Agamemnon knocked on the door to Kubler's room, waited until his friend called out then entered. The farmer was knelt before a huge canvas, five metres long, on which he had sketched in charcoal a great scene that he was now beginning to paint.
"Hi Kay, am I interrupting?"
Kubler looked up and shook his head, pulling the paintbrush from his mouth and tucking it behind his ear. "No, not at all, come in Grazh."
Agamemnon nodded, and closed the door behind him as he entered. "Thanks, I wasn't sure if you were spending time with your family." He shuffled past the canvas and sat down on a stool behind his friend.
"Not at the moment," Kubler shook his head. "I'm remembering the fight."
"It was a good fight," the cleric nodded. "We lost very few people."
"Nine soldiers. I'm remembering Carath at the moment." He pointed to the figure he was painting, a dark-skinned, hefty man with a spear. "He was near me when he died."
Agamemnon looked closely. The painter had only blocked in the colours at this point but it was already a vital, energetic figure, one small man on a large canvas full of activity. The scene looked to portray the whole field of battle, from the castle gate out to the forest from which the horde had poured. The composition had the great evil trees as hulking patches of darkness rolling with inevitable momentum down towards the light of the castle, with the army frozen in dynamic assault on the encroaching flood of unnatural foes. A great sheet of fire backlit the pre-dawn skirmishing and from the shadows this created, eyes leered and claws reached as the studs of the army's battledress gleamed in reflected fire.
"My biggest regret, my friend, is that one day you will remember me, and I won't be here to see it."
Kubler nodded in thanks for the compliment and continued bringing the scene to life as Agamemnon looked around the room. Kubler had been here for a couple of months now and the room was filled with canvases of all sizes. Some were hung, some on stands, most just piled together, sheets between them to keep them in good condition.
"Have you seen Emi yet today?"
Kubler nodded. "Just briefly. She was still asleep when I woke up."
'Briefly'. Agamemnon looked around for a small picture and found one, a cameo in a round frame, stood on the bedside table, a portrait of a very pretty woman lying in bed, smiling with sleepy eyes through the wisps of her short-cropped blonde hair. The paint was still just a little wet. "Hi Emi," he said quietly as he looked at the face of Kubler's lovely wife, still alive in the picture.
"Jez is out in the field today, climbing hay bales with Darran."
"Darran?" Agamemnon raised an eyebrow. "I thought she wasn't talking to him anymore."
Kubler shrugged. "Apparently she has forgiven him for putting a frog in her hat."
"How old is she now? Fifteen?"
Kubler nodded. "Sixteen in a couple of months."
"Ah," the cleric smiled. "I see."
Kubler grinned. "It was always going to be Darren. We've known that since they were twelve." For a moment a look of incredible sadness crossed his face and his eyes watered, just briefly. "They should have been together."
Agamemnon put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "They may yet be." He looked around and saw the canvas, bright with the yellow-green of freshly-bound hay, and, just behind a large hillock of grass, two heads just peaking out. He laughed. "Yeah, I think they may yet be. Do you want some tea?"
Kubler nodded. "Yes please."
~~~
"So, what are you going to do with the painting?" The orc and the farmer were sitting in the windowbox, looking out at the fields around Dejune as they drank their tea.
"It's for the town, so they can remember what they did, and those who didn't make it."
"I'll talk to Shades. I am sure there is a suitable place where it can be displayed."
Giants Walking
In the Third Age there was a nation of giants. They were called the Ht’uum and they were not a great or expansive nation but they were respected for their wisdom and their understanding.
Two men of the Ht’uum, two great explorers, were hunting knowledge, expanding the boundaries of their people’s knowledge of the great world around them, and atop a mountain, bridging the yawning gap between two sheer ridges high in the rocky ranges, they found two bridges, older than them, older than their long-lived nation of Ht’uum, and, curiosity piqued, they set foot on these ancient structures, one apiece, and, side by side, they walked.
Some way between the four great stone plinths than marked the twinned endings of their passage the bridges rumbled. Great slats fell from them and the twisted metal cables binding the two halves of the mountain together shook and vibrated and ground in torment at the feel of the first footsteps to step across its span in so many years.
The two giants held fast, and looked at each other as the terrible sound of distressed architecture momentarily subsided.
“Brother-of-stone,” said one in the way of the giants of Ht’uum, “brother, I am fearful. This bridge will collapse if we do not leap ahead and make our way to the other side as swiftly as the passing of mortal men.”
“Brother-of-stone,” the other replied, “brother, I am fearful. This bridge will collapse if we do not take great care in each step, place each foot deliberately, patient as the stones from which we are born.”
“Brother,” said the first, after some moment of deliberation, “brother, the longer we stress this decaying edifice the more that stress will bring on its downfall, and ours.”
“Brother,” said the other, after some moment considering this, “brother, the quicker we step the more chance there is we will step wrong, and bring about this crossing’s downfall, and ours.”
The two men of Ht’uum stood, silent, immobile as only giants can, and thought.
“Brother-of-stone,” said one, “brother, we cannot know.”
“No, we cannot know,” the other agreed.
The two men of Ht’uum looked to each other with the understanding of mortality that all explorers share, and, without a word of goodbye - for men of stone do not say goodbye - they advanced, one leaping quickly, the other stepping carefully, both making for the great stone plinths that marked one end of their crossing.
~~~
“… and?” asked Killingsworth, wiping out a mug with a rag as Agamemnon talked.
“And nothing,” said the priest, swigging from his nearly empty tankard.
“So … who was right?”
“That’s a good question,” said Agamemnon, smiling enigmatically.
“That’s bullshit is what it is,” said Killingsworth, stowing the mug and reaching for another.
“It is a Thu’manat, a giant tale of knowing. ‘Au manat thi t’vinit mal’ - the wisdom is in the question, not the answer.” Seeing his friend was not impressed Agamemnon continued. “It’s a philosophical idea, an idea intended to pose a question, and to provoke thought. You see -“
“Yeah yeah, slow and steady wins the race but if you snooze you lose. I get it.”
Agamemnon blinked. “I … I guess … that’s more or less the point, I suppose.”
