I desire to build,
and raw imagination
is my greatest tool.
and raw imagination
is my greatest tool.
About Me
- About H.M.Gimlord
- Home Location
- Cincinnati, OH
- Interests
- Big D&D fan, starting Axis & Allies
- Occupation
- Engineer
- Sex
- Male
- Age Group
- 31-40
- My Game Details
Details of games currently playing and games being sought.
- Gamers Seeking Gamers Status
- Not looking
- Game Location (Town)
- Cincinnati, OH
- Game Location (State)
- Ohio
- Game Location (Country)
- USA
- GM or player?
- GM
- Game Details
- Currently running a homebrew D&D 4E campaign about an Island called Avenroc (pronounced ah'-ven-rock). Best tailored to lawful good warlords or chaotic good thieves.
- Currently Playing
- AD&D (2E), D&D (4E), Star Wars
- Interested in playing
- AD&D (2E), D&D (4E), Star Wars
- Smoking
- Non-smoker
- Pets
- No
- Days of the week available to game
- Sunday, Friday, Saturday
- Times available to game
- Afternoon
- My Character
- I have several. My favorite, however, is a new one. He's a Dwarven Fighter named Henkel Mast Gimlord. He's currently at 4th level, and has regained a stronghold called (Rioc Parvel) that was once ruled by his ancestors. The stronghold is a booming saphire mine, and is protected by a tenuous alliance with a blue dragon named Walryn (I know, not a likely thing, but it's a long story). Rioc Parvel is actually an island on a lake in the middle of Avenroc.
-
Signature
- LEB Character: Arkavas - Deva Artivicer 4
L4W Character: Mikara Li Mesadh - Elf Ranger 1
Backsotry: Avenroc.
- LEB Character: Arkavas - Deva Artivicer 4
My Game Details
- Gamers Seeking Gamers Status
- Not looking
- Game Location (Town)
- Cincinnati, OH
- Game Location (State)
- Ohio
- Game Location (Country)
- USA
- GM or player?
- GM
- Game Details
- Currently running a homebrew D&D 4E campaign about an Island called Avenroc (pronounced ah'-ven-rock). Best tailored to lawful good warlords or chaotic good thieves.
- Currently Playing
- AD&D (2E), D&D (4E), Star Wars
- Interested in playing
- AD&D (2E), D&D (4E), Star Wars
- Smoking
- Non-smoker
- Pets
- No
- Days of the week available to game
- Sunday, Friday, Saturday
- Times available to game
- Afternoon
- My Character
- I have several. My favorite, however, is a new one. He's a Dwarven Fighter named Henkel Mast Gimlord. He's currently at 4th level, and has regained a stronghold called (Rioc Parvel) that was once ruled by his ancestors. The stronghold is a booming saphire mine, and is protected by a tenuous alliance with a blue dragon named Walryn (I know, not a likely thing, but it's a long story). Rioc Parvel is actually an island on a lake in the middle of Avenroc.
Blog
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Rioc Parvel
The darkness of night gave way to the darkness of the sewers where not even the flashes of lightning could penetrate. Rain dripping from pipes replaced rain dripping from clouds, and an eerie, echoing silence settled in between Smoc and Lars as they made their way to the secret door. Despite the darkness, Smoc new the way, and quickly found the catch. Once inside he set to work even while Lars was shaking the rain from his cloak.
“OK, boy. Let’s see if this treasure was worth the price.” Smoc placed the chest gently on the table in the middle of the common room so he could feel around for flint and tinder. His face took on a demonic appearance behind a glowing taper as he walked over to the table and lit a lamp. “What secrets do you hold, little box?” He noticed, right away, that the box was too light to contain anything like gold or jewels. Even as he lifted it from its hiding place back in old Bard’s house, he felt his heart sink. His eyes scanned the outside of the box.
Light filled the common room one burst at time as Lars lit the wall sconces, after which he, full of impatience and excitement, joined Smoc at the table, “Why don’t you just open it?”
“Fool boy!” Smoc turned one eye toward Lars, not taking the other off the box, “A dwarf made this box. That much is plain to see. I can’t read Dwarf, but I know enough not to go opening strange boxes hidden away in some crafty dwarf’s house.”
Smoc was an experienced thief. He was aware that strange boxes, even small ones, could contain dangerous traps or mechanisms that render their contents useless. He recalled several years ago a time when he was careless with an old seaman’s trunk. A vial of caustic poison was attached to the lock. When he opened the chest, it broke and loosed its contents all over the gold inside. By the time Smoc noticed, it was too late. It took him months to recover from the burns. He still thought the gold was worth it, but he vowed that, next time, this time, he would be more careful.
