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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:10 PM
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#14, "December 4 - Short Story: Introductory Info"
Edited on Wed 04-Dec-13 03:10 PM

          

A bit of precursor information. The past year and a half, I've been working on-and-off on an anthology that will probably never see the light of day (and almost certainly never be published).

One of my coworkers is an author (he's actually been published for some of his short stories) on the side. He's good. So one day he and I were talking, and I told him (some things) about CF. No way to explain the whole damn thing without days worth of explanation, right? So anyways, I explained the setting, the overall "story" as it were, and compared it to Zork and D&D and WoW.

He got it right away.

So then I told him how I'd had this idea rolling around in my head for many years now - to do a CF-based story. So we kind of worked up a general plot, with plot points that needed to be hit, but then went our separate ways with stories (and styles).

Some notes on these stories:
1. Every named character is mine, or completely made up. This is not (all) conceit. I know that I have complete ownership (and intimate knowledge) of each of my own characters. The motivations, backstory, and so on are all mine to have fun with and play with. So you'll hear of "the Lady", who is intended to be a more general figure (not specifically Baerinika, nor Nordewin, nor Bria...you get the idea). You'll hear of "the Dark Lord" who isn't necessarily Destuvius or Reksah or Jullias or Valguarnera or Zulghinlour.
2. Because of this, characters that never knew each other (and maybe existed in completely separate ages) will interact. Woldrun and Qurochiho may have a drink together. That sort of thing. Because of this, the stories have chars of mine as the protagonist. So naturally at times they'll be teh awesmoe. Please do not comment on how I have a swelled ego. I do, but that's beside the point. Heroes of stories tend to sound greater than their reality is. Anyone who doubts that, please watch the episode of Firefly named Jaynestown.
3. The stories are not necessarily mechanically accurate. This is more true of my colleague's than mine - after all, he's never even played CF. Mine aren't 100% true either - nobody in my stories gets DISMEMBERED and then continues to stand on two legs and swing two swords, for instance.

Each story is mostly meant to be able to be read as a self-contained piece, but there is a thread that ties them all together for the most part.

With that, I hope you'll enjoy the story, which begins in the next post.

PS Apologies for the weird ordering on the posts - I don't love our forum software a lot.

Come back tomorrow for another post! Have something you'd like to see me post about? Email me at twist@carrionfields.com.

  

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Reply Are you kidding with me?! :), Amberion, 26-Dec-13 05:22 PM, #10
Reply Well done!, Demos, 25-Dec-13 11:17 AM, #7
Reply Thanks for the kind words!, Twist, 25-Dec-13 07:28 PM, #8
     Reply RE: Thanks for the kind words!, Demos, 25-Dec-13 09:12 PM, #9
          Reply Wow! Makes me want to start writing again, Klaak, 27-Dec-13 10:01 PM, #11
Reply December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 6 (Final), Twist, 04-Dec-13 12:49 PM, #6
Reply December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 5, Twist, 04-Dec-13 12:48 PM, #5
Reply December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 4, Twist, 04-Dec-13 12:42 PM, #4
Reply December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 3, Twist, 04-Dec-13 12:36 PM, #3
Reply December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 2, Twist, 04-Dec-13 12:24 PM, #2
Reply December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 1, Twist, 04-Dec-13 12:20 PM, #1

AmberionThu 26-Dec-13 05:20 PM
Member since 06th Jun 2007
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#155, "Are you kidding with me?! :)"
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This is exactly what I've been trying to put together basically the past 3 years or so. Using all my old chars and roles that I've written. (Haven't gotten that far though, life just takes up too much time. hahaha)

Anyway! Well done!

Always shoot first and then call whatever you hit the target.

  

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DemosWed 25-Dec-13 10:29 AM
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#143, "Well done!"
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You should put that up in the lyceum. Having a story like that would make good reading for new folks and old. It makes me really want to rank up a rager even though I've sworn them off for a while. Got to learn self preservation somehow right? Anyhow great read for this Christmas morning. Thanks so much!

  

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TwistWed 25-Dec-13 07:28 PM
Member since 23rd Sep 2006
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#145, "Thanks for the kind words!"
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Glad you enjoyed it.

  

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DemosWed 25-Dec-13 07:43 PM
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#149, "RE: Thanks for the kind words!"
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I hadn't even realised that I missed your stories. Sorry it took you prodding me to read them. Good reads, I always hope my role entries work out like that.

