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In The Fyres of Struggle (A Discworld Quest)
- Thread starter The Laurent
- Start date
- Fantasy
[X] Try to appeal to the Duke's arrogance and take him on one on one and cheat like a motherfucker.
When else is Vimes going to get to fight his father-in-law as is right and proper?
When else is Vimes going to get to fight his father-in-law as is right and proper?
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Vote closes tomorrow night!
- Location
- Somewhere
Is this Lord Ramkin?
And will fighting Lord Ramkin directly cause problems for Keel's revolution?
The Ramkins are not the decadent arrogant nobles.
They're the Very Good At Kill nobles
OffBrandANON
eldritch horror, pink flamingo
- Location
- California, USA
- Pronouns
- She/Her/They/Them
[X] Try to appeal to the Duke's arrogance and take him on one on one and cheat like a motherfucker.
Don't put them in a box. They can be both.
- Location
- St. Petersburg
[x] Try to appeal to the Duke's arrogance and take him on one on one and cheat like a motherfucker.
- Location
- Wörms, the half continent
[X] Try to start some chaos and then… maybe it's time to tell Vetinari and a few others to do their thing and go ahead?
The Ramkins were the kind of nobles who were actually very good at war. Sure, they don't win all the time, but Sybil is expressly called out as being rather muscular because that's just what Ramkins are like. Let's not try to cheat with a noble who's probably also not above cheating.
The Ramkins were the kind of nobles who were actually very good at war. Sure, they don't win all the time, but Sybil is expressly called out as being rather muscular because that's just what Ramkins are like. Let's not try to cheat with a noble who's probably also not above cheating.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Sorry, vote's closed! I'll be updating in a bit... but Estro is very right about the value of cheating sometimes.
The Code of Chivalry (Midnight, May 29th)
- Pronouns
- They/Them
The Code of Chivalry (Midnight, May 29th)
Every set of morals has an escape clause, it's all but inevitable, really. Thou shall not kill, unless they're heathens, heretics, or people who leave the seat up in a large and busy household. Honor thy mother and father, but perhaps if they tell you to bury a body you should at least ask for a cut of the profits first. The world exists full of exceptions to every code because there are moments in which one needs to spit on their hands and be ready to get them dirty.
Chivalry had a simple rule: it was a gentleman's club.
******
"I am 'That Keel man' and I suppose I might as well challenge you to a duel."
"A… duel?" one of the nobles said. Vimes couldn't make out who he was in the dark, except that he definitely had both several chins too many and one too few and looked as if the only duel he was ready for was competitive eating.
"Marquis of Fantailler rules if we're going dukes up, rules of chivalry if we're using a sword," Vimes suggested, putting himself into an approximation of the stupidest stance imaginable. His back was straight, his chest was thrust out in manful pride, and his fists were upraised. He then reached out and drew his sword, again taking a pose most notable for how entirely useless it was when you were actually fighting.
He didn't intend to follow the rules for one second longer than he needed. The Ramkins were dangerous men (and women), at least historically, but that didn't that he wasn't a match for old Lord Ramkin.
He had to admit, deep down in the baser parts of his psyche, that the idea of being able to punch the bloody bastard was very, very tempting. He didn't want to kill the man, not really, but a good kick in the todgers would do someone like him very nicely.
"And why would I duel rather than just defeat you ruffians?"
"Can you?" Vimes asked, with a rictus of feigned arrogance. "Defeat all of us, and then somehow break out against overwhelming numbers to… what, fight and die for Lord Snapcase? I heard what you were saying. You want out to go looking for your King, right? So, if I lose I surrender myself, and you can parade me around and see if the revolution dies… and you can get passage out of here, hold me as a hostage to get beyond the city gates. Or if I win, you all surrender, nobody has to die, there's going to be no executions out of hand, and probably not at all. Because even if we fight and you kill me, how does that get you to the once and future King, really?"
Vimes knew he was talking quite a lot. Action was generally better than long speeches and pretty words, but he needed to draw him in. He could see that Lord Ramkin was thinking about it, considering his options. "A duel… what are the conditions, then?"
"Third blood?" Vimes insisted. First blood meant that a cheap shot could win, but it also meant that a bit of bad luck could see this all fall apart.
"No, until surrender… or a blade to the throat," Ramkin insisted, glowering at him. "I won't have you plink away at me with a few small cuts and then run away before I can get through that armor."
