>>3706668
Urhost nods, running a hand across his scarred scalp and spitting through his teeth onto the ground.
“Sound plan. Hit the gates, hit the walls, keep’em too busy to repel either of em. By the time they figure out what’s goin’ on, we’ll be inside an’ they’ll all be dead.”
He looks up the mountain, the darkening sky bringing stars to view, auroras shifting against the oncoming darkness.
“Be a bitch to get the thing hardened with no fires though..”

Wren shrugs, sealing the pouch with a double knot of braided hide and tucking it back within his pack.
“Odds are it won’t need to be. The gate is rough cut planks, wooden pegs and rope. Magnus could kick it down.”

>GrimSpears Holdfast is a ancient fortress, the walls crumbling and the towers fallen. It’s outer wall is a mixture of crumbling stone and wooden palisades. Behind the walls are a courtyard nearly a hundred yards long. The Hold itself a fortress unto itself, its walls thick and the roof a perfect area for archers.

>What is your battleplan?

>>3706669
Your forces
>1 Unit of Raiders (Light Infantry, shortswords, axes, spears and spiked maxes. Armored in hides and scavenged mail. Commanded by you.
>1 Unit of Skirmishers. Missile/Scout infantry. Bows, javelins and slings. Armored in hides, treated furs and leather. Commanded by Wren
>1 Unit of Warriors. Heavy Infantry. Battleaxes, greatswords, warhammers. Armored in thick leathers, scavenged mail and sections of armor. Commanded by Urhost.
Companions
>Arvel
>Balon
>Falhim
>Torbos

>>3706786
>1 Unit of Raiders (Light Infantry, shortswords, axes, spears and spiked maxes. Armored in hides and scavenged mail. Commanded by you. We go up thr ladders with Arvel

>1 Unit of Warriors. Heavy Infantry. Battleaxes, greatswords, warhammers. Armored in thick leathers, scavenged mail and sections of armor. Commanded by Urhost. Gose in though the front door with the ram

>1 Unit of Skirmishers. Missile/Scout infantry. Bows, javelins and slings. Armored in hides, treated furs and leather. Commanded by Wren the try to find a way in thow fallen towers/ holes in wall to flank and or find out whats happening in the hall.

I forgot which is of our friends are best at what.

Do the raid tonight

>>3706956
>I forgot which is of our friends are best at what.

Arvel is a close combat berserker, excelling in shock trooper/close combat and raiding tactics

Torbos is a talented close combat fighter and animal handler/trainer.

Wren is a excellent scout/archer/assassin with a dash of healer on the side.

Falhim is a talented Archer/Hunter who excels at tracking beasts and men alike.

Balon is a ex-Legion warrior who is a brutal close combat fighter and is skilled in combat engineering

Urhost is a seasoned veteran who is skilled in tactics, close combat and tribal politics. He also speaks giantish.

>>3707002
Who gose with us Balon,Torbos

Wren gets Falhimlol

Urhost gets Arvel
This sound good?

>>3707002
Also thanks

>>3707021
>>3707018
Sounds decent to me my guy. I’ll give it a bit and if we don’t pick up further I’ll go ahead and write it out

>>3707018
sounds good

>>3707058
Do it up QM make it spicy

>Us, Balon, Arvel and the Raiders make our way over the walls with the ladders
>Urhost and Torbos along with the Warriors man the ram, smashing the gate to bits.
>Wren and his Skirmishers flank, headed around the walls and searching for gaps to climb over.

Over the next few hours, you tend to your gear, using the back of a borrowed hatchet to pound out the dents in your pauldron left by the ogres thrown rock. Your men mill about, sharpening weapons, adjusting armor, speaking in low voices, gnawing mouthfuls of salted meat and hard bread. You fasten the spiked pauldron back in place, the leather strap going across your chest. You take a hefty swig from your waterskin, wiping your mouth as you watch a group of men making their way up the trail. Arvel and his men march up the path, bearing eight ladders, nearly ten feet long each. The quickly made ladders consist of sections of thick branches and saplings, notched and bound to two longer poles with rope and strips of wet rawhide. While crude you have no doubt that the ladders will suffice for the quick effort of getting over the walls.

Behind them, sweating and grunting with the effort comes Urhost and his men. Bearing the hewn log on their shoulders, they bear the weight as a team. You nod in appreciation as they slowly make their way past you, the log chopped to a slight wedging point. While rough and improvised, against a gate as flimsy as Wren says, you have no doubt it would smash through like a hammer through an eggshell. With a grunt, they drop it on the earth, stepping back and wiping sticky sap from their hands. Urhost claps several on the back and makes his way over to you. He sits across from you, squatting on his heels as you offer the waterskin which he takes gratefully. Taking several large swallows of water, he sighs proudly.
“Well, it’s not too impressive but it’s big and heavy enough for us to smash through. Anythin’ else ya want Magnus? A tower? A trebuchet?”

You laugh, gesturing back down to the forest.
“I mean if you’re feeling generous. Feel free to bring the entire forest back up here”

Urhost chuckles, taking another large swig of water, shaking his head
“Wouldn’t do much good. I’m not much of a craftsman”

You laugh, standing and extending a hand to pull the warrior to his feet. Urhost grunts, looking up the mountain towards the ancient fort.
“Well... might as well get to it eh?”

>”Right then boys! Let’s get to it!”

>”Come on you shits! There’s killing to be done!”

>”Boys! I want that fort. Go get it”

>Other (write in)

>>3707302
>>”Come on you shits! There’s killing to be done!”

>>3707302
>”Boys! I want that fort. Go get it”
"When you're done, maybe we'll have that tower then!"

>>3707302
>”Right then boys! Let’s get to it!”

>>3707302
>”Right then boys! Let’s get to it!”

>>3707302
>”Come on you shits! There’s killing to be done!”

You roll your neck and crack your knuckles, the pop of releasing tension sounding like breaking bone as you take a deep breath. Your maimed hand clenches, the mangled tendon flexing as you grip the great shield, lifting it without even a grunt of effort. Striding forwards towards the trail leading upward, you turn to face the impromptu camp.
“Right then boys. There’s killing to be done so let’s get to it”

With that simple command, your men whoop and shout, grabbing arms and shields, forming up into a loose column that follows close behind you. Urhost and Wren flank you, the former testing the edge of the double headed axe you had gifted him, the other unslinging his double curved bow, gripping it tightly. You palm your helm, lifting it up to press it down atop your head, the angled steel fitting snugly against the tangled hair. As the trail ascends, you pass more bodies, were impaled on wooden stakes or nailed to rough hewn boards, skin peeled away to reveal the flesh beneath. Skulls leer eyelessly from rusted spears and crows jabber unhappily as they flee from the tramp of boots.

Your men mutter curses and expressions of disgust at the mangled bodies, many likely having been taken from the few nearby villages, dragged away screaming, never to be seen again. As you pass a spear driven into a gap in the stone, you can *feel* eyes on you, the empty eye sockets seeming to follow you as you walk past. You sniff, clenching your grip on your shield and tearing your gaze from the silent watcher. Higher and higher you climb the path, the sky growing darker with every minute. Stars dot the sky, the waning moon hanging like a sickle in the sky as fitful clouds drift across the darkness. The men bearing the ram grunt and curse as the path grows steeper for a moment, their fellows helping them bear the weight as they push onward.

Eventually, the trail plateaus, the mountainside flattening out forwards and to either side, the uneven surface littered with jagged outcroppings of stone and fallen boulders from the peaks that continue to ascend to either side. Crows caw angrily as they fly overhead, swirling like a ill tempered cloud, disturbed from their feast as you look across the expanse of black stone and thin rocky soil. Dozens of wooden stakes have been driven into the ground, wedged into gaps and braced with stone. Congealed and tarry blood glistens in the dim moonlight as the birds leave their meals, the dozens of flayed and disemboweled corpses of villagers, tribals and unlucky travelers, impaled through the groin until the bloody spikes punched through their mouths or throats. Some are picked clean, reduced to tattered and ragged skeletons while others are fresh, their flesh pallid and waxy in the moonlight.

>Cont

>>3708271
“By Valls blade.... by my ancestors... what fuckin’ devilry is this?”
Urhost spits into the soil, clenching his fists on the haft of his axe. His eyes jerk from one corpse to the next, his jaw clenching as he furrows his brow. Looking back, you can see the sentiment isn’t lost on most of your men. Many have a nervous set their features, clenching weapons a little *too* tightly or muttering prayers to Vall and all their ancestors.

“Morbid buggers aren’t they”
Grunts Arvel, looking about disinterestedly. The mad raider adjusts his grip on his buckler, a long fighting knife jutting from underneath the iron rim and sniffs, making a face as he does.
“Fuckin’ stinks”

Balon swallows heavily, resting his spiked mace on his shoulder and leaning on his shield, his eyes almost wide at the barbarity as Torbos goes slightly green, wringing his hands on the shaft of his spear. Falhim rubs the amulet beneath his jerkin, muttering to his ancestors as he looks about, his eyes lingering on the pale corpse of a young boy, eyes wide in agonized terror. As the muttering and curses spread through your men, you turn your head back towards them. Ahead of you, nearly two hundred yards off is the ruin of Grimspears Holdfast. Torches burn along the walls and the gate is barricaded with sharpened stakes and rocks. The crumbled walls have palisades of reinforced logs and stakes filling the gaps, shadowy figures rushing about atop them. The dark and broke towers peer at you like the eyeless skulls you passed on the way here, the sensation of being watched growing ever stronger. Behind the walls, the Hold itself looms like the entrance to a tomb, dark and foreboding, the stench of death and decay, blood and fear filling the air. The terrified pleas and sobs of those still captive there are carried on the winds, whispering in your ears like the voices of the long dead.

It wouldn’t do to allow fear to take hold in your men, not in a place like this.

>Your men are discouraged and offput by the spectacle of the impaled innocents.
>What say? (Attempt to restore morale.)

File: 082CB6A2-EB8F-40B9-B5CD-B(...).gif (154 KB, 288x229)

154 KB GIF

My patience is immeasurable

>>3708276
>"WHAT'S THE MATTER YA BLOODY WHORESONS, NEVER SEEN A FEW CORPSES? I'LL IMPALE THE LOT OF YA IF YOU DON'T GET A MOVE ON!"
no idea hwats happening btw

>>3708389
Cultists holed up in a large ancient fort that Magnus is reclaiming for the Crag Wolves. It’s got a bunch of prisoners in it and they’re doing fucky stuff with the live ones and impaling others on spikes outside.

Lots of bad juju

>>3708364
I've got nothing, but I guess I'll try.
>>3708276
>What say?
"Does that look like the work of brave, strong, dangerous men to you? Helpless women, children and farmers senselessly slaughtered, long after having the fight beaten out of them?
DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THE WORK OF MEN YOU SHOULD FEAR?!?!
Because to me, it looks like the work of sniveling, crawling cowards, hiding behind masks and crumbling walls. They seek to scare us, they seek to intimidate us with purposeless violence, but before the sun rises they will meet not bound farmers but grown men in battle AND THEY WILL MEET OUR STEEL
AND THEY WILL MEET OUR WRATH
AND THEY....WILL...SEE....TRUE....VIOLENCE!
LET US SHOW THEM SOMETHING TO FEAR, LET US CRUSH THIS VERMIN UNDERFOOT!"

