NationStates Jolt Archive

Captain Karkaret was tired of hauling around his loot. Karkaret's Raiders, his mercenary band of Marsh Elves, had travelled across the face of the earth, raiding, pillaging, and killing people for money, but now it was time to settle down. To that end, he had decided to build himself a fortress of stone, from which to oppress the tribes of the surrounding lands. It was time for Captain Karkaret to become King Karkaret.

He had marched his two-thousand strong warband through the marshes of Stickwood, and out into a new land beyond, far from his old enemies and rivals. Along the way, they had picked up plenty of slaves; humans, elves, goblins, and other races, to work on the fortress when they arrived. They had wandered for most of the summer, until they found a good site on high ground, with nearby quarriable stone, to begin constructing the fortress. Throughout the winter, the slaves had quarried stone and hauled it up to the site, and many had died from the harsh conditions and brutal treatment, but when the new spring arrived, they were ready to begin building.

The chosen ground for the fortress, which the band had already named 'Gravehill' because of all the dead slaves they had buried or impaled around it, was a wide, flat-topped hill overlooking marshes on one side. From the marshes, a broad, sluggish river headed out to the sea.

Karkaret had decided the first priority was the curtain wall and bailey, which was to be large enough that his entire warband could camp within it, along with the slave pens. By the end of the first year's building, the stone and timber wall was finished, standing fifteen feet high. Karkaret spent the winter in his temporary longhouse in the centre of the bailey, but he imagined the grand tower that he would have when Gravehill was finally complete.

-----

When the next spring came, slave shortages were beginning to tell. As food supplies dwindled, many of the slaves had starved. Karkaret called his aides, Ponuk and Grist, and the Shaman Gurgu to his longhouse.

"At this rate, the tower will take six years to build," Ponuk told him flatly, ducking automatically in case Karkaret threw something at him, "Five, if we push it, but the slaves might die even faster."

"I see," said Karkaret, frowning, "And what do we know about the surrounding lands?"

Grist steepled his fingers, "Well, sire, we haven't ventured far, because most of the warband were needed to watch the slaves or forage and hunt for food. The only people we've met so far were wanderers, who either couldn't speak Marsh tongue, or didn't know anything about these lands."

Gurgu the shaman spoke up, "I might be able to solve that problem. The spirits have given me guidance to make a potion that will give the drinker the gift of tongues. If I find the right ingredients in the marshes, I could make enough for the whole warband."

Karkaret shook his head, "Not the whole warband. The four of us, and the sergeants will be quite enough. If the rank and file can't speak the local lingo, then they can't give away secrets, or go behind my back."

"As you wish," said Gurgu, "I will send my acolytes out into the marshes to gather the ingredients at once."

"And what would you have us do?" asked Ponuk.

Karkaret looked out the longhouse window at the camp, where most of his warband were sitting idle. "Send out some scouting parties, to try and find out who lives around here. Tell them not to come back until they can report a source of food or slaves."

-----

OOC
Okay, this thread is a sort of tribal/fantasy type thing, with more of a pre-medieval iron-age tech-level, so no modern tech or anything like that. I'm also trying to keep it fairly small, so I'd prefer it if we didn't have 50,000 strong armies of knights trotting around the place. If you want to play a single character, another tribe or petty kingdom, or even some rival raider-types, that's fine. Magic is okay too, so long as it's fairly toned down and not any of that fireball-hurling superpower type stuff. I can't be bothered with signup threads, so just post in with whatever you feel like. I don't really have any ideas where it's going, I just dumped a bunch of characters in the middle of nowhere, so feel free to surprise me with some ideas. ;)

A young looking man with slate grey hair, wearing a cloak of the same colour paused as he reached the edge of a swamp. He scowled as he looked at the swamp, his destination was somewhere on the far side of the stinking bog, and he didn't know how large this fen, but it appeared to be quite a bit shorter just to slog through it than try and circle around it.

With a sigh, he hefted a small sack and headed into the swamp.

The Marsh Elf sergeant called Urloc had drawn the short straw. While the other sergeants got to scout out more promising and interesting locations such as the grasslands and woods, he had to lead his band through the swamp. His twenty archers seemed more interested in trying to catch frogs than scout out the terrain.

