Posts from Knights of Tezoth

Your resurrected characters will be Loshidr's if you lose again..

Ride on Loshidr yourself

And why does Blight get paranoid about every little thing...

This expedition is already legendary because the Creator himself appeared in this thread... for obvious reasons...

Can we get the title and everything else after the quest is published?

Alright, let's go.

Without a separate reply page, this is just awful. I've been trying for two hours to upload everything from my notepad to the forum, and for the second time, after half an hour to an hour of struggling with attachments, everything just gets reset.

Ambrose Turbon

Attributes
Mind: 17
Body: 22
Perception: 14
Vitality: 17
Charm: 20

Conviction: none

Origin: Kisgilt. Origin bonus: ramming strike skill

Ramming strike: +(?)% chance to deal a critical hit, +(?)% damage per tile traveled, inflicts paralysis effect (2 AP)

Skills

Armor Proficiency
The character can wear heavy armor.

Spear
The character can use a spear without penalty. 

Riding
The character can ride horses and other animals.

Writer
The character can publish his works and receive money and fame for them...

Enslavement
After the end of combat, in exchange for 1 AP, forces the defeated target to obey his will; should they act against the master's interests, their head explodes like an overripe watermelon. 

Equipment

Spear: "Dominus Vermium"

Visored helm
Plate armor
Scarlet cloak with a coat of arms
Plate gauntlets
Plate boots with gilded spurs
Healing remedies
Dagger with a dedication inscription
Family ring of the Turbon clan
Rawhide whip
Warrior's magatama
Quill, paper, and ink
Tattooist's kit

Mordred

Black stallion

I

Of virtues that a knightly soul
Inherently and indisputably possesses
Much has been said, and more
Descendants yet will say of those departed
While heavenly light has not yet dimmed
While a serf, to his master's glory,
Plows the field at heavy corvée
While armor and shields crumble
Under the weight of maces on the field of battle
While the last man yet lives — the song will not fall silent in mortal souls
That remembers the glory of valiant forefathers
And the disputes will not subside over what is higher —
Velkhmetr's splendor or Koymadzhi's valor.
And Renavan's wisdom eternally contends
With stern Satanid's truth.
There is no count of virtues that each one
Who calls himself a knight, as if obliged,
Must hold within his soul and guard them tirelessly.
The more the spirit rises to the heights
The more obstacles it places on its path
The more, striving toward glorious heights,
It risks stumbling every hour.
It is not easy to unite all in one heart:
Honor, and courage, loyalty to one's liege,
Martial skill with generosity in the world,
Truthfulness in speech, steadfastness before fate,
With boldness of deeds and fury in the fray.
That is a great deal for a single soul —
And should you break it, then forever
You stain your kin with an invisible brand.
And yet, placing a hand upon your heart,
Ask yourself — are all virtues truly equal,
And is a discourteous knight
As despicable as a coward?
Oh no! I am convinced that after all
Above all else stands courage in the fight.
Leave, O knight, etiquette to courtiers —
Leave all the sciences to old men.
Let the sword lead you to mountain peaks,
Become free from the shackles of weakness.
But even courage is not always indisputable —
Sometimes the vagaries of fate
Push us to a choice: either perish fruitlessly
Or continue the toil of struggle.

And many say that no, there will not be
A worthier fate than to share the lot
Of a liege who did not leave the battle —
Just as, unafraid of the grave's decay,
You follow your beloved unto death.
But how can we not acknowledge as virtue
That a soldier, having lost at once father and commander
In the person of the divine Deus,
Did not cast aside his shield and sword, nor shed his plate,
But only fights now with greater fury —
Ifilla's monsters' blood flows like a river
When orphaned warriors,
In the fog of sacred battle-fury,
Hack off their heads and limbs,
And the stinking corpses of unclean spawn
Rise like a tombstone spire into a mound —
Thus the courage of Rumior's warriors
Only blossomed, like roses in the spring.
Koymadzhi has fallen! Woe to all Tezothians!
But mourning does not befit sons of battle —
When a mighty soul leaves the body,
It beholds the funeral games; they are worthier,
More pleasing to it than tears and mournful songs
That will be sung for the repose in Tezoth.

