Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
I'm working on diversifying the group's pain portfolio.
No, no - please don't put yourself out on our behalf. Really.
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But consider that Rackhir also does the most damage at this point, and usually dispenses with the outmoded concept of "cover". So I don't feel too bad...
Bad? When did I mention feeling bad? Seeing Rackhir being beat up is something one notes, like the sun coming up. There's no emotion involved. Or none that I can confess to without suffering both in-game and out of it
And he does admittedly have this habit of being a front-line archer. For a round or two.
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Meiji comes in between "Please Don't Feed the Chuul" and "Hello Kitty".
Woohoo!
__________________ shilsen is broken - Crothian (and this is why)
My Eberron Story Hour. Updated November 12. Almost at the climax!
OK, I have to agree - this IS the funniest story hour I've read around here. More, please!
What is a "Shirac"?
Pseudonatural muppets ... "Hi ho, Kermit the Slaad here..." But what would you do for Gonzo? He's already pseudonatural...
The Hannikum saints seem a (literally) blood-thirsty lot, if I have their origins right - do the priests of St. Skinflower dress only in the fresh skins of young maidens? Do Hannikum worshippers ask a boon of the saints by piercing their tongues, then pulling a length of bramblethorn vine back and forth through the hole?
__________________ - She Who Loves To Gallop Through The Wind And Rain
- Kicker of Evil Trees
OK, I have to agree - this IS the funniest story hour I've read around here.
Thanks.
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What is a "Shirac"?
Simple answer: one of the four primary nonhuman races found in CITY. A race of desert-dwelling mystics somewhere between "Fremen", "Sufi" and "Elf". The believed to be race of witches and excel at mind-magics. Most live in the component city of Marimbra at the edge of the Lassantees Wastes.
I'll post a summary of the races soon.
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The Hannikum saints seem a (literally) blood-thirsty lot, if I have their origins right - do the priests of St. Skinflower dress only in the fresh skins of young maidens? Do Hannikum worshippers ask a boon of the saints by piercing their tongues, then pulling a length of bramblethorn vine back and forth through the hole?
They are indeed bloodthirsty. I don't get your references, though. The Hannikum faith began as a simple thought experiment; what if the God of the Old Testament revealed himself to the Aztecs instead of the Jews, after the Aztecs had just sacked and occupied Rome.
And Rome was situated in the middle of a dinosaur-infested rainforest...
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
...I was there on business, y'see. The Temple of Kruetzel had a bit of a pest problem, they did, and they knew damned well who the best man for the job was. By now all of Narayan knows, I should think, that there's nobody better than Edouard Finké when it comes to dealin' with rats.
Barely worth my time, this job. Nasty litle fellows, considerin' what they'd been eatin', but not a patch on some of the things I've dealt with. Not fit to kiss Black Peter's toes, these bastards.
I sorted things out easy enough, and took my leave of the temple. But on the walk back home, I fell into the company of a lad named Joachim. Decent sort of fellow, he was another of them holy bakers. He'd been at the Temple seeking guidence or some-such, and had come away with no help at all.
's a long story, and it ain't mine to tell. The long and the short of it was that he was married, but couldn't tell anyone. His girl was someone of importance, connected like. Rich father, if you catch my meaning.
Poor lad got himself shanghaied, and the girl hired the Four Crazy Bastards to bring him back. That they did, murderin' all sorts of people along the way, and on the voyage home he and the girl got themselves married.
But now her father had her locked up, and he hadn't seen the girl in days! His own wife! Imagine that, if you would!
What was that? Here, now, Macawber! I seen your wife, and you ask me, we'd all be better off if she was locked away somewhere!
Where was I? Right, right.... And these friends of his, the Four Crazy Bastards? They wanted the girl to do somethin' unspeakably vile, somethin' so bad that the boy couldn't bring himself to speak of it!
Anyways, I found meself feeling a bit sorry for the lad. Hell of a thing for a young man to have to go through, am I right? Bein' separated from his true love, and all, not to mention those cazy perverts.
But truth be told, there was more to it than that. CITY talks to me sometimes, me lads. Not loud, and not clear, but you gotta know how to listen just right. And she was speakin' to me then, sure enough.
So I offered the boy my help, and he accepted it on the spot. Shook hands on it, and off we went...to meet the Four Crazy Bastards themselves.
Now, as I already said, there was just the two of them. The Pretty Man, in his dress, with that sword always at his hip. Tell you, boys, he touched that blade like a normal man touches his lover, you know? Real tender, like. Delicate almost. But could he use it? Sure as sure, and no mistake.
