We're under attack!
Maxim, rally to me! To me! Mountain formation!
Balthazars balls, are those demons?
Where are they coming from?
Lets just get orientated first. Lieutenant, headcount!
We're down 3, Marrin!
Okay, not too bad. Anyone see the enemy?
Not me.
No sir
Not anymore
Alright. Square formation! Crabwalk towards Tabithas tent. Lieutenant, its dark, so you take the lead!
Yessir!
Uhh sir, I think I can see Tabitha. She's writhing on the ground, a couple of dozen yards to the east.
Does she look hurt?
Uhh no Sir, I think she's laughing
Oh Gods...
Sir? Does this mean I can go back to bed?
Romance or something like it
"What in the 9 hells was that? I had him! What got me?"
Killingsworth looked around in an all-too-common mix of shock and anger.
"You should choose your allies more carefully" said the familiar-looking woman who...had always been there.
"Don't I know you?"
"Yes Mark, we met once before, when you were training under your first arcane master"
"Oh? Oh! Right. My first scorching ray spell. Good thing that master was rich, it made up for his failings as a teacher."
He sat down and immediately fell through the stool.
"Will anyone be collecting you this time?" She inquired politely.
"I should hope so, my current employer offers death insurance as one of her few benefits." Killingsworth busied himself trying to find his reflection in the mirror on the wall.
"Did you want me to stay with you until then?"
Having straightened his jacked over the gaping chest wound, Killingsworth turned to her and winked. "Sure, it's not often I get to spend time with such an attractive lady"
A fleeting blush on her cheek shone like a touch of sunlight on snow.
-------------------------------
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhhh gedditawayfrommeaaaaaaaaaagh"
"Hush Mark, it's ok. You're ok... Well, I mean, for a given value of ok."
"Aaaa- Oh, it's you again. Hello there, m'lady! You almost make that horrible death worthwhile"
"'Almost'? You tease!" She giggled like the clattering of coffin lids. "At least you have a good lot of friends with you this time"
"M'lady flatters me with her attention. Have you been watching me all this time?"
"Well, your new companions do keep me busy"
" Of that I have no doubt, now be a darling and fetch the brandy from my left jacket pocket"
-------------------------------
Once the pain stopped, Killingsworth opened his eyes and smiled. There she was again.
"Did you miss me?"
"Oh Mark, hopefully we have more time together now. Your companions look quite lost down here."
"Hah! Well let's make the most of it!"
Killingsworth embraced her, feeling her cool body against his, her hip bones digging into his waist.
-------------------------------
"You nearly had that dragon, you know?"
"Ah m'lady, you always know how to cheer me up. Twas a tough fight and my friends shall yet triumph."
"It looks like they are settling in to loot the island now. Did they not think to recall you to life first?"
"I'm sure they know what they are doing, securing the prize first. It's a solid plan."
"Now they've stuffed your corpse in the bag too!"
"Well, aaah how else would they get my body home..."
"But now they are unpacking and planning a feast!"
"Hmm, maybe they have forgotten me this time..."
"Ah there we go. Til next time, my love!"
"Adieu, my Lady!"
-------------------------------
This time she looked positively grim. "I'm not sure how I feel about this one. Does she really need to die?" She said while Killingsworth picked himself up off the floor.
"You know me, my dear, I wouldn't risk life and limb for someone that didn't deserve it." He brushed some dust from his uniform sleeve.
Her laughter rang out like funeral bells. Killingsworth always enjoyed his time with her, though he feared one day he may go broke and be stuck here.
"Oh, look Mark, that's new", she said, "This time an old woman is bringing you back, with the help of that birdman"
-------------------------------
"Back so soon, my love?"
"Ah, yes. I missed you! Nothing to do at all with being eaten by a wurm."
"Well maybe we will get some time togeth-WAIT come back!"
-------------------------------
To be continued?
Unidentified
"I wanted to be a wizard, once," said Agamemnon, staring down at the bones of another Agamemnon. This one had the unmistakable markings of spell misfires down one arm, the sort of wounding all wizards carried, if they lived long enough, or faced danger often enough.
"Just to fuck with people?" There was an elf standing in the corner of the small mausoleum, with his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the wall. He was a fairly average-looking elf, shorter than Agamemnon, with blonde hair and grey eyes, dressed in simple yet very finely crafted linens.
"To prove I could." The priest grinned. "Although the thought of my fellow apprentices having to share rooms with an orc, the looks of horror on their faces at the indignity of it all ..." He laughed.
"You would have made a good wizard." His second companion, a short, human woman in a black robe, who stood in the doorway to the crypt, looking out at the trees.
"Absolutely," said he elf. "I would have been fine with wizard." He thought for a moment, chewing on his lip. "It would have been less trouble, that's for damn sure." He stepped up beside Agamemnon, peering into the simple stone casket at the cloth-wrapped skeleton that lay within. "Not thinking of resurrecting him, are you?" the elf whispered confidentially. "Only we've talked about that."
