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Post by The Zombie Lord on Nov 13, 2015 2:35:30 GMT
 Storms over SirandaA storm brews over Siranda unlike before. Winds blow the roofs off of the weakened mildew filled homes, so strong that even the Undead have difficulty staying grounded. Rain torrents into the cities of the coast and onto the towering trees of the Darkglade Forest. This is no normal storm, and every living being on the island can feel something coming... something that will change the face of the island forever. For days now, this storm continues to ravage the isle, showing absolutely no signs of letting up. What great reckoning awaits the Sirandians? What will the Survivors do to shape the outcome? Will they survive this great change, or will their stories be swept under the rug like the many great survivors before them? Only time shall tell, but for now- hold onto your boots, and get ready for the eye of the storm.[OOC: Over the next week, a set of in-game events will occur that greatly shape the server. They will not be the end-game this server boasts, but a beginning to the plot that will shape Siranda. Good luck out there, and don't feel bad about missing an event or two. If you write an IC reaction in this thread to the gigantic storm over the island, your character will also receive a sizeable exp bonus.] |
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Post by The Zombie Lord on Nov 13, 2015 2:43:15 GMT
A dark figure walks through the farmlands surrounding Kalaram, shrouded in a tattered cloak. Wind swept his cloak and robes back as he walked through the fields, the man taking a moment to lift his hood and gaze upon the old ruins of Kalaram. Today would be the beginning, he thought, narrowing his determined gaze. The beginning of their second chance. It was all leading up to this- every one of his friends over these years had died for this cause. He had lost /everything/. "Now," he thought, "i'll make it right."
"Now, we end this." |
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elliot
Seasoned Survivor
Onion Warrior
Farts are like.. really funny to me.
Posts: 58 
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Post by elliot on Nov 15, 2015 0:15:36 GMT
 She struggled against the harsh winds, and the heavy rains. Her fingers latched on to the edges of her hood to keep it from whipping around. 'Something doesn't seem right about this storm' she thought to herself. 'Something is coming, and I'm not sure I want to be around for when it does'.
The druid ducked under the arch of her cave, shaking her clothes free of the rain. She slid down the hole- as she had done hundreds of times before, her hands rough from the action. Landing softly on the grass below, she took no time cracking open her journal. 'There has to be some explanation. Something I'm missing' pressing a finger to her temple, the druid pondered.
'Perhaps there are things far worse than the end of the world' |
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Post by Prestige on Nov 15, 2015 2:20:50 GMT
Elijah stood in the Markets, broadsword clutched in hand as the rain beat down on his helm and soaked into his cloak: a waterlogged burden that hung like a noose tugging downward. Peering up into the sky, he shook his head and adjusted his white-knuckled grip on his blade, delivering a vicious downward arc through the torso of one of the waterlogged, wind-scorched corpses shambling about Kalaram. "One thing is for certain," He mused aloud as he watched a drop of rain land heavily just above the hilt of his blood-slickened blade, carrying away a trail of congealed red and allowing the enchanted steel beneath to glimmer faintly. He held it up to examine it for a few moments before finishing his thought, "The corpses caught in this rain are softer." His other hand grabs a hold of the waterlogged rags clinging to one of the corpses lying on the ground, using it to wipe the engraving at the base of the sword. The etching that he had finally finished cut cleanly through the blade, allowing blood to drain out just above the hilt of that beautifully crafted broadsword. He gave a faint grunt of satisfaction at the way the etching appeared in the blade, using a bit of white cloth to highlight the outline against the blood.  |
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Myrdroko
Fresh Survivor
GET THE HELL OUT OF MY INN
Posts: 12 
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Post by Myrdroko on Nov 16, 2015 10:03:19 GMT
Durnan stood atop a roof his crossbow covered in a cloth like tent to keep the wood and string dry from the elements his arms flexing from constantly having to hold it down against the winds. He breath visible from the cold the rain had brought with it his beard dripping ash his body was constantly beaten by the rain. "Damn storm should have let up by now... at least for a day this just isn't right." the sound of a thwip and a thud echoes in his head as his crossbow fires off the bolt heavy enough to be unaffected by the rain pins a undead halfling to a door by its leg."Would make thinning the apparently unending tide of dead alot easier. Without the constant crack of lightning accompanied by a torrent of rain and wind." As if by mention alone the wind would pick up and push his crossbow up catching under the half assed attempt to keep it from getting soaked. "Calling it a day getting sick of this rain." Durnan jumps off the roof onto a balcony and shimmies down the side heading back towards the main survivor home.  |
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hauzey
Fresh Survivor
Posts: 3
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Post by hauzey on Nov 17, 2015 23:46:10 GMT
 The halfling known only as Sparky its upon a boulder near a small brook quietly eating the last of his jerky when the wind picks up. Unaware of anything strange, he finishes his snack, goes into his small secret burrow, and falls asleep dreaming of more jerky. |
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Post by abyss on Nov 18, 2015 1:24:09 GMT
The ominous ever present storm continued to rage supreme within the sky....The peels of thunder a constant companion to those that lived beneath the always darkened skies. Each reverberating boom enough to make ones brain throb and ears scream in protest. And the flashes of lightning that split sky were each bright enough to blind a man if they looked to close for to long.
