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KatCromren
09:11:17 PM 09/06/10

give me a sec, i'll try it but i won't stay on since i'mma doing stuff on Thain

Gard Fearlian
09:08:29 PM 09/06/10

I wanna try hosting something, since I just got my DM client working, and see if anyone can connect. Should only take a few minutes. Wanna try?

KatCromren
09:07:17 PM 09/06/10

What you testing?

Gard Fearlian
08:48:27 PM 09/06/10

Does someone wanna test something with me?

DerkDerkistan
08:24:12 PM 09/06/10

*pours salt on the wound*

MetalTree
08:16:14 PM 09/06/10

*Sniffs and cries in the corner.*

KatCromren
08:14:56 PM 09/06/10

*hugs MT*

MetalTree
08:05:02 PM 09/06/10

I scraped my knee really badly

Davenutninja1
07:36:31 PM 09/06/10

*raises a scotch glass at EC*

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06:26:25 PM 09/06/10

*waves back, then goes to sleep*

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The Island of Thain :: Forums :: Thain :: In Character Discussion		<< Previous thread \| Next thread >>
Splittin' Knuckles

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Doorman

03:01:05 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

The post series you are about to read has
intense violence, bad language,
suggestive themes, use of alchohol,
potentially disturbing imagery
and people dying for no good reason.

Spike Knuckles' Portrait
Artist Source

[ image disabled ]

Splittin' Knuckles
A Tale of Love, War, and Killin' For Money

Night fell over the little hamlet on the muddy, ugly landscape. The farmers and their families were locked securely away to avoid the rainstorm, while the wind hurtled across the plains. It was called Point Shawshen, if the sign in the center of town was to be believed, and possibly the last place anyone would look for anything of importance. While such assumptions were hardly reliable when it came down to it, what more precaution could be taken?

A hooded figure hurried through the night, his bow over one shoulder and a bundle of cloth under one arm. Was he pursued? He was not sure. There were eyes everywhere, if the missive could be trusted, so he could not stay long, lest he compromise the safety of his precious cargo.

But where to leave it? A church? A barn? An inn? All three of these things were available to him, but he went to none of them. Leaving it on the doorstep was a surefire way to lose it, and he had to entrust it would go into the hands of people as safe as they were ignorant of what was being left in their care. He could not knock on doors, for that would draw undue attention and slow his steps.

Hooves sounded on the road behind. A merchant? A noble? A farmer back from the fields with his goods? None of those things could be true, not in this storm. Time was short. The bowman sprinted through the street with a fleetness of a Scar Skirmisher, stopping at the well in the center of town. He swept off his cloak and doubly wrapped the bundle, before setting it on the stone edge of the well and drawing up the bucket. The hooves were not close, but they were not far. Not far enough to afford any stalling. He fit the bundle into the bucket and let the rope descend, before drawing an arrow from his quiver and fitting it into the wheel of the well, so it could not be lowered too far.

The horsemen were drawing closer. The bowman, now uncloaked and with rain pattering across his red and steel armor, cast his gaze urgently backwards. He took his weapon down and broke into a run again for the edge of town, leaving his delivery behind.

Within minutes, a farmhand and his horse came running in from the cold, hardly the dangerous procession the bowman had expected.

-----

With the dawn, a hung over stable hand shambled out to the well, but paused when he noted the arrow stuck in the gears of the well's draw. As he cursed the fool responsible and reached for the arrow, a curious sound echoed out of the water.

A baby's cry?

Shouting for aid, the hand soon enlisted the aid of his neighbors, and with much care, the bucket of the well was drawn up and the cloth bundle pulled free. The cloth was pulled away from the face of the mewling child, with its hair of charcoal and tear-filled blue eyes, and the village gathered in confusion around it.

Questions were asked, certainly, but what answers could be found? The cloak used to cover the child, heavy and gilded with the imprint of an iron hand upon its back, was thrown carelessly aside, and the child was taken in.

[ Edited 03:30:42 AM 03/03/10 ]

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Never forget, Thain, I'm the one who STARTED the trend of putting your character info in your sig.

Doorman; Best Forum Storyteller of 2004, 2006, 2008, and 2009
Jeri Theed Orman; Best Character of 2008 and 2009, Deceased
Spike Knuckles; Assassin
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Radical Saberdark; good albino drow angel raised by dracons who is cleric of god

Doorman

03:01:22 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

"...or that's how my mother tells it," laughed the tall man, with his fine boots up on the inn table. An apple sat on the table beside a flagon of the house's best brew, while four empty mugs lay on their sides beside three browning cores, and one apple was slowly skinned and diced by a paring knife.

Two mercenaries and their women-of-the-evening sat at the table, listening with dubious expressions.

