head while you can.
>Await for a more worthy fight, compress the bloodlust.
>something feels right
>go fucking nuts.
>Hurl the hatchet to take down the runners legs, then rush up and mutilate the corpses of those whom ran
alright. not mutually exclusive.

A deep lungfull of winter air, like needles in your chest, exhaled with something between a laugh and a howl. Your vocal cords burn and voice breaks. Alright. That was good. The warriors nearest to you have soundly shit themselves, doubly so when you abruptly face them with a rictus grin and hurl your hatchets at them. One catches a runner right about the ass, lodging deep into lower spine. The other goes low and embeds itself into the other's foot. Sadly you have no more throwing weapons, and the last survivor takes off from a dead sprint. Your heavy frame brakes into a stomping lope towards them. Heavier snow crunches under metal shodded boots. The invisible forces of the other side pull you ahead, though you feel surprisingly brisk today.

Combat maintained. +30HP. 190/300HP. +2 wroth 6/10.

>Whip your morning star or Falx at the runner. beat 40, penanty of -30. roll "dice+1d100" in the options field, minus the " ". Choose which weapon.
>Murder the fallen for yourself.
>Just get your weapons back, they are disabled. (lol.)
>Ritual kills for the spirits. (roll 1d100)
Rolled 78 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>Whip your morning star or Falx at the runner. beat 40, penanty of -30. roll "dice+1d100" in the options field, minus the " ". Choose which weapon.

Rolled 65 - 30 (1d100 - 30)

>Runner with the falx

once we make sure any potential wittnesses are muted we may engade in murdering the disabled and recoving our hatchets
>Just get your weapons back, they are disabled. (lol.)
You hurl your Falx in a lazy overhead arc. The wicked blade spins end over end, embedding itself into the back of the runner's head, the tip popping out just above his collarbone. He drops like a guy who was just murdered by a flying Falx.
The other two men are murdered quickly, one by simply stomping on his head. A few hard kicks caves it in like a rotten mellon. Wrenching your hatchet free, you rip into the man with the injured foot. His last moments in this world are spent crawling away as fast as he can. You grab the handle sticking out of his foot and yank it free. The hatchets come down in an almost circular fashion, carving wild furrows into his breast before the ribs finally shear off giving way to a still beating heart.

>Eat heart
>Crush heart
>Stomp Heart
>Eat the heart and yell our praises to the blood god........or the spirits.....or what have you
Just caught this. Warlord DM if you want to go back to Magnus, I'd be willing to vote and play!
Oh you're not QMing this!
>crush the heart
Hey anon. I'm not cursed, but I'm glad I do enough of an impression to offer the illusion. This is just a one shot to kill time while Cursed prepared to boot up one of his quests.
(dice have favored the choice to crush the heart, for a bonus to wroth)

You fall to your knees and pummel the open chest cavity with your cestus bearing fist, the wet squelches turning to sucking pulp noises as your fist falls over and over. The tickle of true rage hits the back of your eyes. As you get up, it would seem the battle has not gone well for the armored knights, though they did considerable damage to the unclothed warriors.

You wrench the flax out of a now cooling corpse, the head comes off with it. Tendons and skin ripping noisily. The remaining combatants are enough to round out two small squads in a raiding party. They are a bit further away, and seem to be unaware of you so far.
+30HP. 210/300HP. +2 wroth 8/10. Berserk is at 4/3, fully mitigating speed penalty and carrying a transient speed bonus to your attacks.

