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!
A Lonely Path: a Shackled City Story Hour, (updated 30 Apr 2008)
The city of Cauldron is aptly named. Nestled in the throat of a dormant volcano, this frontier city has thrived in a hostile environment. Unfortunately, things are about to grow even more hostile for the citizens of this remote city, as two ancient forces converge upon the region in a dreadful confluence of cruelty and madness.
Driven by the dreams of an insane demon prince, bizarre cultists known as the Cagewrights scheme from ancient tunnels beneath the volcano, stoking it once more to terrible life. To prevent their agenda, adventurers must brave haunted jungle ruins, slay mighty dragons, and bind themselves to a layer of the infinite Abyss.
Will their swords and spells be enough to save the Shackled City?
Hello, all, and welcome to my first Story Hour. This thread has been raised since the ENWorld Database Crash of ’06, and as a result has lost a level (as well as several prepared spell slots). The format of the story hour has changed somewhat from its original inception, and many parts that were lost have to be rewritten from memory. But maybe, from these ashes, something better will be created.
This Story Hour, however, may not be like the ones you have read before. I am not playing with a group and recording our tales of adventure and woe. Unfortunately, I do not have such a group that I can meet with regularly. However, I love to read the books, I love to create characters, and I love the Dungeon magazine’s Shackled City Adventure Path. I have recently purchased the hardcover of the revised Path, and will be using the information therein.
And so I decided to create a 1st-level character and run her through the Path. I will be DM, PC, and narrator. All battle outcomes will be determined by the fall of the dice. If my main character dies, another will come to take her place.
Since I am trying to remain as true as possible to the Adventure Path, some of the text I use will be straight from the hardcover, including all of the boxed text. Anything that I lift from the book I will portray in dark orchid colored text in my story hour posts.
By the way, I welcome all comments, critiques and praise! Feel free to post!
Like I said, it's hard to find a group at home. So I present to you, for your critique and hopeful enjoyment . . .
The following will include descriptions of any campaign-specific details that might deviate from a generic setting. For answers to any questions, this will most likely be the place to go.
The Pantheon (Updated 6-25-2006) Dragon magazine #329 is actually responsible for spurring this story hour. Specifically, the article Mesopotamian Mythos: From the Cradle of Civilization to Your Game Table by David Schwartz. This pantheon of ancient dieties, straight from the Epic of Gilgamesh, was so well-described, so well-representative, that I had to use it.
For those of you who do not have access to the article, the following are brief descriptions of the deities mentioned so far in the game.
Ea (Enki, Master Crafter, Keeper of the Ocean Below)
Lawful Good
Portfolio: Crafts, fresh water, skills, wisdom.
Domains: Good, Knowledge, Law, Water.
Dramatis Personae (Updated 6-25-2006)
Several characters, both intrinsically a part of the Shackled City Adventure Path and those I have introduced myself, reoccur throughout the story hour. The following are brief descriptions of NPCs mentioned so far in the game.
AC 18, touch 11, flat-footed 17 hp 8 (1 HD) Immunesleep Fort +2, Ref +1, Will +5 (+7 against enchantments)
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Spd 20 ft. Melee +4 masterwork spear (1d8+3/x3) Ranged +1 light crossbow (1d8/19-20, 80 ft. inc.) or Ranged +2 masterwork spear (1d8+3/x3, 20 ft. inc.) Base Atk +0; Grp +3 Special Atk spontaneous casting (cure spells), turn undead (+1, 2d6+2, 1st) 4/day
Abilities Str 16, Dex 13, Con 10, Int 9, Wis 16, Cha 12 (32-point buy) SQ half-elf traits Feats Combat Casting Skills Concentration +4, Diplomacy +3, Gather Information +3, Listen +4, Search +0, Spot +4.
Possessions chainmail (+5 AC, max Dex +2, ACP -5), heavy wooden shield (+2 AC, ACP -2), masterwork spear, light crossbow (20 bolts), periapt of wound closure, smokesticks (2), holy symbol, adventurer’s gear. 10 gp worth of treasure.
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Turn Undead (Su) Abrina can turn or destroy undead creatures. She may attempt to turn undead a number of times per day equal to 3 + her Charisma modifier. If Abrina has 5 or more ranks in Knowledge (religion), she gets a +2 bonus on turning checks against undead.
Abrina’s turning check is 1d20 + her Charisma modifier). If her roll is high enough to let her turn at least some of the undead within 60 feet, roll 2d6 + her cleric level + her Charisma modifier for turning damage. That’s how many total Hit Dice of undead she can turn.
Turned undead flee by the best and fastest means available to them. They flee for 10 rounds (1 minute). If they cannot flee, they cower (giving any attack rolls against them a +2 bonus). If she approaches within 10 feet of them, however, they overcome being turned and act normally. (She can stand within 10 feet without breaking the turning effect—she just can’t approach them.) She can attack them with ranged attacks (from at least 10 feet away), and others can attack them in any fashion, without breaking the turning effect.
If Abrina has twice as many levels (or more) as the undead have Hit Dice, she destroys any that she would normally turn.
Strength Domain (Su) Abrina can perform a feat of strength as a free action 1/day. Abrina gains an enhancement bonus to Strength equal to her cleric level.
Travel Domain (Su) Abrina can act normally regardless of magical effects that impede movement as if she were affected by the spell freedom of movement for a total time per day of 1 round per cleric level she possesses. This effect occurs automatically as soon as it applies, lasts until it runs out or is no longer needed, and can operate multiple times per day (up to the total daily limit of rounds). Survival is added to her list of cleric class skills.
Periapt of Wound Closure The wearer of this periapt automatically becomes stable if her hit points drop to between -1 and -9 inclusive. The periapt doubles the wearer’s normal rate of healing or allows normal healing of wounds that would not do so normally. Hit point damage that involves bleeding is negated for the wearer of the periapt, but she is still susceptible to damage from bleeding that causes Constitution loss, such as that dealt by a wounding weapon.
