Blackdirge's Vignette Vagabonds & Homeless Heroes (Updated 12/12/16 - "Phylactery")

Thunder & Lightning

Here's another short tale spawned from a one-hour writing exercise. This one ended up being a homage to the very famous story "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet" by Richard Matheson. I put an urban fantasy spin on it and took it from the POV of the monster(s), and the result is, well, this.

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Thunder and Lightning

“Here comes another one,” Voreg said with a grin, revealing the needle-like teeth behind his wide, fishy lips. “Wanna bet again?” His wings beat slowly, keeping the rotund thunder imp aloft in the night sky.

“Bah!” Krillik replied, his irritation manifesting in a nimbus of tiny lightning bolts around his furry head. Unlike his toad-shaped companion, the lightning imp was tall, angular, and covered in light blue fur. His gossamer wings beat like a hummingbird’s, a frantic blur much faster than the eye could see. “You’ve already lost three times, and you know we’re not supposed to be doing this.”

“Come on, Krillik,” Voreg croaked. “Give me a chance to win back my shinies.”

“Fine,” Krillik said, bearing his fangs. “But if Thor catches us, I’m telling him it was your idea.”

Voreg chuckled happily, and the clouds around the pair of imps boomed with the sound of his pleasure. “Same set up as last time?”

“Yeah,” Krillik nodded. “I get one shot at the air carriage and you get to look in one of the windows. First one to cause a human to lose soil his britches wins.”

“Deal,” Voreg said. “Here it comes.”

The sky was suddenly filled with a loud buzzing drone and a myriad of blinking lights was visible through the thick clouds. The human flying machine appeared soon after, a vast metal tube with long flat wings, each bearing two smaller tubes that seemed to be making all the noise.

“Here I go!” Voreg exclaimed and flapped off toward the human machine.

“Fine. Take your shot,” Krillik said with a dismissive wave. The air around the lightning imp grew brighter as he began drawing energy from the surrounding clouds.

***
“I saw it!” Lloyd Richards screamed, spraying spittle over the serene face of the flight attendant. “It was on the wing! A monster with fangs and scales and big, drooping wings!”

“Sir,” the flight attendant said softly. “You are frightening the other passengers. If you do not calm down—”

Richards cut her off. “The other passengers?! They should be scared!” He turned to look down the twin aisles of seats where over one-hundred surprised and worried faces looked back at him. He then glanced out the small window next to the seat where he’d been sitting seconds earlier. The wing of the 747 was clearly visible even through the rain and the dark. “There was a monster on the wing of this plane! I’m telling you!”

Suddenly the entire cabin was filled with a blinding bluish-white flash as a bolt of lightning struck the wing of the 747, sending up a shower of sparks. Lloyd Richards saw the whole thing. He saw the lightning strike; he saw smoke billow from one of the jet turbines attached to it; and he felt the plane shudder from the impact. Richards was not a good flyer under the best circumstances, and the events of the past five minutes—the appearance of the flying toad monster and the destruction of one of the plane’s engines—pushed him completely beyond his limits.

“We’re gonna die!” Richards screamed and barreled forward, smashing the flight attendant to the ground. She made a terrified squawk as she went down, and Richards leapt over her and ran down the center aisle toward the cockpit. He made it no farther than seat 12C, where Sky Marshal David Sanders sat.

Marshal Sanders’ taser was out of his coat pocket and in his hand the moment Lloyd Richards knocked over the flight attendant. As Richards ran by, Marshal Sanders shot the terrified man at nearly pointblank range, sinking the taser’s tines deep into his target’s khaki-covered buttocks. The surge of electricity sent through the trailing wires felled Mr. Richards like a slaughtered ox, and Sky Marshal Sanders was out of his seat and had his quarry cuffed soon after.

The passengers of Flight 317 were so intent on what was happening inside the plane they failed to see the scaly horror plastered against the window next to the seat Lloyd Richards had recently vacated. The monstrous face, with its lantern-like eyes, bat-winged ears, and toothy maw wore an almost comical look of disappointment.

