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6/15/2025, 10:22:40 PM
Intimidation 23 vs DC 15. It's super effective!
Attack of 24 vs DC 15. It's super effective!
The column of seven riders approaches your camp slower than you would have expected. By the time they've reached the adamant bulwarks that your skeletal forces have deployed, you've had time to have one of your champions erect a pavilion to great them with afternoon tea. You forget how primitive things are out here in the boondocks, where none of their horses have been crossbred with angels or demons to grant them greater speed and endurance.
Even the largest of them, rode by the only man wearing a proper harness, is still slow and winded compared to the pale horse you've been granted as a summon.
Still, for a steed with no magical weight to it, it's an impressive thing.
So too is the man who dismounts from it. Tall and clad in steel, broad of shoulder and thick with muscle. A full head of blonde hair crowns his handsome face, and a thick mustache rests overtop his lips. Stern and wary eyes appraise your camp, drifting from banner to banner. His brow furrows with their unfamiliar sigil, until his eyes reach the banner atop Dormandal's tent; the general standard of the Dreadknight Legion.
That banner is a field of gold trimmed in black, a black sword piercing through a seven-sided ring of eyes and fire in a death blow. A sigil made after the death of Luminare, representing the Four Horsemen's triumph over the Lord of Light and his angels.
The banners that made his brow furrow were your own. A field of black trimmed with red, signifying your allegiance and loyalty to the Ravager and his legions. Upon the field, your personal crest. A golden skull in recognition of your training to command forces of the undead. A tangle of vines running through it to recognize your skill in defilement and corruptive magics. Two roses blooming from its eyes, showing your preference for making allies from your enemies.
Their willingness, of course, is not a factor.
"Dreadknight..." breathes out one of the cowards who chose to remain on his horse. The fear in his voice, the way his body shudders at the realization that their little rebellion kicked the hornet's nest, it brings a smile to your face. Especially when you see the lovely young woman with bright red braids hiding behind the men, her mare stepping backwards and her hands clutching a seven pointed star.
They brought you a little treat. How lovely~
"Steady on, Grant," the burly fellow says. He finally turns his eyes to you and the pavilion set up outside the bulwark. You lounge upon a love seat that your skeletons set out for you, one leg kicked up over the armrest while the other hangs limply. He clicks his tongue at your unsightly posture and says, "The Lord of Light is with us, and so are the Marcher Lords of the Thornlands. See, they don't like having an Imperial village so close to their borders, which is why they made us a sweet deal to swear fealty to Marquis Edel-"
Attack of 24 vs DC 15. It's super effective!
The column of seven riders approaches your camp slower than you would have expected. By the time they've reached the adamant bulwarks that your skeletal forces have deployed, you've had time to have one of your champions erect a pavilion to great them with afternoon tea. You forget how primitive things are out here in the boondocks, where none of their horses have been crossbred with angels or demons to grant them greater speed and endurance.
Even the largest of them, rode by the only man wearing a proper harness, is still slow and winded compared to the pale horse you've been granted as a summon.
Still, for a steed with no magical weight to it, it's an impressive thing.
So too is the man who dismounts from it. Tall and clad in steel, broad of shoulder and thick with muscle. A full head of blonde hair crowns his handsome face, and a thick mustache rests overtop his lips. Stern and wary eyes appraise your camp, drifting from banner to banner. His brow furrows with their unfamiliar sigil, until his eyes reach the banner atop Dormandal's tent; the general standard of the Dreadknight Legion.
That banner is a field of gold trimmed in black, a black sword piercing through a seven-sided ring of eyes and fire in a death blow. A sigil made after the death of Luminare, representing the Four Horsemen's triumph over the Lord of Light and his angels.
The banners that made his brow furrow were your own. A field of black trimmed with red, signifying your allegiance and loyalty to the Ravager and his legions. Upon the field, your personal crest. A golden skull in recognition of your training to command forces of the undead. A tangle of vines running through it to recognize your skill in defilement and corruptive magics. Two roses blooming from its eyes, showing your preference for making allies from your enemies.
Their willingness, of course, is not a factor.
"Dreadknight..." breathes out one of the cowards who chose to remain on his horse. The fear in his voice, the way his body shudders at the realization that their little rebellion kicked the hornet's nest, it brings a smile to your face. Especially when you see the lovely young woman with bright red braids hiding behind the men, her mare stepping backwards and her hands clutching a seven pointed star.
They brought you a little treat. How lovely~
"Steady on, Grant," the burly fellow says. He finally turns his eyes to you and the pavilion set up outside the bulwark. You lounge upon a love seat that your skeletons set out for you, one leg kicked up over the armrest while the other hangs limply. He clicks his tongue at your unsightly posture and says, "The Lord of Light is with us, and so are the Marcher Lords of the Thornlands. See, they don't like having an Imperial village so close to their borders, which is why they made us a sweet deal to swear fealty to Marquis Edel-"
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