Why doesn't anyone seem to notice?
He was beginning to doubt it had happened himself, but he only had to look to his left and there was Ruce's head on their shoulders.
Surprisingly, sharing a body wasn't all that bad. It might have made him feel a bit like a stranger in his own skin, if the priests that adopted him hadn't done a pretty good job at that already.
And it brought with it a strange clarity. The world was thrown into stark relief, and his mission needed to be amended. Had he brought Justice to those children? He'd delivered Terem straight into the maw of a beholder. Sure, he was safe, but the monster could clearly come back for him at any time. Nevermind he was still an orphan, and having been one himself, Qabbiqah knew that was no Justice. That was what had driven him to his mission in the first place.
Did Justice even exist? Standing here in a tunnel piled high with goblin corpses and smeared with their excrement, he was beginning to think not.
Hmm.
It was definitely strange, though. As an orc, he was accustomed to people looking at him as if he had two heads. Now that he actually had two heads, no one seemed to notice.
Osiris was awake now. By the look on his face, at least the elf seemed to acknowledge the curse. Or did he? No, that was the same sneering look the elf was always giving him. Wait, what? Why doesn't Osiris like him? Why doesn't he like Osiris?
Hmmmm.
He/they was/were still holding the cursed ax that had melded them in the first place. He/they couldn't put it down, and actually, at the moment, he/they didn't want to. Instead, he/they contemplated the blade slicing through an elven neck.
He shook it off. Just because you look like a monster is no reason to act uncivilized.
Showing posts with label Orc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Orc. Show all posts
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Improv: ECL 4 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 3, Barbarian 1: Entry 6
He swore.
He had a lot of things to swear about, but primarily he swore he wasn't a coward. Damn him. Get up and fight. What did that whoreson say? Somehow, it made him sick to his stomach. That's all. He'd fought through worse than this. He'd sung through worse than this. Come on!
He couldn't do it. He stood there helplessly and tried to calm his stomach, which he keenly knew was empty anyway, while the corpses blindly rushed past him.
That damn spell was still hiding him from them. That's it, he thought. He'll just go and smack one of them and get into the fight. Then he'd feel the battle-fury coming back and shake off this sickness, and at least go down swinging.
He couldn't do that either. He could barely move. His eyes turned to the cleric, retching too as he fled the horde. All this was his doing, this whole rotten fucking mess. But he wouldn't die to the zombies. The orc would kill him himself before he'd let that happen. So he ran after him.
But it was no good. He watched as the armored man struck his war-brothers again and again, and he did nothing. Their green skins were struck through with red lines and their tusks gnashed, and no matter how much he wanted to share their fates, he couldn't lift a single limb to move to their defense.
He turned back the way they had come, expecting the horde to be at them now and it all to be over, only to see them falling upon the flailing body of Kona, who he could hear snorting and hollering, and he knew it would only be a few more moments before his death-scream would sound, and again he wished it had been him.
Turning again, he saw one of his war-brothers on the ground, staggering backwards toward him, as the man prepared to land the final blow. At last, he felt the malaise lift, and he ran forth roaring and grabbed the bastard by the throat. He screamed a hoarse, victorious laugh at the surprise in his eyes, and tightened his fingers to crush the life out of him. But the awful man pulled the hand from his throat, and threw him to the ground, and stabbed at him.
A great weight descended upon Trebuchet, and his vision went dark. As consciousness fled, he took solace in the fury of his final act.
...then, he found himself awake again, and he pushed himself to his feet, and there was everybody, all alive, if battered, waving him into the church. He took a last glance at the now-lifeless body of the bastard.
Huh.
Improv: ECL 4 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 3, Barbarian 1: Entry 5
Why'd they even come here? Did anyone remember?
He was seriously considering asking someone if they remembered, but as another wave of mindless corpses advanced toward the cleric, only to fall atop the bodies of the last ones, he realized it wasn't the time.
So he stayed crouched at the front wall of the church, no matter how much he wanted to wade into the fray.
He wanted to give his arm another go. The sword strapped to it, he meant. He'd convinced them to help him strap a sword to his stump, but he'd gotten to swing it, what? Once? Twice? And then, years ago now, he'd been forced to stop and sit and wait while the bloody cleric patiently shouted a bunch of zombies to death.