>>3708276
Come you lot, val's ball have seen and battled argest worse, we are the wolfs the pry should fear us, they cant be that strong if they have to do this shit to get any kind of power, and just think of the all the shingy things they must have in there and besides il be takeing half of my notmal take of thr loot and the rest well go to your boys thats if your brave enguh to go skull fuck some sick fucks for they are but men and wolf pry apon them.

Rolled 4, 2, 30 = 36 (3d100)

Drawing your blade, you level the ancient rune steel at the fortress before sweeping the blade side to side, gesturing at the corpses and blood wet spikes that jut from the earth. Your voice is low, echoing in the silence as you turn to your men fully, eyes glittering in the dark behind your helm.
"Does that look like the work of dangerous men to you? Helpless women, children and farmers senselessly slaughtered, long after having the fight beaten out of them?”
Slamming your shield into the earth, you raise your voice, your words ringing out through the darkness, the crows themselves falling silent.
“DOES THIS LOOK LIKE THE WORK OF MEN YOU SHOULD FEAR?!?”

Shaken heads and a few scattered shouts of “No!” Answer you as you slam your fist to your chest, turning to level your blade at the shadowy figures amassing on the walls of the ancient ruin.
“Because to me, it looks like the work of sniveling, crawling cowards! A mob of murderers, hiding behind masks of rags and crumbling walls. They seek to scare us, they seek to intimidate us with needless butchery....”
You spread your arms out wide, turning in place to encompass all before you before you lift your voice high.
“But before the dawn they will meet us in battle! Not whimpering and bound farmers but men of the Crag! They will face us in battle AND THEY WILL MEET OUR STEEL!”
Dozens of voices ring out at that, men thumping the butts of spears against the stone and slamming their weapons against their shields. They bare their teeth, faces set and drawn as they howl like the Wolves of Vall, the wave of noise drowned out as you slam your blade and shield together, the crackle of lightning down the curving greatsword illuminating your face as you bellow out.
“AND THEY WILL MEET OUR WRATH! LET US SHOW THEM SOMETHING TO FEAR, LET US CRUSH THIS VERMIN UNDERFOOT!"

Your men cheer, hefting their weapons high and howling in battlefury, your companions among them, whooping and shouting like all the rest. A chant takes over the men, their voices falling in with one another as they smash weapons against shields and ram spear and axe shafts against the stone.
“Magnus! Magnus! Magnus! Magnus!”

Turning away from your men, you begin stalking forward, your warparty following along behind. Distant shouts of alarm reach from the walls as the Cultists rally, several throwing torches out beyond the wall to cast pools of light. You grin in primal savagery as you break into a run; your voice ringing like a warhorn as you shout.
“CHAAARGE!!”

>Roll me 3d100 please bo3. This is for your individual units success in their engagements. Beat muh rolls pls

Rolled 78, 90, 80 = 248 (3d100)

>>3708902
>These rolls
Wow, they are going to get murdered

Rolled 5, 83, 43 = 131 (3d100)

Rolled 82, 15, 34 = 131 (3d100)

>>3708902
Rolls for the QM! Before he HUNGERS!

Rolled 47, 98, 69 = 214 (3d100)

>>3708902

Rolled 84, 99, 97 = 280 (3d100)

>>3708902
MAIM, KILL, BURN!
MAIM, KILL, BURN!
MAIM, KILL, BURN!

>>3708908
>>3708929
This'll be brutal.

>>3708962
Yeah, they are going to be massacred like the edgy emo bitches they are, before they even realize whats happening. It's going to be a fun new experience for them to fight men that can hold a weapon.

>>3709006
Probably have a demon or evil spirt backing them though, that'll be a challenging boss fight.

>>3709016
That is definitely a very real possibility, maybe a possessed champion, but we are supernaturally empowered ourselves so hopefully we should be fine.

>>3709033
Hence, challenging instead of impossible. Maybe they'll have some hellish shit we could attempt to heal our arm with, or at least something indicating where we could find it.

>>3708908
Yess my boner is redy! !

>>3708902
>82>4. You and your raiders swarm over the walls with almost no contest
>90>2 Urhost and his men smash through the gate without even stopping
>80>30 Wren and his men bombard the Cultists with a storm of arrows

With a wordless roar, you and your men break into a headlong charge, weaving around the various spikes and crucified bodies that you see now were intended partially to break up the formation of oncoming attacks. Against the determined weight of your charge however, your men simply push through the forest of death, their eyes wild and teeth bared in bloodlust. With every step, you grow closer to the walls, the masked men and women atop the fortifications visible in silhouette as they draw back bows and crude throwing spears. Arrows whistle out in shrieking arcs, the points glittering in the moonlight. Your voice rings out a order and your men obey.
“Shields UP!!”

Arrows sink into leather coated wood with dull thunks, several skating from yours in showers of sparks as they glance from the metal. You don’t even slow, holding the shield before you as you run, the withering hail of shafts finding no purchase in your men besides a few light wounds. Panicked shouts echo out as the Cultists react, spears and thrown rocks clanging from shields and skittering off the stone.

Arvel stoops, grabbing a missed javelin and tosses it in a wide arc, laughing as one of the masked figures topples backward, clutching at the shaft buried in their chest. The mad raider cackles as he follows after you, your men packing the ladders behind you.
“Take THAT ya gutless cunt!”

As you draw closer and closer, your men return fire at the Cultist archers, arrows whistling out like angry hornets, jagged stones cracking skulls and smashing against the crumbling walls, javelins arcing over the walls or finding purchase in screaming flesh. Wren spreads his men out into a broad arc, their arrows and projectiles flying by overhead, keeping the Cultists pinned lest they catch an arrow in the throat. A arrow skates off your shield and you catch sight of the archer in question as he nocks another arrow, silhouette against a burning torch against one of the fallen towers. The Cultist takes careful aim at you, the hunting bow drawn tight to his cheek before collapsing like a sackcloth puppet, a barbed arrow driven through the eye hole of the cloth mask

Slamming into the wall, you hold your shield overhead, panting slightly from the run as heavy stones slam into the metal, each impact vibrating the engraved steel. Arvel holds his bowl sized buckler overhead, grinning happily as he looks about, noting the lack of injured or dead.
“Well... that was fuckin’ easy. Guess they’re bad shots?”

>Cont

>>3709140
Your men follow close behind you, those without ladders crowding against the wall with their shields interlocked into a portable shelter against the Cultists various ammunition. The rough hewn saplings and branches are still sticky with sap as you step back, lending your strength to lever the ladder into place. With a solid *wham* it settles against the stone, the awkward angle and weight of the ladder making it very difficult to push off. Up and down the wall, your men are slamming the makeshift ladders into place, one unlucky cultist tries to push the falling ladder off the wall and has his arms pinned beneath the heavy wood for his trouble. A spear thrust ends his pained yelping, blood spurting out as he chokes on his life.

You laugh, panting against the heat of so many bodies crammed against each other and push around, rocks and arrows bouncing from your shield, men screaming and shouting one both sides. Shrugging at Arvel, you swing the greatsword into a reverse grip, freeing enough of your hand to grip the ladder as you begin to climb.
“Guess we’ll find out if they’re better fighters than they are archers. I’ll see you up there”

Arvel curses as a fist sized rock slams into his shoulder, rubbing it and leering up at you.
“Yeah yeah leave some of’em fer me eh?”

The ladder is sturdy despite its makeshift origins, the wood and bindings barely creaking as you move upward. The cultists shouting only grows louder and more panicked, the men and women alike scrambling for arms. A axe blade slams into your shield, nearly jarring your arm as the man above you swings it with both hands. You simply *Punch* upward with rim, both of his forearms shattering as he brings the weapon down again. The crumbling parapet of the wall falls inward as you climb over it, the shower of stone and ancient masonry pushing the masked and raggedly armored Cultists back for a step. One fails to move fast enough and howls in pain as a jagged stone the size of your head crushes his foot. One of his compatriots stoops, dragging him back by the collar you loom upward, a arrow leaving a shining trail as it glances from your helm. One of the cultists takes a deep breath, shouting outward in a male voice unmistakably twisted by fear.
“Brothers! Sisters! They’re on the walls! Fight! Fight for the Father! His will must be done!”

>Cont

>>3709145
“Fight for him little man. Die for him. It doesn’t matter which”
You step over the edge of the wall, your men already climbing up behind you as the masked figures give each other nervous looks before readying their weapons. Repurposed sickles, makeshift spears, stolen shortswords and long daggers, shields of rough cut boards bound with strips of soft iron. Most of their weaponry seems stolen or scavenged. A few look stronger than the others, wielding felling axes, mauls and mallets, their robes covered with scavenged mail and scale armor. You chuckle in contempt as you slash aside a clumsy spear thrust, the sharpened pitchfork sailing away as you step forward, ramming the spike of your shield through the robed figures chest before tossing him aside like a sack of onions. Another swipes at you with a long handled cleaver, the blade sparking on stone as you lean to the side, slamming your elbow into his skull so hard he flops into a merciless pile. You grin cruelly behind your helm, casting your eyes over the unimpressive lot, before planting a heel on the whimpering idiot who had shattered his arms on your shield.
“Now... which of you child murdering cunts is in charge?”

Your question is answered for you as the doors to the Hold slam open from the inside, the courtyard swarming with Cultists running to and fro. They pause, weapons in hand as a group of five men step out of the pitch black doorway. Armored in scavenged plate and scalemail, likely stolen from soldiers on patrol or caravan guards, their faces are obscured behind black iron masks. In their hands are longswords, halberds, double headed axes. The figure at their fore, their armor covered by a robe of dark cloth, levels a wide bladed spear towards the walls, towards your men, towards *YOU*. Their voice rings out, echoing hollowly from behind the mask.
“Defend the Father! Fight to the last! His work must not be stopped!”
Fixing your gaze from across the courtyard, you can *tell* the figure is smiling.
“Take the father the rest of the sacrifices. We must fulfill his word!”

With that, the cultists howl like animals, throwing themselves against your men.

>Fight cautiously vs 1

>Fight sensibly vs 2

>Fight bravely vs 3

>Fight Like a Warrior vs 4

>Fight like a Hero vs 5

>Fight like a Legend vs 6

>>3709147
>Fight bravely vs 3

>Fight like a Hero vs 5
No prisoners boys

>>3709147
>>Fight like a Legend vs 6
Val would accept no other.

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>3709177
3
>>3709186
5
>>3709230
6


Let’s get funky

>>3709257
You all should hang your nuts till they drop for allowing cowardice into our gene pool.

>>3709230
>tfw arrived too late to vote

>>3709257
Fucking weak, but I'm sure there's more fanatics inside.

