Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

Posted: **Mon Jun 11, 2018 8:50 am**

Ghosts of War

Setting: Deep in the Wood of Sharp Teeth, beneath the ground nearing the heart of an underground orc hive two very different warriors - Lia'Dris and Boris - meet by chance at a crossing of tunnels and are set upon by worgs and warriors.

Lia'Dris Maendellyn (Player Name: jonez2610): A slender and small elflady with coppery skin, a pair of bright green eyes and a shade of caramel brown hair with strands of gold. She seems nimble and agile, swift on her feet and is most often clad in a suit of elven armor and equip with a spear and trinkets of similar light and minimalistic style, yet obviously high quality craftmanship that all attest to the fact she is a wood elf. She carries herself with a natural elven grace and seems to observe her surroundings with keen eyes and a cautious approach.

Boris Vyacheslav: Blackened steel armor encases every inch of this herculean knight's body. His physique is obscenely predatory - his musculature is exagurated by permanent transmutations - surely inflicted from a young age. It seems this man may have been engineered by wizards for violence. A Balor's visage is tattooed into his head - runes of pain and fear are tattooed on his sunken cheeks. His brown, kohl lined eyes seem cold and dead when he looks at you - though the perceptive may sense a deep seated hatred in his heart.

~~~

Boris Vyacheslav: "Need you any help there?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Hardly, they almost run in to the spear. Slaying orcs?" she snorts
Boris Vyacheslav: "Aye. That is the task."
Boris Vyacheslav: looked beyond the elf to the orcs firing then back to her. "What about some...friendly competition then?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "What they lack in wits they add up for in stupidity." she mutters and drives the pole through he near death orc at her feet. "Hmm.. I do not know you, and I meant not to impede your hunt or steal your quarry. Merely culling the filth that dwell here."
Boris Vyacheslav: "Shall we deal with those cretins behind you?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Dim witted cretins indeed."
Battle is joined - the pair slay a warband of orcs and worgs.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Alas, I shall not steal your sport, stranger. And will leave you to the.. exercise."
Boris Vyacheslav: the warrior thrust his sword hard into the baked earth. Taloned gauntlets clutch his visor and draw it off his head - revealing a perspiring face heavily tattooed and unhandsome.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she leans on the pole of her spear and observes him for a moment. "Curious markings." she cants her head and takes in his features
Boris Vyacheslav: "Before you go, sate my curiosity.... are you one of the elven village I hear rumored to be in this woodland?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "No, I would not claim so. Have you quarrels with them?"
Boris Vyacheslav: leaned an elbow on his standing sword, helmet under his other arm. "Not any more, no. My former lords had a long standing hostility with them..."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: idly traces a marking on the back of one of the slain orcs, resembling a poor depiction of a tree
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "How.. intriguing. I can not say I am affiliated to them in any way, nor would I know any of their citizens by name."
Boris Vyacheslav: "I am Boris Vyacheslav, of Surthay in the far east."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she grimaces a bit as he nose wrinkles and her nostrils flare up. "That is further east almost than I hail from"
Boris Vyacheslav: "From where do you hail, then, she-elf?" a hairless eyebrow rises slowly.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she smirks and squints slightly at the man, hesitating a moment before smiling sweetly "Algarond."
Boris Vyacheslav: the corners of his cold lipped mouth turn up in a gargoyle smile, a low laugh rumbling out. "Algarond! Beloved neighbors, then, is it?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Something of the sort." a coolness to her voice as her mouth twitches. "My name is Lia'Dris, should such hold any value. Tell me.. to whom do you pay homage Boris?
Boris Vyacheslav: the kohl-lined eyes of the Thayan hardened, but gleamed like obsidian with his amusement. "Hail Lia'Dris. Homage ... Do you speak of the gods?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Gods, patrons there of.. lesser men with claims of equally grand notions. Your ilk has been known to differ little between gods and men, lest you've fallen off your pedastals of late." a faint snort escapes her and the coolness in her voice almost resembles hostility
Boris Vyacheslav: unlatched the strap of his pauldron and flipped it back to reveal where the orc sword pierced his chainmail and gambeson. He pours from a small glowing vial which sizzles in the wound bringing the filth and rust and blood out, sealing the meat messily. Boris flipped the pauldron back over and latched it himself as he spoke. "I was a lord of an estate in Surthay... It was in the last year utterly decimated. Before I left to war for it against the Rashemi, I was Knight-Commander of the Order of the Crimson Guard at the Thayan Enclave of Baldur's Gate. The Khazark at the time of my service was Kahanak Habdilof.
Before this, again, I served Thay herself in the military, and many a campaign."
rest again against the sword standing in the filth. The orcs about his feet ponged, flies quickly swarming the kills.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: her intense elven gaze seems fixated on his markings rather than the wound. her expression sours visibly, the scorn in her voice reveals a prejudice deeply rooted in the elf. "Hollow words of would be corpses, ever the warmongering ilk. The Simbul would be glad to hear of your failures, for that is truly all your kinsmen can boast. Perhaps I have met you on the field of battle in the past, though he horrid visages that your helmets are often styled by would differ little from what I behold now."
Boris Vyacheslav: "You are far from Algarond, Lia'Dris... is it a desertion of duty? Are you quite secure leaving your borders unguarded?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she chuckles softly, if briefly "Lest your superiors have found measures to melt the lower planes in to this, the Sorceror Queen shall be capable enough without my spear. Yet it is not desertion no, my duty is eternal and the nightglade remains unsullied by the hands of Thayvian mongrels and their filth. I have my own reasons for this voyage and not due to crueler men barking orders at me, or are you perhaps ascending from the depravity of your station?"
Boris Vyacheslav: the large knight left his sword standing and approached the hooded woman of Algarond slowly, his blackened steel sabatons crushing underfoot the tangled limbs of orc and worg. "I admire your spirit. Many a man of Algarond has fallen to my sword - but here, of all places, I never anticipated the ghosts of Thayvian war to follow."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: a calm demeanor is evident, her grip of the spear pole tightens ever so slightly but her stance seems at ease, raising her chin she smirks "The ghosts of war follow us to the grave and beyond, perpetual is the struggles of the planes and no less so for those whom seek to enslave and opress others beneath the heel of their boots. I am surprised you are not met with scorn and mistrust, even here. For the deeds of your kin are widely known as transgressions against all things fair on Faerun."
Boris Vyacheslav: the giant approached quite near - so that the fire underlit his gargoyle face in a quite unflattering way as he looked down upon the woman, his face sterile of emotion but eyes glued to the elf with wonder. "I am met with scorn and distrust, as any coward meets a conqueror. The most ambitious empires will always be despised, Lia'Dris, but conquest is the natural order of life." He paused. "The great are hated by the small."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she pulls back her hood as caramel strands of hair fall freely on her shoulders, there is no trace of anxiety or fear in the elf and her features easily give away that she has seen her share of conflict and battle. she shoulders the spear, assuming a more casual stance as her eyes squint at the gargoyle faced man. "The most ambitious of empires fell to ruin in ages long forgotten by those who would proclaim superiority of others in the present. Your shall crumble to dust as well, in due time. Perhaps far sooner than you can anticipate.
