Ordinant Malcolm Larrak

[Lannister]

Hey friendly people, it appears my most recent character has been slain! I will miss interacting with you all as Larrak, especially the cool guys in the Society (such deep emotional conflict) and the DM Team! I would like to thank the players who have helped shaped Larrak to become what he was in the end :)!

I'm sorry about the screenshots, my screenshot button is pretty much broken so I have to ram it when I take a shot - lots and lots of moments missed :( However here is what I have, in a mishmass! Enjoy! I'll see you all next time!

P.S hidden loot cache at the bottom of the thread.

[Hide= Flavourful Backstory!] n the desolate realm of Cormyr, beneath a starry sky there is a long winding column of fireflies moving through what was once known as the Kingswood - now only referred to as the Dying, or the Dead Wood. These fireflies which are the pinpricks of light emanating from torch bearing soldiers in motley steel, their once pristine tabbards soiled by mud and alien liquids. These dirtied crusaders usher forward hundreds of desperate looking people. Women holding their children close beneath shawl as they pass hurriedly - families pushing carts filled with their lives are pushed aside and urged forward. Forget what you have, just go. This scene reeks of desperation but not as much as the man in command of these worn people. At present he is at the head of this large column, looking back at his people being forced to move out of their natural homelands. It sickens and enrages him but with the coming darkness and the reports he held in his hand, his other emotions pale in size compared to his fear, that this is the end of his beloved Cormyr.

A ragged crusader approaches. Her armour is in places torn, bandages soaked with blood adorn her - through thick grime a purple drake is barely visible on her chest. "Lionar, our hunters have not yet returned and we cannot keep pushing the people like this, they're starving and broken. We have to stop - at least to let the rest catch up to us. Suzail is a days march away, we can make it upon the morrow."

The grim form of Lord Malcolm Larrak, Lionar of the Purple Dragons clenches his fist around the reports in his hand and mutters an inaudible curse.

"Lionar sir?" She hesitates.

He turns to the crusader, lines of worry etch his face and he looks so tired that he could collapse were it not for the fire of war that kept his eyes open. Having shed his formal battle-plates in a previous engagement he is now standing in tarnished chains, many of the buckles and rings are filled with filth from the decrepit dying trees they march through. Raising his heavy gauntlet he crushes a bloated fly out of the air. His words are heavy and laboured as he looks her in the eye.

"Captain, we have no birds to tell us of the enemies movements. They could be upon us any moment - we have not the time to rest. The great enemy is blockading Suzail and soon our relief force wont make it through to help the capital regiment.

We continue to move. Our torchlight can be seen from many miles away, we are giving away our position to any creatures on the prowl in these dark days. Speed is our only cause, we cannot hide from these creatures the same as we cannot shirk from our duty to the crown.

Spread the word, Suzail has won a major victory today and it is safe there now, for a time. Tell them the enemy has been pushed back to Hilp, Gladehap and The Stormhorn Mountains. We move quickly through this opening."

The crusader salutes the Lionar in a sharp rigid unquestioning way before dashing off with the news, intent on spreading it to every man, woman and child she meets. Malcolm murmured a prayer for his soul, for he had sinned. None were privy to the extent at which the Dread Empire had spread, these people needed some hope. He would put his mind to rest finally with the knowledge he had given them a small measure of it, even if he had lied. That it was by the grace of Tymora herself that they had not yet run into the main body of the invasion force. He offered to himself a pained and tearful laugh. Hilp, he thought. If only the enemy could be stopped so easily, knowing full well the reports in his hands told him Suzail was blockaded and that Arabel was upon the verge of falling if it had not already - these reports were after all two weeks old according to the dates issued. They were found upon the body of a dead message runner on the road, his head cracked open like a nut, brain gone.

Something touched his hand. Looking down as he opened his fist, the burst body of the bloated fly had revealed a horrific secret - tentacles. Writhing blue tentacles squirmed out of the abnormally sized flies corpse. Malcolm cried out in surprise and disgust as he threw his gloves to the floor stamping vigorously on it. Ever since Dendar awoke, these strange things began occurring with more frequency. The fields of crops died, in their place strange mushrooms with the scent of carrion meat were growing. Where once there had been grass, now there was sand or strange slimy green tentacles, much like grass but writhing and hungry for exposed flesh, which they would pull apart.

Someway off in the distance a horn is blown. As Malcolm looks up to the way it sounded from it is cut short - presently screams are heard and the din of steel upon steel. All around him is the snapping of rotten wood and the shuffle of footsteps. With a great cry, a large Minotaur leaps from the woods, a strange rubbery skin extended over it's form. Madly flaying tentacles instead of horns adorn its head. A second below and it swings at Malcolm - it would have cleaved him in half if the blow had not been taken by a selfless dive of the returning Captain. He had no time to honour her sacrifice now, she had given her life for his and he must make the most of it. Drawing his blade he fled the creature to seek aid from his soldiers in fighting such a monster. Yet as he made his way from the beast, he saw fighting had broken along the column. These creatures had ambushed them, it wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.

Crunch. Pain. Coldness. Black.

