Peredhil Posted August 2, 2001 Report Posted August 2, 2001 With the possible loss of the online game Archmage, I too will conserve some stories against the future. Each was posted originally at an Archmage Guild Board.
Peredhil Posted August 4, 2001 Author Report Posted August 4, 2001 The Warlord ONE "This is the Temple of Peace?!" The youth removes his plumed helm and gazes in amazement around the valley he'd entered. Several hundred monks train intensely with staves. Despite the number, the staccato beats of wood sound as one. "But...they're fighting!" He blurts, then flushes at hearing his own his querulous tone. Continuing a bit more calmly, "Aren't they?" The Elder smiles whimsically and replies with a question, "Is peace possible without the ability to defend?" Seeing the puzzlement on the young man's face, he continues gently, "They are not fighting, they are training to defend themselves and others. Fitting guardians for the treasure you seek, you do not think?" The young man flushes proudly again. His entire journey since meeting the Elder has been filled with statements that leave him feeling like an awkward child, a feeling that he hates. "The Warlord?" He pauses as he considers his task. "Yes I am commanded to seek him, but -" He breaks off and winces as a staff slips past a block and smashes an ear. The ear immediately geysers blood. The intricate staccato of clacking staves doesn't stop as blood streams down the monk's neck and begins staining his robe. Rubbing his own ear in unconscious sympathy, he asks, "shouldn't he bind that?" "There is time for pain when the exercise completes. Until then, sensation is an indicator, nothing more." The Elder makes a mental note to commend the monk in question; the missed block had looked almost natural even to his eye. He glances at the subdued youth riding beside him closely and decides that perhaps he's absorbing the intended lesson. Conversations with the Warlord have taught him to lay many paths to victory. "I think the Warlord will welcome your interruption." The Elder delicately recalls the now gawking visitor to his task. "Do you play Chess?" "I used to play. I've been undefeated for years, although I draw occasionally against my father," he replies absently. Tasting the tone, the Elder smiles quietly. There is no arrogance or bragging, merely a bald statement of fact. The Warlord will indeed like this one. The thought fills the Elder with a warm glow, which he immediately notes with suspicion. They ride the road in silence between the drilling monks as the pearl temple draws nearer. "Is he feeble?" "The Warlord is very old," replies the Elder with a private smile. "He wanders in thoughts I cannot track, but his Ability is undiminished. No one should approach him lightly." "I am a Prince," the young warrior flares, "and further a proven battle Commander! An Initiate of the Mitran Mysteries, anointed by the Bull's blood. I fear no man and have little to fear of any." The Prince reins in his tone although his nostrils flared whitely and he breathes heavily. How does this Elder provoke him so? In retrospect, his words had been mild, but they'd stung strangely! He attempts to explain, although he knows not why he feels the burden to do so. "This is merely a journey of courtesy commanded by my father, the King. Each Heir comes here as a legacy of thanks to the Warlord for helping my Grandfather's Father to gain the throne. Each Heir comes before reaching his Majority. This tradition touches on our Honor, although I doubt I'll stay here long." The Prince looks disdainfully at the austere valley. The Elder smiles. TWO The Temple resolves into mottled marble, polished to a mirror by sweating acolytes. The Prince is surprised to see some that who wear acolyte robes have faces which are lined with age and whose silver-tipped braids made up of knotted silver hair. Even more disconcerting is the Gnome. An Acolyte Gnome? Inside the Temple, the air is cool and flows through many hidden vents. The floors are strewn with reeds, already yellowing in the heat while their sweet scents fill the air. Passing through the crowded passages, they move into the hush of the Inner Temple. Delicate filigrees fresco the walls, framing faerie-fire statues and statuettes of pale stone. The silence is deafening, broken only by the exaggeratedly loud tap of the Prince's boots, the jingle of his harness, and his harsh breathing. He finds his glance repeatedly slanting over to ensure the Elder is still beside him, for no sound indicates his presence or life. Finally after many winding ways, they pass through a series of Doors; each guarded by two somber monks of Rank. The Elder unlocks each door, then locks each and carefully rattles the lock to check it. "Are you so frightened of his escape then," the Prince asks lightly as they pass through the Third Door. His complexion is slightly flushed, his gaze forward. Nostrils flare as he breathes deeply, as though to catch an elusive scent. "No," murmurs the Elder in reply as he keenly watches the Prince, "This is to prevent unwanted visitors. He keyed them all himself." "The Prince is reacting at the Third Door? Sensitive," thinks the Elder to himself. They approach the Eighth and final Door. One monk lies sprawling in a pool of robes, the other is pawing determinedly at the knobless door. The Prince automatically imposes his body between the Elder and the monk, hand going to his sword. "Paedric." At the Elders sad voice, the frenzied hands slow and still. Shoulders slump and begin shaking. The monk turns shamefully to face the Elder, unable to lift his eyes. A shudder racks his frame as his downcast eye chance on the body of his fellow; he begins shaking as tearless sobs begin. "I..I'm sorry Elder. I...I don't think I killed him," Paedric whispers in plaintive tones. The Elder moves past the Prince to stand before Paedric before speaking in a kind voice. "How long have you had Eighth Door duty, Paedric?" "Th-three days now sir." He struggles with some internal dilemma before bursting loose with a flood of too loud words as the tears finally release. "I knew I should warn the Guard Master, but I just wanted to ask Him a question. I knew I shouldn't but I HAD to, and Thierren tried to stop me and-" Paedric stands; chest heaving in sobs as the Elder raises a veined hand. "Hush. Quietly. Don't blame yourself. We have all