  

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KlaakThu 26-Dec-13 10:52 PM
Member since 04th Mar 2003
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#156, "Wow! Makes me want to start writing again"
In response to Reply #9


          

I finally got around to reading these. Very well done! Makes me want to roll up another rager assassin too. Been a very long time since my last rager. Don't let the lack of response get you down. I'm betting lots of folks, like me, just haven't had the time to read them yet.

  

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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:49 PM
Member since 23rd Sep 2006
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#20, "December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 6 (Final)"
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*

A small bit of light, through crusted eyelids. My breathing is a rasping wheeze. Noise, from a short distance away.

“…nae gonna last but another few moments, Commander.”

“It is well, Droba. Relon’s actions allowed us to be victorious. He will live on in our memories.”

Darkness.

*

Another noise. A voice. Different, though.

“Relon, you freed me. Let go. Join me. You’ve earned a rest.”

I let go.

*

  

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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:48 PM
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#19, "December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 5"
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*

My campfire has gone out. Nobody is tending it, for fear of catching whatever I have. I’m plenty warm anyways. My nose is bleeding – not a lot, just a slow trickle. My clothing and armor are saturated, either with my sweat or my blood or a combination of both. I barely feel them. I’m beginning to become numb to the pain. My eyes close again.

*

The tower raid starts well. Balthudar, Kurse, and Galtholnicus fall early, but each take two or three magi with them. As we move up the narrow, winding staircase, we come across alcoves opening here and there. One of our number peels off from the main group each time, entering the dark opening in the rough stone central pillar.

Occasionally we hear a muffled scream before they return, but more often there is nothing to be found. We move ever upward.

The tower is dark, with illumination provided by swirling blue-white mystical energy that obscures the roof of the tower – if indeed there is a roof. The central pillar keeps winding upward. The closer we get to the top, the greater the frequency of the screams. There is a rhythmic chanting from the magi. We need to catch them by surprise, end them swiftly, before they can turn whatever magical energy they’ve conjured for this ritual on our group.

As we creep closer to the top, we reach a nexus of sorts. There are four stone walkways away from the central pillar to the external walls, one in each cardinal direction. The Commander points to four pairs of us, points to his eyes, and then points in the four directions. Right. Check out the walkways, scout, and return.

I find myself paired with Rakegowl as we move across the eastern walkway. I’m wishing I was with Maclochlan. Or even Harad. I motion the new guy forward, not feeling comfortable with him behind me. He obliges, and his grin shows large incisor teeth. I think he’s trying to reassure me, but it’s frankly disturbing.

We ease our way across, slipping from shadow to shadow. We’re just past the halfway point when all of the Nine Hells break loose.

I glance back toward the party, and my vantage point away from the central pillar lets me see what they cannot – elementals. Dozens of them. Fire, water, earth, air, even some of those nasty acid ones. And above them? Demons. It’s a trap. I call the warning to the Commander and the rest of the main force.

That’s when I feel something slam into me from the side. Only my years of training in the dojo allows me to avoid being knocked over the railing to my death. I spin instead, turning the momentum into a crescent kick, starting low and ending high.

Rakegowl looks surprised that his attack has failed, but he recovers quickly. My kick glances off his staff, throwing him a bit off balance. I move in quickly, getting inside the range of that staff. I’ve seen how deadly it makes him.

He is still recovering, and that is all that keeps me from being disemboweled. I’d forgotten his claws. He swipes at me with one paw while holding the staff with the other. I step back, barely avoiding the strike, but that puts me back where I began, and now he brings the staff to bear.

I draw my dagger – it is a simple thing, not much to look at, but I’ve coated it with poison. It won’t be much use against the staff’s longer reach, but it’s better than nothing.

We feint back and forth, circling a bit. He is wary of the dagger – he clearly knows I’ve poisoned it. I’m wary of the staff, but I’m also in a hurry. I’ve no idea if my shouted warning was enough for my compatriots. They might need me in the fray. I need to dispatch this betrayer. Think. Throw him off balance somehow.

“Why, Rakegowl? Why did you betray us?”

“Mrr, iss command! Musst sserve the misstresss. Musst prot-.”

“I don’t really care.” I interrupt. He scowls confusedly. It’s the opening I need.

