June 2012 Post of the Month Nomination Thread

[Nimlos]

This is it, the place to post your nominations for the best post on DnD Online Games for June 2012.

Please review the REVISED rules for the competition and post your nominations accordingly.

Ineligible Members The following members are ineligible for this month's competition: Judges Nimlos Chronicler HenryLockwood Previous 2012 PotM Winners January - TheChuck February - mad_gondsman March - FadingEcho April - Tangler May - Outcast

Now, show us who did the best work in June!

This thread will be closed on July 1.

[Antebellum]

I'd like to nominate mcl01 for a post from my City of the Spider Queen game. It was done late on May 31st, so I hope it might still be eligible.

Post: http://www.rpgcrossing.com/showthrea...79#post5007779

The post Venard grimaces momentarily, not wanting to recall the memory himself. He quickly recovers, however, not wanting to be rude. His knack for storytelling kicks in as he recalls vivid stories from his family's own vast library. "If you are up for it..." With a half-hearted smile, he pulls his violin out from his haversack, ready to begin his tale. No - not just a tale, his Dice * Perform: Stringed Instrument: 1d20+15 (14)+15 Total = 29 performance. He starts off with slow, pulsing strokes of his bow. The haunting notes resonate deep within his chest as he orates the story, blue eyes closed in memory. His voice is soft and low, enchanting almost. "Our group had delved deep within the depths of the crypts below Daggerfalls. We had been tasked by the great Lord Morn himself to stop the drow raids that had been plaguing the village above. We had been exploring the crypts and caverns for days already, fighting off demonic spiders, drow, and the most unsightly undead." "This next cavern seemed similar to the rest. Who knew what lay inside? As we attempted to enter, some of us were barred from entering from some powerful, unknown magic! With the help of our departed holy man Taranas and our arcanist Jebaun, we managed to gain entry. Unbeknownst to us, however, we were much over our heads." "Upon entering the cavern, powerful and sinister undead charged out to welcome us." At this, Venard's slow, pulsing notes increase in pace and intensity. "I ran to meet them, slashing at them with sword and claw. Tooth and nail. They outnumbered us, to be sure. A handful of flayed drow, and a pair of wicked vampires. They surround me, tearing at my flesh through my armor. Their acidic blood mingles with my own, burning my flesh and causing intense pain." Venard increases his pace, voice and words increasing further in fire and intensity. He is lost in the story, memories flooding his vision as his playing enhances the scene in his mind's eye. "If not for Taranas' spells of healing, I would have been ripped to shreds. The same, however, could not be said, for dear Jebaun. His spells failed him, and the flayed drow took him down quickly. His meager defenses could not stand against their combined assault. With renewed vigor and cruelty, the undead swarmed against us remaining ones. The vampires paid little heed to what attacks I could manage against them. It was all I could do to hold off the flayed drow! One vampire managed to get a jump on Taranas, sinking his fangs into the man, draining the very life out of him. A piercing shriek emanated from him, and at that moment, I felt all hope was lost. Without his healing, I'm not sure if we could have survived the battle." By then, Venard is practically shouting. His deep, lyrical voice cuts off, as does his playing. He sustains a tense, mournful note, vibrating with nervous energy. It's soft, but as the room is still and quiet now, it's still barely audible. The note clashes with the prior melody, creating a dissonance that fills the room. And then, the tension resolves. The note shifts into a spiraling, upward melody. "And then, quite literally from the heavens, Wilham appears. Illuminated by the white light of a companion, he descends from above us to join the fray. Summoning creatures of the light to battle on our behalf, he evens the numbers, tilting the odds in our favor. With renewed energy and hope, reinforcements at our side, the remaining undead had no chance. First, the flayed drow fell at my blade. Shortly afterwards, our combined assault brought low the pair of vampires as well. With a final ray of light, Taranas' manages forces the vampires' retreat. Following them to their coffins, we decapitate them and throw them into the underground river to ensure their final rest. All in all, a desperate victory - made possible through the aid of this man right here, Wilham, summoner of the light, hero of Daggerfalls!" As he reaches the finale, Venard crescendos into a final, grand, majestic note. Finished, he smiles, opens his eyes, and gestures to Wilham, clapping him on his back. Turning to Felicity, he smirks. "Will that story suffice for you, my lady? I'm afraid we don't have much time for more."