***
“Gods damn it, Krillik!” Voreg howled, his displeasure cracking off the clouds around them. “The lightning get’s them every time!”

Krillik held out a paw and tapped its palm with one taloned finger. “Shinies. Now,” he said.

Voreg dug into the drooping skin around his midsection and removed two small diamonds from the fleshy folds. He placed them into Krillik’s waiting paw. “Tell me true, Krillik,” Voreg said unhappily.
I’m scary, right?

Krillik opened his mouth and tossed the diamonds in. He crunched down on them and chewed contentedly for a moment before answering Voreg. “You are scary, Voreg,” he said. “So frightening in fact they don’t’ quite believe you’re real—even after you’ve scared them senseless. Lightning on the other hand . . .” He paused and grinned toothily. “Well, there isn’t a human alive that isn’t familiar with what that can do.”

“Fine—“ Voreg began, but a tremendous, crackling bolt of yellow lightning suddenly flashed between them, close enough that it singed the spiny whiskers on Krillik’s face. The booming thunder that followed sounded very much like a bellowing voice—a very angry voice.

“Damn!” Krillik exclaimed. “He saw us!” The two imps flew off in different directions, leaving thunder and lightning in their wakes.

More!

Quartz said:

More!

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Look at it this way; unlike my old story hour threads, you don't have to wait for me to actually write anything. You'll get something new every Monday until I run out of stuff.

Thanks for reading.

A Red Night

Once again I’ve delved deep into the digital ruins of my hard drive and unearthed a tidbit of ancient fiction. This is yet another piece from when I was an RPG designer/writer/editor for Goodman Games (posted with their kind permission). Like the “The High Road” and “The Challenge,” this is from an unpublished manuscript for a player-oriented 4E Dungeons & Dragons supplement. Also, like the others, this is a vignette meant to introduce a gaming concept through the narrative, in this case a wresting/boxing-type option for the the fighter class. (I know, grappling; what was I thinking?)

As I was reading this thing for the first time in many years, I realized it’s a Robert E. Howard (Conan) pastiche (sincere apologies to REH fans). I can’t remember if that was on purpose or not, but there you have it. Anyway, this one is called “A Red Night."

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A Red Night

Narl studied his target from across the crowded tavern, barely noticing the noise and stink of the Wastrel’s patrons. A full tankard sat untouched on the stained table in front of the half-orc assassin, but he was not drinking. This was a red night, and he needed to keep his wits sharp to complete his contract. This was no ordinary target, no fat priest or slovenly merchant with muscles of sodden dough and fighting skills that would shame a child. This target was dangerous.

His name was Bjorngar the Great, an infamous pirate captain whose moniker Narl had found ridiculous until he’d seen the northerner in the flesh. Narl was hardly small, but Bjorngar dwarfed him. The massive human was well over seven feet tall and had to be three hundred and fifty pounds at least, most of it iron muscle by the look of him. To make matters worse, the red-haired pirate was armed with a long-hafted executioner’s axe, a weapon far too massive for anyone without Bjorngar’s strength and size to wield properly. If his sources were correct, and they usually were, his target could swing that axe with a skill that bordered on supernatural.

Despite his target’s physical advantages, Narl was not overly concerned. Bjorngar lacked the training of a Black Throat assassin, training that had turned Narl’s body into a living weapon more than a match for the best armed and armored warrior. Plus, he had another advantage: Bjorngar had been drinking steadily for the better part of the night. Most of his crew had either retired or lay in a drunken coma around their humongous captain, who sat behind a graveyard of empty flagons.

The giant northerner suddenly lurched to his feet, lurched around the heaped and snoring bodies of his crew, and then staggered toward the tavern’s front door. It was what Narl had been waiting for, and when Bjorngar walked out into the night, the assassin counted to thirty then followed.

The Wastrel was one of the more popular taverns in the port district, and this late at night it was one of the few businesses still open. When Narl stepped outside, Bjorngar was nowhere in sight, but he soon heard the sound of piss splashing against brick in the alley next to the Wastrel. He crept into the concealing shadows of the narrow corridor of trash-strewn dirt that connected Eel Shadow Road and the Way of the Mermaid. Business and personal dwellings crowded in on either side, blocking the silver glow of the moon and creating a stretch of blackness that was nearly complete. Narl’s orcish blood allowed him to see in the gloom, and he spied his mark a short way down the alley, leaning against the wall and voiding enough steaming urine to fill a horse trough. The great oaf had left his weapon in the tavern.