Feinting high with the dagger in a loose grip, I allow him to disarm me with a quick move of his staff. As he brings it back, he strikes for my skull. The blow never lands. I have closed enough that I can grab the staff, pivot, and twist my hips. A blood-curdling snarl erupts from his fanged mouth as his wrist breaks.

I’m not finished. I gather his good arm as he moves to cradle the broken wrist, step forward and apply leverage, hyper-extending the elbow. He’s done fighting. I pivot one final time, moving into the rising phoenix kick, driving him over the railing and off the walkway. His scream reverberates off the harsh stone for a moment, then is silenced.

My hand stings a bit from his disarming strike, but I’m in good shape otherwise. I turn to run back to the central pillar. I can see that the battle is fierce and hot. My warning was barely enough – my friends were able to set themselves in a defensive position – and it forced the elementals and demon to spring their attack disjointedly.

Still, things could go either way. I need to get in there. I gather my dagger, and begin to trot toward the battle.

“Relon!?”

The call comes from behind. It hits me harder than any strike from my dead foe’s staff could have. I turn toward the voice with anticipation – and a measure of dread. It can’t be.

“Relon, it is you! I thought you were dead!”

Melinda. My eyes drink her in like an oasis in the desert. She’s even paler than before, and her wonderful long red hair has been shaved in a close-cropped cut. Her lips are blood red. Something seems wrong with her eyes. Her face is still beautiful, though it is harsh, lean, and angular. She wears mage robes, and a necklace of some sort. Her skin is yellowing where the necklace touches it. I attempt to speak, but it comes out something like “Guh.”

She giggles. It’s just like it was that day by the stream, but right at the end it turns throaty and deep. I find my wits and try again.

“Melinda…I buried you. How can this be?”

“Oh, that was you? Foolish boy! I wasn’t dead! A nice traveling priest of the Lady came across where you left me, sensed life still within me, and got me out! He nursed me back to health! I’ve been trying to discover what happened to you, but I feared you were dead. Like the others.”

I move closer, forgetting the din of the battle behind me. This is far more important.

“Melinda. I love you.”

She draws close to me, closes her eyes, and puckers her lips. Just like that day by the stream. I imagine her in her feast day best. Me, holding a ring in front of her face.

Then I plunge my dagger into her left eye.

She screams. It is not Melinda’s scream. Whatever this monstrosity is, it is not Melinda. I had knelt by her grave for days. There was no miraculous traveling priest.

She backs away, clawing at the dagger, pulling it out. She drops it, still screaming, but the blood flow has slowed already. One hand wrapped around the necklace, she begins to hiss. The wound has almost closed.

The necklace. I lurch forward, just as her other hand shoots forward, coating me with…something. I scream, but I do not stop moving. In one fluid motion I’ve gathered the dagger and stand directly in front of her. Rather than another stab, I slice through the necklace, flicking it off the walkway. It seems to float for a moment, then falls.

A keening wail issues from the Melinda-shaped abomination. She/it begins to turn black, starting where the necklace had been. Before I can do more than take a breath, the black has spread over the entire body and begun to flake away.

The pain is overwhelming. Whatever the creature did to me, it is powerful magic. As I sink into unconsciousness, I hear booted footsteps rushing toward me. I guess we won.

  

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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:42 PM
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#18, "December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 4"
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*

“Gods! No!” My own scream wrests control of my consciousness away from the memory.

The magi had come to forcibly recruit Melinda. Or perhaps to drain her magical powers for themselves. I never found out. I had found Melinda’s body the next day, barely an hour’s walk away. She was naked, bound, and even paler than her normal alabaster skin would account for. She’d either been useless to them, or served her purpose.

My sores are bleeding openly now. I’m the only one remotely near my campfire. Even Droba won’t come near me. I can’t blame him. There’s nothing he can do for me at any rate.

I’m thirsty. I fumble open the water skin that has been left near me. Gods bless him, Droba has been giving me cold water the entire time, even going so far as to drop one near me from the end of a long halberd so he doesn’t need to come close.

As the cold water hits my lips, I revel in the sensation. As I try to swallow, I begin to gag. Bad idea. I’m now coughing up blood in fairly significant spurts. Not long now.

What in the Nine Hells. Might as well dredge up my most recent memory – the one that got me into this mess in the first place.

*

I’ve followed the Commander for five months now. Not many of us call him Woldrun anymore. He exudes leadership and grace. He gives such respect to all of us. He’s truly admirable in nearly every way. Who better to command this motley band of misfits? He’s speaking to a new recruit, giving him what some of us have come to call “the speech.”