"Fuck off, you," laughed Agamemnon. The elf lightly skipped out of the way of the punch aimed at him and bowed in mock politeness, spinning and, in one fluid motion, taking a swig from a hip flask before making his way to the open doorway, alongside the woman, offering her a drink. She declined, but the two entered into quiet conversation. Agamemnon didn't bother trying to listen in - it wouldn't have worked anyway, but he had other things on his mind. So the mausoleum bore his name, true, a very uncommon name, shared by only four people in history, so far as he could tell: himself, first and foremost; the Agamemnon who was a soldier in the Righteous March; the portrait of the man he found in the historical text; and now this fellow, dead in a crypt that he probably fabricated for himself using arcane power. What was the connection? One Agamemnon was his namesake, a man he had named himself after deliberately, and the one in the book looked a lot like him. But this wizard? Clearly this man was not him - he was only a quarter orc, for starters, and had a very different face. And yet here he was, buried a thousand years in the Stoneheart Valley and still here. What were the chances that Mortimer and Fairweather would stumble across this tomb when falling onto the prime material? Did something draw them here?
"It will be dark, soon." It was the woman speaking. Agamemnon hadn't heard her approaching but she was standing beside him, her porcelain fingers tapping him on the arm.
"It's only just past noon, isn't it?"
"That's not what she means, friend," said the elf, sounding more solemn than the priest had ever heard him. He cleared his throat, rocking on his feet like he was eager to get going.
"If you're worried," the half-orc said, "why don't you help me?"
The elf reached up and patted him on the shoulder. "You think I haven't?"
Agamemnon shrugged it off. "Do you know who this is?" he asked, pointing at the bones. The elf looked out the door at a bird flying past, not answering. "What, do you need me to cast a divination? Am I not pursuing the proper channels?"
The man looked across at the woman. Some understanding passed between them, and he looked at the floor. "I'm really not the person you should be asking."
"You mean you don't know?"
"It's ... more complicated than that."
"It's always more complicated than that," said Agamemnon.
"Yes," the elf said, angrily. "It is always more complicated than that."
The half-orc felt he should be angry too, but he just couldn't find it in himself. The puzzle was too intriguing, and he knew that if his friend could help him further he would already have done so.
The three spent some time - maybe hours, maybe less, maybe more - in the crypt, Agamemnon studying the bones for any missed clue, waiting for them to talk to him, to tell him who they were; the elf, sitting cross-legged in the corner, drawing spirals in the dust; the woman, standing in the doorway, watching as the sun moved across the sky.
Their reverie was broken when a small boy, playing too far from his parents' passing caravan, chased a lost ball into the crypt, tripping on the woman's dress and tumbling across the stonework until he crashed into Agamemnon's legs. He rubbed his head, then looked up, terrified. The elf reached out, picked up the ball, smiled to the child and tossed it to him. The ball glowed golden in the air as it fell to be caught by the boy, who muttered a thank you and darted back out into the trees as quickly as he could.
Agamemnon grinned, then burst out laughing, and the elf joined in. Even the woman smiled. The poor boy had no idea with whom he had just shared a room.
"Just to fuck with people?" There was an elf standing in the corner of the small mausoleum, with his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the wall. He was a fairly average-looking elf, shorter than Agamemnon, with blonde hair and grey eyes, dressed in simple yet very finely crafted linens.
"To prove I could." The priest grinned. "Although the thought of my fellow apprentices having to share rooms with an orc, the looks of horror on their faces at the indignity of it all ..." He laughed.
"You would have made a good wizard." His second companion, a short, human woman in a black robe, who stood in the doorway to the crypt, looking out at the trees.
"Absolutely," said he elf. "I would have been fine with wizard." He thought for a moment, chewing on his lip. "It would have been less trouble, that's for damn sure." He stepped up beside Agamemnon, peering into the simple stone casket at the cloth-wrapped skeleton that lay within. "Not thinking of resurrecting him, are you?" the elf whispered confidentially. "Only we've talked about that."
"Fuck off, you," laughed Agamemnon. The elf lightly skipped out of the way of the punch aimed at him and bowed in mock politeness, spinning and, in one fluid motion, taking a swig from a hip flask before making his way to the open doorway, alongside the woman, offering her a drink. She declined, but the two entered into quiet conversation. Agamemnon didn't bother trying to listen in - it wouldn't have worked anyway, but he had other things on his mind. So the mausoleum bore his name, true, a very uncommon name, shared by only four people in history, so far as he could tell: himself, first and foremost; the Agamemnon who was a soldier in the Righteous March; the portrait of the man he found in the historical text; and now this fellow, dead in a crypt that he probably fabricated for himself using arcane power. What was the connection? One Agamemnon was his namesake, a man he had named himself after deliberately, and the one in the book looked a lot like him. But this wizard? Clearly this man was not him - he was only a quarter orc, for starters, and had a very different face. And yet here he was, buried a thousand years in the Stoneheart Valley and still here. What were the chances that Mortimer and Fairweather would stumble across this tomb when falling onto the prime material? Did something draw them here?