felt the perils of this duty. Carry your Brother to the Infirmary and tell the Master to change the guards daily for a while." The Elder shoots a strange look at the Prince. "There is no fault for being mortal. We should have anticipated this... difficulty." Paedric bows. Scooping up Thierren, he pads off lithely past the visitors, tears still streaming down his contorted face. Moving to the Door, the Elder spreads his arm in a Gesture of Invocation and speaks a Word. Deep in the door, a rumbling cascade of clicks and thumps occur. Without turning, the Elder beckons the Prince. "Shall we introduce you now?" With eager eyes, the Prince steps up to the waiting Elder and together they pass within. THREE The gaunt frame of the Warlord stands near the window, gazing out at a private garden. Once giant in stature, age has stooped him to merely tall. Under the silken robe the remains of great ropy muscles sag and hang, reminders of Time's inexorable conquest over strength. The sun makes a wispy halo from the short white hair. The Prince feels disappointed tears welling in his eyes and ruthlessly suppresses them. The crashing of the inexplicable excitement that'd been eating at his normally phlegmatic cynicism turns his stomach to sour acid. The reminder of mortality confronting him chills him to the bone; he raises a hand in mute plea to stop the Elder from announcing him. A vain attempt to salvage a secret dream he'd held since first hearing the stories of a Legend, a family Talisman. The Elder stands watching the Warlord without moving his face revealing nothing of his own internal thoughts or struggles. The Warlord turns and the Prince's world explodes silently. In the seamed map of wrinkles are the Eyes. In a flashing glance they search the Prince, plumbing the depths of his heart and soul. Dispassionate, merciless, they note every strength and weakness, weighing him against some inner scale that cares little for the Birthright of Princes and much for the measure of the man. The Prince, pinned in that moment, forgets how to breathe. There is an overwhelming NEED to pass that test. The reality of Death intrudes as the only option available to wipe out failing this man. A small smile and a short nod release him from stasis. The Voice envelops him like warm oil. "You play chess then?" Unaware of his feet's forward motion forward, the Prince draws his sword. The Elder stirs uneasily, but checks at a finger's motion from the Warlord. The Prince finds himself kneeling before his Master. Presenting his hilt and his heart in a heated sincerity, in throbbing tones he begs "Command me!" The Warlord smiles again and rests a hand on the raised hilt, then turns toward a tiled table. "Red or Black?" The Elder leaves as they sit to play. The Prince's upturned face follows the Warlord as a sunflower the sun, absorbing his words like rain. It looked at though the Prince would be staying for a while...
Peredhil Posted August 4, 2001 Author Report Posted August 4, 2001 First Posted at the Legion of the White Rose Boards. Their thing is Honour... HONOUR Peredhil wanders in and listens to the display of talent quietly. Noticing that many have travelled to the Distant Land of the Fabled Las Vegas, he rummages in his worn satchel and pulls forth a small hand harp. Moving to an unused area, he tunes the keys, and then begins spinning a tale to any who wish to hear... The age-silvered horse blends with the morning fog such that its rider appears to be straddling a cloud. He rides without bridle or saddle, in the Elven manner. The sun-bleached saddle and worn travel cloak speak of familiarity with many travels. The mists beads his hood and gives its faded colors a rough-jeweled splendor every time he emerges from the shadows. The rider's deepset eyes are a bleached pale blue and have the permanent squint of one who's spent a lifetime of looking toward the light. Riding up a steep slope, he pauses atop the ridgeline and studies the town below. The village which lays barred under long slanting shadows is already awake. The rooster's cries sing melody to the Smith's forge's rhythm. Children play in the courtyard, oblivious to its blood-stained altar. His eyes narrow angrily at sight of the altar, and his mouth works and spits. He carefully studies the Men-at-Arms flirting with the maids and matrons as they gracefully carry their water jars to and from the town's well. With ritual deliberation, he opens his cloak and removes the travel loop from sword's hilt, then gently buffs the device thickly embroidered over his heart. Clucking gently to the aged warhorse, he follows the shadows down. "Hey, Look't that." Osric stands contemplatively leaning on his halberd. "Look at what?" Harry doesn't remove his eyes from a bright-eyed lass drawing water. "There, riding from the sun... from the border. It's a man on a horse." Harry shifts his gaze and squints, shading his eyes with a hand. "You must be a cleric to see into the Sun when it's low and red like that." Sighing, he winks at the sloe-eyed maid. "We'd better tell the Commander." "He'll use it as an excuse to practice drill." "You want to volunteer for Saturday?" "Point." Slinging Pole-arms, they move leisurely away. Belfred sits brooding in his office. His Master is rich enough to hire even Hero Initiates such as himself, which is fine. But it means that he could affort to have his newest Dragon Knight stuck in a backwater border town commanding Militia. He has a feeling that the Veteran, Tormal, has been sent along to lend an experienced hand. If it weren't for repelling Pillages and the Saturday Sacrifice, he'd be mad with boredom. "Militia," he snarls. Across the room Tormal sits idly honing his sword. The Veteran of a dozen Mages replies impishly, "Beats skellies." "Skeletons do what they're told," interrupts Belfred. They exchange sour grins as Tormal continues, "We'll need to hold Drill today." Osric's knock at the door is a welcome distraction, the news of the solitary rider a useful excuse for Drill. "Call out the troops!" "I knew it," mutters Harry mournfully. Belfred snorts in contempt as the militia tries to form a Square. The green locals are red-faced as their Halberds seem to possess minds of their own. Tormal's skeletons are already in neat staggered lines. The skeletons are amazingly well-trained for boneheads, a legacy of the dead mage who'd owned these