>>127388
Prior thread
>>109699


Archives:
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=%23swordquest

>>127388
Investigate the noise

Fucking wolves fucking with my chickens

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You slide from the thick pile of skins upon the wooden boards, pulling your shawl close around your shoulders. Your hand grips the pomel of the sword tightly, and you hear the faint whisper of metal as it rises with you. You turns sideways, your sword arm behind yous letting the weight tug at your shoulder at you keep the point from trailing upon the ground. You pause as your daughter stirrs, and then settles once more. You slip out of the doorway, once a wagon gate.

You squint upwards once, but the moon will be no help here - hidden behind the steep bank of clouds that foretells the rainy season. Grimly you begin to move slowly across the bared ground, grass having long ago been worn away by the constant passage of your small family, and the pack animals. The bottom of your calloused heels feels the soft give and pressure of cold, packed dirt beneath you as you move towards the meager fence that holds the game hens. Hobbling their wings kept them from flying out - but it also made them easy victims to predation. As you approach, you see - a dog.

Ears bitten and face roughly torn in ancient scars, it looks once at you - then immediatly drops its hindquarters. Dragging itself belly-first upon the ground with its forelegs, whining piteously, its ears down. You pause, straightening from your hunched stance in confusion. You'd expected wolves, coyotes - perhaps even centaurs, though you've never seen a living one in the flesh. There were worse monsters in the deep plains, of course, but not this close to the coast, and not between you and Rossville.

You hadn't expected to see a battered old mutt crawling around like its hind legs just broke at your glance. What does it mean..?

>Kill it
>Help it
>Ignore it
>Chase it off
>Go back to sleep
>Other?

>Votes called in a few hours. Apparently, trying to give an ETA and estimate RL interuptions is not something I'm good at.

>1d20 for actions beyond 'go back to sleep'.

>>127820

Help it.

>>127820
>>Help it

WE DOG NAOW

Rolled 7, 4, 16, 1 = 28 (4d20)

>>127913
>>128207
You have forgotten your rolls.
Don't worry - I'll help.
First two are yours, second two are mine.

>Called, rolling, writing

>>132722
Oh thank god you're still alive

Thought you abandoned us because there was too few of us D:

>>132793
I would never leave you. I'm just horribly slow.
Stay with me, and I'll stay with you.

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You watch the dog a few moments more, but it does not appear to be aggressive for all the pain it had endured in its lifetime. The missing ears and deep scars are as easy to read as an open book. Sighing softly to yourself, you switch your grip on the sword and lay it upon the ground before you move forward. Whatever trouble this dog is in, it's obviously tamed - it makes no move to run away, tongue lolling as you approach.

Too late, you hear the sudden shuffle on the bare earth behind you. Pain explodes behind your eyes, and you see stars and lances of light before you feel your shoulder contact the ground with a heavy thud you hear more than you feel. A deep, pulsing purple pain that grips the back of your skull as your vision clears as much as its going too..
>Cont'd

File: SwordQuestCasimiro.jpg (262 KB, 717x841)

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>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

You are Casimiro Pulido, and all your dreams are about to come true. You have been chasing stories of the enchanted blade ever since you caught wind of it during your brief swing through Rossville; The older barflies still mention a soldier with an unbreakable weapon who had moved on to the wilderness to the west. You'd found the grave, of course - the giant's bleached skull sit nearby like a warning. You'd spent almost the entire afternoon digging up the wretched old bastard before you realized he was never buried with the weapon. You left the earth churned up, and followed a trail worn in the grassland through the night.

Of course you brought Turncoat, your faithful dog. After all, you'd killed a man on the outskirts of the royal city for him. For a pit fighter, he was a surprisingly happy mutt; His name an homage to his favorite tactic in the fighting rings. He'd pretend to be injured, wait for the other animals to go for the kill, then twist and bite their throats out from behind.

You'd come across the run down little shack - a piss poor place to find anything of worth - but were caught by surprise when the hens started clucking. You'd slipped aside and let Turncoat perform when the goodwife came out carrying the prize you sought. And just like a trick, she'd fallen for it, gone to help the 'poor little injured dog'. You'd planned to simply bap her upside the head with your sap, grab the weapon, and be on the first wagon north. You'd hit the Tower of Miracles inside a month, find a buyer, and get your 'little problem' fixed for good.

