Unofficial RP Event 1.31

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Delmegar

Senior Member

07-23-2011

((where exactly is this happening? Their is no plot laid out. Nattle is good, but we should know where it is? I think.))


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MajesticRaven

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Senior Member

07-23-2011

((Well Shurelia's original post, which is the copied and pasted edition, was just a troll form, but it sounded like a good idea. We're in the desert city of Kalamda during the War. Take Demacian or Noxus side, or a random citizen, or whatever. I'd honestly prefer as little non-aligned people as possible or else this just turns into a free-for all and loses it's meaning))

Shurima was looking across the roofs when a Noxian archer nearby was suddenly struck down. She ducked behind the wall for cover un-sure of how he had been killed, but inched her way to the stairs and made her way out. She was hadn't enough time to find any Demacian camps so she proceeded on foot towards the outskirts of town, hoping to make her way around any serious fighting and sneak in from a different direction.


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Saggins

Senior Member

07-23-2011

((http://summoners.shurelia.com/profiles/820))

On the outskirts of the Kalamanda battle among several corpses strolls a fancifully garbed pirate. The pirate kneels and runs his white glove covered fingers along the open mortal wound of a face down Noxian archer. He had spotted him and his fellows being put down earlier by a decisive charge of Demacia's elite fighting force, the dauntless vanguard. Flintlock Jo licks his own covered fingers in a gruesome attempt to clean this stained glove.

"Nox'n blood fer sure, ye tastes of cinnamon. But ye were looking straight at someone that cut yer belly open with a shortsword thrust and sliced through yer shoulder clean to yer heart weren't ye?" The pirate inquires as if expecting the long dead corpse to respond. "Sorry ta' hear that."

Flintlock stands erect and carefully nudges the corpse onto its side with the metal tip of one of his black boots. The pirate raises both of his eyebrows.

"Whad'a'we have 'ere?" Flintlock inquires, eyeballing pelts, bruises and chunks of shattered light armor that had bad smashed rather than stabbed.

"So ol' Crownguard's been teachin' his men ta use flails and bludgeonry now has he? I'll make good note o' this. This's exactly what the bigwigs back at port are payin' me fer." Flintlock Jo says aloud before scrawling his findings with feather-pen and parchment unfolded from his cuffs.

Flintlock's boot strap is suddenly grasped by a near-death Demacian soldier. Flintlock Jo looks down at him with a grin.

"Oh ye definitely should'a kept yer head down boy. Here, let me teach ye how."

Flintlock Jo reaches into a pocket in the breast of his long dark coat and withdraws his namesake, a silver and black preloaded flintlock pistol. Using his raised left arm to steady Flintlock aims the pistol at the defenseless soldier at point blank range and discharges its round. The Demacian moves no further.

Having seemingly already forgotten about taking a life Flintlock proceeds several paces inward toward a hill overlooking another skirmish. The sunlight shines on the back of Flintlock's coat, reflecting the white depiction upon black leather of [i]Jolly Roger[i] with a spyglass and cutlass crossed just below the skull.

From a pocket just below his popped collar Flintlock retrieves a golden spyglass and extends it for a closer inspection of the battlefield.

Flintlock Jo scratches his rough bushy beard and inquires "Well whad'a'we have 'ere?"


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DragonPup

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Member

07-23-2011

The Deserter

“A Demacian never retreats”
“A Demacian never falters”
“A Demacian never wavers”

That's what was drilled into her during her training. She was taught that to fail to carry out her duty was tantamount to death. All she could see now was the blood. Covering her sword, covering her hauberk, covering the ground as she fled. Private Miriam Hendricks was a deserter.

She was not always a deserter. Miriam was conscripted into the Demacian military 2 months after her 16th birthday. Coming from a long line of soldiers, she did not shirk away from her duty to her homeland, but embraced it. Lithe and quiet she fit right in with the 47th Scout Company. The one momento she took with her was the finely crafted long sword passed down for generations in her family, and one day she would pass it along to one of the children she would have when she returned home after her duty ended.

