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Open Chronicles The Battle of the Pot
- Thread starter Darkweaver
- Start date
A roleplay open for anyone to join
- Messages
- 36
- Character Biography
- Link
Hugo stirred his pot of precious chicken soup with a carved stick. He'd already sold the dagger he used for eating. For his first night in the year, he would have to eat with his hands and this improvised stick he had cut into a primitive spoon at one end, stake in the other.
The road to Maraan was long, and on this particular stretch, the inns thinned. The green grass of his home was giving way to drier, more acrid air, and the gap between each spot of civilisation widened. This meal reflected the benevolence of the last farmstead, who had offered him a slaughtered chicken and some last carrots. Many miles remained until he could reach Maraan and offer his sword there for coin.
Hugo sighed, watching the soup boiling and bubbling. He could eat half now and save the rest for tomorrow. Steadily, he had watched his meagre coins drain from his pouch, with defeated apathy and quiet despair. Then, he had sold two swords, an axe, his dagger and some other trinkets. It had gotten him this far. One sword remained, and since he'd sold its scabbard, he kept it stored in a tent some other traveller had left behind, like some wistful memento. He could smell rain in the air, and didn't have oil to keep his last blade from rusting, so he had tucked it in, nice and safe, wrapped in his spare cloak.
His feet ached. He winced, pulling off one holed boot at a time, while savouring the warm scent of chicken meat wafting up to his nose.
One consolation remained. In the Guard, he and his lads could last without food for a few days while marching. If he applied that same endurance here, then this meal could grant him two or three days of brisk walking. That should suffice. He would savour every bit of flesh and marrow in this meal, he decided.
The fires flickered weaker. A drop hit his hat, and Hugo craned his neck, glancing up at darkening skies. It might rain soon.
Perhaps he should find some cover for his feast. Some more firewood would help too, before the weather could soak his bonfire. He stood up, allowing his feet to touch grass. About to leave to gather more supplies, Hugo hesitated, turning towards his treasured pot.
What if someone came while he was gone? Slurping his food, stealing his belongings?
He hadn't seen another soul for days. Few people travelled these smaller roads. All the better for him.
In the end, he decided he could risk it. What would be the odds of someone strolling out of the woods now? He would be more likely to encounter a deer than another person.
Now there was a thought. Perhaps he could spear a deer on the way? He picked up a stake from his camp, testing the sharpness of its tip with a finger. The attempt couldn't hurt.
He trudged out of camp to find his wooden supplies, all while furtively glancing at the sky, willing it to stay dry.
Mongrel
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- Messages
- 6
Mongrel trudged through the forest, mace in hand, searching for some food he could possibly eat. It had been a particularly rough day after he had decided to take a detour into the forest, and he really didn’t want to hunt. Why? With a full belly, a bit of adventuring sounded rather entertaining, but now it was approaching misery.
He had recently learned of such a thing called mercenary work, and was simply walking along and hoping a city might show up where he could try his hand at it. That meant not dying on the way there, though, and so he knew there was a bigger problem than his future aspirations.
Luckily, it seemed as though some higher power was looking out for him. He smelled…chicken? The smell was of the cooked variety, which meant reward and risk in equal measure.
He hadn’t had a nice bit of supper in a while, resorting more to cooking small rodents and bugs, so it was deeply tempting. Having never been the rational type and in total honesty also bad at dealing with his impulses, he began tracking the scent.
Just then, a couple drops of rain hit his head through the trees. This only served to increase the urgency of his searching, and he quickly found the campsite. After watching from a bush for a minute or so and spotting nobody, he approached. Dropping his mace to the ground, He tried to take the pot off the fire, only to succeed enough that the pot fell off of its rack before he got burned.
When he dropped it, the pot hit one of the rocks surrounding the fire and spilled most of the soup on the ground, after which Mongrel quickly righted it. He winced as he heard the last vestiges of the CLANG of metal on stone shoot off into the forest, well aware he had probably just given up his presence.
Now on high alert, he would sit forward and wait for a moment before beginning to quickly scoop the soup into his mouth. It was messy and still hurt, but the cold of the coming rain and wind made it at least bearable enough to get to his mouth.
Perhaps if he just sat here and hoped, nothing would happen and he could finish in peace.
Hugo Farlance
He had recently learned of such a thing called mercenary work, and was simply walking along and hoping a city might show up where he could try his hand at it. That meant not dying on the way there, though, and so he knew there was a bigger problem than his future aspirations.
Luckily, it seemed as though some higher power was looking out for him. He smelled…chicken? The smell was of the cooked variety, which meant reward and risk in equal measure.
