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  #31  
Old Mar 23rd, 2022, 12:55 PM
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Brie Vs Old Bart: Fight!
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No, no, NO! Drop’s story couldn’t just end like that, not when the heroes were ready to face one of the main villains! It was not right. It was not the way stories were meant to be. There was tragedy, yes, but good always triumphed over evil in the end. The hero always saved the girl - or rabbit in this case. Despite his cynicism even Brie believed in this. It was a story as old as time. It could not just be changed on a whim by some greater power. It was not right!

Something stirred inside Brie’s little heart. Something ugly and vicious, with sharp claws and poisonous fangs. Something dangerous and feral. It took over his mind and body. It turned him into something he was not or at least something he had been afraid of becoming.

As the Wiserats scattered before the threat presented by the devil goose, Brie stood his ground. No sound escaped his mouth other than bestial growls, since it seemed incapable of producing words that made sense. No, there was no use for words at the moment. All Old Bart understood was violence. It was what he would get.

Brie’s anger, searing hot, flared and the rat channeled it into the wand he carried along with all the magickal power he could summon. The slender piece of wood started vibrating, more strongly by the moment, until sparks were seen dancing around it and the smell of ozone filled the amphitheater.

It started as a tiny mote of light at the very tip of the wand, a point in space that became the recipient of the rat’s pent up fury, hatred and sorrow, a small spark that grew fat and powerful within a single moment. A bolt of lightning, as beautiful as it was deadly, left the wand and traveled unerringly towards the evil goose. The entire room was suddenly flooded by light and the smell of charred meat. It only lasted a moment, but when the light dimmed Old Bart resembled more a fried chicken than a hardened battle goose, a good part of his feathers having been burnt away by the magicks of the wand.

But it did not stop there. The magick, it seemed, had a mind of its own. The arc of electricity continued travelling through the air until it reached poor Drops, still restrained and surrounded by the implements of horror. The bolt of lightning reached his limp body and filled it with its power before dissipating without a sound. The hare’s limbs jerked uncontrollably and his eyes flew open.

He lives!, thought Brie, but his attention was completely focused on another. Old Bart could not be allowed to escape. He could not be allowed to survive.

"Feast!"

The word, though spoken softly, seemed to echo inside the whole room and fill everyone’s heart with a strange sense of cruel pleasure. The Wiserats didn’t have to be told twice. As a swarm of… well, the rats they were, they descended upon the defenseless bird, their eyes shining with hatred, their yellowed teeth gnashing.

It was time for justice. It was time for a good meal.


 


 
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  #32  
Old Mar 24th, 2022, 11:21 AM
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Zorandicus
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With Bart momentarily stunned by the sudden, blinding arc of lightning, Zorandicus took a moment to regard Brie with a mix of shock and awe. 'Impressive,' he praised the black rat's efforts, and for the first time his low, grating voice seemed devoid of malice. Which, not a moment later, returned in spades. 'Though I prefer my meals raw, cooked will do nicely,' he hissed, then launched himself at the prone form of Bart, falling upon the charred goose like an hammer upon an anvil.

'Traitor!' the owl snarled, his talons raking Bart's flesh. 'Heretic!' he growled, his beak tearing at meat and muscle with unnatural strength. The pair of them all but disappeared in a storm of white feathers- and, as their duel continued, those snow white feathers turned ever more red. 'This is what you get for siding with the muckdwellers! This is what you get, for usurping! My! Throne!'

Fierce: 15 (natural 10!)Again and again, the hysterical owl slashed his talons at the goose, hacking into his hated foe with beak and wing. Zorandicus, who was less than agreeable on a good day, had now truly fallen into a frenzy... And all that could sate him was the goose's utter destruction.

 

 
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  #33  
Old Mar 30th, 2022, 02:44 PM
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Ernest the Cat
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Ernest had originally set his sights on the obnoxious goose, but seeing that the rats and owl had the task of attack under quite control (or chaos), he slipped back into the shadows and used the opportunity to check in on his friend the hare.

The cat lept to the top of the table, and immediately lurched back at the hideous sight of the rabbit. A slight gasp escaped him. He had the desire to rub his muzzle against RR, to rake his side against him in comfort, but was too afraid of the creature lying there.

"Raindrops, old friend," Ernest whispered. "Stay still, I can help! I can..." At that moment Ernest remembered the racoon paw dangling from his neck. He wasn't sure how much, if any, healing power still remained in it, but he rubbed it against the mangled bunny anyway.

"There there, my friend, be still and heal."

Ernest removed the paw from his neck, and using his teeth, set it down on Raindrops' chest.

Would it work? Only or our great and powerful GMtime would tell.