Abrina rehearsed her morning routine with practiced steps and whispered counts in the dusty courtyard as the dawning sun rose above the temple wall behind her. She cast a long shadow, the outline of her figure a blur. Her mind fully concentrated on the movements of her legs, her hands, her spear, she destroyed foe after imaginary foe.
Every day, Abrina practiced. She had been practicing for decades—alone, with instructors, with sparring partners, with friends. She reveled in the soreness in her limbs, the heat on her neck, the sweat on her skin. The Games, sponsored by her temple, would begin the following week and drew crowds to their small town of Narim from miles around. Abrina knew she was a favorite, partly due to the elven blood that ran through her veins. In the predominantly human region of U’tep, a fertile valley nestled within the arms of a great desert, a half-elf was a wonder and a curiosity. A half-elf that epitomized the virtues of Ninurta, the god of agriculture and athletics, was a rarity that people from throughout U’tep flocked to see.
In mid-attack, her spear thrust to the side, Abrina froze. Wisps of her hair fell over her eyes, beading sweat just beginning to roll down her temples. Her muscles bulged, her hands tightened around the shaft of her weapon, and her chest expanded and contracted with deep, though controlled, breaths. Another long shadow strode across the courtyard, strong, purposeful.
Relaxing her stance, Abrina lowered her spear, point to the ground, and turned to face her elder.
His hair was gray, his weathered face etched with wrinkles, but his intense emerald eyes were sharp, his back straight. He wore the clerical vestments of their order, the shirt beneath his cloak dyed a green several shades darker than his eyes. She reached out to him, and he took her hands, enveloping her in a tight hug of greeting. They pulled back and she smiled.
“Why, good morning, Elder Kevur,” she said, wiping her brow with the back of a dusty arm. “What brings you to the training grounds?”
Kevur smiled in return and motioned her to follow him. “I came to see you. Let’s go inside and talk. I imagine you could use a glass of water?” He walked to the edge of the courtyard, into the shade, and held the door open for her.
She followed, puzzled but intrigued. Elder Kevur was the highest ranking cleric of their temple of Ninurta, and he rarely spoke with those of their order individually since gaining that status. He led services, was the speaker at the games, began dinners with a toast and even blessed the clerics in their affirmation ceremony. Kevur spoke with everyone at the temple, of course, but he rarely invited anyone to his office speak with privately.
Elder Kevur had invited her into his office only once before, when she had been only a child and he a recent cleric of Ninurta. When he was younger, he led the classes to educate supplicants who wished to become indoctrinated into the faith of Ninurta and Abrina had been a student during his first year. It was only a few days before Abrina fund herself sitting in the chair opposite his ornately carved desk of mahagony and squirmed under his severe and reproachful gaze. She had tripped a boy in practice when his back was turned. Abrina had been older than he, but he had the gall to insult her style in the middle of their lessons. Entangling her spear between his legs and roughly jerking him off balance had been tremendously satisfying, but she wasn’t entirely sure it had been worth the disappointment of Elder Kevur.
Abrina was older, now, and Kevur wore a smile instead of a frown, but still she fidgeted her seat, tapping the side of the glass of cool water he had given her, as Kevur retrieved an empty scroll case on his desk and began to unstopper its ends.
“This,” he said, pulling a piece parchment from a drawer, “is a missive from the Master Crafter.”
Abrina’s eyes widened. “From Ea Himself?”
Kevur paused and raised an eyebrow. There was a smile behind the crinkling of his eyes. She sunk back into the chair, her face flushed with embarrassment. Abrina wondered if he remembered the last time she had been in this spot. She figured her did; those eyes saw into her soul.
“No,” he said, “from the temple. From Helena, the head cleric at the Temple of Ea, actually.” He rolled up the scroll and tied a ribbon around its center. “A great doom comes, and we are to deliver a message to the city of Cauldron. Immediately.”
Kevur paused a moment and sighed. He held a small bowl of wax to the flame of the candle on his desk and poured several drops to the scroll. He reached for the stamp engraved with his personal insignia and pushed it into the wax, sealing the scroll. He picked it up and held the missive in his aged hands, as if weighing the consequences of the portent it contained, then slid it into the scrollcase and replaced the stopper.
He held out the scrollcase to Abrina across the desk and motioned to her to take it.
Abrina took the scrollcase he offered without much thought. After setting it in her lap and contemplating the meaning of what Kevur had said, the realization that she was to be the messenger fell upon her like one of their oxen collapsing in the mid-day heat.
“But, Elder!” she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. “The games! They’re next week! I won’t be back for at least . . .” She paused, not knowing where this city of Cauldron was, let alone how many days of travel it would take to reach.
“Two weeks, Abrina, maybe more.”
“More?”
Kevur shot her a wilting glance.
Abrina nodded, slumping back into her chair. “Yes, Elder. I understand. No more whining.” She would miss the games for the first time in twenty years. She looked forward to besting the other students of Ninurta every year, not to mention the arrogant storm clerics. She could do more damage with a stick than they could with their warhammers. Every year she participated and heard the crowds roar her name, smelled the exotic meats and spices from the vendors outside the arena, saw the magnificent banners waving in the welcoming breeze. She would miss it all.
“Thank you, Abrina,” Kevur replied. “The games are to keep us ready for the times Ninurta requires us the most. This is one of those times. This is where our faith has led us, and Ninurta will guide you on your journey. I don’t know what we will do without your help, not to mention your arm, at the festival, but Ninurta has called on us, and it seems he has other plans for you.”
Abrina stood and grasped the spear, the weapon favored by her patron. “I will not fail you, Elder.”
Kevur smiled wanly and rose. “I don’t think you will.”
Many apologies for the delay, folks. I really do plan on re-updating the story hour weekly. In an effort to make reparations, here is a double-dose for everyone.
The following day Abrina stood in front of the temple entrance, surrounded by a small circle of her closest friends, and wished her home of the past thirty years goodbye. Beams of sunlight dodged through the gauntlet of tree leaves dancing in the warm breeze, creating dancing figures on the stonework of the temple. Shadows played across faces of figures carved in relief into the marble walls lining the wide path, farmers with heads bowed in grim determination on one side, and athletes laughing in the exultation of victory upon the other. The farmers plowed fields, picked fresh fruit from the top of trees, and built sluices to direct the waters of the flooding river. The athletes concentrated intently as they took aim with bows at targets, swam through waters populated with any number of sea creatures, and even bull-jumped. That last one was Abrina’s favorite. No one at this temple had put together a bull-jumping competition in years. It had been her goal to be the first.