Many miles east of that battle,
In the wondrous and beautiful Kisgilt palace,
There grew a youth as yet unknown to us,
Whom his parents named Ambrose.
His father was a wealthy merchant
Dealing in living goods, much respected in Kisgilt,
Renowned for his wits and business acumen —
But timid; into battle he would not set a foot.
And his mother was a famed beauty
Of a glorious lineage. That line traced its roots
To the kings of the East; Tsar Sovaka
Was a distant kinsman to her.
Of the brothers, Ambrose was the youngest.
To trade affairs, to counting and to papers
He was a stranger from childhood. He spent
More time under his grandfather's tutelage
Than in helping his father. Stout
Bogud, wise with gray hairs,
Was a connoisseur of wondrous tales, and in his grandson
He found the best of listeners.

Having but a daughter, he taught Ambrose
As if he fancied him his heir:
Meager is the inheritance of younger sons —
Such is the custom of all noble families.
To leave the threshold of your father's house
You will have to, and at the soonest time.
You are made of splendid metal,
A scion of Afezeria's kings.
Your grandfather — I speak of myself — in years gone by
Counted slain enemies by the tens
And by the hundreds — captive slaves and slave-girls
He took in distant campaigns.
And of the deeds of my grandfather and my grandfather's grandfather,
The tale would have to be told until the morning.
But a sword is useless when a skilled smith
Does not give the steel the needed form, does not sharpen
Its blade for glorious hewing.
As a sword is forged, so I teach you,
That you may be strong, flexible, and deadly.
To the peaks of honor, the martial art
Leads by the straightest road.
And so here are the first pieces of advice:
To the best of your ability, spare your horse —
Only a barefoot churl fights on foot.
As for weapons — hold to the same
As holds true for women: the more, the better —
But often even one suffices.
Just as among faithful wives there is always one
More important than all the rest and dearer to the heart,
So among swords and spears, bows and maces,
One weapon is ever closest to the knight.
Do not hold plate armor in contempt —
For a dead man cannot achieve victory.
And leave the shield to the cowardly sons of the south.
Grip your weapon with both hands,
Strike the foe, shatter his armor, and wound
His spirit simultaneously with his body.
As soon as the fight begins, take a mighty run-up
And be the first to plunge into the enemy's ranks.
Thus you shall surely attain martial glory.

And now it is time for me to tell you
How to comport yourself in peaceful life,
Where every step threatens with sly force,
And a word can summon an avalanche in an instant.
Yes! Many a glorious warrior
Was undone not by monsters and not by spears —
Some were ruined by forbidden fruits,
Others perished from an evil chest.
And how many were willingly deceived,
Taking the eternal sweet poison of women —
The curse that is called love —
Which, surer than all else, leads to death.
And here an old man's precepts are powerless —
There is no key to salvation, nor will there ever be.

But there are simple truths. Remember:
In a foreign land or your own — it matters not —
When you do not know how to act,
Find with your eyes a valiant man
Clothed in indisputable respect,
And in all things act as he does,
Until you understand the local rules.
In Tezoth they hold strong prejudice against us —
The patterns upon our bodies frighten the southerner,
And the legacy of ancient Afezeria
Arouses suspicion in their souls.
But take pride in your lineage! At dawn
Aconia bestows her blessing
Upon us before all other peoples.
And the glory of our royal ancestors to this day
Lives not in stone, but in human hearts.
Be harmless in appearance, terrible in deed,
Quiet in words, wild in mind and heart.
Do not even think of studying scholarly books!
Far better are the glorious tales
Of past heroes and gods
Than all manner of bourgeois sciences —
They are fit only for old men past thirty,
When the soul is callous and the idle mind
Is ready to lose itself in learned heresy.
Thus the wise grandfather instructs his grandson.

And now the time has come for the tales to meet —
The tales of the brave warriors of Rumior
And of the unknown young Ambrose.
The Tezothian warriors enter Kisgilt,
Having traversed many miles through the steppes,
Covered in road dust from head to toe,
With weapons stained by monster blood,
With grief for their fallen lord
Upon their noble faces — a wondrous marvel
They seemed to the sons of the dawn.
The old chieftain comes out to meet the guests,
Not yet knowing his coming fate.
"Why have you come here?" — he asks with pride.
And the commander of the Tezothian warriors
Answers him: "For your life and for your royal title."
Scarcely had the chieftain of Kisgilt time
To furrow his brows in bewilderment, when in that same instant
The mighty knight draws his sword —
In a flash, like lightning, it gleams
And severs the feeble neck.
To the silent approval of all,
Blood streams from the severed head,
Staining the surcoat of the Tezothian leader,
Abundantly watering the rose that blooms
Upon the coat of arms of Rumior. Nothing adorns
A man so well as the blood of his enemy
When it rushes along his right arm,
Spreading in a crimson path at his feet.
The Kisgiltians bow in reverence
Before their new leader: there is no other right
Than the right of the strong, and the renowned knight
May rule here until the end of his days.