 


 
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  #34  
Old Apr 7th, 2022, 12:49 AM
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GMSparks fly, ricocheting around the auditorium like countless wayward stars. The air vibrates with electricity, causing fur and feather to stand on end. Bart’s body pulses with a mad, inner light. His thin bones become white-hot filaments burning behind a reddish veil of charred flesh. The wand’s arcane light winks out, and the hated creature’s body abruptly ceases its violent convulsions and falls still. Bart lies on his back, wings thrown open to span the lecture hall’s wide aisle. Old Bart, the Butcher-Goose of Whitebridge, breathes his last. The bird’s once-proud breast slowly collapses. His final, ragged exhalation escapes as a baleful squeal through Dale’s whistle, still clamped tight in Bart’s blackened beak. If the whistle-blast is meant to be a parting act of defiance—a signal to rouse Geoff and his men—it proves an utter failure. The whistle, after all, is designed to summon dogs. The tone is far too shrill to be heard by man’s deficient ear, and the mercenaries doze on soundly. A moment later, Zorandicus and the wiserats set upon the goose’s body, shredding the steaming corpse with beak, tooth, and claw.

While one creature is being savagely disassembled, another is being carefully mended: Raindrops on Roses, shocked abruptly back to life by an errant arc from Brie’s fickle wand, rolls his wide eyes in bewilderment as Ernest scrubs the enchanted raccoon paw vigorously against the hare’s ruined face. The old tom can already see the healing totem’s magic at work. Pink, hairless buds sprout from the mangled stumps atop Drops’ head—these will be new ears in a matter of minutes—as his numerous wounds knit themselves shut and his whiskers begin to regain their old length and luster. A sudden cry from stage right stops Ernest mid-rub. “I’ve found the good saw, Bart!” The voice is unmistakable. Furchtbar! The Witch-Hunter calls out again, nearer now. “I know it’s a cliché, but I really think we’ll regret not testing the feet against the raccoon standard of luckiness. What’s say we take them off, eh?” Furchtbar speaks in a blended human-animal language not unlike the one Abigail Fogg once favored—the Familiars understand every damnable word. “Bart?” A long shadow falls across the stage, darkening Raindrops on Roses’ panic-stricken features. The hare gapes soundlessly, eyes fixed on the nearby open door. Ernest looks up from his doctoring to follow Drops’ gaze. It’s him! Furchtbar stands in the entrance, a devil in featureless silhouette, stygian saw-blade in hand. The monstrous shadow lets out a bloodcurdling scream. “BART!” The Witch-Hunter lunges forward. In the same instant, in a voice just above a whisper, Raindrops on Roses croaks, “Her gifts to us remain.” Heaving against his restraints, the hare pounds his hind foot against the wooden table, THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! The door slams shut—BANG!—locked tight by the hare’s hedge magic. Furchtbar hammers against the portal, howling with rage. There’s no telling how long the door will hold.

It was well known to all those who loved her that the Witch Abigail had a propensity for aphorism. There was no circumstance that she could not readily epitomize with a clever adage, axiom, or proverb. Brie can’t help but recall one of her favorites now: “When the gods shut a door, they open a window.” Or, in this particular instance, they open a slightly smaller, goose-shaped door. For just as the stage door slams shut in Furchtbar’s face, the miniature entrance to the auditorium swings open. An arm—knobby and clearly human—flails against the floor. After a moment’s thrashing, the gnarled fingers finally gain purchase, gripping the thick carpeting and hauling first a shoulder and then a liver-spotted head through the opening. Stanley Schnurrhaar, the forgetful warlock, lies wedged, half-in and half-out of the lecture hall. When he notices Bart, a look of grief seizes the old man, twisting his features into a pained grimace. “No! No-no!” he wails. Stanley tries desperately to wave the wiserats off of the goose’s mutilated remains. “Shoo! Shoo, you common vermin!” he cries. It’s no use. Try as he might, the wizard cannot reach the rats, and the greasy mob pays him no mind. Exasperated, he wriggles back out of the small door-within-a-door. A moment later, a battered leather satchel is thrust through. Stanley’s head follows. “Stop that, you brutes!” The warlock shoves the haversack forward over the floor. “See here?” he pleads. “Surely Abigail taught one of you to read?!”

The satchel skids toward Brie, Zorandicus, and the wiserats. The flap bursts open, and the bag’s contents spill out, coming to rest all around the animals’ feet. The rats cease their vicious onslaught. Brie surveys the scattered miscellany: A crumpled hat with a pointed crown and wide brim. A coffee mug with the words “Boss Witch” emblazoned on the side. A thick journal bursting with loose papers, “A FOGG” stamped on its cover. Though the Familiars have never seen them before, there can be no doubt—these are Mother’s things. Rocco stoops to pluck a thin sheet of tin from amongst the papers. The metal is dark with some miraculous enamel, an uncanny image fixed to its surface, more realistic than any human painting. The goblin frowns, then turns the sheet over to show the others. The curio depicts a conclave of wizards—faculty of Summitstone Academy, based on their embroidered robes and pointed hats. The humans stand shoulder-to-shoulder, grinning back at the viewer. Standing two warlocks from the right is Mother. What the Familiars notice next boggles the mind. Impossible! The animals are a long moment blinking at the image before they can make sense of it. Mother, beaming with unmasked joy, hangs on the arm of the man next to her. The man, in turn, leans into Mother’s loving embrace, his face flush with good humor. It is the face of the Familiar’s most hated enemy: the Witch-Hunter Ulrich von Furchtbar. Never!