>>3709352
Its a race to stop the fathers work.
Have wren get inside to try to stop what evere is going on in there we will deal with whats out here then rush i to help

>>3709257
>Magnus
>200/200HP
>70 armor

Has engaged

>Brother Gerard
>115/115HP
>20 armor
>Makeshift Spear 3A 3D 1DD

>Sister Jienan
110/110 HP
>25 Armor
>Long Dagger 4A 2D 1DD
>Makeshift Shield +5 Armor +1D

>Brother Ollun
>145/145HP
>45 armor
>Maul 2A 2D 2DD+10

The walls themselves slant downwards into the courtyard, a crude ramp of rubble and gravel that both reinforces the remaining walls and allows ease for the cultists to man them in force. It is down this ramp that you bull your way through, tossing aside men and women, slamming left and right with your shield, lashing out with blade, armored fist and boot. Bones snap, flesh parts under steel and blood spurts into the air as you cleave your way into the ragged defenders. They push against you, knives scraping against shield and gouging into leathers, clubs and axes sparking against the gleaming metal. You could very well be overwhelmed if not for your men following close behind you. They smash into the gap you cleave into the mob of masked and robed figures, adding weight to your one man assault.

Arvel cackles madly as he buries his fighting knife under a masked figures jaw, twisting the blade cruelly as he headbutts the dying man away. Spinning around, he punches out with the buckler, bone and teeth crumbling as the iron rim slams into a cheekbone. A spearpoint jabs into his shoulder, the leather catching the worst of the thrust. Snarling like a beast, he grips the shaft and yanks the figure closer, burying his handaxe to the haft in their collarbone.

The gate to the fortress crashes open with a slamming impact that makes the earth shudder as the makeshift ram shatters the boards holding it closed. Urhost and his men pour through the newly opened gap, smashing into the unprepared rabble that mobs against the walls. Urhost bowls over a sticky Cultist, smashing the mans jaw with the butt of his axe before punching out with the axe head, crushing the throat of another. Like a coal through snow, he and his men hack into the unprepared cultists, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. Urhost fights more viciously than normal, slamming into his opponents like a hammer, his shaven head smeared with blood and clots of gore. He cleaves a howling woman from shoulder to hip, kicking her dying ruin aside and slashing through the throat of one of her fellows with a spurt of arterial gore. Torbos follows close behind the berserk warrior, thrusting his spear into the backs and bellies of any that try to approach the man from behind. A gash in his cheek weeps blood, his eyes wild and face slick with sweat.

>Cont

>>3709453
A barrage of arrows is heralded by a chorus of screams of pain, a entire row of Cultist archers falling limp as Wren and his more martially focused men swarm over the western wall of the fortress, taking advantage of their distraction. Wren has discarded his dappled cloak, the boiled leathers and ringmail he wears festooned with sheaths for daggers and blades of varying sizes. He wheels through the surviving Archers, a pair of curved daggers in his fists. Blood sprays in crimson arcs as he severs tendons and arteries, plunging the blades into soft throats and redirecting blows to slam harmlessly into the stone. His hand flicks out, one of the blades finding a new home in the throat of a charging Cultist, the woman toppling limply with several inches of steel protruding from the back of her neck. Reaching to his back, Wren draws a lightly curved short sword, the blade gleaming as he whips it about, slashing through the men around him like a farmer reaping wheat.

You take all this in and more as you smash through a makeshift shield wall, throwing the masked figures aside like dry leaves. With fist and blade, shield, boot and armored helm, you deal out death and pain with equal measure. Beyond the mob of cultists, you can see the armored Acolytes and their leader standing silently, watching as cultists drag screaming men, women and children into the Hold. You can feel the figures eyes on you as you bury the Stormblade into the chest of a brutish Cultist, twisting the blade as the elemental energy roasts his innards, smoke spilling from his dying lips and boiling through the eyeholes of his mask.

The intent is clear. He is waiting for you.

You make to smash through mob once again, bulling your way through the men and women that stand in your path. Their zealous courage is something to be impressed with, death likely being less fearful for them than the ire of their “Father”. Just as you go to advance, a heavy blow strike the back of your knee, driving you down for a moment. You aren’t injured, the blow only barely catching you. But it’s still enough to make you pause.

>Cont

>>3709457
Standing to your full height, a trio of figures stand before you, singled out from the fighting around you. A short Cultist with a stocky build, his mask stained with dried blood and a jawbone hanging from his neck hefts a crude spear, the spearpoint simply being a jagged dagger tied to the carved shaft with strips of rawhide. The figure next to him is a hulking brute, muscle stretching the fabric of the robes tight while scavenged scale mail is draped across the broad chest, a necklace of fingerbones tapping against the rusted metal. The wood splitting maul in his hands is smeared with dried blood, the eyes behind the mask glittering darkly. The figure to his right is thin, showing wiry strength in the long limbed frame. Dirty brown hair extends from the collar of the mask, the roughly made wooden shield gripped tightly along with the double edged dagger in her hand, nearly long enough to be called a short sword.

“You’ll die before you reach our Dark Father”
Says the woman, twirling the dagger in her hand as the brute hefts his maul onto his shoulder. The spearman chitters madly, his eyes wild behind his mask as he jabs experimentally.
“Die die! You’ll die die die die!!! Father says! Father SEEEES!!!”

>Attack

>Defend

>Special Attack

>Fight Dirty

>Feat of Strength

>Other

>>3709464
>Whirlwind Attack on the group
>"And he is soon to be blind!"

>Special Attack
Whirlwind

>>3709489
Do this

>Whirlwind Blow
>Attack all around you in a sweeping arc that leaves you open to counterattack if it misses/they dodge. If it misses, enemies will only have to beat your agility score to hit you.

>Brother Gerard
>Agility DC55

>Brother Ollun
>Agility DC45

>Sister Jienan
>Agility DC65

Roll me 3 seperate 1d100+5. Let’s see if it hits/how hard you get hit

Rolled 44, 76, 14 + 5 = 139 (3d100 + 5)

>>3709543
>"MAIM! KILL! BURN!"

Rolled 100 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3709543
Careful not to slip on our vagina juice cause we're a pussy.

Rolled 19 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3709543

>>3709554
Holy...

Rolled 74 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3709543

SPIN TO WIN

>>3709554

Dude get over it, it was decided by a goddamn dice roll

>>3709562
>>3709563
VAL HAS CHOSEN ME FOR MY BRAVERY

File: 1563135761046.jpg (129 KB, 500x688)

129 KB JPG

>>3709554
>>3709564
>Vall's face when

>>3709554
>>3709564
Poor Gerard though, fanatic or not the sight of a death so gruesome might bring the rest of their forces to route.

Rolled 21, 80, 56, 99, 80, 28, 100 = 464 (7d100)

>>3709584
Technically as I’m taking the first roll from
>>3709553
It’s actually brother Ollun who is taking that hit. And it’s gonna HURT.

So we have
>49<55. Brother Gerard Dodges!
>105>45. Brother Ollun is hit! Natural Crit. Double Damage!
>24<65. Sister Jienan dodges!

That’s (as they get free attacks on you because you missed them) that is a total of 7 (Seven) retaliatory hits on you. Rolling for their chance to hit now, they have to beat 50 to hit you

>>3709608
>dat 99
>dat 100
OUCH

>>3709608
Demm son

>>3709608
Magnus vs Gerard
>21<50. Gerard Misses!
>80>50! Gerard Hits!
>56>50! Gerard hits!

Magnus vs Jienan
>99>50! Jienan hits!
>80>50! Jienan hits
>28<50! Jienan misses
>100>50! Jienan hits! Natural crit! Double damage!

>So that’s 5 (Five) hits on you. Rolling damage. These are 1 handed weapons so they’re all 1d100 damage each but that’s still a flurry of hits.

Roll this hungry QM one 2d100 please and then a 2d20. damage will be doubled.

I’ll be rolling 5d100 with the final roll being doubled.

Rolled 76, 43, 15, 43, 93 = 270 (5d100)

>>3709630
Helps if I actually roll

Rolled 62 (1d100)

>>3709630
RAGE

>>3709652
2d100 m80 I’ll disregard that one

>>3709630
Do we not get to save the 100?

>>3709634
>93(2) damage
Ho Lee Fuk, let's hope we do enough damage to stay on our feet.

Rolled 40, 29 = 69 (2d100)

>>3709654
RAGE AGAIN

>>3709657
You have the life drinker trait so all damage you deal you get 10% back as tasty health

>>3709656
The 100 hits and does a fuckton of damage on hammerguy

>>3709665
I know, but I'm not certain it'll be enough.

If one of you gents could be so kind as to feed this QM a 2d20 (which will also be doubled) for your lightning damage

Rolled 2, 8 = 10 (2d20)

>>3709676

>>3709656
Not for combat rolls. Crits can be banked if they are done as a skill check/normal activity and another roll passes the DC

Rolled 20, 4 = 24 (2d20)

>>3709676

>>3709634
Arch Magnus
>200/200HP
>70 Armor
>76-70=6 damage!
>43-70=-27. Armor negation!
>15-70=-55. Armor negation!
>43-70=-27. Armor negation!
>93x2=186-70=116 Damage!
>116+6=122 damage!
>200-122=78/200 HP Magnus is badly hurt!

Brother Ollun
>145/145HP
>45 Armor
>69x2=138-45=93
>10x2=20. Lightning damage ignores armor.
>93+20=113 damage
>145-113=32/145 HP. Ollun is grievously injured

>Life Drinker! Magnus regains 13HP
>Arch Magnus 91/200HP

Writing!

AND YOU TWATS WANTED TO THROW CAUTION TO THE FUCKING WIND!

>>3709724
>we actually survived
What a fucking beast

>>3709729
Our legend will mean nothing if it isn't earned in sweat and blood.

>>3709751
We probs going to end up with more broken hands or lags at this point

>>3709754
Next time let's go for the disfiguring scars instead.

>>3709754
We literally heal by doing damage

>>3709763
But can we do enough?

>>3709797
yeah probably

>>3709763
That still hasnt helad our fucked up hand

>>3709827
Yeah, because it doesn't heal an injury, we got that from taking a massive blow on a critical fail defense.

You grin viciously behind your helm, blood trickling across the metal slowly as the fighting rages around you. The robed and masked cultists advance a few paces, their weapons clenched tightly in their fists as your chuckle echoes from the confines of the metal.
“He’ll be seeing a lot once i put his pinched little head on a pike.”

The feral snarl that issues from the spearman’s throat is like that of a mangy dog, his eyes wide and glassy behind the bloodstained cloth. His compatriots flower at you, casting sidelong looks at each other before the woman turns her gaze to you.
“You’ll die for that.”
Her voice is flat and emotionless, the pure cold rage of a zealot facing down a heretic.

“Someone will”
With that, you step forward, swinging your blade around in a great looping arc, seeking to cleave all three of them in one blow. Roiling elemental energies crackle along the blade, sparking in the darkness along the curved runesteel, the air itself hissing under the unnaturally keen edge. Your rasping exhalation off effort takes on a surprised tone as the filthy spearman ducks beneath the blow, the blade hissing overhead harmlessly. He turns the duck into a roll, popping up onto his feet with his spear at the ready.