It felt so cowardly to sit behind this wall and sulk in the middle of a fight. He wasn't a coward, he reminded himself. After all, there wasn't really any fight to be had. If he'd tried, it would've been a repeat of the scene at the general store. No glory to be had in fighting things that lay down before you kill them.
And that business with the rats, well. That hadn't been cowardice either. He just didn't like rats.
Also there was the spell. They'd put a spell on him and the dead couldn't see him. So he wasn't to hit any of them or they'd be able to see him again. Right, right. He drummed on his forehead with his fingers to help him remember this.
It didn't help much. It was distracting. Felt strange. He looked down at where the fingers he would've preferred to use should've been. There was only the tip of a sword.
After a moment, he shrugged. Good enough.
Improv: ECL 4 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 3, Barbarian 1: Entry 4
He missed it more than he expected. The arm.
It was his favorite one, after all. Now that he thought about it, it was usually the one holding the chopper.
Not to say he hadn't realized this crucial fact before. He was willing to admit to himself that he had. But said cruciality had dimmed in the heat of the moment. After all, he remembered some small part of him saying to himself, he had the other one, with just as many grippers. A lot of orcs weren't so lucky as to have all their grippers.
And anyway, sure he was thankful to have his health. He could've kept the arm but then he'd be dead. Then again, wasn't dying supposed to be a good thing? Well, dying in battle. You're supposed to try to do that. And he would've been a zombie. That's no good.
And now he was properly maimed so they'd have a way to tell him apart from the other ancestors when they wove him into the tapestries. That's the important thing.
Finally, he came back to the present, where he was staring into the withered face of yet another sad zombie. He felt a gleeful feeling rising in his chest as he raised his weapon to put the creature down...oh right no arm. Grrrrrrgggh.
He could still feel it. There wasn't a moment he wasn't sure it was still there, gripping something, gripping so hard it hurt. At least he'd always have that. Yes. The pain reassured him. It was proof he hadn't joined their ranks.
What was it gripping? An axe?
No. He pointed his stump at the dead man, imagined his arm entering its chest, gripping its heart, and crushing it. The savage glee began to return.
The thing didn't die, of course. You have to hit them in the head. He raised the other arm and did so.
It was his favorite one, after all. Now that he thought about it, it was usually the one holding the chopper.
Not to say he hadn't realized this crucial fact before. He was willing to admit to himself that he had. But said cruciality had dimmed in the heat of the moment. After all, he remembered some small part of him saying to himself, he had the other one, with just as many grippers. A lot of orcs weren't so lucky as to have all their grippers.
And anyway, sure he was thankful to have his health. He could've kept the arm but then he'd be dead. Then again, wasn't dying supposed to be a good thing? Well, dying in battle. You're supposed to try to do that. And he would've been a zombie. That's no good.
And now he was properly maimed so they'd have a way to tell him apart from the other ancestors when they wove him into the tapestries. That's the important thing.
Finally, he came back to the present, where he was staring into the withered face of yet another sad zombie. He felt a gleeful feeling rising in his chest as he raised his weapon to put the creature down...oh right no arm. Grrrrrrgggh.
He could still feel it. There wasn't a moment he wasn't sure it was still there, gripping something, gripping so hard it hurt. At least he'd always have that. Yes. The pain reassured him. It was proof he hadn't joined their ranks.
What was it gripping? An axe?
No. He pointed his stump at the dead man, imagined his arm entering its chest, gripping its heart, and crushing it. The savage glee began to return.
The thing didn't die, of course. You have to hit them in the head. He raised the other arm and did so.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Improv: ECL 2 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 1, Barbarian 1: Entry 3
He was keeping watch. It was an important job.
The others were in the general store, looting. That was also an important job. Those who work must eat. And they'd all been putting in time lately.
It was quiet. And kind of boring.
He kept having to remind himself that he wasn't watching for the guard. If he happened to see them, they wouldn't be jogging over with their clubs, shouting "What do you think you're doing?" They'd be sort of stumbling slowly and moaning.
So it took him by surprise when he did see a guard coming at a pretty brisk pace, and hardly moaning at all.
The man was leading his little group of humans toward the store. And the dead, he was leading them here too. It quickly became apparent that he was leading quite a few of them.
Trebuchet sneered at the man, which did not make his face look appreciably different, and the man didn't seem to care. And though he (still) didn't look it, he was actually pleased. Yeah, part of him thought the guy was a right prick for leading the zombies here, never mind his instinctual reaction to the uniform, but at the same time, his arrival heralded an end to the boredom. So he helped herd the mewling pinkskins into the building.