The other? The Bloody Archer hisself, and wouldn't you know? Another Azakhani, just like the Pretty Man. Dressed all in red, from head to tow, just like they say. Carries a bow as tall as I am, and by damn! Can he use it? Put a dozen arrows in the air, fast as a man could blink!
But both of them, crazy. You could see it in their eyes.
Don't know what happened to the other two, and I wasn't about to ask. The ones before me were bad enough. There was another fellow, though. A professor, of all things! What was his name again? Gave me his card, he did....
Ah, here it is. Bit smeared, but...Professor Hugo Chakraraja Glafston, Conjouror! Bit of an odd duck, him, but compared to the Crazy Bastards he was almost normal.
Should have seen the bird he called up, though. Wanted to demonstrate his "arts", I suppose. Bright yellow, stood taller than a man. Had a nasty glint in its eye, too. I've killed worse than that, mind but I took hold of Knocker, just in case.
Sent the thing on its way with a wave of his hand, and told us all some story about looking for a man named "Mephosophocles". Another professor, like, who'd one all missin'. Wouldn't say what he wanted 'im for, or why he'd come to the Four Crazy Bastards, but he seemed inclined to stay. Who was I to argue? Meant one more body between me and the Pretty Man, which is all to the good.
I thought we might be dealin' with Joachim's littler problem, but no. The Pretty Man wanted to go buy a hat, of all things. Didn't seem the sort, but I thought that it might have flowers on it. Or fruit, maybe. Wouldn't make him look any better, but who's to tell him? Not me, no sir. Like my guts on the inside, so I do.
So he sent the Archer to go buy it. Too good to go himself, I suppose, the toffee-nosed bastard. The rest of us sat down for some coffee, while the bowman went about his errand.
And when he got back, the tale he told? Put a chill down my spine, it did....
Here's an introduction to the common races found in CITY. Written by a typically arrogant, bigoted Erisian scholar. There's not much about the common races, actually, but quite a lot about Erisians. And CITY in general...
“So many species, subspecies, kin and kind in CITY! Putting a name to all would seem an insurmountable task. Better to put them to the sword. At least that would simplify the next census. But I am not here to discuss social policy. I come to enumerate the races of non-men, not to bury them.
The great novelist Marzel Joost put it thusly; “Counting the races that dwell in CITY is like counting needles in a stack of pins. Prickly, tedious work that’s hard on the eyes and likely to draw blood.” Consider that poor Joost was trying only to recall those nonhumans he met over the course of his brief, alcohol foreshortened life. I hope your seats are comfortable. We may be here a while.
That's not counting the Oddities and the Entities imported through the Slave Gates during the height of the Gate Builder Empire. Beings made more from Ideas and Appetites then flesh and blood. Fortunately many of them were unique, and more importantly benign, such as the Golden Rahl, employed by the Temple of Mr. Spidergod as an icon, who has delighted children for centuries with rides up and along the walls of the temple in Saltbend on his gleaming arachnoid back, his eight perfect eyes full of the kindness that only functional immortality and enormous wealth can bring. A few were more sinister, like the Semi-Lich who guards the Crypt of the Syndics in Ulum Dreii. A creature born in the Land of the Dead, tasked with ensuring the dearly departed, do not, in fact, take it with them. Then there were those who brought perverse, alien ideas to the streets of our great Monopolis, such as the men of living fire who introduced trade unionism to Narayan, the so-called Hotfellows Local 151. They all but control the Pandoor ovens used in the great temples of Kruetzel located there. How shameful! They call themselves “Azer”. I call them malcontents. And it’s quite true that their race is comprised solely of men. I’ll leave you to consider their unspeakable practices on your own.
So what do we do about this conundrum? Why, we need only look to the wisdom our Founding Fathers in the Gate Builder Empire. They decreed “Power is Knowledge!” Not the other way around, as purported by the scholars of weaker cultures. Those with the power control the discourse. So what if the bestial species imported by the Empire for slave-labor number upwards of 27? What matter if their names were “Uruk”, “Oger”, “Hubgubblyn”, and “Trull”? We’ll call them all Ghul, the old Imperial word for ‘meat’. Or perhaps, the Kaza-Ghul, the ‘Eaters of Meat’, who, in point of vulgar fact, often feasted on each other.
We will gather up races like a child gathers jacks, into categories of our fashioning, and place them neatly out-of sight. We do this because it is convenient. We do this in the interest of having a manageable system of knowledge. But let me be unmistakably clear; we do this because we can.
