LostKnightsRPG.org

(guess i need to remake my character now... post it to you tomorrow. busy, shitty day.)

::mario attacks the creature with his staff, fear swallowed by the suddenness of the conflict, and quickly forgets about the strange words he heard only moments earlier.::

(we can do a play by play, with you quicly resolving dice rolls. please don't post them, i don't want to know. i sent you my revised character sheet. send it back to me so i'll have it on hand.)

:: Excited by your near hit, you attack again. Bringing the staff back, you move in a blur, sweeping the weapon wide, using it more like a club or bat. Just as quick, the creature catches the staff before it lands. You stand in awesome terror, as the beast effortlessly tears the weapon from your grasp, tossing it off into the distance to become lost in the snow. Again, you find your supernatural powers, powers capable of besting any ordinary man, just not enough. Again, you find yourself paling in comparison to something greater. But dammit, this is a good place! What happens if this creature is not stopped? How the hell could you even hope to outrun it?

Gathering up your courage, you ready yourself for the fist pounding into you. Hit across the temple with that brutal left hook, you imagine yourself being pounded by brick or animal - something not human, not of flesh. You reel, nearly spinning with the blow as you work to regain your composure and wits. Another punch slams into your back. Only your supernatural fortitude saves you from what could have been a mortal blow. Your sire's blood flows strong within you, protecting you from harm. Ribs compress and reform. A drop of blood falls on the snow at your feet.

The creature's pause bolsters your resolve. Is he...surprised you are still there standing? That makes two of you. That voice, the voice of that disembodied and tortured soul, echoes in your head. ::

"MINE! MINE! He will NOT find me! I is here! Leave me!"

:: The creature throughs it's head back, as if it was ready to howl. Clinching it's fists, it charges at you again. It must be his voice! What the hell is he talking about? Drawing upon the powers of your blood, you prepare to survive another attack ::

(Keep attacking? Spending blood? How do you wish to proceed? Didn't you have Celerity before?)

(no celerity, but I get 5 blood a round! because of pure blood merit. bump stam to 5, dex to 5 (or str, whichever is used for brawl), and heal 2 lethal or 4 bash with my last 2 blood.)

:mario, confused, battered, angry and frightened, feels the blood rushing through him, empowering him. he swings at the creature again, screaming at it as he does so:

''YOU FOUND ME! JUST GO AWAY! I DON'T WANT TO FIGHT YOU! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT YOUR MASTER, JUST LEAVE MY SHEEP ALONE!''

:: The creature steps back, as if considering your words. Apparently not convinced, it rushes forward again, both fists swinging. ::
“GO!”

:: His first swing misses, as you duck under and plow hard into your attacker. He is knocked back several paces, but quickly plants his feet and leaps forward. That attack should have been enough to fall a tree. He bounds forward, leaning unnaturally to the side, his left arm dragging along the ground.
His long right arm sweeps up high. You make the mistake of following the progress of that limb while the other clubs you in the side of the head. That really hurt. Through force of will, you continue despite your injuries. That crack in your skull won’t stop you! Almost as quickly as they appear, the rips and breaks in your flesh and bones mend. Wisely tucking in your head, you avoid the brunt of the dropping hammer fist. You remain resilient, though not unscathed. You temporarily ignore the pain and bleeding. More red snow appears at your feet.

Standing your ground, damned and determined to protect that flock and really, avoid any more exchanges from this creature, you stubbornly prepare for more. Elder blood empowers you. Your survival instinct emboldens you. Dumb luck keeps you there in the snow, facing final death. You stare hard into the creature’s eyes. You yourself are not sure what keeps you standing between it and the sheep. You are not sure of much these days. This thing in front of you, this beast in human form, is not going to force you away. Not like the shadow man. Not like ‘The Prince.’ Licking its wounds (literally), the creature returns your stare. You wish his horrid face could somehow reveal its inner thoughts. Maybe your panicked tackle really hurt it? The voice returns ::

“Blood. Need blood. Need it!”

:: It limps forward slower than before, but clearly determined ::

(heal any wounds w/blood. make note to self to get the town priest to make the herd part of the local church staff. attack creature after dominating it.)

"Leave!" (dominate, if the creature keeps coming, fight and try for a grapple. if it turns it's back on me to leave, stab it with my pointy, broken stick for lethal rather than bashing damage.)

:: The creature halts, rolling its shoulders back and straightening its spine to stand fully erect. It must be seven feet tall. A tense moment passes. Afraid to divert too much attention from your opponent, you quickly scan the area immediately around you for any signs of your staff or any sharp pointy thing. The snowstorm continues unabated, obscuring your vision. You look up quickly to see the creature's attention focused on the sheep for a moment. If it is observing your spoken word, it sure is taking its time.

