Whispers (solo)

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The vast mountain range of Kalea is home of secret valleys, dead-end canyons, and passes that lead to places long forgotten or yet to be discovered.

Whispers (solo)

Postby Ulric on April 16th, 2011, 9:07 pm

81st of Spring, 511 AV

“Why do they all wish to hurt us?” Ulric stared at the Gasvik. “We want to know. We are special because we have you, but why do they hate us so? What have we done?

“Wena oen adnj wadkn dom,” spoke the Gasvik. Its response was cryptic as usual, but it seemed confused by the question. Nothing made sense any more.

“They murders our father, then leaves us in front of a door. Why that door? Dying urchins are thrown into the canals. We have seen this. But why not us? Why were we given salvation? Why were we taught to fight? Were we being watched? We fought them, all of them, with everything we had. Now we are forgetting something.”

“Jaodm wuen bau eom dbos iboaomd.”

“No, we must embrace our fate.” Ulric shook his head sadly. The dawn had been stained red, but only now, as he peered down at the strange camp, did he realize the hand of prophecy. It had to be. He had come upon a party of hunters, the only people he’d seen since his journey began, and now he meant to scatter their hacked remains for the crows. They had murdered his father. They, and every person like them, had to perish in the crucible of his righteous vengeance. “We must do this alone,” he spoke to his Gasvik, whose lips curled into a broad grin, exposing a pair of sharpened tusks.

“Weoma wek teon adoep.” The creature padded away, leaving Ulric alone. He studied the camp again, noting the pair of concealed tents, the drying frames where mottled hides were stretched taut by ropes of sinew. He saw a woman crouching apart from the others, scraping scraps of meat and gristle from a freshly skinned pelt. There were four hunters, a man and two woman. They were clad in leathers and kept their bows close, but didn’t seem to possess much in the way of other weapons. He saw only knives, a sword and a wood axe, which meant they’d surely fall to his axe if he could only close the distance. Are you ready to die, my sweets?

Leaving his crossbow among the wisps of heather, Ulric strode away from the boulder he’d used to conceal his presence, feigning a limp. “Friends,” he called weakly. “Help me.” The hunters leapt to their feet, reaching into their quivers.

“Who the petch are you?” shouted the plump woman.

“Nobody. Friend.” Ulric hastened his pace, letting his ‘injured’ leg drag behind him. He let himself trip, tumbling a few paces down the slope, then rose unsteadily. “Help me.” He tried to adopt a look of terror. “Raiders. Caravan. Burnt. Everybody dead.”

“What’s he talking about?” The man frowned.

“He’s armed,” cried the youngest, a dark-haired woman whose face was marred by a swath of burn scars. “Roger, Liv, be careful.”

“Well, that’s not unusual,” scowled Liv. “But I don’t like the look in his eyes.”

“Please!” Ulric kept moving closer.

“Hold it right there,” snarled Liv. She signaled for her comrades to raise their bows. “I’m warning you, one more step and we’ll use your worthless hide for target practice.” Raising her own bow, she pointed it threateningly at Ulric. He scowled, but did as she said.

“Why does it shout at us? We just wants to talk.” His words didn’t seem to allay their fears.

“Lay down your weapon,” Roger snarled. Ulric had other plans. He surged forward, bringing up his shield as he dropped into a crouch. Two shafts sank into the wood, and a third into his thigh. He snarled at the sudden, white-hot pain, but knew instinctively that he couldn’t afford to waste this moment of confusion. He charged into their midst, hacking at Liv. She staggered back, almost losing her feet. Roger threw his bow aside and scrambled for the wood axe, while the scarred woman loosed another shaft that struck Ulric in the side. It was a glancing blow, but the point still grated against his ribs, causing him to falter. His face contorted into a grimace. He darted to the side, delivering a thundering shield bash as she tried desperately to notch another arrow. One down.

Then the other woman was upon him again, sword whistling through the air. Ulric raised his shield, blocking the blow as he hacked at her knees. She retreated, and then tried to skewer him. Bitch. He stepped into the thrust, swiping it aside with his shield, and drove a boot into her chest. He would have finished her, but then Roger was hacking at his blind side, forcing him to make a hasty retreat.