“If you, or anyone else, believes yourself more fit to lead, just say so. I lead because I am most fit for the task. When someone more able presents himself, I will follow that person.

But until that day, you follow my orders without question. If you fail to do so, I will mount your head on my wall.”

Rumor has it that the prior Commander used the same line about mounting heads, but that his odd sexual deviancies left the exact meaning in question. Not so with Woldrun.

“Do we understand each other, Rakegowl?”

The new recruit nods. He is felar. Felar are a race that was created by magic – an attempt by some mage to create a race of slaves. Many of his kind hate all magi for this reason. Often they are filled with a self-loathing as well. I can understand the feeling. Being this close to him makes me uncomfortable.

It isn’t fair of me – Rakegowl isn’t a mage, nor was he technically created by one – he is second-generation felar, he says – but that doesn’t ease the hitch in my shoulders.

The disquiet isn’t helped by the thought of what we’re about to attempt. Our new recruit has brought news of a tower full of magi, and of a terrible ritual that will happen there, soon. Our Commander has weighed the options and decided on a large-scale assault. Take as many mage skulls as we can, disrupt the ritual, tear down the tower, salt the earth – the entire harvest.

We are camped near the tower. Our force is large, at least by our standards. Every scout has been pulled in, all warriors, even the smiths. Some of our number are beginning to show nerves.

Woldrun’s second in command makes the rounds, instilling confidence in everyone she speaks to. She approaches me – apparently I’m showing nerves as well. What she tells me is probably the same thing she’s told everyone else.

“Remember, Relon. A mage can’t throw lightning at you with a knife in her gut.”

It’s a simple message. And not entirely true. But it works. My nerves are better. I nod, and rest my head on my pack, letting my eyelids droop as I see her going to speak to two of my fellow shadow-dwellers nearby. Thieves by trade, brothers by birth mother, Sivorolindo and Elkhalabib have never really explained why their mother gave them such ridiculous names. We call them Sivor and Elk. They relax visibly as she speaks with them.

“Caitlyan, take a look at this.” Calls the Commander. She moves to his side as he draws in the earth near the fire. A battle plan of some sort, most likely. He’s showing her out of courtesy – as drillmistress, she knows her purview is the morale and discipline of the troops, not planning the battles, but he always likes to involve her as much as he can. Respect, again. It is very important to him.

When dawn breaks, we move. I close my eyes fully and try to sleep. No doubt I’ll need it.

  

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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:36 PM
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#17, "December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 3"
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*

I shudder as another wave of nausea wracks my body, fighting to cling to the fading memory of my first meeting with the Commander. That was a good day. The memory fades as I retch the meager contents of my stomach on the ground beside me. The shock of the movement sends another wave of agony through me, causing me to retch again. It is a vicious circle. I cast about in my mind, seeking another memory – any memory – to lose myself again. A flash of bright red hair flickers in my consciousness, and I latch on like a drowning man. The pain fades as the memory envelopes me.

*

It is two weeks until harvest begins. A month until the night that Melinda will be taken. We are walking together by the stream. The moon is waning, merely a sliver in the sky and on the calm surface water. She wears her feast day best, a green flowing dress with a flowered neckline, gathered at the waist. She holds the hemline as she picks her way delicately, placing a careful slipper here, now there, avoiding anything that might get her dirty. The dress has seen better days – such as when each of her three older sisters has worn it – but I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

My own clothing is newer, but worn without the ease that she finds in hers. I despise dressing up, and these clothes have barely been worn. My collar itches. The suspenders are uncomfortable. The pants are too tight, and the shoes make a clip-clop sound on any hard surface. I feel like some sort of dandy on display at a county fair, hawking pots and pans to throngs of passersby. But tonight is special, and I want it to be memorable.

She giggles and steps close to me, pulling my hand away from my itchy collar and pulling me close. Her hair all in ringlets, bobbing as she moves, red like a blazing fire. She hates her freckles. I find them enchanting. I could stare at her face and count them until I collapsed from starvation. I’d die a happy man.

She motions to a fallen tree nearby, and we sit on the thick log, gazing at each other. She closes her eyes and puckers her lips, inviting me into a blissful evening of kissing and canoodling. With great effort, I avoid the temptation, instead pulling a ring from my pocket.

