Recent content by Castor Vega

Leather snapped. Once, twice, then nothing. Silence found him in the squall. A lack of sound terrifyingly followed by weightlessness. Oh, he thought as recognition became reality. He was falling. Like if someone tipped your seat. Except he'd have a touch longer to think about his mistakes...

Fear. Anger. Worry. A torrent of emotions swirled within the knight Anathaeum, each threatening to rise to the surface and ruin his farcical facade. He was barely managing to the suppress the rising bile in his throat. This place, this workshop, could not be conjured in Castor's darkest dreams...

"Sounds bloody unpleasant," remarked the knight to himself. However, it was Faramund's next words that truly worried Castor. They were Knights Anathaeum. Trust was ever granted without given voice. Battles fought, wylds protected; all from the same root. Thus if his companion felt the need for...

"Oh hells," he managed to mutter as the dragon began its ascent. Castor knew logically this was the best option but he still didn't give a damn. He did his best to grip the saddle tightly but his body remained weak from the previous spell. Honestly he'd half a mind to just slip back into...

Two guards with twice the number of blades. If the knights drew steel here, that was the game. He sensed that glib excuses would likely just get them killed faster. These guards were different from the normal rabble and paranoia ever haunted the higher hierarchy. Castor mentally braced himself...

"Bloody cultists," the Sworn swore. Always lacked imagination. There's a reason the knight had several vials of blood at his side even if most wasn't his own. He made to say something but Faramund already removed his glove. Better that he save his party tricks for later. Who knows what they...

"You're the expert. I'm just here to make sure you don't die alone," quipped the knight sarcastically. Morbid humor was a staple in their line of work. There was an inherent need to acknowledge the dangers of their undertakings. Had a way of keeping one grounded, focused. It could alleviate the...

First 'wicked' and now 'ugly', he thought knights were supposed to be nice. Castor, like Faramund, did his best to replicate the cultist's attire. There was always something strange about wearing a dead man's clothes. Almost as if stepping into the skin of another. A troubling thought when that...

"I'm a knight not a damned dragon!" He shouted back. Their foes closed in but Castor was limited in his options. He was starting to favor his odds against an unending swarm of cultists on the ground than a handful of fellbeasts in the sky. Their desperate fealty had been given to one ineffable...

"Can't say I'm overly fond of sweet things, but I'll try anything once," replied the Sworn with a shrug. All this complexity and process had Castor wondering if they were still talking about tea. Figured it was better to just let it lie. It was nice to have something to look forward to, beyond...

A single flame flickered its ominous last as the knight exited his room and then the remainder of the Sworn's barracks. His preparations had been made as well as they could even if he suspected they'd ultimately be insufficient. He'd learned through many battles that no plan could truly sustain...

"Oh, oh bloody gods," swore the knight as they took to the air. Castor was not a man easily shaken. He'd spent his early years on the sea, the buck and sway which often nauseated others. It turned out the world was a far bigger place than he'd imagined. Never did Castor think to be on the back...

The chaotic escape to the clearing had been but a blur to the Sworn. He slung cantrip after cantrip in attempt to slow their pursuers down. His strategy seemingly effective to some extent seeing as how he wasn't dead. There was still time for all that as Norvyk was nowhere to be seen. Castor...

They rode further until finally arriving at the Fife. Truth be told it was much of the same. Castor considered their tepid reception a blessing. It had not been so with their previous attempts. None had yet to shutter their doors or ignore their presence entirely, thus hope remained. The Sworn...

Castor nearly flinched at Margot's serene smile. He wondered for a moment if her madness has worsened rather than abated. The confusion in her tone was unfortunate relief to the dusker. He wasn't sure how he would've responded otherwise. Too much was unknown about the Cult, who could say what...