“Bastard!” Roger wept as he tried another frenzied strike.“Bastard!” Ulric swept it aside contemptuously, then his own axe flashed out, hooking Roger’s forearm. The point sliced deep into flesh, causing blood to well out in a crimson tide. Roger cried out in pain and astonishment as he was pulled off balance, so Ulric bashed him with the shield for good measure.

“Leave her,” Ulric snarled. He raised his shield to block another hack, then swept his axe down. It crunched into the man’s shoulder, driving him to his knees and causing the weapon to drop from his fingers. “Is that all you’ve got?” He chuckled, turning his eyes on a dazed Liv. Her own eyes widened in fear, but instead of running, she leapt in again, trying to decapitate him. Stupid. Ulric ducked to the side, letting the blade sweep over his head. As Liv overbalanced, he drove his shield into her face, then brought it back around in a backhand swipe. The metal rim struck her cheek with a sickening crunch, but before her eyes could so much as roll back into their sockets, the axe tore her entire jaw away with a gout of blood. Stupid. Ulric split her skull just to make certain, and then went back for Roger. The man was crawling away, moaning as he clutched at his ruined shoulder. He made a strangled noise as the axe suddenly sprouted from his back. Then he was still.

“And now,” Ulric began to giggle as he regarded the scarred woman. “What shall we do with this one?”
Last edited by Ulric on April 26th, 2011, 2:23 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Postby Ulric on April 20th, 2011, 5:21 pm

“Why are-”

“No talking.” With a snarl, Ulric kicked the woman in the ribs and pressed his boot again her neck. He stood there for a moment, savoring the fear in her eyes. It would be easy to stamp out her pathetic existence right here, among the tangle of corpses, but a whisper of doubt stayed his hand. Hadn’t the ground already been soaked with enough blood? “We have decided to be merciful,” he spoke at last, his voice heavy with contempt. “But only if you tell us where the other murderers are hiding.”

“Wha-”

“No questions.” He pressed harder. “Don’t play games with us.” She stared up at him, confused, her eyes bulging, face growing purple as she sought to draw breath.

Stop, you’re killing her. Ulric winced at the sudden pain in his temples, but he refused to back down. Leave us alone.

“Slavers!”

“What’s that?” Ulric removed his boot. He drew his knife, then crouched by the woman’s side.

“Slavers,” she repeated between gasps. “Slavers.”

“That’s not very helpful, my dove.” His lips curled into a smile as he drew the knife along her cheek, careful not to break the skin. “Tell us more about these slavers.”

“They're camped few days to the east, somewhere near a shallow tarn in between two ridges.

“How many?”

“Three, maybe four.” The woman was growing bolder. “Their leader-”

“None of our concern,” Ulric snarled, clubbing her with the pommel of his knife. If she woke up, she’d have a few more years to look forward to. If not, well, why did he care? Leaving her sprawled on the stony ground, he began to remove his armor and tunic, taking care to snap the second shaft beneath his cuirass so the arrow point wouldn’t bite any deeper when he drew it over his head. It had made a shallow cut along his ribs, soaking his tunic with blood that had already begun to clot. He didn’t see any need to dress it, so he simply washed and salted the wound, and then prepared to see to the puncture wound on his upper thigh. Here the arrow had entered at an angle and snapped during the fighting.

We could use some wine right now.

He gritted his teeth as he pushed, then pulled the shaft through, shaking as he was assailed by waves of agony. Hot blood trickled down his leg. That’s going to leave a scar. Repeating the same process as before, Ulric used a strip of blanket to bind the wound before he donned the rest of his equipment. His leg was stiff and ached with every tentative step, and he made a mental note not to overexert himself over the next few days. He retrieved his crossbow, and then, with the Gasvik trailing in his wake, left the ruined camp to the crows.

The Unforgiving was just as its moniker suggested. It was a labyrinth of ridges, crags, and nightmarish ravines that forced Ulric to climb nearly as often as he walked, going on frequent detours as he sought to avoid the more perilous obstacles. But he didn’t complain. If he survived this journey he would only be that much stronger.

Shortly before dusk, he made camp atop a rocky crag, where the ponderous granite formed a slight overhand. He gathered chunks of rock, piling them in a squat semicircle until they formed a rampart that would protect him from both the chilly, howling winds and any surprise attacks from below. Syna was already sinking below the horizon when he completed this task, forcing him to scramble to collect as many bundles of dried gorse as he could before night made the uneven ground too treacherous to traverse. He struck a spark onto a bed of shredded bark, then softly blew it into life, adding twigs until he had a small fire going.