Wizards didn't come cheap, after all.

Of course it didn't go according to plan at all. The aging woman wasn't nearly as thin skulled as she should've been, her shape in the darkness already clamoring back up from a hit that'd put a horse down to nap for an hour or two. It didn't matter - you had the sword where she'd put it down, gripped tightly in your hand. And it felt GOOD there, nice and hefty. You weren't really a sword man yourself; You prefered a quick ankle and a heart-felt knock to the back of the block to do your dirty deeds. But you have to admit, this weapon felt right. Like it belonged. Still, there was the question of the goodwife herself. What to do, what to do..

>Run her through and be on your way.
>Run her through and scour for more goods.
>Spare her life and be on your way.
>Threaten her life and scour for more goods.
>Let Turncoat have her.
>Some combination of the above.
>Other? Write in

>1d20 for actions as normal. Called when I see a couple of votes in.

Rolled 11 (1d20)

>>132984
>>Run her through and scour for more goods.

We be crooks now, the foulest of the foul

>Goodbye sweet sweet wife ;(

Rolled 10 (1d20)

>>133068
>Called, Rolling, Writing

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>Success - both parties. Higher success, protagonist, but not overwhelming. Unfamiliar weapon, near total darkness, intelligent opponent. Gradual victory.

The goodwife turns her back to you, Turncoat barking and snarling as it leaps out of her stumbling progression towards the hen fence. You quirk an eyebrow, but smirk; Well, looks like your wrist turning thump wasn't as weak as you thought. She hadn't even got her wits about her yet. Better to not have someone around telling tales after you're gone, though - who knows what a woman would do, given the chance? So you roll your shoulders, getting used to the weight of the sword, and feeling the cool air run across your cheek, the faint creek of the shack behind you.

You're a murderer, cold and true, but at least you're effecient. You'll make it quick. And who knows? She had this sword hidden here - who knows what other treasures untold could be hidden beneath the floorboards or rolled beneath the game hens? You heft the blade, feeling a strain settle against your wrists that just feels right. Maybe you should have gotten a sword a long time ago. You draw back, even as you watch her shadowed shoulders shake and shudder as she leans against the fence post, and thrust forward-

The goodwife twists the rotten plank of wood out of the ground, and hammers the side of your head with a sudden vicious turn. It hurts, enough to throw your quick thrust off as you pile into her shoulder - the point of the sword glance off bone and making her shriek in pain. She falls back, heels kicking as she scrambles backwards upon the ground. You hiss between clenched teeth as the pain throbs up the side of your face, and you shake your head to clear the flash of lights, your hearing ruined by the faint belling. You can still hear Turncoat snarling and barking, but his attention is back towards the shack. You spare him only a glance, before looking back to the hen-yard. You squint into the darkness, but catch no immediate sign of the goodwife's shade, although you catch the sharp scent of copper in the night air. Good strike, but where did the blasted woman go..?

>Surely she has -4 str. Kick the fence in and go through swinging.
>Surely she is wily. Circle around and pin her from behind.
>Surely she is wounded. Set fire to the house and draw her out.
>Surely you stopped caring, just get out with what you have.
>Other? Write-in

>Votes called in a couple of hours or a couple of votes, which-ever comes first. 1d20 for actions as always.
>Does including my reasoning in above help you understand what happened, or shall I keep it to myself?

>>134884

Option C.

>>134951
>>Surely she has -4 str. Kick the fence in and go through swinging.
She's only a woman, kill her quick. The sword feels too good to let flames kill her. We will never let go of the sword.
And then we will loot the place. Maybe she has some more goodies.

Rolled 17 (1d20)

>>135061
forgot the dice

>>135074
:) hm, not a swordman but The One True Sword sure brings luck.
Though it will never let its new wielder sell it.
The little robber is ours now! And lots of blood will flow!

>>134884
>Surely she has -4 str. Kick the fence in and go through swinging.

WE BE STRONK MEN

>;(

Rolled 3 (1d20)

>>135196
fuck forgot to roll

Rolled 18, 2 = 20 (2d20)

>>134951
>>135061
>>135074
>>135105
>>135196
>>135199

Option C placed in back pocket. Votes all for rushing ahead.
>Called, Rolling, Writing

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>Dual successes again. Match loss for loss. Opponents initial wound pushes over threshold. Marginal victory, with trouble.