"You're lucky you didn't have to drink ol' Gurgu's latest potion," he grumbled at them, "I bet it don't work, an' it'll give me the runs."

Just then, he thought he saw some movement ahead, through the mists. He held up his hand for them to stop.

"Sssshhh! There's someone up ahead. Mung, you get ready with the net. The rest of you, spread out. If we can catch this one, maybe he'll lead us to more."

Dropping the hood on his cloak, he began whistling as he hiked throught the miserable, and dank swamp. The whole place stank and was far to moist for his liking.

Pausing at a piece of ground, the driest he'd seen recently, he opened his bag and pulled out a hunk of cheese and bread and began lunch.

The elves watched the traveller from behind some tall reeds. Fortunately, the swamp stank so much, it even covered up the reek of marsh elf. The raiders glanced at one another; there would probably be a fight over the bread and cheese when this was over.

"Get 'im, lads!" yelled Urloc suddenly, and the band jumped out to try and subdue the traveller with sticks and clubs, and bundle a net over him.

"What the ..." Was all he had time to say before he was caught in the thrown net, and while he struggled, the net prevented escape.

The marsh elves held the net down, leaving the traveller's lunch for the moment, as they knew the sarge would have them whipped if they started fighting over it now. They poked sticks through the holes in the net, and prodded and poked at him.

Urloc stuck his ugly broken-nosed face into the prisoner's. "Who are ya, eh?" he demanded.

"Who in the black hell are you to be asking questions of me?" He snarled as he grabbed one of the poking sticks, and smashed it back into the marsh elf that had been holding it.

One of the elves was smashed back into the water with a yelp. While he splashed around trying to come to his senses, the others piled onto the traveller, beating him with their clubs and sticks. After a moment, Urloc called them off with a harsh shout in Marsh tongue.

"I'm the guy what could have you smashed or broken or drowned," Urloc snarled back at the man in the net, "Now, who are ya?"

"I don't have a name, or at least not one that could be understood by the likes of you." He replied

"Looks like we'll have ta come up with somethin' to call ya," said Urloc, "What do ya reckon, lads?"

The Marsh elves all shouted out names they thought the traveller should be called. Urloc selected one at random.

"Sylvia it is." He turned to the man in the net, "How do ya like it, Sylvia?" he sneered. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his face into 'Sylvia's, "Where are you from? Where's your kin?"

The Marsh elves crowded around, brandishing their clubs and sticks, waiting for another opportunity to cut loose again.

"Frankly I don't care if you call me Sylvia. I already told you where I'm from if you were listening. As to kin, none by the relationship standards of you imply." He commented

Urloc snarled, "You think you're smart, huh? We'll see how smart you are after a couple of days in the pit. Let's go."

With that, the elves grabbed the net, and began dragging 'Sylvia' back through the swamp towards Gravehill. Urloc took the man's bag, and began to rummage through it on the way.

"And what might this pit be?" He asked

Urloc would find a number of vials, some travel food, a wierd blade coated in runes that would send shivers down the spine of anyone who read them.

Urloc put the items back in the pack, and slung it over his shoulder, as they dragged the prisoner through the swamp. "'Ole in the ground," he sneered, "You're gonna find out all about it."

They eventually reached the hill, and dragged 'Sylvia' up through the main gate. Marsh elf tents were pitched all around the spacious interior, and the slaves were busy at work laying the foundations for Karkaret's tower. The pit turned out to be just that; a muddy hole about fifteen feet deep, dug in the ground. 'Sylvia' was unceremoniously tossed into it.

"Leave 'im in there for a couple of days," Urloc said to the guards by the pit. After that, he took the bag of posessions to Karkaret's longhouse. The self-proclaimed King liked weird magic-looking stuff like that blade, and Urloc would surely be rewarded for finding it.

"Nice pit, pedestrian, but a fine beginning." He commented as he stretched out after being entangled in the net.

Rillag and Gannek, the two marsh elves assigned to guarding the pit, jeered and taunted the prisoner, baring their pointy little teeth at him, and yelling obscure obscenities in marsh tongue. For a while, they entertained themselves by throwing bits of mud down into the pit, but after a while, they got bored of that, and sat down to play dice, bickering and arguing in marsh tongue all the while.