"It will be dark, soon." It was the woman speaking. Agamemnon hadn't heard her approaching but she was standing beside him, her porcelain fingers tapping him on the arm.
"It's only just past noon, isn't it?"
"That's not what she means, friend," said the elf, sounding more solemn than the priest had ever heard him. He cleared his throat, rocking on his feet like he was eager to get going.
"If you're worried," the half-orc said, "why don't you help me?"
The elf reached up and patted him on the shoulder. "You think I haven't?"
Agamemnon shrugged it off. "Do you know who this is?" he asked, pointing at the bones. The elf looked out the door at a bird flying past, not answering. "What, do you need me to cast a divination? Am I not pursuing the proper channels?"
The man looked across at the woman. Some understanding passed between them, and he looked at the floor. "I'm really not the person you should be asking."
"You mean you don't know?"
"It's ... more complicated than that."
"It's always more complicated than that," said Agamemnon.
"Yes," the elf said, angrily. "It is always more complicated than that."
The half-orc felt he should be angry too, but he just couldn't find it in himself. The puzzle was too intriguing, and he knew that if his friend could help him further he would already have done so.
The three spent some time - maybe hours, maybe less, maybe more - in the crypt, Agamemnon studying the bones for any missed clue, waiting for them to talk to him, to tell him who they were; the elf, sitting cross-legged in the corner, drawing spirals in the dust; the woman, standing in the doorway, watching as the sun moved across the sky.
Their reverie was broken when a small boy, playing too far from his parents' passing caravan, chased a lost ball into the crypt, tripping on the woman's dress and tumbling across the stonework until he crashed into Agamemnon's legs. He rubbed his head, then looked up, terrified. The elf reached out, picked up the ball, smiled to the child and tossed it to him. The ball glowed golden in the air as it fell to be caught by the boy, who muttered a thank you and darted back out into the trees as quickly as he could.
Agamemnon grinned, then burst out laughing, and the elf joined in. Even the woman smiled. The poor boy had no idea with whom he had just shared a room.
Ad Vitam
Kubler closed his eyes.
~~~~~~
Kubler felt sunlight on his face, warming him. There was a sound, in the distance; he would make it out soon, but the sound already made him happy. The next sensation was the rough prickle of hay beneath him, and he crunched it in his hands. He was sitting on a bale of hay, in the sun, and there was ... a sound, people, playing. He would identify the sound soon, but he was already happy. There was a scent in the air, hay, of course, and grass, long country grass, freshly scythed, and something ... buttercups. They had such a subtle scent but at this time of the year, if you closed your eyes and let the tamed wind blow over you, you could inhale lungs full of cut grass and hay, and delicate buttercups.
Kubler opened his eyes. It was early autumn. The sun was still warm in the Stoneheart Valley this year. There was work to be done to prepare for the winter, but for now he could relax - they could all relax and enjoy one of the beautiful days at the end of the growing season when everything was ripe and you could be satisfied with the harvest, knowing your hard work had paid off.
He identified the sound, and it was beautiful, but it also made him sad. He looked out over the field. Emi and Jez were chasing a rabbit. The rabbit was quick, darting about. Emi tripped on her skirt and rolled to a soft landing in the cushioning grass, causing both mother and daughter to burst into giggles. The delicate sound of their laughter hit him right in the heart, and lifted him up. It was a beautiful sound, and it made Kubler smile, and made him sad.
"Why don't you go to them?"
Kubler shook his head. He watched his family scampering after the rabbit again. They were never going to catch it, but it was fun to try. "That's not how it works."
"I decide how it works."
Kubler slowly managed to take his eyes off the scene in the field and turned to regard the speaker, a tall woman in a black robe, her face bone white. She was beautiful, and she made him sad. "No. You decide how death works. You don't decide how life works."
The Pale Lady was closer, though Kubler hadn't seen her move. "This is a window into what happens next. This is where they are, in the endless fields. They are happy here. You could be happy here."
Kubler stared at his wife, Emi. She was beautiful. She wasn't more beautiful than she was in life. She was as beautiful. She was full of life, so vital, so happy. He watched her face. She wasn't perfectly happy, but she was happy, as happy as she had been in life. It wasn't some idealised version of his wife, it wasn't some facsimile lacking the soul of his wife; it was her, and she was beautiful, and she made him sad. As he watched a shadow crossed her face, and she looked around, searching. She knew he was here, that he was watching. She could never see him, but she could feel him, feel that he was watching her. He ached to go to her, to run into the field, to pick up Jez and run with her, to hold his wife, to help them chase the rabbit, to fall down in the grass and lie in the sun and be happy.
"Kay!"
It was Agamemnon's voice. He felt a hole open up behind him, a warping of the plane that tunneled back down to the prime material. All he had to do was close his eyes, lie back down on the newly-baled hay, and fall back to the world. All he had to do was stop looking at his beautiful family and be sad again.