Narl smiled. At no time was a man more vulnerable than when he had his most prized possession in hand. The half-orc glided toward his target, his massive hands outstretched to seize Bjorngar by the throat from behind. From there he would lock his arms around the big northerner’s bull neck, and not even Bjorngar the Great’s strength would save him from being throttled to death. He was within a few feet of his target, who was still doing his best to piss a hole in the stone wall of the Wastrel, when the northerner whirled around, spraying Narl with a shower of warm urine. He recoil for an instant at the disgusting assault, long enough for his foe to reach out with one apishly long arm and grab him by the throat.

Bjorngar’s grip was like a steel vice, and Narl realized his target was not as drunk as he should be. He twisted like an eel, momentarily slipping free, but again, the northerner’s absurdly long reach allowed him to lock his fingers around Narl’s shoulder and pull him back and off-balance. He became alarmingly aware his opponent was not only far larger and stronger than he, but he was also no stranger to unarmed fighting. With a twist of his hips and feet, Bjorngar spun Narl around and pulled him into a bear hug, locking both gargantuan arms around the half-orc’s back. Narl squirmed and fought, slamming his fists into Bjorngar’s head and shoulders, but the pirate’s strength was unrelenting.

“I’ve always wanted to try my strength against one of you Black Throat killers,” Bjorngar said, blowing ale-sodden breath into Narl’s face and grinning. “I’ll be very disappointed if you’re the best they have.” The northerner’s grip tightened, crushing the breath from Narl’s lung’s and turning his shout for help into a weak, rattling gasp. He slipped into darkness to Bjorngar’s booming laughter and the sound of his vertebrae snapping like rotten twigs.

Sometimes You Need the Big Gun

Okay, this another short piece that was created as a writing exercise. In this case, we had to throw together a 1,000 word story in an hour, and the story had to use these four words:
caustic, vermilion, pariah, and maleficent. Some of those were definitely easier to work into this mess than others (as you'll see). Anyway, what I ended up with is an urban fantasy mishmash that I kind of like. The story itself has some issues, but I sort of dig the larger world it hints at. Maybe I'll come back to the idea someday and flesh it out with a short story or even a novella.

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Sometimes You Need the Big Gun

“Code Vermilion?” Richards said. “What the hell is that?”

Daniels looked down at the data display in the center of the Corvette’s console—where a navigation system would usually go—and frowned. The words CODE VERMILLION were splashed across the black screen in vivid scarlet . . . or vermilion, he guessed.

“Never seen that one,” he said, still looking at the screen. “Location?”

“It’s coming through now,” Richards said. “Corner of Western and Lenora.”

“Well, we’re closest,” Daniels said and put his foot down. The Corvette’s engine roared, and the car shot forward. One of the BFA’s three patrol cars, this one, the fastest, was called the Maleficent, and Daniels had just recently been assigned to street patrol. That he’d gotten his hands on Maleficent was a stroke of luck, although the Corvette did have the downside of getting to the scene quicker than any of the other cars. Depending on the fairy creature running amok, that could be quite dangerous.

They screamed through the streets of downtown Seattle, minutes away from their destination. Daniels could see smoke, red smoke, rising over the city in the direction they were travelling.

“What do we got in the back?” Richards said. “Anything big?”

“Just the Anzio,” Daniel’s replied, grinning. “Daddy’s favorite pop-gun.” He’d been with the BFR—the Bureau of Fairy Affairs—for a couple of years now, and his predilection for heavy military ordinance and a willingness to use it had made him somewhat of a pariah. Still, he got the job done, and he really didn’t care what the others in the bureau thought of his methods. Richards, his partner for the last year, was good with it, and that’s all that mattered.

Richards chuckled. “Well, let’s hope its something big then.”