-----

Gurgu the shaman had been given the strange, rune-covered blade to analyse. 'Analysing' basically consisted of asking, begging and pleading the spirits to tell him what it was. He and his two acolytes, Roshnag and Biol, sat around the blade in a circle, with a few burning braziers either side of them. They smoked a special substance refined from a particular variety of mushrooms in a crude bong, which supposedly allowed them to commune with the spirits, although it mostly just got them high. After a while, the skull mounted on Gurgu's staff began to talk to them. It was mostly incoherent gibberish, but after some lengthy discourse, they managed to get it onto the topic of the blade.

"What is it, Gerkin razzle zing blat?" asked Gurgu, taking another drag from the bong, and trying to tear his attention away from a really interesting patch of grass.

The man dodged the mud the two marsh elves tossed until they got bored and he decided to take nap.


Any spirits that sought to investigate the blade would get the impression of evil, pain, heat and darkness, and those that tried to get more would find themselves quite quickly being given a first hand tour thought the black hell.

After hearing Gurgu's report the next day, and filtering the sense out from the stoned rambling, Karkaret decided to have the prisoner brought before him. He sent one of his aides to fetch him to the longhouse.

Rillag and Gannek lowered a rope ladder down into the pit, while Grist peered down at the prisoner, "Alright you, get up here now. The King wants to speak to you. You tell him what he wants, and maybe we might bother to feed you!"

"You mean I get your head on a platter?" He called back up as he grabbed the ladder, but didn't climb it, making it necessary for the marsh elves to pull him up if they wanted him out of the pit.

Grist wasn't in any mood for playing games. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he yelled down into the hole, "Get up here, or I'll have you flogged!"

"You mean you'd come down here to flog me?" He taunted as he climbed the rope, and while was tempted to toss the annoying marsh elf into the pit, decided, for now, not to.

Grist scowled up at the man when he had clambered out of the pit. Normally, marsh elves are cowards, but he had two thousand of his buddies to back him up. "You want to watch your attitude. You're a slave now. If you don't start doing what you're told, you're going to start losing teeth. Understand?"

He nodded to Rillag and Gannek, who prodded the man in the back with their spear points, to get him moving towards the longhouse.

"And if you continue in this attitude, you're going to start losing things much more important than teeth." He commented in an incomprehensible, but exceptionally nasty sounding language. He followed the marsh elf toward the building.

Grist led the prisoner to the longhouse, where the guards on the door bound his hands in rope before allowing him to be brought inside.

'King' Karkaret sat on a crude wooden throne on a dais at the far end of the longhouse. On his right stood Ponuk and Gurgu, and on his left a couple of marsh elves in black chainmail and helmets, who looked like bodyguards. He was turning the evil-looking blade over in his hand.

"The prisoner from the swamp, Sire," said Grist, as he led the man up in front of Karkaret's throne. He turned to the prisoner, and barked, "Bow to your king!"

On cue, Rillag and Gannek tried to shove the man down to his knees with their spear butts.

"I would, if I saw my king." He said as one leg was knocked, but the other not, so while his balance tottered before he recovered, he didn't go down to his knees.

Karkaret stood up, and stepped down from the dais. "I could have you flayed, or beaten, or burnt alive if I wanted," he said, "But I'll give you one chance. What is this, and where did you get it?" He held up the blade.

"That is my blade, and I got it in the black hell." He replied

"Who are you?" Karkaret demanded, "And where is this black hell?"

"I am me, more you'd have trouble comprehending, and the black hell is everywhere and nowhere. You wouldn't want to go there." He commented with an odd sort of sort of smile on his face

Karkaret gave the man an odd look, apparently believing him to be insane. He reached for the bag that had been confiscated, and took out the bread and cheese, "Where did you get this, then? Get it in the black hell too?"

"No, that I got at an inn." He replied, "Now would you mind giving me my blade back?"

Karkaret nodded to Rillag and Gannek, who belted the man with the shafts of their spears.