He hadn’t had a nice bit of supper in a while, resorting more to cooking small rodents and bugs, so it was deeply tempting. Having never been the rational type and in total honesty also bad at dealing with his impulses, he began tracking the scent.
Just then, a couple drops of rain hit his head through the trees. This only served to increase the urgency of his searching, and he quickly found the campsite. After watching from a bush for a minute or so and spotting nobody, he approached. Dropping his mace to the ground, He tried to take the pot off the fire, only to succeed enough that the pot fell off of its rack before he got burned.
When he dropped it, the pot hit one of the rocks surrounding the fire and spilled most of the soup on the ground, after which Mongrel quickly righted it. He winced as he heard the last vestiges of the CLANG of metal on stone shoot off into the forest, well aware he had probably just given up his presence.
Now on high alert, he would sit forward and wait for a moment before beginning to quickly scoop the soup into his mouth. It was messy and still hurt, but the cold of the coming rain and wind made it at least bearable enough to get to his mouth.
Perhaps if he just sat here and hoped, nothing would happen and he could finish in peace.
Hugo Farlance
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- Messages
- 36
- Character Biography
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A metallic clang echoed through the woods. Hugo rose at the sound, his arm cradling a bundle of firewood and tinder. He thought it had come from the direction of his camp . . .
Ice gripped his heart. He broke into a sprint, rushing to get back, dropping precious bits of firewood on the way, cataloguing every items he had left behind. Backpack, cloak, sword, pot, food and boots - his bloody boots, of all things! Perhaps more than anything, he dreaded walking to Maraan bare-footed.
It could be an animal. A wolf or other creature attracted by the scent, bumbling into his camp. Or it could have been some other traveller close by, dropping something.
These things he hoped for. But he had long since learned to hope for the best, and expect the worst. His gut told him this could be a dire situation.
And when he happened upon the scene, his worst fears did come to pass.
A man sat on his haunches, clawing dirt and spilled chicken to his mouth. Indeed, he only recognised the creature to be a man from his mop of flaxen hair and pale face. His brown, non-distinct leathers could have been mistaken for a hide, and his crouched position for the bestial stance of a wolf.
Hugo's eyes travelled to his drained pot, the scattered ashes around the fire and the glistening pieces of chicken meat. Though this invading thief had uprighted it, he could clearly tell what had happened. The bandit had spilled most of his precious meal.
The bundles of firewood dropped from his grasp, drawing the attention of the man, his dirtied mouth glistening with the juices of his crime. Hugo's fist clenched tight around his stick-spoon, creaking the leather of his glove. Fury built up in him like a beating drum, steadily pounding faster, harder. There were likely to be more of this bandit's ilk, and Hugo probably ought to be more concerned with that possibility, but he didn't care.
Months of bottled frustration burst out, reaching a tipping point. Mongrel happened to be the unlucky recipient of this last straw.
"What in the sarding gods' name are you doing, you--" his low words built up into an explosive roar, aggressively approaching Mongrel, waving his improvised stick-spoon around furiously, the tool he'd so looked forward to dipping into his divine soup. "You grease-palmed lout! You bloody bull's pizzle, you - you SPILLED it you daft, bleeding swine! I'll spill your damned blood as freely and have you roll around in it, filthy pig-snout!"
Hugo's enraged eye caught the glint of the mace on the ground between them. That weapon signalled danger - and his bloodshot eyes quickly took in the sad, tilting tent, realising his sword could be there.
If he could get either weapon . . .
Mongrel
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- Messages
- 6
Though Mongrel had heard Hugo coming from farther away, his attentions only turned to them once they dropped the firewood. See, there was this last little bit of chicken in the pot that he had to grab. He did so and then turned at the clatter of wood, noticing a blonde and bearded man.
Now, there were two things Mongrel noticed about the man, even before they spoke: He was well-built and strong, possibly part of some army given how they were dressed. Secondly, his face’s expression was very similar to Mongrel’s own, at least pre-soup.
That meant that he was probably the owner of this camp and soup and, uh, everything probably. The man came closer now, waving some kind of implement. A crude spoon, something Mongrel could recognize but had never been the biggest fan of using. His hands gripped the pot on instinct, realizing that although his mace was nicer, he should probably not turn his back.
However, during all of this, the man had been spouting quite the colorful collection of words, all of which inspired quite the humor within Mongrel, even as he knew they were meant badly. He stood up with the pot and laughed a little bit, already comfortable with the possibility of a fight soon breaking out.
“Angry man says funny things.”
Hugo Farlance
Now, there were two things Mongrel noticed about the man, even before they spoke: He was well-built and strong, possibly part of some army given how they were dressed. Secondly, his face’s expression was very similar to Mongrel’s own, at least pre-soup.