“What I don’t get,” said the magus, bored with cleaning and trying to dig still-edible nuts from the bottom of a crate, “is why the giants needed a fucking story to tell them something so obvious. ‘Sometimes fast it good, but sometimes careful is good, and you can’t always tell’. Well done giants, glad you could join us in Thinkington, capital city of the nation of Thinksalot, where everyone else already lives.” Killingsworth finally found some nuts and tossed them in the air, catching about half of them in his mouth as the other half landed all over the place. “No wonder they’re all dead.”
“I think maybe the subtlety of the story is something that can be appreciated with more study of the context in which it was written.”
“Subtlety? Please. I fart with more subtlety. And more depth.” Killingsworth thought for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what that means. But you said this had something to do with Laniss?”
“I said it relates to how we proceed with the information with which Laniss has become acquainted,” clarified the cleric, drawing a line of beer suds across the otherwise fairly clean counter top. “We can either leap ahead towards our goal, unsure of the ground on which we walk, or we can proceed with caution, more slowly but more sure of our footing.”
“Right. Is that it?”
Agamemnon looked at him. “Maybe I’ll go tell Shades. The nuances of the tale might appeal a little more to his sensibilities.”
“You do that,” said Killingsworth as he stomped on any of the fallen nuts he could find.
As he left the bar Agamemnon head his compatriot call out to him: “Next time you want to turn my bar into Story Time with Aggy, make it a story about boobs.”
“Or giant fish monsters!” he heard through the window as he walked down the street outside the bar.
“Giant fish monsters … with boobs!”
“And a kraken!”
~~~
"So the giants were walking ..."
Shades sat as Agamemnon paused. And waited. "So ..."
Agamemnon started again. "So yes, the giants, who were explorers ..." And paused again.
"Are you okay Aggy?"
"Fucking Kills."
"What?" Shades was confused.
"He's right. This story is bullshit."
"Oh. Right."
Agamemnon took a swig of liquor. "Fucking Kills."
Two men of the Ht’uum, two great explorers, were hunting knowledge, expanding the boundaries of their people’s knowledge of the great world around them, and atop a mountain, bridging the yawning gap between two sheer ridges high in the rocky ranges, they found two bridges, older than them, older than their long-lived nation of Ht’uum, and, curiosity piqued, they set foot on these ancient structures, one apiece, and, side by side, they walked.
Some way between the four great stone plinths than marked the twinned endings of their passage the bridges rumbled. Great slats fell from them and the twisted metal cables binding the two halves of the mountain together shook and vibrated and ground in torment at the feel of the first footsteps to step across its span in so many years.
The two giants held fast, and looked at each other as the terrible sound of distressed architecture momentarily subsided.
“Brother-of-stone,” said one in the way of the giants of Ht’uum, “brother, I am fearful. This bridge will collapse if we do not leap ahead and make our way to the other side as swiftly as the passing of mortal men.”
“Brother-of-stone,” the other replied, “brother, I am fearful. This bridge will collapse if we do not take great care in each step, place each foot deliberately, patient as the stones from which we are born.”
“Brother,” said the first, after some moment of deliberation, “brother, the longer we stress this decaying edifice the more that stress will bring on its downfall, and ours.”
“Brother,” said the other, after some moment considering this, “brother, the quicker we step the more chance there is we will step wrong, and bring about this crossing’s downfall, and ours.”
The two men of Ht’uum stood, silent, immobile as only giants can, and thought.
“Brother-of-stone,” said one, “brother, we cannot know.”
“No, we cannot know,” the other agreed.
The two men of Ht’uum looked to each other with the understanding of mortality that all explorers share, and, without a word of goodbye - for men of stone do not say goodbye - they advanced, one leaping quickly, the other stepping carefully, both making for the great stone plinths that marked one end of their crossing.
~~~
“… and?” asked Killingsworth, wiping out a mug with a rag as Agamemnon talked.
“And nothing,” said the priest, swigging from his nearly empty tankard.
“So … who was right?”
“That’s a good question,” said Agamemnon, smiling enigmatically.
“That’s bullshit is what it is,” said Killingsworth, stowing the mug and reaching for another.
“It is a Thu’manat, a giant tale of knowing. ‘Au manat thi t’vinit mal’ - the wisdom is in the question, not the answer.” Seeing his friend was not impressed Agamemnon continued. “It’s a philosophical idea, an idea intended to pose a question, and to provoke thought. You see -“
“Yeah yeah, slow and steady wins the race but if you snooze you lose. I get it.”
Agamemnon blinked. “I … I guess … that’s more or less the point, I suppose.”
“What I don’t get,” said the magus, bored with cleaning and trying to dig still-edible nuts from the bottom of a crate, “is why the giants needed a fucking story to tell them something so obvious. ‘Sometimes fast it good, but sometimes careful is good, and you can’t always tell’. Well done giants, glad you could join us in Thinkington, capital city of the nation of Thinksalot, where everyone else already lives.” Killingsworth finally found some nuts and tossed them in the air, catching about half of them in his mouth as the other half landed all over the place. “No wonder they’re all dead.”
“I think maybe the subtlety of the story is something that can be appreciated with more study of the context in which it was written.”
“Subtlety? Please. I fart with more subtlety. And more depth.” Killingsworth thought for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what that means. But you said this had something to do with Laniss?”
“I said it relates to how we proceed with the information with which Laniss has become acquainted,” clarified the cleric, drawing a line of beer suds across the otherwise fairly clean counter top. “We can either leap ahead towards our goal, unsure of the ground on which we walk, or we can proceed with caution, more slowly but more sure of our footing.”
“Right. Is that it?”
Agamemnon looked at him. “Maybe I’ll go tell Shades. The nuances of the tale might appeal a little more to his sensibilities.”
“You do that,” said Killingsworth as he stomped on any of the fallen nuts he could find.
As he left the bar Agamemnon head his compatriot call out to him: “Next time you want to turn my bar into Story Time with Aggy, make it a story about boobs.”
“Or giant fish monsters!” he heard through the window as he walked down the street outside the bar.
“Giant fish monsters … with boobs!”
“And a kraken!”
~~~
"So the giants were walking ..."
Shades sat as Agamemnon paused. And waited. "So ..."
Agamemnon started again. "So yes, the giants, who were explorers ..." And paused again.
"Are you okay Aggy?"
"Fucking Kills."
"What?" Shades was confused.
"He's right. This story is bullshit."
"Oh. Right."
Agamemnon took a swig of liquor. "Fucking Kills."