lands before the Master had slain him with a lightning attack of spells and items. The many Undead that'd remained were Mastered and Bound to the new Mage. Belfred's face is red with anger and he savages the local yokals with exact feedback on their efforts by the time the formation is complete. Turning he literally sees red for a moment in mad rage. The rider has stopped several hundred yards away in an obvious gesture of contemptuous courtesy. The young Dragon Knight mentally marks the last few who'd shown up to formation without their weapons as being volunteers for Saturday. After a long moment, the rider nods and smiles, and the pale horse brings him forward, stopping a dozen yards from the edge of town. His eyes move ceaselessly; his hands are crossed quietly on the horse's neck. Belfred steps forward, scaled helmet glinting, and shouts in practiced resonant tones, very aware of the children and women peering through the shuttered windows. "These lands are Closed by the command of the Red Mage of Anvar! Turn around and ride away if you value life." Drawing his sword in a dramatic sweep of punctuation, he holds it pointing at the rider and the rising sun. With a smirk he hears the raptured sighs of the maidens. "What a beautiful picture I'd make," he fantasizes briefly, "the sun washing my armor with dragonfire red." He is recalled to the present as the tip of his sword begins to waver in small circles. The rider has yet to reply, and appears to be laughing! Someone behind Belfred snickers and he lowers his sword abruptly, neck reddening hotly. "Go on!" Shouts Belfred. "If you're as old as that nag, you're too old to fight. Put yourself out to pasture somewhere else." The horseman slowly reaches up and draws back his cowl, letting it fall down his back. A shake of his head flings his snowy mane of hair into a wild halo that falls to blanket his shoulders. Easing the horse forward with his knees, he cups a veined hand to his ear and presents a puzzled air. "Eh?" Stammering in rage and embarrasment, carefully ignoring Tormal's shaking shoulders, Belfred repeats his warning louder. Without repeating the sword flourish at the end. At the sounds of muffled laughter behind him, Belfred's hand clenches white-knuckled on his sword hilt. Dropping his hand, the Old Man straightens; his horse is a statue. Silence grips all as his piercing gaze seeks each eye. The cluck of the hens picking amonst the skeleton's feet is the only sound for a long moment. "The Red Mage owns not these hallowed lands!" The Old Man's voice rings through the village like a silver horn. "The rightful Lord has fallen, but will NEVER be forgotten!" A sigh passes like a wave through the militia; shutters open as peasants strain to hear. Throwing his cloak up and away, the rider's White Rose glows brighter than the morning light. The skeletons kneel in obeisance to the Emblem; the villagers moan. "The Legion of the White Rose never forgets its own. Our Bond is Honour." "Crap." Tormal's whisper cuts through the silence loudly. Belfred feel a mounting hysteria welling up in him as he loses control of the situation. Behind him falling pole-arms rattle like heavy rain. He needn't even look around to know the Militia has fled; He and Tormal stand alone. Recalling his Vows, he speaks to Tormal's back where he stands to the rear of the kneeling skeletons. "Tormal, he's only one man, and old at that. We can take him. We have to take him." "Does it mean nothing to you," Tormal's voice carries back in a hoarse whisper, "that one old man traveling alone feels he can attack a Kingdom?!" He turns to give Belfred a pitying look. "He's a Legionnaire for Dieties sake! If he dies, there will be another." Tormal begins lithely threading his way through the skeletons, hands up and away from his body. As he closes, he addresses the Legionnaire. "Looks like I no longer have troops to lead, M'Lord." The rider smiles in bitter courtesy. "They were never yours. Each and everyone was once a Legionnaire in life. Their Lord was our Keeper of the Slain. They chose to serve the Living in Honour, even in death. "Didn't you ever wonder that this kingdom had no upkeep altars?" The Veteran turns in startled wonder to look past Belfred at the stained Altar. Belfred hisses, fear forgotten in rage at the betrayal before him. "Have you no honor?!" "Nope, that's why I'm not a knight and I work so cheaply. I've been a starving peasant. I survive." Turning back to the rider, he inquires calmly, "Any chance of peace?" "He is in the Book of the Damned." Belfred utters a wordless cry and Tormal flinches before the iron-hammered tones. The statement is so absolute and unyielding that even the chickens pause their constant pursuit of food. "There's a Tavern in the Borderlands to the North." Tormal licks his lips suggestively. "I'm not dying to take it's Ale, but I'll happily live to do so." Fixing his gaze on the Warrior's expression, he waits hopefully. "And your hire?" inquires the pale horseman remotely. "No Mage contract," Tormal replies promptly, "Sun Priest sold my service." "You may live." As Tormal begins his long walk to life, Belfred screams and charges, unsure just who he wants to kill more. He doesn't even make it past the second rank of skeletons. Peredhil pauses to take a long draught of ice water, and flex his fingers. With a ripple of dark dissonance, he changes the scene. The Lichs gather to whisper, deep down in the dank cellars below the Catacombs. "Honour has returned." "I feel it too." "We all do." "Patience. It might be another attack. Patience." "I hunger." "I do too, but our duty comes first." Their eyes need no light to look at the body of the Legionnaire lieing on the bier. "He will reign again." "He will remember our Names, and chant our deeds." "We are not forgotten." "We do not forget." "Honour is coming. The Legion never forgets it's own." "The White Rose never forgets." The Lichs continue to whisper. Some set out to wake the Wraiths of the Fallen Thorn. The Living Legion Honours its past; The Past Honours the Living in Example of Service. Perdhil begins building an uneasy riff. The Red Mage of Anvar wakes from nightmare. With a Word all the torches flare. He spents the rest of the night grimly seeking solace in their twisting flames. What omen or augury makes him so uneasy? "The Legion of the White Rose has sent another message." "Burn