It’s a sad little thing, really. No diamond or stone of any kind, just a simple gold band. The gold is real, at least, though of the lowest quality one might find. I hold it between my thumb and forefinger a few inches from her face.

“Were you going to kiss me, or just stare at me all evening?” she asks sweetly. Her voice makes my heart melt, and I give second thoughts to the kissing. No. My resolve firms, and I remain silent, holding the ring.

She can sense something is going on. Her eyes pop open to see what is wrong, and it takes a moment for them to focus on the ring.

Her eyes moisten, and she is trying to look at the ring and into my eyes at the same time. She settles on my eyes for a moment, searching. Whatever she finds there is apparently cause for full tears to begin to form. They well up in the corners, finally escaping the riverbanks of her almond-shaped emerald eyes.

Her hand trembles as she takes the ring and examines it. Her voice trembles as she murmurs “It’s beautiful.”

Now I’m kneeling. Moisture is beginning to form in my eyes as well. I’ve known for quite a while now that when this moment came, I wanted to keep things simple. No attempts at poetry, no epic ballads of my love for her. Just a simple question.

“Melinda, will you – what is it?!”

Melinda has gone slack-jawed. Her eyes are glazed over. After a moment, drool forms at the corner of her mouth. She begins to collapse and I catch her, lowering her gently to the ground, heedless of any stains that might destroy her dress.

I’ve just set her head down, and I’m about to begin to check her for injuries, when her eyes come back into focus. She looks at me, terrified. This is the third time this has happened to her in my presence. The wise woman has already said she did not know the cause.

“Relon, what is happening to me?!”

I hold her tightly, rocking gently back and forth. I stroke her beautiful hair out of her flawless face, and look her in the eyes.

“I don’t know, but we’ll get through it. Together.”

She buries her head in my chest as I continue to hold her. I’m glad she can’t see the troubled expression on my face. I heard the wise woman muttering something that Melinda didn’t.

“Mebbe got magical talents or somethin’.”

  

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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:23 PM
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#16, "December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 2"
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Edited on Wed 04-Dec-13 12:24 PM

          

*

A shadow passing by jolts me out of my reverie. Good. That memory only goes downhill from there. Why those bastard magi left me alive, I’ll never know. It certainly wasn’t mercy, watching them slaughter women, children…anyone who stood between them and Melinda.

The shadow blocking the fire quickly resolves itself into the dwarven form of Droba. He’s a good man. Dwarf. Whatever. A stout fighter, but more importantly he knows enough about herbs, poultices, splints, and bandages to be a very handy presence in combat situations.

“Och, lad, tha bandages ain’t healin’ yer weepin’ sores. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it! Bah! Bastid magi.”

His echo of my own thoughts stirs me slightly. I assure him I’m doing fine, he’s got others to tend to, and I’m quickly diving back into my delusions to avoid thinking about the pain.

*

It’s been three years since Melinda was taken. I’ve been training with Master Kazewatarad nonstop ever since. Learning the ways of the shadows, the silent strike. Hand to hand combat – shuto strikes, kote gaeshi, kansetsu waza, even advanced techniques like the mountain storm kick. He cautions me daily not to obsess upon vengeance – my anger brings me speed in training, but too much will cloud my senses and leave me vulnerable at the wrong time.

So I crouch in the shadows, silently observing my target. My heart beats in a regular, slow rhythm. It will not betray me even to the keenest ears. My breaths come in measured, smooth intervals. I am one with the shadows that surround me. One with the slight breeze that brings the dusty scent of earthen streets in this village. One with the behemoth that is my current target.

The giant crosses the street with confidence, but not arrogance. He makes his way through the crowd, rather than forcing much smaller passers-by to flow around him. He does so with his head held high, shoulders back, and a steady pace.

The tavern he’s heading toward is run-down, but it has a raucous din wafting out of it. The sounds of laughter occasionally drown out the racket that those inside might consider music. A flute and a fiddle, it sounds like, though to my ears it sounds as if someone is playing the fiddle with the flute as the bow. And trying to play the flute at the same time.

The tavern’s sign proclaims the name “Single Handed” as it creaks back and forth in the wind as the giant passes beneath it, ducking his head unnecessarily. He’d need another foot and a half of height to brush the bottom of it. The sign features a view of the back of a topless woman, looking over her left shoulder and giving the viewer a wink. She has her right hand tangled in her long brown hair, and the other is holding a rather phallic-looking bottle of ale, which has been clearly painted with foam coming out of it.