"You don't have to go. You know you don't. Just die. Die, and go to them."
Kubler shook his head. He felt the cold fingers of the Lady on his shoulder but ignored them, wiping the tears from his eyes. He took one last look at his beautiful family, and it made him sad. "You don't die for the ones you love," he said, lying down on the prickly hay. "You live for them."
Kubler closed his eyes.
~~~~~
Kubler opened his eyes.
~~~~~~
Kubler felt sunlight on his face, warming him. There was a sound, in the distance; he would make it out soon, but the sound already made him happy. The next sensation was the rough prickle of hay beneath him, and he crunched it in his hands. He was sitting on a bale of hay, in the sun, and there was ... a sound, people, playing. He would identify the sound soon, but he was already happy. There was a scent in the air, hay, of course, and grass, long country grass, freshly scythed, and something ... buttercups. They had such a subtle scent but at this time of the year, if you closed your eyes and let the tamed wind blow over you, you could inhale lungs full of cut grass and hay, and delicate buttercups.
Kubler opened his eyes. It was early autumn. The sun was still warm in the Stoneheart Valley this year. There was work to be done to prepare for the winter, but for now he could relax - they could all relax and enjoy one of the beautiful days at the end of the growing season when everything was ripe and you could be satisfied with the harvest, knowing your hard work had paid off.
He identified the sound, and it was beautiful, but it also made him sad. He looked out over the field. Emi and Jez were chasing a rabbit. The rabbit was quick, darting about. Emi tripped on her skirt and rolled to a soft landing in the cushioning grass, causing both mother and daughter to burst into giggles. The delicate sound of their laughter hit him right in the heart, and lifted him up. It was a beautiful sound, and it made Kubler smile, and made him sad.
"Why don't you go to them?"
Kubler shook his head. He watched his family scampering after the rabbit again. They were never going to catch it, but it was fun to try. "That's not how it works."
"I decide how it works."
Kubler slowly managed to take his eyes off the scene in the field and turned to regard the speaker, a tall woman in a black robe, her face bone white. She was beautiful, and she made him sad. "No. You decide how death works. You don't decide how life works."
The Pale Lady was closer, though Kubler hadn't seen her move. "This is a window into what happens next. This is where they are, in the endless fields. They are happy here. You could be happy here."
Kubler stared at his wife, Emi. She was beautiful. She wasn't more beautiful than she was in life. She was as beautiful. She was full of life, so vital, so happy. He watched her face. She wasn't perfectly happy, but she was happy, as happy as she had been in life. It wasn't some idealised version of his wife, it wasn't some facsimile lacking the soul of his wife; it was her, and she was beautiful, and she made him sad. As he watched a shadow crossed her face, and she looked around, searching. She knew he was here, that he was watching. She could never see him, but she could feel him, feel that he was watching her. He ached to go to her, to run into the field, to pick up Jez and run with her, to hold his wife, to help them chase the rabbit, to fall down in the grass and lie in the sun and be happy.
"Kay!"
It was Agamemnon's voice. He felt a hole open up behind him, a warping of the plane that tunneled back down to the prime material. All he had to do was close his eyes, lie back down on the newly-baled hay, and fall back to the world. All he had to do was stop looking at his beautiful family and be sad again.
"You don't have to go. You know you don't. Just die. Die, and go to them."
Kubler shook his head. He felt the cold fingers of the Lady on his shoulder but ignored them, wiping the tears from his eyes. He took one last look at his beautiful family, and it made him sad. "You don't die for the ones you love," he said, lying down on the prickly hay. "You live for them."
Kubler closed his eyes.
~~~~~
Kubler opened his eyes.
The Pale Lady's deal
Those fools! Hang me will they! I'll have my vengeance! You fools, your spells mean nothing too me, you can't harm my mind! That's the woman we need to kill isn't it? Hit her hit her hit her! Skeletons! no, just hit her hit her hit her!
No, you can suck life out of us like that but I can hit you, I can hit you I can...
HELLO KRUIN HELLO SKRILLEX
Who you, and who is Skrillex?
IF YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED BY NOW YOU NEVER WILL BUT SHE IS EVERYTHING YOU WANT TO BE
Oh, you mean the demon in ma arm? Don't care, she just helped me a kill a bunch of people, they really needed to be killed. Fuck, ah died agen didn't I? Oh well, can come back and get 'nother demon in me. Sure that'll do something ussful, not sure why Aggy and Killingworth never use the ones they have...
NOT EVERYONE RETURNS TO LIFE IN THAT WAY KRUIN
What, that's fucken stupid, so much betta this way, why we pay for all them gems every time someone else dies then? Why not just use the idiot with the sky on his ceiling? So you mean if they bring me back I'm not going to get any new power? That fucken stupid. Also, shouldn't there be a line a people here waiting to have some smart ass god claim them?