They quickly got to barricading the exits, but he just waited at the door with his spear and started working himself into the battle-fury. He could see the dead men slowly approaching in the dark. The seconds dragged on into an eternity, a feral grin spreading wider on his face with each step they took.
He could hear the preacher shouting on the roof, but he was barely cognizant of it. The first of the enemy line came in reach of his spear and he gleefully drove the implement into its side.
It...ignored him. It stumbled off to the side and just...lay down dead. He stared around, bewildered, and saw the rest of them doing the same.
Well, there was another line advancing, so he picked up his weapon and tried again. Same result.
As the blood pounding in his ears began to fade, he realized the priest was still shouting. That was probably important.
Godbotherers. Take the fun out of everything.
So he ran upstairs to stab something. He'd decide what exactly he was going to stab on the way.
When he got there, though, everyone was whispering nervously. Someone stopped him and told him to be quiet.
He glared back at them. Then he slowly turned and very quietly thrust his spear down from the window through the length of a zombie. He drew it back up slowly, with a wet sucking noise, but still very quietly, he felt. Then he turned back and stared pointedly. But quietly.
After that he was left with his thoughts, which were wordless and vague. Things happened around him, but he didn't pay much attention, until he suddenly noticed one of the elves casting glances his way. That one was, if anything, even more elvish than the others, and Trebuchet's opinion of that hardly needed to be stated.
After going around whispering to the others for a while, while Trebuchet's annoyance slowly mounted, the elf finally came and explained himself. Apparently, the orc was infected, explained the elf, pointing to his arm. Like the ones outside. The zombies.
He let that sink in for a moment. Then he looked at his arm. He had to admit it had looked better.
He thought about the zombies. They were pitiful creatures. They had died, but by denying that and standing back up they had lost their honor, their fight, their will.
The solution could hardly be more obvious. Cut off the arm, he said.
They deliberated about this in hushed tones for a while. He waited patiently for them to realize the inevitability of it.
In a perverse way, he looked forward to it. Many orcs did not consider one to have come of age until maimed somehow. This was more than necessary. It was essential.
Soon, he was handing over his cleaver and presenting his arm. Shortly thereafter, he descended into unconsciousness.
The others were in the general store, looting. That was also an important job. Those who work must eat. And they'd all been putting in time lately.
It was quiet. And kind of boring.
He kept having to remind himself that he wasn't watching for the guard. If he happened to see them, they wouldn't be jogging over with their clubs, shouting "What do you think you're doing?" They'd be sort of stumbling slowly and moaning.
So it took him by surprise when he did see a guard coming at a pretty brisk pace, and hardly moaning at all.
The man was leading his little group of humans toward the store. And the dead, he was leading them here too. It quickly became apparent that he was leading quite a few of them.
Trebuchet sneered at the man, which did not make his face look appreciably different, and the man didn't seem to care. And though he (still) didn't look it, he was actually pleased. Yeah, part of him thought the guy was a right prick for leading the zombies here, never mind his instinctual reaction to the uniform, but at the same time, his arrival heralded an end to the boredom. So he helped herd the mewling pinkskins into the building.
They quickly got to barricading the exits, but he just waited at the door with his spear and started working himself into the battle-fury. He could see the dead men slowly approaching in the dark. The seconds dragged on into an eternity, a feral grin spreading wider on his face with each step they took.
He could hear the preacher shouting on the roof, but he was barely cognizant of it. The first of the enemy line came in reach of his spear and he gleefully drove the implement into its side.
It...ignored him. It stumbled off to the side and just...lay down dead. He stared around, bewildered, and saw the rest of them doing the same.
Well, there was another line advancing, so he picked up his weapon and tried again. Same result.
As the blood pounding in his ears began to fade, he realized the priest was still shouting. That was probably important.
Godbotherers. Take the fun out of everything.
So he ran upstairs to stab something. He'd decide what exactly he was going to stab on the way.
When he got there, though, everyone was whispering nervously. Someone stopped him and told him to be quiet.
He glared back at them. Then he slowly turned and very quietly thrust his spear down from the window through the length of a zombie. He drew it back up slowly, with a wet sucking noise, but still very quietly, he felt. Then he turned back and stared pointedly. But quietly.