“You’re the linguist, boy. Here. Have a look at this.” Smoc beckoned Lars closer with a serious, warning experession that said Look, but don’t touch.
It didn’t take much time for Lars to see that the chest was covered in Dwarven runes. The name GIMLORD was featured prominently on the lid, while various messages were inscribed around the side. “It says here that the box is, ‘For Hankel Mast Gimlord.’ It’s like you would address a birthday present or something.” Lars rotated the box, to expose more block-like runes, “Over here are more names, ‘Bard Mast Gimlord, Arkus Mast Gimlord, Mardor Gatehammer Gimlord, …’ They wrap around the box in a list. It reads like some kind of family lineage. Guess old Bard had another last name after all.” Lars’ eyes darted back and forth over the container’s exterior, “It says ‘Herein lies my heart. It is your history, as is your right to one day sit in Rioc Parvel.’”
“Rioc Parvel? What’s that?” Smoc seemed confused and uninterested.
“Dunno. I just read it phonetically. The word doesn’t make any sense.” Lars shrugged apologetically, and continued looking at the chest. “There’s nothing else. The rest is just a jumble of geometric patterns.”
Smoc didn’t seem satisfied, “Any warnings or signs of danger?”
“Nope.” Lars had looked all over the top and sides of the box, “Mind if I look underneath?”
Smoc lifted the box and Lars craned his head to look up from beneath it. “This is strange.” Lars rubbed his fingers over some scratches in the bottom of the box with a frown of confusion, “These markings are different than the others. They’re not Dwarven.”
“What are they?” Now Smoc was getting impatient.
“Dunno.” Lars squinted in concentration, but to no avail. He had never seen anything like this in the library, “They seem to be gouges that somebody made with a knife, as if some monster had clawed the bottom of the box. It’s too systematic to be random scratches, but if it’s supposed to mean something, I’m stumped.”
“OK, boy. My turn.” Smoc handed Lars the box and took a look underneath. “This is dragon language. Not usual for a dwarf to have dragon scrawl on the bottom of his box.”
“Dragons?” Lars stifled a patronizing laugh, “Are you pulling my chain? You can’t be serious! I never took you for being superstitious.”
Smoc glared at Lars across the table, “Some things your mother tells you to scare you into behaving aren’t entirely fantasy, boy. I can’t read it, but I know it when I see it. It’s too small to be written by a dragon, and too neat to be written by dragonspawn, but It’s dragon speech to be sure.” Smoc eyed the chest more suspiciously now, and placed it carefully on the table.
“Oh, Smoc. Just open it!” Lars reached for the chest, but Smoc slapped his hand away.
“We’ll open it when I say it’s safe.”
The minutes passed, and Smoc studied the chest in vain for some sign of warning. It seemed nothing more than a simple chest. There wasn’t even a lock on the lid. Finally, he gave in. There seemed nothing else he could do. He produced a knife from his belt and slipped it under the lid at the front, “Stand back boy.”
The box flipped open with a turn of Smoc’s knife, but the moment was anticlimactic. No broken vials of poison, no blades, no alchemical explosions, and certainly no magic. Lars was spitting in a poor attempt to contain his laughter. “You should have seen yourself.” Lars contorted his body and squinted his eyes in mock anxiety as he mimicked Smoc’s movements in opening the box.
“Laugh all you want boy.” The halfling peered carefully into the opened chest and found, “Nothing!”
“What!?” Lars stood up from his dramatic pose and rushed to Smoc’s side staring down into the chest. It wasn’t exactly empty, but it may as well have been. It only contained sheets of rag paper on which course notes had been scraped using some kind of berry ink, and likely a burned stick for a quill. Thirty-some pages in all, all written in Dwarven, and Each with a date at the top, but not dates that Lars understood. “It’ll take a while to translate this.”
“Translate all you want bookfool!” Smoc was livid. “You sacrificed the old man for this!” Smoc held his knife up and slashed the air in front of Lars’ face. “Get out! And don’t you ever come back! I’ll not be staying here either. The Nightwatch’ll be looking all over for us and for what? Papers!? A stinking birthday present!?”
The look on Lars’ face was one of stunned shock, “You can’t be serious. This stuff might tell us where other blue stones are.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Like the ones that we didn’t find in old Bard’s house? Forget it boy. You and I are through! The old man’s dead along with that Dwarf, and we’re as good as jailbirds now for this!” Smoc reached into the chest and grabbed a handful of the notes shaking them in his hand. With clenched teeth, he threw them on the floor and stomped out the back door into the sewer, leaving Lars dumbfounded in the middle of the empty common room, his prize scattered all about him.