That meant that he was probably the owner of this camp and soup and, uh, everything probably. The man came closer now, waving some kind of implement. A crude spoon, something Mongrel could recognize but had never been the biggest fan of using. His hands gripped the pot on instinct, realizing that although his mace was nicer, he should probably not turn his back.
However, during all of this, the man had been spouting quite the colorful collection of words, all of which inspired quite the humor within Mongrel, even as he knew they were meant badly. He stood up with the pot and laughed a little bit, already comfortable with the possibility of a fight soon breaking out.
“Angry man says funny things.”
Hugo Farlance
On the road to the portal stone Youssef found himself terribly lost in the forest. Such a thing might have been cause for concern, but Youssef was comfortable about the direction of his life. His lot was not something to complain about, or even to be changed, but experienced. Even this moment. The hunger of the lack of supplies, the smell of warm broth . . .
Youssef's direction changes eastward, where he eventually spotted through the trees two humans that appeared to be in an argument. Was this his business? His life might have been something to be experienced, but understanding where it was supposed to go in the next moment was difficult. He pulled out a sovereign and glanced at it, spotting the head of a ruler who's name he didn't know. He looked up and heard the human talk with the vocabulary expected of a goblin. This would be a fight soon. Was it his fight too, or time to move on. He flipped the coin until it landed on his arm. Heads. This was his problem. Youssef picked the coin up again. If this was his fight, which side was his to join. He threw the coin into the air.
Heads for the gob-man. He thought to himself as the coin went into the air.
What would it be this time when it fell down?
Youssef's direction changes eastward, where he eventually spotted through the trees two humans that appeared to be in an argument. Was this his business? His life might have been something to be experienced, but understanding where it was supposed to go in the next moment was difficult. He pulled out a sovereign and glanced at it, spotting the head of a ruler who's name he didn't know. He looked up and heard the human talk with the vocabulary expected of a goblin. This would be a fight soon. Was it his fight too, or time to move on. He flipped the coin until it landed on his arm. Heads. This was his problem. Youssef picked the coin up again. If this was his fight, which side was his to join. He threw the coin into the air.
Heads for the gob-man. He thought to himself as the coin went into the air.
What would it be this time when it fell down?
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The bandit laughed in his face with unearned confidence. He had the gall to mock him, after dashing his pot and frustrating his journey?
Insubordination. He was reminded of the military term for such behaviour, and how he and his fellow officers had whipped discipline back into any wayward souls in the Guard.
Hugo would teach this rapscallion a thing or two about decorum. By force, preferably. He wouldn't need his sword, he decided. This snotnosed whelp didn't deserve the dignity of a warrior's death - he would flog him like a misbehaving child.
The ex-lieutenant towered over Mongrel, raised his arm and stick behind his own shoulder, and unleashed a cracking swing. The spoon-head of his stick connected with Mongrel's jaw, blood spurting from his mouth, which only encouraged Hugo in his red rage. Swing and *crack* and swing, each blow a lesson in humility, while his victim scrambled to cover himself and find his footing below the torrent of strikes.
A sudden, wide-legged position planted Mongrel squarely. And instead of connecting with his face, the oversized spoon was caught in his dirty grasp, a wet slap of flesh against wood echoing, a puff of dust released from his clenched palm.
He suddenly felt as if struggling against a steel-reinforced gate, rather than a rag-doll of flailing limbs. Surprised by this shift in the other's guard, Hugo moved to retrieve his improvised weapon, but the bandit's other hand went down, grasping his weapon of choice...
Mongrel
Youssef
Insubordination. He was reminded of the military term for such behaviour, and how he and his fellow officers had whipped discipline back into any wayward souls in the Guard.
Hugo would teach this rapscallion a thing or two about decorum. By force, preferably. He wouldn't need his sword, he decided. This snotnosed whelp didn't deserve the dignity of a warrior's death - he would flog him like a misbehaving child.
The ex-lieutenant towered over Mongrel, raised his arm and stick behind his own shoulder, and unleashed a cracking swing. The spoon-head of his stick connected with Mongrel's jaw, blood spurting from his mouth, which only encouraged Hugo in his red rage. Swing and *crack* and swing, each blow a lesson in humility, while his victim scrambled to cover himself and find his footing below the torrent of strikes.
A sudden, wide-legged position planted Mongrel squarely. And instead of connecting with his face, the oversized spoon was caught in his dirty grasp, a wet slap of flesh against wood echoing, a puff of dust released from his clenched palm.