"Very well," Vimes said, willing to agree to anything as long as he could look from one of his men to the other. Vetinari, especially, tensed a little bit. Clearly Vetinari understood that this was going to be a fair fight right up until the point where someone got kicked hard in somewhere private, at which point it would become a brawl. But if he could get his men in among the other person's men, line them all up for some crossbow shots and a few friendly stabs, it'd make things a lot easier.
The men began shifting, the game immediately changing.
Even those who had some cause for hurry wanted to see a fight, and so the men lined up, kinda building a circle of pushing and shoving and glaring humanity, mixing in with each other in the drive to get to a good position for an unfriendly shove or two. Lord Ramkin drew up to his full height, which was rather fuller than that of Vimes. He was a tall, big man with the kind of build that would either get you killed in a dark alley or make you the one killing in that dark alley. He wasn't quite as big as some of the human versions of Trolls who Vimes tangled with, though, and his stance was a little familiar.
If Vimes had to guess, he too was used to just hacking away however he could, albeit probably on horseback, and so the fancy poses of a duelist were not normal for him. Or at least, if they were then Vimes hadn't seen enough duelists. "Ready… begin," a servant called out, and Lord Ramkin stepped forward and moved to stab at him. Vimes slipped forward and aimed a punch at his stomach…only to be caught in a slap of all things by Lord Ramkin. He stumbled back, his hit having only halfway gone straight to Ramkin's belly.
The Lord winced, but grinned.
"You slapped me," Vimes said, a little shocked.
"Chivalry doesn't apply to an upjumped copper, and besides: it's an official move. Never fought anyone who wasn't a prancing little lord taught the show version of the duelist's handbook, have you? A real duelist kills people, and does it with all the power and ferocity of the strongest men who hold the world together." He was talking slowly, carefully, clearly trying not to get out of breath as he placed both hands back on the sword's hilt. "A copper like you, who goes for low blows because that's all you can reach. But a noble? They're made of sterner stuff. This is a fight to the death, boy."
Vimes had not been called boy for decades, and he was starting to get the idea of just why everyone had been so scared of this man, why at his funeral everyone had shown up just to make sure that he was actually dead.
This was a man who had strode like a titan across the stage of Ankh Morpork politics despite his lack of anything like an original idea. In favor of that he'd had bloody-minded viciousness, grasping desire for power, and an odd sort of morality that came from the sort of person who could define what moral meant. The man was smiling now, no doubt imagining his death.
Vimes knew he could not surrender even if he wanted to. Vimes straightened and strode forward trying a cut and already shifting to parry a counter-attack. But Ramkin was fast, and he had the vicious cunning of someone who could, for instance, try to sweep his legs with a knee while driving forward and make it feel like there was a book somewhere that suggested it.
Maybe it should have been fisticuffs instead, because Vimes stumbled back as Ramkin drove in, the blows ringing against Vimes' armor. It might have been old and a little dented, but it was good armor and while the places where it was thin were obvious, and the places to kill Vimes were too… Ramkin just couldn't quite manage to hit them. Yet. At the speed he was working he'd get one sooner or later and then that'd be it.
Vimes needed to cheat if he was going to win, but that was easier said than done. He looked at the other man and then back at the excited crowds. It was a show to them, he knew that much already. It probably was to his own men as well as he worked his way forward. For a moment there was just the usual slashing and parrying, and then he kneed Ramkin right in the family jewels… and winced.
His knee slammed into a hard codpiece, and as he was hopping around Ramkin punched him again right in the throat, a simple, straightforward punch that sent him reeling back like an actor playing off a hit.
But damn, damn, damn, that man could hit.
Vimes coughed and felt the sting of blood coming up. He did not sway as he stood back up. He was not going to die here. He was not going to die fighting some overstuffed old man with a vicious streak a mile long. He'd survived Carcer, he'd survived everything he'd believed in being upended several times in the last few days. He was going to survive and go back home and kiss Sybil and hold this codger's grandson and there was nothing he could do about it. Vimes rose up and tried to think. It wasn't enough to try a dirty trick, it wasn't enough to just treat him like he did the average chinless wonder in charge of the city.
"So, dog, do you know your place yet?" Lord Ramkin asked.
Vimes didn't talk, because something in him was boiling, some combination of monster and hero. The Inner Watchman was silent, thoughtful, and the Beast had backup now. In this dim throneroom, where once a King had sat and delivered what he called justice.
But Vimes held back the Beast, but for a different reason than before. In what felt like forever ago he'd held back the Beast because he didn't want to kill Carcer. Now, he realized something.