I THINK YOU'D RATHER NOT GO THERE YOU'VE UPSET TOO MANY GODS NOW BUT I CAN SPARE YOU FROM THE FATE YOU DESERVE
I don't deserve any stupid fate from gods, they're stupid and their followers are extra stupid. Aggy going to bring me back and Orcus people and everyone else can keep bein idiots and...
THERE'S NO RETURN FOR YOU TWO I'M AFRAID THEY CANT BRING YOU BACK AFTER WHAT YOU'VE DONE
Now you shut up stupid lady you can't tell me I'm not coming back...
DO YOU FEEL THAT PULL THATS
Yeah, that's them bringin me back
IT KEEPS PULLING, ITS NOT NORMALLY LIKE THAT
Ok, you're right, stupid lady, it's starting to hurt now, what you want?
I CAN ALLOW YOU TO GO BACK BUT YOU MUST DO SOMETHING FOR ME IN RETURN
Ok, this fucken hurts, ok what you want me to do?
WELL...
A conversation
As Jaq looked up from his prayer's, he felt more than saw the figure standing in the dark. Though it's face was in shadow he could feel it watching him, studying him.
"I know who who you are."
"I know what you are." The stranger spoke with a soft voice, and yet there was great age and power behind every word.
"Then you know I have no fear of you, or of what you represent. Here, in this place, I have moved beyond such concerns." Jaq turned away, busied himself with the meager possessions his cell contained.
"I am aware. I was simply curious. My daughter often watched you and your friends, and even I found myself curious at times. Much has changed now that you are here. Your friends don't know, do they?"
"No. But they shall find out in time, of that I have no doubt. And I imagine you will be watching then as well."
"Most likely. We have our roles to play."
As Jaq moved to exit the room, a strange smiled played across the stranger's face as she slowly faded away.
"I know who who you are."
"I know what you are." The stranger spoke with a soft voice, and yet there was great age and power behind every word.
"Then you know I have no fear of you, or of what you represent. Here, in this place, I have moved beyond such concerns." Jaq turned away, busied himself with the meager possessions his cell contained.
"I am aware. I was simply curious. My daughter often watched you and your friends, and even I found myself curious at times. Much has changed now that you are here. Your friends don't know, do they?"
"No. But they shall find out in time, of that I have no doubt. And I imagine you will be watching then as well."
"Most likely. We have our roles to play."
As Jaq moved to exit the room, a strange smiled played across the stranger's face as she slowly faded away.
The Pale Old Hen
The moon and the few visible stars danced between heavy
clouds, as the night’s plum wine warmly buzzed in Hanabi’s fingertips. Ying and
Chen, the two tengu Runners, were always good company at the Planar Anchor. The
trio, along with Haku, had been celebrating the news of another group of
refugees that had been spotted heading out of Aberdeen. Perhaps the lucky weary
souls were friends? Family? Rivals? Either way, Hanabi was looking forward to
seeing new but old faces out and about in Dejune town.
The night had turned into something particularly special
when Graaahk, Taejan and some of the Dominion Army’s other Banshees turned up to the
Anchor, assumedly on one of their rare free nights. The gargoyle was normally a
reserved creature that tried his best to pass as humanoid at all times, but he knew
how to let his wings down with a few stout dwarven ales warming his bones, that’s
for sure.
Ying had offered to escort Hanabi home during the earlier
hours of the morning, when all was said and drunk. It was a genteel but sort of
useless offer, given that the shadows had granted her the ability to see
through their darkness. She accepted out of politeness, but as it turned out, the
Runner was more inebriated than he had previously let on. She ended up lugging
him to his own home instead. Now it was just her and the chill embrace of the
early morning. Well, that and a pale glowing figure some tens of feet away.
Hanabi rubbed at her magically gifted eyes and shook her
sloshy head a little, but the figure remained. It actually reminded her a lot
of the apparition of Shades that had manifested in Castle Calaelen during Bofred’s
several failed attempts to resurrect him. Oh that whacky godling.
Deciding it was best to leave what could have only been one
of Erika’s illusions, or an impressively large witchlight, Hanabi toddled on
back to her home in town. She was surprised to find the lanterns on, and the
scented candles for her tiny shrine to Thyr lit. She called out quietly, and
heard a soft murmur from her spare room. It was a large room Hanabi kept free
for any newcomers who were having a hard time finding a new home in Dejune, or
were waiting for new housing to be built. She opened the door, and peered
inside.
In the bed was an ancient tengu hen with brittle white
feathers. Not the warm glowing white of the Winterfeathers spell, but the dull
waning colourlessness of a cold campfire’s ash. Her greying beak was chipped
and peeling back in places, and her eyes were opaque. She shivered under a heap
of blankets, and didn’t look a day away from her grave.
Hanabi cursed something fierce in Elven, something about boils
on a devil’s arse and Chen not warning her about this new roomie.
“I- I am so sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you,” Hanabi
flustered a little, “…Is there anything I can get for you?”