From his position sprawled prone, still only half-through the goose-door, Stanley stammers excitedly. “Abigail! She was a professor! She and Ulrich”—he jabs a finger at one of the loose pieces of paper—“There! See there?!” From his perch atop the cadaverous goose, Zorandicus can clearly see the indicated page and translate it for the others:

Quote:
IN THE VILLAGE COURT OF WHITEBRIDGE
Case No. 15GM34498

In the Matter of the Marriage of ABIGAIL FOGG and ULRICH VON FURCHTBAR

NOTICE OF SUIT

The Village of Whitebridge to Ulrich von Furchtbar:
You are notified that a Petition of Divorce was filed in Whitebridge Village asking that the person filing the divorce be granted a divorce and asking that the court make other orders in that divorce matter. You must file an answer to the Petition of Divorce with the court and provide a copy to the Petitioner on or before the next quarter-moon, which shall not be less than 14 days after first publication of this Notice of Suit, or the court will enter judgement against you on that Petition.

Stanley nods gravely, his nose furrowing a deep depression in the plush carpeting. “She was Furchtbar’s wife. They were young then—naive. It was a match doomed from the start, of course. What you would call ‘irreconcilable differences.’ Even still, Furchtbar—as you might guess—did not take the break well. See there?” The warlock gestures at another scrap of paper:

Quote:
Summitstone Academy for the Magically Adept
Whitebridge Village

Dear Abigail Fogg,

This letter confirms our earlier discussion that your employment with the Summitstone Academy for the Magically Adept is terminated immediately.

You will receive two weeks severance pay, given that your employment with the Academy has been greater than one year. You will receive the severance payment once you have signed and returned the enclosed documents. Additionally, payment for your accrued PTO will be included in your final paycheck which you will receive on our regular pay day, Friday. You may pick up this check from the admin desk.

We have already received from you your ceremonial robes, your office key, and the Academy owned broomstick issued conditionally with employment.

Please be advised that the practice of alchemy, astrology, augury, conjury, divination, enchantment, exorcism, horoscopy, illusion, necromancy, prestidigitation, soothsaying, sorcery, or thaumaturgy is strictly forbidden outside the superintendence of the Academy. Any magical act performed while not in the explicit employ of the Academy will be considered WITCHCRAFT, an offense punishable by fines, incarceration, or death by fire.

You will need to keep the Academy informed of your contact information so that we are able to provide information you may need in the future such as your W-2 form.

Best of luck in your future endeavors. Please let us know if we can assist you during your transition.

When the Familiars look up from this new bit of evidence there are tears in Stanley’s eyes. He uses one of his billowy sleeves to dab at his cheek. “Oh, Abigail! We tried to warn her, but I suppose we all knew she would never stop practicing magic. We thought perhaps the college would level a few fines as a formality, but”—he chokes back a sob—“we never imagined any real harm would come to her! Whatever tragedy has brought you all here, that was Furchtbar’s doing! Damn his black, jealous heart!” Stanley collapses, face pressed against the floor, wailing inconsolably. He gulps air, regaining just enough composure to continue. “And now! Oh, gods! Now this!” With a quavering hand the old wizard motions first toward Bart, then to Abigail’s journal. Slowly, tentatively, Rocco stoops to fetch the tome. He flips open the heavy cover, then cracks the journal open to a page marked with a purple ribbon. He turns to present the book to Zorandicus, then to each of the others in turn. At first, the Familiars’ hearts leap with recognition. The writing is in Mother’s hand, and there are illustrations, lovingly rendered and exquisitely detailed. For a precious instant, it’s like the Witch is with them again. But another moment’s inspection reveals a crushing insight: The sketches contained in Abigail’s journal catalogue the incubation, hatching, and first days of a tiny gosling. A final scrap of parchment is tucked in the book’s spine, stamped with the bright red proclamation, “DENIED.” Andy can see that the paper reads:

Quote:
Abigail Fogg
Sweetbriar Forest
Lands Beyond Whitebridge Village


Regarding: Case No. 44365-1

To the Honorable Judge Daphne Dabblerabble,

Ulrich von Furchtbar and I married 18 months ago. Our first familiar, Bartholomew Furchtbar-Fogg, was born last spring. I am requesting sole legal custody and primary physical custody with alternating weekend visits for Ulrich. I am also requesting the guideline familiar support amount, with additional expenses for our goose’s education. The specific details of my request are included in the attached proposed parenting plan and parenting time schedule.

From his place on the floor, Stanley—nearly comatose from his physical and emotional exertions—wheezes, “Now you know the truth. All of it.” Stunned, the animals shift their collective gaze from the warlock to the shredded, still-steaming corpse of Bartholomew Furchtbar-Fogg, the Witch’s first Familiar.