But the sudden war in Kalamanda changed those plans. Her company was one of the first to arrive after hostilities turned to bloodshed. The Demacian mages scryed a critical supply convoy deep behind enemy lines that was lightly guarded. Miriam was sent with 14 others of her company to perform an ambush on it. A victory could mean hundreds of Demacian lives saved as the Noxians troops would be logistically cut off from their supply lines. It was a risky, but simple plan.

The plan turned out to be anything but simple. When her unit arrived, they found the convoy was far more heavily guarded than the mages told them. Miriam counted 10 guards, and twice as many support personal. She could see the apprehension in the sergeant's face. But he knew his duty and the importance of the mission and ordered the charge.

The element of surprise would surely have tilted the odd in Demacia's favor, but what they did not see was the other 30 guards laying in hiding. The ambush was a trap, but Demacians never retreat from a battle no matter how grim the odds. Miriam fought desperately for survival, but she was lacked experience as a Noxian sword found its way past her defenses and into the side of her abdomen. Her hauberk caught the worst of it as the blade bit into her skin. She shrieked in pain and her world slowed as she saw a second sword thrust towards her gut. In that split second she saw her life about to end, and then suddenly she found herself on the ground. She looked up to see Sergeant Hernshaw pushed her away, only for him to catch the sword in his stomach. Despite the unbelievable pain, he held the sword in his own flesh with a gauntleted hand to prevent the assailant from being able to attack further as Hernshaw pulverized the Noxian's skull with the edge of his round shield. He was a true Demacian as he refused to yield an inch until his last breath, and she was just a scared child. And like a scared child witnessing everyone around her being slaughtered, she ran.

The chaos of the melee provided cover for her escape. She had been hobbling along for hours holding her hand over her wound as the same thoughts kept running through her head. Her greatest fear was no longer the Noxians, but her fellow Demacians. She was a deserter, and the punishment was death and dishonor to her family. What would she say when she returned to the encampment? What could she say? With the mages so very wrong, maybe she unwittingly uncovered a traitor in their midst. Maybe the Crown Prince would take mercy on her. Maybe she could keep running all the way to Piltover and start a new life.

She used those thoughts to assuage her fears, when suddenly she heard the crack of a branch behind her. She turned around quickly to see the arrow fly into her right leg and with a cry of pain falls to the ground. Miriam's heart raced as she held her sword forward as menacingly as she could while trying to keep as upright as possible as four Noxian scouts surrounded her. She proved no match in her injured state as she was quickly disarmed and pulled to her feet by two of them holding her by the arms. The scout that was clearly the leader picked up Miriam's sword and looked it over for a minute before turning to the captive girl.

“I thought a real Demacian never ran” he said with a sneer, “I guess this just makes you a Demacian rat” and pointed her family's sword at her chest. “We could use a rat. Tell us everything you know about the Demacian army's troop movements and perhaps, Rat, you'll find a home in Noxus.”

Miriam would be lying if she said she did not seriously consider the offer for a moment. It was only looking down at her family's sword only inches away from skewering her that she realized everything she was about to betray and spat out, “Never” to the Noxians with defiance in her eyes.

The leader of the Noxian party found this hysterical as he laughed at her answer, “Very well Rat. Then perhaps you'll be a good and loyal Demacian by dying for it” as he thrust Miram's sword into her breast and the other scouts dropped her to the ground unceremoniously.

As they walked away, Miriam lay bleeding on the ground, she found one small comfort as her world grew dark and cold; She was about to die in service of Demacia, and she was no longer a deserter.


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Odysseus1

Senior Member

07-23-2011

Sands watched with satisfaction as the Noxian fell, the life draining from his body. But, with the death of this one soldier the rest of the battlefield became clear, that being a mindless slaughter. He refused to throw himself into the fray and get lost in a battle fury that would lower him to the level of the Demacian and Noxian forces who had been defiling the peace of Kalamanda for so long.