The brutish Cultist with the maul is not so lucky however. His clumsy attempt to jerk back only serves to lessen what would be a fatal wound otherwise, the blade shearing through his scale armor like silk. He howls in agony as the blade draws across, parting the tissue of his upper chest and shoulder so deeply the bone is carved into, blood jetting from the grievous wound. Sparks and jumping arcs of energy lance into his flesh, scorching his skin and flesh, filling the air with the scent of burnt flesh and boiling blood. He stumbles backwards, holding a hand to the savage wound, smoke and blood pouring between his fingers.

The blade whistles towards the female Cultist, her languid turn showing a complete disregard for death. With a dancers grace, she simply leans backwards, allowing the blow to glide harmlessly overhead. You could swear, as she straightens, settling into a predators tensed stance, that she is smiling behind the cloth mask. You grunt in jarring shock as the blade slams into a support for the nearby gate tower, embedding itself several inches deep into the thick wooden post. You tug experimentally on it, the blade wedged tightly in the wood. A lancing pain in your shoulder causes you to grunt and curse in pain as the spearman lunges forward, burying three inches of the blade in your upper shoulder.

>Cont

>>3709873
>Cont

“He Sees! He watches! He KNOWWWWSSS!”
Howls the madman, as he braces his feet, yanking the jagged blade out with all his might. Blood coats the tip and edge of the weapon as he withdraws it, your armor having taking the worst of the hit. His follow up jab is balked by the mail guarding your vitals, a metallic *ting* following the thrusts. His mad giggles heighten as he thrusts again, the rusted makeshift spear jabbing towards your face. A sweep of your shield and a kick of your boot sends him leaping back, clutching a hand to his chest and coughing as he regains his breath.

“Fuckin’ madman”
You curse, wrenching the blade free in a shower of splinters and and wood chips, advancing on the wounded Cultist. A blur of movement to your right brings to light the fact that there WERE three of them. A sudden weight hits your shoulders as the female Cultist leaps into your back, her dagger glancing from your helm as she thrusts downward, gouging a gleaming score in the metal. Her second thrust is thwarted as you throw up an arm, her wrist hitting your forearm. You twist, throwing your weight forward and dislodging the woman over your shoulders. Her hands swing out as you do, a sudden punching impact knocking the wind from you as she slams the dagger into your chest, the blade punching through mail, hides and leathers to drive deep into your chest.

“GAH!”
You spit a sudden mouthful of blood as she lands in a rolling tumble ripping dagger free with a sickening sliding sensation, blood sheeting down your chest and filling your mouth with every breath. You stagger back, bracing your weight on your shield as you look down at the wound. Blood pumps steadily from the gap in your armor, trickling down the front of your armor as the Cultist examines the blood coating the first third of her blade. She flips it into a underhand grip, bending her knees as the Brute staggers to his feet, the spearman gibbering happily as he skitters forward.

>Attack

>Defend

>Special Attack

>Fight Dirty

>Feat of Strength

>Other

>>3709876
>>Special Attack
sundering attack, we need that big healing hit.

>>3709876
Defend

>>3709876
>Feat of Strength
>Topple the wall of the nearby ruin ontop of the spearman and maul-wielder

>>3709918
It only heals up to their current Hp. If their HP is 120 and you do 297 damage that is 12 points healed.

>>3709919
Just letting you know, you don’t actually have any shield counterattack skills so the most Defend would do is avoid damage for a round. Good if you have active regeneration but just letting you know.

>>3709919
>>3709876
Il change to this then
Attack

>>3709918
Sundering blow only does damage to their weapon my dude

Anybody else want to vote?

>>3710218
Attack
Needs more blood

>>3710244
I know i know

>>3710244
>>3710251
>this level of memetic s*y
Lay off the bottle anon

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>3709918
Gonna have to disregard this one as you don’t actually have an attack called Sundering Attack

So we’ll choose between
>>3710004
And
>>3709934

Rolled 56, 57, 64, 92, 75, 57, 56, 97 = 554 (8d100)

>Magnus is Attacking! 3A
>Brother Gerard is Attacking! 3A
>Sister Jienan is Defending! 3A
>Brother Ollun is Attacking! 2A

Roll me 3 sets of 3d100+5, taking the rolls consecutively, not best of 3 for this. Beat my rolls please. As Brother Ollun only has 2 attacks you simply have to beat his agility score to hit.

Rolled 34, 3, 11 + 5 = 53 (3d100 + 5)

>>3710407

Rolled 75, 43, 78 + 5 = 201 (3d100 + 5)

>>3710407

Rolled 83, 33, 47 + 5 = 168 (3d100 + 5)

>>3710407

Rolled 64, 42, 49 + 5 = 160 (3d100 + 5)

>>3710407

>>3710407
Os this the end for us?

Rolled 46, 7, 65, 22, 13 = 153 (5d100)

>>3710407
Magnus vs Brother Gerard
>39<56. Brother Gerard Hits!
>8<57. Brother Gerard Hits!
>16<64. Brother Gerard Hits!

Magnus vs Sister Jienan
>80<92. Jienan defends!
>48<75. Jienan defends!
>83>57. Magnus Hits!

Magnus vs Brother Ollun
>88>56. Magnus Hits!
>38<97. Brother Ollun Hits!
>52>45. Magnus Hits!

So that is 4 hits on you, one of them being a 2d100 and the others being 1d100 so I will be rolling 5d100 total damage with a +10 to the damage total of the last 2.

If you guys could feed me 2 (two) separate 2d100 and then also 2 separate 2d20

>>3710477
Judging by my rolls, none of which passed your armor value, nope

Rolled 25, 87 = 112 (2d100)

>>3710505

Rolled 19, 3 = 22 (2d20)

>>3710505

Rolled 12 (1d20)

>>3710505
OH FUUUUCK

Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>3710505
Death knows our name.

>>3710547
>>3710556
Decent rolls here.

Can we get one more 2d100 and 2d20 from a helpful anon?

>>3710584
Wait fuck You hit brother Ollun twice. Fuck me running. I need 2 more 2d100 and 2 more 2d20 for a total of 3 each

Rolled 37, 15 = 52 (2d100)

>>3710589

Rolled 31, 15 = 46 (2d100)

>>3710589

Rolled 16, 18 = 34 (2d20)

>>3710589

>>3710683
>>3710645
Really??
Curse you dice

i think we are dead

Just one more set of 2d100 and 2d20 pls. Samefagging is allowed. You guys landed 3 hits and I need a third damage roll

>>3710770
Fucking hell i shouldn’t post tired. ONE more 2D20

Rolled 5, 19 = 24 (2d20)

>>3710771
Let's see

Rolled 14, 20 = 34 (2d20)

>>3710771

>>3710781
ping.

Rolled 28, 40 = 68 (2d100)

>>3710770

>>3710505
Arch Magnus
>91/200HP
>70 Armor
>46-70=-24. Armor Negation!
>7-70=-63. Armor Negation!
>65-70=-5. Armor Negation!
>22+13+10=45-70=-25! Armor Negation!
No Damage Taken!

Sister Jienan
>110/110 HP
>25 Armor
>112-25=87 damage!
>87+22=109 damage!
>110-109= 1/110HP. Sister Jienan is FATALLY wounded.
>Life Drinker! Magnus regains 19Hp

>Brother Ollun
>32/145HP
>45 Armor
>52-45=7 damage
>46-45=1 damage
>34+24=60 Lightning damage!
>60+7+1=68
>32-68=-36. Brother Ollun is Dead!
>Life Drinker! Magnus regains (3.6 rounded to nearest decimal) 4HP!

>Magnus regains 23HP total!
>91+23=114/200HP

Writing!

Blood courses down your chin as you spit, the gash in your chest oozing blood, droplets spattering the ground as you stagger back. You grit your teeth, the taste of iron in your mouth as you suddenly notice that with each droplet of the larger cultists blood that hits the earth, your own pain seems to be fading. The wound seems to already be knitting, the flow of blood slowing as the Devourer imparts on you a taste of the death you wreak with every blow. Blood roars in your ears, almost drowning out the voices whispering from beyond the veil and your lips curl up in a soft smile as you feign weakness. Staggering onto one knee, you brace your weight on your shield, gasping a bit as you feign a mortal wound. With the amount of blood spattering the ground, you don’t really have to act that hard.

The female Cultist regards you coldly, twirling her dagger in her hand as she jerks her head in your direction, speaking to the crazed spearman.
“Gerard. You do the honors brother. Kill him”

“Oh yes Jienan! Oh Yes! The Father will be pleased with me! Oh yes oh yes oh yes!”
With a mad giggle, the spearman skitters towards you, almost bouncing on his feet as grips the crude spear in both hands. The jagged, slightly serrated dagger bound to the wooden shaft is slick with your blood as he draw it back, thrusting at your heart. With a jolt, the blade stops short as it rams into the boiled leather plates beneath the furs covering your armor. Drawing it back, the madman thrusts again, the blade being turned aside again by the armor, the thin blade nearly bending as he strains to pierce the iron rings beneath your armor. The bloodstained hood tilts quizzically as the Cultist grunts in frustration, drawing the spear back to jab into your throat with all his force.

“For the Fath-Urgh!”
His zealous cry turns into a grunt of pain as you surge forward, slamming your armored helm into his chest as you lunge forward. The breath leaves him explosively as he is pitched backwards, tumbling over one of his compatriots, locked in battle with your men. Your blade sings as it cuts the air, your lunge carrying you close to the female Cultist, her shocked gasp cut off as she reflexively jerks, her shield barely taking the brunt of the blow. Only the iron rim of the shield saves her arm as your blade hacks into it. Her eyes are wide behind the cloth mask as you whip the blade around again in a great looping slash that shears through the top half of her shield, sending the rough hewn wood and iron spinning off into the mob. Your roar of rage and battle fury rings like a warhorn as you step forward, thrusting out with the great curved blade, her desperate interposition of her shield doing nothing to slow the blade.

>Cont

>>3712441

“Fo...for the Fath-Hrk”
She manages to gasp, blood trickling from underneath her cloth mask as she spits a mouthful of sudden warmth. Your blade has pierced through the shield and arm behind it, severing the limb like a blade of grass, continuing onward to punch through her lower chest and out the back of her robes, the gleaming runesteel slick with blood. She looks down in shock at the blade buried just beneath her right breast and sighs tiredly, her head hanging down and limbs going slack as she loses consciousness. Unceremoniously, you plant a boot in her chest and push her off the blade, smoke curling from the terrible wound as the elemental energies bound to the blade scorch her flesh. You look down at the mortally wounded woman, spitting a gobbet of blood thick saliva onto the cloth mask.