That’s enough theory for now. Let us turn our attention to the important CITY races. First, of course, is Man, but I’ll leave him to the artists and trial lawyers to describe in detail. Next are the four Lesser Races; the Hannumin, Ruhk-Kaza, Shirac, and Garahjah…”
-- Introductory remarks to the Hrazbo-Y lecture series, given by Masshtek Vellolorum, director of the Misanthropic Studies program at the Museum of Defeated Cultures, Eris:CITY, winter 288, Monopolis Standard Year.
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
“The Hannumin, or Hannu, are a race of small, talking monkey-men ranging from 2.5-4ft. in height, with prehensile tails and large, curious eyes. Hannu lack the strength of men, but possess tremendous natural agility and athleticism, particularly with regard to climbing, leaping and balance.
Widely regarded as adorable, the Hannu are found in a variety of climes ranging from the cold lower slopes of Mt. Parvishta to the dinosaur-plagued jungle of the Hannikum suburbs. An interesting note: no Hannu neighborhoods remain inside Hannikum:CITY, though ancient Hannu burial sites abound, leading misanthropists to speculate that the cannibalistic human residents ate the indigenous Hannu population at some point prior to Hannikum joining CITY.
The Hannu are a simple race; childlike in both size and intellectual capacity. They have no written language of their own and make few tools. The beautiful temples of their home city of Bessho were constructed for them by the architects of the ancient Gate Builder Empire, whose love for their “pets” is clearly shown by the profusion of ornately decorated Hannu-sized buildings. It is from these we get the Hannu nickname ‘temple monkey”.
In their simplicity, the Hannu have personified the great Gates into a pantheon of ineffectual gods. They believe each Gate is a part of a god, which protrudes into the mortal realm. Since we built the great Gates, it is accurate to say the Hannu worship us.
Hannu also suffer from a peculiar mental defect; they utterly lack foresight. Considering the consequences is as foreign to a Hannu as the notion to scratch ones own ass with his tail is to a man. It is a rare Hannu that can transcend this racial flaw, only a few appear in each generation. The current junior Senator from Bessho, Piwinici, is one such Hannu.
This is not to say that Hannu culture is entirely lacking. Their monastic tradition, meditation techniques, and unarmed fighting styles are highly developed, which is not uncommon among the uncivilized people --note the Ajakhani. A Hannu Grandmaster, armed only with his empty paws and hannu-jitsu, is a sight to behold, and better than even money in the gladitorial pits against an armed giant.
A species of unusually tall Hannu can be found as far away as the Islands of Ajakhan. Called Varana by the locals, they dwell on the slopes of Mt. Wu and occupy themselves with quaint customs such as reading tea-leaves and weaving colorful scarves.”
--taken from Danincet Fossai’s lecture “They Made Great Pets”, Hrazbo-Y lecture series, 288 MSY.
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
Thank you, Durrin, thank you. Very dry in here today, innit?
Well, as it turns out, the Archer had gone to buy a hat from ol' Don Magic Wand, owner of "The Chapel". Never knew he was a haberdasher, but the Right Reverend is obviously a man of many talents.
And that, my friends? That was the problem. While the Archer was there, waiting for the Reverend, a woman came in. She had a child in tow, a girl of no more than twelve summers. And how was that child dressed? No better than common streetwalker, and with tears running down her face besides.
That girl went in to see the Reverend, and would he tell the Archer why? No sir, he would not. But it was clear as the nose on your face what was going on, and Joachim and I? We were mad, friends, madder than hell.
But did the Archer care? Not so far as we could see. Or the Fancy Man? Oh, he was glad to see his new hat, but he didn't give a damn about how this poor girl was sufferin'. Just kept eatin' his brunch, and sippin' his tea, and never turned a hair.
Joachim and meself, though, we weren't going to stand for that kind of thing. Not a bit of it. Off we went to the Chapel, ready to raise hell, with the Crazy Bastards and the Professor taggin' along behind.
I was ready to crack ol' Magic Wand's skull, but the Bloody Archer held me back. Wanted to talk, if you can credit it. Wanted to hear his side of the story. Now, that sort of thing don't sit right with me...but I didn't want to cross one of the Crazy Bastards.
And then what do you think? The Pretty Man sat himself down, back to the room, and didn't say a word. Too good to associate with the likes of us, right?
The Right Reverend told us a tale, he did, about poor little Calliope and the life she was forced to lead. She was an orphan, and the legal property of a fancy house called the Maison Chatons. Place caters to folk who like that sort of thing, may they all burn in hell.
He healed her wounds, he told us, and took away the memories of what kept happening to her. He wanted to do more, but he didn't dare cross the owner of the Maison: a mister Jack Fancy.