He'd been thinking about this wrong, had let the kinds of lies that you just grew up told as a child get to him.
He wasn't one of those fools that believed the Good Guys always won, or even that there was always some set of good guys that everyone could agree on. But between his education on the streets and all the stories of strong men, he'd made a mistake somewhere.
The ruthless who would do anything did not matter as much as those who would do exactly what they needed to do and nothing more. It was impossible to tell, the world was too muddled and confused, but he'd thought he could beat anyone he faced because he didn't play fair and he didn't play nice when it came down to a knockdown, drag-out fight.
And he was almost right. He'd beaten Carcer and Find-The-Swing and all manner of monsters and crooks and back-alley brawlers who could lay out a half-dozen men with a single swing of their mighty fists.
He'd been coasting on that for far too long. Now, panting, he actually looked at Lord Ramkin and tried to evaluate just what the man was doing. He had to have a weak spot, and it wasn't any of the usual grabs and slams, any of the little tricks you picked up as a Copper and which worked nine times out of ten.
Lord Ramkin was older than him, and that meant that in a way… he had to think about what would be happening to him.
When he looked, he started to see it. Ramkin was favoring one side even though all Vimes had delivered were a few glancing blows here and there. He was not breathing heavily, but he was looking rather red in the face despite the fact that he really should be grinning and joking around right about now.
Vimes had been outmatched before. Wolfgang, a werewolf in Uberwalf, had never been even once physically threatened by Vimes' sword. Sometimes it really was best to just keep on looking for tricks and ways around the enemy, no matter how unlikely. Sometimes it was worth it to just keep on searching for slim chances of survival and taking them one after another.
But he could beat Lord Ramkin more or less fair and more or less square, he realized. It just wouldn't be easy. But there was no trick he could rely on which wouldn't hurt him more than it did Lord Ramkin.
Not when Vetinari couldn't quite get a good angle for an attack. He could see Vetinari moving, eyes flicking as if he was judging the distances and the likelihood that a thrown knife could end this. Vimes shook his head and advanced. This time he withdrew the moment Lord Ramkin began throwing around vicious slashes, focusing on parrying and defense. If Vimes was good at anything with a blade, it was holding his own, because you sometimes had to fight someone off until you had a chance to cuff them or do what needed to be done.
He danced around, and while he wasn't the spriest he was a little faster than Lord Ramkin. Ramkin sped up a bit to try to catch him, and Vimes didn't let himself get distracted.
"You're better… than I thought, Keel," Ramkin panted, his voice coming off choked. "But you'll have to hit me eventually."
No, he didn't. He was sweating heavily too. They were two men past their prime, but Vimes could go longer. He was powered by coffee and bad nights which dragged on and on and required him to keep on finding the disgusting dregs of his will to swallow down and wish they were a little better.
Vimes danced around a little longer and then started trying for a few glancing blows, just forcing Lord Ramkin to work for it. Then he found his moment, and drove in, after two minutes of fighting which left the crowd just staring… because it wasn't an exciting fight. Vimes was not dying and neither was Lord Ramkin. Finally, he just slapped Ramkin's left knee with his sword and the man toppled slowly to one knee.
"Boy… you don't know what you're messing with." Even panting, Ramkin sounded deadly and Vimes were sure if he'd gone in for a winning blow instead of dancing around and playing fair and boring and slow… he'd be dead by now.
"Surrender," Vimes said, though he wasn't sure how he could get someone to do so when they were Lord Ramkin.
With a roar, the exhausted man pulled out his own last reserves and tackled Vimes.
And then they started battling like schoolboys as chaos broke loose.
Nonethless, Lord Snapcase is doomed… but how?
[] Suspecting a Royalist plot, Snapcase shows up with a few of his guards to stop it… leading to both sides turning on a mutual enemy.
[] Woken up by the fighting and noise, Lord Snapcase demands food… and someone, someone unknown, poisons him.
[] Vetinari takes his chances and heads off to deal with Lord Snapcase… one way or another.
[] Write-in, irony and humor are appreciated for this.
******
A/N: Sometimes cheating isn't the best idea
Every set of morals has an escape clause, it's all but inevitable, really. Thou shall not kill, unless they're heathens, heretics, or people who leave the seat up in a large and busy household. Honor thy mother and father, but perhaps if they tell you to bury a body you should at least ask for a cut of the profits first. The world exists full of exceptions to every code because there are moments in which one needs to spit on their hands and be ready to get them dirty.