The brutish Cultist looks down at his fallen compatriot, blood staining the stones and rubble in a growing stream beneath her body. Gripping his maul in both hands, he growls like a feral beast, his eyes dark behind the cloth mask. The fingerbones around his neck clank on the scale armor as he steps forward slowly. His voice is hoarse, tight with anger and religious fury.
“She’s with the Father now. He’ll smile on me for killing you.”
Twisting his hands on the haft of the maul, he resides himself.
“They both will”

His first blow is a massive overhand swing, charging forward like a bull. You have no doubt if the blow had connected, you would be missing several teeth but as it is you jerk your head back, twisting your body to allow the blow to slam harmlessly into the ground. His grunt of effort turns into a roar of pain as you slash the blade across his back, opening up a shallow gash that seeps a trickle of scarlet. His retaliatory swing is a sweeping blow, his grip on the very end of the shaft, allowing the weight of the maul to spin him around. You jerk your shield into the way with a resounding *CLANG* as the heavy iron head meets engraved silver.

“Mean fucker aren’t you”
You chuckle darkly, adjusting your grip on the Storm Blade, blood making your fingers sticky in the gauntlets. You push off with the shield, the change in momentum making the Cultist stumble back as you whip the blade upward, the very tip of the razor edge shearing through the front of his mask and cutting a thin gash across his cheek.

>Cont

>>3712444
>”kill him... kill this filth”
A voice whispers in your mind, old and tired but full of contempt for these cultists. You recognize it as he voice you heard when you claimed the ancient Storm Blade. You catch a glimpse of pale, scarred flesh beneath the cloth mask as you draw the blade back, the enchanted steel humming in your grasp as a sudden thrumming energy runs down your arm. You step forward, the blade enveloped in crackling elemental energy as you thrust outward, the cultists eyes widening as a twisting, arcing bolt of pure energy extends outward from the blade, casting a bright blue glow to the surrounding conflict as the brutish Cultist takes the bolt full in the face.

“Wha-!?!”
His shocked, reflexive gasp is transformed into a agonized howl as lances of energy burn into his flesh, smoke and the stench of burning meat oozing from under his hood. His limbs shudder and spasm, his flesh smoking as the arcs of energy dance along his scaled armor, the edges of the metal glowing softly as the cloth mask catches fire, the agonized choking scream cutting off suddenly as the cultists head simply *bursts* under the onslaught of pure energy. His burning, twitching corpse falls backward in a heap, the battle around you stilling for a moment as you stand over the devastated corpse, arcs of energy still crackling along the blade as you glower down at them.
“WHO ELSE WANTS TO DIE?!”
You roar, holding the ancient blade high as you plant a foot on the burning corpse.

With a cheer, your men tear into the mob of cultists, howling like beasts as they fight with redoubled fury. A mad giggle prompts you to turn, the spearman extricating himself from the tangle of limbs he had been tossed into, leveling his spear in your direction.
“Ohhhh yessss... The Father will be pleeeeaaaased when I bring him your heart... oh yes oh yes oh yes”

You grunt dismissively, swinging your shield about between you and the madman
“He’s gonna be disappointed”

>Attack

>Defend

>Special Attack

>Fight Dirty

>Feat of Strength

>Other

>>3712445
Attack

>>3712445
>Attack

>Attack

>>3712445
> Attack

>>3712445

Rolled 53, 44, 81 = 178 (3d100)

>Attack! Has Brother Gerard’s luck finally run out?
>Roll me 3 (Three) seperate 1d100+5
>Rolling for Brother Gerard’s Attack

Rolled 40 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3712781

Well time to turn the brother into the broken

Rolled 55 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3712781

Rolled 50 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3712781

Rolled 100, 69 = 169 (2d100)

>>3712781
Magnus vs Brother Gerard
>45<53. Brother Gerard Hits!
>60>44. Magnus Hits!
>55<81. Brother Gerard Hits!

>Rolling for Gerard’s Damage.
>Roll me 1 (One) 2d100 and a single 2d20 please

>>3712931
It’s a good thing that was just the damage roll there. Damage rolls don’t Crit.

Rolled 82, 47 = 129 (2d100)

>>3712931

Oh here we go

Rolled 3, 12 = 15 (2d20)

>>3712931

>>3712936
Lucky

>>3712931
Arch Magnus
>114/200HP
>70 Armor
>100-70=30 Damage!
>69-70=-1. Armor Negation!
>114-30=84/200HP! Magnus is Badly wounded!

Brother Gerard
>115/115HP
>20 Armor
>129-20=109 damage!
>109+15=126 total damage
>115-126=-11/115HP! Brother Gerard is dead!
>Life Drinker! Magnus regains 11HP!

>Arch Magnus 84+11=95/200HP

Writing

“Aiiiiii!!!!”
With a wordless howl, the spearman lunges at you, his eyes wild behind the bloodstained cloth hood. The yellowed jawbone hanging from his neck bounces wildly as he throws his entire weight behind the lunge. The speed and ferocity to the lunge surprises you for a moment, dulling your reactions for just a moment as his spear slips past your guard. You grunt in pain as four inches of jagged steel punch through the leathers over your thigh, the sickening scraping as the edge grates against bone sending a chill down your spine. The madman rips the spear back, the blade of his makeshift spear smeared with blood, small chunks of skin and flesh stuck in the rough filed serrations.

“Fucker!”
You snarl in pain as your leg fails to support your weight, dropping to you one knee with a grunt. You brave your weight on the silver greatshield as the Cultist bears down on you. He hisses like a serpent behind the cloth mask, disregarding his brothers and sisters falling all around him as he draws his spear back with casual slowness. With a shuddering sigh, both eyes roll back as he jabs the spear forward.

With a metallic *Tink* it stops short as you drop the Stormblade, gripping the makeshift blade of the spear in your armored fist. Raising your head, you glare at the Cultist as he yanks ineffectually on the spear shaft, actually whining petulantly as he does.
“Leggo! Leggooooo!! Gotta kill you! Gotta killlll! Dark Father needs it! Wants it! Gotta do ittttt!”

*Snap*

With a yank and twist of your wrist, you snap the wooden shaft of the spear like a twig, the Cultists shocked and strangely offended gasp cut off as he stumbles forward. Flipping the makeshift spearhead in your grip, you thrust it forward, the blade punching through layers of cloth and rags, piercing through flesh and bone and driving deep into the madman’s chest. You put your mouth close to the Cultists ear, whispering to the mortally wounded man
“Told you. He’s going to be disappointed.”

The Devourers caress touches the back of your mind, a sickening warmth that steadies the flow of blood from your thigh, binding the flesh together as you stand. The Cultist sags to his hands and knees, holding the killing shard of wood and metal embedded in his chest. You look down on the dying man and adjust your grip on the Stormblade. You raise the blade over him, point down and nod in silent approval of the mans lack of fear.
“You crazy fucker... you did your best.”
*snik*
“But you’re just a man”

With a shocking ease, the blade punches through his spine between his shoulder blades, piercing out from his sternum. The dying mans limbs twitch and jerk as the elemental energies scorch his nerves and boil his blood. Smoking tarry blood courses down the blade and pools stickily on the ground as you plant a boot on his back, withdrawing it slowly as you raise your gaze, meeting the empty eyes of the iron masked warrior as he stands expectantly.

>Cont

>>3713410
He nods appreciatively, extending a empty hand and waving to you in a “come to me” gesture. The black armored men stand passively, their weapons planted in the ground before them, heads bowed as if in prayer. The masked cultists shuffle past behind them, dragging the few remaining prisoners into the inky maw of the Hold. The darkness seems to deep outward, dimming the light of the torches in the courtyard and casting the stars to faint glimmers in the blackness.

“Crag Wolves!”
You bellow, flourishing your blade and smashing aside a wounded Cultist with your shield, you heft the great blade high
“Cut them down!”

All around you, your men are ripping through what remains of the Cultist mob, Wrens initial estimate of sixty or so clearly having been off by roughly eighty or so, the robed figures swarming out of the half collapsed halls and towers in droves. Piles of dead and wounded litter the walls and ramps to them, the ground slick and sticky with blood, the stench of violent death filling the air. Arvel roars like a beast, slamming a twitching Cultists head into a stone over and over, blood coating his scarred and battered face, the madman snarling in battle fury. Urhost stands alone in a circle of fallen Cultists, his blade coated in a layer of gore and his armor dripping scarlet. Light slashes and wounds line his arms and shoulders but he simply glares down, shoulders heaving as his men mercilessly finish the last of the Cultists. Torbos stands just out of weapons reach of Urhost, leaning on his spear and holding a hand to his side, a broken arrow shaft jutting from just above his hip.
Wren has somehow climbed atop one of the crumbled towers, his bow in his hands and his quiver half empty, more than a dozen corpses falling within his range with barbed arrows through eyes or throats.

>The Faceless Acolytes wait for you to approach.
>The Dark Father has nearly finished his “Work” judging by the rapidly emptying cages.
>Your men have butchered the Cultist mobs
>You are rather heavily wounded
>Your men have taken almost no losses, only several badly wounded

>What do?

>>3713412
>"URHOST, ARVEL, TO ME! LET'S SEND THESE BASTARD WHORESONS BACK TO HELL!"
>Calling Urhost and Arvel to back us, charge the Faceless Acolytes

>>3713424
+1

>>3713424
You have a total of 6 companions with you if you wish any combination of them to join you.

Arvel
Balon
Falhim
Torbos
Wren
Urhost

But if you just want 2 of your heavies with you that’s perfectly fine

>>3713502
I say we just take Urhost and Arvel, while telling everyone else to stop the cultists taking out prisoners and to push deeper into the hold.

>>3713524
This

>>3713502
Fuck fighting clean. Shield phalanx into charge. Toot toot. All 6 named companions, our horde behind us, and we ourselves charge the Acolytes and just plow past them. Crush them under foot and under blade. We move quick enough and maybe we stop whatever fucked up plan is going on.

>Take Urhost and Arvel, engage the Faceless Acolytes.

Striding down the ramp from the walls, you step over limp corpses, moaning wounded and crawling cripples. Your boots squelch wetly in the pooling blood as you rest the blade of the Stormblade on your shoulder, exhaling tiredly as you look on at the masked figures. Their scavenged scale and plate is painted black, their tattered robes and cloaks stained with old blood and hanging heavily around their limbs. Four of them look down in silent vigil, their weapons thrust downward to the ground and hands folded atop hilts and hafts. Their apparent leader stands silently, the broad bladed spear held in one hand, butt down, a length of black cloth fluttering beneath the blade like a standard. Behind the featureless iron masks, the black hollows of the eyes seem to pull you in, a cold whisper creeping into your mind before you steel your will.

“Arvel! Urhost! With me! Let’s take these fuckers apart!”
You roar, brandishing your blade overhead as you kick out a grasping cultists hand, shattering the dying mans skull with a wet crunch. Arvel pauses in his bludgeoning of the now nearly headless corpse, grinning madly as he wrenches his handaxe from a mangled corpses skull, his buckler and fighting knife smeared with a coating of clotted gore and chunks of flesh. Urhost lifts his head bullishly, nostrils flared and eyes dark as he hefts his axe in both hands. The finely crafted steel has left a ruin of those foolish enough to face the warrior, the strength of his arm and the fury in his heart turning the man into a beast among helpless sheep.