After that he was left with his thoughts, which were wordless and vague. Things happened around him, but he didn't pay much attention, until he suddenly noticed one of the elves casting glances his way. That one was, if anything, even more elvish than the others, and Trebuchet's opinion of that hardly needed to be stated.
After going around whispering to the others for a while, while Trebuchet's annoyance slowly mounted, the elf finally came and explained himself. Apparently, the orc was infected, explained the elf, pointing to his arm. Like the ones outside. The zombies.
He let that sink in for a moment. Then he looked at his arm. He had to admit it had looked better.
He thought about the zombies. They were pitiful creatures. They had died, but by denying that and standing back up they had lost their honor, their fight, their will.
The solution could hardly be more obvious. Cut off the arm, he said.
They deliberated about this in hushed tones for a while. He waited patiently for them to realize the inevitability of it.
In a perverse way, he looked forward to it. Many orcs did not consider one to have come of age until maimed somehow. This was more than necessary. It was essential.
Soon, he was handing over his cleaver and presenting his arm. Shortly thereafter, he descended into unconsciousness.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Improv: ECL 2 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 1, Barbarian 1: Entry 2
Maybe that was a mistake.
Nah. That doesn't sound like him. He doesn't make mistakes. Anyway, he wasn't goin' nowhere with those three. It'd been time to leave long since. Not one to get tied down.
Still, he preferred those three to present company, and the flophouse to the jail cell he was now sharing with them. A couple of elves and some airy kook. He wasn't sure which he hated most.
Ah, well. If they won't trouble him he'll return the favor. They were all in the same boat, after all. Might be the first time in the joint for some of them. He could respect that. He'd been there.
And as cells go, he couldn't complain. Dark and clean, and just one green watchman watchin'-...wait, where's he goin'?
He didn't think about anything for a few minutes; just sat and pushed the murmuring of his cellmates out of his head. Then he rose from the bench and opened the door.
Well, that woulda been nice if it worked but actually the door was still closed. Bars were stronger than they looked. Eh. No big deal. No big deal. He sat back down and glared at the wall, mentally daring the others to say somethin', anything. Yeah. They were feelin' that. Just as he was nearly done debating with himself whether to look and make sure they were really feelin' it the guard came back. What? He's lettin' us out? Well, never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Soon he was out of prison uniform and back in his regalia. That felt good. He felt stronger. Could totally open that door now if he still needed to. But he didn't. Need to.
So...time to leave, he guessed.
What happened next was a blur. The guard was dead. Fine by him. Some other folks were less dead, and that was a problem. So he solved it. Now where'd they put his wagon? Who cares if the house is burning down? WHAT? LIZARD! BIG LIZARD!
When he woke up he was on his wagon with his former (and current, he was starting to think) cellmates. The big lizard was pulling it. And it talked. Called him its momma. He didn't like that much. Said the dead were walking, everywhere. That, he liked a little better. Gave him an idea for a song.
They were walking, that was true. But if they made the mistake of walking toward him they didn't keep walking much longer. The stench of the dying, burning city invigorated him. He fought, and ran, and laughed a lot that night. He felt alive.
Nah. That doesn't sound like him. He doesn't make mistakes. Anyway, he wasn't goin' nowhere with those three. It'd been time to leave long since. Not one to get tied down.
Still, he preferred those three to present company, and the flophouse to the jail cell he was now sharing with them. A couple of elves and some airy kook. He wasn't sure which he hated most.
Ah, well. If they won't trouble him he'll return the favor. They were all in the same boat, after all. Might be the first time in the joint for some of them. He could respect that. He'd been there.
And as cells go, he couldn't complain. Dark and clean, and just one green watchman watchin'-...wait, where's he goin'?
He didn't think about anything for a few minutes; just sat and pushed the murmuring of his cellmates out of his head. Then he rose from the bench and opened the door.
Well, that woulda been nice if it worked but actually the door was still closed. Bars were stronger than they looked. Eh. No big deal. No big deal. He sat back down and glared at the wall, mentally daring the others to say somethin', anything. Yeah. They were feelin' that. Just as he was nearly done debating with himself whether to look and make sure they were really feelin' it the guard came back. What? He's lettin' us out? Well, never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Soon he was out of prison uniform and back in his regalia. That felt good. He felt stronger. Could totally open that door now if he still needed to. But he didn't. Need to.
So...time to leave, he guessed.