Boris Vyacheslav: dull obsidian, shark like eyes shift slowly over the face of the veteran wood elf standing before him, taking in her features. He does not seem to have blinked since the conversation began, lending a strange intensity to the man. "Thay will never fall."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "And you would assume to be the first making such bold statements?" she seems slightly amused, a faint hint of a teasing smile crawls over her lips, her eyebrows raised as she shakes her head subtly. "As did the Netherese.. and before it, so did we."
Boris Vyacheslav: the upper lip of the fighter lifted to bare his teeth, his stare darkening at the teasing an amusement of the elf. His accent seemed to thicken. "You speak of the race of elves?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "The Yuireshanyaar once thought as you do, as did all of the old elven empires. But in the wake of such notions of grandeur, war thrives and follows. Only the cycles of life and death is persistant in this flow of chaos we call existence. I speak of the races of all whom have set foot upon these planes, claiming to be its masters or stating the endurance of their rule. History is a lesson for the future, one ought not to ignore, Thayvian."
Boris Vyacheslav: the plated chest of the Thayan swelled, his great plated shoulders slid back and taloned gauntlets locked behind himself in a relaxed military stance. His bulldog jaw visibly flexed as the elf spoke, listening in silence.
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: her gaze idly averts to her hand, with open palm she turns it over and shakes her head as a brief sigh emerges from her pursed lips. "Blood washes off slowly, take the lessons to heart for each drop spilled, we are but fuel for this plane and the gods."
Boris Vyacheslav: eyes lowered to her hand at mention of the gods and history. "Unlike many of my brethren, I have not disregarded the folly and fall that occurred when my ancestors set themselves above the gods. You are a woman of faith?"
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: she chuckles softly and stiffles it only to respond with a tone full of sympathy and pity. "How peculiar and rare. I thought the mere accumulation of power and rise of station was the sole purpose to life, for a man of your.. heritage."
Boris Vyacheslav: "There are gods who champion such purpose."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Tell me true, Thayvian. When last have you encountered one of the Tel'Quessir that did not pay homage to the divine? We are the children of Corellon and blessed with existance on this once lush and green plane, bound here to wither as all do, till Arvandor calls us home." a pride in her tone reveals a deeply rooted devotion and obvious reverance of the elven deities. Her hand drifts to the pendant around her neck, a crescent moon shaped piece of ironwood as she clenches it tightly
Boris Vyacheslav: his cold lipped mouth downturned at either end into a foul grimace, wrinkling the fine scars crossing his face from all directions. "Few elves speak with me - less as plainly as you have in this den of death, Algarondan."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "This perplexes you? Truly my kin are oft at prefferance by not wasting breath where words would fall on deaf ears. Yet I would know my enemies long before I grant them the release from this mortal coil. Make of it what you will." she smiles sweetly and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, nimbly and gracefully, her emerald gaze locked on his tattoos
Boris Vyacheslav: "I am not perplexed by the aloofness of an elf toward a man any more than I should be perplexed by the way a slave stands aloof of his master, until brought to heel." there was in the pits of his eyes a smoldering wroth. "You would grant me release? Then mark well my face and know me now." the warrior neared another step, a tower of plated steel and unnatural musculature. Veins surfaced on his bull neck and emerged on his brow and skull. "I know what lies beyond for me."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "Would that I could erase such unwilling memories, yet it shall haunt me in reverie till the sourness of your lips curl upwards in gratitude for the end of your deprived exsistance. But alas this is not the day you die, Boris of Thay."
Boris Vyacheslav: the nostrils of the auroch of a man flared, as if hungry for oxygen to feed his raging heart. His breath smelled stale of bitter wine at this proximity. "By the hand of Thay, Bane will crush Algarond - whether I live or die."
Lia'Dris Maendellyn: "We shall meet again." she glares at him briefly as she recoils from the man, seeking the shadows of the damp cave, an echo of her footsteps swiftly fade to an inaudible echo of dripping waters in the hallways beyond the room
Boris Vyacheslav: turned his back to the spear maiden and marched slowly back to where his greatsword stood.

Posted: **Tue Nov 06, 2018 5:56 am**

Grim blizzard winds barraged Darkhold's mighty walls and black towers. Within the sanctuary of the stronghold in the fighting pits of the castle garrison a great figure in blackened platemail stood apart from every other man as a wolf among dogs.

He was Bueroza. His reputation widely preceded him as an ultranationalist of Thay, yet a traitor of the Magi powers that be.

The knight paced along a disorderly line of unwashed northmen in tattered and varied garments, addressing them through the cruel mask visor of his ridged great-helm, clutching a large flail in his iron grip.

"The uncivilized man is low - he is a barbarian. He wants not beyond the lust of his flesh. He sees not beyond the needs of his stomach and does only what he must to secure his welfare.

There is no real power in him. To a higher calling worthy of struggle he is deaf. Too blind to perceive transcendence and cause worthy of striving in, too dull for any awareness of mortal destiny. He is by all means a beast.

You are beasts. Lawless men and rightfully pariahs from what is so-called civilized in this savage sprawl of coastland. To this day, is it not true you have made your living as predators on the weak and the civilian? But you are NOT the greatest predator to walk these blooded shores!"

The Banite halted sharply, siezed a man by the jaw by his taloned gauntlet and stared down at him in the face, domineering. He shoved him aside with disgust to resume his slow pace.

"There is not a budding city-state in this miserable realm that compares to the ancient grandeur and high order of the Thayan Empire; no roads of Thay have known banditry like yours in centuries.

That so called ethical objection of these Western rulers to enslave and utilize the lowest among themselves in honest labor leaves worthless men as yourselves rather to roam unchecked, using your freedom to range bloodthirsty and criminal throughout the realm and its communities.

I do not believe you are without an intrinsic purpose or value. Even the least of men in this, our Hierarchy, has an imperative part to play in the total. He has his place and his purpose. Each man stands before another according to his quality.

Until today you have not participated in the New Order to come.

But now you will. By Bane, you will."

-------

Boris looked down from the height of the keep upon the training grounds where the same men he had welcomed that last ten-day were being put through their paces in basic militant drills. Each had signed his life in a year's contract and received brandings marking him as a soldier.

Black bear-furs decking Bueroza's wide shoulders were tussled by the wind, his iron jaw clenched and eyes alight and fiery in the harsh cold of the north. For a moment, perched as an eagle on the heights, he felt again a commander of men as he was in those armies of Thay and her Order of the Crimson Guard. But it was a fleeting vanity, and left in him a sore hollow.

Such days of glory were behind the fallen knight now. Marked a traitor by his own countrymen, whom he loved more dearly than his own life for want to serve, he was eternally isolated from his people and Empire.