Word from the Bird
Well, I’ll be. Jus’ look at this lot. One hundred and twenty souls we got here, is it? Bofred above Snooks looks like you damn near emptied out every cell in the Stoneheart Valley. I ain’t sure if I should be showerin’ you in gratitude or curses- I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
****
Humans, dwarves, elves, catfolk, orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, bitsers and gargoyle… I welcome you all to the Calaelen Dominion.
I ain’t gonna honeycoat your situation for y’all. Y’all here today because your gaolers jus’ plain don’t want you, and the Dominion is mighty desperate for all the sword arms and future sword arms it can get its hands on. For those o’ you who ain’t aware, who’ve maybe been locked up for longer than the Dominion’s even existed, this land here is sittin’ square on top o’ Rappan Athuk, the infamous Dungeon o’ Graves. There’s a war brewin’ under our feet my friends, and tearin’ up our skies.
I know it must sound like the roughest shittiest deal. From outta whatever dank dirty cell you called home straight into the front lines o’ some cosmic war you can barely comprehend. But just give me one year o’ your time, my good friends, and I will make your service worthwhile.
Obeyin’ the law is all well and functional. Keeps society together. Makes the good kind folk o’ this town pay their taxes and do their work and not shit in the nicer parts o’ town. But what good’s the law if it’s hankerin’ for a gold piece when you only got a silver? What good is the fuckin’ law when it lets the poor and the unfortunate slip between its cracks? What good’s the law when a soul’s forced to steal a chunk o’ bread just to shut their bellyachin’ for one second, and then gets locked away ne’er to see the light o’ day again? What good’s the law when you find yourselves the winner o’ a deadly street scrap that you ain’t even started and it’s your ass they are throwin’ in the cell?! It ain’t good enough, that’s what I say!
Now who’s this fuckin’ bird, you might ask yourself, who the nine hells is this fuckin’ bird? This bird here in his fancy armour, his fancy shiny mace and fancy robes and damn dirty tongue? What the devil would this fuckin’ bird know about bein’ in gaol and starvin’ and havin’ to steal for the slimiest lick o’ a livin’?
My name is Shades, and once upon a damn time I was a scrawny bird back in Aberdeen where we’re all considered criminals by default. Where the law won’t even let a bird hold land, where the only real options for a livin’ are to pick fancy noble pockets or join the local monastery. Believe me, friends, I been where you are. I been where you are and it ain’t good enough for nobody.
Now these days I’m also known fairly well as Pezzack Highroost, Lord o’ the Calaelen Dominion, second only to High Lady Maya D’alariel o’ Tsuen. Some o’ the more spiritual among you might even know me as the Chosen o’ Thyr. Now I ain’t gonna shove the word o’ Thyr down your earholes, but I will just take this moment to have you know that Thyr makes it his mission to deliver the greatest good for the greatest many- and this is what, my friends, the Dominion has brought you here for today.
If there’s one thing here in the Calaelen Dominion that we all most certainly believe in, it’s second chances. Myself? Got myself straight up cooked to death in lava by a powerful priest o’ Orcus. Had a second chance from Thyr the God o’ Kings himself fall right into my claws and now here I am, this fuckin’ bird, in front o’ you today. General Stoneheart here? Why, this man here is the last o’ the Thaurissian Order! Got himself spectacularly murdered by an Orcusite antipaladin! We brought this fucker back from the dead and you know what he did? This hairy fuckin’ bastard’s hammer landed the final blow on the final red dragon this continent will ever see! I swear my friends, your future here is in the most capable hands the Dominion has to offer.
They say second chances only come to those who want them. Sometimes that’s true. But I think what’s more true is that second chances only come when someone else better off than you takes a moment outta their fancy law-abidin’ life to hand you one.
Give me one year o’ your time. One year where instead o’ rottin’ in a stank-ass cell you’ll be swingin’ swords and swiggin’ ales with this magnificent specimen o’ a General we got here. Give me that one year, and I assure you, when this war is done you will have your redemption. Should death befall upon you, you have my word that you will be absolved o’ any crimes to your name. But should you live? Well, you’ll yourselves a life here in the Calaelen Dominion, and maybe one day you’ll be the fancy-ass motherfucker doling out the shiny second chances to someone else in need.
on the countless feeble gods
My name?
It’s Father Bog Brew if you really want ask.
A funny name? No, it makes plenty of sense I live in a
swamp, I make potions and…well I guess the father part is kind of
metaphorical. And I guess I don’t live
in a swamp either, I live in the fields outside that little town, and now I’m
going to go live on that island over there for a bit. But still, should be bloody obvious.
Why am I so angry all the time? How else you gonna make the gods do what you
want?
Oh, your bein just like one of them aren’t
you, going to tell me that we don’t tell the gods what to do, that it’s the other
way around? Well, I don’t do what the
gods tell me to do and neither do you, why would I obey such a bunch of
weaklings?
Oh yeah, ‘the gods aren’t weaklings, they’re
the most powerful beings in the mulitiverse’.
Give it a rest, if they’re so powerful why do they need people that the
crow mayor to do their work for them.
The gods are tiny and weak and and you gotta put them in their
place. No point getting down on your
knees and begging, you gotta command the bastards, that’s why I’m angry, gotta
keep a temper up to get them to listen.
Ok, I’ll cut you off there. Yes, the gods created the world, and yes,
they control it. But there’s millions of
the little suckers, and they can only control a tiny part each, and they’re not
clever enough to communicate without other and work out what they’re
doing. The gods created us, but they did
it blindly, slightly fiddling with the form of each new bub in its mother womb
or egg or cytoplasm cocoon cause unborn babies were the only ones weak enough
to fiddle with.
But still, they could never agree on what
they wanted to do, they made changes each generation, but most of them were
frigging useless. And they didn’t plan ahead. They spent millions of years
shaping the ancestors of dragons and they covered the whole world, but they
didn’t think to make them immune to lava after a bunch of other ones threw a
big rock at the world and set off a load of volcanoes. Maybe they learned to make dragons fire proof
after that, but that’s one little example.
No, eventually through fiddling around
blindly they made the sentient creatures of the world, and we had something they
don’t – smarts! We can talk, we can plan,
we now make the world, and the countless feeble gods need to shut up and take a
back seat. They can do something useful
if you tell them what to do, and that’s what I do.