“OK, boy. Let’s see if this treasure was worth the price.” Smoc placed the chest gently on the table in the middle of the common room so he could feel around for flint and tinder. His face took on a demonic appearance behind a glowing taper as he walked over to the table and lit a lamp. “What secrets do you hold, little box?” He noticed, right away, that the box was too light to contain anything like gold or jewels. Even as he lifted it from its hiding place back in old Bard’s house, he felt his heart sink. His eyes scanned the outside of the box.
Light filled the common room one burst at time as Lars lit the wall sconces, after which he, full of impatience and excitement, joined Smoc at the table, “Why don’t you just open it?”
“Fool boy!” Smoc turned one eye toward Lars, not taking the other off the box, “A dwarf made this box. That much is plain to see. I can’t read Dwarf, but I know enough not to go opening strange boxes hidden away in some crafty dwarf’s house.”
Smoc was an experienced thief. He was aware that strange boxes, even small ones, could contain dangerous traps or mechanisms that render their contents useless. He recalled several years ago a time when he was careless with an old seaman’s trunk. A vial of caustic poison was attached to the lock. When he opened the chest, it broke and loosed its contents all over the gold inside. By the time Smoc noticed, it was too late. It took him months to recover from the burns. He still thought the gold was worth it, but he vowed that, next time, this time, he would be more careful.
“You’re the linguist, boy. Here. Have a look at this.” Smoc beckoned Lars closer with a serious, warning experession that said Look, but don’t touch.
It didn’t take much time for Lars to see that the chest was covered in Dwarven runes. The name GIMLORD was featured prominently on the lid, while various messages were inscribed around the side. “It says here that the box is, ‘For Hankel Mast Gimlord.’ It’s like you would address a birthday present or something.” Lars rotated the box, to expose more block-like runes, “Over here are more names, ‘Bard Mast Gimlord, Arkus Mast Gimlord, Mardor Gatehammer Gimlord, …’ They wrap around the box in a list. It reads like some kind of family lineage. Guess old Bard had another last name after all.” Lars’ eyes darted back and forth over the container’s exterior, “It says ‘Herein lies my heart. It is your history, as is your right to one day sit in Rioc Parvel.’”
“Rioc Parvel? What’s that?” Smoc seemed confused and uninterested.
“Dunno. I just read it phonetically. The word doesn’t make any sense.” Lars shrugged apologetically, and continued looking at the chest. “There’s nothing else. The rest is just a jumble of geometric patterns.”
Smoc didn’t seem satisfied, “Any warnings or signs of danger?”
“Nope.” Lars had looked all over the top and sides of the box, “Mind if I look underneath?”
Smoc lifted the box and Lars craned his head to look up from beneath it. “This is strange.” Lars rubbed his fingers over some scratches in the bottom of the box with a frown of confusion, “These markings are different than the others. They’re not Dwarven.”
“What are they?” Now Smoc was getting impatient.
“Dunno.” Lars squinted in concentration, but to no avail. He had never seen anything like this in the library, “They seem to be gouges that somebody made with a knife, as if some monster had clawed the bottom of the box. It’s too systematic to be random scratches, but if it’s supposed to mean something, I’m stumped.”
“OK, boy. My turn.” Smoc handed Lars the box and took a look underneath. “This is dragon language. Not usual for a dwarf to have dragon scrawl on the bottom of his box.”
“Dragons?” Lars stifled a patronizing laugh, “Are you pulling my chain? You can’t be serious! I never took you for being superstitious.”
Smoc glared at Lars across the table, “Some things your mother tells you to scare you into behaving aren’t entirely fantasy, boy. I can’t read it, but I know it when I see it. It’s too small to be written by a dragon, and too neat to be written by dragonspawn, but It’s dragon speech to be sure.” Smoc eyed the chest more suspiciously now, and placed it carefully on the table.
“Oh, Smoc. Just open it!” Lars reached for the chest, but Smoc slapped his hand away.
“We’ll open it when I say it’s safe.”
The minutes passed, and Smoc studied the chest in vain for some sign of warning. It seemed nothing more than a simple chest. There wasn’t even a lock on the lid. Finally, he gave in. There seemed nothing else he could do. He produced a knife from his belt and slipped it under the lid at the front, “Stand back boy.”
The box flipped open with a turn of Smoc’s knife, but the moment was anticlimactic. No broken vials of poison, no blades, no alchemical explosions, and certainly no magic. Lars was spitting in a poor attempt to contain his laughter. “You should have seen yourself.” Lars contorted his body and squinted his eyes in mock anxiety as he mimicked Smoc’s movements in opening the box.