"Course," the man went on, "I think it's made up. See, my mother was a bit of a slattern, so she prolly invented the story to save herself from shame, and put me in the bucket herself in the dead of night. So, when her husband got back from the wars, everyone would have this fantastic story to tell and no one would be the wiser. Yeah, one or two people might've seen through it, but I seem to be the only one who'll admit it, and I am the quite-literal bastard the tale is referrin' to!"

"He's been talking for an hour," hissed the mercenary on the left.

"You're the one who agreed to that ridiculous bet," snapped the one on the right.

"Now boys," the tall man mused, closing one mirthful eye and focusing the other on the two men. "I thought we agreed that if I beat you at dice, you'd listen to my stories. You've endured four of the five I was gonna to tell, you only gotta sit through one more."

"I have a question," asked the prostitute paired with the mercenary on the left. "Why did you order those?"

"You mean the apples and the ale?" asked the tall man, chewing on a bite of the fruit he was holding. "Oh, its an old superstition. See, an apple a day keeps the doctor away, and an ale every dawn keeps all your hair on. But, in my line of work, I can't always manage to have an ale and an apple whenever the sun comes." He tossed the core onto the table beside its mates. "And so, every five nights, I treat myself to my allotted needs."

"And this fifth story?" growled the mercenary on the right.

"Oh yeah, certainly," laughed the man, picking up his final ale and downing it in a few powerful chugs. "It's actually a bit of a joke, very short, I'm sure you'll love it."

"Get on with it," insisted the merc.

"Yeah yeah," chuckled the man, shifting a bit. "What do you call two freebootin' soldiers who run from the field of duty, become mercenaries, and think they're safe just because a year has gone by?"

The two mercenaries simultaneously furrowed their brows, then looked to each other as comprehension slowly dawned.

Then the man shoved back from the table, grabbed it by the edge, and flipped it towards the men. As the ladies-of-the-evening fell sideways to dodge the table, each with her own melodious shriek, the two men were knocked down by the flipping oaken table. As they shoved the table to the side and got to their feet, the tall man took a step back, reaching up to the scabbard on his back and drawing the blade he kept there. He swept it once across the left mercenary's face, then elbowed the one on the right in the chest, pulled his arm back, and swept the blade once more. The mercenary on the right fell, holding his neck until he hit the floor, where he proceeded to writhe, while the blinded left-hand mercenary clawed fruitlessly for the club at his side.

A sword through the gut stopped the search for a weapon, and as the body hit the floor, the tall man fit his blade cleanly into the heart of the right-hand mercenary.

The inn was paralyzed. It had all happened in the space of a few seconds. The innkeep was staring with wide eyes, while the other patrons were slowly rising, trying to determine what to do.

The tall man picked up his sixth apple from the floor and brushed it off on his sleeve, no longer smiling. He fit the fruit into his teeth and held it there, knelt, took the purses from his victims, and got to his feet again.

"Have a nice night, folks," he said tiredly, and made his way to the back door of the inn.

The job was done.

[ Edited 05:04:30 AM 02/05/10 ]

BEST D.M. ON THE SERVER
(D.M. stands for Doorman)

Doorman

03:01:58 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

"The hell do you mean 'the job's not done'?!" raged the tall man, throwing a ceramic mug across the desk.

The gray-haired, serious faced man steepled his ring-lined fingers as the vase shattered harmlessly on the bookshelf behind him. His two guards did not move, quite used to this level of behavior.

"You heard the Sir Augustine very clearly. The two mercenaries you killed were not the men we paid you to eliminate," said the guard on the right, who had a head of rust red hair and a constant (annoying) smile. "Again."

"This marks the tenth random pair of mercenaries you have killed on a 'hunch', and none of them were the men we were looking for," said the guard on the left, a man with slick black hair and a brace of throwing knives around his chest. "While you're doing your part to clear up the street, certainly, you can't walk in here and demand we pay you for a contract you haven't fulfilled."

"Do you people understand how valuable my time is?" demanded the blade-for-hire, pounding a fist on the table. "I should be taking out more than deserters and pennypinchers! Give me something exciting!"

"There are twenty men out there who would replace you in a heartbeat," sighed the redhead. "You're small time, and Sir Augustine cannot trust his important missions to idle thugs."

"I don't need this abuse," scoffed the warrior, putting up his hands. "I'm going on vacation. And mark my words, in like, an hour, you guys will be saying 'man, I wish Spike was here, Spike could take care of everything for us'. But I'll be long gone! And you'll cry into your... tea... whatever it is... you drink!"

The door slammed as he left.

The two guards sighed.

Sir Augustine smiled faintly.

"Something funny, sir?" asked the redhead.