No, I’m not a frigging druid, you sound
just like every druid I’ve met asking that question. They command the gods alright, but they do it
by worshipping nature, which is stupid cause nature isn’t a thing. The thing we call nature is the collective,
blind, uncoordinated actions of all the gods working to their own mindless
agenda, changing minute by minute.
Sometimes by chance a whole lot of them decide to make wind and rain at
the same time and there’s a big storm, but most of the time as many are trying
to make it rain as are trying to make it…sun…so it all stays in balance.
Don’t waste your time praying kid, the gods
wont understand, and even if they did they couldn’t do anything. All they understand is force. They don’t have
minds, or forms or names, they created us and now they have nothing left to do
but obey.
All bow down to
us, countless feeble gods!
A Meeting of the Minds.
"We have an accord."
The acrid taste of The Overmind's infusion lingered for but a moment before Laniss's world exploded. Every fiber of his being screamed as he felt his head being ripped open from the inside. He felt the perfect serenity of his consciousness being expanded. The all encompassing agony of a polymorph gone wrong, the total ecstasy of feeling his body take the true and perfect form of his soul. Burning, freezing, hard, soft, sharp, dull. Forever, an instant. Everything. Nothing. And all the while, images and voices flashing through his brain.
The acrid taste of The Overmind's infusion lingered for but a moment before Laniss's world exploded. Every fiber of his being screamed as he felt his head being ripped open from the inside. He felt the perfect serenity of his consciousness being expanded. The all encompassing agony of a polymorph gone wrong, the total ecstasy of feeling his body take the true and perfect form of his soul. Burning, freezing, hard, soft, sharp, dull. Forever, an instant. Everything. Nothing. And all the while, images and voices flashing through his brain.
When he came to, it was clear by the expressions of his comrads that mere seconds had passed, yet Laniss felt as though it had been longer than all the life he had lived. The alien presence in his mind was gone, and somehow he knew he was done with this place, with The Overmind. As he rose, he heard Killingsworth say something irrelivant about his tavern, but for the moment his attention was focused on Lord Highroost. If what little he had been able to piece together was true, the old bird may be more valuable than he realized.
Lost in his own thoughts, Laniss felt little need to contribute to the conversations and debates about what to do once they left, though he nodded his agreement when the notion of returning home was put forward, as he would need time to explore his new knowledge. He mostly ignored any questions, at best replying with a perfunctory "later" for those who showed persistence. Did they not understand that a creature such as The Overmind does not think as we do, so it's knowledge is not simple or easy to decipher?
Lost in his own thoughts, Laniss felt little need to contribute to the conversations and debates about what to do once they left, though he nodded his agreement when the notion of returning home was put forward, as he would need time to explore his new knowledge. He mostly ignored any questions, at best replying with a perfunctory "later" for those who showed persistence. Did they not understand that a creature such as The Overmind does not think as we do, so it's knowledge is not simple or easy to decipher?
*********
"As far as I can tell, the man you saw in the Marshes is one of Orcus's highest servants, or at least a valued agent. What you walked in on was him negotiating to get that stone, though it seems the woman had little choice in the matter, which would allow him to find or create an appropriate location for a third Anima Engine. The first we encountered, it would appear they always predicted it would either fall or fail. If we wish to stop Orcus, we must deal with all three. However, I do not believe destroying them is the answer. I think there is something better we can do, though I will be running tests as soon as I can to confirm my hypothesis. It is my belief that Bofred was contained not only to power the device, but to hold him. It would appear, that the Chosen of Thyr may have an ability to influence these devices, to turn them to our benefit. Which is why I shall need you Lord Highroost, to aid in my explorations. I will also be attempting to learn a little more about these devices and their value to planar travel, for which I shall also need you Agamemnon. The ease with which clerics such as the 2 of you gain access to planar travel magic means we do not have to wait until I have deciphered such spells myself. Should all go according to plan, I hope to meet with one who may be able to shed light on the origin of these Engines, as they do not come from Orcus, as I already suspected. I may have need of the object you obtained from the Gorgers, but the more you can learn about it first the better, so I wish you luck on your quest. If you could deliver this order to the listed smiths while you are there, I would appreciate it. As early as possible, so as to not slow the process. Any questsions?"
Into the Water
Agamemnon watched impassively as Laniss drank from the Mind's well of synaptic fluid and then lay convulsing on the ground.
Killingsworth tried to keep an eye on Laniss, Agamemnon and Mortimer at the same time, but they had spread themselves around the room. Around him, he realised. He looked to Shades, but he couldn't meet his eye. Aggy had moved himself to stand next to Shades, so that now Shades was hard to see past the bulk of the half-orc's armour.
Eventually Laniss rose. He stood stiff, and straight, and his face was dripping sweat. "We have work to do" he intoned as if nothing had happened, looked to Shades, who nodded, and then he turned and began walking from the room.
Killingsworth tried to reach Shades but as he turned to look at his skipper his eyes met Agamemnon's. The priest was looking at him, a look of concern on his face, but then he smiled, his sharpened orcish teeth clipping his top lip as he slowly leaned in and whispered something to Shades in a language Killingsworth couldn't recognise. Then they both turned to look at him.
Laniss spoke in a booming voice, but ... but Laniss was outside. The voice was coming from the well. It was the Mind, speaking to them in the voice of Laniss, telling them to go, that they were done, but that they would meet again.
Killingsworth edged backwards, trying to put his back to the wall. His hands fumbled with his sword as he formed the words for a fireball in his mind, but his mind was muddled, the words were slippery. Where were the words? He'd cast this spell a thousand times, damnit, where were the words?
He shrieked a little as a slimy, deformed shape shuffled past him, almost brushing him. The morloch, its slug-like flesh disgusting to look at, its eyes bulging, its gait horrible. It was moving to Shades, but instead of recoiling the tengu leaned towards the abomination and soothingly called out to it: "Schawarma." Was that its name? How did Shades know its name?
He had to get out of here. He had to get out. He turned, and there was Mort, glaring at him. He caught a flicker out the corner of his eye and a whispering sound, he was sure he heard it, someone whispering. Then everyone was looking at him.
"We're worried about you," said Shades.
Agamemnon nodded, his head bobbing inhumanly. "Yes. We're worried. You don't look well. Friend." That last word was added almost as if he didn't know the meaning of it.