“Laugh all you want boy.” The halfling peered carefully into the opened chest and found, “Nothing!”
“What!?” Lars stood up from his dramatic pose and rushed to Smoc’s side staring down into the chest. It wasn’t exactly empty, but it may as well have been. It only contained sheets of rag paper on which course notes had been scraped using some kind of berry ink, and likely a burned stick for a quill. Thirty-some pages in all, all written in Dwarven, and Each with a date at the top, but not dates that Lars understood. “It’ll take a while to translate this.”
“Translate all you want bookfool!” Smoc was livid. “You sacrificed the old man for this!” Smoc held his knife up and slashed the air in front of Lars’ face. “Get out! And don’t you ever come back! I’ll not be staying here either. The Nightwatch’ll be looking all over for us and for what? Papers!? A stinking birthday present!?”
The look on Lars’ face was one of stunned shock, “You can’t be serious. This stuff might tell us where other blue stones are.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Like the ones that we didn’t find in old Bard’s house? Forget it boy. You and I are through! The old man’s dead along with that Dwarf, and we’re as good as jailbirds now for this!” Smoc reached into the chest and grabbed a handful of the notes shaking them in his hand. With clenched teeth, he threw them on the floor and stomped out the back door into the sewer, leaving Lars dumbfounded in the middle of the empty common room, his prize scattered all about him.
Posted in
Rioc Parvel
The door to Bard’s house finally closed, and Smoc crawled from his grimy hiding place under the foundation, behind the stoop. With a careful glance, he hoisted his prize over his shoulder and ran to the back of the house. The box, was small, about a forearm’s length long and half as deep and tall. It was more of a strongbox than a chest, and as Smoc hefted it, he lost all hope of gold or jewelry.
At the back of the house, a sooty Lars Hallmaster was scampering down the exterior wall of the Bard’s chimney. When he lighted on the ground Smoc glared up at him with eyes that drilled into Lars’ skull.
“Bradon’s dead! And thanks for nothing, boy!” Smoc sneered through the pounding rain, “We sure could have used your help!”
The two began their careful walk back to the bank of the Ulmar. Lars was becoming annoyed at Smoc who, though only four years his senior, was in the habit of calling him ‘Boy.’ “What do you mean? I think my exit route was actually the best, considering you were knocked headlong into the road. Thanks to your diversion, neither one of them noticed me.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is eh? Smoc and Bradon draw the blades, and Lars escapes undetected.”
“You’re forgetting. The chimney was you’re idea.” Lars reminded.
“And a good one too. Dwarves make unbeatable locks for their own houses, but they also like large fireplaces with wide flues.” Smoc tapped his temple as if to emphasize the importance of his intelligence.
They reached the grate that barred the mouth of the Ulmar, and Smoc set to picking lock on the metal door.
Lars laughed, “You forgot to mention that dwarves sometimes keep their fires going through the night. You have the rain to thank that you only landed on smoldering coals instead of a roaring fire.” Lars kicked Smoc lightly in the rear end to indicate the patch of singed cloth on the seat of his pants. “I suppose Dwarven locks are easier to break from the inside.”
“Much!” Smoc grumbled, as he turned an annoyed look at Lars. “Now let’s see if this chest is worth the price we paid for it. Funny. For a minute you’d think we didn’t steal it.” The door silently rotated open, and Smoc ran it home behind them, refastening the lock. “This thing’s too light for money, boy. I’m not too hopeful. Trust me. I’m not going back there. There’s nothing else in that house to get.”
“Oh yes there is.” Lars gasped slamming the thumb-side of his fist into his forehead, “Bradon had the crystal. It’s back in the old dwarf’s house.”
At the back of the house, a sooty Lars Hallmaster was scampering down the exterior wall of the Bard’s chimney. When he lighted on the ground Smoc glared up at him with eyes that drilled into Lars’ skull.
“Bradon’s dead! And thanks for nothing, boy!” Smoc sneered through the pounding rain, “We sure could have used your help!”
The two began their careful walk back to the bank of the Ulmar. Lars was becoming annoyed at Smoc who, though only four years his senior, was in the habit of calling him ‘Boy.’ “What do you mean? I think my exit route was actually the best, considering you were knocked headlong into the road. Thanks to your diversion, neither one of them noticed me.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is eh? Smoc and Bradon draw the blades, and Lars escapes undetected.”
“You’re forgetting. The chimney was you’re idea.” Lars reminded.
“And a good one too. Dwarves make unbeatable locks for their own houses, but they also like large fireplaces with wide flues.” Smoc tapped his temple as if to emphasize the importance of his intelligence.