As the giant enters, I make my move. I’ve had a spot within the tavern picked out for quite a while now. It will allow me to observe him unnoticed. I slide inside the swinging door right behind a pair of elves and slip into my cozy booth, ducking back into the shadows. It isn’t difficult, the tavern is poorly lit.

As expected, the giant sits down at a nearby table. I was fairly sure it had been held for him – everyone who approached it got a glare from the bartender and moved on – but I had not expected him to be joined by another. Not so soon, at least. The cacophony from the musicians is foiling my plans to eavesdrop. Worse luck.

Joining the giant is a dwarf. A repugnantly filthy dwarf. He (or she – let’s face it, many dwarven women sport better beards than their male counterparts) belches in the general direction of my booth, and the stench makes my eyes water. The dwarf’s hair looks like it is done up in long braids, but upon closer inspection it is simply clumped together in a mixture of soot, sweat, ash, and blood. Hopefully not other bodily fluids, but the smell makes me wonder.

I hesitate, wondering whether I should attempt to move closer, when the dwarf speaks.

“HAR! YE BLOODY TOPSIDER SKULKER! YE GONNA HIDE IN THA’ BLOODY BOOTH ALL FLAMIN’ DAY, ‘R YE GONNA COME JOIN US FER A BLOODY ALE?”

He is looking right at me.

I sigh, wondering how I gave myself away, and rise from my hiding spot in the booth with as much grace as I can muster. Then I see it. Topsider. The dwarf is one of the deep-dwarves. Born and raised in the vast network of tunnels below the surface, it is said that their eyes can pierce any shadow. I feel a bit more at ease, now. I didn’t give myself away. I never had a chance of hiding in the first place.

The deep-dwarf – duergar, I suppose I should think of him – is chortling as he throws down another bottle of ale as if it were water. My face must have given away my emotions. “HAR! AYE, YE DONKEY-BUGGERIN’ GIT. I KIN BLOODY SEE YE NO MATTER HOW DEEP YE SLINK IN THA SHADOWS! DAISY-SNIFFIN’ TOPSIDER, THINKIN’ YE KIN SNEAK LIKE SOME PRISSY ELF DRESSED IN A-.”

“Enough, Qurochiho.” Says the giant, quietly yet firmly. His voice is a deep bass, yet the stark contrast between his speech and that of the boisterous duergar is surprising for a moment. “Relon here is our guest, and we’ve no need to insult him.”

“YE DAFT BUGGER, YE KNOW I DINNAE INSULT ANYONE UNLESS THEY GOT ME BLOODY RESPECT! SODDIN’ GIANT WITH YER-.”

“I know that, Qurochiho. Our guest does not.” He turns to me. “You’ll have to pardon my companion. He doesn’t believe he is yelling, nor does he intend to be offensive. Both simply come naturally to him. My name is Woldrun. You have been following me for three days. I would know why, or I will see you dead this day. This is not a threat, it is simple fact, stated out of necessity. Do we understand each other, Relon?”

What choice do I have? I begin to tell him my story, and why I want to join his war on magic.

  

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TwistWed 04-Dec-13 12:20 PM
Member since 23rd Sep 2006
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#15, "December 4 - Short Story: Scabs Part 1"
In response to Reply #0
Edited on Wed 04-Dec-13 12:20 PM

          

I sit, idly picking at the scab on my left forearm. The nearby fire is getting low, and at this time of day, it’s causing odd shadows. This particular scab is healing nicely, I notice. The skin underneath is pink and healthy.

Pink, fresh skin, newly produced by my healing body. A common sight, yet one that the magi never see – they heal themselves with the power they steal from the Gods. No scabs, no pink skin needed when you just replace what is lost with a wave of your hand. Is it even truly their own skin, I wonder? An experienced battle-mage heals himself daily or more – is there anything left of the original man?

Idle thoughts. I look at the wound that has healed so well. The hair on my forearm is coarse and dark, which makes the empty space seem oddly light. I’ll have to keep that in mind when I take to the shadows. A new vambrace, blackened with mage blood and held over a fire, perhaps. That might work.

The thoughts are simply a foolish attempt to distract myself from the pain. A new wave of nausea and wracking agony pass through me, and my vision hazes over as I struggle not to vomit. Need to think about other things. Don’t let myself think about the pain.