What was important was protecting the town of Kalamanda himself. Noxians and Demacians had become quite good at killing each other, why not let them wear themselves out. Now if either of the forces from either side did decide to try to enter the town for tactical, or any other reason, then blood would be shed. In the corner of his eye he noticed a shadowy form dart from an alleyway and head away from the town.

Well, seems we have an intruder was the thought on his mind as his body slowly disintegrated and rose up into the air, quickly, the stream of sand headed after the intruder.


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Birdy51

Senior Member

07-23-2011

Quote:
Originally Posted by Swerto View Post
((Character bio in progress, character is still not concrete. http://summoners.shurelia.com/profiles/818 ))



A tall, thin, menacing figure moved through the Noxian battle lines. His pale skin was barely visible under his dark purple robes, a wicked grin seemed permanently plastered on his face. The stench of death permeated the air around him as he casually strolled through the battlefield. Noxian and Demacian soldiers fought and died around him, the man payed them no mind. He was Swerto Antaril, Noxian Necromancer.

The necromancer pressed forward, his grin widening as his anticipation rose. He nonchalantly parried a Demacian arrow out of the way with his staff. He moved up behind a group of Noxian knights battling Demacian soldiers. An artillery strike landed directly in the middle of them, shredding their bodies and sending them in all directions.

The necromancer stopped, slamming his staff into the ground. He looked around him, at all the corpses. Swerto began chanting under his breath, his figure levitating off the ground. A noxian soldier ran from behind him, throwing his helmet to the ground.

"You don't mean to raise these corpses to fight? The League will never stand for it, they will execute you for this. You're insane!" The noxian shouted at him, shortly before an arrow struck him in the throat. The soldier fell to the ground, grasping at the arrow, attempting to dislodge it. The noxian soldier choked on his last breathe as his life passed.

Swerto's grin widened even further. Demacian and Noxian dead began to stand, gifted with temporary unlife. They rose to their feet, grasping their weapons and rushed at the Demacian lines with no fear. The mindless undead were tools, and Swerto would use them to ensure victory for Noxus.

So what if the League intervened. Swerto would cement his place today as one of Noxus's premier Necromancers, and perhaps even ascend further in Noxian society. It is the victors who write history and make the rules, not the defeated. So it is the duty of every noxian to use all at their disposal to ensure victory.
((http://summoners.shurelia.com/profiles/468))

Upon a ridge, stood a figure in Demacian armour. His brown hair clung to his neck, untamed. Though bruised and battered, determination shown in the young man's eyes. Crystals dotting his breastplate shined dull in the sunlight, and in his hand he held a gunblade, customized for the firing of magic bolts. Upon his right shoulder plate, a black mark signified that he was no longer apart of the military. This was Cristoph Magibane, a dishonored dischargee of the Demacian Military.

Cristoph Magibane watched the scene below with utmost interest. He had tailed the Demacian regiment assigned to this fight, in order to find out what they knew. They set ambush, but it was clear that they did not manage to get any advantage. Now it was a war zone.

"I will seek my redemption." he mutters. For three years he lived forgotten in Demacia, stripped of his position. This conflict could allow him to regain his position, his right to live. The mark of traitor would finally be gone. He spies a mage, one whom was reanimating the corpses of the dead. This man, he would become the first to die.

Magibane, slid down the ridge, advancing on the man, necromantic magics soaking into his armour's crystals, supplying him with meager, but useable magic. Demacian's forgotten child raised his gunblade in challenge to the necromancer.

"You shall desecrate the dead no longer! Prepare to feel my blade, infidel!" He charged forth, unafraid of the dead.