Killingsworth backed away from them but felt the cold adamantine of Mortimer's armour behind him and a heavy, unnaturally strong had gripped his shoulder. "You should talk. Talk to the Mind."
"We did," said Laniss, or maybe it was still the disembodied voice of Laniss - he just couldn't tell anymore.
Then they were lifting him. He felt hands under him, many hands as they all reached for him and lifted him, carried him towards the well. He screamed, he thought he did, but he couldn't be sure he was making any sound. He screamed as his face was lowered into the vat, as the acidic, foul ichor flooded his mouth. He wanted to close his mouth so badly, but he couldn't. All he could do was scream into the water and drown with the Mind's voice laughing in his head.
Killingsworth tried to keep an eye on Laniss, Agamemnon and Mortimer at the same time, but they had spread themselves around the room. Around him, he realised. He looked to Shades, but he couldn't meet his eye. Aggy had moved himself to stand next to Shades, so that now Shades was hard to see past the bulk of the half-orc's armour.
Eventually Laniss rose. He stood stiff, and straight, and his face was dripping sweat. "We have work to do" he intoned as if nothing had happened, looked to Shades, who nodded, and then he turned and began walking from the room.
Killingsworth tried to reach Shades but as he turned to look at his skipper his eyes met Agamemnon's. The priest was looking at him, a look of concern on his face, but then he smiled, his sharpened orcish teeth clipping his top lip as he slowly leaned in and whispered something to Shades in a language Killingsworth couldn't recognise. Then they both turned to look at him.
Laniss spoke in a booming voice, but ... but Laniss was outside. The voice was coming from the well. It was the Mind, speaking to them in the voice of Laniss, telling them to go, that they were done, but that they would meet again.
Killingsworth edged backwards, trying to put his back to the wall. His hands fumbled with his sword as he formed the words for a fireball in his mind, but his mind was muddled, the words were slippery. Where were the words? He'd cast this spell a thousand times, damnit, where were the words?
He shrieked a little as a slimy, deformed shape shuffled past him, almost brushing him. The morloch, its slug-like flesh disgusting to look at, its eyes bulging, its gait horrible. It was moving to Shades, but instead of recoiling the tengu leaned towards the abomination and soothingly called out to it: "Schawarma." Was that its name? How did Shades know its name?
He had to get out of here. He had to get out. He turned, and there was Mort, glaring at him. He caught a flicker out the corner of his eye and a whispering sound, he was sure he heard it, someone whispering. Then everyone was looking at him.
"We're worried about you," said Shades.
Agamemnon nodded, his head bobbing inhumanly. "Yes. We're worried. You don't look well. Friend." That last word was added almost as if he didn't know the meaning of it.
Killingsworth backed away from them but felt the cold adamantine of Mortimer's armour behind him and a heavy, unnaturally strong had gripped his shoulder. "You should talk. Talk to the Mind."
"We did," said Laniss, or maybe it was still the disembodied voice of Laniss - he just couldn't tell anymore.
Then they were lifting him. He felt hands under him, many hands as they all reached for him and lifted him, carried him towards the well. He screamed, he thought he did, but he couldn't be sure he was making any sound. He screamed as his face was lowered into the vat, as the acidic, foul ichor flooded his mouth. He wanted to close his mouth so badly, but he couldn't. All he could do was scream into the water and drown with the Mind's voice laughing in his head.
Unbound
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
“Alrigh’ Engineers! Last time I checked our maps we got one last door left- unless you got any fresh ideas wit that weird phasin’ door we still ain’t opened yet Fairweather?”
“Yeah I ain’t touchin’ that thing until I find us some adamantite lockpicks. I’m pretty fond o’ not cookin’ my hands up.”
“Y’all heard the burglar- let’s go git that last door!”
The valiant and often foolhardy souls of the ever infamous Great Downwards Engineering Company trudged off to that final door left marked on their crude working map. This had been one of the weirder pockets of Rappan Athuk the adventuring company had encountered. It wasn’t quite Hell and it wasn’t quite Rappan Athuk but yet was both at the same time- and everyone was keen to just move on to a place whose geography straddled less outer planes. Every time Agamemnon and Shades has passed through the lazy white mists of the teleporting rooms they had felt an odd tug, almost as if some barely noticeable hand, talon or hook was pawing at their bodies between the millisecond phases. It was never a comfortable feeling, and both divine spellcasters were keen on never feeling it again any time soon. Bracing themselves for what was hopefully the last teleportation, the clerics of Darach Albith and Thyr grimaced, and let the Hell magic do its work.
Clink.
Clink.
CLINK.
Something was different this time. Something horribly different. The ghostly tug of the mists became a frighteningly sharp pain in both Shades’ wrists. Everything was dark and the air was dead. And the smell. Bofred above the smell. It was an iron-rich tang of ancient rust or fresh blood that was more than likely a gruesome mix of the two. Shades could feel nothing under his feet, and could feel his entire weight hanging from the two white hot spots of screeching pain. He looked above to see a great ghastly meathook hooped through both his wrists, piercing right between the two major bones of each forearm. Blood oozed thickly down the metal and flesh. The hook itself was attached to a heavy oily chain that swung lethargically in the dead dank air. Shades activated his Boots of Levitation to ease the pain and weight, and to give his claws something solid to plant themselves on, grateful that he hadn’t been too quick in returning them to Hanabi today. He then started trying to free his hands, every tug and wiggle a new burning stab into both wrists.
CRASH CLINK JINGLE CLICKETY CLINK CLACK JINGLE CRASH
A frighteningly inhuman shape swooped through the dank and the dark, lithely swinging from chain to chain. Shades tugged and wiggled faster but the thing was swift. It loomed in front of the struggling Tengu soon enough.
“We will have none of that here,” the creature hissed, “You need to stop right now.” Shades stopped his boots’ slow upward levitation, but kept them hovering. His eyes were now adjusting to the dimly lit darkness, and now that the horrid thing was but a few metres away he could make out some details.
The creature had the same basic body plan of the drider monsters from one of Frey’s epics that featured her former Drow captors- a humanoid torso melded onto the gross bulbous abdomen of a giant web-spinning spider. This creature was decidedly even less Drow than a typical drider though. In fact the humanoid part of it more closely resembled the chain devils the Company had encountered in their earlier expeditions, but had four humanoid arms instead of two. The spidery part only had four legs, but they were sharp mechanical things that could have easily functioned both as weapons or as locomotion. Shards of metal and mechanical augmentations peppered its entire body, and gleamed menacingly in the dim light.