it." The Red Mage is weary. "Aren't you going to read even one?" "No. All their posturing and mewling won't change a thing. This is a world of war, not mispelled honor. The weak give way to the strong and the proof is that I hold the lands. I will be immortal!" The Mage stares dreamily at his patron Sun, idly weaving cat's cradles from fire strings through his nimble fingers. "Aaahhhh, I understand Master," interjects the Crypt Keeper Chantiel. The Red Mage stiffens at the mocking tone. While he hates the gaunt Hero, Chantiel was sent by Mr. Satan in answer to his Upkeep problem with the Undead. How'd the wimp he'd destroyed managed with so many? Fortunately Chantiel's Necromatic and Channeling skills make a significant difference. The Undead issue is growing, but in an unexplicable form. Peasants wander the nights in perfect confidence, yet one of his beautiful Dragons is dead in the Mews this morning. The Crypt Keeper's grating voice recalls him to the present. "I must check on my charges. They're pushing at the Catacomb Wards again." Chantiel smiles reveals tombstone teeth as he revels in the involuntary shudder his words provoke. Moving to the door, he pauses for a parting shot. He delights in poking his new Master; he's assimilated a new view from his conversations with the Undead he controls. "Master, in your desire for immortality, will you next attack the Pacifists?" He smiles happily as the Fire Bolt hits the door behind him. Peredhil stops to study his Ring. With a sigh, he packs his harp away. If you wish, perhaps I could sing another time. Bowing, he exits the Tavern. Chapter the Second Peredhil sits at quiet table sipping ice water, lured by the Bardic splendor that is Lady Madoka's. As she finishes her latest chapter to the resounding applause, he draws forth his hand harp and moves to the stage. Bowing to Lord Gyrfalcon, he honors his request with the following. The chords are sharp and discordant, the pain of necessary conflict wrestles through the bass as the triumph of honourable choices carries the melody. He sings visions into the air... For the Red Mage of Anvar, the next few weeks pass in a kaleidoscope of disasters. Through messengers magical and mundane, through scryings mighty, he attempts to get a handle on his problem. That wretched Legionnaire! How could one old man wreak such havoc? Scene: Aged men and women being turned away from the Pale Rider, in tears for he refuses to sacrifice them. What kind of Peasant WANTS to die for a cause? Scene: Coffins and graves rending open at the sound of His horse's hooves. The dead rising unbidden to follow the Emblem of his Rose. Scene: Children in villages dancing out and winding flowers through skeleton ribs; skeletons whose fingers still drip the blood of the defeated. Scene: The Mighty Red Dragons in flight, tongues of flame curling to wreath their heads. The majestic strikes, bone-dry zombies and skeletons igniting into tens of thousands of individual funeral pyres. The Legionnaire chanting calmly as the spewing flames rake nearer and nearer. Emerald Roses blossoming in Dragon's paths. The majority of the Dragons falling; wings bound helplessly in webs of light. The rest fleeing as Wraiths and Vampires, hidden behind the zombies begin swarming the flightless forms, assuaging their long-restrained terrible hungers. Scene: The Legionnaire dueling one on one with a Warlord and his Squire while their Armies watch. The Lizardmen hiss and howl, the Undead stand silently. Despite their coordinated attacks, they cannot penetrate his defenses. The point of his sword continually returns to line with the Warlord's left eye. A stomp, beat, beat, feint and boot to the head of the Squire; Florentine whirl and the Warlord's head bows to the Legionnaire, connected only by a rag of flesh above a permanent crimson smile. As the Warlord crumples, the Legionnaire steps back and gestures the Squire to rise. The Squire, face white with shock, hesitates and then offers sword's hilt to the Legionnaire. Another God-sent hero gone. The Present: The Red Mage prowls the wall of his Citadel, fire dribbling from his fingers to scorch the stones. His last city is fallen, only this one Fortess remains. The Bindings have burst; the Catacombs are open. Although they numbered only a few thousand, the Lichs had wrought fearsome damage to the last of his Red Dragons and slain all his Chimera. The Undead stand in orderly ranks, surrounding his walls, waiting patiently for ... what? The Legionnaire stands limed in light before the bier and gazes on the Keeper of the Slain. Ranks of kneeling Lichs line the chamber and fill the corridors. Each cradles a White Rose in its hands, recites the Codes, prays the silent Litany. Raising his hands, the Legionnaire begins his rituals. Archmaster of Ascendants, this is his terrible duty. When the ritual is done, the Keeper's eyes blink and he groans deeply. Shuddering breaths tremble and steady as he remembers how to breathe. With a convulsive effort, he rolls to his side, then pushes to sit. When he recognizes the lifeless body beside the bier, feels the unique flavor of the life given to reanimate him, the tears begin to flow and he remembers how to feel. The Lichs begin to rise and file forward to kneel before the Keeper. He touches each on its bowed head and recites the Litany of Deeds, affirming and sharing the memory of its service in life to Honour, and commitment to Honour in death. As the Litany is repeated over and over, the body of the last Legionnaire to die stirs and rises. The Keeper steels himself and performs the Remembrance, accepting the Deeds of the most newly Fallen and adding them to the rest. The weight of another past weighs like leaden links on his spirit, yet he accepts it gratefully as the newest Lich takes his place in the Order ... neither highest nor lowest in rank. "The Bond must never fail," He shouts. "Honour has returned," They reply. The Keeper of the Slain leads his armies to finish the usurping Mage raging in his lonely tower. With a martial arsis he lets the visions dwindle. The audience stirs and once again sees the Tavern of the Morning Rose around them as he makes his way to his table. Looking in distaste at his tepid water, he politely request a fresh glass with ice. With loving hands he stores his hand harp in its case and sits back to listen to the next wonder unfold on Stage.