My thoughts turn to the past, to a happier time, calming me and slowing down my breathing and my heartbeat. It eases the pain somewhat, and I embrace the memories as a vision through the pain-soaked haze.

*

The moon hangs low in the sky, so large that it seems almost threatening. The autumn air is crisp at this time of night, with the scents of wood smoke and cut grass battling for olfactory dominance. Harvest has always been one of my favorite times of year. The entire commune comes together, harvesting one field after another, together. If I were a bard, no doubt I’d wax rhapsodic on some sort of harvest harmony drivel, but I’m certainly no poet.

I stand up slowly from my perch, stretching my limbs and willing my muscles to not ache. The will falls short, however. My hours of watch from the shadows of the bell tower – the highest vantage point for a long ways – have taken their toll. I long to do some stretching exercises to limber up, but I don’t dare. My watch ends in another hour, and then I can go for a stroll with Melinda, down by the riverside. For now, I keep my movements slow, keeping to the shadows, and stay vigilant.

Raiders are always showing up around harvest. They hunger like anyone else, and they do not have the knowledge (or inclination) to do the work themselves. There are a few of us with some small ability with a blade. We keep watch, intercepting anyone who tries to sneak away with some of the bounty. If a large party approaches, we warn the others and form a ragtag militia. It isn’t perfect, but most bands of raiders will have heard of our methods, and pass by. There is plenty of prey in this world. Raiders are not wolves. They are curs. They don’t like to hunt prey that might bite back.

I’ve been doing the watch for a few years now. Not nearly as long as old Culty, but longer than the other two of us. The others are both green, and very excited for a grand adventure. They get bored when there’s nobody to chase away. Boredom suits me just fine. There’s a reason old Culty is missing a finger on his left hand.

Lost in my reverie, I almost do not spot them. More than my inattentiveness, this band is using the deepening darkness of the late evening, the sleepiness of a hard day’s work, and an invisibility spell to try to sneak in unnoticed. They’ve not accounted for someone watching from above, however, and so I am able to see the faint shimmering of the air as they pass by.

Odd, for raiders. They won’t get out with much of a haul, using this approach. What are they after? I think about it for a moment, and then decide that it doesn’t matter. We need to stop them.

“Up spears! Rally to the Green!” I call. It’s a succinct and effective system that old Culty came up with. Up spears tells everyone that we have a hostile force and to come out swinging whatever weapon they have – no quarter, no investigation, no questions. The call to rally is an order to form up and fight as a unit, as opposed to defending your own home. The Green is what we call the center of the commune.
Dreary-eyed farmers start to open doors and windows, looking out to see what the commotion is. I continue the call, still in the shadows, and begin ringing the church bell as well. That should bring in those who are tending the sheep on the outskirts. This raiding party is too well prepared. We’ll need everyone.

I crouch low, thankful that I had at least stretched a small amount, and drop to the roof nearest the bell tower. I begin a shuffling-scrabbling run across the roof toward the Green. The raiders haven’t dropped the invisibility spell yet. That’s odd. By this time they should be unlimbering axes and makeshift clubs, or making to snatch-and-run with one of the carts from harvest.

I’m still pondering this when a fireball erupts, seemingly from nowhere, to explode in the middle of the growing crowd on the Green. My friends are sent flying in all directions, some a charred, ruined husk. I say a quick prayer to whatever Gods might be listening, asking that please, let Melinda not be one of them. But then I am striking.

Again, they still were not expecting anything from above. I’m not sure why – they must have heard me, and the bell for certain. Perhaps they thought I would stay up there and shout? Whatever the reason, I’m thankful, as I strike clean on the one who lobbed the fireball. The fireball has forced his invisibility to drop, and the Gods have favored me. He stands directly below me. My sword enters from the right side of his neck and somehow misses bone, traveling straight through, exiting out his lower abdomen. A killing blow.

I’ve no time to revel, however. The strike has left me without my sword, with no time to extract it from his corpse. I roll to the left, anticipating a spear or halberd to skewer the air where I had been. The strike never comes, and for a moment I am confused, eyes casting about for a weapon of some kind.

Suddenly another of the raiders utters a bunch of gibberish, waves a hand, and my eyes are the only thing that I can still move. My muscles are tensed, rigid, and unresponsive. The magician steps up and looks me over, sneering. “Find the woman!” he yells.

And somehow, I know. They’ve come for Melinda.

  

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