Now, we all know that the Crazy Bastards have a history with the Room Rouge Players, don't we? I thought that they must have killed Jack Fancy along with the rest of 'em, but no sir. And were they happy about that?
Not at all, me friends. Not at all. The Pretty Man stood up, and turned around. Frowned a little, and that was the closest thing to emotion that I ever did see him show. It wasn't natural, that frown. Sent a chill down my spine to see it.
"We will deal with the situation," he says. And you could see how bad he wanted to draw that sword of his, right then and there, and feed it another soul.
Well, of course it eats souls! Stands to reason, dunnit?
They started to makin' plans, right off. Crazy plans, like bustin' the door in and takin' the girl. Law wouldn't like that, though, 'cause Fancy'd paid all the proper bribes.
I nodded and smiled; "Don't argue with a crazy man," my dear old mother used to say, and that's some damned good advice. When we took a look at the Maison, though, even Pretty Man knew that it wouldn't work. Like a fortress, it was.
Didn't stop 'im from bangin' on the door, demandin' entrance. Someone opened a little slot in the door, told 'im that the Maison was a private club, and besides they weren't open for business so early in the day.
And he nods, all proper and polite, and walks away. As I'm standin' there, me blood boilin'.
Don't try to understand, lad. Ye can't. Gods know, I've tried.
But I've got contacts, if ye know what I mean. Took a bit of doin', but I found out a few things about Jack Fancy. Most of it, you don't want to hear. Put you off your lunch, and no mistake. Some of it, though...some of it was pretty damned useful.
I'm also loving the change of narrative voice (although I will certainly welcome the return of Burne as narrator, too). It's definitely interesting to see another perspective on the party.
And who can argue with naming them the Crazy Bastards ...
“Repeat after me: The Ruhk-kaza were made to mine the Pit of Erebus. Literally made. In vats. Large, bubbling, I’ll go so far as to guess rune-inscribed, vats. A long time ago by the alchemists of the Gate Builder Empire, who employed a rarefied form of rarely-employed ethics. Unlike the alchemists of today….
…who are still merciless, venal bastards, but need no longer dabble in such sloppy, screaming work as bio-alchemy and its like, thanks in no small part to my seminal work on the Philosopher’s Algorithm, which gives clockwork and phlogistonic mechanisms not merely life, but the semblance of a soul.
You’ve heard of the Algorithm, haven’t you? And its creator, Riven Sugarglass? You must know my shop,! Its just round the way in Saltbend, across from the Temple of Mr. Spidergod, the one with the lickable windows?
Umm, carrying on, it is partially true that the Ruhk are related to the group of races we lazily call the Kaza-Ghul. You’ll encounter a lot of partial truths when dealing with magic. Most of which conceal either obscene vanity or simply raw obscenity. But I digress.
The original Ruhk stock was derived from the flesh and marrow of the gods only know many different Ghul races, the ancient Erisian alchemists cherry-picking the traits they believed would increase their chances of surviving the Pit; darkvision, a high pain threshold, resistance to death-magics, a powerful build but a roughly man-sized frame for easier navigation of the narrow tunnels. And, of course, stupidity. Most likely contributed by the underclass humans that got thrown into the mix. The Rukh horns, from what I understand, are purely decorative.
The lack of intelligence turned out to be more of a bug than a feature. A fatal mistake, really. Down in the Pit the most valuable commodity is intellect, barring, of course an honestly celibate priest and a parcel full of phlogistonic explosives. And I should know, having spent the better part of my youth mining its numinous ore. Does that surprise you? Did you think I was born with these good looks? With both eyes on one side of my face?
So the Ruhk Kaza, whose name means “The Eaters of Bone”, where moved out of that holy, industrial bone yard and used in other capacities. They made fine soldiers, being naturally fatalistic and bred for senseless deaths. Just prior to the fall, the Ruhk began to spread throughout the Empire. Today they are found in every corner of CITY.
Sometime during the Ruhk Diaspora, they found religion. Or it was given to them, probably be the Shirac, who share their peculiar worldview in the way aristocratic gentleman share the clap. The Ruhk made it their own, believing not in the Way to Heaven, rather, the Great Bird of Death, who carries everything in the universe towards the ultimate oblivion at the center of creation. The Ruhk are the reason no-one discusses religion in polite conversation.”
-- taken from Riven Sugarglass’s “Genesis of the Rukh”, Hrazbo-Y lectures 288 MSY.
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
"I am here today to tell you that there is no Shirac race. ‘What?!’ you will say. Of course there is a Shirac race. They are tall and thin and their hair is like the fine feathers of a delicate bird. They are all witches; they live in Marimbra and sell priceless goods, even magic, in the Great Bazaar.