Abrina sighed again, forcing her gaze away from the temple walls and back to her friends. Otec tried his best to catch her eye and keep her focus on him, but the sunlight forced him to squint and blink away tears. Shani, with her long deep brown hair braided down her back, stood at Abrina’s side, clutching her hand as she tried to blink back tears, albeit not from the piercing morning rays. Elder Kevur stood to her right, as well as several others in a larger circle around them. This was to be her farewell, the likes of which no one could recall for their small temple, in the reclusive town of Narim.
“Abrina,” Kevur began, motioning her to turn toward him. She did, straightening her back and looking the head cleric in his eyes, and did not turn away.
“Abrina, you go forth this day on a quest for your god. He who brings tidings for good and ill. For good, so that we may celebrate with festivals and games, food and drink, friends and family. For ill, so that we may be warned and prepared for the trials to come. Your journey begins this day to take ill tidings to our far neighbors in the city of Cauldron. May your return journey bring tidings that give us reason to celebrate.”
Behind Kevur an acolyte pulled back the string of his bow and loosed an arrow. It arced overhead, held aloft in mid-air as if Ninurta Himself sought to grasp it and fling it across the land. Finally, it fell among a riotous garden of colorful flowers, a martial sentinel standing guard over its wards.
Everyone’s attention returned to Abrina and Kevur. Around his neck he wore an amulet, one Abrina had not seen him or anyone else at the temple wear before. A bright red stone that seemed to glow with an inner fire dangled from a golden chain, a bead of blood still clinging to the smallest of cuts. It was this amulet that Kevur slowly removed from his head and placed over Abrina’s own. A soothing warmth spread through her body as the delicate chain fell lightly over her neck and the stone rested upon her breast. Abrina breathed deeply and a sense of calm and safety lay upon her heart.
“It will protect you at your weakest, in your greatest need, Abrina. The Periapt of the Fallen was worn by the founder of our temple, the Great Elder Sanotay. He had been charged with a message to deliver, a note that rejoiced in the birth of a prince. He was to deliver it to a noble that lived in the outskirts of this very city, in a time when nobles lived here. But, as he traveled through the barren lands, all manner of beasts fell upon him, barring his way. He fought them off, but not without suffering from many wounds that refused to stop bleeding.
“Near death, he found a small stream, and started to drink what he thought would be the last water to ever pass his parched lips. As he knelt, praying for forgiveness from Ninurta for failing his mission, his hand found purchase in the wet mud along the bank, and his fist clenched around a small, red stone. As his wounds overwhelmed him, and his sight went dark, he clutched it to his breast.”
Kevur paused, the only sound was the rustling of leaves, the creaking of tree branches, and the murmur of the wind through the grass. His audience stood rapt, and Abrina had, unconsciously it seemed, brought her hand to the stone around her neck. Kevur smiled and continued his tale.
“He awoke, many days later, his wounds closed, his energy renewed. Sanotay had not failed, for he had strove to continue, to the limits his strength could take him. When his strength could carry him no more, Ninurta blessed him with a gift that allowed him to succeed.
“The Periapt of the Fallen is our greatest treasure, and we give it to you for your journey.”
Kevur reached out and embraced her as she felt her eyes moisten with welling tears. “May Ninurta guide your path,” he whispered.
“And strengthen my arm,” Abrina returned, her head buried in his shoulder.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Kevur replied, chuckling. “You have no need of His help to retain your strength.”
“Elder! Blasphemy!” Abrina pulled back, incredulous. He simply laughed again, his green eyes crinkling.
It took the rest of the morning for her to embrace and say good-bye to each member of the only family she had known at the temple. Each had parting words for her, some gave her small gifts to remember her by.
“It will be only two weeks,” she would say.
“The longest you have been away,” they would reply. “The longest any of our own have been away. Be careful.”
And she would nod, hold back a tear, and say good-bye again to the next.
Abrina packed lightly and left her town of Narim by the north gate, little more than a small and decorative arch of stone with not even a wall attached. No one stood guard except for one elderly woman tearing out weeds from her garden. Abrina sat high upon a muscled and energetic young colt, his reigns handed to her by Kevur after the time for tearful good-byes had come to a close. Eager for the journey, her mount nearly pranced through the arch, and the two left behind the only home either of them had really known.
The Golden Road, running through the center of U’tep, was well-traveled with inns no more than two days ride separating one another. It paralleled the river for much of its course, turning away into the mountains when the river turned sharply on its journey to the sea. The foothills ascended almost lazily and the Road curved among the rising peaks to finally cut through a wide, open pass, leading to a slender valley crisscrossed by cold streams and several small lakes. The land here buckled, as if a giant god had kneeled upon the ground and shoved the rock to one side like a thick blanket. Cauldron lay on the other side of the valley, one peak indistinguishable from the many.
The journey had been thankfully uneventful. The weather had been calm, the innkeepers hospitable, the fellow travelers friendly. Abrina had made good time, and she whispered a prayer to Ninurta in thanks for hastening her journey.
The Golden Road turned south, cradling a large, two-story inn within its bend to the east of the road, partially surrounded by the dense jungle. The gray and dreary day was just turning into a dark and dreary evening when she led her horse up to the old and well-used building. The chimneys were stained with soot, the roof sagged, and the wood siding was weathered and stained from last years mildew. A smaller stable stood to the building’s side in a similar condition.
There had been no rain, but enough moisture in the air soaked the ground to prove troublesome as Abrina dismounted and led her horse to the stables. Clods of mud fell from her mount’s hooves with every step, streaks of mud stained her cloak and vestments. As Abrina grumbled to herself, attempting to brush off the larger pieces of wet dirt that slowly ground themselves into her clothes, she passed beneath the faded, gently swinging wooden sign.