The pair flank you, each sporting minor wounds but in fine fighting shape as you advance on the masked cultists, their leader watching impassively as you lift your voice high.
“Crag Wolves! There’s innocent folk in those cages! Keep them safe!”

With a roar, your men break into a sprint to either side of the courtyard, the few cultists remaining feebly attempting to hold them back before being swarmed, beaten down and hacked to pieces. Chains and leather bindings are cut or broken, the cages thrown open and the pleading, sobbing prisoners cowering back as your men form a semicircle around each group of cages, leveling their weapons outward in a shield wall. The Acolytes look up at that, each looking left and right before they turn their heads almost imperceptibly to the figure in the center. With a small shake of his head, they return to statuelike stillness, awaiting you. His voice carries out, echoing in the courtyard although it’s barely above a whisper.
“The Fathers work is almost done. Your lives are already forfeit”

You grin viciously, allowing the blade to catch the dimming torchlight as you hold it before you, examining the blood still streaked across the runesteel.
“Awfully bold talk.... for dead men.”

>Cont

>>3713615
The Acolytes heads all rise up, their voices intoning out in whispered, echoing tones.
“The Whispered One holds high those who fall in his service, to stand forever in his glory”
Their leader cocks his head at you, watching you with an impassive curiousness as a low chuckle rolls sickeningly from under the iron mask.
“Death is but a part of the journey. You’ve taken steps on it as well...”

You sniff dismissively, resting the blade point down as you, Arvel and Urhost stand twenty paces from the five Acolytes. The men have barely reacted to your presence, to the slaughter of the vast majority of their fellows. Only a subtle tenseness to their grips on their weapons show the readiness to snap into sudden, lethal movement. You fix your gaze on the dark, bottomless eye holes of the leaders mask as you give him a smirk
“You’ll be going a bit farther than I did. You can count on that”

>Engage the leader in one on one, Urhost and Arvel can handle two on one each.

>Engage two of them, one of your companions will have it easier.

>Engage three of them, you’re Arch Magnus damnit and they’ll sing of this day.

>Other

>>3713616
>Engage three of them, you’re Arch Magnus damnit and they’ll sing of this day.
Vall would expect nothing less

>>3713616
>>Engage three of them, you’re Arch Magnus damnit and they’ll sing of this day.

>>3713616
>>Engage three of them, you’re Arch Magnus damnit and they’ll sing of this day.
WITNESS ME VALL

>>3713620
Here we go. 3 on 1, but let's play real smart about this.

>>3713616
>Engage two of them, one of your companions will have it easier.
Come on guys we almost died taking on 3 last time

>>3713710
We also have a ton of solders about they could stop the fathers work or just send in wren in

>3 on 1. The fight of the century. The faceless Trio vs the master of disaster. Fanaticism vs Raw Fury. Who will win? Who will walk away?
>MORTAAAAAAAAAL
>KOMMMMBAAAAAAAT!!!!
>FIGHT

>Arch Magnus
>95/200HP
>70 Armor
>StormBlade (3A 3D 2DD+2d20)
>Relic Weapon Awakened! Ability Gained: Spear of the Storm (Ranged Attack. 1A 0D 4DD Lightning Damage. 3 turn cooldown)
>Heroic Challenge! Fight at heavily reduced odds/against Heroic/Epic enemies. Valls Favor Gained!

>Whisperer Aver
>160HP
>55 Armor
>Rusted Greatsword (2A 2D 2DD)
>Death Holds No Fear (Cannot be intimidated or terrified by the deaths or mortal wounds of others)
>Last Gasp. (Will fight on for 1 round unless Gruesomely Killed (-25+ HP)
>Faithful Servant (???)

>Whisperer Hollim
>150/150HP
>50 Armor
>Jagged Glaive (2A 2D 1DD)
>Death Holds No Fear
>Last Gasp
>Faithful Servant.

>The Faceless Brother
>175/175Hp
>60 Armor
>Ancient Spear (3A 2D 2DD)
>Parry (reverse a single failed attack roll into a counterattack.)
>Inhuman Strength (+10 To strength checks)
>Death Holds No Fear
>Last Gasp
>Faithful Servant
>A Glimpse of The Darkness (???)

“All this? This BUTCHERY? Slaughtering innocent women and children.... it ends now”
You growl, clenching your fist on the hilt of the storm blade, the great curved swords crackling slightly. A slight tingling rolls up your arm as the weapon vibrates slightly, arcs of lightning lancing between the blade and the ground. The Steel seems to be sheathed in a crackling field of elemental energy as you level it at the iron masked figures, the voice of Trulas whispering in your ear.
>”Fight! Fight lad! Defend the innocents! Fight, as I did once!”

Thunder rolls across the cloudless sky as stalk towards the cultists, Urhost and Arvel flanking you. The Faceless Acolytes finally move from their positions, gripping their weapons and shifting their stances as they step forward as well. The two on the wings of their formation step towards Urhost and Arvel, their weapons gleaming in the fading torchlight as their black iron masks seem to draw the light in. A heat, like a inferno in your mind presses against you for a moment and you hear a voice, chuckling in curious observation yet echoing like the death of a mountain
>”Brave...”

The presence fades somewhat, the heat only partially withdrawing, the sense of eyes on you from beyond the veil remaining. You fix your gaze on the Chief Acolyte, the broad bladed spear in his hands dipping in your direction as he cocks his head quizzically to the side, his compatriots flanking him. His voice echoes hollowly, the *wet* sounding whispers sending chills down your spine.
“All things have an end. Our bodies... Kingdoms... The Gods... but you... you have found yours here Arch Magnus.... The Whispered One will rise.”

>Cont

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>>3714973
You swing your shield in front of you, holding your blade to your side as Urhost and Arvel howl in unison, leaping into battle against their foes, blades clashing and sparking in the darkness. Your men watch from the edges of the impromptu ring, weapons leveled inward as the trio of Acolytes spread outward to face you. The one on your left is a great hulking brute, standing a head under your height, wielding a chipped and rusted greatsword. Under the hood of his tattered cloak, the iron mask is gouged and scratched by combat. The scavenged plate gauntlet of his left hand is missing the pinky and ring finger, the digits likely shorn off in battle. Scavenged scalemail covers his chest, while pauldrons, greaves and bracers of crudely hammered iron guard his shoulders, calves and forearms. On your right, a more stocky figure stands, ringmail glimmering under the layer of black and rags. The glaive in his hands is a battered thing, the edge jagged and botched but still lethally sharp.

Their leader stands directly before you, the broad bladed spear held crosswise across his body as he minutely adjusts his feet, the hollows of the eye holes in the mask seeming to stare into your soul. The scratched and nicked plate of his armor is worn, dents and gouges hammered out of it but still seeming strong. The ragged black cloak swishes against the ground, its bottom wet with blood as he gives you a almost imperceptible nod.
“A pity you won’t live to see it...”

>Attack

>Defend

>Special Attack

>Feat of Strength

>Fight Dirty

>Other

>Special Attack
Spear of Storm at the leader cause fuck him in particular

>>3715001
support

>>3715001

>Special Attack! open up with the Big Money
>STORM SPEAR
>This is a ranged attack and they aren’t in melee range at the moment so you face no “free” or retaliatory hits here. You just have to HIT him. Your roll must beat 50 to hit.
>Roll me 1d100+5. First come first serve. Let’s see how hard Magnus can hit

File: 6AA91D38-6373-41B4-99C0-5(...).png (90 KB, 181x279)

90 KB PNG

>>3715055

Rolled 93 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

Rolled 42 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3715055

>>3715082
Thats the money shot

Rolled 31 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3715055

File: DBF8F0F0-626D-4754-819C-6(...).jpg (25 KB, 379x289)

25 KB JPG

>>3715055
>>3715082

>Magnus Vs The Faceless Brother
>93+5=98>50. Magnus Hits.

>Roll me 4d100 Damage. First come first serve.

Rolled 4, 17, 17, 37 = 75 (4d100)

>>3715133

Rolled 41, 6, 2, 32 = 81 (4d100)

>>3715144
This is bullshit

>>3715133
You know what. I’ll be cool here and take Bo3 on this. Throw me a single 4d100.

Rolled 50, 16, 43, 25 + 5 = 139 (4d100 + 5)

>>3715193

>>3715251
Well lest thats better

>>3715193
Praise be the qm

>>3715251
The Faceless Brother
>175/175HP
>60 Armor
>139 Lightning Damage! Avoids Armor!
>175-139=36/175HP. The Faceless Brother is scorched and battered!
>Life Drinker! Magnus regains (13.9 rounded to nearest) 14HP!

>Arch Magnus
>95+14=109/200HP
>70 armor

Writing

>>3714973
“All things have an end. Our bodies... Kingdoms... The Gods... but you... you have found yours here Arch Magnus.... The Whispered One will rise.”
Oh hey, he knows our name. That's not spooky at all, is it?

>>3715401

Blood roars in your ears, your heart pounding louder than the deepest war drums as you lower your head, breathing deeply. The storm blade is almost alive in your hand, roiling, crackling arcs of lightning lancing from the blade, arcing between the metallic portions of your armor. The ancient voice of Trulas whispers in the depths of your mind, speaking the story of the blade, of his conquests atop the lonely mountaintops that sent the great drakes to plummet in smoldering ruin on the mountainsides. Of battles in ancient storms, the sky like boiling pitch as great spears of lightning were fed to the enchanted steel, lancing out to smash men to pieces like the fist of Vall Almighty. You lift your head slowly, the rumble of thunder rolling across the sky as the Chief Acolyte pauses in his advance, the briefest glimpse of surprised eyes behind the mask as you roar like a beast.

A great bolt of blue-white, burning energy coils around the blade as you bring it down towards the man. He is well outside your reach but you *know*, with the instinct driven by the ancient weapon in your hand. You slash the blade down to point squarely at that featureless iron mask and the sky erupts, a single burning bolt of lightning driving down from the cloudless sky. Your eyes are dazzled by the brilliant flash, the searing heat that forces those watching to guard their eyes from the brilliance as the elemental bolt spears out from the relic, taking the Faceless Brother full in the chest and bearing him aloft for twenty paces before he slams into the wall above the entrance to the hold, the ancient stone surface cracking under the impact. With a thunderclap that nearly drives men to cover their ears in pain, the Cultist falls from the wall with a thump, landing in a unceremonious heap.

His cloak is aflame in spots, his armor glowing cherry red and hissing with heat. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh oozes from underneath his armor as he pushes himself up shakily. The metallic tang of ozone fills the air as he sags, rising to one knee, minute sparks and crackles of energy still dancing along his armor as his companions and yours look at you in shock. You roll your neck and sword arm, readying yourself into a combat stance as you growl in primal fury, hot breath billowing out from your helm like a cloud of steam as you fix a killing gaze on the two warriors still on their feet.
“I am Arch Magnus. Last son of the Warhounds, Death of the Lion Knight, Breaker of Castle Vollsung and Warleader of the Crag Wolves. You’re all fucking dead... you just don’t know it yet”

>Cont

>>3715533
Arvel whoops madly as he buries his fighting knife into his opponents thigh, driving his buckler into the mans mask as he rips it out, sending the Cultist stumbling back. He pounds his chest with his fist, blood soaking every visible inch of the man as he grins in excitement.
“That’s th’fuckin way to do it! Lets take their fuckin’ heads! C’mon Urhost! Rip‘is bloody heart out!”

