[PF-1e] The Dragonfire Tournament

[Nomadic druid]

Posting interest, will have a character writing sample up for you shortly...just brainstorming. I love the "application" model you've requested...

[IvanAlgol]

With a small grin, the news of the events reached the ears of a small crowd of warriors towards the side of the hall. The gathering of bandits, cutthroats and the company they purchased for the tournament couldn’t believe their ears. The members of the Obsidian Knife Mercenary Company each wondered about the chance to do battle the chance to fight for the crowd and make that fortune… though they didn’t garner the reputation they’ve built up over the years for stupidity, each one of them caring more about keeping their head on their shoulders than making a quick pocket of coin, especially with the stakes as high as they would be in such an event.

“What I wouldn’t give for a piece of that prize,” one let out. “Imagine our little band with that kind of fame,” let out another. A few laughs escaped their scared lips, each one a bit too rational to take up arms, though more brave enough to bolster about how they’d slice apart the competition. One of the men takes the ‘entertainer’ he had hired by the waist and holds her to him. “It almost wouldn’t be fair if we tried to compete! Besides, why spoil our vacation and possibly sully the mood of our beautiful company~?”

From his seat behind the lot, their captain scoffs. “What a bunch of sniveling cowards.” With yet another high-priced escort, an elf with a little bit too much cleavage showing sitting across his lap, the armored man tightly grips his mug, takes a hearty swig and slams it down, the sound white noise compared to the bolstering of the hall, though the group that hears it feels a shiver run up their spine as they turn to look at their captain.

Adorned with dark armor, emblazed with a bloody fist gripping a dagger- the company’s symbol-, the captain already looked more at place fighting and spilling blood in the arena than sitting around and watching. The hood over his head obscures his icy gaze, so full of contempt for his own troops. “I would have thought that the Knives would have enough guts in their belly to either back up their bolstering or to at least have the honorably spilled for the crowd.” With his gauntlet-covered hand he grips the elvish maid by the hip and stands, bringing her up with him. “Sit in the crowd and look on like the school children you are, perhaps watching some real warriors will remind you just what we’re known for.” Like frightened pups, shivering with fear and tail clutched between their legs they watch as their captain walks off towards the Dragonfire Knight.

Though most of the clamor is directed towards the shocking announcement and warriors trying to convince themselves they have the right combination of skill, bravery, and foolishness, a few eyes fell on the armored man as he strides across the room. Though much of him obscured by his armor and other coverings, it is more evident by the way he walks and carries himself across the hall than the blackened metal covering his body or the duel swords a his side that this is no mere warrior. Several persons even gulp at the sight of the insignia so proudly displayed, knowing just what it meant. The elf swaying her hips as she moved along with him didn’t make him appear any less like he is in control.

His free hand rests on the pommel of his largest sword as he steps up, his voice somewhat smoother than one would expect for one in his position. “So, you need volunteers to fight for this ill-prepared crowd?” he says, smirking slightly under his hood. “Tell me, are you looking for copper-a-dozen fighters, timid archers or ignorant greenhorns looking to make a name for themselves, many of whom do not know the pleasure of taking the life of a lesser combatant?” With the elf still pressed up against him, he reaches up and slides back his hood, his youthful, scared visage finally becoming apparent, deep brown hair reaching down to the middle of his neck and framing his face, a fire in his malevolent green eyes. “Or perhaps you need a veteran of more fights than most of the rabble here have had hot meals, who have no qualms with cutting down his foes with naught but glee?” He laughs as a mask of madness overtakes his face, a fire burning in his gaze.

“It doesn’t matter who or what it is the Obsidian Knives have gone up against, I’ve been sure to make it fall at our feet, bleeding out and gasping for air.” There’s a small murmur as that name is spoken aloud, and a few of those who were about to throw their hat into the arena step down. “But the Knives are nothing- NOTHING- without the one who leads them, the one who heads the charge and cuts down everything in his path, carving a trail of fear and dread among his foes.”

There had been rumors for years about just who was the leader of the group so notorious for their vile, savage acts no nation would publicly hire them in even the most fierce of civil wars, who have always followed through on a contract taken, no matter how many bodies were to be piled up, who began as a small group of rag-tag highwaymen and somehow rose up turn rivers red wherever they went. “Here I stand, Captain Mal’var Owswell, ready to answer your call and give these fine folks a good show.”

Silence is not something to be expected in a place of excitement such as this, but the name just uttered caused a good number to lose their voice for a few moments. “The Ghoul,” someone whispers. “The Fiend's Star,” says another. “The Condemned.” “The Bloody Blight.” “Murderer’s Saint.” So many names for one man, all of which he’s become fond of. It was a decade ago that the criminal was sentenced to death for his heinous crimes, only to be pardoned by an all-too corrupt lord and conscripted into his army. No battlefields had ever seen so many corpses, and Mal’var had finally found a place where not only did he truly belong, but it seemed he was destined to fester for years to come. If he were to fight in the arena, one thing would be for sure; the crowd would indeed see much bloodshed.

The fear and tension Captain Owswell seemed to cause only makes him feel more at home, more confident that he would be the perfect choice to fight. The delicate fingers of his elven accomplice run down the cold metal adorning his chest. “I love it when you get like this,” she whispers into his ear, this small effort perhaps securing her a little more pay and, if she’s lucky, something fine from the dragon’s prize. Mal’var chuckles a bit and gives her rump a squeeze in front of the hall.

With that bloodthirsty grin still etched onto his face, the much-hated warrior looks out to the crowd and he drinks in the looks etched into their faces. The fear, the anger, the hatred and the disgust… all the more reason to battle. Certainly there would be more than a few parties who have been affected by the Obsidian Knives, or more likely Mal’var himself. Murderer, assassin, soldier, mercenary... the body count he’s left would fill more than a few graveyards. He turns back to Dominus Helward Lapis, feeling quite confident and rather excited. “You can see in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Many people here would love to see me die in the arena. Don’t you worry, I wouldn’t dream of going down so easily, I’ll keep them on the edge of their seats until I claim my victory.” The more he speaks, the faster his heart pumps and the more eager he becomes. The thrill of battle, the feeling of flesh tearing and bone snapping, the lovely gurgle of a fallen combatant choking on his own fluids… his high-priced wench would be making her money tonight for sure.

A small bow of his head is follows the licking of his lips, the anticipation growing for the Knight’s decision. Already he can detect the scent of blood in the air, and his muscles twitch. “Please, don’t keep the crowd or myself waiting. Antoinette and Cécile are begging to be drawn~”

[mightymconeshot]

How are you handling created items? Are they allowed, no? What about spells like Create Undead?

[Nomadic druid]

still taking applications?

[Scimmy]

Is there a hard deadline other than about three weeks?

[Snarguffle]

The deadline was two days ago. The DM seems to have disappeared.

[Coeur de Lion]

That would be sad if this were to fall at this hurdle

[rngrbob]

yeah I agree, the GM must be really busy in RL and forgotten about this. Who knows though? -shrugs- I hope that he hasn't already at this juncture :/.

[Nomadic druid]

Thirteen's last activity...

Last Activity: 01-09-2016 10:12 PM

[IvanAlgol]

That's one hell of a shame...