“No, it is okay,” the pale hen rasped, “I will not be staying for long.”
“I can get a healer.”
“A healer will not help this time. But please, stay with me, I do not wish to be alone as the light fades.”
“No, it is okay,” the pale hen rasped, “I will not be staying for long.”
“I can get a healer.”
“A healer will not help this time. But please, stay with me, I do not wish to be alone as the light fades.”
Hanabi pulled up a seat next to the waning hen, and held her
hands in her own. They were cool and bony. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do
or say, so she turned to what she knew best: the legendary tales of tengu folk
hero Fairweather. Fairweather, the master thief who stole from the rich and the
cruel, and shared his spoils with the poor. The cunning politician whose words
alone tore down the slavery laws of Aberdeen. The master trapper who could
catch a panther with nothing but the scraps and junk in his pockets. The
sharp-eyed gun man who could shoot down a moonlight moth in a snow storm. The
only consistent element of the Fairweather tales was that they were
inconsistent, and that he always had some crafty way to turn the weapons of his
enemies against them at the very last moment. Seeing the genuine delight beaming from the old hen's face, Hanabi added her own story of Fairweather the people smuggler,
who thwarted the Aberdeenian Shens, and risked his very life to give others the
chance to live a free life of their own. For laughs she also added the story of
Fairweather the reckless adventurer, who saved his friends from a horrible
vengeful cave monster by lobbing the torso of its fallen comrade at it.
“I think we both know that Fairweather died horribly in that
story,” the hen laughed, and made the beaked equivalent of a smirk.
“I think we both know that Fairweather dies horribly in all of his stories,”
Hanabi replied, but found herself talking to a cold empty bed.
Betty - Dealing with loss
Betty Hearthstone was writing a list of dwarven words on a chalkboard. The scrape and click of the chalk was soothingly rythmic and homely, in the same way a saw cutting wood or the sound of laughter of children at play is. She was listing words for facial expressions, while trying to avoid those accosiated with booze. She was muttering in dwarvish under her breath as she wrote.
"Smile. Frown. Sad. Hmmm, no, I can't use happydrunk or saddrunk. Mmmm. No, vomitdrunk won't do. Puzzled, I can use puzzled. But probably not confuseddrunk. Or forgetfuldrunk. Or fightdrunk. Sometimes I think the ale dwarves drink has more culture than they do, bless their rocky little hearts"
With a flourish, she finishes the last rune and turns back to her class. 3 small human children, two elven children and a tengu chick were sitting in a semicircle around her, charcoal and tablet in hand. A tall Pale Lady was standing at the back leaning casually against the wall. She hadn't been there a moment ago. Betty opened her mouth to question her, before her eyes widened slightly in recognition.
"I didn't think it worked this way, but I assume you are here for me" Betty said to her in dwarvish. "Let me finish with the children before we return to The Forge"
"What did you say Ma'am?" One of the children piped up
"I'm just talking to my self, sweetie." she replied. "It's what old ladies do sometimes. You know what, I was going to teach you some new words today, but I think I have changed my mind. I lost a friend of mine a while ago, and every now and again I think about it and it makes me sad. Have any of you ever lost someone important to you?"
"My dog went missing once. We didn't know where he was for a WHOLE WEEK!" Charlie, one of the human children exclaimed.
"Did you feel sad when he was gone?" Betty asked
"Yes, very. I cried and everything. But I was happy when he showed up again. He was dirty and smelt bad, but I was still happy"
"I'm glad you found him again, Charlie" Betty said. "What about you Yorokobi?"
"My uncle died" Yorokobi replied sadly. She was one of the elvish refugees
"In the fighting? Thats sad. Were you close?"
"Yes. He taught me how to fish. And he used to tie my bag shut using a knot I didn't know just to annoy me"
"He sounds like he was an interesting person. Do you still like to fish?" Betty asked gently
"No. It reminds me of him and then I feel sad"
"Well, I think you should try to go fishing again, even if you feel sad. It was something you shared. He mightn't be here anymore, but you can still be close to him"
"I guess so. I just don't like feeling sad" Yorokobi looked on the verge of tearing up
"Being sad when you lose someone is part of what makes us what we are. Its okay to feel that way. Besides, while he mightn't be here any more, you still have a relationship with him. You still share things with him. You have things of his that you can use, like fishing and knot-tying, and through that its almost like he's still around. Death only wins if you forget about him."
"I won't forget" Yorokobi promised
"I'm happy for you" Betty said with a smile.
When she nextlooked up, The Pale Lady was gone.
"Smile. Frown. Sad. Hmmm, no, I can't use happydrunk or saddrunk. Mmmm. No, vomitdrunk won't do. Puzzled, I can use puzzled. But probably not confuseddrunk. Or forgetfuldrunk. Or fightdrunk. Sometimes I think the ale dwarves drink has more culture than they do, bless their rocky little hearts"
With a flourish, she finishes the last rune and turns back to her class. 3 small human children, two elven children and a tengu chick were sitting in a semicircle around her, charcoal and tablet in hand. A tall Pale Lady was standing at the back leaning casually against the wall. She hadn't been there a moment ago. Betty opened her mouth to question her, before her eyes widened slightly in recognition.