They reached the grate that barred the mouth of the Ulmar, and Smoc set to picking lock on the metal door.
Lars laughed, “You forgot to mention that dwarves sometimes keep their fires going through the night. You have the rain to thank that you only landed on smoldering coals instead of a roaring fire.” Lars kicked Smoc lightly in the rear end to indicate the patch of singed cloth on the seat of his pants. “I suppose Dwarven locks are easier to break from the inside.”
“Much!” Smoc grumbled, as he turned an annoyed look at Lars. “Now let’s see if this chest is worth the price we paid for it. Funny. For a minute you’d think we didn’t steal it.” The door silently rotated open, and Smoc ran it home behind them, refastening the lock. “This thing’s too light for money, boy. I’m not too hopeful. Trust me. I’m not going back there. There’s nothing else in that house to get.”
“Oh yes there is.” Lars gasped slamming the thumb-side of his fist into his forehead, “Bradon had the crystal. It’s back in the old dwarf’s house.”
Posted in
Rioc Parvel
“Hankel” Bard’s voice was barely a ghost’s whisper over the sound of the rain.
“Papa.” Hankel held Bards head up so that their eyes met and pressed his forehead against his father’s forehead – an expression of respect and concern among dwarves.
“Hankel. You.. have.. always… been… my… prince. Bradon says… he… doesn’t believe… in dragons. I’m… afraid… that they are… all… too…” he coughed as blood issued from his mouth and nose, “real. My chest... You must… They… got my… chest….”
Hankel examined shurikens in Bard’s chest, each buried at least quarter-way into his flesh. Hankel moaned in despair, “Papa. There’s nothing I can do about that now.”
“No… You… don’t…”Bard simply had no more strength to continue. His eyes lost focus, and Hankel quickly realized that the Raven Queen had his soul now.
Hankel cried. He cried for the first time since he was a child. When his mother died, he made a point to shed no tears. He forced himself to be thankful for the time that was given to him to share with his mother. She being gone, there had always been Bard. He threw himself into his work, and the team of father and son soon became a team of peer artisans. Bard was the master of art, and Hankel was the master of strength. Together, they could do anything. Apart, they were incomplete. The rain pounded its mourning tears on the roof of their house as if even Nature knew that it had lost a great king.
Hankel’s anger burned toward Bradon. The betrayer. Bradon was a calm farm boy growing up. He was brash and arrogant, but Hankel never suspected that Bradon was capable of this. What had driven him to break into their house and cause such harm. They kept nothing of value in the house.
Hankel closed his father’s eyes and stomped over to Bradon’s lifeless body. “What were you after you mindless beast!” Hankel gave the body a shuddering kick. Over and over, he beat on the dead ribs until his foot hurt from the effort.
Hankel lifted the body, “Into the gutter with you, where you belong.” Hankel rose with Bradon’s body over his shoulder and turned toward the door when he heard the sound of something falling on the floor. He turned again and saw a small, blue, oblong gem the size of a door pivot lying on the floor. The gem pulsed with white-light as if it contained a frightening storm.
“Hello! What have we here?” Hankel put Bradon’s body down and examined the gem. “Is this what you were after?" Hankel reached down to pick it up, but before his skin touched the gem, blue fire leapt from the crystal's surface and burned into his calloused palms.
“Oooww!” Hankel stood up, rubbing his hands now throbbing as though they had been pinched under a cudgel in a bar-room fight. “I guess I’d better be more careful with you.” Hankel tore a patch from Bradon’s robe and wrapped the gem tightly. After placing it on the mantel, he returned to the work of ousting his gamey visitor.
“Papa.” Hankel held Bards head up so that their eyes met and pressed his forehead against his father’s forehead – an expression of respect and concern among dwarves.
“Hankel. You.. have.. always… been… my… prince. Bradon says… he… doesn’t believe… in dragons. I’m… afraid… that they are… all… too…” he coughed as blood issued from his mouth and nose, “real. My chest... You must… They… got my… chest….”
Hankel examined shurikens in Bard’s chest, each buried at least quarter-way into his flesh. Hankel moaned in despair, “Papa. There’s nothing I can do about that now.”
“No… You… don’t…”Bard simply had no more strength to continue. His eyes lost focus, and Hankel quickly realized that the Raven Queen had his soul now.
Hankel cried. He cried for the first time since he was a child. When his mother died, he made a point to shed no tears. He forced himself to be thankful for the time that was given to him to share with his mother. She being gone, there had always been Bard. He threw himself into his work, and the team of father and son soon became a team of peer artisans. Bard was the master of art, and Hankel was the master of strength. Together, they could do anything. Apart, they were incomplete. The rain pounded its mourning tears on the roof of their house as if even Nature knew that it had lost a great king.