Abrina sighed with relief when she recognized the sign that hung above the inn’s door from Kevur’s description. With what must have once been bright colors, a stylized monkey had been painted on the square piece of wood. Long arms nearly twice the length of the creature’s body formed a rough “S” shape, each paw grasping what looked like a six-sided die. Above the animal, in stylized letters not out of place at a carnival, were the words, “The Lucky Monkey.” The building’s façade sported numerous carved wooden monkeys, many of whom were engaged in risky, death-defying stunts. In one, a wooden monkey balanced on a narrow tree branch to get a banana hanging over a sleeping tiger; in another, a monkey sat on a boulder completely unaware that a poacher sneaking up behind him was suddenly attacked and eaten by an ankheg.
The sign and the various carvings brought a chuckle from Abrina. She left her horse with the stableboy and promptly ducked into the inn. The Lucky Monkey would be the last stop where Abrina could find a place to rest before ascending the mountain; it would be a full day of travel before she reached the volcano-city.
The meal was fair, the proprietor kind. Abrina paid for a comfortable room for the night and ascended the stairs to rest for her difficult hike up the mountain the following morning. She locked the door behind her as she set down her traveling pack and the scroll case by the writing desk. She removed her armor and her vestments, untied the bandana that held her hair back to allow it to fall to her bare shoulders, and brought her fingers to the pendant hanging from her neck. She had not removed it, nor her holy symbol of Ninurta, since her first day on the road, since Kevur had presented it to her. Abrina sighed and leaned down to remove her blanket from her pack before resigning herself to the straw-filled mattress and a full night of blissful, uninterrupted sleep.
As she ruffled through her pack something rammed into her back, sending her sprawling across the floor, her breath knocked out of her. Abrina struggled to rise from the floor, only to have a booted foot come down on her back, forcing her back to the floor.
“What are you doing here, cleric?” a woman’s voice sneered as the heel of the boot ground into Abrina’s spine. Abrina groaned and tried to twist out from beneath the painful boot, but the woman only leaned her weight on Abrina even more.
“I am passing through,” Abrina managed to say, gasping for air. “I have a message, in the name of Ninurta.”
“A message?” The woman’s voice was deep, gravelly. “Who are you delivering it to?”
Between clenched teeth, Abrina managed to cough out a response. “That is none of your concern,” she responded with uncharacteristic temerity.
The woman laughed. “Who are you to deny me?” she asked, her boot remaining in place and pressing deeper.
“I am no one,” Abrina said between gasps, “It’s just a letter, nothing more.”
“Liar,” said the woman, finally removing her boot, but Abrina had little chance to recover before that same boot kicked in her side. Abrina tried to roll away and scramble for the door. Nausea nearly overwhelmed her, but she managed to remain conscious and look up into her attacker’s face.
The face was painted, half black and half white, obscuring the woman’s features but not the intent. Her dark brown eyes were narrowed, boring into Abrina through to the rough planks of the wall behind her. She was dressed in tight-fitting black clothes, with a dark cloak that billowed behind her. The attacker moved gracefully, skillfully, as if she was at one with the shadows, and drew close.
“Listen to me, weakling, and listen well, for I will not repeat myself. You may deliver your little message, your letter. It means little to us because our plans are already in motion. Take it to Urikas and leave, run home, but do not stay in Cauldron. We know who you are, we know what you are here for, and we are going to give you a chance to leave and not come back. If you don’t….” The woman gave Abrina another kick.
“Then we will have the last laugh.” She threw back her head and cackled, as if she alone understood the punchline to her inside joke. Abrina cringed, backing into the corner, nursing her side.
The woman passed by the desk, her fingers trailing along the scrollcase. She turned to the window, open, Abrina noticed for the first time, and leapt into the night. Abrina heard the soft thump of the woman hitting the soft ground outside, then, nothing.
Bruised and scared, Abrina slowly walked to the window and without glancing outside she shut it and returned to the bed. She lay down, her blanket forgotten, and replayed the words of the woman in black in her mind. She grasped the symbol around her neck and stared at the ceiling.
Ouch... so much for the welcome wagon! I forgot how brutal that welcome was, thank goodness (literally) for divine healing =-)
Thanks for the update Jeremy
I just edited my latest update, above. Silly me, I forgot that the Lucky Monkey is not, in fact, in Redgorge. That's what I get for trying to write from memory. I have also revised it to include some of the descriptions from the Path hardcover.
The climb up the side of the volcano was not a strenuous one, but it was a long one. The path, wide enough for two wagons side by side, detoured around large rock formations and thick copses of trees, switchbacked near steep cliffs, and gradually encircled the entire mountain. Leading her horse, Abrina was relieved to see the towering black malachite walls of the city finally come into view as steel gray clouds began to gather overhead. She knew she would be no safer within those thick stone walls, but they nevertheless signified the last leg of her journey.
Abrina arrived at the gate, her supplies carried by her horse and the scrollcase hung protectively from her shoulder. Several guards inspected merchants coming and going, logging the transport of valuable items, mundane and magical. One young guard approached her, a short sword dangling at his side, his studded armor clean, well-kept, and free of scrapes and cuts.
“Anything of value?” he asked, holding a partially unrolled scroll against a flat piece of wood. He held a small writing utensil poised above the paper in one hand.
Abrina shook her head. “No,” she said, motioning to her packs. “Just supplies. I’m a message bearer.” Abrina patted her holy symbol around her neck. The periapt remained hidden beneath her shirt.
The guard raised his head and nodded, making a single, simple mark on the parchment. “Ah, yes. That will be one silver. Ninurta speed you.”
“And you as well,” she replied, passing him a coin. “Thank you.”
The streets of Cauldron were busy on this darkening autumn afternoon. Tumbling clouds raced across the sky, mimicking the people in the circular, concentric streets. She stabled her horse and asked for directions to the temple, then set out to explore the city and deliver her message. As she walked the streets, Abrina noticed that the citizens seemed on edge, suspicious. She would ask for simple directions from passerby, only to see them hurry off without responding. Something had happened, or was happening, in Cauldron, though Abrina did not know what. She heard a rumor, in one of the shops she had stepped into, of a strange type of currency now found among the merchants. The coins were stamped with the face of a jester, instead of the sovereign. It unnerved the shopkeepers, certainly, who scrutinized her coins before accepting them, but Abrina did not believe that only money would be the root of the suspicions of everyone else.