"It is my blade now," said Karkaret. He would add it to his collection of weird magical blades that he never used anyway, but just liked to own to remind him of the people he had taken them off. He snarled at the man, "Where is this inn? How far? Is there a town? People? Who rules there? How strong are their armies? Tell me!"

"I have to warn you, keeping it from me for too long will lead to unpleasentness for whoever tries to keep it apart from me." He commented, "As to the inn, it was about a month away at my normal pace, as to the rest of your questions, I have no idea, nor did I think to find out on the off chance I'd get accosted by a kinglet."

"A month? That's no good." Karkaret frowned; it would be easier to just raid the marsh elf settlements in Stickwood than go hunting for a civilisation a month's march away. "I've heard enough. Grist, take this lunatic to the quarry, and tell Korhuc he can be as hard as he likes on him. Post a guard on him at all times, to make sure he doesn't get any ideas."

Grist bowed, "As you wish."

He led the prisoner out through the marsh elf camp, picking up a few extra guards on the way, and headed out the gate and down the hill towards the quarry. They passed slaves and their guards coming the other way, carrying blocks of stone up to the fortress to be used in the construction of Karkaret's tower.

The quarry was heavily guarded, with spearmen standing around in groups, and archers perched at vantage points, keeping an eye on the slaves. The rock face where the slaves were at work was covered in scaffolds, and a tall watchtower gave the guards a good view of the whole area.

"Here's another one for you, Korhuc," Grist called to the sergeant in charge of the quarry as they approached, "Keep an eye on this one; he'll be trouble. The King says to be as hard as you like on him."

Korhuc, an enormously fat marsh elf with a large bullwhip hanging from his belt, had the new slave's legs chained together to stop him running. He directed him to work carving blocks of stone from the rock face with a hammer and chisel.

"They come in thinkin' they'll be defiant," said Korhuc, in a gruff voice, "But we'll break ya, you wait and see."

-----

Meanwhile, Karkaret got bored of holding the blade and feeling smug about stealing it, and chucked it in with all his other loot, which was lying in a pile in a cellar under the longhouse.

"No offence, but all things considered, you seem like a rank amature compared to some I've known." He commented as he took a seat. "It'd be a waste of stone to try and turn me into a stone mason."

After a short while, if anyone had been around to hear it, they would have heard a clattering as if someone had bounced a weapon across the floor.

"We got plenty of stone ta waste!" said Korhuc, lashing out with his whip, "You can practice till ya get it right!"

He trudged off to bellow at some other slaves. Most of the slaves were marsh elves, smaller and more scrawny looking than Karkaret's warband, although there were plenty of humans and goblins, and even a few lizard-like humanoids. Mostly, they weren't going too hard on the slaves, due to the shortages, although at one point Korhuc became furious with one of them, and dragged him down from the scaffold where the guards beat him senseless.

Nobody noticed any clattering sounds, with the noise of the constant chipping and hammering of stone.

The man chuckled and picked up a hammer, and began walking toward the rockface, but not really doing anything.

He noticed the blade moving, skittering on the ground and smiled. He'd told the local king, but he refused to listen. The runes on it began glowing red, steadily increasing in brightness as it neared him.

The sun was beating down on the quarry, and the guards were sitting in the shade under some scaffolding, watching the strange new slave. There were six of them in the group.

"What's he doing now?" said Rillag, peering out at the man, who was doing something over by the rockface.

"Not working, anyhow," said Gannek, "The sarge'll kick us if he comes over an' he's not working."

"I can't be bothered to get up," said Rillag, "Jerb, go over and give him a whack."

Jerb, the smallest and least senior of the six guards, picked himself up, grumbling under his breath, and made his way over to where the man was. He shouted something in marsh tongue, and swung the shaft of his spear at the man, to motivate him.

The blade noticed the elf's activities and part of it's enchantment triggered. The sword flashed up blocked the spear's stroke. He smiled as he picked up the handle of the blade and used it to slice the chain with it's now preternaturally sharp edge. "Do you really want to continue?" He asked.

Jerb backed away, holding his spear out, and glancing over his shoulder to see where his friends were. The guards under the scaffold jumped to their feet, and grabbed their spears. Rillag started blowing on a whistle he carried on a string round his neck.