I will proceed to demonstrate why these are falsehoods. First, there is no Shirac race because being Shirac is not a matter of parentage. Surely most Shirac are born of Shirac. They are tall, and thin, and have hair like delicate feathers. They have beautiful eyes that can see in the faintest starlight. They posses what appears to be witchcraft to those who have never drawn away the Veil, except perhaps in their dreams. Surely these are the Shirac.
But this is not always the case. It is also true that there are Shirac who have been born to humans. This is sure? Absolutely, it is a I say. And Shirac born to Ruhk, and to creatures for whom you have no name. There are Shirac with hair like fine feathers, and those with the shells of turtles, and the eyes of cats, as well as those with the shapes of men.
So I have shown you there is no Shirac race, only the Great Ummab of the Shirac. Say it, as it is our proper name. The Ummab is not family, nor tribe, nor nation, it is simply the sum of all those who follow the Way. For the Great Ummab of the Shirac is itself a journey. A migration towards Heaven. Just as birds seek the warmer places as the winter approaches, so the Shirac seek the warmth of Paradise. And it has been so for half an eternity.
Are we all witches? No, that is not the case. We are simply travelers. And in our travels we have seen many worlds, and thus passed through the Veil many times over. This is not witchcraft. It is only experience. You may call the fruits of our experience witchcraft, but you are motivated only by your love of falsehoods. Perhaps you should learn to embrace truth. Or find better words.
Surely, you say, at least the Shirac live in Marimbra, where you sell your beautiful wares? Again, a misrepresentation. The Shirac move through Marimbra, so some are always there, and yet it is never the same ones, year after year, for the Way is a journey. You say we sell you wares, I say we give you priceless gifts. We only charge for them because if we did not you would assume they have no value. And the gifts of the Way have value beyond measure.
So many untruths spoken about the Shirac. Some say the Way is like a heavy yoke made of many strange laws, that we are not a people but a cult. This is not so! There is but one Shirac law: Honor the Seeker. For they will open the Way to Heaven.
Not bad, eh?
Would you join with us? For the Great Ummab of the Shirac is open to all seekers. Join us, for we welcome you, and we fly towards Heaven. As our great poet Wudi Al-Harazed once said “I do not want to achieve Paradise through death, I want to walk there on my own two feet”.
-- taken from Mommud Harb-Houri’s “The Preface to the Way”, Hrazbo-Y lectures, 288 MSY.
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
Last night, round about evenin', we set out for the Dancehall, on the Cocks Swallow docks.
Nah, nah, get yer mind from out the gutter, lad. Ye might know it as Gibbet's Dock, but most folks call it the Dock o'Cocks Swallow, after ol' Dead Pirate Guilford Gibbet. Seems he was freed from his own public hanging by an angry mob, what up and killed the poor bastard by choking him with his own severed manhood. Ye might have seen the statue of Gibbet by the wharf-side, eh? Surrounded by a bunch of little statues of flyin' swallows? And one statue of a rooster?
Aye, that's the one. It's a bit of a pun, like.
Well, 'twas a pleasant enough walk, all things considered. The crowds cleared out of the way right quick when the saw who was coming; nobody wanted to risk offending the Pretty Man, seein' as how he's so quick with his sword.
We were passin' the Bluefins Tavern when the damnedest thing happened. The doors flew open, and a whole crowd people came runnin' into the street, all screamin' and carryin' on. There were dogs howlin', and ladies weepin', and grown men terrified outta their wits.
And why? Rats, o'course. Little ones, mind, but lots of 'em. A wave of the little beggars came spillin' out the door, chewin' on anyone they could get their teeth into.
Now, I'm no swordsman. And I'm none too good with a bow, I'll not deny that. But show me rats, and I know where me duty lies. Took Knocker in me hand and waded right in, hittin' those rats to the left and to the right. Felt damned good, to be doin' some honest work again. Took a few bites outta me, they did, but wasn't but a trifle. Duchess and me, we cleared things up right and proper, quick as sin.
Never did find out what that was all about, come to think on it. Might be they were layin' in wait for me. Not the first time I've been ambushed by rats, likely won't be the last.
The Pretty Man gave me a little nod as I finished the last of 'em off. Recognized a fellow killer, so he did, and no mistake. Gave me a bit of a chill, to be honest. I kill for a livin', true enough, but I'm no murderer. Not like him.
Never like him.
Thank ye, lad, thank ye. Needed another drink, after that. Where was I?