Abrina had nearly found herself in the innermost and most dilapidated circle of Ash Avenue, before abruptly turning back. In the waning light and gathering rain clouds, Abrina climbed back up the inner bowl of the city, following the wide streets that sloped and curved gently upward.
A steady, wretched drizzle began to fall from the ash-gray sky. The crowded, rain-slicked buildings seemed especially bleak and frightful this evening, hunched together beneath the tireless rain and gloomy skies. A few lights burned in their windows, but mostly their shutters had been closed for the night. The scent of chimney smoke filled the air, and Abrina heard the din of water trundling from the rooftops, splashing into dark alleys, and turning street gutters into small rivulets.
A sudden plaintive cry for help split the evening air. Abrina whirled, spear raised in hand, to find no one around, no one on the street. The cry seemed to have come from somewhere behind her, she was sure of it. Peering through the falling rain, she could make out no moving figures, nothing but the wet, tired faces of closed shops. She paused, listening, and heard some cursing and the sounds of a scuffle slightly muffled by the rainfall. Gingerly, she followed the noises. She maneuvered her scrollcase so it hung diagonally across her back, and cinched tight the strap. She grasped the wet shaft of the spear with both hands and peered down the street. The noises came from a nearby alley, not ten yards away.
Nice catch on the Inn, I thought about it as I read but said nothing, sorry.
( Bad Editor, No Biscuit! )
Enjoying the gradual build-up again, it's a good storyline, thanks for taking the time with it.
Abrina pressed forward to the mouth of the mist-shrouded alley, wherein she saw three figures assaulting a fourth, who lay face-down on the wet cobblestones. One of the attackers lifted the victim by the hood of his cloak and thrust him against a wall as another growled, “Stay away from the orphanage, you got that?”
She should have left, should have stayed out of it. She was a stranger in this city, and therefore should not concern herself with its inhabitants. They weren’t her province, not her responsibility. Yet, Abrina could not stand by. She did not know what orphanage the attacker spoke of or why the man on the ground would visit it, but she would not allow him to be beaten to death in a dark, wet alley. Abrina stepped into the alley.
“Let go of him,” she called, her voice strong, overcoming the brief gusts of wind and the pelting of rain. She raised her spear. “Let him go.”
The attacker shoved the victim against the brick wall and turned to face her. Abrina sucked in her breath as she recognized the face of the attacker. A painted face, half black and half white with makeup, twisted into a harlequin’s grinning visage. But no, this wasn’t the same face as her own attacker. This was a man, and taller. But the paint she recognized.
“Bugger off!” the man said with a growl. He reached to his side and drew his sword from its scabbard as the other two did the same. Abrina kept her spear raised menacingly, but did not advance. The bruised and battered young man forced himself to stand and stumbled toward Abrina with one hand trailing along the brick wall. He was human, and young, with sunken eyes and scraggly hair that clung to his scalp in the rain.
As he reached her, Abrina whispered to the young man, “Are you okay? Did they take anything from you?”
He shook his head, still taking deep, ragged breaths as he clutched his stomach. Abrina patted him lightly on the shoulder and slowly turned to face the three men again. Abrina met the eyes of each, in turn, and slowly lowered her spear. It was folly, she knew, but these men had some connection to the woman that attacked her at the inn. She bowed her head, as if in sadness or defeat, and sensed the four men relaxing their stance.
Silently, with eyes closed, Abrina prayed to Ninurta to grant her strength.
She opened her eyes to find the three standing open-mouthed, now looking up at her with open mouths. Abrina now stood an imposing eleven feet tall, towering over the attackers. At her side, she heard the young man reciting whispered words, and as he finished she felt the enveloping, familiar touch of a god. She darted a quizzical glance at him, but he only smiled as he pulled out a mace she had not noticed before from his belt and began another prayer.
The three attackers had regained their senses, realizing they still outnumbered her despite her size, and the teenage cleric had already taken a beating. They charged with their swords held aloft, and Abrina clutched her spear, digging its haft into the cobblestones at her feet, and prepared to meet them.
Abrina now took up the entire width of the alley and the cleric had shifted in front of her and to the side to meet the charge of the attackers. The first, swinging his sword wildly, ran directly toward Abrina. She clenched her spear, holding it rigid, and for a brief moment closed her eyes. She felt a tremendous jarring, and barely kept her weapon from wrenching out of her grasp. Her eyes flared open to see the first attacker now impaled on her oversized spear, his eyes rapidly glazing over. The second attacker had already reached the cleric and Abrina could already see a new wound on his shoulder. The cleric stumbled, clutching his arm to his side, and fell to one knee on the ground. Angrily, Abrina pulled back her spear and with a jab at the ground shook off the body, and with a fluid, follow-through motion, she attempted to spear the side of the man stepping forward to take the place of his fellow attacker. The attacker shifted out of the way and the bloodied tip of her spear found nothing.
Clutching the haft in one hand to ward off the blows of the sword, Abrina leaned over to the small form of the cleric on the ground. Whispering a quick prayer, Ninurta granted the cleric the energy he needed to rise. One of the men lashed out with his sword, which she diverted with her spear as she lifted the cleric to his feet with her other hand. The cleric shook his head, nodded a brief thanks to her, and ducked beneath another swipe of a sword. Seeing an opening, the cleric swung his mace, crunching into the side of the man that Abrina had just wounded. The attacker crumpled but did not fall.
Gritting her teeth, Abrina found another hit as the two remaining attackers continued to press. She did not have time to recover from her strike, and she could not defend herself from the other man with the painted face. He slid the sword easily into her side, even as she managed to shove the butt of her spear into his shoulder. Her vision dimmed as the attacker removed his sword and blood coursed down her leg. She did not feel herself falling. Abrina only heard a cry from the cleric and caught a glimpse of him crushing his mace into the back of the one who wounded her. Then nothing.