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BitesizeNinja

Senior Member

07-23-2011

I slowly regain conciousness and scan my surroundings, vision blurred, and see two of my closest friends lying next to me. I call out their names as I regain my vision; and it is then that I realize that my attempts to awaken them are in vain. Looking around the battlefield, I am suddenly hit by the putrid stench of corpses that had been setting in the burning sun for hours. Taken aback I turn my head, just in time to see a figure running towards me, sword in hand. I attempt to move, but a searing pain in my legs tells my that I'm not going anywhere. I cringe as the figure closes in, but just as I hear the sound of what I presume to be the man's sword plunging into me, I crack open one eyelid and see my commanding officer standing above me, the tip of his spear now buried deep within the enemy soldier.


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Swerto

Senior Member

07-23-2011

Swerto's undead minions rushed the Demacian line with their weapons at the ready. The Demacian soldiers were pushed back by their fallen undead comrades, as well as the risen Noxian soldiers. They crossed blades, trading kills evenly. Each felled soldier fell to the ground only to be quickly raised again by the necromancer. Swerto's dark magics ebbed and flowed through the battlefield as he cursed his enemies with weakness, giving his minions the upper hand.

The necromancer casually strolled behind his minions, every now and then breaking out into disheartening laughter as one of his minions scores a kill or fell. Swerto bore his teeth as he concentrated immense necromatic energies into the fallen soldiers that were sprawled throughout the battle. The energies stagnated, building up and awaiting a trigger to be released. Swerto stopped and raised his mace into the air.

He snapped his fingers, and the corpses began exploding, as well as his risen minions. One exploded releasing the energies stored within, then another after it. A chain reaction started throughout the section of the Demacian line directly in Swerto's line of sight. Shards of armor, weapons, and bone flew through the Demacian line like shrapnel, widening the gap Swerto had created. Noxian soldiers rushed in behind him and pressed into the gap.

The Noxians rushed past the necromancer, leaving him behind their front line once more. Swerto took the opportunity to harvest the bones of the dead to reknew his bone shield, and raise a trio of new minions.

"You shall desecrate the dead no longer! Prepare to feel my blade, infidel!"

Swerto heard the cry behind him, he turned to see the charging warrior. He widened his grin as he stepped behind his minions, putting them between him and the interloper. His bone shiled was completely restored, but he wouldn't risk a close quarters battle without weakening the target with his minions first.

"More bones for the pile!" Swerto cried out as he created a bone Javellin and tossed it at the attacker.


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Rafeo

Senior Member

07-23-2011

Savi wandered the battlefield. He was an old man now, no reason for Him to fight instead of all these young people here. No; he was just here to heal and dispense his own medicine of wisdom to these ripe minds. A mage ran toward Him, casting a funnel of arcane energy toward Savi. Seeing the attack He quickly pulled the spell into the dream catcher that was hanging on His walking prop and gave the man a solid thwack to the head with a stick that was hanging on His back.

"You should now better than to attack an old man sonny" He walked of with a chuckle as the mage stood there dumbfounded, as he left a Demacian soldier slew the mage as he stared after Savi.

((New char, the profile will come later.))


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Saggins

Senior Member

07-23-2011

Flintlock Jo's spyglass focuses on the charging Demacian.

Quote:
Originally Posted by Swerto View Post
"You shall desecrate the dead no longer! Prepare to feel my blade, infidel!"

Swerto heard the cry behind him, he turned to see the charging warrior. He widened his grin as he stepped behind his minions, putting them between him and the interloper. His bone shiled was completely restored, but he wouldn't risk a close quarters battle without weakening the target with his minions first.

"More bones for the pile!" Swerto cried out as he created a bone Javellin and tossed it at the attacker.
"Well blow me down, a necromancer!?" The middle-aged pirate says aloud, his smirk expression turning to curiosity and a bit of fear. "And a Demacian crazy enough to charge one at that!"

Stories of ghosts and the walking dead were common enough in the right parts of Blue Flame Isle and on the High Seas, but few of Bilgewater's denizens have actually seen the events in person.

Flintlock looks studies the movements of the two combatants and withdraws a concealed drumstick from his coat pocket, viciously tearing into the fried poultry leg enjoying the spectacle.


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