"They must be gods?" — asks
Ambrose, impressed by the sight of the execution.
"I have never seen such mighty blows
Before, nor met such glorious warriors."
Here two Tezothians chanced to hear him
And the warriors laughed good-naturedly
At such naivety from the youth.
"Oh no, not gods. The divine Koymadzhi
Left us five days ago,
In a great battle with the monsters of Ifilla.
Now Sir Rumior, Koymadzhi's faithful knight,
Leads us to a new life, to new glory.
By your noble bearing and your clothes
I see you are not of the common folk,"
Answered the elder of the warriors.
"I am Roderick, and this is my son Berisad.
Now, by all laws of heaven and earth,
You are obliged to give us your name in return."
"I am called Ambrose, of the Turbon clan,
To which I have the honor to belong.
It is much respected in Kisgilt, though in martial glory
It yields greatly to you."
"Let us be acquainted," — firmly the younger
Shakes Ambrose's hand.
Scarcely twenty years had the Tezothian seen,
Yet even then, without shaming his father,
He followed him on distant campaigns.
"We have firmly resolved to settle here.
It is useful for us to make acquaintances
With sons of the local nobility, so that in peace
And to mutual benefit we may rule this clan together,
To the glory of Lord Rumior."

II

Slowly the years passed; in that time firmly
Ambrose befriended the foreigners.
Their tales of the valiant Koymadzhi,
Of Kanamia's splendor, of Olivus's groves,
Of Albus's various orders,
And of other things wondrous and strange
Contained within Tezoth — as if even
One province holds more curiosities
Than the entire East. Of course,
The heritage of his native land with passion
In those conversations did Ambrose defend —
But however a man may honor his homeland's lands,
Distant climes always beckon him.

Dear to us are the spring storms of the steppes
When in the night the feather-grass bows its head low
And the lightning's glint in the depths of the eyes
Shines brighter than the stars in the firmament.
Welcome to the heart is the wild sight of horses
Galloping fiercely across the field,
And the raging wind is warmer to us
Than the touch of the bright sun in the south.
But in our homeland we cannot find happiness,
And the distant shore that ever beckons us
Will give us no respite, for the foul weather
Will always abide in the depths of the soul.

Ambrose's father had by then passed away,
And the Tezothians' home had become
Ambrose's own over those years. The tales of a foreign land
Captivated the young Kisgiltian's heart.
He spent his nights reading foreign books,
And by day he labored in the martial arts
Under Roderick's strict instruction —
He thrust with the spear on horseback, and exhausting his body,
He marched miles in heavy armor.
And Berisad, his elder comrade, encouraged
Ambrose in that martial striving.
When the latter reached maturity,
Honoring the custom of his Tezothian sworn brothers,
He presented a spear to his named brother
And received in return a damask steel sword.
And by the ancient law, a magical pattern
Sealed their sacred bond of friendship.
And a year later, a Tezothian took
The Kisgiltian's sister as his wife, and kinship ties
From then on bound their families forever.
From then on the sworn brothers went together
On raids for slaves and plunder,
Despising trade and cunning,
And fiercely condemning all usurers
Who, without lifting a finger, will drive to the noose or chains
Anyone who ever takes a loan —
Only those slaves did they truly consider their own
Whom they had won by force.
The kite does not buy its dinner from hares.
Despicable is he who is weaker than his servants.
Wealth is vanity, and the ranks of the wretched,
With yokes upon their necks and not a coin in their pockets,
A powerless rich man can swell in an instant.