Later on Laniss would identify this creature as a particularly awful type of kyton. But Laniss was neither here nor there. No one from the Great Downward Engineering Company was. Shades was a lone struggling piece of meat dangling off a hook, one of several he could now spot in the distance. The kyton pulled a greasy black book from its pack, which proceeded to gush an awful black kind of liquid, and opened it.
“Lord Mayor Pezzack Highroost of the Calaelen Dominion, Chosen of Thyr, I see,” the kyton read, metallic scrapes punctuating the hisses and growls of its voice.
“Yeah and what’s it to you?!” The Chosen of Thyr spat.
“Interesting, but you have nothing of use to us. I shall let you be.”
The kyton didn’t move from its place among the chains, but turned its attention to its slimy book. Shades felt a brief rush of relief amongst his rising panic. He started trying to free himself again. A low chittering from above grew ever louder. Shades looked up to see a swarm of tiny spidery looking things clambering down his chain. They had sharp stabby mechanical legs like the kyton, but their abdomens were throbbing humanoid hearts, and their delicate mouthpieces were all blades. They descended down the chain, and started to swarm all over him. A few of them worked together to make off with Shades’ shield. With an agonizing effort Shades ripped one arm out of the meathook and tossed one of the little blighters away. But the rest of them, one by one, all found a place they liked, scraped their little mouthblades together, and dug in.
The pain was a hot seething fluid sensation, flooding every sense Shades had.
CRASH CLATTER CLINK CLATTER CRASH HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY! HEY YOU! SPIDERY FUCKIN’ CHAIN THING! THIS AIN’T LEAVIN’ ME BE YOU LIAR!
For a moment the horrible chittering heart-spiders stopped, and the kyton turned its attention back to the writhing screeching Tengu, which now had significant pieces missing.
“I’m sorry. You would not possibly be calling me... rude, would you?” the kyton crooned, its eyes alight with menace.
“Not rude- but mistaken as to what leavin’ one be actually fuckin’ means. How about leavin’ me fuckin' be in the same number o’ pieces you found me in huh?!” Shades didn’t have many options here, but apparently arguing the semantics of a Lawful creature’s own words was the one he was currently taking. Running away certainly wasn’t an option right now, as not only was there no ground to run on, but there was now very little tissue connecting Shades’ feet to his legs. He channeled some of Thyr’s healing power into this dark frightful place, but there was still so much missing flesh even then.
“Everything needs to be catalogued and studied.”
“So much for nothing of use to you! If I ain’t o’ use then why the blazes am I gonna be junkin’ up your fuckin’ catalogues LET ME THE FUCK GO.”
“...Indeed.”
The kyton stalked closer, breathing in sharp rasps. One of its humanoid arms snaked forward, and planted its cold pallid fingers somewhere around the Tengu’s abdomen. Shades tried to bat the thing away with his free but tattered arm, but wielding strength is an action that is highly dependent on having enough muscle mass. An expression of intrigue and light surprise crossed the kyton’s face, as its fingers massaged at one spot in particular.
SHADES??? SHADES ARE YOU HERE IT’S MORTIMER
A familiar voice bellowed in the darkness below Shades somewhere. Shades screeched back something incoherent, and the enormous orc started climbing up the chain he was on. The tengu was surprisingly close given the immensity of the dark dank space enveloping them, but he was still a fair climb away.
“I apologize Lord Highroost. It appears that I was... mistaken.”
With a quick jab the kyton slipped its fingers somewhere in Shades’ gut, and pulled out a thick knot of entrails. Amongst the bloody handful shone a plain but gorgeous golden ring. The kyton shook the meat off of it, and grinned a grin no one but another kyton would ever want to see.
“And now I shall, as you say, ‘let you the fuck go’.”
One of the horrid heart-spiders cut out enough of Shades’ still hooked arm to free it, and he began to fall. He tried to activate his Boots of Levitation, but there was literally not enough meat keeping his feet and legs together. Desperately he gripped at them with his bloodied weak hands, and forced just enough magic through them to slow his fall by a fraction. It wasn’t by a useful fraction, mind, so he yelled in terror the whole way down.
Mortimer could hear the noise, though it resonated sort of damply in the dead air of this place. He readied his infamous magic backpack, lifting it up so that it might cushion some of Shades’ fall. With a dash of timing and luck, a mass of feathers and blood and bone hit the intended target, and Mortimer was able to collect it as it bounced off. There was a flash of thick white mist, and the sturdy warrior found himself in a room carved from a familiar hellstone. The rest of the Company were there, with looks of varying degrees of relief across their faces.
Shades got up and out of Mortimer’s grip, and checked himself in a panic. The pain was gone. His arms were whole and healed. His feet were quite solidly connected to his legs- in fact his everything felt quite solidly connected to his everything else. There was absolutely no sign that anything adverse had happened to the Chosen of Thyr at all.
Nothing at all, except for the terrifying memories, and a great angry ragged scar that now raked across his chest.
Clink.
Clink.
“Alrigh’ Engineers! Last time I checked our maps we got one last door left- unless you got any fresh ideas wit that weird phasin’ door we still ain’t opened yet Fairweather?”
“Yeah I ain’t touchin’ that thing until I find us some adamantite lockpicks. I’m pretty fond o’ not cookin’ my hands up.”
“Y’all heard the burglar- let’s go git that last door!”
The valiant and often foolhardy souls of the ever infamous Great Downwards Engineering Company trudged off to that final door left marked on their crude working map. This had been one of the weirder pockets of Rappan Athuk the adventuring company had encountered. It wasn’t quite Hell and it wasn’t quite Rappan Athuk but yet was both at the same time- and everyone was keen to just move on to a place whose geography straddled less outer planes. Every time Agamemnon and Shades has passed through the lazy white mists of the teleporting rooms they had felt an odd tug, almost as if some barely noticeable hand, talon or hook was pawing at their bodies between the millisecond phases. It was never a comfortable feeling, and both divine spellcasters were keen on never feeling it again any time soon. Bracing themselves for what was hopefully the last teleportation, the clerics of Darach Albith and Thyr grimaced, and let the Hell magic do its work.