He was on the floor, the back of his head felt wet. Reaching up to touch it he saw he was bleeding. Something must have struck him low in the chaos. Looking up in a daze, everything was serene- it didn't matter what was going on, he was in the moment. He felt cold and gnawing ache in his bones but it all subsudied when his eyes fell on the creature. Malcolm Larrak came face to face with his enemy at last.

Before the Lionar was a vaguely human form, save for the horrible robes it held and the four long dangling tentacles that protruded from it's rubbery squid face. The tentacles unravelled and opened wide to reveal a discoloured beak. It turns sharply to the nearest peasant, unlucky bastard caught in the battle. With a deft flick of it's hand and a writhe of it's tentacle the man's head is ripped from his body and it floats over to it's beak. With that it's tentacles latch onto the head and a disgusting sizzling noise overpowers the din of battle all around. The Dread Master's cruel eyes stare into Malcolms as it feeds, those eyes tell of a sophisticated genius associated only with those of the deranged madmen found in the deepest of Suzail's Asylums.

--Did you know this one?--

--Was he your friend?--

--Did he have family?--

--Are you scared little monkey?--

Sudden bursts of thoughts, a rude intrusion of another's voice in his mind. The only way to describe the way these words sounded were if they came from the throat of some horrifically scarred professor, the "I" sound being drawn out to an uncomfortable length. The coldness of this creature in his voice was enough to leave a mark that to this day forces Malcolm awake from sleep. The feeling of this creature's intrusion was a long unworldly shiver along all edges of his being, because it wasn't a violation of his body but of Malcolm himself, everything he was and all that made his concious was touched by this insidious creatures prying telepathy.

Grasping for where his sword should be, Malcolm curses. He had dropped it when knocked unconcious. This was his chance, he knew he was to die here this night. Even if his body survived the ordeal he would be a changed man - that he must take this battle or be forever shamed. He must /try/ to kill it. With a struggle he brings himself up on one knee.

--How quaint of you knight to genuflect before me. Yes. You will make a suitable servant, or a delicious treat. Yes. Mm. I will savour your emotions as a wine.--

[/B]

The creatures second entrance into his mind, yet this time it served not to shake him but only stoke the coals of his growing rage. In his very core his hate of this creature had been fueling his weak limbs, his rage providing the iron will needed to act. It was in that moment Lionar Malcolm Larrak unleashed such an emotional cry of defiance that infilled all Purple Dragons around him with the vigour needed to keep fighting. In that moment of courage, he drew forth his knife from the back of his boot and unleashed it with a forward throw, there was no doubt in his mind. No second thoughts, save for that he must kill this creature.

The knife spun through the air, it's blade was sharp and well maintained, in contrast to the man who held it. It's pommel was a mythical White Stag's horn neatly trimmed, acquired in ages past by his forefathers. As it sailed across the distance - which was short it neared the Dread Master.. ..and struck.. ..something two feet short of the creature. The air rippled around the Dread Master like water and an iridescent bubble of flesh flickered in and then back out of sight. The knife was broken and all Malcolm could think was the inhuman laughter of his enemy as he tried his utmost and failed.

--Hahahahaha AH HAHAHAHAHAHAHA HA HAHA HA HAHAHAHAHAAAA--

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LORD LARRAK HI'SELF! ALL BOW!

Beginnings!

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[SIZE="5"]Rocking out as an Ordinant and various things![/U][/B][/SIZE]

[SIZE="5"]Fin.[/SIZE]

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[Hide=Loot Cache?]

Eternal War before and after.

Cloakies!

Booties!


Ringies!


This shield was actual given to me by an armless smith! Win!

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[Ommadawn]

Well played, Lannister! Larrak was a hardass and fearless ass-kicker. I'll miss our Lowerdark jaunts.

[Sankis]

Really gonna miss butting heads with him in the Society :(. He was a nice foil to have around.

[superbatude]

I never got to roleplay much with him, but he looked like a lot of loot. Good job.

[xXCrystal_Rose]

Super cool dude during the later half of his career. Strangely I got to interact with him more as a druid than as Sanctuary PC's, but it was always amusing taking the front with him as Genevix.

[tinfoilhat]

I think we started our characters at around the same time, got into some pretty crazy adventures as we both went down our respective paths. Gonna miss hearing about all the crazy shit Malcolm was up to!

[Dwarfisim]

His death was epic, and will have long lasting consequences. That is all you can ask for! Well done!

[CondorHero]

Larak definitely got high charisma, haha. I wish I had screenshot of the time Hamir took his oath as an Oathsworn. Our play time often dont match and our characters walks different paths, but it is always fun to hear what Ordinant Larrak stirred up. :)

Well played and I will see you on your next concept.

[Knight Of Pentacles]

i am protected by eternal war

[Gottdammerung]

the battle rages always

[Ziya]

You were a fun rival to have. Good times, good times.

Woe, that our conflict be not eternal.

[Nikolaz]

Despite how hard it is to see Larrak in this picture. It's one of the better ones I have. It shows the end to Larrak getting pelted by fruit from the 'Black Guild Youth Brigade'.

[Cat]

But who will give me gems now :(

[Ebok]

<3

[goate]

Larrack was a nice contrast to the apocalyptic underdark.  I enjoyed watching the forum hijinks between him and Thrar immensely.