Right, right. Well, I never did find out what that was all about. Nobody knew where the beasties had come from, and the only clue was the howlin' of a dog just before they all up and manifested.
Spontaneous rats...that's a problem I can sink me teeth into. I ain't done with that situation, friends, and ye've got me oath on that.
But on we went to the Dancehall. Ever been there, Gerard? Not a nice place, not like the Pig here. Not so clean, this bar of yours, but it's honest. And that counts for a lot, so it does.
The Dancehall, it was nothin' but pretty lies. All glittery, and fancy-like. And nothin' but scum inside. Pirates, and thugs, and gutter trash. A bunch of them primitives, the hairy folk with heavy brows, were hangin' about and draggin' their clubs. Swayin' to the music, they were, and that should tell you what the place sounded like.
Just horrible, it was.
The Pretty Man, he walked right up to the bar, and demanded to see the owner. You could see the crowd wasn't too happy to see any of us, and they really didn't like the Pretty Man...but they didn't do more than grumble a bit. They knew better than to trifle with the likes of us.
There was some talkin' back and forth, and finally they agreed to take the Pretty Man back to talk with the owner of the place. The Queen Bitch, they called her. Just the Pretty Man, mind, and his pet monkey besides. Wanted him to leave his sword behind, but he just laughed a cold laugh and shook his head.
It's his soul, you know. I've heard 'im say it with me very own ears. Blasphemous, that. Must have eaten his soul first, right off. It's hungry, that blade.
They didn't argue, and took him into a back room. We stood ready, weapons at hand, prepared for trouble. The Bloody Archer, he was like a damned statue. Never moved, never twitched, but for his eyes. He's always lookin', that man. Huntin', like.
The Prof, he started in to talking to one of those cave-men I mentioned. 'Bout what, I can't imagine. I heard 'em mention time, and space, and how impressed the Prof was by the cave-man's club...but nothin' that made any sense, really.
And then came the sound, from behind the door the Pretty Man had gone through. Sounded like a dozen thunderclaps, all at once, and was enough to set my ears to ringin'. Magic, I knew, and no mistake.
Duchess and I, we had that door down in a trifle. In we went, the Archer and Prof on our heels. And let me tell ye, things went right to hell.
Nah, nah, get yer mind from out the gutter, lad. Ye might know it as Gibbet's Dock, but most folks call it the Dock o'Cocks Swallow, after ol' Dead Pirate Guilford Gibbet. Seems he was freed from his own public hanging by an angry mob, what up and killed the poor bastard by choking him with his own severed manhood.
Now that's gotta hurt!
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Ye might have seen the statue of Gibbet by the wharf-side, eh? Surrounded by a bunch of little statues of flyin' swallows? And one statue of a rooster?
Aye, that's the one. It's a bit of a pun, like.
*wipes away a tear*
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Spontaneous rats...
There are heroes who stride across the ages, destroying hordes of demons, and then there are our PCs...
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And let me tell ye, things went right to hell.
Well, of course they did! It's not like you had the magnificence that is Meiji to pull your fat out of the fire. Remind me again, did Rackhir get pasted here too?
__________________ shilsen is broken - Crothian (and this is why)
My Eberron Story Hour. Updated November 12. Almost at the climax!
Enjoying this little bit of CITY's local off-color, are you?
Absolutely. That little reference actually sounded a lot like a Pratchettism, which is the top of the scale for me where humor is concerned.
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Let me spoil at little: no.
Drat.
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That happens next adventure.
Aaaah! You know, every time I see Rackhir get beat up I get a sense of vuja de (another Pratchettism). I know that I'm going to see it again in the future.
__________________ shilsen is broken - Crothian (and this is why)
My Eberron Story Hour. Updated November 12. Almost at the climax!
That little reference actually sounded a lot like a Pratchettism, which is the top of the scale for me where humor is concerned.
Why thanks. I have to say, of all the places I've stolen inspiration from, and the list includes everything from "Some Like it Hot" to Preston Sturges films, Pratchett isn't one of them. I hadn't even read 'The Colour of Magic' yet by that point in the campaign...
I'm on Discworld book 2 now. Only about 30 to go, right?
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
Ye can't trust wizards. Oh, you might think that ye can, but trust me: ye can't.
Take the Prof, who seemed a descent enough sort. Duchess and I, we're ready to deal with the Bitch's guards. Took out one as we came through the door, into a little room. There was another door standing open, obviously where the Pretty Man was, but before we could get there?
Magic, thanks to the Prof. He conjured some kind of web, hangin' all through the room. Got the guards tangled up, sure, but how were we to get to the Pretty Man? The web was so thick that the Archer couldn't shoot through it, and he was none too pleased about that.