The six elves lowered their spears and pointed them at the man, while more elves scurried over in response to the whistle. Korhuc appeared behind the spear-carriers, brandishing his whip.

"Drop it, scum, before we fillet you!" he yelled, "There's only one of you; you ain't got a chance!"

"You may be right, but how many of you really want to die to prove your point?" He asked with an evilish smile.

A group of archers arrived on the scaffold above them, drawing their bows taut, and pointing them down towards the man.

Korhuc shouted, "You don't scare us. If you don't drop that now, you're going to die. And you ain't going to take all of us down before you do."

The marsh elves brandished their spears and bows, shrieking and snarling. They were experienced at minioning, and were generally happy with odds of more than ten to one.

"You've obviously don't have much respect for those you're dooming." He said, smiling. For those who had been exceptionally observant, they'd have noticed his teeth had shifted into an almost fang-like set up.

"You'll need more men than that to survive."

Korhuc laughed, "Sure we will. I'll give ya to the count of three to drop it. One... two..."

"Just to make it easier on you as I'm not sure you'll get it right, three." He said

Korhuc was annoyed; there were few enough slaves as it was, without killing another. But this one was obviously too unstable to make a decent worker. Worse, he might give the other slaves the impression they could be defiant as well.

"Slay 'im!" he yelled.

The twelve archers up on the scaffold immediately loosed their vicious poison-tipped arrows, which hissed through the air towards the man.


OOC: Seriously, you gotta give me a name; I can't just call him 'the man' forever :D

Kitrye's blade swung in a wicked pattern around him. Each one was deflected off in another direction. "I told you you'd need more men." He said as he began advancing on the slave-driver.

ooc: Yay, 15k

"We'll see about that." said Korhuc, "Get 'im, lads!"

The crowd of marsh elves charged forward, wielding their spears and glaives, while Korhuc stood with the archers and waited to see what would happen. If Urloc had managed to catch this guy in a net, they reasoned, the group of them should be able to cut him up without too much trouble.

"I'd tell you men to stand down." He commented as the sword began removing the heads from the spears and glaives. Kitrye was deliberately trying to avoid actually either killing or cutting the marsh elves, but with the sharpness of the blade and the fact that they were trying to rush him, that was a difficult task.

He knew even a slight mistake would be problematic.

Marsh elves had always had a simple strategy - force of numbers, and when they didn't have force of numbers, they usually ran away. Maybe a few would be killed, they reasoned, but there were enough of them that each thought it likely enough that it wouldn't be him. They crowded around Kitrye, completely surrounding him, shrieking and gibbering, and screaming the traditional warcry of Marsh elves: "Skuuuuuuunk!!"

The archers nocked fresh arrows into their bows, and aimed into the melee. One, a little over eagerly, let his arrow fly, where it lodged in the neck of the unfortunate Jerb, who immediately collapsed and began convulsing from the poison.

Korhuc turned and bellowed at them, "Hold your fire, you worms!"

There were around a hundred guards in the quarry altogether, although most of them were busy making sure the other slaves didn't get any ideas of rebellion.

Kitrye was, in almost all cases, turning the weapons of the marsh elves into expensive walking sticks. One of the elves, who might have been extra skilled, lucky or unlucky depending on view point, managed to graze his thigh. He backhanded the unlucky elf, but in doing so, sliced open another unluckier elf.

His eyes, as well as the blade, blazed bright crimson. "You idiots." He yelled as what had been a purely defensive style switched into a brutally savage offensive style. His body also happened to hulk up as he evicerated multiple elves in a single slash.

Although Marsh elves were not particularly renowned for their fighting skills, Karkaret's raiders were an elite unit in marsh elf terms, and had fought against all sorts of diabolical foes, sometimes with casualty rates of less than 50%. Those elves that had lost their spears drew vicious daggers or sickles, or switched to using their spear shafts as clubs. They jumped onto Kitrye from all directions, biting and slashing with their weapons.

Korhuc was shouting and hollering at the other guards around the camp to get over to the fight, and so the rest of the slaves were left with the bare minimum of security. He rounded up forty archers, and surrounded the brawling mass with a wide circle, ready to shower the area in more arrows than could possibly be deflected, if need be. He wasn't above sacrificing half his detachment if it meant bringing this lunatic down.