Frankly, you were tired of playing around. You tried to give the goodwife a quick, clean death with only a headache to show for it; Right through the heart. Instead she bashed you in the head and took off in the dark. You can still hear Turncoat whining and yelping behind you, but right now you're way too focused on finding where this soldier's wife had gone too and putting a sword in her gut. She was wily, this was her place, and you had no intentions of letting her get to some hidden cache of weaponry or hunting rope or whatever else she might try. You let out a roar and kick the meager fence over with a single blow, striding through purposefully to catch the crawling goodwife. A flicker of motion-

*CLANG*

Your arm is all that kept your forehead from being caved in by the worn long handled spade. You'd seen the movement from the corner of your eye, and put your arm up instinctively; Distantly you can hear a sharp crack like a tree branch snapping, your sleeve strangely rumpled where the edge of the spade hit. It feels warm. You lock eyes with the goodwife - a moment of panic as she realizes her ruse did not work. And then you sink the blade into her stomach, the shock of pain widening her eyes as she groans wetly. You take the weight with your good arm and shove further, letting her own downward momentum pull her further into the blade. Her slicks hands briefly flutter across the hilt before she topples.

>Cont'd

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>>138023

You stagger, nearly losing your grip on the blade as she falls to the ground, thrashing like a gutted fish. Which is pretty close to what actually happened. You put your boot on her shoulder and shove, eliciting another low keening sound from her as you work the blade free again. And then the pain from your broken forearm hits you, causing you to kneel over and vomit as your body shakes. Ow. You push back up, drunkenly, unable to let your arm drape and unable to lift it - either way causes a grinding pressure that sends waves of nausea up your throat.

That's when you realize that Turncoat has stopped snarling and snapping.

You bound off the hen-fence, and see him - thrashing on the ground, a soft whimper escaping him in bubbles. Your eyes flick to the shadowed shape behind him; A child? The clouds part briefly, moonlight flickering across the scene of murder, and you start. You've seen that face before - in broken mirrors and well polished armor. Oh, it was younger, and still had a little fat around the corners. Plus the scars were missing. But this boy has your face. His eyes flick behind you, then to your sword. His fist tightening around what appears to be a well worn pearing knife, made for fruits and hard roots than fighting. But the blackened, dripping tip shows just how effective it was on your dog. For himself, the boy doesn't seem all that ruffled by taking on a pit-fighter mutt - you have no idea how he managed it. And then the heavy clouds blow back, casting the area into shadow once more.

"That's mine." He says, voice high with a lack of maturity, but curiously hard all the same.

>You already killed the mother, might as well kill the child too. Better than starving.
>Knock him silly. He can find you when he's older, if he still wants a slice of what you have.
>Walk away. You're a murderer and a thief, but even you have standards.
>Other?

AND

>Save Turncoat
>Put Turncoat out of his misery
>Ignore Turncoat
>Other?

>1d20 for actions, as always. See you in an hour or so.

>>138049
>>Knock him silly. He can find you when he's older, if he still wants a slice of what you have.
>Ignore Turncoat

Hey I may have killed a old farming woman but I still have some shred of self respect of not killing a kid :D

We're hurt so best take care of the kid first before we can take care of turncoat

Rolled 9, 3 = 12 (2d20)

>>138462
oops forgot to roll

assuming I'm rolling 2 dices? first for the first option second for second option

>>138467
Sounds good to me.

Rolled 16, 18 = 34 (2d20)

>>138049
>You already killed the mother, might as well kill the child too. Better than starving.
>Ignore Turncoat
We're wounded, which makes us angry. We just kill the brat and burn the shitty hut to the ground.

The dog had its uses, but no more - its just a broken tool now.

Rolled 13, 2 = 15 (2d20)

>>138049
>Knock him silly. He can find you when he's older, if he still wants a slice of what you have
His face haunts us too much right now
>Ignore Turncoat

Rolled 10, 5 = 15 (2d10)

>>138049
>You already killed the mother, might as well kill the child too. Better than starving.
>Ignore Turncoat

>>138049
>>Knock him silly. He can find you when he's older, if he still wants a slice of what you have.

Rolled 3, 6 = 9 (2d20)

>>138049
>Knock him silly
>Put dog down

>>140258
well. Fucked that one up.