Long ago Barristan's family had taught him a trick to determine a storm's distance....Wait for the flash of lightning to fill the sky then count until the thunder racked the air...It wasn't needed in this town. The two were constant partners always testing those that lived within their embrace. Grating the nerves, burning the eyes, occasionally forcing the hand of those who lived within its reach by setting a building aflame, the winds threatening to spread it from home to home...Though that had lessened thankfully as the hours of the storm stretched into days and then into a week, the endless downpour soaking the wood and helping to put out what flames did appear.
Sadly it did little to stop the seemingly endless waves of undead...That task fell to Barristan and those like him...The unlikely band of rag tag survivors that did what they could to help each other live another day. Some seemed destine to survive, others only to die and join the shambling horde the following day. Friends were made and lost in the turn of an hour let alone the turn of the moon.
Yet he fought on...Some days he wielded a longsword and shield, other days a bow, other days still a massive two handed greatsword that had been passed down by his family....A gift when he had joined the knights. It was that blade he used today. Swinging the gilded sword about to cut down another of the horde that marched towards him...This one had been one of the guardsmen he had dealt with on occasion. A man he had once played dice with to pass the hours while he waited for a shipment of blades and armor to be put together for his commander.
But he couldn't think of them that way anymore...The first one had been difficult, it had been their cook. Benjen had been his name. And he had hesitated...The zombie hadn't. His old friend had nearly killed him that day, or the monster his friend had become. It had been Elijah that have saved him, bowling the creature over with a strike of his towershield. Durnan had put the once-man down with a shot from his crossbow....And they had carried on.
It was the day that Barristan forced himself to remember daily. And it was what he remembered now as he bathed through the shambling groups. Cleaving into one after another. Only the light of the storm reflecting off his armor and the crimson liquid that coated his blade.
Finally taking a break he would look to the sky. Unbuckling and removing his helm to let out a sigh as the cool rain washed over his body, cooling his brow. "God there sure are a lot of you today...More than usual....And you are getting bolder...But what is driving you? Is it what I feel in the air? The thing that is making my hair stand on end?..." Sighing he would look towards the sightless eyes of the creatures he had killed.
It did not deem to answer him...Though the severed head appeared to be grinning.
"Fine....Don't answer...Suppose I didn't really expect you too..." Shaking his hair out he would once more fix the helm in place. Hefting the heavy sword to march forward.
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Post by ghost4life on Nov 18, 2015 3:11:33 GMT
In sispara, a brown clad young man works furiously over a sketch on the floor of an alchemist's abandoned lab. The circles within circles would hum with magical energy, and a soft orange glow emanates from the center of the design. He smiles to himself as he stands and steps within the circle. The sound of the storm dissipates within the circle, and what's more, the sense of unease flees with the sound.
Jach steps back outside the arcane circle and looks to the two open books. One filled with notes and spells, the other having far more empty pages... He sketches the design from the floor onto the page of his empty notebook, on the next page he sketches it again with minor alterations... slowly but surely his ward design is coming to fruition...
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Post by martyr on Nov 18, 2015 7:03:24 GMT
The wind was cold, biting, whipping. Abel was still having trouble fathoming the sheer amount of Survivors he had found just a day earlier - and the weather wasn't in favor of clear, uninterrupted thought. The tattered hood that hung snug to his rugged features, weighed with the rain - flapped madly in the winds; the thick woolen cloak clapping about behind him.
His foot falls came steadily, the small morsel of meat he'd eaten earlier, that rat - it'd actually offered him some energy. The rain became too heavy, a proper down-pour. His lips wore themselves into a grimace, despite his efforts the pack was beginning to soak.  The wet, throaty howl of an undead - the noise of its impossible hunger for living flesh.
Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Abel spotted the dead. Slow, shambling, slack-jawed with bits of rank flesh packed between the black nubs of teeth. It had emerged from an alley, not too far behind.
Abel set to a jog, knowing well a sprint - and he'd find himself in sudden trouble.
The door swayed lightly on it's rusted hinges - the interior all too black. Abel shouldered the door open, and oddly enough, ~then~ opted to listen for inhabitants. After total silence, Abel waded inside. Worn, trodden floor boards, a cabinet, a few broken chairs, table, and what he'd struggled to make out as a fire place. The man made short work of shoving the cabinet infront of the door, barricading it. The tables and chairs where cracked over knee, hacked, and stomped into pieces - gathered into the fireplace.
After starting a small fire, and blacking out the only window of the small slum apartment with a doubled over set of dark bed-linens, Abel settled down and decided he'd better wait the storm out as well.