Humble and honest was the life of those sworn brothers.
With the coming of spring, by custom,
They led the worthiest of Kisgiltians
On a glorious outing for plunder —
Sometimes on two legs, sometimes gleaming —
Not forgetting Lord Rumior,
To whom half was due.
In winter and autumn they remained in Kisgilt,
Spending hours and days in righteous and good leisure.
Above all arts,
Excepting only the martial ones, of course,
The warrior Ambrose held secular literature in esteem.
Thus he would sometimes say: great is Tezoth —
A lifetime would not suffice to fully comprehend
All the mysteries of this world; how splendid
That books contain many lives.
And wise Berisad turned his soul not to secular knowledge
But to the secret and occult —
Though thin is the line between the Deuses (their teaching
And the songs of their valiant deeds).
The favorite innocent amusement
Of those warriors was to pit two of their slaves —
One from each — against each other in a fight to the death,
Honoring the ancient customs of kings.
That duel was good sport and a delight to the soul, and the victor in it,
Besides glory, gained his freedom — for it is ill
For a fierce lion to languish in captivity.

Everything changed in that ill-fated campaign
Of the spring of the year two hundred, ninety,
And four more. Then
Only two warriors from Kisgilt remained —
Ambrose and Berisad. Still,
Their plunder was rich. Slaves,
Numbering just under a hundred, they had captured.
They drove them across the steppes of the East,
Fleeing pursuit, putting the whips to use,
To return home all the sooner.

And suddenly, through the morning mist, there emerges
The silhouette of a monstrous beast —
Three maws, wings, legs beyond count.
Only the lands of Regret could have birthed such a thing.
But how that monster wandered deep into the steppe —
That is a riddle. Berisad without delay
(He walked first in that grim caravan)
Spurred his horse and attacked
The monster. With a single blow
He hewed off one of its three heads.
But before he could strike a second,
He was knocked from his horse and cruelly pierced
By the monster's fangs. The warrior's body went limp.
Ambrose then charges boldly after him —
But here the slaves conceived an escape.
The monstrous chain, like a centipede,
Strains away from its master,
And stumbling, and crushing one another,
Clanking with their shackles ceaselessly,
They run back to where they came from.
Now the young knight must make
A difficult choice: vengeance for his brother
Or many hundreds of gold in slaves.
He hesitates not long: in brave souls
The decision is born together with the action.
Let the despicable slaves flee!
The knight Ambrose will rather join the fray
Against the monstrous chimera in the steppe.
His faithful horse fears not the monster, and again and again
Ambrose valiantly attacks the monster,
And having delivered a mighty ramming thrust,
Nimbly retreats for the next.
The monster's head is already pierced,
Its ribcage stabbed through like a colander,
Blood seeps from the holes —
Yet the creature continues the fight,
Until our knight Ambrose deftly
Drives his spear deep into its belly.
The guts, like worms, gushed forth —
Clearly the beast was no stranger to gluttony,
Since its pierced paunch could not contain
The entrails filled with stinking matter...

Ambrose makes his way to his native Kisgilt,
Bearing with him, instead of slaves and gold,
A grievous burden — his brother's body,
Tied to his horse. Ambrose is met
By the honorable Roderick the father,
As if he already sensed that that campaign
Had ended not in glory. And, having heard the story,
The gray-haired warrior answered Ambrose thus:
"I know I have no right to blame you,
But your presence is a burden to me.
As the part reminds us of the whole,
So the living brother reminds us of the departed one.
At the sight of a warrior so like my son,
The pain of loss again gnaws at my heart.
And so I bless you for your deeds —
But in my house I wish to see you no more."

III

Having bid farewell to his kin, having buried his sworn brother,
The warrior Ambrose sets his course southward,
By the sea road. The harder the path,
The lighter the burden of the past; the brighter
The pictures of the future appear.
When seasickness overcomes the warrior,
It is quite out of place to recall what was —
And through the waves and the sea's breakers
The horizon will seem clearer to us
Than the day-after-day monotonous scenes
Of settled life, where a man sees only emptiness
In every sunset,
And at every dawn relives again and again
The grief of years gone by.