[Croakamancer]

I'm going to nominate CalynCorr for a rather lengthy post, but one that was a ton of fun to read and work with. The character, Laryeim, is in a delicate situation, trying to relay information to allies, whilst concealing a vital point; that one of her fellow PCs might be under the big bad's control, through possession. Also, the whole conversation brought up multipel emotional memories for Laryeim, along with another point she'd rather not discuss, and the emotional turmoil made things nicely... interesting..

Laryeim Laryeim was entirely unprepared for the cessation of Calemond's narrative. She'd lingered at his side while he spoke, no longer holding onto him, but close and with her back still to the group at large. While Yannike, then Calemond spoke to Tormauz's rebels, Laryeim's eyes roved the warehouse, noting the details of the layout, the lack of exits, the deep, permeating shadows. Darkness hides. Beneath this city lies another. And the Rhydokahn’s down there. Hours away yet… The depth of her vulnerability to that being was rivaled only by her vulnerability to Chloe, though the consequence was far the less with the Rhydokahn. If only because of its lack of interest in her. I don't think it's necessarily a good thing to have the attention of gods... She thought of Calemond in this, the priest's finger drawn over his own throat in fatal reference; his position now, simultaneously exposed and compromised. She listened as he related the details of their visit to the underground and how he'd escaped. She heard the grieved hesitation as he reached mention of his lost brethren. Jeron...So much loss... She found herself watching the red-clad Dante with Jhya. A wedding gift... and you wear it still. When Calemond mentioned the finger lost by one of the Twins, Laryeim thought, Ah, I would have forgotten about that... She was grateful for his telling, despite her growing dread as to the end of it all... XYZ please don’t let him tell where Shazikgun is now… But he said little more, rather left the tale unfinished, and in her hands. Laryeim simply stared at him. Her mind had ceased moving but for the thought, There is nothing I would not do to protect you... but I don't know how to tell this thing without leading them straight to you... Hesitantly, Laryeim turned somewhat to look at the waiting audience. Painfully aware of the priest's peril, hurting for all of them, and for herself, Laryeim met Yannike's eyes. She couldn't do it. Her eyes fell to the floor. Then, It's a trail, like any other. You want it concealed, you leave no sign... Simply leave no sign... Laryeim nodded, and began, Calemond was taken by his man back to his safehouse near here. I went with Jhya and Wynn. I was injured… Laryeim knew she could not afford the distress discussion of Chloe would bring her. The matter of the Eunoch would have to wait... Yannike harbored us - Jhya, Wynn and me – to her rooms at the embassy. The following morning, which was day before yesterday now, we came here to the docks with Jhya to meet your man. She nodded some toward Johnny, pausing in vague fascination at the flow of smoke about his face. Flow... and she was reminded to breathe. She did so deeply before continuing. Needed to see that Calemond was all right and inform him of the developments with regard to Tormauz. Found him, but.... everyone else had been… killed in a unique way suggestive of Shazikgun’s demonic ally the Rhydokahn. Though Yannike pointed out it was made to appear that it was the Inquisition who’d done it. The rafters above were mercifully free of dangling bodies. Laryeim glanced at Jeffry... he'd seen it all too? Calemond was there – alive - but so was some lingering demon or another. Laryeim began to show distinct signs of strain through the telling, went on a bit more swiftly, Things were a trifle confusing but we did manage to get out of there. The amulet, however, had been returned to Calemond but had been compromised. It was used... just over an hour ago to... give a demon access to us at the embassy. Demon dark-angel things... one of which was rather invasive to the mind. Made Yannike bleed from the ears, and put Jhya in a coma fighting it off... She looked up at Yannike, then, pleading in her eyes. I know we can't bring a mind-healer here to help him, unless you know of one so trustworthy… but we can bring him to someone… if there is someone… Desperation had crept into her voice and she stopped, resolving to reason as she took a short breath, I’m surely forgetting details relevant to the political side of it all… Yannike would be better to speak to those matters. But Attreides’ army is… nine?.. she looked to Yannike for confirmation days away now and we’ll have hopefully even more information about everything when Wynn - the fifth - returns to us. And there’s one more element you should keep in mind. She did finally turn to face them squarely. The city's population is at risk of disease from the dead bodies left in the streets after the riots. Jhya indicated that the city is ripe for plague, and it will likely be here soon. Regardless of your … extra efforts through me, Chloe. Despite the seal Sorbi had placed over the wound, Laryeim felt very conscious of the haggard gap through her flesh and how it came to be there.