Hankel’s anger burned toward Bradon. The betrayer. Bradon was a calm farm boy growing up. He was brash and arrogant, but Hankel never suspected that Bradon was capable of this. What had driven him to break into their house and cause such harm. They kept nothing of value in the house.
Hankel closed his father’s eyes and stomped over to Bradon’s lifeless body. “What were you after you mindless beast!” Hankel gave the body a shuddering kick. Over and over, he beat on the dead ribs until his foot hurt from the effort.
Hankel lifted the body, “Into the gutter with you, where you belong.” Hankel rose with Bradon’s body over his shoulder and turned toward the door when he heard the sound of something falling on the floor. He turned again and saw a small, blue, oblong gem the size of a door pivot lying on the floor. The gem pulsed with white-light as if it contained a frightening storm.
“Hello! What have we here?” Hankel put Bradon’s body down and examined the gem. “Is this what you were after?" Hankel reached down to pick it up, but before his skin touched the gem, blue fire leapt from the crystal's surface and burned into his calloused palms.
“Oooww!” Hankel stood up, rubbing his hands now throbbing as though they had been pinched under a cudgel in a bar-room fight. “I guess I’d better be more careful with you.” Hankel tore a patch from Bradon’s robe and wrapped the gem tightly. After placing it on the mantel, he returned to the work of ousting his gamey visitor.
Posted in
Rioc Parvel
“Nyxie. You had better check on Hankel. He’s woken up again. I can hear him running around in the loft. Nyxie? Nyxie?” Bard awoke, eyes immediately adjusting to the lack of light. The rain was louder than usual and the house felt of damp, open air as if someone had left the door open. The sound that woke him, however, was not the rain. It was the sound of light footsteps and creaking wood. Bard looked across the loft at Hankel’s bed. In it, Hankel lay fast asleep.
Not bothering to dress, he hurried silently to the edge of the loft and peeked over. As his eyes cleared the rail where the loft dropped off into the main room of the house below, he spied a small figure moving about, carefully replacing floor planks by the fireplace. Next to him, on the floor, there was a small chest about the size of a well bucket. The little thief! How did he know that was there? The intruder was masked with a rag over his face and a bandana over his head. It was a halfling, but Bard couldn’t make out whether it was a man or a woman. The figure seemed not to notice Bard, but Bard could tell that things needed to change fast.
Quickly deciding that, man or woman, this creature was a thief, and the contents of that chest were too important to lose. Bard leapt from the loft. The thief, however, proved too quick. With surprising speed, the halfling dodged the attack, hoisted the chest, and made for the door.
Bard recovered from the fall and sent the fireplace poker sailing after the prowler. The broad side of the poker caught the halfling in the back and knocked him to the floor rolling out the open door and into the rain.
Bard pursued the halfling out the door, but didn’t get far. As soon as he cleared the door frame, three spinning blades buried themselves in his chest. The impact knocked him on his back. No halfling threw those blades. I’m a dead man! Bard struggled against pain and shock. He managed to slide his body to the middle of the main room.
A hooded, human figure towered in the open doorway. Bard scooted back into a dark corner by his fireplace, observing the shape as it entered the house. The blades burned Bard’s upper body, and every breath he took moved the serrated edges of a shuriken against his aorta with more pain than any normal man would be able to stand.
“You have something I want.” The figure hissed through the rain with a hoarse whisper, as he slowly strutted into the house. His boots shed puddles of cool rain on the floor that quickly soaked into the wooden planks, leaving a trail of damp stains as he slowly walked over to the reclining dwarf.
Kneeling down in front of Bard, so that he and the dwarf were eye to eye, he produced the prism from a thick leather pouch on his belt, letting it’s pulsating blue light fill the room and reveal his face.
“Bradon! Hruktgir’s Beard!” Bard’s jaw dropped; the pain seemed secondary to the shock of seeing Hankel’s childhood friend grown to become a thief, coupled with his possession of a blue-fire crystal. “Where in blazes did you get that!?” The taste of blood was in his open mouth. He sputtered. “You… you have no idea what… you’re holding.”
“Ah, but I know enough. I was hoping that I’d find more here.”
“I don’t… don’t know what … gave … you that idea, but you’d … be better to forget about it. And in… Kord’s name, hide … that thing!” Every movement, no matter how small, tore into Bard’s ribcage with searing pain. He could feel his consciousness slipping.
“Tell me where the others are.” Bradon doused the light of the blue crystal, putting it back in his pouch. He tried to sound more interested than impatient, but he was obviously racing against Bard’s fading vitality.