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Post by MarcDonati on Nov 18, 2015 18:29:25 GMT
The storm, a sign of natures graces, wind strong enough to make homes creak, rain heavy enough to flood the smallest of burns, making it a constantly flowing river, this is the world that all the survivors had to deal with, this dwarven genasi would be no different. Gloirin was ever so slight an oddity, finding peace and happiness in even the most mundane of tasks, his skin was hardened, more so than the usual worker, his skin seemed to be made from stone itself, the stone was darkened and brown, but there was no mistaking it, it was stone, the dwarf stood, in many locations, only ever seeming to move if he needed to, he could stand for hours on end near still, if people didn't know about him they could even mistake him for a statue. He liked his work however, when he was seen on the surface it was rare, he only surfaced to get food, and to check on the sundered desolation , the house many survivors adopted as their own, the man always was covered in dust, and shards of rock, he never even seen any reason to remove them , the dust seemed to cling to him so he just let it be there, each and every time he moved a light grinding noise of stone against stone could be heard, so very faint that you would really need to be concentrating hard to hear it, as he moved tiny earthen and stone particles fell from him, in a trail of where he was and where he was going to. Everyone seemed to be worried about the curse, and the storm, but for Gloirin he was not worried, he seemed to just accept it as it is, it exists and probably isn't going away any time soon, it was all a matter of time, and time as he learned , he had much of it left and a lot of it to go, after all he was still young, just coming into his early days as an adult, yet so calm, and relaxed as if he had existed double of what he did the now, time did not bother him, reflecting on his thoughts and musings, he grabbed his pick axe , lugged it across his shoulder and left for his mines, where he stayed almost all the time, it was hard and rewarding work, both that kept him content and happy, gathering resources , and then aiding his dwarven community with them.
Very recently however ever he had his mind set on mithril, for he was going to make shields out of it, for him, his colony, and any survivor willing to pay for him to make one, he liked the mines and forging, but after all one needed a living somehow.
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Post by The Zombie Lord on Nov 24, 2015 1:04:57 GMT
 Storms becoming omens...
The storms over Siranda show no signs of letting up, the constant torrent of rain causing the shells of the Sirandian cities to come crumbling down. Of all the cities, the one most harshly affected by the storm was Kalaram. Perhaps building a city on a thin peninsula wasn't the best idea, as whole districts begin to become inaccessible due to the destruction and rain. Just as the survivors of the isle begin to think they've gotten used to the perpetual darkness they'd been living in, a red light shines bright above the clouds- and it all becomes clear. All the clouds are a whirling hurricane centred around the Spire, which is now generating magical sparks all around its roof, occasionally lighting up Siranda like a lightning storm at night. With this, the nights seem to be lasting longer. Dark Hour seems to feel more like three or four hours, than a single hour, which is starting to become a serious threat. The Undead are more numerous, despite the constant downpour damaging their soggy rotten bodies, the mutants are running rampant and survivors are beginning to believe this might just be the end. The storm never lets up, the dead seem to be hunting ruthlessly at every corner and each night becomes longer and longer. The Epilogue is starting, survivors, and you're the subject. |
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elliot
Seasoned Survivor
Onion Warrior
Farts are like.. really funny to me.
Posts: 58
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Post by elliot on Dec 9, 2015 7:39:01 GMT
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_____________________________________________ The Fey'ri let out a low sigh, her breath visible in the cool air. Her strange eyes scanned the area, taking in the snow that fell from the skies. She had never witnessed a snow fall before. It was a wonderful thing to see, really. Each flake it's own, no other quite like it. It was but a small moment in her life, but she knew that it would be remembered for the rest of her days. She had made it her goal to travel all over the island. Mount Faeloth being but a short stop on her grand trip. It was a lovely break from the storms in Kalaram, but it made her heart ache for the warm sands of Annedhel. As she focused on each passing snowflake, she felt the loud hum of voices in her mind fade away. It was moments like these she craved. A short moment of blissful silence. Miko closed her eyes, sucking in a deep chilled breath. It was almost time for her to return home, to the Sundered Desolation- for it was nearing the Dark Hour. She didn't care, though. These moments were too few for her to pass up. Letting the silence wash over her, feeling each snowflake that landed on her hot face- melting away instantly. 'Maybe..' she thought 'just maybe.. this moment will last forever..'As the wizard opened her eyes, the snake-like slits narrowed with focus on the night sky. She felt the buzz pressing at the edges of her mind. The voices were returning once more, her little moment was over. Happy with what little time she was given, the Mage packed up her tombs and scrolls. 'Next time' she thought to herself, a warm smile tugging at the edges of her features. With great haste, Miko made her way back to Kalaram. Back to the relentless storms. She opened the creaky door to the Sundered Desolation, and was greeted with open arms. There was something terribly strange about this little safe haven. It was dangerous, and terrible. There was really no reason to stay there- but the people? They were kind, and welcoming. Miko never understood how people could be so wonderful. For that reason alone, she would stay. She would push through the storms, and through all the terrible times that always managed to find the home- because for some strange reason, they gave her the chance at life that she always wanted. They saw her as a person worth saving, even if she did not feel it herself.
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