>try and determine their equipment and actual numbers. think clearly old man.
>Give in to fury. Fuck it. Charge.
>Just walk away. This isin't your fight.
>Examine the fallen knights. A few seem to be clinging to life.
>Close your eyes and heed the voices. they are close now.
>close your eyes and heed the voices.
>Heed the voices. The will of the spirits will lead us to glory or a deserved death
I don't want to harass you Cursed, but what's the plan for the next fan?
I think I might be your adoring fan
>>Give in to fury. Fuck it. Charge.
Im torn between continuing either Silent Stars or Warlord or *possibly* a combination thereof. Im on a bit of a sci-fi kick but blood, gore and gratuitous violence is always fun
I'd love to see Magnus back. I have a great bear to see slain. I've checked /qst/ every day for Warlord since it fell off the board.
Ill do my best to get the Warlord Ball rolling again!
>Heed the voices
You close your eyes and listen to the bitter whispers like ice cold claws scratching at possibility. The manifestation of the wyrd. Lesser men would call it fate. All at once, ahead and behind of you is what could be, and somehow, this wisdom not meant for mortals matters very little. Gleaming in the dark are countless motes of light, reaching out to take it, the one that stands out to you most. Not the brightest or biggest, but you are sure. That is yours. The thing flits away. Irritation flickers across your being, the mote turns red before you violently snatch it. The thing wriggles in your hand, fighting to go back. You wave your unclenched hand, dispelling the illusion, and come back from wherever it is you were trespassing. The whispers are still here, cold and clear. You brought something back with you..."not many would take from the well, break a cycle, one so personal. Thallos Ruinbringer. The Defiler." a thought not your own fades away.

What was it?

>A weapon

it sounds like an upgrade.........or something that will kill us

Does this unit have a soul?
Eyes opening, you feel like you are viewing the world from a new perspective. The realization hits you that your place in the natural order is gone. There is something like a sense of loss, wrongness, and enlightenment, mingled with your existing bloodlust. You acted was so small, but so profoundly vile as to rape the stream of fate itself. To take what was you, but never yours. Even now the ability to fully comprehend it is lost on a mortal mind. Flexing your arms, you feel a touch of strength and wholeness that is hard to explain.

"man's mortal and immortal fate thereafter are never meant to concurrently exist...out of place, unnatural, belonging nowhere. This is your reward Thallos the defiler." Your spirits guide you ahead, the strange thoughts fade back to a whisper. All around you are flickering images of what was and what could be, overlaid on the world as it is. They fade in time for you to see a riot of men charging at you.
riots of men charging at us eh? Well then, Time to get mad.

hurl our weapons with intent to disable or remove from the fight, then move in with whirlwind of death. be the rock that the tide breaks upon but try and keep them as alive as you can......i am sure after the fact we can use those still living to appease or strengthen out spirits
Current Stats:
Thallos Ruinbringer, The Defiler
8/10 wroth
0/3 berserking.

>Leg breaker
Aim for the knees, ankles or feet. Permanently hobble or incapacitate an enemy. Likely to connect but leaves yourself more exposed during the attack. Sweeping attack that can hit multiple enemies.

>Neck crush
Horrifically strong one handed grip. Crush a windpipe and/or break a neck in a grapple action. First time is a charm, after that most enemies wise up if they are strong enough to resist. Option to grab multiple opponents if not wielding a weapon.

>Reaping strike
A telegraphed wild two handed spin and that leads into an overhead extended one arm swing from just the pommel. Can break lesser weapons. Deals 4x damage. has extreme range compared to normal attacks.

Throw one or two hatchets. Thallos has surprisingly good aim with them. The Falx can be thrown in a pinch without penalty as well for greater damage. Any other items can be thrown with less skill. Does not count towards an opening attack.