“They’re… not… here…. Don’t go… looking. It’ll… only lead… to… your death.” Bard was barely holding onto life, the pool of blood underneath him was now running along the grains of wood in the floor, around Bradon’s boots, and soaking in to mix with the man’s footprints.
“I suppose, I’ll just have to verify your claim and have a longer look around.” Bradon rose to stand, but he never made it fully to his feet. Hankel’s hammer caught Bradon in the chest halfway through the movement, and sent him flying across the room and into the wall.
“Murderer!” Hankel was enraged, and vengeance burned at the end of his hammer.
Bradon rose to his feet and reached under his coat.
Hankel, anticipating the next move, dove behind a chair as four spinning blades buried themselves in the wooden frame.
Bradon’s ribs ached, his chest heaving with effort, “You should have stayed in bed, Hankel.” Bradon cracked a grin, “Where are the jewels?”
“What are you babbling about Bradon?” Hankel vaulted over the chair, hammer at the ready. “There’s nothing here!” Hankel lunged at Bradon, who sidestepped the hammer, but too slowly. Hankel corrected mid charge and caught him by the ankle. Bradon fell on his side, his arm crumpling underneath his ribs, which gave way with a sickening crack. Hankle spun around and stepped carefully back until he was standing over Bradon. “I hate to disappoint you, but all we have of value is in the shop. There is no jewelry here or there.”
Bradon lifted his head to look Hankel in the eye, “You’re… papa’s been… holding out… on you.” That was all he had strength left to say. His head lolled back, and death was all that was left.
Hankel ran over to his father’s side, but it was too late. Nothing was left, but to weep.
Not bothering to dress, he hurried silently to the edge of the loft and peeked over. As his eyes cleared the rail where the loft dropped off into the main room of the house below, he spied a small figure moving about, carefully replacing floor planks by the fireplace. Next to him, on the floor, there was a small chest about the size of a well bucket. The little thief! How did he know that was there? The intruder was masked with a rag over his face and a bandana over his head. It was a halfling, but Bard couldn’t make out whether it was a man or a woman. The figure seemed not to notice Bard, but Bard could tell that things needed to change fast.
Quickly deciding that, man or woman, this creature was a thief, and the contents of that chest were too important to lose. Bard leapt from the loft. The thief, however, proved too quick. With surprising speed, the halfling dodged the attack, hoisted the chest, and made for the door.
Bard recovered from the fall and sent the fireplace poker sailing after the prowler. The broad side of the poker caught the halfling in the back and knocked him to the floor rolling out the open door and into the rain.
Bard pursued the halfling out the door, but didn’t get far. As soon as he cleared the door frame, three spinning blades buried themselves in his chest. The impact knocked him on his back. No halfling threw those blades. I’m a dead man! Bard struggled against pain and shock. He managed to slide his body to the middle of the main room.
A hooded, human figure towered in the open doorway. Bard scooted back into a dark corner by his fireplace, observing the shape as it entered the house. The blades burned Bard’s upper body, and every breath he took moved the serrated edges of a shuriken against his aorta with more pain than any normal man would be able to stand.
“You have something I want.” The figure hissed through the rain with a hoarse whisper, as he slowly strutted into the house. His boots shed puddles of cool rain on the floor that quickly soaked into the wooden planks, leaving a trail of damp stains as he slowly walked over to the reclining dwarf.
Kneeling down in front of Bard, so that he and the dwarf were eye to eye, he produced the prism from a thick leather pouch on his belt, letting it’s pulsating blue light fill the room and reveal his face.
“Bradon! Hruktgir’s Beard!” Bard’s jaw dropped; the pain seemed secondary to the shock of seeing Hankel’s childhood friend grown to become a thief, coupled with his possession of a blue-fire crystal. “Where in blazes did you get that!?” The taste of blood was in his open mouth. He sputtered. “You… you have no idea what… you’re holding.”
“Ah, but I know enough. I was hoping that I’d find more here.”
“I don’t… don’t know what … gave … you that idea, but you’d … be better to forget about it. And in… Kord’s name, hide … that thing!” Every movement, no matter how small, tore into Bard’s ribcage with searing pain. He could feel his consciousness slipping.
“Tell me where the others are.” Bradon doused the light of the blue crystal, putting it back in his pouch. He tried to sound more interested than impatient, but he was obviously racing against Bard’s fading vitality.
“They’re… not… here…. Don’t go… looking. It’ll… only lead… to… your death.” Bard was barely holding onto life, the pool of blood underneath him was now running along the grains of wood in the floor, around Bradon’s boots, and soaking in to mix with the man’s footprints.