White hot hatred cleared his mind and heart a fresh slate. It was scrawled on his soul; the Thayan Empire would rise and rise again, and know the glories of victory over the barbarian hordes of Algarond and Rashemen. This not by the repeatedly failing leadership of those many squabbling Zulkir - but rather by one hand. The Black Hand.

Posted: **Tue Nov 27, 2018 6:12 am**

"Where are your masters, pet? Are they not with you?"

Boris stood perfectly still - a statue in the heavy downpour that slicked his purple cloak to his black platemail. Kohl-lined eyes glared from the steel pits of his gargoyle faced visor. Only the rise and fall of his massive plated shoulders betrayed a life.

"I am alone."

"Prepare to die!" the Rashemite axemen bellowed from the bridge, frothing at the mouth with rage.

"So be it."

The knight was dismounted from his warhorse Xenubat on the well traveled rise overlooking the Boreskyr Bridge. A dark tower stood a silhouette against the travelling moon and its entourage of debris while further in the distance Dragonspear loomed, ominous and old.

Though the barbarian was fast, and long of leg, Boris overran him with a powerful charge before the end of the bridge. His unholy sword broke down on his back like the merciless rod of a slave master administering punishment. Once, twice, three times, four. The Rashemi snarled, thrashing blindly and, rather than defend himself further, continued to flee in the direction of Soubar as soon as he had his footing. The burning bridge behind them cast a bright light that refused to hide murder from the eyes of the dark gods who watched.

Msciwoj the Berserker, near to death, slipped and scrambled clumsily up the steep muddy rise to Soubar as the rain poured down. Boris was immediately behind him in another powerful charge. Tossing aside his tower shield Boris came to stand overtop of the barbarian. He pressed a boot on the low of Msciwoj's back pinning his belly to the dirt and preventing his escape. Now, sword raised point down in both hands, he dealt death's knell; with sore wrath he drove it, pinning the man to the earth. The blade whined negative energy, satisfied at last. A twist of the blade, and then it was wrenched free, sending that barbarian's soul to whatever hell awaited him.

Bladed fingers carved into the cold earth to bring a fistful to his bullish snout. Nostrils flared to devour the stench, eyelids fluttering closed as he remembered the Rashemi blood that permeated the same ground this time almost two years gone.

When his eyes opened they were vacant - shark-like. He was in a warrior's trance, reliving the bloodshed.

In grim silence his large hand lift and the talons unfurled. Kohl-lined eyes glared as the thick mud dislodged and slopped in clumps to the ground. The same gauntlet dragged down his staring face, opening the skin of his brow and cheek with its deadly claws, debasing his countenance with filth - in his minds eye, only dressing himself again by hands drenched in the blood of a hated enemy.

When he awoke again he arose with ease from where he knelt. The titanic monolith of blackened platemail ascended the battle-saddle of his Tyranturan steed and, with cruel vigor, drew the reigns and dug his barbed heels into the ribs of the muscled beast barking a cry of command. The equine reared up with an ungodly shriek in the still night air, casting horror afar. Falling onto its hooves it charged with abandon into the abyss of night, moonlight failing under impenetrable forest canopies of a lonely wilderness road.

Posted: **Thu Mar 14, 2019 2:57 am**

13th of Ches, 1355.
Temple of Tymora, Baldur's Gate.

She sits, plucking up the deck.
"Would you accuse yourself of being a superstitious man, Boris?"
"To some extent, aye."
"I learned to do this as a child, from Magdalena. She is the one who gave me my first reading," she explains, as she idly shuffles the deck "but it was not until a year or two ago. I revisited Rhiannon, a changeling from Rashemen. She taught me how to use magic upon the deck. It... adds a bit more intent to the fold."
"Rashemi magick..." Boris muttered, unimpressed.
"Not Rashemi at baseline. But learned in Rashemen. Complete difference. This is a trick from all around the world."

She smiles gently, then continues to shuffle the deck. She sings some sort of song as she does so, soft and soothing; it resembles that of a chant.
Her shuffling hastens as she voice echoes, her fingers seeming to consider each card intentionally, though faster than one might normally wade through a deck. Eventually, four cards are placed horizontally upon the man, all face-down.
She motions to the cards, from left to right. "Let us explore what lies behind you, with you, and before you." Pauses dramatically, for any possible reaction to her theatrics.

The warrior sat upright in his chair, straight backed with shoulders wide. His gauntlets sat as fists on the table. Dark eyes watched the hands of the woman as she worked the kind of witchcraft, then raised to meet her gaze stoically, giving little to indicate what manner of expectation he might hold in his breast.
"First, we must analyze the past." She inclines her head - her eyes faded and smokey.

The first card is flipped: Knight of Swords.
This card depicts an armored man atop a white horse, charging in profile into battle. He holds a sword forward as he charges.
"Mmm. A man on a mission, charging to his goal. He is ambitious, dedicated, and so set upon his dreams that he will stop at nothing to accomplish them."
A twitch of his eyebrow at that.
"He tends to be quick to take action. He may be inclined to plan ahead, but he generally has a tendency to not plan far enough ahead."
The hands of the knight flattened out from their fists and came together, bladed fingers interlocking partially. His eyes narrowed on the card, reflecting on the words of the woman.
"... Does this imagery seem familiar to you?" she asked.
"Perhaps."
"Would you like to move on, or ponder this one further?"
"Please, continue..." Boris answered.
She inclines her head. "And with you; that which is happening, or in the midst of coming;" 4 of Pentacles was played.
This card depicts a finely dressed man with a crown, clutching a large golden coin. Two other coins are held under his feet, another atop his crown.
".. An accomplished man, though one affected by his ascension. He has earned much, but he clutches to that he has gained, intent on maintaining control of it. Strange, one might think. He may have reached such heights, but he spends so much time maintaining it that he may not have time to do anything else."
One hand lift and groomed down through his beard slowly, eyes on the card. A slow nodding. "So far your spell is true. Go on. What is my future?"
She inclines her head. "What is to come, yes."
She flips the third card; 5 of Swords. This card depicts a man holding two swords in one arm and a third to stand upon. He looks in triumph as two contenders depart, their shoulders slouched in defeat. Two swords rest on the ground before them.
"A time of falling out, or disagreement. The enemy leaves in disappointment, as if giving up. The one left finds victory in the moment. However, the storm clouds are coming in from the horizon. All is not well, despite perceived victory. This speaks of a time to come in which one must choose their battles carefully."
An ebony, sharpened finger nail hovers above the fourth card as her foggy gaze looks at the man. The fourth card remains face-down.
"And this last card... what does it represent?" the man asked.
"This card is the influence. The struggle. The strength. It could be many things, pertaining to the future. It is a card to ponder, and act accordingly. The past is already written, the present is unfolding, and the future is uncertain."
"Show it to me." Boris reclined back in his chair, expression as hard as stone.

She waves her hand, her gaze fading back to normal as the card unflips and slides to rest in front of Boris.
The card is Death.