Peredhil Posted August 4, 2001 Author Report Posted August 4, 2001 Posted at the Angels of Apocolypse Board. This is a RP incident from my Yrrana FARS world. FrockMorton Peredhil muses on what Saint Tzimfemme has said. "Trolls. The Angels are into Trolls. Now what can I sing of Trolls?" He began idly strumming his hand harp and after a moment began... Frockmorton was a troll. A Half-Troll to be exact. His mother was a Troll, one of the quick limber regenerative kind, not the cousins that explode in sunlight. His father was a fast-talking Gnome that she'd captured to eat. She used to smile and joke about eating and eating, but Morton had never really understood what she was talking about. But Morton was a Half-Troll. Or a Half-Gnome. Short, bandylegged and slightly deaf, he had a Gnomic sense of humor and a Troll's toughness. And Gnomic intelligence, which made it inevitable that he'd grow tired of playing Trollish games like Bobbing for Water (no using hands!) or Find the Rock. And so Morton set out adventuring. He did fine at first, mugging squirrels and robbing possums, but he really hit his stride when he found a Human town. He managed to acquire all sorts of neglected items, such as clothes, weapons and his Human Name: Frockmorton. Frockmorton. It seemed that everytime a human squeaked his name in their high-pitched tones, they were shouting "Frock Morton!" or "Frockoo Morton" or even "Frockit Morton". He was proud he'd earned a Human name, even if he could barely hear it - it was a sign of acceptance. But their thieving ways, trying to steal all his new possessions, drove him from the town. Fortunately, there was a road. Which lead to another Human town! It was here he joined a band of adventurers. It seemed no time at all before they were all in the dungeon below the Ruins. A wonderful place, full of Orcs and Bugbears, Evil Clerics and Dark Magi. Frockmorton was estatic. For some reason, the human had no sense of humor at all. When Frockmorton would put honey in their shoes, a traditional Gnomic prank, they didn't laugh. When he would shout, "Behind you!" during battle, a traditional Trollish prank, again, no humor. Finally, the Humans and Frockmorton came to an agreement. Frockmorton would scout ahead at least 30 feet at all times. They assured him that this would give him the best chance to win honor, acquire treasure, and trip traps. Thus it was that Frockmorton trotted happily down the dank corridor. It was perfect for his night vision, dark and clammy. Everything alive showed in bright contrast. Passing several boring junctures, passage on the left, passage on the left, four-way intersection, passage on the right, Frockmorton continued straight away. Finally he heard voices! He quickly traced them to a door set in the wall to the right. Small slivers of light made moire patterns on the wall opposite, revealing the warped age of the door. Placing an ear to the door, he heard the voices speaking TROLLIC! A rustic version, yes, but Trollic none-the-less. Opening the door, he walked in and waved. The Trolls looked in amazement at his three-foot tall bearded splendor, obviously struck speechless in wonder. In turn, he looked them over. Sitting at a table with one short leg propped on a skull were six Trolls, two males and four females. One of the males wore a small green visor and held a deck of cards. The others had stacks of money in front of them. All of them were starting to look peeved. "Let's eat it," suggested one of the females. "Too little meat for the work. Just pick it up and smash its head against the wall," replied the non-dealing male in a bored tone. "It's my turn to call the hand. And I say we -" "Excuse me," interrupted Frockmorton. The all stopped in astonishment at hearing Trollic from the ugly little Gnome. "Could you direct me to the toilet?" "Uh, down the hall, door to the left. Careful opening it, it sticks. There's a pool of Green Slime we use." "Thank you!" Frockmorton turned and fled back to the party. "There's a room of Trolls ahead on the right! Run away!" "Hah! The little rat found treasure and doesn't want to share!" "No!" Frockmorton stopped his foot. "And be careful of the pool behind the door to the left." The party, well used to his 'humorous' ways, charged ahead. Frockmorton shook his head sadly as they bashed the door off it's hinges, jamming themselves into the doorway. He didn't think the Trolls would leave much.