Chivalry had a simple rule: it was a gentleman's club.
******
"I am 'That Keel man' and I suppose I might as well challenge you to a duel."
"A… duel?" one of the nobles said. Vimes couldn't make out who he was in the dark, except that he definitely had both several chins too many and one too few and looked as if the only duel he was ready for was competitive eating.
"Marquis of Fantailler rules if we're going dukes up, rules of chivalry if we're using a sword," Vimes suggested, putting himself into an approximation of the stupidest stance imaginable. His back was straight, his chest was thrust out in manful pride, and his fists were upraised. He then reached out and drew his sword, again taking a pose most notable for how entirely useless it was when you were actually fighting.
He didn't intend to follow the rules for one second longer than he needed. The Ramkins were dangerous men (and women), at least historically, but that didn't that he wasn't a match for old Lord Ramkin.
He had to admit, deep down in the baser parts of his psyche, that the idea of being able to punch the bloody bastard was very, very tempting. He didn't want to kill the man, not really, but a good kick in the todgers would do someone like him very nicely.
"And why would I duel rather than just defeat you ruffians?"
"Can you?" Vimes asked, with a rictus of feigned arrogance. "Defeat all of us, and then somehow break out against overwhelming numbers to… what, fight and die for Lord Snapcase? I heard what you were saying. You want out to go looking for your King, right? So, if I lose I surrender myself, and you can parade me around and see if the revolution dies… and you can get passage out of here, hold me as a hostage to get beyond the city gates. Or if I win, you all surrender, nobody has to die, there's going to be no executions out of hand, and probably not at all. Because even if we fight and you kill me, how does that get you to the once and future King, really?"
Vimes knew he was talking quite a lot. Action was generally better than long speeches and pretty words, but he needed to draw him in. He could see that Lord Ramkin was thinking about it, considering his options. "A duel… what are the conditions, then?"
"Third blood?" Vimes insisted. First blood meant that a cheap shot could win, but it also meant that a bit of bad luck could see this all fall apart.
"No, until surrender… or a blade to the throat," Ramkin insisted, glowering at him. "I won't have you plink away at me with a few small cuts and then run away before I can get through that armor."
"Very well," Vimes said, willing to agree to anything as long as he could look from one of his men to the other. Vetinari, especially, tensed a little bit. Clearly Vetinari understood that this was going to be a fair fight right up until the point where someone got kicked hard in somewhere private, at which point it would become a brawl. But if he could get his men in among the other person's men, line them all up for some crossbow shots and a few friendly stabs, it'd make things a lot easier.
The men began shifting, the game immediately changing.
Even those who had some cause for hurry wanted to see a fight, and so the men lined up, kinda building a circle of pushing and shoving and glaring humanity, mixing in with each other in the drive to get to a good position for an unfriendly shove or two. Lord Ramkin drew up to his full height, which was rather fuller than that of Vimes. He was a tall, big man with the kind of build that would either get you killed in a dark alley or make you the one killing in that dark alley. He wasn't quite as big as some of the human versions of Trolls who Vimes tangled with, though, and his stance was a little familiar.
If Vimes had to guess, he too was used to just hacking away however he could, albeit probably on horseback, and so the fancy poses of a duelist were not normal for him. Or at least, if they were then Vimes hadn't seen enough duelists. "Ready… begin," a servant called out, and Lord Ramkin stepped forward and moved to stab at him. Vimes slipped forward and aimed a punch at his stomach…only to be caught in a slap of all things by Lord Ramkin. He stumbled back, his hit having only halfway gone straight to Ramkin's belly.
The Lord winced, but grinned.
"You slapped me," Vimes said, a little shocked.
"Chivalry doesn't apply to an upjumped copper, and besides: it's an official move. Never fought anyone who wasn't a prancing little lord taught the show version of the duelist's handbook, have you? A real duelist kills people, and does it with all the power and ferocity of the strongest men who hold the world together." He was talking slowly, carefully, clearly trying not to get out of breath as he placed both hands back on the sword's hilt. "A copper like you, who goes for low blows because that's all you can reach. But a noble? They're made of sterner stuff. This is a fight to the death, boy."
Vimes had not been called boy for decades, and he was starting to get the idea of just why everyone had been so scared of this man, why at his funeral everyone had shown up just to make sure that he was actually dead.