>>138467
>>140258
Only the real Evil gets high dice rolls. That's the law of the land.

>>140397
Appears so. Apologies for attempting to make the thief more grey-hat than black.

ded
e
d

Rolled 4, 16, 13, 10, 14, 20, 14, 4, 20, 9 = 124 (10d20)

>>138467
>>139500
>>139742
>>139769
>>139906
>>140258
Votes called: Murder wins
First five dice are for murdering a child
Last five dice are for putting Turncoat from his misery
>Called, Rolling, Writing

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>Note to self - don't forget the tripcode

>Success, both parties. Opponent has higher success, familiar ground, and a Surprise that wasn't accounted for. Gradual victory for Opponent.
>Success, other party. Dog does not get a simple mercy killing. Failure.

There is a brief hesitation in you; The boy's face takes you back. But then your expression hardens by degrees, and that cocky little smirk slips up your rugged features. So what? Maybe the same man who fruited a son with your whore of a mother made another garden with the former goodwife, currently bleeding out. You know you've certainly laid your seed in a few strange soils. You harden your grip on the blade, and walk stoically towards him; You've known how to play this game for years. Let the mark sweat themselves out, let them slip the blade in their own ribs long before you touched them. If you knew the word, you might have thought 'mind games'.

You loosen your wrist and your grip as you raise your sword arm, the sword neatly spinning as your fingers tighten again. Point down over your whining, keening four legged companion. You look the boy directly in the eyes, cold as ice, as your biceps flex. Your intention? To bring that blade directly down into the animal's chest and cave in its heart. It was handy, and it served its purpose - now it can serve one more before it perishes.

And then you feel a sharp pain in the back of your knee as you collapse downwards, your calculated stroke off target and sinking deep into Turncoat's hindquarters. The dog howls in pain, and begins struggling away from you, feet churning up the earth. You turn back over your shoulder-

>Cont'd

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>>142782
-and duck the edge of a iron backed skillet as it goes careening past your skull. You turn back, raising the sword, and the pearing knife bounces off the edge with a spark. Not one child - TWO children. That's how they took down Turncoat. You're confident, but wary - after all, you were a child once. And these are no children born in a fortress - they're out here with only a former goodwife, and they've managed to stay alive so far. Moonlight breaks through again - the boy, hard and stoic. The girl, with tear tracks down her cheeks, but no expression beyond this. They pair on either side of you almost as if by practice. You're instinctively wary of the knife, but the hard edge of that pan could crack your skull if put just right. If she had gone for the side of your knee instead of the back of your leg, you could have found yourself with a knife in your windpipe...!

You move backwards, limping more by reflex than anything else; Turncoat wasn't the only one who could pretend to be injured. Your sword wavers back and forth as you try to work your way out of the pincer, but they aren't letting up. One would jerk forward when your attention was on the other for too long. They may be children - but they've got nothing left to lose now that you've murdered their mother. And you have no backup without Turncoat to watch your flank. The question is - how to handle this?

>Focus and press the boy. You can take a few hits from the edge of the iron skillet, if she doesn't aim it right.
>Focus on the girl. You can overpower her before the boy can slip his knife in your ribs.
>Keep retreating - maybe they'll break off
>Just swing for the fences, screw tactics. It's not like they can parry.
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 for actions as always.

Rolled 4 (1d20)

>>142788
>SWING AT THEM WILDLY, THROW SOME DIRT AT THEM WHILE WE'RE AT IT

FUCK YOU CHILDREN!!!

>>142788
>Focus and press the boy. You can take a few hits from the edge of the iron skillet, if she doesn't aim it right.

Take out the most dangerous threat first. Deal with the girl later

Rolled 18 (1d20)

>>143764

Rolled 20 (1d20)

>>142788
We concentrate on the girl. She's obviously the weak part of the duo. And her brother will probably slip up then - brotherly love and all that shit that little naive brats still feel and do. Or maybe we can kill one and sell the other - oh, we smell the gold already.

>>142782
OOC: Bloody family reunion? "Cousin, is that you? Sorry, I killed your mother and sister. Want to go for a beer?" -- though, our robber might just think it's shadows playing tricks. And in the end there can only be One to wield the Sword!

