Masalu RP: Sumerian Cultist in Dwilight (Lovecraftian BM Shenanigans)

[CryptCypher]

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as D'hara's desperate charge breaks upon enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside, the howling gale shrieks deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and men commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop.

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

Masalu Auru'in // 11-10-17 ; 0402 EST // IC: Winter - Day // D'hara-Dwilight: Mattan Dews (Post-Battle I ; Pre-Battle II v. monster horde)

[CryptCypher]

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as Masalu's desperate charge breaks upon enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside, the howling gale shrieks deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and D'harani commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop.

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

Masalu Auru'in // 11-10-17 ; 0402 EST // IC: Winter - Day // D'hara-Dwilight: Mattan Dews (Post-Battle I ; Pre-Battle II v. monster horde)

(Half-asleep. So many ways this could be improved... I'll leave the final version for my notes/publishing and keep the original post here. Constructive criticism always appreciated.)

[CryptCypher]

Accidentally joined Westgard today. Shenanigans ensue.

"Roleplay from Masalu Auru'in Player experience level: mentor Player play preference: rp
Message sent to all nobles of Westgard (23 recipients) - just in

Lost and confused after many years of slumber, a clever merchant spots Masalu and hatches a genius plan. What commission might he weasel - ahem- earn from pandering the indelible Madstone Manor to some upstart fresh-off-the-boat noble? With hands clasped and lips freshly licked to form paled-toothed grin, perhaps his moment of glory has finally come?

"Fair Lord, might you be that recently-arrived noble in need of an estate? On behalf of the realm, it would be my greatest pleasure to guide you toward your new home. I'll make the arrangements for your things and get you set-up, for only a modest fee of course. Welcome, welcome, welcome! Come, come with me!"

Sheer terror writ large across his face, Death-Knight Masalu blinks as his knuckles turn white upon both hilts. Fast-talkers. Masalu has never liked them. Doesn't help that he can barely understand them. While his speech impediment and accent prevent speech far more than understanding, some people are simply insufferable to behold.

"Ahh... Ma... Masalu have... Yes. Masalu make search for boat, make travel for Nebelani Port for finding estate. Masalu make search for meet friend of D'harani."

Devious does the smile spread atop that quivering silver tongue so eager to disabuse this strange noble of such unprofitable notions. D'hara, Westgard, this oaf can barely articulate a sentence. Chances are he can't read a map either!

"With respect, good sir, surely you could use some rest from your lengthy journey? You look downright exhausted! The nobles of the realm would sure be offended were you to refuse their kind offer. You wouldn't wish to disrespect your fellow nobles, would you? Please, be a good man and come with me? You'll find fresh linens, a soft bed, plentiful wine, and much more at your glorious new estate at Ma- err, Radstone Manor! Its simply delightful, I promise you won't be disappointed. Only the best for a noble of your stature, yes?"

Almond eyes squint in further confusion. Few of what is said can be understood, mostly because of the rising pitch and odd accent employed by the strange man. Rest... Nobles... Offended... Good... Bed... Wine. Rad?

"What is... Rad? Masalu no understanding word. Masalu like wine... Bed, soft? Much niceness... Much tiredness..."

Eyebrows rise and eyes glow as the merchant spins yet another clever lie. Anything to make a sale, or so merchants ever cite.

"Ahh, yes. Radstone Manor! Its all the rage these  days, I hear. Rad, as in AMAZING, one of those fancy new terms of the noble youth. Come, come, let me show you the way!"

At this point Masalu gives in. Though hunger and exhaustion have long-since set, his stubborn ability to weather the chaos of war does not stretch to spiritual erosion by sheer annoyance.

Muttering a prayer in Sumerian, the D'haran noble finds himself caught in the merchant's web. Unable to read, he later scribbles a squiggle or two on the proper documents and finds himself the proud owner of Madstone Manor.

He takes a a quick nap after the annoying man finally leaves, only to be awoken by a servant girl bringing him fresh wine. Only when she nervously offers welcome to the realm of Westgard does Masalu realize his critical error.

"No... D'harani? No00... No. NO!"

In a fit of animalistic rage, Masalu flees Madstone manor - calloused feet smacking across the paving stones as he charges southward. By the times he notices, Masalu is hopelessly lost once again.

...Except this time he's utterly, irrevocably, stark-ass naked.

As a single tear slithers shyly down his cheek he sit down cross-legged in the middle of the road near some sort of city gate.

"Masalu want go home..."