He suddenly felt as if struggling against a steel-reinforced gate, rather than a rag-doll of flailing limbs. Surprised by this shift in the other's guard, Hugo moved to retrieve his improvised weapon, but the bandit's other hand went down, grasping his weapon of choice...
Mongrel
Youssef
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- Messages
- 6
Mongrel knew the swing was coming, but shortly after realized that even though his opponent made it obvious, his body was not spry enough to follow through. The spoon-thing viciously smacked him in the mouth and left a bloody bruise, but it didn’t hurt too bad yet.
However, the man behind the spoon did not let up, and the look in his eyes was very familiar to Mongrel. It was of someone who wanted nothing more than to destroy what was in front of them. He knew it because that was how he tended to get in a fight, if a bit less aggressive.
There was also a lesson he had quickly learned about fighting as he did, which was about the dangers of going all in. He sometimes got a bit comfortable, and all the times he lost were times he thought he had the upper hand. Now, perhaps the same trick would work on the army fellow.
He got himself hit a couple more times before getting the rhythm and planting his feet, successfully stopping the incoming strike. With his other, pot holding hand, he brought the container up behind his body and slammed it down onto his enemy’s head with all the might he could muster.
The blow caused Hugo to falter for a moment, at which point Mongrel slammed the pot with his fist, creating a clanging noise that caused the man to further fall to one knee. Realizing he had just put himself well within his opponent’s distance, he kicked them in the chest and backed up, retreating to his mace.
Comfortable that he had bought himself a few seconds, he picked up the mace and got into a combat stance. “Oh look, now we both have sticks,” Mongrel commented with a smug sort of grin, not really caring whether Hugo was aware enough to see it.
Hugo Farlance
Youssef
However, the man behind the spoon did not let up, and the look in his eyes was very familiar to Mongrel. It was of someone who wanted nothing more than to destroy what was in front of them. He knew it because that was how he tended to get in a fight, if a bit less aggressive.
There was also a lesson he had quickly learned about fighting as he did, which was about the dangers of going all in. He sometimes got a bit comfortable, and all the times he lost were times he thought he had the upper hand. Now, perhaps the same trick would work on the army fellow.
He got himself hit a couple more times before getting the rhythm and planting his feet, successfully stopping the incoming strike. With his other, pot holding hand, he brought the container up behind his body and slammed it down onto his enemy’s head with all the might he could muster.
The blow caused Hugo to falter for a moment, at which point Mongrel slammed the pot with his fist, creating a clanging noise that caused the man to further fall to one knee. Realizing he had just put himself well within his opponent’s distance, he kicked them in the chest and backed up, retreating to his mace.
Comfortable that he had bought himself a few seconds, he picked up the mace and got into a combat stance. “Oh look, now we both have sticks,” Mongrel commented with a smug sort of grin, not really caring whether Hugo was aware enough to see it.
Hugo Farlance
Youssef
The coin landed tails. It was not a good day to be a gob-man it seemed. Youssef began running forward, making his way to the bout. Youssef was twenty feet from the pair when the beast-man pulled his weapon, a mace. Youssef’s unknown companion was instead armed with a mere spoon. Though his path was ordained by chance, his introduction would have to be delayed. There was no time. The tiefling pulled a collection of bones from his pack and threw them to the ground.
“Astragali!” He yelled, paying the price of magic with his words, his cry, and the chance of chaos from the bones. They fell to the floor and he performed the reading.
“The swarm!” Youssef declared and dozens upon dozens of bees would begin to manifest spectral form. They would attack at Mongrel , aiming to sting and swell his fingers, eyelids, and throat. The reading though powerful was fleeting, with the size of the swarm dissipating every second.
Curiously, they would avoid Hugo Farlance entirely, even parting to make room if he were to make a swing at his foe.
“Astragali!” He yelled, paying the price of magic with his words, his cry, and the chance of chaos from the bones. They fell to the floor and he performed the reading.
“The swarm!” Youssef declared and dozens upon dozens of bees would begin to manifest spectral form. They would attack at Mongrel , aiming to sting and swell his fingers, eyelids, and throat. The reading though powerful was fleeting, with the size of the swarm dissipating every second.
Curiously, they would avoid Hugo Farlance entirely, even parting to make room if he were to make a swing at his foe.
- Messages
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Hugo furiously threw the pot off his head, sitting up from the ground. Disoriented like a drunken bell-ringer bashing around in his own bell, he wiped chicken-soup off his face. He peered at a strand of bloody mucus on the back of his hand, produced from his wet nose. Terrible headache already crushed his skull, and he could swear he felt one tooth was loose against his tongue...