[CalynCorr]

June Post of the Month Nomination By no means in turnabout, but simply on its own merits, I nominate Croakamancer’s post which follows mine above. Croakamancer’s posts are always an insightful mix of internal and external dialogues combined with incisive reasoning, personal sensitivity and just plain great writing. In this post, Croakamancer is taking a tense situation, ramping up the stakes by referring both obliquely and directly to the matters at hand while not QUITE YET dropping the bomb. Several related elements are also added to the discussion, further increasing the dramatic tension. Here’s the posts location in thread   Originally Posted by Croakamancer

[Enthusiast]

I'd like to nominate Darkling for an exemplary post in my game, The New World. It's early in the game, but she's already set a great tone for her character, and she's taken advantage of early role-playing opportunities. In this post, Darkling's character, Morrigan, is waking up and polishing her armour after a night of drinking wine and subduing a gang of unruly pirates. Darkling turns a seemingly mundane morning into a moment of introspection, giving us some excellent insight into Morrigan's heart and mind. Thanks for considering her post for this month's honours!

Darkling's Post Morrigan wakes happily in the arms of another an hour before dawn, her head unusually clear in spite of a night of wine, and she silently admits to herself that she has never felt quite so rested. While an Eladrin does not require sleep, it is not impossible, and the comfort of one's dreams can be a welcome respite from the dull necessity of trancing to keep ones wits about. She dresses quietly, careful not to wake Iliyana, creeping across the room to the table where she'd placed her armour. She casts a critical eye over the studded leather, a look of disdain upon her face, almost as if she's never realized quite how badly she'd allowed her gear to deteriorate. "I've really let this set go, haven't I?" she muses to herself. Her brush with death last night has put her into something of an introspective mood - she's certainly faced down more violent foes and started brawls before, but she'd been caught off guard so completely it was somewhat unnerving. It wasn't like her to worry about her own mortality, and for a few moments she wonders at what has given her such cause for concern, her eyes drifting over Iliyana's still sleeping form. She chews her lip, as if the action will help dissipate her own confusion, before looking over her battered leather once more. She traces her finger along the spatter of blood still present on the armour's surface, the dull ache in her side rising slightly as she does so, glancing to the corner where the ruined bloodstained shirt she'd discarded the night before lay. Meanwhile on the bedside table her cloak and sash lie neatly folded and well taken care of, and her sheathed rapier against the wall in a similar immaculate state - why had she cared so much for that which shed blood, and that which reminded her of it? Why hadn't she taken care of the one thing dedicated to keeping her alive? "Come on, Morrie. You're being foolish," she thinks, and yet the nagging sensation refuses to abate. This armour was meant to be her second skin, the thing she and all soldiers relied upon to keep themselves intact, her protection against blade and magic. Had she become quite that careless and eager for blood? Maybe. And she wasn't sure she wanted to change her tune just yet, memories of Kylaina impaled at the end of a glaive coming unbidden to the fore of her mind, a half-dozen Feyknights cut down in a hail of spell and arrow. She grits her teeth, shaking her head, as if she can shake the feel of dread she feels growing - one normally only dispelled by wine. She'd risked her life then to save her beloved, because that's what she's always done; risking her life to save others, throwing herself into the fire in the hopes that others wouldn't burn. Even in last night's battle she made herself a