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Here's an RP post for one of the bounties, written by our very own wayward Kaizen (Blurry). If you guys want to do stuff like this, feel free to send it over!
It was James Copper's horrible luck to survive the initial blast because every other sensation that came after could only be described as indescribable pain. The crippled Veritas golem slammed into the south wall as the next nameless Veritas soldier evaporated in a shock of cranberry and dust. Rabid voices gibbered and spat glowing red flecks and he glanced about the men liberally scattered throughout the hallway like fruit in a Picasso painting.
The hell-that-was home juggled fire and arcane lightning, cold steel swords and survival packs. He was dice being tossed with the rest of his comrades and fate decided to gamble them; he waited for the broken action figures to join him in end-world blast. When the cloister detonated, parts of them did.
It was being stabbed in the chest by a phantom inmate. Falling so far back, away from a place where James as allowed to get up. Blood curled past the shrapnel sinking in between the plates of his armor.
It was braiding together loose strands of breath, scrambling outside through the fire-rimmed aperture mountain walls. It could have been courage; the disintegrating golem hemorrhaged arcane fuels onto the marble floors, so probably not. It was just as well, because nothing else was. He dragged himself out of the coffin.
It was warm outside.
It was standing in the secret mountain passage silhouetted by the people that were supposed to be Legionnaires, but weren't - standing tall and and laughing and firing spell after arrow after cross bolt into the black, elastic holes of his once beloved fortress.
His ears reconciling with an awful, chitinous opera: “Those Veritas scum tripped my explosive lines.” “A well planned trap.” “No one can plant 'em like you.” Like the cicadas back home. It was adventurers, the people of Sundren and murdering his fellow Veritas man.
It was Betrayal.
The only surviving Illmater cleric wearing the colors of the True Inheritors of Sundren stitched him up with a dozen dozen spells, sealing him off from burning, shredding externalities - a splendid concept. She'd tried desperately to console him, ignoring the own grievous wounds that had annexed the entirety of her right side, she said : “You're going to to be just fine.”
Then she died.
But there are only so many ways you can tell a man he’ll be fine before he loses all hope.
–
James Copper watched the caravan traveling down Pioneer's Road, bearing blue and white colors and undoubtedly laden with gold, materials, and food as his next target followed the path to whatever cause to achieve whatever goals.
He flexed a scar ridden and flame ruined hand. He didn't know much about causes, not anymore.
He watched them run over a trip wire, watched the explosion rip and shred and blind them with a light as if nothing in the world were obscuring their view.
There were screams. There were moans. Then, there was nothing.
He knew about traps, though.
It was James Copper's horrible luck to survive the initial blast because every other sensation that came after could only be described as indescribable pain. The crippled Veritas golem slammed into the south wall as the next nameless Veritas soldier evaporated in a shock of cranberry and dust. Rabid voices gibbered and spat glowing red flecks and he glanced about the men liberally scattered throughout the hallway like fruit in a Picasso painting.
The hell-that-was home juggled fire and arcane lightning, cold steel swords and survival packs. He was dice being tossed with the rest of his comrades and fate decided to gamble them; he waited for the broken action figures to join him in end-world blast. When the cloister detonated, parts of them did.
It was being stabbed in the chest by a phantom inmate. Falling so far back, away from a place where James as allowed to get up. Blood curled past the shrapnel sinking in between the plates of his armor.
It was braiding together loose strands of breath, scrambling outside through the fire-rimmed aperture mountain walls. It could have been courage; the disintegrating golem hemorrhaged arcane fuels onto the marble floors, so probably not. It was just as well, because nothing else was. He dragged himself out of the coffin.
It was warm outside.
It was standing in the secret mountain passage silhouetted by the people that were supposed to be Legionnaires, but weren't - standing tall and and laughing and firing spell after arrow after cross bolt into the black, elastic holes of his once beloved fortress.
His ears reconciling with an awful, chitinous opera: “Those Veritas scum tripped my explosive lines.” “A well planned trap.” “No one can plant 'em like you.” Like the cicadas back home. It was adventurers, the people of Sundren and murdering his fellow Veritas man.
It was Betrayal.
The only surviving Illmater cleric wearing the colors of the True Inheritors of Sundren stitched him up with a dozen dozen spells, sealing him off from burning, shredding externalities - a splendid concept. She'd tried desperately to console him, ignoring the own grievous wounds that had annexed the entirety of her right side, she said : “You're going to to be just fine.”
Then she died.
But there are only so many ways you can tell a man he’ll be fine before he loses all hope.
–
James Copper watched the caravan traveling down Pioneer's Road, bearing blue and white colors and undoubtedly laden with gold, materials, and food as his next target followed the path to whatever cause to achieve whatever goals.
He flexed a scar ridden and flame ruined hand. He didn't know much about causes, not anymore.
He watched them run over a trip wire, watched the explosion rip and shred and blind them with a light as if nothing in the world were obscuring their view.
There were screams. There were moans. Then, there was nothing.
He knew about traps, though.