Peredhil Posted August 6, 2001 Author Report Posted August 6, 2001 This story comes from yet another of my FARS worlds... (Entry for Saint Finnius Contest) Quote:Gods Dream while Men die. The Old Man stood still and black as a shadow on the balcony overlooking the pells. The arhythmic hacking of the squires' swords echoes and reechoed off the courtyard's polished marble walls. The overheated squires were aware of his cold gaze as the pushed for endurance, form, grace, and balance. The measuring glance, the assessing stare, the feeling of always being found wanting. Hack, recover. Hack, hack, recover. The dull iron swords beat at the scarred but unyielding oaken posts. The Pells of torture they whispered at night. Scars and nicks crisscrossed in intricate runes, telling of fierce blows that foreshadowed real swordplay of the future. A bell tolled a bright tone, killing the practice. All turned and bowed to the balcony, suffering the Old Man's piercing gaze as it swept in a slow withering sweep. "Rest for a time. Rest and meditate on the hope that somehow you will become worth of serving a King as Knights." His voice was a harsh whisper that carried easily through the silence. Without a sound, the Old Man dissolved back into the shadows. The Old Man was guided by memory as he moved through the unlit hallways. Reflecting on the squires he decided they were all fools and failures. All feared him, not one had the inner strength which would make him a True Knight. The True Knight. A promise made years ago. He MUST come. Revelod had promised that he would come. The True Knight. The One would would win the Crown, wear the Articles and live. The would who would fulfil the Geas Revelod had laid on him. The one who would give him the release of death at last. It had been too long. His strength was gone, his skills covered with Time's ash. Aged steps carried the ancient body through halls forgotten by any other living. There were none to hear or share the doubts, none to see the tired lines on his face. None left, not one, to relieve the shattering loneliness. He strode on alone. The Great Hall blazed with lit torches. The flame-lights ran liquid off the mail shirts of the men crowding the long chamber. The rosy light caused the candidates' robes to glow an unexpected startling white. It glinted from the cold shields on the walls, from the polished rafters, ran like translucent water along the cold grey stones of the floor. It was absorbed without trace into the black robe of the Old Man, who stood at the foot of the Empty Throne. This was the first time in five years that the Old Man had consented to consider Candidates for squiredom. Two hundred youths, from five to fifteen stood shivering in the white cotton gowns before the throne. Behind them Duke stood cheek by jowl with commoner, each hoping his son would be one of the seven chosen ones. The Old Man stalked from one boy to another, gazing into the eyes of each, occasionally murmuring a word here or there. His basilisk gaze caused more than one lad to stain his robe with a submissive yellow release. He stopped abruptly. Before him stood a sturdy child, perhap six years old, with no father to back him. He was small, with white-blond hair tousled over pale-blue eyes. The Old Man searched the defiant gaze for any hint of fear. "What is your name, boy?" "Joshua." "Joshua, Sir" the Old Man corrected. "A very large name for one so small." "I am named for a God. Protector of man and child." The Old Man's eyes glinted at the long pause before the lad added, "Sir." "Do you fear me Joshua?" "No." At the bold reply, the Old Man's hand shot out with the speed of a Praying Mantis, cracking like a whip across the boy's face. A scarlett blotch blossomed in the white imprint as blood returned to the smooth cheek. Joshua's eyes scorched the Old Man with anger and distain. "Perhaps you shall learn fear. We will find it if it lurking within you. You will learn something, yes indeed. If nothing else, you will learn the word 'Sir'." The Old Man turned to the assembly. "You are all dismissed. I will take only the one." The look on his face quelled the incipent outrage of the parents, killed the relief of the boys. Still facing the rejected, the Old Man issued orders. "Take him to the Blue room and give him a sword. Three pounds, no more. Leave." Squires ushered the boy away. He turned to glare at the Old Man as he left the Hall. The Old Man cradled the broken bones of his left hand in his right as he strode from the room. Behind him more squires rushed to clean the floor. There had been no fear in the boy's eyes. And his hands had balled to fists as he was struck, he'd seen it coming and not moved. Joshua. He tasted the name with pained pleasure. The Old Man began planning a program to find and stretch the boy's limits. Perhaps he'd be the One.
Peredhil Posted August 6, 2001 Author Report Posted August 6, 2001 Written to still Zool's bugging me for a post. Inspired by one of the Artifacts found in the Archmage game... Artifact The weathered old man stinks. Body odor and poorly tanned hides, worn with the hair on the inside, mixed with the metallic smell of blood. Not the most pleasant of aroma to perfume the air of a Great Hall. There is nothing old or weathered about the bow he carries. A foot longer than the man is tall, with intricately carved knobbed ends and shaft reinforced with polished horn strips. A quiver decorated with porcupine quills hang from his belt, leading a small row of pouches. The fletching on the arrows is purest angelic white. But all and still, the man stinks. The Eradication mage he faces is clothed entirely in wavering shades of red. Nay, red is too limited, say rather crimson, carnelian, scarlet, burnt umber, coquelicot, and more, blending and writhing with each breath and gesture, dancing and shimmering gay reflections of the torches held in their corniculate brackets. The crimson skull-cap leaves the mage’s hair color in doubt, yet his eyes are a deep guileless blue. His tone as he speaks is a smoothly oiled baritone. “You stink,” The mage smiles warmly; his eyes are cold. “Thankee y’lordship,” replies the archer, “Thankee kindly. You call it like it is, perceptive and true.” He tugs his greasy forelock with a gnarled callused hand. “So you desire a place with my archers…perhaps you shall have a trial. Perhaps…” The mage’s voice trailed off as he gave the elder a lingering look. “Do you have it?” The baritone rose slightly and cracked like a whip. “Yes m’lord, oh indeed I have it, a pretty little curiosity, oh yes. But I seek a place for me old bones, not a sale.” “Place the bauble on the black flagstone before you and leave. Your babble is irritating.” A flash of avarice flickers deep in the azure eyes. “Now my most great and gracious Lordship, not so hastily!” The elder stiffens to nearly erect, small gobs of spit fly with the force of his protest. “I’ll not be dismissed so lightly. My name is Dooge, not dog as you may think! There is the matter of geld and promise, wintering over in a warm barracks, food and plenty of it! I thought you a man of Honor!” A molten swirl stirs lazily in the mage’s narrowing eyes. His slender spatulate fingers turn white as he clenches the soft gold sheathing the arms of his throne. His voice still remains calm, almost whimsical. “Are you defying me? You crept like a thief from kingdom to kingdom, peddling time-worn skills, creaking with age and smelling as though you’ve already died. And now in your dotage you defy me?” He laughs mockingly, “How great you’ve become!” The aged archer’s face stiffens in rage; he turns to leave. Behind him the Eradication mage makes languid passes in the air and Speaks. In response the torches flame higher, gouting great streamers that arch to join and splash into a cage about the angry archer. The old man merely covers his face with a greasy bent arm and continues stumping toward the golden doors. The Eradicator smiles cruelly and claps his hands together. The flames collapse like webs of flame onto the old man, scorching his leather hides. Suddenly a resounding crack. A building stone falls from the ceiling high overhead and levels the mage’s skullcap to the tops of his ears. The cage’s flames flicker and die. Too powerful to be killed by mere force, the mage lies under the block, blood welling from under the flattened cap. Tilting his head back slightly, the stone finishes its journey to the earth. His derisive smile seems fixed as tremors begin to wrack his Sorcerer’s frame. Blood springs streaming from his nose, cascades down to blend with his robes. Ignoring the clamor behind him, the weary ancient checks his bow for damage, then continues to the doors and leaves the long hall of light. Once in the chill night air outside, he breathes deep and blows it out in a long fetid exhalation. Carefully picking his way through the courtyard, he exit through a fortuitiously unlocked postern door. Shaking his head in creaky disbelief, he mutters before vanishing into the night-shrouded field of wheat - “Always after me Lucky Charm.”