Abrina awoke with a gasp to find the cleric kneeling next to her, his hands hovering over her side. The wound had healed, but she could still feel the warmth of wet blood on her skin. She struggled to rise and found she had returned to her normal size. Abrina was no longer the towering giant but as she glanced around the dark alley she discovered there were no more enemies to worry about.
“Are you okay?” asked the cleric.
“Yes, I’ll be all right,” Abrina responded. She tilted her head to one side with a half-smile. “I should be asking you that.”
The cleric chuckled and offered his arm, helping her to her feet. “Ruphus,” he offered.
Abrina raised an eyebrow as she steadied herself. “No, my name is Abrina. What is yours?”
Ruphus paused for a moment, his mouth opening to explain himself. Deciding against it, he smiled and said, “My name is Ruphus.” He turned, taking no notice of her reaction, and motioned with one hand down the alley where lay the three bodies of the cleric’s attackers. “These men will die without our aid,” he said as he approached the closest one and prayed over his broken body.
Abrina scolded herself for a moment. “Ruphus, of course,” she muttered to herself, and yanked up her pack that had been discarded during the fight. She dug through her belonging and found a length of rope. She would not leave the attackers to die, of course, but neither would she simply watch them walk away. Quickly, she tied the hands of the attacker that had first challenged her and dragged him next to the others before whispering a prayer to relieve his ragged breathing. Ruphus revived the others and prodded them with his mace.
The three did not project the same air of confidence they had when attacking Ruphus only minutes before. Their eyes darted from side to side and they squirmed in the bindings. Abrina turned her attention to the attacker that had first challenged her and first ended up at the end of her spear. “Tell me,” she said forcefully to him, “Why were you assaulting this cleric?”
He stared wide-eyed at her, his face turning to glance at Ruphus kneeling at Abrina’s side. Black and white makeup ran in rivulets down his face, mixing with blood and mud to form a thick clay that fell from his cheeks to the cobblestones. “I . . . we . . . we were told to roughen him up. Just a bit. We weren’t going to kill him or nothin’.”
“Why?”
He glanced at his companions and shrugged. “We needed the money.”
“No, why did you need to ‘roughen him up?’ Who paid you?”
All three attackers grew increasingly nervous, averting their eyes from Abrina. In the distance, barely heard over the rain, Abrina could hear the sound of clanking armor and boots striding through puddles.
“Tell me,” she said, nodding back to the street, “and I’ll let you go before the guard arrives.”
One of them spoke up. “We were supposed to send a clear message to the Church of Enlil not to go pokin’ around the orphanage.”
“What orphanage? Why not?” Abrina asked.
“The Lantern Street Orphanage,” said the cleric, his brow furrowed. “Four children were kidnapped from there three nights ago. That is where I was coming from when they attacked.”
The third man nodded, then shrugged. “But we don’t know why. It was nothing big, we weren’t going to hurt him. Not really, anyways.”
“Who hired you?” questioned Abrina. “Who are you? And why are your faces painted like that? What does Urikas have to do with it? What about my message?” Her questions tumbled from her mouth faster than her prisoners could form answers as she shook the collar of one. He shook his head from side to side, obviously confused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said emphatically. “We don’t know. The Last Laugh hired us, Jil was going to pay us—”
He stopped abruptly, a crossbow bolt appearing in the side of his neck. His body stiffened and his last words ended in a strange gurgle. Abrina dropped the man, already dead, and fell back, glancing quickly around the dark alley, trying to see shapes through the slanting rain. The other two attackers scrambled away from the body.
“Well done!” cried out a voice, a familiar voice. Ruphus scanned the roofs of the bordering buildings and pointed to a dark shape clinging to a section of one wall. The figure emerged from the shadows and Abrina immediately recognized this painted face. The woman, the same that had assaulted her the night before, was barely discernable in the moonlight filtering through the streaking rain. She wore a hooded black cloak that whipped around her in the wind, and her black boots and black leather gloves clung to the brick like the splayed legs of a spider.
“You have no need for any more information he might have given you,” she said, “You have my name, not that it matters much. The cleric lives because we of the Last Laugh wish it so, not because of your misplaced bravado.”
She pointed a baleful finger at the cleric. “Take these words back to your temple, priest. The children are lost and no longer Enlil’s concern.” The woman, Jil, Abrina now knew, turned and rapidly climbed the wall like a spider, and before either Abrina or Ruphus could respond, Jil swung herself over the ledge and onto the roof. The pounding rain covered the sounds of her footfalls and was gone, leaving the two clerics staring into the rain.
Abrina lifted the two attackers to their feet, shoving them against the same brick wall where they had pummeled Ruphus. She waited for the patrol to arrive, and did not untie them.
“Hey, you said you were going to let us go!” said one, shifting wild eyes from the dead body, half-submerged in the miniature tributaries of rainwater flowing through the stones down the sloping alley, and back to Abrina.
Abrina kept her grip tight on the arm of the one who had spoken as four town guards turned the corner, stopping abruptly at the entrance to the alley. “I lied,” she said from the corner of her mouth.
The four men wore hooded cloaks in an unsuccessful effort to keep out the rain. The folds billowed out with every gust of wind, revealing breastplates beneath and short swords strapped to their sides. Each carried a short halberd, and at the sight of Abrina’s two prisoners and a dead body, the guards brought their weapons to bear.
One stepped forward, unsheathing his short sword. “What is going on here?” he demanded.
It took some time for Ruphus and Abrina to explain the circumstances, but after both revealed their holy symbols of Enlil and Ninurta the guards immediately lowered their halberds and the captain sheathed his sword. A cloak was placed over the body of one attacker as a guard was sent for a wagon. Abrina handed the tied attackers over to the town guards as the captain eyed one intently.
“You may go,” the captain said after taking both their names, not looking at them but waving both away with one hand.
Abrina and Ruphus retreated as the rain continued to pour.
“You are a cleric of Enlil?” Abrina asked Ruphus. The Church of Enlil, Kevur had told her, was a significant religious force in Cauldron, and was to where she was deliver her message. She had not considered that there might be others from Cauldron that did not want the message to be delivered. Though what the orphans had to do with it she still could not fathom. She was already on the road, on her way here, three days ago. There was no way Kevur, or Helena of the Church of Ea, could have known about them.