>Faceless Brother is stunned for this turn

>Attack

>Defend

>Special Attack

>Fight Dirty

>Feat of Strength

>Other (feel free to be creative)

>>3715539
>>Attack

>>3715539
Attack

>Attack

>>3715539
>Attack

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>>3715539
Quick lore dump.

Relic weapons, for the most part, are imbued with various traits, effects or energies depending on what they are/who used them and what they used them for. This can range from a blitz of lightning fast attacks to hitting like a dump truck full of bricks to literally setting the dude on fire.

Relics have sat around for a LOOOONG time though. They have become dormant and must be “awakened” through use. The fastest way to do that is to use them in ways that the original wielded would have. In the case of Trulas, his whole thing was fighting monsters (Drakes especially) and defending innocents from harm. So as you have fulfilled part of the requirement for that, the weapon awoke partially, giving you a new attack while you wield the Storm blade as your primary. This goes up to tier 3 awakening which is “Venerated” and is a whole can of whoop ass being dumped on someone’s head. You can upgrade these abilities further with meditation on the weapon with Duergir to commune with the spirit of the original wielder.

So Magnus has gained a rank in Storm Lord. Congrats

>>3715637
Heeey, we're the Nameless King now!

Rolled 58, 58, 94, 99 = 309 (4d100)

>Attack Attack!

Magnus Vs Whisperer Aver (3Avs2A)
Magnus Vs Whisperer Hollim (3Avs2A)

>Roll me 2 sets of 3d100+5. Beat my rolls please. Your third roll for each of them must beat 50 to hit.

Rolled 75, 58, 73 + 5 = 211 (3d100 + 5)

>>3715734
KILL! MAIM! BURN!

Rolled 1, 94, 35 = 130 (3d100)

>>3715734

Rolled 27, 37, 62 + 5 = 131 (3d100 + 5)

>>3715734

Rolled 6, 76, 46 + 5 = 133 (3d100 + 5)

>>3715734

>>3715637
Thats cool
Lvl onw yes

>>3715778
Ope! That’s a Crit fail! Would you guys like to use your VALLS FAVOR to turn that ugly critfail into a autosuccess?

Y/N

Y

>>3715854
>Y

>>3715854
Y

>>3715854
>Y
Opportunities to gain glory in battle are easy to find, the problem is surviving them.

>>3715734
Magnus vs Brother Aver
>80>58. Magnus Hits!
>63>58. Magnus Hits!
>78>50. Magnus Hits!

Magnus vs Brother Hollim
>1<94. Crit Fail! Valls favor used! Auto success! Magnus Hits!
>99=99! Draw! Weapon Clash!
>40<50. Magnus misses!

If you could roll me 4 (four) separate 2d100 and 2d20 please.

Rolled 42, 30 = 72 (2d100)

Rolled 12, 15 = 27 (2d20)

Rolled 8, 1 = 9 (2d100)

>>3716119
Finally fucking caught up with this quest.

Rolled 31, 63 = 94 (2d100)

>>3716119

Rolled 14, 3 = 17 (2d20)

>>3716193
What have i done

>>3716193
Get back in thr closet you slut

>>3716160
>>3716193
>>3716198
Ok so I need 1 more 2d100 and >>3716199
>>3716173
2 more 2d20 if you guys don’t mind

Rolled 14, 33 + 5 = 52 (2d100 + 5)

>>3716380

Rolled 18, 17 = 35 (2d20)

>>3716380

Rolled 11, 7 = 18 (2d20)

>>3716380

Rolled 16, 8 = 24 (2d20)

>>3716380

Gotta get to bed a little earlier than usual guys. Got my orientation and new hire processing tomorrow. When I’m off I’ll be back with fresh and tasty updates.

Until then, please feel free to post questions, thoughts, criticism, ideas or discussion that I will respond to when I am able. As always, stay awesome guys (‘-*)7

>>3716478
Hope that all gose well for you .
Hmmm idk my days are now a little bit brighter now that this quest is back.

>>3716119

Brother Aver
>160/160HP
>55 Armor
>72-55=17 damage!
>9-55=-46. Armor Negation!
>94-55=39 damage!
>39+17=56 Damage total!
>27+17+35=76 lightning damage
>132 Damage dealt!
>160-132=28/160HP! Brother Aver is severely wounded!
>Life Drinker! Magnus regains 13HP!

Brother Hollim
>150/150HP
>50 Armor
>46-50=-4. Armor Negation!
>18 lighting damage!
>150-18=132/150
>Life Drinker! (1.8 rounded) Magnus regains 2HP!

Arch Magnus
>Life Drinker! 109+13+2=124/200HP

Writing!

>>3718120
do i smell toasted bread?

The two iron masked Acolytes step forward, the ground beneath their feet smoking slightly from the elemental onslaught that struck their leader like a giants hammer. The man himself is still slowly staggering to his feet, smoke and steam seeping from beneath his armor as he leans on the spear. The sickening *satisfaction* as the Devourer imparts a morsel of his pain back to you slithers through your very essence and you stand a bit taller, your limbs more steady as your wounds knit and the bleeding slows. You sweep your blade through the air, the sounds of combat as a Urhost and Arvel duke it out with their opponents, the sound fading away under the dull roar of the blood pounding in your ears. Your voice echoes from within your helm, as deep and brassy as the fury of Vall himself.
“Come on then little men. You want to meet your god? I’ll send you to him in a thousand pieces”

With a roar, you launch yourself forward, your feet leaving the ground as you vault towards the larger of the pair. The iron mask tilts up to follow you, the blade coming around to block the full force downward slash of the Storm blade, the ancient steel wreathed in a nimbus of pure energy. Steel shrieks as your blade hacks a inch thick divot into the lesser blade as he attempts to block the blow, your weight and the force of the impact drives his guard down, the blade shears into the pauldron guarding his shoulder, the crude iron parting under the edge, blood trickling down the blade as you land on both feet, bending your knees and ripping the blade back. The brute grunts in pain, the notched greatsword in his hands wavering as the aftershocks of the blades energy scorches his skin flesh.

“HrraARRGH!!”
a bestial roar echoes from under his iron mask as he sweeps his notched blade up around in a loop, aiming to bury the sawtoothed blade in your throat. Your shield rises up like a wall of steel, the vibrating *Tung* of the impact driving you back a half step. You smirk as the Acolyte grunts in frustration, thrusting the Storm blade out towards his gut. With a burst of agility you wouldn’t have expected him to have, he wheels, batting the blade away and slashing at your face with the jagged point of his sword.

“Ah! There it is! Got some fight in ya don’t you! Come here!”
You laugh, bending your knees, your shield sweeping across like a wall of silver as you lean your weight back for a moment. The Acolyte steps forward, his blade lifted high in a massive overhead slash that would be sure to cleave into the shield and batter you back. So intent is he on splitting you in half like a cord of firewood, he doesn’t notice the blade driving out in your fist.

>Cont

>>3718482
With barely a whisper, the blade drives through his gut, piercing out through his back with a full foot of bloodsmeared rune steel. The blade sags backward as blood spills from under the mask, one hand gripping the blade piercing his body. You rear back your other hand, punching him full in the sternum with the rim of your shield, denting the scales and splints of his armor inward and driving him back off your blade. Whipping the ancient weapon out in a arc like a slavers whip, a lance of burning blue white energy slams into his chest, flinging him to his back with a thunderous impact.

Your men whoop, slamming weapons to shields as the man flails weakly on the ground, limbs jerking spasmodically as they fail to respond to his commands.

You almost fail to make out the shouts of warnings as the crunching of armored boots on gravel grows closer. You half turn, the stocky Acolyte rushing up towards you, his glaive leveled at your belly. Rocky soil flies in an arc as you instinctually wheel, knocking away the thrust with the flat of the Storm Blade, allowing the mans charge to carry him into you. The breath leaves him in a gasping wheeze as your knee slams into his chest, sending him staggering back as you read your sword arm back, your teeth bared in a feral snarl as he desperately brings the haft of the glaive up to block. If the blade had smashed into the wooden shaft of the grip, it would have shorn through like a axe through a twig. However the Acolyte adjusts his block, the guard of the Storm blade catching on the sturdy wood and slowing your blow to the point that your blade merely gouges a gleaming scar into the black iron mask. His momentary, instinctual sigh of relief is knocked out of him explosively a arc of elemental energy darts between the blade and his mask, knocking him back as effectively as a punch to the teeth.

You step forward, bringing your blade around to punch forward into his chest. To your surprise, his reflexive block brings his glaive into your path again, the small crossguard beneath the blade hooking yours. With grunts of exertion, his arms tense as he braces, holding the strike back by pure muscle. You snarl in killing fury as you look down on the smaller man.

He thinks to best you?

>Weapon Clash! You came to a draw and are entangled with an enemy! What are you going to do?

>Push through his guard

>Kick him in the balls

>headbutt him in the mask

>drop your shield and drive that dagger into his throat.

>Other

>>3718486
>>headbutt him in the mask
We have a strong head. lets use it.

>>3718486
>>headbutt him in the mask

>>3718486
>Kick him in the balls

Rolled 62 (1d100)

>Head to Head. Literally.
>Roll me 1d100+20 (headbutts and physical actions go off of your strength mod) beat my roll, Bo3

Rolled 49 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>3719551

Rolled 11 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>3719551
oofed

Rolled 27 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>3719551

>>3719560
at least we had one over

Rolled 51 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>3719551
>>3719560
Oh yer 69

>>3719551
REEEEEE!!!!!! you are indeed a Cursed QM

Rolled 99 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>3719551

>>3726175
Your tooo late!!
Sadness

>>3726910
Fugg

>>3719560
>69>62. Magnus has the forehead of a titan

You press the StormBlade forward, the arcs of elemental blue energy darting out to dance along the notched and chipped blade of the Acolytes blade. The man grunts in effort, his knees bowing as your weight pushes him backwards. With a monumental grunt of effort, he barely manages to push back your leverage against his weapon. You cast an eye to the Chief Acolyte and his greatsword wielding counterpart, you make a snap decision that this twat isn’t worth this much trouble.

With a sudden shift of your blade as the Acolyte pushes against you again sees his blade sheeting off yours and lancing over your shoulder. The man stumbles forward, his effort offsetting his balance as you step into his guard. The featureless iron mask looks up at you in shock as you bring your armored skull down in a brutal smash that rings the Acolytes mask like a dull bell, the impact snapping his head back with a jerking suddenness. You follow up with a smash of your heel into his sternum, the blow throwing the man back several feet, his reflexive roll popping him up to his feet as he wheezes, his free hand clutching his chest as scarlet drips from the rim of his mask. He staggers, steadying himself as his brothers advance, facing you from left, right and center.