"I didn't think it worked this way, but I assume you are here for me" Betty said to her in dwarvish. "Let me finish with the children before we return to The Forge"
"What did you say Ma'am?" One of the children piped up
"I'm just talking to my self, sweetie." she replied. "It's what old ladies do sometimes. You know what, I was going to teach you some new words today, but I think I have changed my mind. I lost a friend of mine a while ago, and every now and again I think about it and it makes me sad. Have any of you ever lost someone important to you?"
"My dog went missing once. We didn't know where he was for a WHOLE WEEK!" Charlie, one of the human children exclaimed.
"Did you feel sad when he was gone?" Betty asked
"Yes, very. I cried and everything. But I was happy when he showed up again. He was dirty and smelt bad, but I was still happy"
"I'm glad you found him again, Charlie" Betty said. "What about you Yorokobi?"
"My uncle died" Yorokobi replied sadly. She was one of the elvish refugees
"In the fighting? Thats sad. Were you close?"
"Yes. He taught me how to fish. And he used to tie my bag shut using a knot I didn't know just to annoy me"
"He sounds like he was an interesting person. Do you still like to fish?" Betty asked gently
"No. It reminds me of him and then I feel sad"
"Well, I think you should try to go fishing again, even if you feel sad. It was something you shared. He mightn't be here anymore, but you can still be close to him"
"I guess so. I just don't like feeling sad" Yorokobi looked on the verge of tearing up
"Being sad when you lose someone is part of what makes us what we are. Its okay to feel that way. Besides, while he mightn't be here any more, you still have a relationship with him. You still share things with him. You have things of his that you can use, like fishing and knot-tying, and through that its almost like he's still around. Death only wins if you forget about him."
"I won't forget" Yorokobi promised
"I'm happy for you" Betty said with a smile.
When she nextlooked up, The Pale Lady was gone.
The tale of The Pale Lady and Jerky
"So let me get this straight. You want me to follow you? And write and sing songs about you as you travel? And you'll pay me a gold piece a day to do this?"
Mort nods gravely
"So when do we start, Ser Grey?"
-------------------
By the time Mort reached the fort of The Order of the Nail, he had accumulated quite the entourage. There was Sheer, the human bard (who was extolling the virtues of Mortimer in a battle he had never actually been in), Holly and Molly, the gnomish bodybuilding twins, a three legged cow named Limpy, thirteen chickens and a rooster, and a pale lady on a white horse.
The Pale Lady was softly spoken lady of advancing years, who Mort found to be incredibly morbid. Perhaps she was just fearing her own imminent death, but all of her conversations eventually ended up back there.
"That's a nice scythe. Where did you get it?"
"Which one? I have two you know" he said. You can almost feel Morts pride flex a bicep
"I have heard of Dacris. I'm interested in the other one"
Mort perks up "Oh, I call it Mothers Kiss. I bought it off some dickheads. I redesigned it myself though, it used to look all boring and stuff."
"I see. I suppose you kill a lot of people with that scythe"
"That's sort of the idea. It isn't there just to chop my jerky you know. Although it does that well as well"
Sometimes you either question what Mort says, or just roll with it. After a moment, the Pale Lady decided on the latter. "Why do you fight? Aren't you afraid you're going to die?"
"I've died before. No big deal. It always gets fixed"
"Your death gets 'fixed'?"
"Yea. People chant things and wave things around and it gets fixed. Except Laniss, he died and we couldn't fix it."
The Pale Lady pauses for a moment. "Maybe he isn't actually dead... But anyway, isn't your death something you are afraid of?"
Mort shrugs. "No, not really. I mean, I may die one day, but that isn't today's problem"
"So tell me then Orcling, what problem today is more important than death?"
"I'm trying to work out if a three legged cow makes better jerky than a 4 legged cow. You see, a three and four legged cow both have the same amount of soul material, but a three legged cow has less body material, so the tasty soul material should be more concentrated. So it should taste tastier." Mort was gesticulating so enthusiastically by this point he almost slipped from his horse. Perhaps it is time for some ranks in ride.
"If I understand your meaning then, death is indeed today's problem. It just isn't your death that your thoughts dwell on"
Mort thinks for a few moments before replying "I guess so. Food is death, and death is food. So sayeth this wise Greylorian"
"I suspect there are entire religions that would be mortally offended by that comparison..."
It was a long journey.
Mort nods gravely
"So when do we start, Ser Grey?"
-------------------
By the time Mort reached the fort of The Order of the Nail, he had accumulated quite the entourage. There was Sheer, the human bard (who was extolling the virtues of Mortimer in a battle he had never actually been in), Holly and Molly, the gnomish bodybuilding twins, a three legged cow named Limpy, thirteen chickens and a rooster, and a pale lady on a white horse.