Daniels grinned. “I always do.”

They’d reached Lenora, a sharply slanted cobblestone street with a great view of the Puget Sound. There were no other cars on the road, and Daniels slowed Maleficent to a crawl. It had suddenly grown very warm, and the street ahead was obscured by a cloud of red smoke.

Daniels hit the brakes and put the Vette in park. “Let’s just have a look,” he said, starting to feel that excitement he always felt just before he put a bullet into something.

Richards nodded, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out his sidearm, a Smith & Wesson .500. The revolver had been a gift from Daniels, and it packed enough punch to knock an ogre on its ass.

Daniels got out of the car and was immediately struck by the heat and the slightly caustic smell in the air. He went around to the back of the Corvette and popped the hatchback. Inside were the pieces of his Anzio, a massive 20 mm anti-material rifle. It was meant to be fired from the ground, braced with a bipod, but it could be shoulder-fired in a pinch. The gun’s original military purpose was to take out vehicles, sending its massive explosive-tipped bullets into and through engine blocks, light-armored personnel carriers, and such. It could also ruin the day of a rampaging frost giant, remove most of a troll’s head, and even crack the stony skin of the duergar.

He hoisted the massive rifle up, and set it atop the Corvette, bracing its considerable wait on the vehicle. The smoke below was billowing toward them, and the faint sounds of screams were audible but muted through the haze. He also heard what sounded like chains beings scraped against the asphalt; that particular sound was moving toward them.

Richards was on the other side of the car, aiming the Smith & Wesson at the smoke. He turned toward Daniels, pointed with his revolver, and made the fingers of his left hand walk across the hood of the Vette. He wanted to get down there, see what was happening. Normally, Daniels would be right there with him, but he didn’t like where this was going. There was a fairly large dimensional nexus not far from here, in the Seattle Sculpture Park, and he felt wait-and-see was a better option.

Daniels shook his head, opened his mouth to give Richards an order, and then left it hanging open when their “target” came rushing out of the smoke. He’d never seen a dragon; they were supposed to be intelligent but so belligerent and dangerous they rarely applied for asylum on Earth, and even when they did, it was never granted. This dragon was snakelike, perhaps thirty feet long, and covered in red scales. It had four legs ending in taloned feet or hands, a long, whip-like tail, and a head that was all teeth and horns. Hanging from its dagger-filled mouth was the limp body of a young man—at least the parts the dragon hadn’t eaten yet.

“That’s a goddamn dragon,” Richards whispered, his eyes big as dinner plates. His gun was hanging at his side, almost completely forgotten. Daniels had seen this kind of thing before—sometimes the creatures that came through the nexus were so out there they just short-circuited your brain.

Daniels was afraid, sure, but had seen enough combat not to be completely rattled by one of the most feared monsters of mythology. He racked a round into the Anzio and took aim. The dragon heard the noise, instantly realized the threat, and dropped its meal onto the cobblestones with a wet plop. It reared up, its snaky neck bringing its head ten feet above the street. It opened its mouth and sucked in a huge lungful of air. It was what Daniels had been waiting for. He raised the muzzle of the Anzio, sighted in, and pulled the trigger. The massive gun unleashed thunder and smoke, and the explosive-tipped round smashed into the dragon’s open mouth and then out the top of its skull, spraying scales, blood, and brains in a wide arc.

In its death throes, the dragon’s released it pent up breath, shooting a column of crimson fire straight up into the air. The heat from those flames, even twenty yards away, was all but intolerable, and Daniels felt his skin stinging with what would likely be first-degree burns on any exposed flesh.

The fire faded, and the dragon collapsed into the middle of the road, leaking bright crimson blood onto the cobblestones.

“You okay,” Daniels shouted to Richards. The Anzio’s discharge had all but deafened both of them. Richards turned to him, eyes wide with shock, but gave the thumbs up.

Daniels nodded and drew his combat knife from the sheath on his hip. This was his first dragon; he’d need a trophy.

I gotta say, I heartily approve of the fact that two of the last three feature a guy named "Richards."