“Yes,” replied Ruphus, sliding his mace into his belt at his side, “I am.”
“I have a message to deliver.” Abrina gestured to the scroll case, still cinched to her back. “I must see high priest Sarcem Delasharn.”
“I can take you to the temple, but Delasharn is currently on an extended visit to Sasserine. Urikas is his second, and my superior. She is the head of the order during Delasharn’s absence and is in charge of the temple while he is gone. I can take you to her, if you seek her.”
Abrina nodded. “Of course.”
The two clerics climbed the inside of the volcano cauldron in the drizzling rain to their destination, the Church of Enlil. No one could have miss the large two-story structure, even in the gloom of night and rain, its white marble walls suffused with veins of vivid blue, standing in stark contrast to the buildings of bare black stone that flanked it on the north end of Obsidian Avenue. A pair of white marble statues depicting armored warriors, sleek with rain, stood on either side of the temple’s heavy oaken door. Each of the statues raised a large pick to the star-studded sky. Above the door’s marble architrave were boldly inscribed the words: Within Law Lives Hope.
Ruphus motioned her through the imposing oak doors of the church. Abrina gladly stepped through, into its safe and warm confines. An acolyte rose from a nearby seat in the entrance hall and approached, her young face carrying an unhidden expression of worry. The acolyte and Ruphus spoke quickly in hushed tones, and after a moment the acolyte disappeared through a nearby door.
“She will return,” he said, “with some blankets and warm tea. You are free to stay the night, and I offer you my thanks.”
“But, my message,” Abrina replied as Ruphus began to turn away. Her voice echoed in the empty hall and Abrina shied back, unused to the vaulted ceilings, the cavernous hall.
“I must first relate to Urikas what has transpired,” Ruphus said without turning. “She will be out to see you, if she gets the chance. If not, rest well, and you will meet in the morning.” He opened another door, opposite the one the acolyte had used, and left the entrance hall.
Grumbling, Abrina tried to wait patiently and piece together the pieces of information that Ruphus had tried to relate to her. He did not know anything about the men with the painted faces or why they had sought to attack him on the way back from the orphanage. At first, he had thought they were going to rob him, but it soon became clear they were trying to intimidate him. No further light had been shed on that mystery, but Ruphus did explain why a cleric of Enlil was interested in the orphanage.
“Three nights ago,” Ruphus had explained, “four children were kidnapped from the Lantern Street Orphanage. Urikas sent me to console the distraught children and some of the staff, to let them know that Enlil would be watching for them. In the absence of our high priest, Delasharn, Urikas has publicly vowed for the Church to locate the missing children and bring the kidnappers to justice.”
How the painted faces were involved, and why they were concerned about her, still eluded Abrina.
The acolyte returned soon with blankets which Abrina used to swiftly scrub her hair and skin, patting down her clothing and armor as well. Hot tea followed soon thereafter which Abrina sipped carefully. She hated tea, preferring the thicker brews of spiced mead, but wanted to remain polite in the sister temple.
“Hopin’ you’ll enjoy your night, here,” the young acolyte mentioned, refilling Abrina’s tea and not noticing the grimace. “Jenya will bein’ out to see you shortly.”
“Jenya?” Abrina questioned, blowing on her tea.
The acolyte blushed, averting her gaze. “I mean, Urikas,” she said. “She is the high cleric, after all, while Delasharn is gone. Must show our respects, and all. She don’t mind her first name, but twouldn’t be right, I say.”
She stepped backwards. “I’ll just go warm you up some more tea.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Abrina tried to reply, but the acolyte had already fled.
A few moments later, a short woman with premature streaks of gray in her rich brown hair, pulled back into an elaborate bun, arrived with hand outstretched in greeting. She wore a brown robe with golden trim and the recognizable symbol of Enlil around her neck. Although several inches shorter than Abrina, the woman seemed somehow taller. She walked with purpose, each step firmly placed in the exact, desired location, her back straight and her eyes firmly fixed on her objective, no matter the distance. Now, those eyes fixed upon Abrina, and she wanted to flinch from beneath that intense gaze.
Abrina held, locking her eyes with those of this commanding woman, and straightened herself to her full height, not in hopes of intimidating the woman, but in an effort to match the woman’s impressive stature.
“Good evening,” greeted the woman. “I have spoken to Ruphus and have learned of his harrowing ordeal, as well as your remarkable heroism. Thank you for interfering when you did. I had not realized the danger Ruphus might have been in when I requested he comfort the children.”
Abrina shook her head. “Ninurta led me. I could not just leave him to the ruffians.”
The woman smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes and lit her face. “Well, you have my thanks, as well as that of the Church of Enlil. I am Jenya Urikas, the acting high priest, and I am in your debt.”
Abrina shook her head again, but did not respond, unaccustomed to such praise.
Jenya led her to a private room, down a hallway leading off of the entrance hall, with a warm fire and several plush chairs. Jenya sat in one, inviting Abrina to seat herself in another opposite Jenya.
“I am told you have come to deliver a message for me?” Jenya asked, her penetrating gaze resting on Abrina.
Abrina forced herself to draw her eyes back from the dancing flames, return herself to the present time and place. “Yes, I have,” she responded and withdrew the scrollcase. “It comes from the temple of Ea, in Haven. You know the head cleric there?”
Jenya’s eyes widened as she reached out to take the scrollcase from Abrina. “Yes, I do. But for what pressing reasons Helena would send me a message by Ninurta, I do not know.” Jenya withdrew the scroll from the case and began to read as Abrina sat across from her, sipping the bitter tea.
Abrina did not know the contents of the letter. She had been tempted to unfurl the scroll many times on her journey, but she had never once opened the case. Doing so would have been an affront to Ninurta, betray the church. Now, she hoped Ninurta would reward her for her strength and Jenya would reveal to her the portents of the message.
After several moments, Jenya sighed and slowly curled the scroll and tied the ribbon around its center. She turned to gaze out the window into the night, remaining silent.