In that moment, the healing raccoon paw fastened about Ernest’s neck turns gray and brittle, crumbling to ash.

Elsewhere, in Whitebridge VillageIn the alley behind Chez Gygax, Petunia the basset ceases her foraging. She raises her lumpy, shapeless head and cocks an ear. Somewhere, far in the distance, a dog-whistle blares. She calls back in her own throaty baritone, ARROOOO! From all around, echoing throughout the alleyways and vacant lots of the city, the innumerable strays of Whitebridge Village raise a chorus of barks and howls. Singleminded in their pursuit of that siren call, the mongrels begin sprinting toward Summitstone Academy in their untold hundreds, a tidal wave of snapping, slavering jaws.

 

 
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Old Apr 7th, 2022, 11:04 AM
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Zorandicus
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After recovering from his momentary blood frenzy, Zorandicus read the words out loud, but had trouble understanding their significance. The prattling about two muckdweller's empty promise of being mates for life hardly concerned the owl, and at first he had no idea why this bumbling warlock attached such great import to the documents. In fact, Zorandicus eyed the man's head hungrily- it made for such a prime target, wedged into the goose's door like that. And Bart had hardly been filling, considering it was a meal he had been forced to share with the smaller meals calling themselves his allies.

But then the truth of Bart was revealed, and the owl's round eyes grew even wider. 'You are the half-brothers of that... That... Abomination?!' He wheeled on the familiars, still drenched in the gander's blood, eyes still filled with hate. 'What is your game? Do you truly wish to rid this world of Furchtbar's vile presence? Or have you been plotting to use me in your bid to cast aside this feathered wretch and take his place?' Then, a chill of dread raced down the owl's spine as a thought occured to him, causing him to beat his wings and fly back a few feet in shock and revulsion. 'Unless he was not your half-brother... But your brother!'

Practically snarling, Zorandicus turned to face the door upon which Furchtbar was still pounding. 'The witch-hunter is just outside that door,' he hissed. 'If you spoke true, then this changes nothing. We end Furchtbar, right now! But if this is indeed treason, then rest assured, no place under the sky will be safe for you!'

 

 
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Last edited by DemonSlayer; Apr 7th, 2022 at 11:08 AM.
  #36  
Old Apr 10th, 2022, 03:06 AM
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The Robed and the Magical - a Soap Opera by Brie the Rat
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If the old warlock thought that his revelations about Mother, Ulrich von Furchtbar and that horrible goose that they had just turned into golden, surely delicious, nuggets would shock Brie, he had absolutely no clue as to what was needed to actually impress a rat. Brie belonged to a species known for acquiring a taste for mating from a very young age and a well-deserved rumor for being a fact!lustful, promiscuous and not bothered by concepts of gender and blood relations when choosing their partners. The dark rat‘s fondness for sweet Beau had been something of an anomaly, him having been no doubt influenced by Mother‘s many tales of human lovers swearing eternal devotion to each other. The family trees of rats, in contrast to those of humans, had so many intertwined branches that it was sometimes simply impossible to tell them apart. Some of Brie‘s brothers were at the same time his cousins and uncles! One should not even ask how such a thing was possible - merely accept it as a fact of rodent life.

As the half-deranged owl, Zorandicus, continued reading page upon page of human nonsense, Brie‘s look never changed. It was a tale as old as time, a tale he had seen many, many times. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl fight - intensely, frequently, seemingly without reason. Girl leaves boy. Boy swears revenge. Girl takes care of bright and loveable (for the most part) animals and builds girl’s life anew. Boy returns with a vengeance and burns girl at the stake. The end.

Or rather that was what boy might think. In Brie‘s version the story continued.

Animals face boy and use one of boy’s hateful eyes to bring back girl. Then they all return home and live happily ever after. The true end!

As for Bart… wasn’t he responsible for terrorizing all denizens of the forest around the village? Hadn’t he mutilated and killed poor Drops, his brother, who, despite his silliness at times, really wasn’t a bad fellow? What if he had been Mother’s first child? Even in the best-stocked cellar some of the cheeses went bad. That was what the goose had been - a sort of old, smelly, moldy cheese. There was no remorse in a rat’s heart for bad cheeses. They only deserved to be eaten - as the Wiserats had done.

Turning away from the moustached human without speaking a word, Brie looked at the owl.

"This changes nothing, bird. Old Bart had it coming. As has that cursed witch-hunter. We slay him like the scoundrel he is, claim one of his eyes and leave this filthy place. You become King of the Skies and Ricco Rattin becomes King of the Earth. And we bring back Mother. That is the plan, the only plan. Drops, open the door and let the archvillain make his entrance. It’s time to end this once and for all!"

His paws tight around the softly vibrating wand, Brie waited for the hare to comply. Ulrich would finally get a taste of his own medicine - and the dark rat would be the one to deliver it to him. It was finally time for sweet, sweet revenge!