What happened next was a blur. The guard was dead. Fine by him. Some other folks were less dead, and that was a problem. So he solved it. Now where'd they put his wagon? Who cares if the house is burning down? WHAT? LIZARD! BIG LIZARD!
When he woke up he was on his wagon with his former (and current, he was starting to think) cellmates. The big lizard was pulling it. And it talked. Called him its momma. He didn't like that much. Said the dead were walking, everywhere. That, he liked a little better. Gave him an idea for a song.
They were walking, that was true. But if they made the mistake of walking toward him they didn't keep walking much longer. The stench of the dying, burning city invigorated him. He fought, and ran, and laughed a lot that night. He felt alive.
Improv: ECL 1 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 1: Bio
Excerpts from "Storming the Gates of Music" by T. Overwater, a biography of Trebuchet, lead singer of Bladehead, Crush, the Trollskins, et al.
[...] an uncommon and underrated genius. Whether your tastes cleave to his stylings or not, he's had an undeniable impact on his contemporaries - sometimes literally. Immersed in his overpowering vocals, it's easy to imagine the orcish hordes standing outside your door. Sadly, it's this very effect - cited by most of his critics as "coarse", "unacceptable", or sometimes "a felony" - which has caused the majority of the star's hardship. The world was not ready for the likes of Trebuchet, no matter how ready he thought himself for it.
[...] born Vrorbag Wogsher to unknown parents, he lived out his early life in the Bone March, striking out quickly at the less-than-tender age of 5 to more civilized lands, living hand-to-mouth in human cities, joining a gang, and learning to fight. He's seemingly never shown a shred of regret for leaving the March - was his life there so much worse? Was this new life part of a grand plan? Or is he simply not given to retrospection? Regardless, [...]
At 13, he entered the public eye, making his first appearance on stage at the largest tavern in [...] Reportedly, the unforgettable performance that would become the basis of his entire career wasn't planned, booked, or, indeed, a song. The surviving band members whose set he intruded upon apparently kept playing only out of terror. The success of his breakout was marred when it came to light that he and members of his gang had staged the whole affair to rob the tavern and its clientele, and he soon found himself forced to stage another breakout - this time, from jail.
Since then, he's been constantly on the move, forming bonds with other musicians in similar straits, of varying success. Most of his efforts have fallen to internal strife. It was hoped by the most devoted Trebbers that the formation of the Trollskins, an all-orcish band, signaled a less rocky future, but reception was less than stellar. While the general public's reaction to what was now four times the orc was nearly unchanged, true fans felt this new group lacked an unnameable primal element that had drawn them to the music in the first place. Trebuchet quickly lost interest himself, and moved on like so many times before.
[...] an uncommon and underrated genius. Whether your tastes cleave to his stylings or not, he's had an undeniable impact on his contemporaries - sometimes literally. Immersed in his overpowering vocals, it's easy to imagine the orcish hordes standing outside your door. Sadly, it's this very effect - cited by most of his critics as "coarse", "unacceptable", or sometimes "a felony" - which has caused the majority of the star's hardship. The world was not ready for the likes of Trebuchet, no matter how ready he thought himself for it.
[...] born Vrorbag Wogsher to unknown parents, he lived out his early life in the Bone March, striking out quickly at the less-than-tender age of 5 to more civilized lands, living hand-to-mouth in human cities, joining a gang, and learning to fight. He's seemingly never shown a shred of regret for leaving the March - was his life there so much worse? Was this new life part of a grand plan? Or is he simply not given to retrospection? Regardless, [...]
At 13, he entered the public eye, making his first appearance on stage at the largest tavern in [...] Reportedly, the unforgettable performance that would become the basis of his entire career wasn't planned, booked, or, indeed, a song. The surviving band members whose set he intruded upon apparently kept playing only out of terror. The success of his breakout was marred when it came to light that he and members of his gang had staged the whole affair to rob the tavern and its clientele, and he soon found himself forced to stage another breakout - this time, from jail.
Since then, he's been constantly on the move, forming bonds with other musicians in similar straits, of varying success. Most of his efforts have fallen to internal strife. It was hoped by the most devoted Trebbers that the formation of the Trollskins, an all-orcish band, signaled a less rocky future, but reception was less than stellar. While the general public's reaction to what was now four times the orc was nearly unchanged, true fans felt this new group lacked an unnameable primal element that had drawn them to the music in the first place. Trebuchet quickly lost interest himself, and moved on like so many times before.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Improv: ECL 1 Trebuchet Water Orc Bard 1: Entry 1
"Come on, let's get out of here. We're wasting our time."