Sure enough, before I could start hackin' my way through, there was that crash of thunder again, closer still and even louder than before, and a yell from the Pretty Man along with it. Didn't sound at all happy, neither.
It only got worse.
Friends, you know me. You know my line of work. I spend more than my fair share of time in the sewers. That's where the rats are, after all. So me, I know stinks. I've smelled 'em all, in my time. But this? This was somethin's else entirely. So strong that it hung in the very air, thick and green. Made even my eyes water, standin' as I was on the very edge of it.
Hell, the damned cloud made Duchess herself ill! And that's no small feat, makin' a rat like her sick up.
Maybe the Prof thought he was helping. Maybe he was, for all I know. I imagine that the Bitch's men weren't up to much with that smell in the air. But it wasn't doin' us any much good either. The Archer was cursin' up a blue streak, when he wasn't retchin'.
Lucky for me, I had a secret weapon.
See this ring, here on my finger? Not just a particularly handsome piece of jewelry, this. No, this is an heirloom, handed down from my great-great-great grandma, Anne Finké herself. And it's magic, this ring is.
Ever hear of a ring of invisibility? Well, this is better. This, me friends, is a ring of insmellability. Turn it on your finger, like so, and see? Your scent disappears, like you ain't even there. Makes it a lot easier, this, sneakin' up on a canny rat.
But that's not all, y'know. The ring protects me from smells, too. Shields me, like. And it was enough to let me push my way through the Prof's little cloud without revisitin' me lunch.
Took me a bit, pushin' through the web. But I made it through, until I could see the Pretty Man though the haze. He was bleedin' from the ears, and he looked a little shaky, but he was still standin', with his monkey by his side.
There were bodies all about, some of them dead and some just pukin' their guts out. Religious types, or so they seemed to me. I gave the closest one a good kick as I went by, just on general principles like.
The Pretty Man, he was facin' down two figures, and one of 'em.... Well. One of 'em was Jack Fancy, sure as sure. Had one a' them skinny swords in his hand, and he kept tossin' knives at the Pretty Man. But that other....
Hell, I need another drink, I'm gonna remember that.
Thank ye, Gerard. Thank ye kindly. I've seen things, friends. Terrible, horrible things. But nothin' like this.
It was a woman, ye thought at first. And if he'd been wearin' pants, or anything below the waist, maybe I woulda kept bein' fooled. But no, we weren't so lucky as that. Worse still, he had the head of a dog, all snarlin' and snappin', and the skin we could see -- too damned much of it, ye ask me -- was covered with fur.
I don't mind tellin' ye, friends, I was taken aback. Shocked, even.
Just for a moment, mind, but that was time enough for the Bitch to hop down into an open trap door. And Fancy followed a second later, as one a' my knives hit the wall behind where he'd been standin'.
Took us a minute to get organized, like, what with the smell and the web and all. The Pretty Man told us what had happened, that he'd been hit with half a dozen spells at the same time. Not once, even, but twice. He wasn't at all pleased about it, and what's more? It was the first time I'd seen his hair anythin' less than perfect.
Down through the trap door we went, all but the Prof. He'd had enough, he said. Maybe it was seein' the Bitch that did it, and if so I can't blame 'im a bit. Wished 'im well, although the Archer seemed happy to see the back of 'im, and off he went.
It is a well known fact that wandering monsters do not in fact "wander". They are in fact spontaneous manifestations of the universe's (understandable) antipathy towards adventurers.
"'Scutters', 'Scuttlers', 'Domed-fuddlers', 'Grubs', 'Sadpackers', 'Molies', 'Holie-Molies', and perhaps the most insulting, simply 'the Gardeners', I'm sure you've heard all of these before, the derogatory names for the Garahjah. I am here today to tell you that they are a proud race with a complex culture, language, and strong preference for the subterranean. And yes, they love a good strong cup of tea...
An average Garahjah stands between four-and-a-half and... well... four-and-a-half-feet tall, there being little deviation in their general physiology. They are typically as wide as they are tall, and covered with a short coat of fine downy fur. To make up for their physicalsimiliarity, Garahjah wear the hair on their broad, domed heads in thick elaborate, braids strung with ornaments and rich, clay-bearing mud from their burrows, commonly refered to as 'dredgelocks'. A Garahjah always seeks to stand out from his brethren, either through grooming and dress, or by complicated elaborations of speech. Or a funny accent. Or by frequent singing. Or hats. They really are an odd lot of birds, when you come right down to it.