 


 
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  #37  
Old Apr 11th, 2022, 07:17 AM
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Zorandicus
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His burning anger for the witch hunter fanned by Brie's affirmation of their alliance, the owl let out a long, hateful screech. Then let us end this, and be done with it!' he agreed. With a few claps of his mighty wings the owl took to the sky again, hovering near the ceiling, his sharp talons ready to descend on whatever came through that door...

 

 
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Old Apr 16th, 2022, 10:04 AM
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Ernest the Cat
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It's possible that Ernest would have felt a small, tiny, miniscule amount of sympathy for Bart, but that was eliminated by his treatment of the hare. Any being capable of such wickedness and torture could not be saved, he was sure of it.

The old cat slid back hissed a reply at the owl. "Time to eradicate that goose and his master." He readied himself on the top of the table, able to pounce on the terrible Furchtbar upon his entry.


 


 
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  #39  
Old Apr 30th, 2022, 12:08 AM
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GMWith each new revelation, the sound of Furchtbar’s hammering against the stage door grows louder and more frenzied. The Witch-Hunter throws himself against the portal, howling like a wounded beast. Unmoved by Stanley the warlock’s AKA The GM’s vain attempts at emotional manipulationhistrionics and abundant supporting evidence, the Familiars steel themselves for one final confrontation. BANG! The door rattles on heavy hinges. They are steadfast. BANG! Furchtbar roars, “BART!” They are unflinching. BANG-BANG-BANG! Pale splinters erupt from the doorframe. “BAAART!” They are bloody vengeance. Brie signals Raindrops on Roses: “Drops, open the door and let the archvillain make his entrance. It’s time to end this once and for all!"

Before the hare can utter a word, the door shatters with explosive force. The Witch-Hunter’s final blow takes the door off its hinges and sends him staggering into the lecture hall. Furchtbar grips the iron ring that serves as the door’s handle in one hand, hefting what remains like a jagged tower shield braced squarely against his arm. In his other hand he grips the saw, its jagged serrations glinting obscenely. He screams—it is a senseless, hellish ululation that makes the Familiars’ skin prickle with terror. Wailing thus, he drops his shoulder low and charges the nearby table, smashing into it with his makeshift barricade at full speed. At the moment of impact, Furchtbar throws his shield-arm wide, toppling the table and sending Ernest flying into the darkened auditorium stands. A hail of pointed implements peppers the central stage and theater aisle. Raindrops on Roses, still lashed tight to the workbench, hangs upside-down where the table come to rest on its side.

The Witch-Hunter, heaving with exertion and anguish, wheels around, turning his murderous gaze on the animals gathered near Bart’s corpse. He lowers his shield for another charge. He lurches into motion, barreling headlong down the auditorium’s main aisle, impossibly fast. Brie can see his hideous face, peering through a crack in the onrushing bulwark. His eyes roll wide and wild in their reddened sockets, and he gnashes his tangled teeth, foam streaming from the corners of his twisted lips. “BAAART!” he cries. “MY BEAUTIFUL BABY BOY!” He rushes forward. A few steps more, and he’ll be on them.

Elsewhere, Near the Academy Gates“There, there, man. You’re alright, huh?” The guard gives his compatriot an awkward pat on the shoulder. While the man’s head isn’t nearly so swollen and wobbly now, it remains a distressing shade of reddish-purple. “Get some more of that water down.” The man takes a tentative swallow from the canteen, wincing. “Gods, that was terrible,” he pants. He takes another sip, swishes, and spits. “I thought I was a dead man.” The first guard crosses his arms, frowning in disapproval. “I told you not to touch that cat. You’re allergic.” The other man prods his face experimentally. “Damnit, we’ve been over this. I’m not allergic to cats, it’s do—” ARROOOO! The guards slowly rise, turning to peer down the main road. “What the—?” The men stand blinking in disbelief. Dogs—innumerable dogs of every breed and disposition—are charging toward the academy gates. So great are their numbers that the dogs appear to the men as a single ravenous organism—a mongrel plague descending on the college.

“The horn,” breathes the recovering guard in a stunned whisper. “Get the horn. Sound the whoring alarm.”

GM - OOCNightCheese, please roll Quick DR6 to see if Ernest lands on his feet. Failure adds a point of DANGER.

All actions in the presence of Furchtbar should be considered DANGEROUS.

Direct attacks on Furchtbar are DR10 thanks to his shield.

For the DR of any other action, PM me or drop a note in the OOC thread. This way, PCs will know the result of any rolls before they post.

Someone will need to determine what Brijida, Rocco, and the wiserats are up to. This can either be narrated in the PC posts or simply notated in the OOC thread.

 

 
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Last edited by Mallothi; Apr 30th, 2022 at 12:09 AM.
  #40  
Old Apr 30th, 2022, 10:54 AM
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Zorandicus
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Bursting through the door in a cloud of splinters and debris, the witch-hunter finally made his way into the room. Beyond himself with anger and gried, Furchtbar made for an imposing figure- yet at the same time, his unthinking rage was a weakness which could be exploited. Unfortunately, Zorandicus shared the witch-hunter's emotional state, Fierce: 15 (natural 10!)screeching with abandon as he dived onto the hated leader of all those who made life difficult for the magical creatures of the city. Here was the cause for all the pain and indignity heaped upon those who chose to live freely, rather than as a bootlicker to the muckdweller's authority. It was high time to end this monster, once and for all.