>Dirty fighting- Gouging
Thallos is a bastard who will gouge eyes, rip open cheeks, bite off a nose or finger, and in general be unpleasant during a grapple.
-Passive dickhead moves in combat will occur. Active selection of dirty fighting leads to more inventive choices.
Thallos does not get tired, or feel pain. Haunted by spirits. Thallos becomes weaker on familiar ground; inclined to wander.
Chance enemies will flee upon your first minor/ major kills.
Every kill is a brutal kill. Dismember and disembowelment are likely.
>Aged Berserker (class)
you start off with a speed penalty.
-heal 30hp per round in combat when no damage is taken
-generate berserking points to mitigate speed penalty, eventually gaining speed bonus.
-generate wroth.
>First strike
Unexpectedly fast like a viper, but only on the opening attack. Make it count.
>Iron Hide
Thick plate armor covering your body mitigates many normal blows.
-makes you slower than most people
-survive first fatal strike.
Flax- oversized two handed iron alloy falx with a bit of a reach.
MorningStar- Good for anti armor duty, but older with a chance of breaking.
Cestus- permanetly fixed on a ruined hand. oversized knuckleduster.
Hatchets- oddly lightweight small headed hatchets with very long handles.
GM commentary:
so this last description of Thallos hopefully gives you a good idea of what he is, and how to use him. There is no limit to the number of times you can use a skill, though the situation might call for something else. Developing strategy is a good idea, even for a berserker. Old age tends to lend some clarity of thought, or at least wily cunning. You will be up against superior numbers or hard fights.
You hurl your hatchets from both hands. They spin end over end for about 30 feet before meeting the front of a wave of men. One plants directly into a face, the other a belly. Both victims go down, getting trampled under feet, causing a few more to trip.

-2 hatchets.
+2 berserking

The move has brought you a moment.

>Examine the crowd
>Dig deep for hate
>Does you feel cold?
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>Dig deep for hatred.

Worms. Insects. Vermin. Meat on the butchers block.

These savages may not fear men but they *WILL* fear us
>Examine the crowd

we want the note of who is a weak link and who is a tough lynchpin of their charge, notably on who is wearing heavy armour/using heavy weapons, any archers and who is the most scarred looking. While they are running closer, Ready our Flax so that we can cut from a good starting position.
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>Dig deep for hate
A cursory glance at them tells you most of what you need to know. A horde of men, all youths, many skinny, a few not. No armor between the lot of them other than what a few have managed to pry off the dead knights. In the back is some sort of foul wizard. You never trusted magicians or other practitioners. Most of the savages are armed in paint and heavy wooden or studded clubs, spears, or bows.

Its enough to set your teeth on edge, a palm slams to your forehead. Fuck. you really hate wizards. Or this asshole is trying to do his best to make you suffer. There is no pain, but there is pressure. The fact that this pissant fuckhead is trying to harm you, hiding behind his wall of walking cadavers sets you over the edge. Spirits be damned, greater fates and gods can rot. Froth and blood trickle from jagged gash and exposed teeth you'd call a mouth.

+4/3 berserking, mild speed bonus

>Falx or Morning star?
>Charge or let them come to you?
>Opening skills?
>Charge with the Falx
save the morning star for armored foes

Open the move with reaping strike, but when the first swing is in motion keep moving so we can grab another person with the free hand and hurl at the wizard.

he either has a shield, he shoots it out of the air or he is taken out of the equation for a moment or two. The first two give us information, the last gives us time.

whatever we do, do not slow down, make for the wizard at all times
(the dice have been rolled)
Your first strike comes down a little off center, and cuts a warrior's left leg and arm off, complete with a few ribs and hip. He falls to the ground screaming as you slam into the wall of flesh, grabbing a nearby victim. He was strong, stabbin at you with a small dagger, even manging to poke you through a thin gap in your armor. All the same you break the neck and his head rolls backwards. The crowd parts around you from the display, only for a rain of arrows to ring off your armor, another unlucky hit catches you in the jaw. You weren't going to win any awards for beauty to begin with.

Most of the arrows were caught in the corpse you are now throwing into the crowd. Your body seems stronger than it should be. The corpse is tossed an easy 15 feet in a lazy sailing arc missing the wizard by the length thrown again. You push forward into the crowd, stomping on feet and throwing helmeted headbutts. Numerous blows come down on your reckless charge, that you shrug off despite ringing impacts. A particularly nasty blow comes from a short sword some cunt tries to shove into your gob. Teeth filed to points long ago, in a land long ago bite down, grabbing the sword fast. You lock eyes with your would be killer for a moment before shoving an armored finger straight into his eye socket, poking him in the brain. Not wasting a good opportunity you grab his face like a bowling ball and throw the twitching body. Behind you someone snapped a spear off on your ass. gonna have to dig that one out later.