Returning its gaze to you, the creature lowers its head, as if to nod...contrition? Taking a long step backwards before turning its back, the creature shuffles away without a sound. You search desperately for the fallen staff. You check several spots where the snow has been disturbed, but find nothing, looking up frequently to keep the thing in sight. There it is! The staff is cracked near the middle, where the creature caught it and ripped it from your grasp. It takes little effort for you to snap the weapon in half, exposing a splintered, pointy end just right for stabbing. You move to pursue your attacker and sheep stealer. Despite that awkward march, the creature remains far ahead of you. Just as quickly as it appeared, the creature vanishes from view, swallowed by the falling flurry. The sheep are quit. Only the wind howling in your ear and your own labored footsteps in the snow can be heard. You did it! You beat that thing and asserted your will upon it. Well, at least it seemed to listen. It doesn't matter, you still won. The snow lets up soon, though you are pelted briefly with light hail before the storm fully passes.

A soft voice in your head, perhaps just an errant thought, draws you from the hypnotic spell of the whitened landscape::
“Koban. Beware.”

:: Pero greats you several hours later, cursing the cold and holding his hands near his face ::
"Damned fool you must be for stayin out in this cold. Er, I uhm...thanks for watching the sheep. You d-d-don't even look cold. The good lord must have granted you a strength I am sorely lacking. H-How did it go?"

"...I hit a wolf with my stick. see? ::points to blood:: it might be back though. i'm hungry. goodbye. see you tomorrow."

::mario rushes off into cold winter night before pero can call him back. hungry, and still healing his wounds, Mario hopes that the priest is around, or at least available for confession... huh. there need to be more priests in the world..."

:: Days pass with little action or adventure. Piccardo is having troubles with his new wife, Mella Farino, who began the war that is marriage and drew first blood. The day she moved in, while hardworking Piccardo was off repairing nets, she “accidently” left the door to their home upon. Adelmo, Piccardo’s longtime companion, eager to heed the call of the wild, did as most dogs might do, running off eagerly into the forest despite his old age and weakening legs. Piccardo will spend days searching for his beloved dog to no avail. Marriage, you learn, is a curse not unlike your own.
You become closer to the priest in the following days. He being your primary food source, you feel the need to be protective. Every night, he spends money one must assume he takes from the church on alcohol. His drunken stupors offer little in the way of spiritual guidance, though you learn there is a large group of monks at the abbey you originally set out to find just a couple of miles into the mountain. They are of a different order than Philippe.

Pero, confident that you scared off that wolf, offers you a few coins (Venetian dukats) and relieves you of your services. You suspect his wife forced him to let you go, seeing as that she was standing near, leaning inside a doorway brandishing a rolling pin. He might be better off with that creature. Speaking of which, you see no signs of the thing that attacked you. You think back to its words, trying to remember the name it warned you about. Koban. Is that person after it? Or after you?

Snow continues to fall sporadically over the next three days. The townspeople begin complaining, though few seem to be put out of work. Things go on as usual. Probably going on the way things have been for a good hundred years or more. On a particularly cold night, you follow Philippe back to the parish, supporting him as he stumbles in the doorway. You cringe somewhat as he lights a small lamp, as your Beast, it seems, will never get used to fire. Why is that?
You feed only a little at a time, deciding tonight might be too soon to feed again. You don’t wish to kill the poor bastard. Besides, the hangovers are a real bitch. Unusually coherent this evening, Philippe shares with you stories of his past. He has not been in the town long, at least not compared to everyone else. The monks in the abbey, he mentions the name Malachi, rarely visit the town for religious matters. Tomorrow, the abbey’s cellarer will visit to obtain supplies and arrange for the exchange of goods and services. ::

“You should join their little hole in the world, boy. You sleep all damned day and … can’t seem to find yourself some honest work like fishin or planting or working or… what was I saying? Oh yeah. How’d you end up here anyways?”

"god cursed me with bad luck. or maybe he blessed me?... but no, i don't think it was his blessing... i met a stranger who changed my life into something i still don't understand and then left me. I tried to figure things out, but just made things a bigger mess. My mamma always said i was an idiot. guess i am.

i was told i'd be killed if i stayed in venice, so i came looking for the abbey you were tellin' me about. but it was nice here. so i stayed. reminded me of home, except no one was laughing at me."

::mario becomes despondent and whiney in self pitty.::

"why are you here? and why you drink all the time?"

:: Philippe snorts and raises his voice ::

"I don't drink all the time! Just at nights..."

