- Thread Author
- #51
my response
In the dim, fish-reeking basement of Otari’s fishery, where the mist’s chill seeps through the cracked stone, the air grows taut with the promise of peril. The flickering torchlight, held aloft by Halric, dances across the wreckage of barrels and the glistening heaps of half-devoured cod, casting jagged shadows that seem to writhe with a life of their own. Casemir kneels amid the debris, his fingers tracing the splintered wood and torn fish, seeking answers in the chaos. The marks are savage—teeth, perhaps, or claws—but the pattern eludes him, a riddle left unsolved as he mutters under his breath, “Too messy for beasts… or not messy enough.”
Eugen Stefan, descending the last steps with the grace of a fallen lord, surveys the scene with a noble’s disdain, his rapier still sheathed but his hand never far from its hilt. “Whoever—or whatever—did this lacked finesse,” he says, nudging a broken stave with his boot. “Crude. Rushed. Or simply… hungry.” His words hang like a challenge, his eyes glinting with the thrill of a duel yet to come.
Halric, securing the door behind them, lights his torch with a practiced hand, its flame cutting through the gloom. “Careful, Eugen,” he warns, his squire’s instincts sharp. “If it’s hungry, we look tastier than greasy fish guts. Ten gold’s no offer for easy work.” His gaze sweeps over the group, assessing: Casemir’s restless energy, Eugen’s polished lethality, Alexanne’s arcane poise, Larissa’s quiet resolve. He notes the wear on their gear—Casemir’s patched cloak, Larissa’s well-worn hymnal—and speaks again. “We need a vanguard and rear guard. I’d hate for carelessness to cost us. I can take point or rear—rear’s fine, I’m quick enough to close gaps.”
Crouching beside Casemir, Halric angles the torch to aid his inspection. “Anything interesting?” he asks, but Casemir only shakes his head, the mystery unyielding.
Larissa, her heart tethered to Sarenrae’s mercy, follows close, her scimitar an unfamiliar weight at her side. Coin draws her here, yes, but so does her calling—to mend wounds, to shield the weary. She keeps to the group’s center, where the torchlight’s glow feels like a fragile blessing. Her hand brushes her holy symbol, a whispered prayer rising: Dawnflower, guide us through this shadow. The words steady her, though the darkness beyond the light prickles her skin.
Alexanne Stefan, her breastplate gleaming faintly, straightens with a rustle of mail. “Your caution is wise,” she tells Halric, then turns to Larissa. “If you can bless us again, save it for when steel is drawn. Let’s not squander divine patience.” Her eyes, sharp as her blade, flick to Eugen. “If you’re done lamenting your laundry, Stefan, take formation.” With a fluid motion, she draws her bastard sword, its etched motto—Per sapientiam et potentiam, victoriam—catching the torchlight. She murmurs a word, and a soft pulse of arcane light blooms from the blade, bathing the basement in a coppery glow. The shadows retreat, revealing a jagged hole in the far wall, its edges rough as if clawed open.
“Let’s see what squirms when the dark is peeled back,” Alexanne says, her voice steady.
The light catches five pairs of glinting eyes, low and malevolent, reflecting like cursed stars. A skittering erupts, and from the hole surge giant rats, their matted fur slick with grime, their teeth bared in hunger. One, larger than the rest, launches itself at Alexanne, its claws scraping past her guard to rake her arm. The wound is shallow—3 points of damage—but the sting is sharp, a reminder of the danger now upon them.
The basement, once a silent tomb of fish and wood, now thrums with the scrabble of claws and the group’s quickening breaths. The rats, emboldened by their ambush, circle closer, their eyes locked on the party, as the torchlight wavers
In the dim, fish-reeking basement of Otari’s fishery, where the mist’s chill seeps through the cracked stone, the air grows taut with the promise of peril. The flickering torchlight, held aloft by Halric, dances across the wreckage of barrels and the glistening heaps of half-devoured cod, casting jagged shadows that seem to writhe with a life of their own. Casemir kneels amid the debris, his fingers tracing the splintered wood and torn fish, seeking answers in the chaos. The marks are savage—teeth, perhaps, or claws—but the pattern eludes him, a riddle left unsolved as he mutters under his breath, “Too messy for beasts… or not messy enough.”
Eugen Stefan, descending the last steps with the grace of a fallen lord, surveys the scene with a noble’s disdain, his rapier still sheathed but his hand never far from its hilt. “Whoever—or whatever—did this lacked finesse,” he says, nudging a broken stave with his boot. “Crude. Rushed. Or simply… hungry.” His words hang like a challenge, his eyes glinting with the thrill of a duel yet to come.
Halric, securing the door behind them, lights his torch with a practiced hand, its flame cutting through the gloom. “Careful, Eugen,” he warns, his squire’s instincts sharp. “If it’s hungry, we look tastier than greasy fish guts. Ten gold’s no offer for easy work.” His gaze sweeps over the group, assessing: Casemir’s restless energy, Eugen’s polished lethality, Alexanne’s arcane poise, Larissa’s quiet resolve. He notes the wear on their gear—Casemir’s patched cloak, Larissa’s well-worn hymnal—and speaks again. “We need a vanguard and rear guard. I’d hate for carelessness to cost us. I can take point or rear—rear’s fine, I’m quick enough to close gaps.”
Crouching beside Casemir, Halric angles the torch to aid his inspection. “Anything interesting?” he asks, but Casemir only shakes his head, the mystery unyielding.
Larissa, her heart tethered to Sarenrae’s mercy, follows close, her scimitar an unfamiliar weight at her side. Coin draws her here, yes, but so does her calling—to mend wounds, to shield the weary. She keeps to the group’s center, where the torchlight’s glow feels like a fragile blessing. Her hand brushes her holy symbol, a whispered prayer rising: Dawnflower, guide us through this shadow. The words steady her, though the darkness beyond the light prickles her skin.
Alexanne Stefan, her breastplate gleaming faintly, straightens with a rustle of mail. “Your caution is wise,” she tells Halric, then turns to Larissa. “If you can bless us again, save it for when steel is drawn. Let’s not squander divine patience.” Her eyes, sharp as her blade, flick to Eugen. “If you’re done lamenting your laundry, Stefan, take formation.” With a fluid motion, she draws her bastard sword, its etched motto—Per sapientiam et potentiam, victoriam—catching the torchlight. She murmurs a word, and a soft pulse of arcane light blooms from the blade, bathing the basement in a coppery glow. The shadows retreat, revealing a jagged hole in the far wall, its edges rough as if clawed open.
“Let’s see what squirms when the dark is peeled back,” Alexanne says, her voice steady.
The light catches five pairs of glinting eyes, low and malevolent, reflecting like cursed stars. A skittering erupts, and from the hole surge giant rats, their matted fur slick with grime, their teeth bared in hunger. One, larger than the rest, launches itself at Alexanne, its claws scraping past her guard to rake her arm. The wound is shallow—3 points of damage—but the sting is sharp, a reminder of the danger now upon them.
The basement, once a silent tomb of fish and wood, now thrums with the scrabble of claws and the group’s quickening breaths. The rats, emboldened by their ambush, circle closer, their eyes locked on the party, as the torchlight wavers