Peredhil Posted August 6, 2001 Author Report Posted August 6, 2001 Lifted from RPing, set in the Yrrana FARS world. Happened down around Zulkias for those who track such things. Chosen The morning light lent a soft rose tint to the polished white stone of the dome. After days of searching, the Temple of Alysha was finally in sight. He hoped they'd not prove difficult. He'd been forced (in self defense) to destroy the last two temples to get his ingredients. Clerics became so unreasonably attached to worldly items in his opinion. After all, why worship a Diety that couldn't replace a simple holy relic? He'd known his entire life an inate certainty of his superiority to others. Hard work and consistent lucky breaks had enabled him to hone that superiority. Others, superior to the rest, but recognizing his superiority to themselves had come to follow him. Given time and the proper spells, he was sure he'd achieve his destined divinity. Which made the constant impedence of Clerics so aggravating. Of all peoples they should recognize his impending Godhood! He'd finally decided that their Dieties recognized his potential and feared the competition. Jealously was fortunately an emotion he recognized in others, but knew was lacking in himself. If he destroyed a rival, it had nothing to do with envy, simply a rational evaluation of threat, potential threat, and removal of thread. Nothing personal at all. He paused at the bottom of the draw to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was annoying to have to do this alone. The auguries had clearly shown that necessity, but he missed the companionship of his death-sworn Templars. Just as he himself, they were willing to sacrifice themselves to the Code. Time and again he'd sought to throw himself into the heart of the battle, only being forced to concede to their heart-felt urgings that he remain protected behind them, ready to lead and decide. Every morning and evening he honored each name in the Rolls of the Fallen. Enjoying the crisp morning air, he began ascending the next hill. His thoughts tumbled on... In the beginning some had blamed him for his harsh treatment of the unbelievers. What God didn't give preference to his own? Once he achieved true divinity, he'd be bound and strictured to use every resource at his command to protect and support his worshippers, just as they protected and supported him. He only destroyed those that didn't follow the dictates of his Code. As Founder, no one could reasonable claim that he not only lived each standard of the Code, but held himself to higher standards than any. He was far to rational to be a hypocrite. Whenever he was charged with that, he examined himself carefully and came away reassured of his innocence. Everything he did could be explained logically. It wouldn't do for a Divine Being to lie. He used his Staff carefully for the next part of the trail. The hillside steeped abruptly as the thin trail wound along like an eyebrow. If he hadn't been Chosen from birth, wouldn't he have been stopped before now? Should he be blamed that others sought him out, that they gave their lives to him? He hadn't asked for them to join, they'd found him. All he asked is adherence to his Code. Once sworn, he accepted all responsibility for any actions they might do in his name. Only the weak cried foul, the followers of chaos or some morally deficient code! He never denied anyone the right to serve their rules or Dieties (after all, he didn't want them anyway,) he just insisted they do it somewhere else. If they came into his territory, that was implicit agreement to be judged by his Code. If they didn't li- His thoughts were abruptly jerked short as he rounded the hillside to discover an opalescent dragon. It's head was as large as his body, it's slightly spread wings and body blocked the trail. "Ah, the Temple Guardian. I have no wish to fight you. Move aside and I'll be in and out, taking what I need, before you know it. Why fight this, I'll win." "Many rapist have said the same," the dragon said dryly. He flushed in anger at the comparison of a rapist to HIM, even as he was enthralled by the Dragon's voice. It's twinned tones, high and low, chimed the words in an intricate melodic harmony that newly obscured the harshness of the words. "The Goddess finds you ugly. Please leave," the dragon continued in those marvelous tones. Nice effect, he'd have to see if he could reproduce it. Fortunately he was immune to the attacks of others, no matter how nicely worded. He was a Word-Smith himself when need be, ever ready to entertain those worthy of his efforts, or punish those who questioned his goals. "I have no desire to dally with minions. If Dargon the High Priest wishes to speak with me, I might pause to exchange courtesies. But it would merely delay the inevitable. My cause is Just, my heart is Pure, and I'll only visit your Temple this once." He paused and stared hard at the dragon. "Unless any of your Aleshites should be so foolish as to come disturb me or mine. Then the full wrath of my Templars will destroy you!" The dragon yawned, showing scimitar fangs. Dolt! He'd used his rhetoric (all true, but he worked on many levels,) to mask his purposeful movements. The iron-tipped Staff of Breslith was nearly on line with one great eye. The sudden exhalation surprised him. The thin streamer of mist shot forth striking the Staff, transforming it instantly to the purest crystal. The Runes and Powers bound within roiled and shone with rainbow shimmers. He could sense the amplification and magnification of the Staff's Powers! The lizard had made its own doom easy, once again an enemy confirmed the manifest