"You won't walk out of here alive!" he shouted, "Surrender now, if you still want ta live!"

Meanwhile, a horn began blowing in the watchtower, signalling to the fortress up on the hill that there was trouble in the quarry.

As the elves attempted to swarm, the blade carved a vicious whirlwind around Kitrye. The marsh elves occasionally managed to get a blow in that were either ignored, or had they caused an injury resulted in the death of the offending elf.

"What is there to convince me that you won't just kill me anyways, I did warn you after all." He called back as he decapitated a luckless elf.

OOC: Okay, this is a bit much. Please tone it down; I did say in the first post magic should be low key, to avoid this kind thing.

OOC: Okay, this is a bit much. Please tone it down; I did say in the first post magic should be low key, to avoid this kind thing.
ooc: Sorry 'bout that, edited the prior post, hope it's better.

OOC: It's okay. Marsh elves are fodder after all, but I don't really want this to turn into a 'One guy takes on army in straight up fight, with superpowers' type thread.
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"Get back 'ere, you hopeless lot!" Korhuc screamed at the top of his voice, and the elves swarming Kitrye were only too happy to scamper back behind the archers. The archers drew back their bowstrings; even they wouldn't miss from here.

"Well, you got to ask yourself what you'd prefer, then." Korhuc yelled, "Either we stick ya full of arrows right now, or you put that thing down, and we'll see whether ya live or not!"

The sound of wargs yapping and barking came from the hillside, as a band of riders came down to see what the cause of the alarm was.

"Unfortunately that is quite impossible at this time." He replied as he held his hand with the blade out, hand open palm down and the blade continued to adhere to his hand.

"If you want me to release it, I'll need a few things..." He commented as he looked at the oversized wolves.

"What's goin' on down here Korhuc, ya fat bastard?" yelled the leader of the warg-riders, as they thundered into the quarry.

"Shut it, Gulrag, I got this under control!" Korhuc yelled back. He glared at Kitrye, "What are they, then? You better hope they're less effort to get than just havin' you shot!"

"Well to begin with, why not having your archers stop pointing arrows at me, and then a trip to your armoury would be the next step." He called back

"Keep those arrows nocked, lads," Korhuc shouted to the archers. He yelled at Kitrye, "You ain't goin' nowhere unless you drop that thing. You mess me around anymore, and we're gonna use your carcass for target practice."

Meanwhile, Gulrag whispered something to two of his warg-riders, who took off back up the hill towards the fortress.

"And I've already told, and shown you that is impossible." He called back, "And if you decide to be stubborn on the archers, then show me to the armour."

"I ain't showin' you to anythin', when I can just have you shot instead." yelled Korhuc, "You ain't worth that much alive. Tell me why it's impossible, and quickly."

"Because it will remain attached till the 'ritual' to release it it preformed." He replied, shaking his head at the appearent idiocy of the elf.

"So you tell me exactly what you need, and how long it's gonna take," Korhuc shouted, his voice going a bit hoarse from all the shouting, "An' we'll get it for ya, if it ain't too much effort. But you ain't goin' nowhere."

"Then bring me every sword in that armoury of yours." He called back, "I need to find out whether any are the right quality and design."

Korhuc looked at Kitrye in disbelief, "Ya think we're gonna do all that for the sake of you? I've had enough of this. Lads, just shoot 'im an' get this ov-"

"Hold!" shrieked an eldritch voice. Korhuc turned to see the Shaman Gurgu, and his acolytes Roshnag and Biol riding into the quarry on their albino wargs. The archers caught themselves just in time, although one arrow went hurtling off into the sky.

"What are you doin' here?" yelled Korhuc, "Like I tole Gulrag, I can handle this."

"I'm in command here now," said Gurgu, authoritatively, "You get the other slaves out the way and back to Gravehill, before any of them get any ideas."

While Korhuc stalked off, Gurgu and his acolytes dismounted their wargs. Gurgu began lighting up his spirit-talking bong, while Roshnag and Biol started drawing strange arcane patterns in the dusty ground. It seemed that the Marsh elves were going to try and force the issue their own way.