Abrina coughed.
Jenya turned back to Abrina and smiled wanely. “I believe Ruphus explained to you what has happened at the orphanage?” Jenya said, whisking away the scroll. Abrina’s eyes lingered on it as it disappeared into a desk drawer. Perhaps later, she would learn what message she had delivered into Jenya’s hands.
“Yes,” she answered, returning her attention to the high cleric. “Something about a kidnapping?”
“Four children, only three nights ago.” Jenya continued, “Deakon, Evelyn, Lucinda and Terem. I have vowed to bring their kidnappers to justice, but I fear that these are only the most recent in a long string of strange disappearances. I believe they are all somehow connected.
“I have requested Enlil’s aid directly, and received a cryptic response. One of our own has already begun his own investigations into the kidnappings, but has found nothing as of yet. Our city is not small, but all of our clerics are still easily recognized. Perhaps you, Abrina, might be able to discover something.”
Abrina hesitated. She desperately wished to return to Narim. She was happy, encouraging the crops, mending broken bones, playing in the games. She was content with that life, and had been hoping to return to it after a single night’s rest in the city of Cauldron. Her gaze fell on the corner of the desk where Jenya had secreted away the scroll. Abrina’s thoughts returned to the knot in her gut she had felt when those men had accosted Ruphus. Painted faces still leered before her in her memories, and she did not know why. She imagined the children: scared, cold, and beaten by hulking men with faces of white and black….
“What can I do to help?” Abrina said abruptly, interrupting Jenya’s proposal, and something about a reward.
Jenya stood. “Thank you,” she said, opening the door and leading Abrina out into the hall. “Let me take you to Handel.”
A bustling dwarf with a neatly trimmed beard and the flowing robes of Enlil hunched over a desk, pouring over various papers and jotting down notes in quick, spasming strokes, as Jenya and Abrina stepped through the door. Handel glanced up briefly as the two entered and dismissively returned to his work, leaving Abrina’s mouth open in a greeting she did not have the chance to give.
“Handel, this is Abrina, a cleric of Ninurta,” Jenya introduced, though the dwarf did not look up from his papers. Jenya continued, unfazed. “She will help you in the coming days, she has offered her help to find the missing children and bring the kidnappers to justice.”
“Indeed,” replied Handel with the characteristic dwarven grumble. “I doubt there is more that she can glean, but she can sort my notes, if she likes.”
Abrina’s eyes narrowed, insulted, but Jenya simply ignored Handel’s comment and turned to her.
“Only last night,” she said, “I consulted an artifact of our temple, and asked a simple question of Enlil: Where are the children who were abducted from the Lantern Street Orphanage? I received a reply, though a cryptic one. Handel has been studying the riddle ever since, as well as the little information we have gathered about the kidnappings. I’m afraid he has so far made little progress.”
At this, the dwarf looked up from his desk and straightened. “Nonsense!” he blustered, waving his notes in the air. “Enlil has provided us with a great deal. Here, here, allow me to show you.” He reached over, scattering various drawings, diagrams, and scraps until he found a parchment with six lines of small, precise letters.
“This,” Handel exclaimed, waving the paper in Abrina’s face. She flinched, backing away from the accosting dwarf. “This is Enlil’s riddle.”
Jenya neatly plucked it from Handel’s fingers, to his chagrin, and began to read aloud the words she had written the previous night.
The locks are key to finding them.
Look beyond the curtain, below the cauldron,
But beware the doors with teeth.
Descend into the malachite ‘hold,
Where precious life is bought with gold.
Half a dwarf binds them, but not for long.
Handel grabbed it back from Jenya, clutching it in one hand. Abrina wondered for a moment why Jenya, obviously a cleric of high standing and the current head of the temple, accepted such treatment from the dwarf. The thought quickly fled, however, as Handel loudly proclaimed his conclusions.
“We know the orphanage has barred windows and excellent locks on all the doors. The orphanage has two large bedchambers on the second floor, one for boys and one for girls, and two children from each were kidnapped. No windows were broken, no doors damaged, and no one at the orphanage, including the staff and the other children, heard anything. They simply disappeared.
“But this,” he continued, holding the parchment in the air and returning to his scattered notes, “This gives us some clues. The riddle says, Look beyond the curtain, below the cauldron. This must refer to some place beyond the city walls, the curtain, and below the cauldron of the mountain. The doors with teeth obviously refer to the portcullises of the wall, so one of the guards either knows something or is part of the kidnappings.”
“What about this malachite hold? Or the locks? Or the half-dwarf?” asked Jenya.
Handel waved away her questions as he sat at the desk. “I am not sure. Yet. I will get to that, and will notify you what it means when I find out.” With that, he bowed his head over his notes, retrieved a quill pen, and began to write some more notes on another scrap of paper. Jenya gently touched Abrina’s arm and pulled her into the hallway.
“I trust Handel, but I think it might be better for you to inquire at the orphanage yourself. Someone had to have gotten into the orphanage, and if they bypassed the locks on the bedchamber doors then I am afraid it might have been someone with access to the keys. If that is true, then the children are still in danger.”
Abrina nodded, remembering the first line of Enlil’s riddle, The locks are key to finding them. That would be her first question at the orphanage. She would have the rest of the night to think of what her second question might be.
“First thing in the morning, Jenya,” said Abrina confidently, “I will go to the orphanage, and find out what I can. With Ninurta’s strength, I will bring the kidnappers to you.”
“Thank you, Abrina.” Jenya nodded, appeared to relax, and led Abrina to a small private room. She had long since dried off and the bitter taste of the tea had thankfully retreated. Exhausted, Abrina collapsed into the spartan bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I am bummed out. I lost track of this one, the old thread gone... And with my subscription gone too, Missed out on this as it was going. I'll be reading back through it.
Thanks for starting back up.
GW
__________________ Graywolf
Gaak looks around at the chopped up hunks of troll, trying to regenerate, and says. "Burn the Trash"
That's what I get for trying to write from memory. I have also revised it to include some of the descriptions from the Path hardcover.
Linear Mode
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