A sliver of reason in the back of Andy's mind told him not to go for the eyes, lest his newfound allies would see their quest rendered futile, prompting them to abandon it altogether. He needed Furchtbar dead; he couldn't afford to lose his allies now. Any other bit of exposed flesh was fair game, though. His talons raked the witch-hunters cheeks and neck, his beak worried at lip and nose. And while the witch-hunter's eyes were sacrosanct, that didn't mean slapping the man's face with his wings to momentarily blind him was not called for. 'Die, muckdweller!' Andy shouted, not caring that the witch-hunter couldn't understand him. 'For the glory of the Sky Lords, die, die and die some more!'

 

 
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Last edited by DemonSlayer; Apr 30th, 2022 at 10:55 AM.
  #41  
Old May 6th, 2022, 01:46 AM
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The Final Boss - Endgame
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This was it. The moment Brie had been waiting for. The fight he had not stopped envisioning inside his little head over and over and over again. The Big Evil. The Final Boss.

Ulrich von Furchtbar, witch-hunter, murderer, scum of the earth.

As the what a strange notion!world stopped spinning to bear witness to the clash of good versus evil, animal versus human, images of everything the Familiars had been through flooded the rat’s mind: the revelation of the true relationship between Mother and the monster, the slaying of the goose that could not be slain, the witch-hunter’s slumbering henchmen “under the stars”, the wild journey through the airs, Brijida’s blaze that threatened to burn down Whitebridge, Beau’s sacrifice for a silver spoon -oh, Beau!-, the encounter with the one-headed hound of hell, the deal with the rat-devil under the mountain, the climbing over “The Wall”, Colette’s underground resistance movement and her magnificent feast, the rescue of the roasting greenskins, the bridgeless troll named Toll, the trek through the woods, the ashes of Mother’s hut, the fire that had started it all…

The fire.

It was the same fire that burned in Brie’s aching heart, the fire that was reflected in his hateful eyes, the fire that seemed to consume every inch of his small hairy body from his whiskered nose to the top of his tail.

The rat screamed a war cry, finally letting out the fury and the pain and the sadness inside him, transforming everything he had experienced in the days since Mother’s premature death into sound, screaming until there was no voice left in his throat or air in his lungs. It was the cry of a beast, without words, without intelligence behind it, as raw as a wound and as primal as the creature that gave birth to it.

It was all the encouragement the Wiserats needed.

Eyes blazing and teeth gnashing, the rats attacked the towering human before them. As Wensley and Dale bravely charged the witch-hunter, jumping straight towards his makeshift shield, the rest of the mafiosi surrounded the man from all sides. Ulrich twisted and turned, stomping with his booted feet, waving his shield and angrily cursing the little nuisances to hell and beyond. Barely avoiding his leather boots, nailed and still stained with blood, mud and ash, no matter what they did, the Wiserats did not seem able to touch him.

Brie didn’t care. They had already accomplished what he had in mind. He would not let anyone else deal the decisive blow to his archenemy. The Not-So-Goodfellas were a useful distraction, nothing more. It was he that held the weapon that would put an end to the vile witch-hunter’s evil.

Sensing the wand’s thrumming in his paws, seeing the electrical sparks dance along his whiskers and feeling the surge of electricity travel down his spine, Brie summoned all the magicks inside him and let them flow through the wand. An arc of white-blue lightning, brilliant and beautiful, traveled through the air and struck Ulrich, who had been desperately trying to fend off the mad owl’s attacks from above and the rats’ bites from below, squarely in the back, sending him flying.

"He fell!", cried out Brie, the elation in his voice unmistakable. "Ernest, quickly, use your claws. Remember, an eye for an eye. Pluck it out! It’s what he deserves."



 


 
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  #42  
Old May 15th, 2022, 01:38 PM
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Ernest the Cat
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Ernest passed with a 6 quick!landed on all four of his feet with an unfamiliar heaviness about him. His age was showing again. The old Tom growled gutturally and hunched to the ground as Andy flew overhead, attaching himself to the Witch Hunter's face with fury and rage. "His eyes!" The old Tom yowled and hissed, "leave the eyes!"

The cat's one, bright green eye darted back and forth between the scene between Furchtbar and Brie. As lighting shot from the rat's wand and through the air, Ernest scooted back into his hindquarters slightly, and readied himself for an opportunity to attack. At Brie's shriek of direction, Ernest lunged at Furtchar and hurtled himself across the room to the man's head. He took a sharp inhale and yowled at Furtbar as Fierce 8he dug his claws into the man's socket, "an eye for an eye, indeed. FOR MOTHER."