“You fight with fury.... bravery in the face of the end.... but those who have truly seen the Darkness beyond the world... Death holds no fear for us, the Children of the Nameless One. You will bear witness to that Darkness, Magnus “The Mighty”
The hollow tones, somehow condescending despite their whispered tones, echoes in your ears as the figures advance. You step back, readying the StormBlade as the Acolyte leader steps forward, the darkness behind his mask seeming to deep from the eye slits, pooling on the ground like puddles of tarry shadow. All around you, the world fades away, the darkness consuming everything you see, everything you hear, leaving you standing in a vast emptiness, the gnawing cold and vast *Emptiness* seeking to drain away all you are.

Whispers, formless and twisted as the darkness ooze into your ears, bringing tales of corruption and power. Visions, of a twisted skeletal figure, clad in tarnished armor and festooned with ancient entrails, of the corpses of innocents mangled and twisted into the sigil of this ancient deity. The darkness crawls along your skin, seeking to force its way into your mouth, into your eyes, your ears and nose, into the core of your being and corrupt you like it has so many before. A voice, terrible and malformed, echoing and resonating in your chest and inside your skull, emanates from nowhere and everywhere.
“Subbbbbmiiiiiiit Maaaagnuuuuusssss.... Embraaaaaaceeeee meeeee..... allllll youuuu desiiiireee.... and mooooooree. Submiiiiit.... to my willllll”

>Cont

>>3727289
>”My Will is my own! Begone creature!” (Resist the Nameless One through sheer will)

>”I am the chosen of Vall! Father of Warriors! Lord of Battle! Doom of Heaven!” (invoke Vall)

>”I am the Champion of the Wild, Consort of Nature’s Queen!” (Invoke Cameera)

>Other (feel free to get creative)

File: 75ECA3B6-F1B4-425D-B47E-1(...).jpg (135 KB, 750x1000)

135 KB JPG

>>3727289

>>3727292
>>”I am the Champion of the Wild, Consort of Nature’s Queen!” (Invoke Cameera)

>>3727292
>”My Will is my own! Begone creature!” (Resist the Nameless One through sheer will)

We may know of other gods but we like to be self reliant. Why should we wimp out and invoke other gods to aid us? We are MAGNUS! Or will is our own! We forge our own path!

>>3727292
>”I am the chosen of Vall! Father of Warriors! Lord of Battle! Doom of Heaven!” (invoke Vall)

>>3727292
>Other (feel free to get creative) resist through will AND be an asshole
"Vall, father of warriors, slayer of gods. Cameera, queen of nature. The devouring spirit and its kind...The spirit in my blade, honorable and true...

And you...a killer and tormentor of those who cannot defend themselves, what gloats about causing them fear. You are beneath me, beneath a name because you unworthy. A dickless coward; weakling who begs to petition the companions of those it's betters. Desperate for any strength, lent or stolen, as it has none of its own. Know your status and beg for forgiveness, little parasite." Spit at it for good measure.

>>3727445
Yep this please

>>3727445
changing

The searing emptiness seems to claw at every inch of your exposed skin, the cold seeking to drain away your will and the insidious shadows attempting to worm their way into your core. The shadow of the Nameless One looms closer in the darkness, like a shadow overlain against shadow, only the *presence* can be felt, only the terrible knowledge that you are at once not alone in this Stygian darkness but that you are truly alone to face this *thing*. You brace the StormBlade point down in the rocky earth, the blade sinking a inch or so due to its weight. You rest a hand on the pommel, your head turned down as you draw a deep breathe, steeling your will against the insidious shadow. A amused, gurgling chuckle issues from the infinite black, cooking around you like viscous oil.
“Youuuuuu.... arrrrrre.... Onnneeeee.... Alooooonnne...”

You steel yourself, ready to swipe the blade upwards into the maw of *whatever* is looming over you, to strike out in final defiance of this ancient monstrosity. A sudden warmth brings you pause, the heat like a rising sun, like a forge being kindled, like a campfire on a mountains peak. A voice, echoing and gruff, mutters in the back of your mind.
>”Stand against the Dark. The Chosen of Vall does NOT falter.”

A dull red and orange glow shines from behind you, like a burning torch held just behind you. With a hiss and the stench of scorched and necrotic flesh, the presence in the darkness is sent screeching back like a scalded cat, howling in petulant rage. So intense is the heat over your right shoulder, you almost shy away, the skin nearly crisping as the sensation of a hand, massive in scale claps your shoulder once, the impact nearly throwing you off your feet.
>”Don’t be afraid of the Dark boy. Make it afraid of *You*

The dim light illuminates the ground around your feet, the rocky black sand littered with chips of bone and long rusted weapons. Spires and outcroppings of warped black stone jut from the earth, twisting like the horns of some diabolical beast. The living darkness pools just at the edge of the pool of divine light, the malice emanating from it enough to be almost palpable. With a worldless shriek, it goes to move forward, to overwhelm and destroy and consume, as it had to so many others in ages long past.

Footsteps, soft and graceful, barely whispering against the stone. A scent of wildflowers and leaf mould, of decay and new life all in one. A sigh like the wind through treetops. The presence pauses as on your left shoulder, a hand caresses your skin, somehow felt through the armor as it trails along the base of your neck before long, curved nails dig into your skin just enough to draw blood.
>”Such things belong in the darkness... they do not fare well when brought into the light. The wild must cleanse itself of corruption from time to time and this?... this is no different”

>Cont

>>3728427
With that, like the sunrise over a lake, like a wildfire raging through a dead forest, like the glow in the back of wolves eye, light cascades from behind you, throwing a counterpoint to the ruddy glow of the Doom of Heaven. Faintly green tinged and golden, the glow illuminates further, burning wisps of shadowy material from the presence, revealing skeletal and atrophied limbs, made alabaster white by aeons in the dark. Needlelike gnashing teeth, stained dark with old blood and scraps of flesh. The barest glimpse of a nightmarish face, half hidden behind a featureless ivory mask and eyes, malevolent pools of liquid dark that threaten to consume your sanity.

Bolstered, the presences filling you with fire and life, you lift the StormBlade high, arcs of elemental energy lancing out to drive into the earth around you as you stride forward. Each step leaves the blackened earth smoldering in the bootprints of your right foot, shoots of grass and bumps of tiny fungi sprouting up around your left as you advance on the retreating spirit. Your voice rings out, rolling across the desolate landscape like distant thunder as you level the blade at the sentient shadow.
"By Vall, father of warriors, slayer of gods. By his fire, I shall burn nations. Cameera, queen of nature, Huntress of the Wild. In her name, I will bring this world to ancient glory.”
The light behind you pulses, eliciting a squeal as more layers of shadow are flayed from the scrabbling deity as it flees the pools of light. Your own shadow stretches out before you, taking the form of a crown figure, crossing its arms and waggling a finger at the Darkness. Your voice booms out, lightning lancing out from your blade and armor, leaving scorched pockmarks in the earth around you.
“By The Devourer and its kind, the shepherds and watchers of the dead, those who guided me back to the land of the living ...By the ancient warrior Trulas, who’s will lives on in my blade, honorable and true”

The Darkness screeches ineffectually, the Faceless One cringing back from the light as you approach. Like a sodden man standing before a bonfire, wisps of steam and smoke hiss from skeletal limbs and robes of darkness, tarnished armor smoking in the light as it shields its ivory masked face. You advance on the cornered *creature*, your blade held tight in your grip as you regard the Faceless One.

“And you...a killer and tormentor of those who cannot defend themselves. A cowardly wretch that gloats about causing them fear and pain. You are beneath me, beneath a name because you unworthy. A dickless coward; weakling who begs to petition the companions of those it's betters. Desperate for any strength, lent or stolen, as it has none of its own. Know your status and beg for forgiveness, Worm. As that is the only name you will have from me”

>Cont

>>3728429
And as you lift the blade high to smite down upon the scalded wretch, the twin blessings of your patrons filling you with valor and fury, the world shifts as the blade descends. The shadows drain away, the darkness oozing from your vision like tarry oil. The ground beneath your feet shifts from black, rocky sand to chiseled stone and dirt. With a blink, the world is back as it was, the Acolytes staggering backwards as a wave of force emanates outward from you as the shadow you were enveloped in is torn to shreds by a wave of heat and wild winds. You rise, ripping the StormBlade free from the stone with a jerk of your wrist as you lift your head, your eyes meeting those of the Faceless Brother, the ancient spear in his hands leveled at you as his companions share uncertain looks to one another. From beneath that iron mask, the tone is full of uncertainty and more than a little caution
“Our lord did not consume you... yet you did not accept his blessings... what are you? No man could stand against the Faceless One, The Lord of Whispers!”

>What say?

>Also, what do?

>Attack

>Special Attack

>Defend

>Fight Dirty

>Feat of Strength

>Other

>>3728432
>>Attack
SWORD TO THE FACE

>>3728432
"you can ask when I send him to you."
>Feat of Strength
Shield out, murder charge. our sword behind our weight, our weight behind our momentum. Plow into them like an avalanche.

>>3728432
"I. AM. MAGNUS."

>Feat of Strength
Drop our sword, full charge with the shield held high. Once we've impacted their battered bodies, drop the shield too, and begin tearing into them with our bare hands.

>>3728432
>What say?
I AM MAGNUS AND I AM JUSTICE LONG OVERDUE
>Special Attack
Lightning spear to the face.

Rolled 8, 73, 2 = 83 (3d100)

>>3728479
>>3728518
Feat of strength it is! Shield Rush and then beat the shit out of them.

Roll me 3 (three) 3d100 (I’ll add your+20 strength bonus. FYI this is because there are 3 enemies and FoS checks are Bo3) beat my rolls please! The 2nd 1d100 in my roll will have a +10 to his as he has the Inhuman strength mod, the others have no buffs to their strength. Also, even if you beat their roll, if your roll falls below their agility score (50 across the board here) you miss them/they dodge

Rolled 36, 82, 53 = 171 (3d100)

>>3728613
ez

Rolled 79, 90, 16 = 185 (3d100)

>>3728613
THE QM HUNGER FOR ROLLS!

Rolled 17, 83, 43 = 143 (3d100)

>>3728613

>>3728613

Magnus vs Brother Aver
>79+20=99>8. Magnus Hits HARD

Magnus vs The Faceless Brother
>90+20=110>83. Magnus Hits.

Magnus vs Brother Hollim
>53+20=73>2. Magnus Hits BRUTALLY

>3 Hits on Feat of Strength attacks. Magnus’s might is considerable. Feed me yet some more rolls please. Three separate 2d100+20 (Factoring Magnus’s size, strength, the fact his fists are armored and he is shield bashing with a piece of metal the size of a table means this goes under blunt great weapon damage which means he also gets his +20 for his strength) for Damage please. This is gonna hurt.

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Rolled 88, 93 + 20 = 201 (2d100 + 20)

>>3728651
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Rolled 70, 36 + 20 = 126 (2d100 + 20)

>>3728651

Rolled 23, 71 + 20 = 114 (2d100 + 20)