"Go the window and watch what happens when he reaches the gate of the city," mused the man, rising from his chair and walking over to a fine tapesty along the far wall, where an iconic representation of himself was battling a horde of demons with a saber in one hand and the crest of the Augustine family in the other.

The two guards went to watch as the man who called himself Spike stormed towards the gates of Braetoc, a city nestled at the border between two warring nations, where crime families ran wild. People waved and shouted as the thug walked moodily to the massive gates, calling his name and asking him to share a story, but he ignored them.

However, as he passed the gate, his body came to a halt, as if the blade harness about his shoulder was caught on something. He tried to struggle past it, but he could not move beyond the arch while the brace was still on.

"What the... son of..."

The guards on duty chuckled amongst each other, watching as the blade-for-hire tried to struggle forward. Children began to jeer and shout, as this was apparently something they had seen before.

"Trying to skip out on Lord Augustine, son?" laughed a sergeant on duty. "Hellcutters, man and blades alike, can't leave the city, you know. Fight all you like, but you'll just give yourself a nasty bruise."

But Spike did not stop fighting. Instead, he grappled up and siezed the saber on his back, tearing it out of the scabbard despite the resistance. The blade shot backwards and pinned itself into the cobblestones, and he tried to push forward again. His chest moved, but his right hand did not. He looked carefully back to the tattoo of arched wings with two staring gray eyes amidst their feathers, which now seemed to glare hatefully at him as he tried to leave.

"You think that's funny?" He demanded, glaring at the mark, while his hand remained paralyzed beneath the arch while his body tried to drag forward. A guard came over to try and push him back through the arch, but Spike responded with a vicious headbutt, wresting a knife from the soldier's belt in the process. The other guards picked up their spears, now alarmed, while the assassin turned in place, waving the knife at them.

"Back off!" He ordered. "If I wanna walk, I walk!"

He drove the knife into the back of his hand then, carving at the flesh, tearing at the mark, until those staring eyes were naught but bloodied flesh. His hand slipped slowly through the archway as if being dragged through a current of powerful water, while the guards kept their distance, staring at what they were seeing.

Spike freed his hand from the archway, tossed the long knife over his shoulder, and walked out of the city of Braetoc.

The two bodyguards of Lord Augustine simultaneously raised their eyebrows.

"...M'Lord Anthony... he... just left."

Anthony Augustine's eyes narrowed.

"He did -WHAT-?"

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Doorman

03:05:05 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

Took the first boat out of Rutger. Spent two days walking to get there. No one followed me. Didn't think they would.

Damned shame I had to leave my Hellcutter. Those things are legendary. I just don't feel right holding a sword that isn't one... but its not like I can turn around now and ask them to put a new one in my hands.

Well, maybe I could. I'm Spike Knuckles. They HAVE to take me back--

No. No, I'm committed to this.

Besides, I can't go back now anyway. Boat's left the harbor. It's landed. Even if I -wanted- to go back, which I don't, I don't have the coin for the passage. And they'd laugh at me, so I'd have to break someone's jaw, and man, I hate fighting sailors. They smell terrible, and it doesn't come out for -days-.

It's raining now... figures.

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Doorman

03:08:44 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

The rain-soaked, leather-wrapped, stubble lined thug trudged through the mud, until he noticed eyes were upon him. He looked slowly over to the staring little girl, sitting on an upturned water bucket underneath an overhang.

"Whatcha doin'?" She asked.

"...walkin'," he answered, fussing with his ratty hair. "Lookin' for a fight."

"Are you an adventurer?" asked the little girl, her eyes bright.

"I guess, yeah," muttered the thug.

She pointed north. "There's a bunch of mean dogs up north... daddy says to send all the adventurers I see up there! He says that'll fix everyone's problems!"

The blade-for-hire, now unemployed, managed a tired grin.

"Probably keeps the dogs fed. We'll see who wins. Thanks, kid."

And then he was gone.

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Doorman

03:36:53 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

I hate fighting dogs. I did it when I was younger in the city, before I killed my way up the food chain. Helped out the vermin catchers, chased down dogs and particularly large rats.

I've noticed that every good hero starts out punching rats. Well, since that's years behind me, I've gotta be the best hero there is, right? Right.

That whole beach is riddled with caves and little crannies, and every single one has got a whole pack of angry dogs in it. Dogs go down basically the same as people do; get an arm around them and hit them a lot with a heavy thing or stab them until you hit something important. Either they'll die or they'll do the same thing right back at you. Except its easier to fight dogs because they don't have thumbs.

Well, maybe not so much. See, these are wet dogs. And I was worried about fighting sailors...