Johnathan

Richards said:

I gotta say, I heartily approve of the fact that two of the last three feature a guy named "Richards."

Johnathan

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Well, I do aim to please.

It's funny, though, a lot of these stories were writing exercises where I had to pound something out in an hour, and for whatever reason, Richards is the first surname that popped into my head like half the time. Who knows why.

Thanks for reading.

A Pointed Education

Here's another little vignette I wrote for a 4E supplement that never made it into print. This one would have been the introduction to a fighter build focused on throwing weapons. It's one of those vignettes that always left me wondering what happened to the characters; maybe there's a longer story in there somewhere. Anyway, it's called "A Pointed Education."

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A Pointed Education

“Master, would it not be better to take up our axes and blades and face the enemy in honorable battle?” Arimus asked. The dwarven youth’s thin lips were turned up in a smirk as he balanced a practice javelin in one thick-fingered hand. “My father always said that missile weapons were for elves and cowards not true warriors.”

The other students had been pulling their own practice javelins from a row of vaguely anthropomorphic straw targets; now all turned to look at the insolent Arimus, as he prepared to again match wits and wills with Master Iocretian. A hush settled over the small practice range – anything that broke the monotony of daily drill was highly regarded.

Iocretian, the aging dragonborn master peltast, continued to pull his javelins – real ones with barbed heads – out of one of the straw targets. Once he had gathered his six missiles, each of which had struck the center of the target from nearly sixty paces away, he turned to regard his most difficult student with a toothy grin.

“Well, Arimus, your father may have a point there,” Iocretian said, scratching the spines at the base of his chin as if considering the dwarf’s words. “However, I seem to remember that it was an orc javelin and not a battleaxe that pierced your father’s skull during the battle of Gulgur’s Canyon. Pity that orc wasn’t versed in the ways of ‘honorable combat’ like your poor sire.”

Arimus’ face turned bright red, his cheeks flaming through the fuzz of his first beard. It was a brutal riposte by the master peltast, and the other students shrank away from the awful truth of Iocretian’s words.

“My father was a hero!” The young dwarf shouted, tears filling his eyes. “He killed fifty orcs that day in Gulgur’s Canyon, and I’ll fight anyone who says different!”

Iocretian’s face softened, and his scales seemed to sag more than usual. He knelt down to the fuming Arimus and put one clawed hand on the young dwarf’s shoulder. “Arimus,” he said, “no one is claiming your father is a coward. Only a fool would name Utren Stoneaxe so. But you must understand your uncle sent you to me so you don’t suffer a similar fate as your father.”

“To die in battle?” Arimus said, his eyes now filled with stubborn pride. “There is no greater glory.”

“No, you young fool,” Iocretian said and cupped the dwarf’s bearded face. “Your uncle didn’t want you to die young like your father because he couldn’t be flexible in battle.”

“I don’t understand, master,” Arimus said, hurt and anger still staining his words. “My father was a skilled warrior.”

“Yes, your father was as skilled warrior, but he knew axe and shield and straight-into-the-teeth-of-the-enemy and not much else. Think, boy! If you’re father could have thrown a hammer or a javelin with the same skill he wielded his axe, it would be him teaching you the ways of a dwarven warrior and not your uncle and me.”

Arimus opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, his eyes wary but intrigued.

“Yes, now you understand,” Iocretian said with another toothy smile. “Flexibility, boy. Adaptation. These are the traits that will ultimately lead you to victory in battle not just a ‘glorious death’ in your first skirmish. Learn the way of axe, learn the way of the shield, but let me show you a trick or two as well.”

“My apologies, master,” Arimus said softly, and then found something very interesting to look at between his feet.

“Keep your apologies, boy,” Iocretian said. “I’d rather have you hit that target there more than three out of six casts.”

Arimus smiled. He had been the only student to hit his target three times, and the backhanded acknowledgement of that feat by his master was not lost on him. “Yes, master, four at least on my next try. I promise.”

“Then let’s see it . . . young warrior.”

I remember something similar from the Forgotten Realms comic.

Quartz said:

I remember something similar from the Forgotten Realms comic.

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Cool. I didn't copy; I swear.