 


 
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Last edited by NightCheese; May 15th, 2022 at 01:39 PM.
  #43  
Old May 28th, 2022, 12:52 AM
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GMCR-AAAACK!

A second blinding flash leaps from the tip of Brie’s wand. A crackling bolt of mystical light arcs from the voltaic relic to Furchtbar’s body. A brilliant starburst of sparks erupts from the Witch-Hunter’s torso. There is an air-sucking WHOOSH and the hall fills with the sharp stink of ozone. Furchtbar’s body goes rigid, his limbs locked outstretched. The man’s flesh begins to glow red-orange with a deep internal illumination. His bones alight, visible under the muscle like white-hot filaments. Furchtbar falls, toppling backward to land within arm’s reach of Bart’s ruined corpse. Tongues of yellow flame lap at the Witch-Hunter’s blackened mane. Blood weeps in boiling rivulets from the myriad gashes inflicted by Zorandicus’ cruel talons. The Familiars’ most-hated enemy lies still, incapacitated but clinging stubbornly to life. The animals can see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and hear the ragged wheeze of his breathing. Brie’s trusty wand may have proven powerful enough to kill Bart outright, but it has only stunned the goose’s human master.

Brijida, seeing that Furchtbar is already quite on fire, swishes her tail, extinguishing her readied spell with a puff of sweet-smelling smoke. Rather than attack, she hastens to Raindrops on Roses’ aid, bounding to the front of the auditorium. With a yip and flurry of deft snaps, she uses her sharp teeth to clip the leather straps that still hold the hare inverted on the overturned tabletop. In a flash, Raindrops is freed, and falls to the ground with a soft THUMP! He scrambles to his feet, fur still steaming lightly from his providential resuscitation. For the first time in his two-score rabbit-years, Drops is very nearly speechless, stammering his bewildered thanks without a hint of romantic flourish.

Meanwhile, a jubilant cry rings out: "He fell!" It’s Brie, his tiny voice triumphant. "Ernest, quickly, use your claws. Remember, an eye for an eye. Pluck it out! It’s what he deserves." At the rat’s command, Ernest leaps onto the Witch-Hunter’s supine form and sets upon his upturned face, hissing, spitting, and slashing with abandon. Flesh tears, fresh blood flows. The old tomcat feels his claws pierce the man’s soft lids and curl into the cavity behind Furchtbar’s left eye. One good yank… But a sudden wail stays Ernest’s paw. Rocco is bawling in that awful, grating language unique to goblinkin, while desperately flapping his arms. When Ernest acknowledges him, he drops his arms and begins rifling through his knapsack. A moment later, he withdraws a slender, shining instrument. The spoon of finest silver! The ritual! Ernest snorts, disappointed. He slowly, begrudgingly retracts his claws, releasing his hold on the Witch-Hunter’s eye. But when the cat finally removes his paw, the eye beneath snaps open.

Furchtbar wakes screaming. It would appear that—unbeknownst to Brie and the other Familiars—while Stanley’s capricious wand is capable of stunning a man, it cannot keep him unconscious throughout involuntary surgery. Ernest yowls in surprise, but before he can move the Witch-Hunter snags him by the scruff and flings him into the recesses of the darkened auditorium—again. Furchtbar vaults upright, sucking great, gasping breaths. His face is a blistered, clotted mask of crimson—his round eyes and gnashing teeth shine in lurid, white contrast. His skull is a matted, smoldering tangle of singed hair and glowing embers. This, the Familiars realize with mounting dread, is Furchtbar’s true form: a fiery, blood-soaked demon from the deepest pit of hell, wearing a crown of flame. Rocco recoils, clutching the spoon to his narrow chest. He glances nervously from animal to animal. The goblin raises the spoon tentatively, as if prepared to toss it to one of the other Familiars. Then—perhaps remembering that he is the only creature present with opposable thumbs—Rocco turns back to face the Witch-Hunter. Spoon still raised high, he takes a shuddering breath, furrows his brow, bares his needle-like teeth, and lunges for the accursed bastard.

The others watch in stunned silence as the goblin shrieks a battle-cry in his native gibberish and charges, brandishing the outstretched spoon like a brigand waving a cutlass. Heroic? Sure. Foolish? Most certainly. As soon as he is within reach, Furchtbar swats the spoon from Rocco’s fist and snatches the goblin up by the throat, hauling him whimpering overhead. The spoon clatters to the floor, coming to rest near Brie and the other rats. Furchtbar’s improvised shield lies forgotten by his feet, but he still clutches the dreadful bone saw in his free hand. He hoists Rocco higher, brings the gleaming, toothy blade to the goblin’s gray-green throat, and… hesitates. Rocco dangles aloft, choking. His little feet kick wildly, while his claws rake futilely against the man’s iron grasp. Furchtbar’s infernal gaze sweeps over the room, dwelling for a heartbeat or two on each scrap of evidence strewn across the floor. His eyes slowly widen. A realization dawns. The Witch-Hunter turns on Brie. “YOU!” he seethes, spittle flying. “VERMIN!” A crazed smile spreads over his face, manic and DANGEROUS. “ALL OF YOU!” he bellows to the other animals—to the auditorium rafters and the uncaring heavens beyond. “DIE!” he shrieks. “DIE LIKE YOUR WITCH OF A MOTHER!” There is a sickening POP as Furchtbar wrenches his fist in a violent spasm. Rocco falls limp. With a guttural roar, the Witch-Hunter hurls the goblin’s body at Brie.

