|
|
|
|
|
DraconicFeline rolled 1 100-sided dice:
94
Total: 94 (1-100)
|
|
|
 Posted: Wed Dec 25, 2013 4:58 pm
Character || Ruelash
Stage || Swordsman
Battling || Nehredile
Battle Stat || 17
Defense || 12
Roll Needed || 80-100
Rolled || 94
Outcome || WIN OMG
Experience earned ||
Difficulty: 13
Winning EXP
( 13 x 6 ) / 2= 13*3 = 39 exp
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Dec 26, 2013 6:28 pm
Ruelash was at the end of his fraying rope of self control. He was running out of provisions - if he was unsuceessful today, he would likely have to go back. He cooked the fish from the lake and ate it, along with a bit of hearty broth and some remaining cured meats.
He did not like the idea of going back empty handed and empty hearted. He needed to kill Khashib. His fingers twitched with the deep and burning desire to destroy that creature.
His eyes were wild as he stalked onto the lake, his muscles aching from the beating he had taken the day before. He still felt a little sick and lightheaded - all the more reason to kill something today and head back home.
The ice was desolate and abandoned, but he knew that would change soon. Soon the fat bastards would bubble up out of the lake to flop around, rest, and breathe. He had watched them for hours. He knew their habits. He knew their smell. He just needed to kill one, one special one, and then he could take a break from the damn beasts.
He was moving to a spot he could lurk in when he heard a very familiar sound - the slippery, wet, sucking sound of a Nehredile shoving itself out of a hole. He crouched, scanning the white expanse as the bulky shape slid out, followed by others that dragged themselves into a loose grouping around the hole. He gripped his harpoon as they bellowed to each other, his face a mask of intensity. Slowly, carefully, he raised the harpoon. And then, he loosed it.
He heard, in the icy silence, the thunk of the harpoon's point into flesh, and the scream of the beast as it choked on blood that began to pour into its lungs. He ran forward as the group slid back into the water and out of reach.
The wounded Nehredile was not HIS nehredile. It was some other beast, but he felt his heart pound with grim delight, felt the rush of the hunt and the kill pulse through him. It struggled, weakening until it could barely move itself even a little bit. He smirked at it and dragged it off the lake, towards his shelter, to deal with it as he would.
His smile was wicked as, in the woods, he worked out the harpoon from the injured and gasping nehredile and drew his blades.
He would not make its death pleasant.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