Garahjah are exceptionally hardy, all but immune to toxins and disease, as befits a race that spends much of its time in dank holes or classifying strange flora using their sense of taste. They can see in near darkness, and some in pitch blackness, utilizing the very vibrations of the earth to guide them. Garahjah have an extraordinary relationship with dirt; it speaks to them, in fact sometime it even listens, moving out of the way to let one pass. Some think the Garahjah can burrow in the manner of burrowing animals. This is not the case. The earth parts for them, albeit quite slowly, like a crowd of the morbidly obese parting for passing royalty.
The Garahjah effectively rule themselves and their home city of Ling-Garah, whose name usually means 'The Constant Garden' in their perplexing native tongue. Natural philosophers suggest that the Garahjah language 'is rooted in the very language of nature, with meanings shifting like the play of streams over stones, with only a few concepts as solid as the stones themselves'. Linguists, however, suggest the Garahjah are lying to us, foiling any attempt to accurately translate their language as some kind of species-wide joke.
Take, for example, the Garahjah governing body, the so-called 'Bishopric of Trees', which isn't particularly remarkable until you realise the Garahjah have no word for 'bishop', or priest of any kind, really. Which is odd, seeing as the Garahjah taught early man the art of 'speaking to the dirt', which gave rise to modern-day urban and ex-urban Druidism. Yes, there's nothing quite so funny as a Garahjah, except, perhaps, when one is trying to behead you for despoiling its garden.
-- taken from Sir Paltry Bearkiller-Jones's "Some Things Gleaned from a Conversation with Mr. Mole", Hrazbo-Y lecture series, 288 MSY.
__________________ "We're pimps and killers, but in a philanthropic way." -- Boyd, Dollhouse.
The Bitch was considerate enough to have provided pillows for us to land on, so it wasn't much of a fall. No sign of her, or of Jack, in the little room that we'd landed in. Just a mannequin, wearin' parts of a fancy dress, in one corner. And only one way out, a dark little tunnel.
Too dark, if you catch me meaning. Pitch black, and it swallowed any light that hit it. Magic, again.
But not a problem for Duchess, me darlin'. Looped a rope 'round her neck, and she sniffed her way through, with me trailin' behind. The dark didn't last long, and there we were in a hallway...and we had company. The Bitch, she had friends. And where she met 'em, gentlemen, I don't care to speculate.
It was knife and club work for me then, while the Pretty Man and the Archer did their bloody work. And what did we fight? You'd hardly believe it, friends.
Dogs, made of pure diamond. Spat knives at us, they did, and do I look like I'm lyin' about that? And they weren't the worst of it. There was this...thing, that the Bitch called up. Part snake, part bird, part lady. No face, but it wore a diamond brooch that kept shimmerin', and changin' shape. Had the voice of an angel, but friends? She was the meanest little hussy I ever did meet.
Gave the Pretty Man a good squeeze, she did. And he didn't find it all to his likin', either. Can't blame him for that, not at all. He managed to free himself, and we came through it all right, although I'm damned if I know how. I remember standin' there, pieces of broken dogs at me feet, starin' down the Bitch herself. And that's when the Pretty Man cleared his throat.
He talked to her, all soft and reasonable, and I found myself noddin' along. It made sense, what he was sayin'...that Fancy, the miserable bastard, was no friend of hers...even if they did share a bed from time to time.
Yes, ye heard that right. No, I shan't elaborate. Rather not think about it, truth be told.
But there was no point in us fightin' like this, since we had no quarrel with her. And that it was in everyone's best interests if we brought Fancy to ground.
She agreed to show us, in the end, where Fancy'd made his escape. Through a tunnel, into the sewers. So we took our leave of the Dancehall, and glad I was of it. Because now we were on my home ground. I know the sewers of Narayan like the back of me hand, and with both Duchess and the Archer trackin' him, Fancy didn't have a chance. We made damned good time, winding our way through tunnels and such, until we came to a Gate.
You probably don't know how many Gates there are in the sewers, do you? Well, let me tell you, friends, that there's plenty of 'em, and a royal pain in the arse they are. This one was at the top of a ramp, see, and was lettin' through a stream of clean water from gods-only-know where.
And Fancy's tracks, they went right up to the Gate. And through it.
Too right, Durrin, m'lad! Fancy's no citizen, and don't wear a gate-mark. Everyone knows that, he boasts of it often enough. He shouldn't have been able to pass through, not him. But there was no denyin' it; that's just what the bastard had done. He'd left some signs behind, traces of some sort of ash.
Only one answer. Fancy was a Gatecrasher, plain as plain. And what could we do, but follow his trail?
- Crothian (and 
Linear Mode
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