target, inviting the pain as much as she reveled in dealing it, and she exhales sharply at this thought. She takes one more glance at Iliyana before something of a resolution enters her mind - she doubts she can change her own nature overnight, and she doesn't think she wants to, but perhaps she could take a few steps in a new direction, one for Iliyana and herself. Besides, she has to meet some hotshot with a title today, so she'd best look the part. The next hour is spent with a few spare strips of cloth, and some polish she'd forgotten in the depths of her pack, cleaning her armour meticulously. The clasp, the studs and buckles were all treated with a measure of great care; she'd forgotten how much she enjoyed this work when it suited her. Seeing something renewed, restored and ready for battle brings a flicker of joy to her heart. She cleans the armour of dirt and traces of blood, using the tip of a dagger to clean out the edges and corners, tightening the bands and straps to give the gear a tighter fit. As dawn arrives and the sun begins to stream through the window, she smiles, donning her armour as quietly as she's able. She glances into the mirror as she finishes adjusting her bracers, the difference in her appearance is quite astonishing - the armour's still seen better days, years old and due to be replaced, but the Feyknight looks as if she's stepped fresh from the barracks to serve rather than the disheveled and untidy appearance she'd held before. She ties the sash around her waist, smoothing out the fabric, throwing the cloak over her shoulders and tying the clasp. Securing the rapier at her side, she takes another look in the mirror, noting her hair. After a few minutes of scavenging through her pack she finds a long forgotten hair tie, and after brushing her unruly brunette mane, she ties it all back into a neat ponytail. She's mystified at her own transformation, and were it not for the somewhat haggard look in her eyes, she could swear it was herself from six years ago staring back - before the exile. Satisfied, she takes a scrap of paper, writing a note in elven to Iliyana about how she looks forward to seeing her before she and the group depart, asking to meet her again within the Hammercrest before they leave. Careful not to disturb her, she gives the woman a gentle kiss on the forehead, placing the note on the pillow beside her before she leaves the room. --- Morrigan descends the stairs, her appearance quite different compared to the night before, no semblance of intoxication present in her step nor her face. She carries herself well, her back straightened and her chin up high, and she glances around the room with a calculating gaze. Her hair tied back into a neat ponytail and her armour substantially cleaned and maintained, here stands a woman that looks like a true soldier. Compared to her prior appearance, an untidy and unkempt drunkard, she looks like a completely different Morrigan. She spots Oloros sitting in the corner, perhaps a little dazed at having just woken, and she strides towards him with the purposeful swagger that she always has. Taking a seat at a table nearby him, she gestures to him to come over and take a seat, her face betraying little of her thoughts. "You were with the dwarf, weren't you?" She inquires, her words genuinely curious. "We didn't speak last night, and if we're going to be working together, I'd like to know what I'm getting myself into. Come on, take a seat with me. What's your name, then? I'm Morrigan the Blade, in case you missed it." Her words are polite if slightly curt, and she awaits the man's answer, and to see if he accepts her offer of taking a seat. "Suppose we could order breakfast." She says lightly, glancing over to a serving girl and wondering what the food is like.

[IncredibleTurnip]

I'd like to nominate Rosswilliam's post in the game Doverian Legends. His character, Phyrottio Silkenmurmur is a gnome bard, whose troupe of gnomish bards just disbanded, leaving him to work at a tavern/brothel.