“Aiweon adn qwom ad uadn,” said the Gasvik. It curled up and pretended to be asleep. Ulric stared into the fire, absently poking it with a stick. He saw faces in the dancing flames, swarming thick as moths as they evoked scraps of memory. He recognized some, but others were strangers to him, their names forever on the tip of his tongue. Some had died at his hands and others were living. They were the souls he carried in his wake, the chains he had forged for himself, binding him with guilt and regret. He resented them. He was a child, after all, an angry, hurting, lonely child that wanted to lash out against the world, but was tortured by myriad fears and doubts. He was dominant now, but he could not escape the whispers.

Why are you doing this? The assault was unexpected, a wave of coruscating agony that forced him to curl into a ball, clutching his head as he fought to weather this latest storm. It was his body now, and he would not give it up.

“Because we must,” he rasped. He couldn’t help but feel betrayed. He’d wanted to help his other self, but it resisted him, tried to fight him at every turn.

No, this is wrong. This is –

“Madness?” He emitted a noise that was half-sob, half-laugh. “What were you before you found me?” he demanded. “Nothing but a broken-down fisherman, drowning his sorrows in reeking taverns while our father’s murderers still drew breath, pretending that his betrothed wasn’t petching another man behind his back. Just look at what we’ve become. The only thing we’re good at is killing, and you wanted to throw that away?” There was a long pause.

We must forgive. Already, the pain was subsiding. The tides had turned.

“No, forgiveness is for the weak. We must kill them all.”

Glav showed us the way. Torc was ready to stand with us, if you would only-

“Don’t speak to us of your paltry redemption. For twenty years you’ve been in control, while I was trapped in that basement, forced to relive the same night over and over again. I was weaned on the screams of our father and the spurt of his blood, rough hands forcing my eyes open, making me watch the flicker of their knives as the rapture played on. Now it is my turn, and I will have my vengeance.”

I won’t let you do this.

“You are already defeated.”

Ulric convulsed, froth leaking from his lips as he fought back, using every scrap of power he yet possessed to drive the whispers from his head, to banish the other to the same dungeon that had trapped him for so many years. And then there was silence.
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Postby Ulric on April 21st, 2011, 8:15 pm

Getting to the slavers’ camp took far longer than a few days, not merely because of his wounds, but because he didn’t know where he was going. Ulric had been injured before, but he’d never taken an arrow through the thigh. He was unable to sleep through the first night, and when he awoke it was swollen and stiff, with every step sending needles of agony down his leg. Before the morning was over, he’d already pitched camp in a stand of scorched, stunted pines. He washed the wound again, tentatively sniffing the enflamed flesh, but it didn’t seem to be putrefying. “Oen aodn wen odned padwen,” the Gasvik grumbled, but it could hardly prevail upon him the wisdom of avoiding danger.

Ulric didn’t want to waste too much time recuperating, though. He kept walking through the mornings, and even after midday as he wound healed, often scaling the torturous crags to get his bearings. When Syna was up he was able to roughly tell which directions were east and west, but when the sky was obscured with clouds he often found himself obfuscated by the warren of canyons and ridges, having to backtrack and reconsider which routes he was going to take. The key to finding the slavers was water. He wouldn’t have been able to find their camp were it concealed by towering outcrops, but the woman had said it was near a tarn, a larger body of water that would stand out from this expanse of rocks. Finally, when he sighted it from the jagged spine of a ridge, his lips curled in a sneer. He was here. He was going to kill.

“This is not your fight,” he cautioned the Gasvik. “Guard my back, if you must, but do not intrude on my slaughter.”

“Uash adon qwb petch.”

Descending a slope tangled with brambles and made treacherous by constantly shifting scree, Ulric paused to span his heavy crossbow. He placed a foot in the stirrup, heaving on the length of cord until it secured on the catch, and loaded it with a quarrel. Then he limped away, loose grit crunching beneath his boots, his spine tingling as he envisioned the slaughter that awaited him.

However, this time he wouldn’t have the advantage of surprise. As he made his way through a treacherous ravine, he could hear hounds baying in the distance. He was now the hunted. Not that there’s anything unfamiliar about that,” he thought bleakly. His stolen fragments of memory reeked of dread, tormenting him with the fact that he’d been confined for so long by a craven who wasn’t even worthy to lick his boots.