She blinks and looks to the card, tilting her head. "Huh... Observe the imagery, interpret for yourself. Within the next moon, if you wish to discuss it, we may discuss it. This card is best interpreted by the one who is living the story, not the one reading it. All I can offer is, this card very rarely means its literal depiction."
"Portentous tidings you've dealt me, bardess."
"I believe they are hopeful."

Posted: **Tue Mar 26, 2019 8:33 am**

It was midnight and the altar was drenched. The bare body of a woman lay upon it, lifeless now, and before her stood Bueroza - a tower of cold wrath.

There in the heart of the temple of The Black Lord the champion of Bane was as naked as the day he was born. His great limbs, bare chest and strong stomach were splattered with the warm blood of his offering. A nearby acolyte robed in black from head to toe approached and received the ceremonial morningstar yielded by the herculean knight. Kohl-lined eyes turned up to the dark green stained glass window through which full moonlight beamed onto both his emotionless blood-freckled face and the foul deed he had wrought in the name of favor.

The temple monks began their ominous midnight chant and smoke began to fill the sanctuary. The barefoot Thayan's heavy arms extended either side of himself, sticky red fingers unfurling as calloused, dripping hands upturned in supplication to the Dark One. Pupils dilated. Those shark-like eyes glazed into religious trance as he devoted himself completely to the meditation of his deity's dogma and the path of Banite imperium;

P R I M A L F U R Y
S T R U G G L E
C O N T E N T I O N
C I V I L I Z A T I O N
E M P I R E
C O N Q U E R O R S
D O M I N A T I O N
A B S O L U T E P O W E R

Serve no one but Bane. Fear him always and make others fear him even more than you do. The Black Hand always strikes down those who stand against it in the end. Defy Bane and die - or in death find loyalty to him, for he shall compel it. Submit to the word of Bane as uttered by his ranking clergy, since true power can only be gained through service to him. Spread the dark fear of Bane. It is the doom of those who do not follow him to let power slip through their hands. Those who cross the Black Hand meet their dooms earlier and more harshly than those who worship other deities.

Posted: **Wed Apr 03, 2019 4:34 am**

~~~~~~~~~

Violence is the father of authority, from which all power is derived.
The battle axe is transcended, enthroned above the quirks of philosophy and culture.
The sword is the reserve that guarantees Order.

~~~~~~~~~

Posted: **Fri Apr 12, 2019 3:53 am**

THE RITE OF TYRANNY

A tyrant is born from the blood of his subjects. Three subjects, endorsed and approved by the Clergy of the Black Hand, must give a pint of their own blood in devotion to you as a Dread Knight.

Bueroza and Telula emerge from the Temple of Bane into the eternal winter blizzard of Darkhold's highest plateaus.

The ceremonial altar is prepared by Bueroza. Subjugated over the altar Telula rests her cheek upon it with her arm in the blood channel and his iron grip on the back of her neck. "Lord Bane," he prays, the sacrificial Banite dagger pressed to her arm, "witness the Rite of Tyranny by your Dread Novitiate! In obedience, this blood is shed in devotion to me as Your Dread Knight - and I offer it in devotion to You."

Telula's blood collects in the channel and wells into a black glass pot. When the letting is done Bueroza collects the vessel and seals it, staunches the wound of the woman, and leads her into the inner sanctum.

Bueroza presents the pint of blood to the Priest of Bane serving the cult at the temple. It is carried by him through the unholy veil of darkness to the true altar of Bane for offering and approval. Bueroza - Dread Novitiate - remains knelt at the common altar, contemplating the terrifying reality of the Lord Tyrant under the watchful eye of the Lady Telula, his first subject in the Rite of Tyranny.

Posted: **Mon Apr 15, 2019 4:08 am**

THE RITE OF TYRANNY
Part 2

Zeeta Thulkist climbs the stairs, holding her gown and lifting it at the knees. She looks to the dire wolf within the circle briefly, eyes cool and expression unchanging. She stands resplendant in a gown of purple silk. Hair and fabric whipping in the wind.
Telula sat still on the cold stones, the wolf's keen eyes set on the woman. The blustery wind blowing her thick fur all directions.
Already the cool air renders Zeeta's pale skin almost blue-white, but she holds her chin high and proud, refusing to submit to the cold even with the merest, slightest tremor or shiver.
The wind-blasted Thayan stood with his back to the prepared altar. A large, sacrificial Banite dagger was worn on his belt in an ornate ceremonial scabbard. His frosted hair clung to his savage brow as his kohl-painted eyes scanned the courtyard below.
Telula's keen eyes slid from the purple dress towards the altar where Bueroza stood, watching him silently while the wind ruffled and frosted over her fur.
Bueroza's great arms fell and he turned to face the arrival of Zeeta. Bare-chested, the network of infernal tattoos that webbed across his skin were cut with many scars and cruel burns.
The great wolf would rise to its four paws, padding softly to the side , as if to allow Zeeta to pass her.
Zeeta eyes his wounds without pity or the slightest hint of emotion. Turning slightly towards the Banite warrior, mirroring the wolf, to form the third point of a triangle upon the roof, yet never once crossing into the circle burned with arcane energies upon the stones.
A black gauntlet beckoned Zeeta to join him at the altar.
Telula would sink down to her belly after moving to the side, resting her big head across her crossed paws, her eyes set on watching Bueroza and the altar.
Upon being regarded by the great warrior, Zeeta stands, if anything, prouder than before. She allows the skirt of her gown to fall to the frigid stones, then takes five, slow, regal steps towards the alter, making of her gliding progress a solemn and ritual procession.
The dagger was strangled in his iron grip and broke out from the scabbard very slowly.

Zeeta claps her hands together, honouring the altar and the one who stands before it. She looks skyward before spreading her arms wide to either side, palms upwards, silently imploring the Tyrant God to observe the rite.
After performing a small ritual gesture with the blade before the altar the Novitiate outstretched the weapon to his side and put his other hand forward, open to sieze the wrist of Zeeta, inviting her to lay it in his palm.
With proud, regal grace, she slowly extends said arm to the Banite, not placing it within his palm, but holding it a hand's breath distant, that he must cease it, for all that she is willing, and demonstrate his power over her before Bane.
The pinprick pupils of the Thayan dilate, his upper lip retracting to bare his teeth as his vice grip seized the mage's wrist, closing it in his taloned fist. His bulldog jaw clenched firm shut as he forced her arm down to rest flat on the ice cold obsidian, her body obliged awkwardly to accommodate the descent.
She gasps at his iron grip, eyes widening in her first, true expression of the evening, lips twisting in discomfort. Yet as she's pulled down, she looks up at him still, chin resting on the cold stone, offering him a cold, approving smile.

Bueroza's hands, familiar with murder, handled the dagger expertly and ruthlessly, pressing the curve of the edge to the inner arm of the mage. He stared down at the woman coldly, his blue lips parting to speak.