Clink.
Clink.
CLINK.
Something was different this time. Something horribly different. The ghostly tug of the mists became a frighteningly sharp pain in both Shades’ wrists. Everything was dark and the air was dead. And the smell. Bofred above the smell. It was an iron-rich tang of ancient rust or fresh blood that was more than likely a gruesome mix of the two. Shades could feel nothing under his feet, and could feel his entire weight hanging from the two white hot spots of screeching pain. He looked above to see a great ghastly meathook hooped through both his wrists, piercing right between the two major bones of each forearm. Blood oozed thickly down the metal and flesh. The hook itself was attached to a heavy oily chain that swung lethargically in the dead dank air. Shades activated his Boots of Levitation to ease the pain and weight, and to give his claws something solid to plant themselves on, grateful that he hadn’t been too quick in returning them to Hanabi today. He then started trying to free his hands, every tug and wiggle a new burning stab into both wrists.
CRASH CLINK JINGLE CLICKETY CLINK CLACK JINGLE CRASH
A frighteningly inhuman shape swooped through the dank and the dark, lithely swinging from chain to chain. Shades tugged and wiggled faster but the thing was swift. It loomed in front of the struggling Tengu soon enough.
“We will have none of that here,” the creature hissed, “You need to stop right now.” Shades stopped his boots’ slow upward levitation, but kept them hovering. His eyes were now adjusting to the dimly lit darkness, and now that the horrid thing was but a few metres away he could make out some details.
The creature had the same basic body plan of the drider monsters from one of Frey’s epics that featured her former Drow captors- a humanoid torso melded onto the gross bulbous abdomen of a giant web-spinning spider. This creature was decidedly even less Drow than a typical drider though. In fact the humanoid part of it more closely resembled the chain devils the Company had encountered in their earlier expeditions, but had four humanoid arms instead of two. The spidery part only had four legs, but they were sharp mechanical things that could have easily functioned both as weapons or as locomotion. Shards of metal and mechanical augmentations peppered its entire body, and gleamed menacingly in the dim light.
Later on Laniss would identify this creature as a particularly awful type of kyton. But Laniss was neither here nor there. No one from the Great Downward Engineering Company was. Shades was a lone struggling piece of meat dangling off a hook, one of several he could now spot in the distance. The kyton pulled a greasy black book from its pack, which proceeded to gush an awful black kind of liquid, and opened it.
“Lord Mayor Pezzack Highroost of the Calaelen Dominion, Chosen of Thyr, I see,” the kyton read, metallic scrapes punctuating the hisses and growls of its voice.
“Yeah and what’s it to you?!” The Chosen of Thyr spat.
“Interesting, but you have nothing of use to us. I shall let you be.”
The kyton didn’t move from its place among the chains, but turned its attention to its slimy book. Shades felt a brief rush of relief amongst his rising panic. He started trying to free himself again. A low chittering from above grew ever louder. Shades looked up to see a swarm of tiny spidery looking things clambering down his chain. They had sharp stabby mechanical legs like the kyton, but their abdomens were throbbing humanoid hearts, and their delicate mouthpieces were all blades. They descended down the chain, and started to swarm all over him. A few of them worked together to make off with Shades’ shield. With an agonizing effort Shades ripped one arm out of the meathook and tossed one of the little blighters away. But the rest of them, one by one, all found a place they liked, scraped their little mouthblades together, and dug in.
The pain was a hot seething fluid sensation, flooding every sense Shades had.
CRASH CLATTER CLINK CLATTER CRASH HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY! HEY YOU! SPIDERY FUCKIN’ CHAIN THING! THIS AIN’T LEAVIN’ ME BE YOU LIAR!
For a moment the horrible chittering heart-spiders stopped, and the kyton turned its attention back to the writhing screeching Tengu, which now had significant pieces missing.
“I’m sorry. You would not possibly be calling me... rude, would you?” the kyton crooned, its eyes alight with menace.
“Not rude- but mistaken as to what leavin’ one be actually fuckin’ means. How about leavin’ me fuckin' be in the same number o’ pieces you found me in huh?!” Shades didn’t have many options here, but apparently arguing the semantics of a Lawful creature’s own words was the one he was currently taking. Running away certainly wasn’t an option right now, as not only was there no ground to run on, but there was now very little tissue connecting Shades’ feet to his legs. He channeled some of Thyr’s healing power into this dark frightful place, but there was still so much missing flesh even then.
“Everything needs to be catalogued and studied.”
“So much for nothing of use to you! If I ain’t o’ use then why the blazes am I gonna be junkin’ up your fuckin’ catalogues LET ME THE FUCK GO.”
“...Indeed.”
The kyton stalked closer, breathing in sharp rasps. One of its humanoid arms snaked forward, and planted its cold pallid fingers somewhere around the Tengu’s abdomen. Shades tried to bat the thing away with his free but tattered arm, but wielding strength is an action that is highly dependent on having enough muscle mass. An expression of intrigue and light surprise crossed the kyton’s face, as its fingers massaged at one spot in particular.
SHADES??? SHADES ARE YOU HERE IT’S MORTIMER
A familiar voice bellowed in the darkness below Shades somewhere. Shades screeched back something incoherent, and the enormous orc started climbing up the chain he was on. The tengu was surprisingly close given the immensity of the dark dank space enveloping them, but he was still a fair climb away.
“I apologize Lord Highroost. It appears that I was... mistaken.”
With a quick jab the kyton slipped its fingers somewhere in Shades’ gut, and pulled out a thick knot of entrails. Amongst the bloody handful shone a plain but gorgeous golden ring. The kyton shook the meat off of it, and grinned a grin no one but another kyton would ever want to see.
“And now I shall, as you say, ‘let you the fuck go’.”
One of the horrid heart-spiders cut out enough of Shades’ still hooked arm to free it, and he began to fall. He tried to activate his Boots of Levitation, but there was literally not enough meat keeping his feet and legs together. Desperately he gripped at them with his bloodied weak hands, and forced just enough magic through them to slow his fall by a fraction. It wasn’t by a useful fraction, mind, so he yelled in terror the whole way down.