The Post The sounds of silverware and tankards clanking melded raucously with laughter, both the women’s sensuous patter, and the men’s heartier bellowing. As he loaded up his tray of stews and ales near the kitchen, Phyrottio tried to let the cacophony soothe him and remind him of his old theater, but it was to no avail. Although the Glistening Garter was certainly well equipped for pleasure-seekers, it lacked the refinement, the elegance and respect of the truly sophisticated. The crowd here was too provincial for a gnome like Phyrottio. And also much, much larger than him. “If I make it all the way to that corner table without being trampled….oh, that one is the biggest human I’ve ever seen! I didn’t know they made them that ungratefully huge….wow…….anyway, I’ll take my survival as a sign, if I live through this one trip, I’ll believe that one of the gods has a soft spot for gnomes who find themselves living in brothels , and whoever that god is, they got my love for today!” A stern glance from another server bustling past made it clear to Phyrottio that his minute spent thinking was a minute wasted. Time to move. He inhaled, stood as large as possible, and pushed forward into the crowd of revelers. “Watch out down low! Hot food coming through! Behind you, behind you! Beer coming through! Don’t step on me!” Phyrottio had to shout to be heard over the revelry. He moved briskly and alertly through the crowd, eyes darting from a drunken flying elbow, to a twirling working girl in a full skirt. Then, finally, success! He placed the plates and tankards in front of the patrons, flashing everyone a jovial smile. Nobody noticed the gnome server when there were so many other, much more appealing things to pay attention to. It was like the worst days in the Extravaganza all over again. With a long exhale, Phyrottio turned and surveyed the path back to kitchen. It was going to be a long night. Still, he couldn’t complain. Madam Breem was a good woman. She made sure he was fed, and had somewhere halfway decent to lay his head. There were other non-humans working here, though no gnomes as far as Phyrottio could tell. He fit in well enough despite the culture shock; he didn’t feel like too much of an outsider. There was a handful of employees that he thought were just great. Unfortunately boring, and seemingly content to spend the rest of their lives here, but that didn't mean they weren't nice people. Nobody had questioned his arrival, at least not to his face. His first day in Vexbright, and the whirlwind of distress that came with it felt like eternities ago. The brothel, chaos and all, was a much needed foundation of stability for a lost gnome in a new place. Just a few days ago, he thought he was reaching the end of his journey. He still had no idea what was going to be his next endeavor. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened to his former traveling companions, but after five days of knowing nothing, Phyrottio was ready to forget about them. It tugged at his heart to some degree, the knowledge that they might not be recovering from the group implosion as well as he might be. But what could he do for them? They couldn't all work for Madam Breem. Despite the good fortune he had in stumbling into the Glistening Garter, Phyrottio knew he couldn't stay here. The rest of the world was calling his name. History didn't tend to remember servers, no matter how effectively he delivered that stew. “Phyrottio Silkenmurmur was not born to wait tables! This gnome is going to accomplish great things, and let me tell you, nobody ever wrote epic ballads about the fellow who served soup to prostitutes!” He grinned through his moustache as he re-entered the kitchen. He’d have to write a nice passage in his autobiography about the Glistening Garter someday.

[Nightshade]

I'd like to post Foggyknight's post in the game, Birth of the Superhumans.

The character, Diana, is a 15 year old high School student who has already helped her friends battle other super humans and a world-class threat (like any good superhero comic book!). She wakes to find the entire city burning, flame creatures and her neighbors closing in on her. She even has reason to believe that her own parent's are coming after her as she watches her baby brother being choked to death. Having seen evidence that what is happening is not real, Diana tries to deny it even as she cries out to her father. (I just found it very moving that a player of a teenage superhero didn't forget that at 15, the character is not an adult but still has some child instincts and would turn to her father in a time of need.)

Foggyknight's Post Diana held her breath in terror as she watched from her new vantage point on her stairs where she teleported as the truck had pulled up. Her brain might have decided that this was fake, but her nervous system was overloading with flight or fight reactions and her heart was beating rapidly as she hung on tight to her stair rail to keep her knees locked in place, and not running and hiding. She never thought she'd have to hide from her own family...or what looked like it. What if it did turn out to be real? That this was some sort of planned insanity, and that she wouldn't wake up? Would she have to listen or watch her parents and Matt turn on her, or Peter get murdered because they were using him as bait? "Will Save: Dice * Roll: 1d20+5 (13)+5 Total = 18 This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real..." She whispered, her eyes clenched tight as she hung onto the rail with a death grip. Why isn't Mom doing something?! It's Peter! Matt! Dad! Wake up! This isn't real, it's fake! Let me wake up! This isn't happening! Another sound of the struggling little boy versus the group of women caused her to look up, her vision almost blind from sweat and tears. I can't listen to this! I have to do something! Teleporting back into the group of adults with axes, she attempted to Nullify, Area of Effect: Dice * Roll: 1d20+5 (2)+5 Total = 7 1d20+7 (11)+7 Total = 18 counter whatever was controlling them. "DADDY! Stop this, they're hurting Peter!"

[Nimlos]

Nominations are now closed.