This was a man who had strode like a titan across the stage of Ankh Morpork politics despite his lack of anything like an original idea. In favor of that he'd had bloody-minded viciousness, grasping desire for power, and an odd sort of morality that came from the sort of person who could define what moral meant. The man was smiling now, no doubt imagining his death.
Vimes knew he could not surrender even if he wanted to. Vimes straightened and strode forward trying a cut and already shifting to parry a counter-attack. But Ramkin was fast, and he had the vicious cunning of someone who could, for instance, try to sweep his legs with a knee while driving forward and make it feel like there was a book somewhere that suggested it.
Maybe it should have been fisticuffs instead, because Vimes stumbled back as Ramkin drove in, the blows ringing against Vimes' armor. It might have been old and a little dented, but it was good armor and while the places where it was thin were obvious, and the places to kill Vimes were too… Ramkin just couldn't quite manage to hit them. Yet. At the speed he was working he'd get one sooner or later and then that'd be it.
Vimes needed to cheat if he was going to win, but that was easier said than done. He looked at the other man and then back at the excited crowds. It was a show to them, he knew that much already. It probably was to his own men as well as he worked his way forward. For a moment there was just the usual slashing and parrying, and then he kneed Ramkin right in the family jewels… and winced.
His knee slammed into a hard codpiece, and as he was hopping around Ramkin punched him again right in the throat, a simple, straightforward punch that sent him reeling back like an actor playing off a hit.
But damn, damn, damn, that man could hit.
Vimes coughed and felt the sting of blood coming up. He did not sway as he stood back up. He was not going to die here. He was not going to die fighting some overstuffed old man with a vicious streak a mile long. He'd survived Carcer, he'd survived everything he'd believed in being upended several times in the last few days. He was going to survive and go back home and kiss Sybil and hold this codger's grandson and there was nothing he could do about it. Vimes rose up and tried to think. It wasn't enough to try a dirty trick, it wasn't enough to just treat him like he did the average chinless wonder in charge of the city.
"So, dog, do you know your place yet?" Lord Ramkin asked.
Vimes didn't talk, because something in him was boiling, some combination of monster and hero. The Inner Watchman was silent, thoughtful, and the Beast had backup now. In this dim throneroom, where once a King had sat and delivered what he called justice.
But Vimes held back the Beast, but for a different reason than before. In what felt like forever ago he'd held back the Beast because he didn't want to kill Carcer. Now, he realized something.
He'd been thinking about this wrong, had let the kinds of lies that you just grew up told as a child get to him.
He wasn't one of those fools that believed the Good Guys always won, or even that there was always some set of good guys that everyone could agree on. But between his education on the streets and all the stories of strong men, he'd made a mistake somewhere.
The ruthless who would do anything did not matter as much as those who would do exactly what they needed to do and nothing more. It was impossible to tell, the world was too muddled and confused, but he'd thought he could beat anyone he faced because he didn't play fair and he didn't play nice when it came down to a knockdown, drag-out fight.
And he was almost right. He'd beaten Carcer and Find-The-Swing and all manner of monsters and crooks and back-alley brawlers who could lay out a half-dozen men with a single swing of their mighty fists.
He'd been coasting on that for far too long. Now, panting, he actually looked at Lord Ramkin and tried to evaluate just what the man was doing. He had to have a weak spot, and it wasn't any of the usual grabs and slams, any of the little tricks you picked up as a Copper and which worked nine times out of ten.
Lord Ramkin was older than him, and that meant that in a way… he had to think about what would be happening to him.
When he looked, he started to see it. Ramkin was favoring one side even though all Vimes had delivered were a few glancing blows here and there. He was not breathing heavily, but he was looking rather red in the face despite the fact that he really should be grinning and joking around right about now.
Vimes had been outmatched before. Wolfgang, a werewolf in Uberwalf, had never been even once physically threatened by Vimes' sword. Sometimes it really was best to just keep on looking for tricks and ways around the enemy, no matter how unlikely. Sometimes it was worth it to just keep on searching for slim chances of survival and taking them one after another.
But he could beat Lord Ramkin more or less fair and more or less square, he realized. It just wouldn't be easy. But there was no trick he could rely on which wouldn't hurt him more than it did Lord Ramkin.
Not when Vetinari couldn't quite get a good angle for an attack. He could see Vetinari moving, eyes flicking as if he was judging the distances and the likelihood that a thrown knife could end this. Vimes shook his head and advanced. This time he withdrew the moment Lord Ramkin began throwing around vicious slashes, focusing on parrying and defense. If Vimes was good at anything with a blade, it was holding his own, because you sometimes had to fight someone off until you had a chance to cuff them or do what needed to be done.