-60 hp 240/300
+1 wroth 9/10

>Press on. the wizard must die.
>Sew terror and clear out the crowd.
>Deliberately build rage?
>Press on, the wizard must die

But for good measure give our best attempt at a blood curdling roar and give wide swings of our falx. it should clear them out of our front and maybe terrify them. If able go for clean cuts and kills, messsy ones slow us down
>Deliberately build rage
(tie)36+6 vs 70

You bang the pommel of your Falx against your head a few times, amping up and yelling like a mad man. -10HP, and only get a small return on your rage. +1 Berserk. Still, got the blood pumping. The ice in your veins is starting to turn to fire. Your battle roar comes out well enough to cause some of the front line men to turn back and flee. Still, walking into a hostile and armed moshpit carries penalties.

You start swinging the flax in huge loping arcs Just like that, the body parts start to fly. Tirelessly you cleave through torsos and arms. The ground in front of you runs slick as 5 men fall and another clutches his stump. These fools are not warriors, but there are a great many that seem to be willing to die. Their eyes are fully dilated, clearly they have been consuming bileroot, giving them an unnatural amount of bravery. You have taken another beating shoving yourself deeper into the poking, stabbing, pounding mass that threatens to close around you. -40HP, +1 wroth, wroth 10/10.

Somewhere in the distance the wizard keeps pummeling your body with foul magics meant to cause pain, you can only grit your teeth. The fool might as well be a whore trying to jack off a eunic.

HP @ 190/300, berserk at 5/3, wroth at 10/10.

sure are a lot of guys around you.
>leg breaker, get these assholes off your back
>Reaping strike and advance
>Neck crusher with an attempt to sew terror.
>Reaping Strike

If you had bothered to look behind you, there is a trail of gore and the dead. Unconciously you seek to pave the way, delivering another massive blow. The crowd has wised up, seeing the telltale wind up swing; a moment later you drive your weapon down upon a man and a half. The thing is men dont die in halves. One man is bisected shoulder to thigh like a rack of pork ribs. The other just gets his chest and abdomen split open. You manage to avoid taking any further beatings, kicking a youth that runs towards you squarely in his gonads. The Crampons of your iron shod boots do more than knock the wind out of him, but catch fast and drag his groin to the ground where your strength and weight pulp his crotch. Intestines caught under your boot uncoil as he screams, scooting backwards trying to save a life already over. You reach down and strangle him with his own guts in front of the fighters.

Your heart hammers like a war drum and saliva runs freely. (+2 berserk)

You notice a cluster of men armed with bows in the distance letting loose with arrows. Taking the freshly strangled corpse, it acts as a fine pin cushion, twitching with the blows. Oddly enough a sick blue flame eats at the corpse, and even hurts as you note a few stray arrows that hit your legs, precariously close to the knee. Magic. Casting aside the body and patting out your leg with gore streaked hands you are rightly pissed. -30HP. If this keeps up you will die a shameful death at the hands of weaklings. You take a moment to recover your hatchets from the corpses nearby while angrily glaring at the archers. The wizard shrieks something in a foul tongue. The warriors grab their heads and yell in pain, surging forward at you as one from all sides. Meanwhile the archers notch another arrow with shaky hands.

About 8 melee warriors remain, 12 archers, 1 wizard.

160/300 7/3 berserk, wroth 10/10

>Charge on and rush the archers, kill anyone who gets in your way.
>wait for the remaining warriors to get close and execute leg breaker. try to take them all out.
>throw hatchets? at who? (wizard is out of the way.)
>throw mace/ falx? (wizard is out of the way)
>Leg Breaker!