"LORD BANE, LOOK UPON THE RITE OF THE TYRANT!"
He turned the dagger, opening a wound on Zeeta's arm.
Zeeta flinches at the burning cold touch of the near-frozen steel, but regards it's wielder with something approaching awe-struck devotion. Cold zeal in her eyes, even in the moment her lips twist in pain and blood is drawn from her snow-pale skin.
Bueroza held the arm in place, the blood relieved from the mage trickling down the cold channel and welling together in a black glass pot.
Telula's eyes glanced up towards the sky breifly before settling back on Bueroza. The wolf laying unmoving except for the occasional flick of her ears.
Zeeta's eyes never waver from his, her smile cruel, even while her eyes grow heavy from the bloodletting. As the pot fills, the cold finally takes hold, and she begins to shiver, though never once giving voice to complaint. Instead, she mutters a constant mantra in praise of Bane, and of his favoured son. "Hail Bane. Hail Bueroza. Hail Bane. Hail Bueroza."
The heaving chest of the aurochs of a man expelled a frosty mist from his flared nostrils. A zealous rage in his eyes, he released Zeeta's wrist suddenly and let her numb arm fall back to her.
She sways then, but only for a moment, pressing her blood-clean hand down upon the stones to steady herself. Then, after a moment, she rises. Proudly. To her feet. Chin held high. Back poised. Refusing to be swayed by wind or hail, yet with her eyelids fluttering from weakness, blood loss, and the deadly, perishing cold atop the tower.
The ceremonial dagger was sheathed again on his belt. The scowling goliath's lips parted again. "Present me the blood."

Telula sat up slowly, glancing from the weakened woman towards Bueroza, waiting for him to cue her.
Zeeta obeys without question, reaching out with both, numbed hands near white from cold. She grasps the receptacle of her blood, the grail, with both palms, raising it up that Bane might see it, before rounding the alter to descend, with difficulty, to her knees. She presents the goblet, thrusting it towards him above the height of her own head, even whilst her lifesblood seeps still from her wound, to drip, near frozen, to the frigid stones below.
Bueroza received the black glass container in his gauntlets and turned to the altar once again, raising it now above his own head - as it was offered to him, now offered to Bane.
Zeeta rises shakily to her feet, taking a single, stumbling backwards before falling to her knees once more, raising her gaze in fervent devotion.
After a time, Boris lowered the offering and rest it on the altar. There was a dark fervor in his gaze as he stared ahead, inhaling the chill winds greedily to swell his barrel chest.
"It is done."
Telula stood up, padding closer to the Altar.
His dark gaze turned onto Telula. "See to the Lady Thulkist's injury."
Her big furry body broke the freezing wind, the dire wolf looming over Zeeta as she approached.
By then, Lady Thulkist's head hangs low, her elbow resting upon her forward knee, but even show she shakes her head, barking a command:
"NO! No healing spells. A sacrifice made must BE a sacrifice." She merely looks up, dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Deathly pale.
"Bind my wounds. But no magic. Not so much as an orison."

Bueroza's primitive brow knotted, regarding Zeeta a long moment in silence. With a low grunt of approval for what she determined he showed a hand to Telula to desist.
Telula stood near the knelt woman, offering her relief from the freezing blasts of air whipping over the top of the tower, shifting her hazel eyes over towards Bueroza again.
After some pause, quite unceremoniously, Bueroza turned his back to Zeeta - leaving the fate of the weakened woman on the frozen tower to her own hands. He began his descent from the tower.
Telula would give Zeeta one firm snout shove to try to get her moving before following after Bueroza.
Zeeta looks up then, eyes heavy, to watch his departure, before drawing forth a dagger to cut a strip from her dress. Slowly, as though finding concentration difficult, she binds the tourniquet tight about her forearm.
Telula flicks her tail, glancing back one last time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Zeeta makes her way down the stairs, supported between two Zhentilar elites, though begrudgingly so, giving both men venomous looks. On seeing Bueroza and Telula, she shakes them off, angrily descending the last few steps alone.
Proudly, she announces, "I shall be retiring to my quarters. Hail Bane."
The direwolf was gone, and Telula had returned, watching Zeeta make her way down the spiral staircase silently, watching just as the wolf had.
A small smile cracked across her crimson painted lips."Do not die."
One of the Zhentilar attempts to take her arm again, only to be shaken off. "Hardly." She replies. The young mageling manages to cross the antechamber in a few haphazard, staggering steps, before vanishing through the door.

Posted: **Wed Apr 17, 2019 6:02 am**

THE RITE OF TYRANNY
PART 3

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Lady Blackrose looks to the altar, "Can you not feel it?" she holds her right hand over the altar, "The power, His presence!"
"Of course." the Thayans pupils were dilated so large his already dark eyes seemed shark like. "Unlimited strength."
"What do you require of me?" the woman asked. "My death? Or just my blood?"
"Only a pint..."

Bueroza prepared the altar and set a black glass jar in the receptacle of the blood channel.
The lady takes the dagger and places it on the altar then kneels before the altar.
"Before this altar I willingly shed my blood with the same dagger used in my creation. Liches Bane, may my blood further your will and enhance the Journey of another dedicated to your will. Hail be it to you My Lord. I am but a aspiration of your will."
She would then grab the dagger and cut deep into her left hand. Blood would begin to flow and she would hold it over the jar. As the jar would begin to flow she would stand tall until it could contain no more, then she would pull away and back off from the altar.
Bueroza's kohl-painted eyes glared down on the act of devotion occurring before the altar. His armored body perfectly still, like a statue, but for the rise and fall of his plated shoulders as he breathed deep the ancient air of the ruins.

Her Gaze would look toward Boris awaiting him to continue on.
Bueroza his head bowed gratefully to the Lich Queen. He changed his poleaxe to the left hand and knelt to take the jar of blood in his right, raising it over his head and the altar.
She would look on watch the ritual, Composed as always, He red gaze locked onto the altar.
"Lord Bane! This blood is pledged to your Novitiate for the Dread Knighthood of the Order of the Ebony Scepter! Behold now, the completion of this ancient Rite of Tyranny! Approve this offering from your servant... to your glory, O Tyrant Lord."
His chest swells with a deep inhale, gradually lowering the jar of blood to rest on the altar. He rises, sealing the vial with a black glass and cork plug. Handling the glass pot with great reverence he placed it carefully into its own carry pack to return it to Darkhold.
"Lady Blackrose. You have done me a great honour. The Rite of Tyranny is complete!"
The dagger in her hand would glow seemingly absorbing the blood on the blade. "Very well. I am honored to be a part of it."
"I will guard your offering with my life. It will never see the light of day outside of the Temple of Bane."
"My Blood, Is unlike any other. Guard it well."

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Rite of Tyranny was complete at last. Three pints of blood had been put forward, by three subjects, in devotion to this Dread Novitiate's calling to the Knighthood of the Ebony Scepter. He had proved to hold a popular support among his peers - but the service of his subjects would be worth nothing until he conquered the consequent Rites that lay before him. There was no room for failure - and thus, he set his face only forward.