He danced around, and while he wasn't the spriest he was a little faster than Lord Ramkin. Ramkin sped up a bit to try to catch him, and Vimes didn't let himself get distracted.
"You're better… than I thought, Keel," Ramkin panted, his voice coming off choked. "But you'll have to hit me eventually."
No, he didn't. He was sweating heavily too. They were two men past their prime, but Vimes could go longer. He was powered by coffee and bad nights which dragged on and on and required him to keep on finding the disgusting dregs of his will to swallow down and wish they were a little better.
Vimes danced around a little longer and then started trying for a few glancing blows, just forcing Lord Ramkin to work for it. Then he found his moment, and drove in, after two minutes of fighting which left the crowd just staring… because it wasn't an exciting fight. Vimes was not dying and neither was Lord Ramkin. Finally, he just slapped Ramkin's left knee with his sword and the man toppled slowly to one knee.
"Boy… you don't know what you're messing with." Even panting, Ramkin sounded deadly and Vimes were sure if he'd gone in for a winning blow instead of dancing around and playing fair and boring and slow… he'd be dead by now.
"Surrender," Vimes said, though he wasn't sure how he could get someone to do so when they were Lord Ramkin.
With a roar, the exhausted man pulled out his own last reserves and tackled Vimes.
And then they started battling like schoolboys as chaos broke loose.
Nonethless, Lord Snapcase is doomed… but how?
[] Suspecting a Royalist plot, Snapcase shows up with a few of his guards to stop it… leading to both sides turning on a mutual enemy.
[] Woken up by the fighting and noise, Lord Snapcase demands food… and someone, someone unknown, poisons him.
[] Vetinari takes his chances and heads off to deal with Lord Snapcase… one way or another.
[] Write-in, irony and humor are appreciated for this.
******
A/N: Sometimes cheating isn't the best idea
[X] Heart attack. All the stress got to him, in the end, you never needed to be here at all.
[X] One of the servants killed him. Some little nobody who the history books, and Snapcase would never think about.
[X] One of the servants killed him. Some little nobody who the history books, and Snapcase would never think about.
- Location
- Phoenix, Arizona
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Suspecting a Royalist plot, Snapcase shows up with a few of his guards to stop it… leading to both sides turning on a mutual enemy.
A 3-way brawl!
A 3-way brawl!
- Location
- Somewhere in the area
- Pronouns
- He/She/They
[X] Suspecting a Royalist plot, Snapcase shows up with a few of his guards to stop it… leading to both sides turning on a mutual enemy.
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
It would be really just deserts if Snapcase had in his own way been thinking of something of an exit strategy, insofar as he got really really creepily into the wizards and fireballs et al and figured he could use them as his superweapon to win everything forever after just a brief relocation to the Unseen University and letting Ankh-Morpork feel the lash of Keel and the mob for a bit before his new best friend the Archchancellor punished all the ingrates with these real exciting "dark arts" magics...
but before any of this sort of terrible sorcerous tyranny could fatefully sprout, some 5th level initiate in the secret fire/adjunct professor had something awaken in them after so many long years slumbering in academics and heavy breakfasts and was really getting into the spirit of things with reedy almost instinctual Oorah!s and twirling around and blowing the smoke off his arcane staff so much that he accidentally misfires and just disintegrates Snapcase right then and there, mid-deranged rant about burning all who would defy him.
but before any of this sort of terrible sorcerous tyranny could fatefully sprout, some 5th level initiate in the secret fire/adjunct professor had something awaken in them after so many long years slumbering in academics and heavy breakfasts and was really getting into the spirit of things with reedy almost instinctual Oorah!s and twirling around and blowing the smoke off his arcane staff so much that he accidentally misfires and just disintegrates Snapcase right then and there, mid-deranged rant about burning all who would defy him.
Regency
PFP by vanathema (previously yubishines)
- Location
- Morioh Town, Mt. Ebbot
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] One of the servants killed him. Some little nobody who the history books, and Snapcase would never think about.
Ouch
- Location
- Virginia
[X] Suspecting a Royalist plot, Snapcase shows up with a few of his guards to stop it… leading to both sides turning on a mutual enemy.
DracoDracul
Transbian Communist
- Location
- Austin
- Pronouns
- She/They
[X] One of the servants killed him. Some little nobody who the history books, and Snapcase would never think about.