One of three hulking figures knocked on the door again. "Shut up," he said. "Unless you're going to use that voice of yours to sing for us."
The owner of the first voice furrowed his prodigious brow, then opened his mouth, which was promptly covered by a meaty palm. "That was sarcasm. Don't start singing."
At that moment, the door swung away. Another huge man, similar to the others, stood in its place. He made a pronouncement.
"What."
The three stared at each other, daring each other to be the first to speak.
"Uh, we've been thinkin', among ourselves, that uh, well, you, we..."
A raised eyebrow. The second man muscled ahead of his friend. "We're kicking you out of the Trollskins. You ain't showed up to our last three gigs and we ain't gettin' paid."
"Now, waitaminute, let's not be hasty or nothin'. Without Treb we won't get any more work than we're getting now."
"No way! I'm sick of pullin' his weight. He's out, or I'm out. And I've at least plucked a string in the last month."
'Treb' looked back and forth between the two, waiting for them to stop arguing. Eventually they did, and remembering why they came here in the first place, looked up at him again. He slowly opened his mouth to make another rare decree.
"You guys got pretty good timing. I'm leaving town. Tired of this crap. Have a nice life. Don't get yourselves lynched."
Two of them wore expressions of mixed shock and relief. The other laughed uproariously. "Just proves what I said! You couldn't take it! You're not cut out to make it big! You're a little...bitty..." He muttered for a while, trying to think of a suitable insult. While he was distracted, a huge fist swung towards his head.
Two of the men ran away as the door slammed shut; the third lay in the gutter, moaning.
One of three hulking figures knocked on the door again. "Shut up," he said. "Unless you're going to use that voice of yours to sing for us."
The owner of the first voice furrowed his prodigious brow, then opened his mouth, which was promptly covered by a meaty palm. "That was sarcasm. Don't start singing."
At that moment, the door swung away. Another huge man, similar to the others, stood in its place. He made a pronouncement.
"What."
The three stared at each other, daring each other to be the first to speak.
"Uh, we've been thinkin', among ourselves, that uh, well, you, we..."
A raised eyebrow. The second man muscled ahead of his friend. "We're kicking you out of the Trollskins. You ain't showed up to our last three gigs and we ain't gettin' paid."
"Now, waitaminute, let's not be hasty or nothin'. Without Treb we won't get any more work than we're getting now."
"No way! I'm sick of pullin' his weight. He's out, or I'm out. And I've at least plucked a string in the last month."
'Treb' looked back and forth between the two, waiting for them to stop arguing. Eventually they did, and remembering why they came here in the first place, looked up at him again. He slowly opened his mouth to make another rare decree.
"You guys got pretty good timing. I'm leaving town. Tired of this crap. Have a nice life. Don't get yourselves lynched."
Two of them wore expressions of mixed shock and relief. The other laughed uproariously. "Just proves what I said! You couldn't take it! You're not cut out to make it big! You're a little...bitty..." He muttered for a while, trying to think of a suitable insult. While he was distracted, a huge fist swung towards his head.