Posted: **Fri Apr 26, 2019 7:31 am**

THE RITE OF STRIFE

Strife is at it's most pure when it lies between brothers, and rivals. A Dread Novitiate must defeat another Dread Novitiate in mortal combat, under supervision of the Clergy of the Black Hand. The Dark Priests hold the final word on who reigns victorious, as well as if the opponent is a suitable rival.
- The Sacred Rites of the Order of the Ebony Scepter
Music:
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A group of four stood amongst the night market of Soubar, speaking together when the town gates were darkened by the entry of the Dreadmaster, Barristan Schulltze.

Bueroza: "Dreadmaster Schulltze."
Bob Thairo: "Well that's convinient."
Bueroza & Bob: put their fists to their breasts in a sharp salute.
Barristan Schulltze: nods to the two dark knights. "Gentlemen."
Masked Man: inclined his head in silent greeting.
Masked Woman: knelt at the Masked Man's side. She remains silent and still.
Barristan Schulltze: looks the two masked figures over briefly.
Bueroza: "We will shortly be riding for Darkhold. At least, it was our mind. How can we serve you?"
Barristan Schulltze: "I am simply out for a stroll myself, had nothing particular in mind at the moment."
Bueroza: "There is a matter that will soon require your attention, Dreadmaster Schulltze."
Barristan Schulltze: lifts a brow. "Oh?"
Bueroza: the warrior unlashed the small black book that he wore on his belt and approached Barristan, opening it to a certain page. "Soon, the Rite of Strife will come upon us." he speaks collectively of the warrior over his shoulder. "A trial of mortal combat that is traditionally overseen and judged by the Clergy of the Black Hand. You would hold final word on who reigns victorious between Novitiate Thairo and myself."
Barristan Schulltze: he looks between the two, and the book. "I see, I will gladly oversee such. Have you a set date you wish to perform this rite on?"
Bob Thairo: "We both have to accomplish the second rite, as far as I know. Afterwards we could come up with a date."
Barristan Schulltze: nods at that. "Very well, then simply let me know when all is prepared."
Bueroza: "I have seen nothing to say these first three Rites must be done in any order. Only that the Rite of Challenge must come after all."
Bob Thairo: "Ah. Well, I have nothing planned tonight." he shrugs.
Bueroza: "Then let us defy one another in the courtyard of Darkhold, under the eye of the Dreadmaster."
Bob Thairo: he nods.
Barristan Schulltze: "Or... before the altar of the Abby, the blood of a sacred duel will be a fitting first step to it's restoration."
Masked Man: finally speaks in his hissing voice. "If you wish, the 'house of bone' can also stand as witness..."
Bueroza: "So be it. To the Abby."

The small team move through Soubar and into the Winding Way Tavern. A mixture of interest and disinterest from the patrons. In single file they descend down the winding staircase into the deep and dark dungeons - the Ruins of Bane.

Barristan Schulltze: snaps his fingers, and from a flash of emerald light appears a blob of eyeballs. Barristan looks at the Gauth. "Make sure nothing gets in the way..."
Masked Man: "... If you wish, I can call forth my... 'contingent' of wardens..."
Bob Thairo: "Mmmm."
Masked Man: leaves his demonic attendants to guard the stairs.

Flaming denizens of the abyss are called forward by the Masked Man. Together with the Eye-Tyrant they keep a perimeter around the combatants free of interference, blasting with brimstone and sword, or with rays and beams of power, any of the scurrying rat-men that objected to the presence of the companions by throwing rocks at them or, for their insatiable vermin curiousity, dared too close.

Masked Woman: "Snaagoots gapet."
Bob Thairo: "Originator?"
Barristan Schulltze: takes out a book, one that's quite similar to the one Boris showed earlier, and flips it open.
Masked Man: "A lesser balor... Correct..."
Bob Thairo: he grins.
Masked Woman: stands guard at the top of the stairs.
Bueroza: "You there." gestured the masked woman. "Come here." once she had approached he reached out a taloned gauntlet to lay it on her brow - if she did not prevent him.
Masked Woman: no resistance.
Bueroza: from the creases of his gauntlets what look like red worms squirm out, wriggling through the fibers of the woman's hood and burrowing into her scalp.
Bob Thairo: he raises an inquisitive eyebrow at Bueroza
Masked Woman: she doesn't make any noise as the worms dig into her.
Bueroza: he removed his hand, after several moments of siphoning her blood, breaking the strings of parasitic blood-mites. Flexing his grip his pupils have dilated. He seems empowered by the woman's blood, veins bulging on his brow and throat and heart racing. He then turned his shoulder on the woman and faces Bob.
Barristan Schulltze: claps the book shut, and tucks it away, looking to the two men.
Masked Woman: goes back to guarding the top of the stairs.
Barristan Schulltze: "Two servants stand before the alter of the Dread Tyrant, brothers in arms, yet rivals at this moment. Both of your blood will be spilled upon this alter, and one of you shall fall. There shall be no mercy, and there shall be no yielding." his gaze looks between the two. "Prove this night, before this altar, that no brotherhood, no loyalty is more powerful than the terror of the Dread Lord's shadow upon you. Draw your steel." he takes his left gauntlet off, placing one of his taloned fingers of his right gauntlet on his palm. "For when this blood hits the altar, you fight." with that, he stabs his palm, holding it above the altar.
Bob Thairo: he takes out his sword and holds high. "In tyranny we thrive, in strife we are strong, in fear we rule, in challenge we overcome! Praise the Lord-Tyrant! Hail Bane!"
Bueroza: in grim silence his eyes are locked on Bob like a predator, a barbed flail raising held overhead in salutation.
Barristan Schulltze: drip.

The clash was terrible, brief and violent. Both were accomplished warriors - but in less than twelve seconds, one of the Novitiates was on his back.

Bueroza: rose up over the defeated rival - he was a black steel monolith of wrath. The spiked head of his flail whirled slowly, keeping steady momentum. Kohl-lined eyes look to the Dreadmaster for a sign to strike the killing blow.
Barristan Schulltze: He looks to Boris, then to Bob once, then back to Boris with a curt nod.
Bueroza: accelerated the sweep of his flail, eyes flaring wide and a great roar as he crashed the weighted head down with barbaric might onto Bob's helmet.
Bob Thairo: the helmet holds, thanks to its superior protective enhancements, however its obvious from the sound of the blow that Bob skull has split under the thunderous blow the helm is the only thing keeping his head in one piece. He is very much dead.
Bueroza: tried to slow his breathing, heart racing as he turned to face the Dreadmaster. The champion holstered his flail on his hip and slung his shield. He stepped to the altar of Bane and sank to one knee with a fist over his heart.

Barristan Schulltze: steps forward, and places his still bleeding hand on Boris's head. "One Novitate falls, one remains. Arise the champion of the rite of Strife."
Bueroza: "Hail Bane!"