Sweep the Knee Thallos-San!
You let them come to you, taking a few small hits with wooden mallets and clubs. One guy gets it in his head that he can stab you in the eye with a spear. Your fist bats the stick away and a kick almost catches him. It was enough bait the the others become emboldened to swarm you. Adrenaline fills you with lightning as you swing the falx in a brutal arc at ankle height. Never skimp on a good pair of greaves. The thick iron blade clips their shins and ankles neatly, arterial blood spraying like synchronized fountains. Not wasting time you grab a survivor and use his head to beat another man to death as an improvised club. Two men still stand but seem to be less important than filling you with arrows. You dive down and throw several corpses on top of you. The arrows impact with unnatural weight and fully pierce the dying, almost eager to taste your flesh. You find yourself grateful for the armor once more. (-25 hp, +2 berserk.)

You stand up, burning corpses sloughing off you. Something in you wrenches for a moment and you spit out a mouth full of blood. So much anger. The world is flickers again, for less than the blink of an eye. Possibility and past overlaid with present. You feel angry at this magic as well, the whispers of the dead turn into a howl of wind from the underworld. Your body is at it's bleeding edge; heart slamming against your ribcage you let loose a howl from beyond.
less than 50% HP, wroth and berserk are available for spending.
to be continued in an hour or less.
You take a moment to drink in the destruction around you. Your handywork is intermingled with the wizard's. One of the crippled crawls along moaning as otherworldly flames slowly envelop his torso. His will to live finally gives out with the quiet thump of a chest hitting snow and dirt. Time is moving a little slower for you, the archers are still in the middle of lifting arrows to bow while the wizard is visible now. It distorts its image with crude illusion, more of a man shaped blur.
You are below 50% health and are now capable of spending both Berserk and Wroth points. Berserk is a man's natural fury manifest, capable of granting him feats of strength and endurance most would consider supernatural. Wroth can be similar, but stems from something less natural. Spending it can affect a man's fate.
Capability again opens up at 1% health for Thallos.

Berserk- any ability burns all of Thallo's pool, leaving him slower and thus more vulnerable.
>Reckless abandon- Charge at twice your current max speed, crushing those in your path and lending momentum to your swings.

>Too angry to die- Convert each stack of 3 rage into 100 temporary health.

>Inhuman rampage- Berserker packin' man and a half! You become so enraged that you loose the human notions of using tools. Your fists become weapons beyond compare, momentarily able to tear men asunder bare handed.
Wroth- Wroth's skills burn a set amount of points. Wroth will randomly burn at the end of combat if not used.

>Projected strike- Swing where your enemy will be, not where they are. Chance to maim them on the next turn, works from a distance. 3 wroth
>Frozen second- the world around you seems to slow to a crawl, but only for a second. 5 wroth. can be used twice in one turn.
>Shatter- Deliver a blow that makes your victim explode. 7 wroth
>Carve fate- Finishing move for defeated enemies. Grants additional, extreemly power rewards. 10 wroth.
action time. I'd suggest saving your wroth. You can also save the berserk and just settle for speed bonus you have. Really though, Thallos's actions are yours.

>Charge ahead, dodge arrows the best you can. Murder wizard. List used skills.
>Throw hatchets, mace, falx, pocket sand (list which objects thrown)
>use Berserk (list skill)
>use wroth (list skill)
>use berserk and wroth (list skills)
I say we charge archers (reckless abandon), as soon as we break their ranks/take out a few throw hatchets at the wizard and finish him. Maybe Carve Fate the wizard if we can for whatever those extremely power rewards are.
This this this this this this this this this this this
So far the arches were largely ineffective until the wizard began enchanting their arrows. Each volley seemed to gain in potency. You resolve to ruin this wizard, to take everything.