Somewhere outside, a horn blares. The Familiars hear the sound of distant barking, innumerable canine voices raised in hysterical refrain, drawing closer. The horn sounds again before being cut short mid-blast. The barking swells. The hounds of Whitebridge have breached the academy gates.

GM - OOCErnest takes 1 point of DANGER for the failed eye gouge. NightCheese, please roll another Quick DR6 to see if Ernest lands on his feet again. Failure adds an additional point of DANGER, but Ernest will still be able to act.

Elanir, please roll Quick DR7 to dodge the incoming goblin. Failure adds a point of DANGER, but Brie will still be able to act.

Speaking of Rocco: If anyone chooses to check (in character), they will find that the goblin is gravely injured, but still breathing.

All actions in the presence of Furchtbar should (still) be considered DANGEROUS.

Direct attacks on Furchtbar are now DR9. He doesn’t have a shield anymore, but he’s really, really mad. To use a video game analogy, his second health bar has just appeared.

I’ve included Brijida’s stat block below; anyone can feel free to act (and roll) for her in the coming rounds.

For the DR of any other action, PM me or drop a note in the OOC thread. This way, PCs can include the result of any attempted actions in their post.

Lastly, I am 100% open to you all formulating a group plan of action in the OOC thread prior to posting, if you so desire. Metagaming is not really a concern.

 

 

 

 
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Last edited by Mallothi; May 28th, 2022 at 01:01 AM.
  #44  
Old May 28th, 2022, 10:20 AM
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Zorandicus
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'I suppose we shall have to amend the list of muckdweller's flaws to include "too stubborn to die",' Zorandicus complained. The owl barely managed to duck the goblin's body as it sailed through the air towards Brie, and did not wait to see whether the apparent corpse would find its mark. Instead he pressed his attack, beating his wings to gain some height, trying to get behind the witch hunter and sink his claws into the back of his head.

Furchtbar, unfortunately, was beside himself with rage, and struck blindly at the owl as he passed overhead. The witch hunter's fist connected with Andy's wing- not enough to wound the owl, but it certainly pushed him off course. Flapping his wings rapidly, Zorandicus tried to correct his course and, to his credit, did not slam bodily into the floor. But for the moment, the owl needed to regain his bearing. 'Blast these confined spaces,' the owl muttered angrily. 'You there, rats! Kindly murder this despicable wretch!'


 

 
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  #45  
Old May 29th, 2022, 01:06 PM
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A Fairytale gone bad?
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Humans claimed that rats were like a plague, a great epidemic, impossible to eradicate or control. The opposite was true. It was humans, at least most of them, who were like a plague, their hearts full of greed and cruelty. How else would such a dark power as the one they witnessed before their eyes be able to take control of Ulrich von Furchtbar? Or was Ulrich the master and the fell power his servant, just another way for Man to secure his rule over the world?

Brie didn’t care to find out. He only meant to put an end to it - one evil, two evils or a legion, it was all the same to him. As long as Mother returned to them, he would have gladly faced Bael himself, the demon that could turn into an infernal cat -no offense, friend Ernest!- to devour the unborn ratlings inside the bellies of their mothers.

But first he had to act quickly or be crushed by poor, unfortunate Rocco, who was used as a projectile of sorts by Demon-Ulrich. Thankfully, there was nothing a rat was better at doing than scramming when in danger - though eating was a close second. As nimble as, well, a rat, Brie scurried behind a seat just as the goblin landed on the floor, mere feet from where the rat was taking shelter.

"Scoundrel!", cried out Brie, his high-pitched voice unable to convey the hatred he felt for the witch-hunter at this moment. "Mother was a thousand times better than you! We will bring her back. And you will never leave this room again!"

Climbing on top of the seat, Brie pointed at Ulrich with a clawed finger and screamed out of the top of his tiny lungs.

"Raaaaaaaaaaats, attack! Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw!"

And the Wiserats did as they were told, having learnt in their lives to never disobey an order, no matter how strong or large the enemy. Led by Wensley and Dale, the rodents bared their large, yellow teeth and charged - and this time, as the demonic witch-hunter tried to evade another lightning bolt birthed by Brie’s magic wand, they succeeded. They gnawed, gnawed, gnawed, gnawed, gnawed, gnawed, gnawed Ulrich’s feet, sharp teeth cutting the thick leather of his boots to shreds and biting deep into flesh, tendon and bone.

How the mighty fall…, thought Brie and found the expression to be perfectly fitting for the occasion.



 


 
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Last edited by Elanir; May 29th, 2022 at 01:07 PM.
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