“I suppose, I’ll just have to verify your claim and have a longer look around.” Bradon rose to stand, but he never made it fully to his feet. Hankel’s hammer caught Bradon in the chest halfway through the movement, and sent him flying across the room and into the wall.
“Murderer!” Hankel was enraged, and vengeance burned at the end of his hammer.
Bradon rose to his feet and reached under his coat.
Hankel, anticipating the next move, dove behind a chair as four spinning blades buried themselves in the wooden frame.
Bradon’s ribs ached, his chest heaving with effort, “You should have stayed in bed, Hankel.” Bradon cracked a grin, “Where are the jewels?”
“What are you babbling about Bradon?” Hankel vaulted over the chair, hammer at the ready. “There’s nothing here!” Hankel lunged at Bradon, who sidestepped the hammer, but too slowly. Hankel corrected mid charge and caught him by the ankle. Bradon fell on his side, his arm crumpling underneath his ribs, which gave way with a sickening crack. Hankle spun around and stepped carefully back until he was standing over Bradon. “I hate to disappoint you, but all we have of value is in the shop. There is no jewelry here or there.”
Bradon lifted his head to look Hankel in the eye, “You’re… papa’s been… holding out… on you.” That was all he had strength left to say. His head lolled back, and death was all that was left.
Hankel ran over to his father’s side, but it was too late. Nothing was left, but to weep.
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Rioc Parvel
Bradon crossed the room to get a closer look at the living gem. “By the lighthouse glass! What is that?”
Lars looked up and shrugged, “I haven’t the foggiest. All I know that when the crystal is inside the knife, it can cut through just about anything, and when it’s not in the knife, the blade is as ordinary as a kitchen tool.”
Bradon reached down to pick up the prism, but only got within a hand’s breadth of the crystal. Fire, in a thin blue stream arced from within the pulsating stone and struck Bradon on the hand. “What the devil…” he trailed off rubbing his sore hand. The hair on his fingers was singed, and spasms wracked the muscles in his forearms.
“Yeah. I forgot to tell you.” Lars’ warning came a little late. “You’ve got to wear gloves if you want to hold it.” Lars slipped a thin leather glove over his hand and returned the crystal to its receptacle. “Even a glove like this is enough.”
Bradon was still massaging his hand. “Are there more of these things.”
“I don’t know.” Lars replied. “This is the first I’ve ever seen, but my guess is that there are more of them. Bard’s knife suggests that the design was common enough to pass along, although I suppose that since he felt comfortable enough to sell his own that he didn’t plan on anyone finding an original.”
“What are you getting at.” Bradon knew that Lars was not telling him all he knew.
“Bard doesn’t have a crystal, but he may know where one is.” Lars tapped his temple as the revelation left his lips. “I would ask him outright, but that would be admitting my theft. I think we’re going to need a more subtle form of investigation.”
Smoc and Bradon looked at each other with smug, knowing grins.
“When.” Bradon was practically drooling
“Tonight. The rain will be our cover.”
Lars looked up and shrugged, “I haven’t the foggiest. All I know that when the crystal is inside the knife, it can cut through just about anything, and when it’s not in the knife, the blade is as ordinary as a kitchen tool.”
Bradon reached down to pick up the prism, but only got within a hand’s breadth of the crystal. Fire, in a thin blue stream arced from within the pulsating stone and struck Bradon on the hand. “What the devil…” he trailed off rubbing his sore hand. The hair on his fingers was singed, and spasms wracked the muscles in his forearms.
“Yeah. I forgot to tell you.” Lars’ warning came a little late. “You’ve got to wear gloves if you want to hold it.” Lars slipped a thin leather glove over his hand and returned the crystal to its receptacle. “Even a glove like this is enough.”
Bradon was still massaging his hand. “Are there more of these things.”
“I don’t know.” Lars replied. “This is the first I’ve ever seen, but my guess is that there are more of them. Bard’s knife suggests that the design was common enough to pass along, although I suppose that since he felt comfortable enough to sell his own that he didn’t plan on anyone finding an original.”
“What are you getting at.” Bradon knew that Lars was not telling him all he knew.
“Bard doesn’t have a crystal, but he may know where one is.” Lars tapped his temple as the revelation left his lips. “I would ask him outright, but that would be admitting my theft. I think we’re going to need a more subtle form of investigation.”
Smoc and Bradon looked at each other with smug, knowing grins.
“When.” Bradon was practically drooling
“Tonight. The rain will be our cover.”
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nice give and take between...
Funny stuff H.M.Gimlord, worth promoting.