The Pale Lady was softly spoken lady of advancing years, who Mort found to be incredibly morbid. Perhaps she was just fearing her own imminent death, but all of her conversations eventually ended up back there.
"That's a nice scythe. Where did you get it?"
"Which one? I have two you know" he said. You can almost feel Morts pride flex a bicep
"I have heard of Dacris. I'm interested in the other one"
Mort perks up "Oh, I call it Mothers Kiss. I bought it off some dickheads. I redesigned it myself though, it used to look all boring and stuff."
"I see. I suppose you kill a lot of people with that scythe"
"That's sort of the idea. It isn't there just to chop my jerky you know. Although it does that well as well"
Sometimes you either question what Mort says, or just roll with it. After a moment, the Pale Lady decided on the latter. "Why do you fight? Aren't you afraid you're going to die?"
"I've died before. No big deal. It always gets fixed"
"Your death gets 'fixed'?"
"Yea. People chant things and wave things around and it gets fixed. Except Laniss, he died and we couldn't fix it."
The Pale Lady pauses for a moment. "Maybe he isn't actually dead... But anyway, isn't your death something you are afraid of?"
Mort shrugs. "No, not really. I mean, I may die one day, but that isn't today's problem"
"So tell me then Orcling, what problem today is more important than death?"
"I'm trying to work out if a three legged cow makes better jerky than a 4 legged cow. You see, a three and four legged cow both have the same amount of soul material, but a three legged cow has less body material, so the tasty soul material should be more concentrated. So it should taste tastier." Mort was gesticulating so enthusiastically by this point he almost slipped from his horse. Perhaps it is time for some ranks in ride.
"If I understand your meaning then, death is indeed today's problem. It just isn't your death that your thoughts dwell on"
Mort thinks for a few moments before replying "I guess so. Food is death, and death is food. So sayeth this wise Greylorian"
"I suspect there are entire religions that would be mortally offended by that comparison..."
It was a long journey.
Tales from a previous life - 1
Scruff the Mauler was a mountain goat. Cliffs and rock and ravines were her thing. A headlong flight through the moonless night, dodging between trees and over roots was foreign to her. So was the scent of the large pack of worgs nipping at her heels, as was the screeching of the scores of goblins she could catch glimpses of between the passing trees. But she wasn’t afraid
She ran and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. Like dwarves, mountain goats are built for speed, but she knew she wouldn’t manage to outrun the host pursuing her. She would get cornered or would trip and fall, or just collapse from exhaustion. But she wasn’t afraid.
As expected, she took a wrong turn and found herself trapped between a cliff and a river. She knew that while she could get up the cliff, it would be no where near fast enough. She also knew she might be able to struggle across the river, but mountain goats have their dignity to consider. And so she turned and faced the advancing horde and waited, trembling slightly from fatigue and adrenaline. She held her head up high and watched them gather excitedly a short distance away, howling all the while for her blood. But she wasn’t afraid.
She felt the weight on her back shift and a small hand ruffle her hair. Knowing what was coming, she quickly snuffled out and gobbled up the proffered carrot. A soft voice murmured in her ear and she knew things were going to be okay. With her breath slowly returning, Scruff watched her little lady dismount and advance on the throng. She cut a fine figure with her long flowing blonde hair, calm confidence and iron composure. She felt some small measure of goat-pride as she looked at her little lady, one tiny graceful figure framed against the horrible masses. Her little lady and the goblins brayed at each other for a while, like the two legged things often liked to do, but she knew from the look in the worgs eyes that blood was going to be shed this night. She pulled a tuft of sweet soft grass from the riverbank and waited. She wasn’t afraid.
Slowly chewing her snack, Scruff watched as the goblins suddenly screeched and threw themselves at her little lady. Like a candle wick, her little lady caught aflame with the brightest of divine golden fire and Scruff shivered as she felt the pure power saturate the air. The goblins fell over themselves in sudden retreat, only now just realising that they were in over their heads. With all the time in the world her little lady raised her tiny fist in the air. Scruff watched it intently, as this was always her favourite part. With deliberate slowness the fist came down, plopping softly into the damp soil of the riverbank, except in response the earth violently exploded. It bucked and thrusted and split, and goblins and worgs were tossed about like toys on a drum. Bodies went flying dozens of feet in the air - some landing in the river, some disappearing down cracks in the earth. Still others were buried in a rockslide from the cliff. Scruff bleated in excitement.
With a supreme calmness her little lady continued to excercise her power. Gouts of flame and shafts of white light cut down a number of survivors, with the remainder scurrying away into the safety of the night. Silence eventually prevailed and her little ladies light slowly faded. Scruff stood perfectly still, knowing that this time was always hard for her. Eventually though, she turned back and approached Scruff, picking a lump of mud out of her hair. The trap had been sprung. She hadn’t been afraid.
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