destiny of his Divinity. All things worked for his victory! "Staffman, I speak with the voice of Dargon as it were my own. I don't like you, your Code, or your Arrogant assumption that if you are the sun, there are no other stars so bright. But I'm willing to let you walk away. Please do so. Now." "Fool! Your weakness and lack of will is manifest. You have betrayed yourself and sealed your doom. I am not to be bound nor judged by any but myself. Your very unwillingness to acknowledge my Code condemns you as unworthy of my respect. Your refusal to move from my path forces me to act. I have no responsibility for your death, this is your choice." Pure holy light washed from the Staff in blinding waves. Almost regretfully the dragon Sang. The twinned voices ran through an aria of enchanting power and then fixed in a sustained harmonic Tension. The Staff fled before the Note into crystal powder; the Power and Powers bound within scattered freely to the winds. He stared in disbelief at his hand, briefly wondering with that silent part that never stopped thinking how his hand could tingle and be numb both at once. "Didn't you ask the Bards that chose to serve you about the Goddess of Arts and Graces?" He stumbled back, balanced between denying this had happened and accepting another reality than his own. "She has decided to spare you on the chance you will redeem yourself. Go." As he stumbled away, he wondered what he would tell his followers. HIS followers. He couldn't be weak before them! He began planning his counter-attack. No Bardic Temple could stand before a well-coordinated attack! He'd bring fire and sword to the Temple of Alyshia. He'd be revenged for this insult! The dragon sighed heavily as it watched him stop, straighten his clothes, and walk away with erect head. The dragon shimmered and transformed to the form of an Elf. "I think he'll be back Alyshia." He paused and listened to an unseen Voice. "Perhaps. But I think the beauty within is trapped behind the surface ego. You're a Goddess, you don't understand the need of a man to appear strong before others." The Elf walked over and picked up a scroll from the crystal dust. Opening it, he began to read the names of the Fallen. "So many sacrificed on the altar of Pride..." A tear slowly fell to mix with the crystal dust on the trail.
Peredhil Posted February 3, 2004 Author Report Posted February 3, 2004 This little piece was written for a co-worker. He's the one EVERYONE goes to with techie problems. They always have time for him to fix things - but never time for him to explain how they could do the job themselves... My apologies to people who own Pokemon... ~~~~ Our hero, Ask Ketchum, has recently been hired as an IMO consultant. While Brock chases the secretaries, Ask struggles to fix myriad ADP problems. Team Rocket sneaks into the Director’s closet “This is our best plan yet!” “Right! With the Director’s machine down, Ash will have to leave Pikachu here to power it. Then we’ll have it!” “You’ll get it alright – Meowth!” Minutes later, Ash arrives on the scene “Have no fear, I can handle anything.” The intrepid hero claims stoutly. The beads of perspiration erupting from his forehead give lie to his claim. They shower around him, wetting nothing. “I have no power,” the Legendary Bird Colonel exclaims (multicolored exclamation points radiate from his head), “I have presentation to print for General Mew-Two! Ash kneels before the laptop. “Sir! You have no power!" After ensuring the UPS is plugged in but has no lights, Ash rises. Standing back from the powerless computer, Ash reaches for one of the small poke-balls dangling from his belt. Team Rocket exchange Triumphant Glances and put on electrically insulated gloves. “Poke-Dan – I choose you!” Ash shouts as he throws the ball at the computer. The ball hits the floor and splits. Misty, dressed only in cotton panties, emerges in a bath of light. Her lack of attire reveals that she has less figure than an anorexic teen-aged boy. The Poke-ball spins back to Ash’s waiting hand. Cheeks flaming red, Ash shouts again, “Misty, return!” Misty is sucked back into the ball before she can say anything. The Director suddenly looks very interested in Ash’s balls…depending from his belt. Team Rocket exchange horrified glances. “Not Poke-Dan!” They exclaim together. “How did Ash catch a Poke-Dan?!” Wonders Jessie. “I want a donut,” replies James. “Our plans are screwed again... Meowth,” commiserates Meowth. Without making eye contact with the gathering crowd, Ash snatches another ball from his belt. “Poke-Dan – I choose you!” Ash shouts desperately. Poke-Dan emerges in bath of light and rapidly grows to life-sized. With a wry self-depreciating grin, Poke-Dan faces the computer. “Poke-Dan, Troubleshoot Attack…now!” shouts Ash. The Poke-Dan ambles over to the computer and gazes down at it. His dark eyes dance with repressed humor as he analyzes the situation. Bending over gingerly, he carefully pushes one of the studs on the UPS, turns widdershins thrice, powers-on the laptop, and changes a CMOS setting. The laptop shudders in its docking station reluctantly, sees the Poke-Dan standing before it and smoothly boots immediately. Turning to explain to Ash and the crowd, he is recalled into the Poke-ball by Ash before having a chance to speak. Ash wipes his sweaty brow at how close he came to having to understand something. The Poke-Dan’s Teaching Attack is irresistible. Everyone watching begins leaping up and down in amazement and joy, clapping their hands and kicking their feet outward at angles impossible for normal knees. Team Rocket blasts off again.
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