“They come.” He motioned for the Gasvik to stand back, waiting as the cries grew louder and louder, until the first of the beasts hurtled around the bank of tumbled rocks. Even from a distance, he could make out the slaver dripping from its bared teeth. Two others followed, their coats mostly dark or mottled browns, driving forward with their powerful legs. Wait for it, wait for it, now! Ulric sighted down the stock of his crossbow and pulled the trigger, grinning as the quarrel tore into the chest of the lead hound, dropping it in its tracks. The others leapt over its carcass, one angling for his throat, the other for his leg. Leaning to the side, he watched the first twist around as it sailed past him, jaws snapping ineffectively at a scaled pauldron, and then swung the crossbow in a downward, clubbing blow. It caught the other on the side of the head, knocking it aside. He could hear a struggle going on behind him.

Ulric reached for his bearded axe, swinging the crossbow again with his right to fend off another lunge, and then swept the axe around. The hound backed away, snarling. Then a whistle pierced the air. More chickens for the pot, Ulric chuckled. He stepped forward, trying to decapitate the hound, but it was already running back to its master. Instead, he changed the course of his swing, hacking the axe into the spine of the other hound. It let out a piercing whine as its hind legs collapsed, vertebrae peeking up through its horrific wound. The next blow put it out of its misery.

Glancing up, his lips curled into a grin, Ulric caught his first glimpse of the slavers. Well, one of the slavers. The slaver was around his height, though not as broad, and clad in lather armor. He carried a pair of swords in the almost lazy manner of a trained fighter. Finally, a challenge. The slaver came to a halt, scowling when he saw the pair of corpses.

“You killed my dogs,”

“And you’re next.” Unstrapping the shield from his back, Ulric began to close the distance between them. “I’m going to strangle you with your own chains.”

“I’m going to gut you like a fish.” For a moment, a look of confusion passed over Ulric’s blunt features. Then he threw back his head and laughed. The slaver raised his swords, scowling again. “What’s so funny?”
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Postby Ulric on April 22nd, 2011, 12:54 am

Ulric surged toward the slaver, shield held high, axe hidden behind his back. He needed to be careful not to let the slaver get too close, where the swords could carve up his insides and render his own weapons ineffective. Then there was the other hound, circling off the side, waiting until he was distracted to make its move. Well, he wasn’t going to give it a chance. With a quick stutter-step, he charged for the hound instead of the slaver, using the sheer, rocky terrain to his advantage. With a cliff on one side, boulders on the other, and Ulric charging from the front, the hound had no choice but to scamper behind its master.

Raising his shield, Ulric absorbed a crushing blow as he went low, hacking viciously at the slaver’s legs. The man stepped back, his other, thrusting sword coming short – as anticipated. He didn’t have much time to recover. Ulric was already lunging with the shield, trying to punch the rim into the slaver’s face, his onslaught so sudden, so fierce that neither sword was in position to attack. Instead, the slaver rolled aside. Seeing a flash out of the corner of his eye, Ulric pivoted. He swept the axe around, striking the hound with his backswing. The beast slammed into his bad leg, nearly tearing the axe from his hand before it collapsed onto his side, warm blood pulsing from the ragged wound on its throat. Ulric grimaced, feeling his leg nearly buckle as he turned back to the slaver.

He had planned most of the sequence ahead of time. To emerge unscathed from a fight, you needed to predict how people would react, to consider any tricks they might have up their sleeves, and to move in ways that didn’t give your opponent the time to do anything unexpected. Thinking more rapidly than you instincts was, by far, the most critical of Kell’s lessons, and one that Ulric applied with deadly efficiency. If the slaver had feinted instead of striking the shield, he'd have been bashed in the face before he had time to strike. His thrust, delivered after the initial strike was blocked, wouldn’t have landed before the axe. Even if this thrust were made as the primary attack, the shield would have restricted its range so that, at the very worst, the slaver would only have dealt a non-fatal wound while receiving a crippling one in return. If he’d tried a slash, or simply retreated, there were always other tactics to apply.