But his hat. He had still been wearing his hat. Now soggy against his scalp, stinking of food. Of all his ailments, this infuriated him the most, adding new fuel to the fire of his rage.
Scrambling to his feet, he re-oriented himself. The humming of a host of bees drew his eye, and instinctively, the hairs rose on his back. Another had joined the fray - skin like bright rust, ram's horns sprouting from his forehead, tail swishing behind him.
No thanks. This was getting too dangerous. Hundreds of stinging shapes assailed the bandit from before, and he couldn't believe his luck that these two weren't working together.
Despite his anger, he had not survived all his years from blundering into danger. He used the respite to dash to his tent, tear out its bundled cloak and whip out his short, stocky sword - the only one left in his possession. Like plunging the white-hot blade of his fury into cold water, Hugo tempered his rage, transmuting it into a cold, icy calculation of how best to wound without being wounded.
Standing a good few paces away now, he eyed the situation, looking for any weakness he could exploit.
Youssef
Mongrel
But his hat. He had still been wearing his hat. Now soggy against his scalp, stinking of food. Of all his ailments, this infuriated him the most, adding new fuel to the fire of his rage.
Scrambling to his feet, he re-oriented himself. The humming of a host of bees drew his eye, and instinctively, the hairs rose on his back. Another had joined the fray - skin like bright rust, ram's horns sprouting from his forehead, tail swishing behind him.
No thanks. This was getting too dangerous. Hundreds of stinging shapes assailed the bandit from before, and he couldn't believe his luck that these two weren't working together.
Despite his anger, he had not survived all his years from blundering into danger. He used the respite to dash to his tent, tear out its bundled cloak and whip out his short, stocky sword - the only one left in his possession. Like plunging the white-hot blade of his fury into cold water, Hugo tempered his rage, transmuting it into a cold, icy calculation of how best to wound without being wounded.
Standing a good few paces away now, he eyed the situation, looking for any weakness he could exploit.
Youssef
Mongrel
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Mongrel watched as Hugo took the pot off of his head and dealt with the messy repercussions of having a pot of food slammed over his head. Mongrel momentarily thought about telling him to enjoy what little was left, but realized he was just kicking someone who was down with no due cause and paused.
That was not how a fight over honor played out, not with him. He watched as Hugo stood up and grinned, admiring the man’s moxie. “I am Mong-“ he began to say with pride before also getting distracted by the sound of buzzing.
It was then that he noticed the cloud of bees streaming towards him and he took a defensive stance, covering his eyes and mouth and trusting his armor to cover him from the worst of the attack. As spikes of pain ran through his body, rage began building in his mind.
Who was this new stranger to interfere? What sort of pig would interrupt a duel between wanderers? When the amount of stings began to lessen, adrenaline allowed him the courage to burst through the clump of disappearing bees with a shaky wave of his arms, rushing towards where the swarm had come from.
Sighting the caster, he would get a bit closer and jump from where he was, tackling them. Barely phased by their strange appearance, Mongrel began his assault by punching the man in the throat twice, relishing the impacts each time. “You red-horned RAT.” He seethed, his look one of calculated fury.
“Sitting on the sidelines, are we?” He would continue, striking them twice more in the face before backing off to the pile of bones and shortly after throwing them, leaving them scattered in the underbrush. “If you’re going to disrespect my honor, do it with your hands.” He snarled, guard still up in case Hugo came from behind him.
Youssef
Hugo Farlance
That was not how a fight over honor played out, not with him. He watched as Hugo stood up and grinned, admiring the man’s moxie. “I am Mong-“ he began to say with pride before also getting distracted by the sound of buzzing.
It was then that he noticed the cloud of bees streaming towards him and he took a defensive stance, covering his eyes and mouth and trusting his armor to cover him from the worst of the attack. As spikes of pain ran through his body, rage began building in his mind.
Who was this new stranger to interfere? What sort of pig would interrupt a duel between wanderers? When the amount of stings began to lessen, adrenaline allowed him the courage to burst through the clump of disappearing bees with a shaky wave of his arms, rushing towards where the swarm had come from.
Sighting the caster, he would get a bit closer and jump from where he was, tackling them. Barely phased by their strange appearance, Mongrel began his assault by punching the man in the throat twice, relishing the impacts each time. “You red-horned RAT.” He seethed, his look one of calculated fury.
“Sitting on the sidelines, are we?” He would continue, striking them twice more in the face before backing off to the pile of bones and shortly after throwing them, leaving them scattered in the underbrush. “If you’re going to disrespect my honor, do it with your hands.” He snarled, guard still up in case Hugo came from behind him.
Youssef
Hugo Farlance