Our hero makes straight for the capital.
He knows well from hearsay
Both Kanamia's splendor and the Deus's generosity.
Ambrose is ready to serve here honestly.
He rides toward the gates of Tezoth —
And it was autumn; the ground
Was thoroughly soaked by rains, and along the road
There were plenty of puddles. The gates are already near,
The faces of the city guards are already discernible,
When a rider emerges from those gates,
Riding briskly in Ambrose's direction.
"Out of the way, despicable churl!
Make way for a knight!"
Thus cries the nameless horseman —
In no way resembling Sir Rumior —
In face, in armor, or in manner.
The Kisgiltian knight's heart blazed with fury,
And he answered the cavalier boldly:
"With your indecent speech,
You are unworthy to sweep even the crumbs
From a lord's table. What kind of knight are you,
When you resemble a boar in looks,
In brazen grunting, and in your bloated face?
I will not yield an inch of the road!"
Mutual insults there were beyond count,
And no peaceful resolution would be had.
The riders resolved to take up their spears
To settle their dispute. The capital's guards
Hastened to intervene —
But a man on foot cannot catch a horseman!
And so the Kisgiltian and the Tezothian clash —
The knight Ambrose proved the nimbler:
He aimed his spear true at the scoundrel's chest,
While the mighty foe's own spear only
Glanced off his shoulder. Like a cork from a bottle,
The knight pops out of his saddle,
Soiling his armor in the road's mud
And defiling his honor forever.
"Had enough? I am ready
To repeat the lesson," Ambrose asked.

But here a gray-haired knight intervened,
Riding out of the capital after the guards.
His voice was like thunder,
Mighty was his stature, noble his countenance.
Ambrose was readily prepared to heed him,
Recalling the wisdom of his grandfather.
"Enough! What is happening here?
I see a young barbarian from the steppes
Has rolled in the mud and publicly shamed
A servant of Mariarnelia.
Whatever the cause of the quarrel,
You, knight, will surely lose your title.
What is your name, foreign newcomer?"
In reverence the Kisgiltian bows low
His wild head before the honored elder
And answers: "I am called Ambrose.
Turbon is my clan. I have come from Kisgilt,
And I intend to serve glorious Tezoth
To the best of my strength." — "No small strength!"
The gray-mustached knight laughs good-naturedly.
"When your aspiration is such, perhaps
A place will be found for you among us.
Back, guards of the capital! We are done here —
I vouch for the youth. Let him for now
Serve under my watchful eye,
Set right the wrongs in the kingdom,
And do some fighting on the northern border.
With that, this incident is settled!"

Three years passed. Many adventures
The warrior of Kisgilt lived through in Tezoth.
My tale would grow overly long —
Such things are written over years.
And so let us proceed to the moment
When, for his honest service,
The knight Ambrose received the highest reward
From the mistress of the world,
The lady of all eyes and souls,
The gracious daughter of the divine father.
Whoever has been deemed worthy but to glimpse
The ruler before whom light itself —
And heavenly light — dims, knows well
How high is the honor of a knight of the capital.
In the beautiful gilded throne hall
Eighteen worthy men had gathered,
Ready to welcome a brother into their midst.
Aconia the goddess shed heavenly light
Abundantly through the stained glass.
Mariarnelia the sovereign was that day
Twice beautiful, thrice majestic.
He fell to his knees, and in that moment
All former aspirations dimmed within his soul.
And all the past seemed but a brief step —
Though the first step is always the hardest of all —
Only from this moment did Sir Ambrose
Truly begin to live.
Outwardly the same, a new man within,
He humbly swore his oath of fealty.
May he prove worthy of his lady,
And may men take example from him
Who have devoted themselves to the martial cause.
A beautiful bow is useless while a skilled archer
Has not set it a target —
It will wither while it does not prove its strength in deed
In experienced hands.
And a mighty man, glorious in battle,
Wastes away under the power of an evil djinn
When he finds no master for himself —
Neither in his own soul nor in a kindred one.

The Knight Ambrose Turbon of Kisgilt, servant of Deus Mariarnelia as of today, set down his quill. He did not like the result, but he did not wish to endure a third sleepless night.

"I will think about it tomorrow."

The first peak should be 600 in height, and the other two 200 — but is that really so?

Yes, from your phone's signature, it's clear that the forum still needs a lot of work.

And I haven't even started making columns or messing with fonts yet...

Got it, he'll be killed by an envious poet-assassin.

From my phone, it looks tolerable, by the way. With Nebos, for example, images over text fit into the table.

By the way, if Nebo fixes the formatting from a computer, I'd be grateful.

I look at you all, brilliant writers, and I feel "out of my element"...:🙁

No one really started out that way. Others honed their skills with text-based games. Although reading books helps a lot here too.

Ples basically said it — we started with minimalist profiles, like stats, a picture, and that's it. Once we got the hang of it, that's when the heroes and their stories started to gain flesh, because it's more interesting that way.

And if before we were really obsessed with numbers and imba builds, personally I'm now planning to play more chill with detailed roleplay. And if my heroine gets killed, well, unlucky, see you next time.