Your already overtaxed heart slams into beat faster than you remember as your body dumps everything it has into your muscles that swell and strain against the armor and straps of your plate suit. In seconds you cover several dozen meters, moving faster than a warhorse. The landscape blurs by and one of the archers focuses into view, arrows flashing by you. A few make contact, your velocity running into them does a little damage to you, the magician had no time to enchant them in the face of your sudden charge. (-3hp)

The resultant impact of your body to the unarmored frames of the archers is ruinous. Their firing line was undisciplined, and more of a firing cluster. Most of these archers were barely into adulthood. Bodies crumple and limbs get torn off as your advance comes to a slow. Those that weren't killed by high speed impact were cleaved apart by your hungry falx. A few limbs and heads are still hitting the ground some distance off as you stop. The last archer looks at you in abject horror. He is a handsome one, neatly groomed topknot braided long. You grab it and rip forward, his face comes off leaving a red raw and shrieking skull. The effects of your charge have already worn off but you spot the wizard's indistinct outline shimmering, some sort of baleful energy emitting from it. You hurl the boy at it, the impact solid.

Walking towards the fallen practitioner, you make sure to spare a step to crush prone the faceless archer, your booted foot caving the back. Ribs splinter and the spine splits with a series of pops.

In front of you is a groaning woman, about the same age as the other adults of the mob. Naked save for paint, bone jewellery, and a skull mask from some animal. Witch. "A fucking witch." you growl out, the first thing your vocal cords manage to form in a long time. she begins to stir, eyes opening wide. She claws at you and begins to hiss and carry on in a native language. Her hands crackle with power before you tighten the necklaces to near strangulation and rip off the mask. A vicious backhand knocks her out cold, and a single molar rolls out of the mouth with a generous amount of blood. You walk with the unconscious bitch for a while, the path finds you at a slab stone under grey skies. Seems to be the right place.

>Carve fate
>Other (write in)
Cut off her fingers, cut out her tongue, then Carve Fate.
Fucking witches.
>Carve Fate in the most gruesome manner possible.
>Offer her heart, head and very soul to the spirits.
Your thoughts are many. With a sharp knife you cut off her index finger and offer her body to the spirits around you. A flow of blood fills the cracks in the stone before her body staunches the flow. The whispers rouse again; they demand much. Her suffering, weariness, and anguish beyond any she has ever known. Her life and her death, her every waking moment and her dreams. They demand sickness, rage, anger and grief. More violence for years to come. More than you could possibly give them. You look at her supine form on the slab.
She never woke from the stupor during your rutting, but the field was well tilled and planted with seed. The spirits seemed to appreciate your offering. For your own troubles; reward beyond measure. Through unconscious will you tore away her gift, its potential twisted like hairs in a rope with your own, sealed away in a new fate, a guaranteed life to be lived. You are not any weaver of fates, only a simple murderer. Ahead for the spawn, there will be greatness and there will be violence. What more or less, for how long, is of less and less concern each step you take. Wife, no. Too much trouble, let alone a witch... that would probably be the end of you. You are Thallos the Defiler. A name not chosen, yet one honored.

You wear a small necklace of bone and crude rope;freshly adorned with a ladie's finger and tooth. Underfoot the snow crunches until you trip some distance later. Grunting in frustration, you are normally fleet of foot, is old age finally catching up? Looking down you spot what is clearly a lump of gold as big as a man's head. Carve fate indeed. The spirits are wretched and so is their humor. Perhaps it was time to drink.
Thanks for participating or just lurking in my tiny side story. Carving fate can involve a significant change in one's fortune, but for who and how, is very dependent on the individuals involved.
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>Mfw this entire thread

Well done Nongent. Well done indeed. Thallos the Defiler is official canon of Warlord Quest. The ancient berserker will not be forgotten
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I like to do follow ups. Please feel free to dump complaints, and suggestions. While I probably won't do another quest in the warlord setting, unless it gets requested, I do like to know where I can do better.
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I've been witnessed! CURSED WITNESSED ME!
To anyone lurking this thread, I'll refer them back to warlord >>2646930

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