Barristan Schulltze: "Hail Bane, Hail Horror." His gaze shifts briefly to the two masked figures as the words are spoke, before slowly looking down at Bob.
Bueroza: rising from the altar with the unholy approval of Bane's clergy, Bueroza turned to depart. The jackbooted fighter stepped over Bob's corpse, then descended the stairs to the floor of the ruins. His heart was still racing as the blood-mites surged through his veins, eyes wide with adrenaline.
Masked Man: reaches into his robe, pulling out a bit of parchment and a feather from his shoulder, scribbling something down.
Barristan Schulltze: "Let us see if our Lord still has use for him..." he takes a knee besides Bob, placing his bloodied palm on his chestplate.
Masked Man: the mask watches with a sort of cold indifference, covering with quill over paper.
Barristan Schulltze: "Lord of Darkness, this mortal has fallen in service and loyalty. If you deem him worthy of service once more, be it while breathing or not, return him to us. If not, then so be it."
Bob Thairo: he takes one painful breath, staying on the ground. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"
Barristan Schulltze: "Breathing it is.."
Bob Thairo: he drops his sword and shield and claws at his helmet.
Masked Man: quickly runs his quill across the paper before rolling it up and tucking it away again.
Bob Thairo: "Take... take that.... argh MY HEAD!" he finally manages to undo the strap that keeps his helmet in places, which proceeds to fall on the ground. "Where am.. why..."
Barristan Schulltze: "Savor that pain... Consider it a gift, a lesson."
Bueroza: paused, closing his eyes at the sound of Bob's scream. He lingered a moment standing then ascended the stairwell.
Bob Thairo: he looks at Barry with unfocused eyes. "Lesson..." he rubs his temples with his armored gauntlet.
Barristan Schulltze: "Your rite of strife remains unfulfilled, learn from this experience, for you have been granted a second chance. Do not let it go to waste."
Bob Thairo: his thoughs still scrambled, he slowly sits upright. He nods very slowly at Barry's comment and takes out a canteen, drinking from it. He takes a moment to settle his breathing and gather his dropped equipment.
Barristan Schulltze: with that, he mutters a spell on himself, far exessive for the minor cut on his palm, and places his gauntlet back on.

Under the light of the moon Bueroza rode for Darkhold, alone. The Rite of Strife was complete - but the Rite of Fear remained. The wind swept his black cloak out behind him as his charger, Xenubat, battled up the steep paths of the Sunset Mountains in the gale force winds. Only after the Rites of Tyranny, Fear and Strife were complete would he have the right to approach a Dreadmaster of Bane and undergo the final rite; The Rite of Challenge, that would secure his new Knighthood and bring official resurrection to the infamous and infernal Order of the Ebony Scepter.

Posted: **Fri Apr 26, 2019 9:36 pm**

On the Trade Way, two black knights travel south was interrupted by a bold bandit attack. Dread Novitiates Bob Thairo and Bueroza had fended themselves well. Completing the battle, the ginormous Thayan warrior had snatched the last bandit by the throat and raised him overhead, breaking his neck and dropping him to the ground - and only moments later, two more figures had appeared on the beaten trail crossing their path.

Bueroza: Seeing the approach of Wisp and Maximilian, Bueroza hailed his comrade Bob to get his attention. "Novitiate."
Bob Thairo: "Uh?"
Bueroza: turned squarely to Maximilian. One of his gauntlets is blooded. The limp body of a bandit on the grassy hill behind him.
Wisp Ath'avae: Twin pools of pale blue dance between the two men and a darkened brow is lofted briefly. Both of her hands curl in her skirts to keep them off the mud.
Maximilian Blackthorne: he stops in his tracks, glancing between the two. Gaze sets on Boris, a smile curves his lips for a moment. Lone eye travels down, taking note of the man's features "Hunting highwaymen?"
Bueroza: "Making for Beregost, in fact. I've comissioned some manacles - though, I ought have measured your wrists first..."
Maximilian Blackthorne: he lets out a hearty laugh "Now, now, you keep talking like that, you'll get me all excited."
Bueroza: his severe expression eased only enough for his cold lips to curve in an ugly smile. "This is the new woman, is it?"
Maximilian Blackthorne: "New woman?" head cants to the side, brow quirking
Bob Thairo: he cocks his head on the side. "He does have a taste for those silvery hair types."
Bueroza: his kohl-lined eyes turned to Wisp - a dark Mulani stare as he appraised her with recognition.
Wisp Ath'avae: A darkened brow lofts a bit higher as she regards the man to her left. "I've a name; though you've probably not a tongue to pronounce it correctly."
Bueroza: "Wisp, as I recall."
Maximilian Blackthorne: he shoots a glare Bob's way. "When I'm addressing a dog, you'll know to bark."
Bob Thairo: he chuckles.
Wisp Ath'avae: "Hmm. The common form of my name, yes." Her eyes squinted briefly as she regarded the man near. She pays no mind to Bob.
Bueroza: "I was just commenting to the dog how I would like to speak with you, Maximilian, concerning the Order of the Ebony Scepter."
Wisp Ath'avae: Wisp looks positively bored as she glances between the three men and then a casual loft of a slender shoulder is given before eyes dance elsewhere.
Maximilian Blackthorne: his gaze lingers on the man down the road for a moment longer, then attention is turned back to Boris. "A topic I'd rather not dwell on, however if you wish to share words, I'll oblige. Find me in the city on the morrow."
Wisp Ath'avae: "Right. I'm moving on; you three tend to your business and giggles. I've not time to waste." With that, delicate footsteps move forward.
Bueroza: watched Wisp go on alone, then looked back to Maximilian. "A beautiful woman."
Maximilian Blackthorne: he glances after Wisp, then back to Boris. "As you can see, I'm rather busy. On the morrow, you know how to find me."
Bueroza: "Do you ever fear for her?"
Maximilian Blackthorne: "Don't start with that naeth, or our conversations will get short." at that, he moves down the road.
Bueroza: followed the man with a cold stare.

Bob Thairo: "He definitely does."
Bueroza: "You know my mind already I am sure."

Two Flaming Fist soldiers were spied on the Trade Way headed in the direction of the encounter. It was time to move on.

Posted: **Sun Apr 28, 2019 3:49 am**

RITE OF FEAR
A Dread Knight must be fear incarnate, for fear in he is fear of Bane. A petitioner of lesser Gods must willingly mutilate himself, out of fear in the Dread Novitiate's acts, or force of his personality.
Music for Reading:
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Dread Novitiate Bueroza entered the Temple Sanctuary at Darkhold at midnight for his devotions. Therein he found Dread Novitiate Thairo and a man enchained; a tall and well built man who is in his early thirties. He looks like he has been on the road for a long time. He has dreadlocks and a raspy voice.

Pelle Tane: you see the man is still bleeding from his mouth.
Bob Thairo: "Oh! Brother!" he bangs his armored fist as the huge man enters the room. "Just in time, too."
Pelle Tane: looks to his left.