"So who are you, oh and nice work on tweaking that one's nose." He commented

Gurgu took a drag on the bong, and waved his arms mystically, ignoring the question. He took another drag, then passed the bong to his acolytes.

Looking up into the sky, Gurgu made an odd sound in his throat. "Hynnnnnnnngh!" He danced around in a little circle, in between the arcane patterns traced by Roshnag and Biol, waving his skull-topped staff around as he did so. At one point, he stopped, scooped up a handful of dust, and sprinkled it around as he danced. This process was repeated over and over. Despite appearances, Marsh elf magic could actually be quite effective when it needed to be. It was just that most practitioners needed to be stoned off their tits to be able to work it.

The archers continued to hold their aim on Kitrye, as the minutes went by. After a while, a silvery sort of shimmer flickered in the air around Gurgu, as spirits started to convene from the surrounding area.

"Great, a druggy's about to try and dispell the enchantment, oy." Kitrye commented as he saw the three elves passing the bong around.

Gurgu continued with his crazy dancing and wailing for another quarter of an hour, until there was a visible cloud of spirits around him. The small, individually irrelevent animistic nature spirits, who each inhabited a local rock, or twig, or blade of grass, came together, pooling their magic for the shaman, until there was enough that he could actually consider trying to cast a spell.

Gurgu sat down on the ground for a few minutes, puffing on the bong again, while Roshnag and Biol continued with the dancing for him. Then, after apparently coming to a decision, picked himself up, and threw both arms outwards towards Kitrye, making a load of incoherent gaspy, croaky, waily noises.

It was the intent, more than the meaning of the gibberish that the spirits understood. Bound by the magic, they were forced to obey the shaman's will. Break the enchantment

As the spirits swarmed over in Kitrye's direction, Gurgu sat down to have a nap.

ooc: Would the spell target any enchantments or is it specially targeted at the one binding the blade to his hand?

ooc: Would the spell target any enchantments or is it specially targeted at the one binding the blade to his hand?

OOC: That one specifically, although Marsh elf magic being a bit sketchy, it may have side effects as well.

The spirits were meet by the proverbial castle. As they worked thier 'mischief' they managed to batter but not knock down the walls. The result was that the blade was 'loose' but not actually free from Kitrye's hand. "Is that done, if so, interesting results, but not what I think you intended for." He called to the elf.

Roshnag and Biol saw the blade start to come loose.

"It's working," said Roshnag, "Pass the bong!"

They continued the spirit-calling dance and the funny croaky noises. It wasn't as if there was any shortage of spirits in the quarry, and they didn't much care even if they left the local spirit plane burnt out. They urged the spirits on. Finish the job!.

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OOC: The reason I'm doing this is because, if it doesn't work, they're just going to shoot him, which would pretty terminal to the RP. Your call.

The local spirits would be exceptionally angry at the bong-totting elves, but the sword would finally leave Kitrye's hand, but not person. "More impressive." He commented as he accidentally ended up with the hilt stuck to his nose.

"Someone wake Gurgu up," said Gulrag, "We'll be here all day at this rate."

One of the Warg riders prodded Gurgu with the butt of his spear, and the shaman immediately jumped up. He was about to get on with the dancing, when he suddenly became entranced by the shape of his hand.

"Get on with it, you old fool." shouted Gulrag.

Gurgu joined Roshnag and Biol in coaxing out any last spirits that were hiding in the quarry, to join in the spell. Maybe they would be angry, but they'd be too frazzled to do anything about it for some time afterwards.

Kitrye decided to fudge it as he took a seat. The spirits were not making any other head way. Looking up he called, "Mind getting me the sword's scabbard so I can put it away?"

OOC: Seriously. If the disenchant doesn't work, then we might as well call it a day, because otherwise they're going to shoot him. That's about all there is to it. The blade is too powerful for this RP, so needs to be somehow removed or incapacitated, if you want to carry on.

Kitrye lifted a hand to scratch his nose, forgetting for a moment to keep the blade 'faked'. As he scratched the itch, he realized that the binding spell had been circumvented. With a blink, he realized the shamans would be suicidal to come anywhere near the quarry, ever again.