Ulric didn’t have enough time to react to the next sequence of attacks, though. The slaver leapt in the air, reversing his grip on the swords, and stabbed them both down simultaneously. Ulric raised his shield, feeling the points pound upon the metal-bound wood, but before he could sink his axe into the descending slaver’s ribs, the man landed a thundering boot on his chest. They both went down, then scrambled to their feet. Ulric managed to hook the slaver’s hand, but the axe was ripped from his hands as the sword slipped through the man’s bloody fingers, leaving him bereft of his deadliest weapon. The other sword descended, was blocked, and then the pommel smashed into his cheek. He spat a gobbet of blood, his hand lashing out to seize the slaver’s wrist. For a moment, they were locked in a desperate struggle, both panting for breath. The slaver connected with a punch, and Ulric responded with a shield bash. Even at short range, the metal boss struck with a satisfying thud, making the slaver stagger back. Got you. Ulric surged forward again, carrying the slaver down. He straddled him, still keeping hold of the man’s wrist, and reared back, delivering a punishing butt. Frantic, the slaver clawed at his throat and eyes, so Ulric bit down until he tasted the tang of blood, until the slaver began to pull the hand away, and then butted him again. Hard. He did it again, then again and again, feeling the slaver’s struggles growing feebler by the moment, until his face was a crushed, bloodied mess. But he still breathed.

“Would you like a hand with that?” Ulric released the slaver’s wrist and plunged his fore and middle fingers into the man’s eyes. Hot, viscous fluids squirted against his face, but he kept delving deeper until the fingers were immersed to the knuckles. His dark eyes shone with rapture.

Wiping his hands on the slaver’s armor, Ulric stripped the corpse of anything useful or shiny, including a pair of rusted keys, and peered up at the Gasvik. “See how good we are?”

“Wom adin weo adnno,” it replied, seeming both relived that Ulric had emerged the victor and irritated that he’d gone looking for this fight in the first place. Ulric raised an eyebrow. He felt almost at peace, his homicidal lust waning by the moment.

The slavers had established their camp in plain sight, perhaps trusting the seclusion of the locale and the keen senses of the hounds to keep them safe. Ulric kept searching the crags, trying to catch a glimpse of any lurkers, but he was fairly certain the other slavers had gone out to seek unsuspecting travelers. There was a pair of crude shelters of piled stones and timber, as well as a stout wooden cage set against a rock face. It contained a pair of prisoners, both with wild, matted hair. Their clothes were filthy, though not yet reduced to rags. Neither wore shoes. Must be to keep them from running.

Ulric strode up to the cage, noting their sunken cheeks and the dull emptiness of their eyes as they regarded him silently, perhaps fearing the worst. Then he flung the key into the cage. “Leave this place,” he snarled. “Go on, take whatever you want – just get out of my petching sight.” He despised their weakness, but what was the point of murdering them? They were going to die anyway. They were like sheep, and their deaths would be of scant pleasure to him. “Fly away, fly away,” he cackled. “The end is nigh.”
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Postby Ulric on April 22nd, 2011, 8:19 pm

Long after the prisoners had fled, when Leth loomed high in the sky, the whispers returned. This time, they were not insistent. There was no fight for dominance, only a hushed, soothing voice that crept through his head. There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who are good, and those who are bad. The man we slew today was bad. He forced many men and women into bondage before his depredations ended, and he would have done the same to many more given the chance. That is the sort of person we’re supposed to destroy. We must eradicate the bad while sparing the good.

“And what type are we?” The query was punctuated by a sardonic smile.

We’re bad.

“Does that mean we should leap off of a cliff?”

No, there is always redemption.

“Perhaps there is just killing.” Ulric waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. Even now, the other was plagued by doubts. They spoke no more that night.

The next morning, he began planning his ambush. He would have liked to prepare a deadly trap, such as a spike-lined pit or a landslide, but he wasn’t going to expend the time and energy for a dubious payoff. Instead, he found a hiding place where he could pick off the slavers one by one, protected by a steep slope and a hastily erected screen of rocks. The only approach was at the front, otherwise they would have to climb. He did his best to conceal the position with dirt and tufts of dried grass, though it would be painfully obvious to a trained eye. Then he resigned himself to waiting.

Ulric knelt behind the piled rocks, loaded crossbow by his side as he gulped tepid water from his skin. His dark eyes moved constantly over the rough contours of the land. To make the camp seem as normal as possible, he’d heaped rocks over the slaver and dogs, and kept the fire going. He didn’t want the others to get suspicious when – or if – they returned. “Not long now,” he said to the Gasvik.