:: The priest lowers his head, shaking free the cobwebs ::

"But well, I suppose I also heeded a call. I always had the calling. Had to. My three brothers before me saw that I had no piece in the family wealth. I left eary to apprentice and learn my way in the world. Like many, a louder call to defend our lands and religion led me to Spain. The Battle of Les Formigues, so we French named it. Guilhem assured me that we were fighting the good fight. It was a cold night. We had mostly retired for the evening, saying our compline prayers and droping our guard. So many lanterns of in the distance... We were outnumbered. Before we knew it, many of our ships were sunk or sinking. My captain himself was captured, though I hear later he was exchanged for some higher up man on the other side. Damned fine of them to do that. Hadn't thought the Spainiards much civilized. A group of men and myself managed to escape. That was enough for me."

:: Philippe wretches and grabs you for support. He wipes his mouth with your sleeve and continues ::

"The men, most from our sheltered land here in Italy, allowed me to accompany. They took themselves farther south, to Florence or...wherever. They say war bonds men. I say it just kills them. I found a new devotion the night we set our feet up in this little sleepy town. seems they just recently lost their priest here. Monks up there aren't much for spreadin The Word. Books and secrets are their path. As the good book reminded me, 'he who unites himself with the Lord is one with him in spirit.' No book, other than well, The Book, is likely to purify a man's soul, ya know?

But enough about this old fool. It's nice of you to keep me company. Nights get lonely out here. Still, I think those monks might have something to share. Got some good craftsmen among them too. Good old Flevotomos, Anthes, and uhm... what's-his-name..., oh the glazier, Michael I think it is. They might need someone of your...uh...self...

Meet Flevotomos here tomorrow at Vespers. He should be heading back up the hill about that time. I'm sure he'll take you. they always need fresh meat up there."

:: Philippe laughs and chokes, indicating to you he needs something as his face turns blue. He recovers after a moment and acts as though nothing happened ::

"Wait, did you say they were going to kill you in Venice? Sounds about right. Damned fops. Make us French look down to earth. But I don't think you cursed. Could always be worse, right? Could find yourself spurned by the love of our Lord, living in darkness, feeding off of others like some parasite. Could be Venetian!"

::Mario ponders the world as the old man speaks. He had never gone to war, though cousins had and never came back. He had never really thought much about what happened to them... Now he thought he knew. Maybe war is bad... jarred from his reverie by the priest's command, Mario tries in vain to catch up with the conversation.::

"uhm... yeah. yeah, i'll be there tomorrow."

::Already embarassed by his lack of attention, Mario becomes despondant as the priest makes his joke about venetians and spends the night pondering wheather he is really damned, and what exactly that means. The next evening, after dreams of a hell he can scarcely imagine, Mario wakes and takes himself to meet... whoever he is meeting.::

:: Retiring for the night, you look forward to what tomorrow may bring. Your blood stills and the world goes darker. A mix of images fills your dreams. From the chaos, you make out a great mountain in the distance. Obscuring your view of the majestic formation is a dense, viscous cloud. It’s smoke! The mountain is burning? You move through the smoke cloud, thankful you do not breathe. You spot large flames consuming the vegetation along the mountainside. Flames churn out from the mountain, like the sadistic protests of a wrathful god…or demon. The intense heat splits the mountain face, as a large mass drops into the sea below. Water splashes high into the air, putting out the fires and washing you clean of ash. You look down to see yourself drenched in blood. The sea where the rock landed bubbles. Blood, the blood of the mountain itself, fills the sea around you. Fish rise to the surface, but do not die. They begin feasting on each other, draining each other dry in a frenzy of bloodletting. How far will the blood go? How much of the world will it consume?

You awake to some commotion outside. You quickly rise and rush to the window, throwing open the shudders that work perfectly during the day to keep the light out. You spot a short, stout fellow bellow, shouting orders to some nearby hands. They work diligently to fill a horse drawn cart with barrels, crates, and various supplies. This most be the cellarer of the abbey. Philippe said he would be here tonight. It looks as though they are finishing up the days business, paying for goods and exchanging items with townspeople. You head downstairs and past Gerhard to meet Philippe as he is coming in. He looks longingly to the bar before heaving a pathetic sigh and walks with you outside toward the abbeymen. ::

Philippe: Flevotomos! Are ye in need of another hand? I have a poor wretched child here in need of a good … well will ya just take him off my damn hands?
Flevotomos: Hahahaha. Sure sure! More the merrier. Othon is going to have my hide if we don’t make it up the hill here soon. Grab some of that fencing boy and load it up!
:: The cellarer, a jolly looking man, eyes you carefully as you approach. A smile widens across his face and he gives you a knowing wink. ::

Flevotomos: Malachi said we might have some company. From Venice right? You’re more’n welcome at The Abbey. You got a yearnin to be a man of the cloth?

''well I sort of am I guess, since I was given to my village's priest and trained by him, but I never was given any position... i'm not sure what I want right now except a place to sleep and work to do.''

(of note: dreams and portents are good and I hope u keep doing them. I don't respond much to them however, as character is an ignorant idiot with no knowledge of such things. not because i'm uninterested.)