Bueroza: put his fist to his breast. He looked between the men to try and gauge the situation.
Bob Thairo: he pulls on the manacles, half dragging Pelle towards one of the torches. There he undoes the right manacle and locks it in place on the torch, taking a step back.
Bueroza: "What have we here?" he looks at Bob. Large hands clasp behind the low of his back.
Bob Thairo: he then leaves a wicked shortsword, handle first, on the bench. He chuckles as he steps back.
Pelle Tane: "No..."
Bob Thairo: "Why, the rite of Fear, of course."
Bueroza: "How intriguing. I trust you wont mind my ...observation."
Bob Thairo: "Not at all."
Bueroza: the Thayan set his gaze on Pelle now, staring at the man.
Pelle Tane: "If you want my finger come and get it, coward."
Bob Thairo: he sighs. "Just do it, spare yourself unneeded injuries, will you?"
Pelle Tane: the man looks around, like a caged animal you see confusion and fear in his eyes.
Bob Thairo: "Even at your best you could barely raise one of your hammers. Think about it. Your situation is hopeless. There is one way out. Yet you deny yourself ... freedom and life." *Diplomacy Check: Success.*
Pelle Tane: "You are saying....If I do this will you set me free?"
Bob Thairo: "Mhmm." he flashes a wicked smile at Bueroza, while behind Pelle.
Pelle Tane: "I...I will do it."
Bueroza: "Good."

~~Blackout~~

Bob Thairo: he smiles a massive grin. "Throw down the sword, I will release you." he looks to the Dreadmaster to his left, who nodded back to him. Then addressed the maimed man, "Pelle. Drop the sword."
Pelle Tane: drops the sword.
Bob Thairo: he undoes the manacles.
Pelle Tane: "My hand..."
Bob Thairo: "I did say I would free you, not heal you."
Pelle Tane: he keeps bleeding.
Bob Thairo: "You are free to go."
Pelle Tane: he bandages his hand. *Heal Check: Success.*

While Pelle obsessed over his changed hand, Bob moved behind Bueroza.
Bob Thairo: [Whisper] "Could you make sure he does not leave the courtyard?"
Bueroza: Stared silently at Pelle.

Pelle Tane: "I can...leave?"
Bob Thairo: dismisses the skeleton guarding the Temple exit with a wave. He nods. "My colleague will make sure the guards will not challenge you."
Bueroza: "Right this way."
Pelle Tane: "We will meet again...Bob."
Bob Thairo: "I am sure." he moves towards the altars, to begin prayers
Bueroza: "This way. Now."
Pelle Tane: sighs.

Pelle and Bueroza left Bob in the Temple. They exit into the lobby. Pelle was minded to head toward the stairwell down, but Bueroza halted him - redirecting the prisoner to the stairwell leading up.

Bueroza: "There is a more direct way to the courtyard here."

The pair emerged from the stairwell onto the rooftop above the Temple. Night winds blew at a gale and rain was heavy. They were barely sheltered here. A line of castellated battlements walled the platform a distance infront of them. But there was no way of descent.

Pelle Tane: "...This is not the exit." the man seems nervous. *Will Save: Fail.*
Bueroza: came to halt on the centre of the rooftop with his back to Pelle. The storm winds buffets both of the men mercilessly. Here, Bueroza only glared at the horizon over the battlements, no word spoken.
Pelle Tane: "What is this?" Pelle pressed for an answer.
Bueroza: "Jump."
Pelle Tane: "What!?" unsheathes his hammers. "Are you out of your mind?"
Bueroza: the herculean warrior drew his deathknight longsword Lifebane in answer - a necromancer blade whistling with negative energy. It hangs low, point down, at is his side.
Pelle Tane: he takes two steps back.
Bueroza: "Leap from the battlements, and you may live. Remain here with me and you will die by the sword."
Pelle Tane: looks towards his exit then to Bueroza. "You... I will kill you slowly."
Bueroza: "Defy Bane and die - or in death find loyalty to him, for he shall compel it."
Pelle Tane: sighs. "Here goes nothing I guess.." he climbs up into the stone castellations and looks down upon the boulders below.
Bueroza: "NOW!" the Thayan barked command.
Pelle Tane: jumps down and screams. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Bueroza: peered over the battlements, down at the shape of a man on the rocks far below. His was a gaze without pity. In himself, he knew the Rite of Fear was complete. The wind whipped his black silk cloak wildly around his titanic steel frame as he vacated the rooftop.

Bueroza: descended the winding stairs with sword in fist. The weapon has no blood on it.
Bob Thairo: was waiting in the temple lobby to meet him. "I could swear I heard a man scream his way down."
Bueroza: "Did you?" the Thayan sheathed his deathknight blade at last. "It must have been the wind."

Posted: **Fri Jun 21, 2019 8:39 am**

Forgers of destiny, architects of our own becoming.
We make the flesh strong.
We know that it is the only fit conveyance for a strong mind and an iron will.
Ours is a mindset that accepts no weakness.

Posted: **Tue Oct 01, 2019 5:31 am**

+
It was on my return from Zhentarim directives abroad that word reached me of my banishment from Darkhold on pains of death.
+
'Suspicion of divided loyalty'.
+
Had someone made false accusation, seeking to dislodge me from the agency at Darkhold for their own advantage?
+
Perhaps not. The Dreadlord could not reconcile my love of my Thayan race and nation with the vows I had made to the Zhentarim and to Bane. Doubted that all were held in their rightful place.
+
A prudent decision on her part; none of those dogs who remain now will dare the throne.
+
Had I ever taken it, how I would have trampled the treaties and sensitivities of kings;
+
A passionate man of action; a Dreadlord not of silver and silk, but of iron and fury.
+
Imposing the order and hierarchy of the cult over all, Bane worshipped in his rightful place over all, according to the natural order of the cosmos which the realm stands presently an abomination of;
+
The Heartlands would have known no mercy from the Rod of the Black Hand until its barbaric sprawl was subjugated. Then Chondath, and the long Eastward creep - swallowing the Enclaves of Thay, slaying the Magi and bringing my brothers into the fold of the cult where they belong at my side.
+
Nothing but a dream.
+
'Traitor', is the reality.
+
I am not the first of them to take such a title, and I would by no means be the last.
+
Darkhold expects me a traitor. I will not disappoint them; I will give them treachery. Treachery with violence.
+
It is time to put down the tattered banner - that honor-become-pretense, that old game of civility that availed me nothing - and embrace warrior exile.
+
Your malice become me, Lord Bane.

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Posted: **Fri Nov 15, 2019 2:28 am**

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in Darkhold's Dungeons beneath the frozen earth of the North the war-torn shell of Bueroza gathered dust. There was no breath in the man. The rear of his skull yawned its brains into the dirt. That giant's evil soul might well be wandering in wroth vanity for its misplaced temple of flesh...

Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: Boris Vyacheslav

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)

Re: BUEROZA (Boris V.)