“Jqwo adin oen qwnod woen.”

“Because I have a feeling in my bones, that’s why.” Ulric scowled. He returned to his vigil, but as the day wore on, there wasn’t a sign of the other slavers. Perhaps they’re going to be gone a few days, he thought, only now regretting that he hadn’t given the prisoners a more thorough interrogation. The slavers were less likely to be molested in this region, which also meant they probably had to range far and wide to gather prisoners. Soon the ground was covered in a tangle of shadows. Having just returned from adding a heap of bracken from the fire, Ulric perceived a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He reached for his crossbow, keeping low as the figures of three slavers and a pair of dogs emerged from a ravine. They were heavily armed, but only one of them carried a bow.

Take him out first.

“We don’t need you,” Ulric growled. Still, he couldn’t argue with that logic. Waiting until the slavers were perhaps twenty yards distant, he raised his crossbow over the breastwork, sighting down the stock for a moment before he pulled the trigger. The quarrel whistled past the bowman, piercing the hindquarters of one of the hounds. “Petch.” He dropped behind the wall as sharp cries echoed on the rocks, fumbling to load the crossbow while he lay on his back.

Don’t panic.

“Shut up!” Ulric sent another quarrel at the slavers, missing. An arrow shattered on the boulder to his right. He dropped down again, his situation looking worse by the moment. Two of the slavers were clambering up the slope, covered by the bowman. There was no sight of the remaining hound. Teeth clenched, Ulric spanned the crossbow again. Before he could load it with a quarrel, there was an explosion of mangy fur and snapping jaws. He cried out as they tore at his bicep, snatching the knife from his belt. Where’s the Gasvik?” He plunged the blade into the hound’s neck, then again, leaving it sheathed in the hound’s chest as blood spurted from the other wound. Heart pounding, he pushed the beast off and searched desperately for another quarrel

Bellowing with rage, Ulric rose up to find the half-Isur almost upon him. He hadn’t expected the man to climb the slope this swiftly. He reeled back, firing point-blank as his legs quaked with a sudden panic. The quarrel punched through the hollow of the slaver’s throat, pitching him down the slope even as Ulric was spun around by an arrow. He dropped back, snarling as he snapped the dark shaft protruding from his shoulder.

Steady, it was a glancing blow.

“Go away.” Ulric retreated a few steps, crouching as the slaver leapt over his breastwork. A throwing knife clattered against his shield, and then she was closing, a sword in one hand, knife gripped in the other. He blocked her overhead swing, then hacked at her side before she got inside of his guard, his axe crunching through her ribs. A small groan escaped her lips, and legs began to buckle. Even so, as he wrenched the weapon away, the knife scraped against his armor. Does she know when to die? Ulric was angry now. He hooked her behind the knee and bashed her with his shield, knocking her on her back, then planted his axe in her stomach. That wasn’t enough. He leapt on her, punching her in the side of the head. The light in her eyes was fading, but he didn’t care. He wanted her dead. He sank his teeth into her throat, then savagely ripped his head aside, spitting out a gobbet of flesh. Dead. She was dead.

Enraged, Ulric almost forgot to keep his shield up when he climbed to his feet. An arrow whistled past his ear, and then the bowman was running through the shadows, headed for the protection of the ravine. “Craven.”

Clever.

Ulric wanted to pursue the slaver, but knew he’d only be walking into a trap. He wasn’t stupid either. “We are the reaper,” he grinned.

Below, the injured hound let out a piteous howl.
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Postby Tabarnac on May 15th, 2011, 2:58 am

XP Award!


Ulric
XP Award: Interrogation +1; Acting +1; Shield +5; Bearded Axe +5; Intimidation +2; Medicine +1; Land Navigation +2; Mountaineering +2; Rhetoric +1; Crossbow +4; Dagger +1

Additional Notes:
First, even though he used a knife to stab the dog in the throat, I just went with dagger since you already have that. You may count it as Knife instead if you prefer.

Second, I would say that Ulric has done quite enough to get Krysus’ attention, so if you would like him to achieve gnosis out in the Unforgiving, I will moderate a thread for you.

Third, sorry this ended without a conclusion. It’s always fun to read your stuff. Even if I don’t know what a gasvik is still. :)

Feel free to PM me if you have any questions or concerns.

Keep writing!
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