Two of the men ran away as the door slammed shut; the third lay in the gutter, moaning.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Savage Tide: ECL 8 Ichigoya orc spirit shaman 8: Entry 1
イチゴヤの日記
未開の地で悟りを巡礼
私は、小型ボートに乗って不快し、異教の地に到着した私はこの長い時間を費やした。
私の新しい仲間が遅い私を受け入れていた。 1つの尾がある場合、私は知って要求した。
我々の最初のタスクを追跡するための不快な海賊船に私たちを取り戻した。
途中、不幸な荒廃小猿がいた。彼らの魂の混乱していた。今はされていません。
私は、崖をジャンプしようとした。私は足首をねんざした。
燃焼時には海に到着した。海賊たちの魂は、猿のように混乱していた。彼らも我々落ち着いた。
私の仲間私の傷を治癒したとして私を信頼するようになった。
悪魔の海賊は、自分の死を食べた。我々は彼らにも、平和を与えた。しかし、我々の友人に海の怪物の一人となった。
私たちは友人の心に平和を与えた。私たちの多くはすぐに同じ病気には低下していた私の治療の安全性へ出た。
これらの人々の薬について何も知らない。彼らは私には失われるだろう。
も：多くのカーテンや大トカゲの一室。
洞窟には、クジラが泳いされている男。
私たちは、高貴な人を殺すのは、ポートからの彼女の友人を停止するよう指示が穏当な海賊に会った。
私たちは港に戻った。は、ポートの貴族の邸宅はすでに攻撃された。
カエルていた男性のマナーを侵略されています。私たちは残りの多くの霊を入れた。
それから、我々は、ポートの高貴な救出。
数ヵ月後には、ポートの貴族の護衛には海の一部の農民私たちは尋ねた。
この航海、非常に長いです。いくつかのことが起こる。
3人が死亡した。私は霊を祈った。
私も、私の精神は、海の怪物の体内に戻さ死亡した。
村全体が焼失した。私は、骨に適切に傾向があった。
我々は崖に登った。崖登りはしないでください。
嵐の数が多すぎます。私たちは、失われたとし、ポートの高貴なサルガッソーに飲み込まれた。
最後に、船が暗礁に墜落した。
今我々は恐ろしい島で歩いた。私は単に私が私の仲間が支援。
これは長い時間がかかったし、多くの問題を抱えた霊落ち着いた。死者の洞窟の中を歩いて、と悪魔の森林柄。
今は遠い岸にあります。ほかの海賊たちは町を攻撃している。これらの著作権侵害者が、自分の精神コントロールはまだ我々に休息を入れた。
今すぐそこまで海岸安全ですが、私たちは、サンゴ礁にクラッシュし、船を再構築に戻ります。私たちはそれが必要になります。グランド海賊軍の海岸近くまで攻撃します。
は絶望的だが、私ではないということがわかります。私たちは勝利する必要があります。
未開の地で悟りを巡礼
私は、小型ボートに乗って不快し、異教の地に到着した私はこの長い時間を費やした。
私の新しい仲間が遅い私を受け入れていた。 1つの尾がある場合、私は知って要求した。
我々の最初のタスクを追跡するための不快な海賊船に私たちを取り戻した。
途中、不幸な荒廃小猿がいた。彼らの魂の混乱していた。今はされていません。
私は、崖をジャンプしようとした。私は足首をねんざした。
燃焼時には海に到着した。海賊たちの魂は、猿のように混乱していた。彼らも我々落ち着いた。
私の仲間私の傷を治癒したとして私を信頼するようになった。
悪魔の海賊は、自分の死を食べた。我々は彼らにも、平和を与えた。しかし、我々の友人に海の怪物の一人となった。
私たちは友人の心に平和を与えた。私たちの多くはすぐに同じ病気には低下していた私の治療の安全性へ出た。
これらの人々の薬について何も知らない。彼らは私には失われるだろう。
も：多くのカーテンや大トカゲの一室。
洞窟には、クジラが泳いされている男。
私たちは、高貴な人を殺すのは、ポートからの彼女の友人を停止するよう指示が穏当な海賊に会った。
私たちは港に戻った。は、ポートの貴族の邸宅はすでに攻撃された。
カエルていた男性のマナーを侵略されています。私たちは残りの多くの霊を入れた。
それから、我々は、ポートの高貴な救出。
数ヵ月後には、ポートの貴族の護衛には海の一部の農民私たちは尋ねた。
この航海、非常に長いです。いくつかのことが起こる。
3人が死亡した。私は霊を祈った。
私も、私の精神は、海の怪物の体内に戻さ死亡した。
村全体が焼失した。私は、骨に適切に傾向があった。
我々は崖に登った。崖登りはしないでください。
嵐の数が多すぎます。私たちは、失われたとし、ポートの高貴なサルガッソーに飲み込まれた。
最後に、船が暗礁に墜落した。
今我々は恐ろしい島で歩いた。私は単に私が私の仲間が支援。
これは長い時間がかかったし、多くの問題を抱えた霊落ち着いた。死者の洞窟の中を歩いて、と悪魔の森林柄。
今は遠い岸にあります。ほかの海賊たちは町を攻撃している。これらの著作権侵害者が、自分の精神コントロールはまだ我々に休息を入れた。
今すぐそこまで海岸安全ですが、私たちは、サンゴ礁にクラッシュし、船を再構築に戻ります。私たちはそれが必要になります。グランド海賊軍の海岸近くまで攻撃します。
は絶望的だが、私ではないということがわかります。私たちは勝利する必要があります。
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