Rolled 15, 8, 10 = 33 (3d20)

>>144059
Consider it less 'family reunion' and more 'weeding out other possibilities'.

>>143764
>>142948
>>144038

>Three way tie
>High roll for focusing on the girl, but a mix of all the above tactics will be used.
>Called, rolling, writing.

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>Success, both parties. Protagonist has the higher success. Gradual victory, opponent had single strike remaining after dog fight.
>Prior option pulled from pocket.

Your head is still ringing from the goodwife's blow with the aging fence post, and you're pretty sure your off arm is broken above the wrist. If not, the swelling will keep it from being useful for more than a clubbing lump until it heals. And to be quite sincere, you've had your fill of old graves, grief crazed goodwives and strange, predatory children. You tuck your bad arm in close to your chest, and swing your sword HARD for the boy - he falls back, and as predicted you can hear the sudden slap of feet on the dirt as the girl rushed behind you.

But they're just children; Dangerous in the dark and with surprise, sure. But you're a grown killer. You've put down more than a few babes, barely out of their swaddling clothes, and scores of old men on their canes. Not to mention the bawdy youth between.

You let the weight of the sword carry you around, shoulder creaking from the momentum, and feel the hard jolt as it strikes flesh. The girl screams, twisting into the dirt - you waste no time, wrist twisting down to pluck her right into the gut. Her eyes widen in shock at the pain, and she looks up at you - mouth moving without words beyond a low keening.

A sudden jerk in your shoulder reminds you that you haven't got time to think this through; A searing pain in your side as you jerk your side away, and swing back with your elbow - the sword's weight adding to the momentum of the blow. A small pain blooms in the point of your joint as you contact solid bone, the boy collapsing backwards. You shake out your wrist, keeping a grip on the weapon and glance to your side; A dull flicker of metal, the feel like ice was squeezed against your side. Throbbing pain. The knife hooked in - but if it hit anything vital, you won't know until you try to pull it out. You snort, and walk towards the boy as he shakes his head, trying to scramble back.

>Cont'd

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A quick downward chop ends that problem. You almost lose the sword as it sticks in his skull, staggering as you turn back towards the girl. But her feet are kicking at the dirt, that low keening slowly fading. You breath deep; Copper. You can almost taste it. You feel a warm trickle start down your side, but it doesn't seem to bad just yet.

For now, you take a moment to hold the sword aloft, your arm shaking as the fire in your gut begins to fade, and the warmth along your temple cools. Closer than you'd like. Clouds shred above, moonlight touching the weapon. It's an ugly thing; Old and chipped, greyed and stained. But you can catch the barest golden sheen in the strange letters along the fuller. Who knew whether it was enchanted or not? And frankly, who cares, as long as someone will pay for it.

You spit downwards at the dead boy's feet, and turn towards the place this tiny family called home. You think it'd look great if it were on fire. In fact, the idea of the whole thing going up in flames just makes you feel better all around. And then you can get that little 'problem' taken care of before it kills you. Choices, choices..

>Loot and burn? Grab what you can carry.
>Burn and walk away? You don't want any of this peasant junk.
>Take animals?
>Other? Write-in

Finally, what to do afterwards?
>Head North along the coast? Port Dren's that way. You know a few bad habits in the area. Plus there might be a ship to the Tower of Miracles and your buyer.
>Head South along the coast? The broken peninsula is dangerous, but you'll never find a better hiding place. And who knows, maybe something else you can interest the finger wagglers in.
>Head East along the plains? Rossville's closer, and you'll have access to the main roads. And all the options that represents.
>Some combination of above?
>Other? Write-in.
>No rolls necessary - you've nothing left to compromise your actions this turn.

Rolled 15 (1d20)

>>146857
We first put the bodies in a ditch or something, somewhere nobody will see

Then we rest in the house for a good while, we're badly hurt and need some rest after tonight

After we're good and rested we take what is valuable, start a small fire to slow the burning of the house and head north to the port

WE BE HARDY HAR HAR PIRATES NAOW

>>146934
This

>>146934
I second this motion

Also we gotta make a new thread brah,

Fucking auto sage

>>146934
>>146981
>>147514

Called, writing

>>148401
Seems wasteful to have a new thread when this one's barely gotten its teeth in. Oh well. New thread coming briefly.

New Thread

>>152044