Dead adventurers and farmers abound in here... but one died holding a bottle of wine. Poor vintage, as if I know a damned thing about vintage, but I've had better ale. Still, a splash on the bites makes them hurt a little less, and a dose for me helps me forget how much my hand itches.

Damn, how big are these caves...?

... and what the hell is -that-?

[ image disabled ]

[ Edited 07:57:46 AM 02/05/10 ]

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Doorman

05:34:49 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

Well, that was exciting. I'm okay, granted. But that thing was huge.

It tackled me. Never had to wrestle a dog bigger than I was before, so hey, here's to learning new things.

But damn, it bit like nothin' else, and its the first dog I've seen who didn't -calm down- after they got a nice bite of fresh meat. I guess it didn't like how I tasted, because it knocked me clear into a stone wall.

I landed in a pile of bones. Sharp. Ouch. A few are still stuck in my backside, I think... but I found a knife in the scraps.

Just what I needed. When that dog came after me again, I shivved it good. And I mean -good-. One to the neck, one to the eye, and then the rest to its side until it fell down.

Took me the better part of five minutes to get it off me, though.

Wonder what else is in these caves...

-----

They're all over the shore. This one smells different, though. More salty. It's wetter here. Water on the walls sort of seems to... move...

Wait. Something's got my leg. Something's on my back. It's not solid. It's not human, hell, it's not even animal. It burns like nothin' else, and its gettin' in my cuts. It's in my hair. It's crawling over me like a tribe of ants, made of boiling water. It's on my face. It's trying to get in. Close mouth. Hold breath. Try to claw it off, try to get it off.

Dammit, its in my eyes, I can't see, it burns like nothing else.

Mouth opened. It's in my throat, my lungs, my chest. I'm on fire.

Gotta think of something--

[ image disabled ]

[ Edited 05:35:35 AM 02/05/10 ]

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Doorman

05:39:54 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

[ image disabled ]

...rock?

There's no burning sensation in my mouth. Just dirt. It's bitter but I don't care.

Water on my chest. I'm in a river. Did I float here?

No way did I float here. That wasn't a dream. I know dreams. Had all kinds of dreams during the Wars. That wasn't a dream.

What was that? I've killed demons and devils and monsters galore, but that was always with my Hellcutter. I don't have a Hellcutter here, so I couldn't even hurt that thing.

Who am I kidding... even if I had my Hellcutter, that thing got the jump on me because I was careless. If it weren't for this rock...

...this rock saved my life?

...this is my kinda vacation!

[ Edited 02:29:51 AM 02/09/10 ]

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Doorman

05:45:29 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

[ image disabled ]

WALD VORMUND

Calls himself Wald. I call him Wally. Told me about the balance and the struggle of the food chain around here.

I didn't want to listen; I'm on vacation, right? I shouldn't have to think.

But I listen anyway. He comes from a place called the Forests of Mir, where there are apes who live in trees and snooty elves. Some things change, some things stay the same. Hinted that his types are called Blood Shamen, but I didn't ask what those were. See, he had just asked me what a Hellcutter was and I wouldn't say, so it would've been rude of me to push, right?

Still, we sat down and talked. He showed me a place to find my necessary ales and apples, and we sat down to chat. He told me about what he does, which is kinda like what Hellcutters did during the War. He hears voices, like an Imperial Singer, and follows them to maintain a "balance". Like a Singer, they don't actually talk to him in words, but unlike a Singer, I think he might actually be on our side.

Side? Our side? What am I talking about, I'm on vacation. There are no sides here.

He keeps offering to heal me.

No idea what he sees on me that looks hurt...

[ Edited 02:30:15 AM 02/09/10 ]

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(D.M. stands for Doorman)

Doorman

07:28:13 AM 02/05/10

Registered Member #95

Joined: 06:18:15 PM 04/11/04
Location: The Doormanican Republic
Posts: 1537

[ image disabled ]

FINROD DI'MALUIN

Can't say I know a lot about Rod. He calls himself a hunter, and seems to be about as fresh off the boat as I am. I was in the middle of practicing some poetic payback in epic-style on those damned ooze, but right when I was thinking the play was a tragedy, he shows up and turns the plot around.

He and I fought our way in, and fought our way out. If I were still in Braetoc, I probably would have stuck a knife in his neck so I wouldn't owe him any debts, but I bet those magic rocks would just bring him back pissed, just for laughs.

I'm starting to think that Wally's whole shtick of the elements (dirt, trees, rocks) having a soul to them ain't so far fetched.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Rod.

I told him where the dogs dwell, and sent him on his way.

Maybe I'll see him again.

[ Edited 02:30:36 AM 02/09/10 ]

BEST D.M. ON THE SERVER
(D.M. stands for Doorman)

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