Mortimer could hear the noise, though it resonated sort of damply in the dead air of this place. He readied his infamous magic backpack, lifting it up so that it might cushion some of Shades’ fall. With a dash of timing and luck, a mass of feathers and blood and bone hit the intended target, and Mortimer was able to collect it as it bounced off. There was a flash of thick white mist, and the sturdy warrior found himself in a room carved from a familiar hellstone. The rest of the Company were there, with looks of varying degrees of relief across their faces.
Shades got up and out of Mortimer’s grip, and checked himself in a panic. The pain was gone. His arms were whole and healed. His feet were quite solidly connected to his legs- in fact his everything felt quite solidly connected to his everything else. There was absolutely no sign that anything adverse had happened to the Chosen of Thyr at all.
Nothing at all, except for the terrifying memories, and a great angry ragged scar that now raked across his chest.
A day in the life of an overworked cohort
4:00am-4:30am - Tabitha gets up at this
ungodly hour. She starts her day with a shot of magic in the form of
a lesser restoration, and washes it down with some sort of food, as
long as it isn't jerky. She polishes and dons her armour while
listening to a report from whichever of Mortimer’s Maxim drew the
short straw that morning.
4:30am-5:00am - She stands on a wagon
in front of what will be the gates to Castle Grey and leads the
morning prayers to Balthazar. This is followed by a lecture, usually
related to the purpose of their days work and the importance of the
Castle to the region. Attendance is apparently voluntary
5:00am-6:00am - As the sky starts to
lighten, she gathers and organises her labourers. She gives a brief
to the Construction Team Leaders about their goals for the day and
says some words she intends to be inspiring.
6:00am-12:00pm - She spends this time
making the rounds of the construction site. She gives advice and
instructions to her labourers as needed, and administers aid when
accidents happen. The 11th Hellhound Brigade tag along, sniffing and
peeing on most things. Occasionally, they are given leave to
terrorise people she didn't think came to the morning prayer.
12:00pm-1:00pm - Lunch break! Usually
jerky because its fast and easy. She spends this time in recreation
with the Hellhounds, teaching them skills and teamwork, while making
sure they're tuckered out enough they'll bed down for the afternoon.
1:00pm-4:00pm - She supervises the last
of the days work, not unlike earlier
4:00pm-5:00pm - She eats some dinner
while debriefing her Construction Team Leaders. She receives another
report from Mortimer’s Maxim around this time.
5:00pm-6:00pm - She gets on her wagon
again and leads the evening prayer. This is followed by another
lecture. It is similar overall to the morning one, except longer, and
it is instead usually on the virtues of discipline and structure.
Again, attendance is apparently voluntary.
6:00pm-7:00pm - She takes a walk around
Greyton, making sure that things are well and good. People are
welcome to bring concerns to her during this time, but few people
dare
7:00pm-8:00pm - She spends some time in
her room, writing out the days activities in a log book. She updates
the building plan with any modifications that need to be made. She
handles the Castles finances during this time as well.
8:00pm-9:00pm - This hour is dedicated
to the study of her craft. She practices spells, reads up on topics
relevant to her interests and does all the sorts of things one would
expect from someone with class levels.
9:00pm-11:00pm - She trains with
whichever of the members of Mortimer’s Maxim aren't on patrol. She
teaches them tactics and yells at them while they struggle to fall
into formation fast enough for her liking. She will often involve her
horse Misty, giving her some exercise.
11:00pm-12:00am - She spends her last
hour before bed working on Mortimer’s other pet projects. At the
moment she's trying to engineer a way to either retrofit a ship with
spikes, or boobytrap it somehow, for hunting Kraken.
12:00am-4:00am - Sleep
Every 7th day Tabitha takes it easy.
She forgoes the evening training onwards, gets a full nights sleep
and regains spell slots
Snookums and the Dominion Army
“And here he is, the biggest small man you’ll ever meet! the Dragonslayer! the Hero of Calaelan and the Commander of the Dominion Army! General Stoneheart!”
Snookums stamped out onto his fifth makeshift stage this week, glaring at the mayor of yet another no-horse town between nowhere and dirtsville. He looked out across what could barely be called a town square at his appreciative audience of two drunks and a mule.
“Ahem, thank ye for attending today’s recruitment drive. Uh, yes? you down in tha fountain? No, no I’m not from no ‘Holy Church Of The Divine Strangler’. No, shut yer trap! As I was sayin, tha Army of tha Calaelan Dominion is recruitin’. We offer two hots and a cot, no more than 8 hours a day o’ trainin’ an’ citizenship after 1 year o’ service.”
The two drunks had started squabbling. Or hugging, it was hard to tell. Even the mule had turned back to its feed trough. Snookums sighed and thanked the mayor for his time before heading to the tavern and ordering a jug of dwarven firewater. About two-thirds of the way through the jug, Snookums was joined by the town sheriff, who lost no time floating what sounded like a brilliant idea. Soon Snookums found himself standing in the town lockup, inspecting the local miscreants.
“So wha’ did this one do?” Snookums slurred, leaning heavily against the cool iron bars.
“Petty theft. He stole some bread from the baker and cold cuts from the back room of the butchery” replied the sheriff.
“Was you jus’ hungry? Where’r’ yer’ parents, laddy?” Snookums whispered from somewhere near the ground.
“He’s an orphan. Same as the other two we’ve got here. The Halfling, I’ve got no idea. He hasn’t spoken a word since the baker’s wife caught him in their larder.”
“Sounds t’me like they need food and discipline. Calaelan’s got plenty o’ food an’ I gots plenty o’ th’ other t’ing” grunted Snookums from the hay pile next to the cage.
“Well look, I’ll sign over custody of this lot to you, and even throw in the old lockup wagon if you’ll take them with you when you go.” The sheriff thrust a sheaf of paper under Snookums’ hand and deftly inserted an inked quill, getting a mark on the form.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A foot prodded Snookums in the ribs, quickly followed by a bucket of water splashing into his face, drenching the clothes beneath the plate armour he had somehow fallen asleep in.
“Up you get General, you’ll be wanting to get on your way now that it’s light. I’ve already loaded your new recruits and hitched your pony up to the wagon” said the sheriff forcefully, lifting the heavy-set dwarf to his feet.
“Here’s the step, right there. Up we go, wonderful. Alright General, lovely to do business with you, do drop by again sometime, bye bye! Hyaaaah! Git along pony!”
By the time Snookums came to his senses, he was nearly a mile out of the town in a wagon with a cage full of sullen youths.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)