Over the last weekend, the Wildfire Riders got together, under the guidance of our illustrious leader, Tarquin, and we went to find Beltar.
If you’ve not read Reports of His Demise you should go read it now, since that will set up the next bit of story.
After much gathering of intelligence and some rather unpleasant hinting by Malkavet, the Riders have a good lead on where to find Beltar. This is the story of that expedition.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t extremely proud of this, and proud of us. This document was written, in part, by Tarquin, Threnn, Bricu, Fells, Shad, Lorelli, Kyraine, Illithias, Beltar, Ulthanon, Pitchblack, Chryste, and myself, and it was read and edited by pretty much everyone who has a character in it. Tarquin gets the credit (and blame) for wrangling this out of us and for editing the whole thing together, turning our disparate bits of fiction into a coherent story.
This is what happens when the Riders go to war. It is alternately funny, profane, violent, serious, lighthearted, and disturbing. It is not a short read.
And it is, if I do say so myself, brilliant.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.
We are the Wildfire Riders. Who the fuck are you?
***** Introduction *****
They came at sundown, fifteen armed and armored, when the color was leeching from the dun hillsides and the few hardy pines that straggled up the crags. There were wings to be had, of gryphon and dragon and things yet stranger, but the Horde contested the skies here, so they marched on foot like soldiers of a past age. Twice they had to duck into the scrub as wyverns flew overhead, flattening themselves like rabbits under a hawk. They shook the dust from their boots and marched on, with good-humored complaints.
At the top of Windshear Crag, in the high hills, they met their spy, the fox-faced little sprite of a woman their chief had sent ahead. The work went on in the mines; the garrison slouched about the fortress, enjoying their leisure but eager for a fight. They made their camp, sixteen now, and waited for the last of the light to fade. Mage-bread and dried meat, served cold. None of them, even the lean young woman at her first real battle, thought to ask for a fire. They knew the answer.
When their creased and smiling tracker judged the sky dark enough, it was back on their feet. Packs were slung, laces were tightened, blades were checked and checked again. Their chief made his last instructions, salting the air with lilting curses and burring imprecations, and they all clasped hands, traded jokes, and said a few hundred words with only one meaning. Don’t get killed.
Then they split. Six to the mine, the vulpine scout guiding them; seven to the base of the crag, bristling with weaponry; three to the high road between mine and fortress, swallowed by the night. They spread through Windshear Crag like splinters of bone from a bad wound, drifting through blood to find the heart. Sixteen scum of the earth, come to strike a blow in the war that a week ago they’d been working to stop.
Come to bring their brother home.
You can read the rest here.
(this is a shortened link because it goes to a public google document)
- Godmodding and Griefing (116)
- On Privacy, Real ID’s and Roleplay (49)
- XX and XY in RP (47)
- Population Disparity (34)
- Tanking Perceptions (33)