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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 2436493" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p><strong>In Between Adventures</strong></p><p></p><p>Lazarus squints at the books open before him and sighs. He is half done, probably, but not much more. He leans back and stretches, sighing as bits seemingly frozen in place pop and shift for the first time in hours. A glance out the window reveals that evening has fallen- nay, full night. He missed the evening completely, so wrapped up in his work was he. Bemused, he glances again at the books. <em>If only Bevin Tanner kept neater records, this would be much easier,</em> he thinks wryly. <em>Then again, if he kept his books well he would have no need of my services. I must count myself lucky- and must remember that my place is there, pouring over the books.</em></p><p></p><p>Still, before Lazarus gets back to work, he takes a moment to gather a bowl of stew. Settling before it, he devours it quickly. Chunks of goat, peas and potatoes and carrots- it is a filling and delicious meal. </p><p></p><p>Or so he tells himself.</p><p></p><p>In reality, the broth is thin, the chunks are smaller and the flavor is blander than he might have wished, but for the nonce there isn’t much he can do about it. Not until he gets paid, and that won’t happen until he finishes the books for his client. </p><p></p><p>Nonetheless, Lazarus maintains a cheery disposition as he returns to his labors. Ever since his youth in Kamenda City, he has shuffled papers for a living. It is his only way to make up the money he was robbed of at the festival. </p><p></p><p>His quill jabs into the inkwell, then slashes across and down the paper in a long list of items sold, their prices, their cost, the time that Tanner put into them and the value of the time he spent on the item. He is deep in his work when a gentle rapping comes at his door. Surprised, Lazarus answers- and he finds that it is Otis, a local scribe and apprentice to the sorceress of the tower. The two have long since made each other’s acquaintance. A scribe and a bookkeeper have a certain natural affinity for each other, and a tendency to need the same things for their professions.</p><p></p><p>“Greetings,” says Otis. “I have acquired something that I think you might find interesting.” With that, he pulls a book from his backpack- the book that only Sir Cedric could retrieve. </p><p></p><p>As he sees the script on the front of the book, Lazarus looks up at Otis. “This is fairly old,” he remarks.</p><p></p><p>“We found it in the ruins of Castle Laagos,” Otis replies. “My Lady Xastys bade me retrieve it, but it is in a somewhat archaic style. I thought you might be able to make more of it than I.”</p><p></p><p>“It’s a book of prayers,” Lazarus says, wonder tinting his voice. “To Clymorian!” He looks at Otis.</p><p></p><p>“Lady Xastys wishes to study it, but I thought I could leave it with your for a day. Perhaps later, she might be persuaded to part with it...”</p><p></p><p>Lazarus turns the book over in his hands and then returns his eyes to Otis. “By what right does she claim it? I am a priest of Clymorian. I would think that gives me more right to it than her.”</p><p></p><p>“She is very powerful,” Otis says tactfully, “and she commanded me to retrieve it.”</p><p></p><p>“You think she would blast me over it?” Lazarus demands.</p><p></p><p>“I think she would blast <em>me</em> over it.”</p><p></p><p>”I see.” Lazarus puts the book down on his writing desk. “Well, then, a day will have to do.” He glances ruefully at the books he was working on; he knows that they will now wait for another day. His think stew will have to do for a little longer.</p><p></p><p>He sits and begins to read. After a minute Otis leaves, heading towards the tower, past the swimming hole, out north past the east edge of town. When he arrives, he finds Xastys sitting up, reading a book. She glances at him. “Ahh, you return. How did it go?”</p><p></p><p>“It went all right,” Otis allows. “We captured or killed the bandits and fought a couple of intriguing undead creatures that-”</p><p></p><p>“Did you retrieve the book?” Xastys demands.</p><p></p><p>“Yes. I did more than retrieve it- I have begun the process of translating it into a modern vernacular.”</p><p></p><p>“Let me see it.”</p><p></p><p>“I don’t have it.”</p><p></p><p>“What? You fool! Who does?”</p><p></p><p>“The- the bookkeeper, Lazarus. I thought he-“</p><p></p><p>“He is a priest of Clymorian. That book could be very valuable to him!”</p><p></p><p>“Exactly. And I thought that if he had a chance to study it-“</p><p></p><p>“He might learn its secrets for free! Go retrieve it at once!”</p><p></p><p>Chastened, Otis hurries from the tower. He spends several bitter hours wondering what it will take to win Xastys’ affections. Then he returns to the bookkeeper’s house, where Lazarus reluctantly turns the book over to him. “When she’s done with it, I want it!” he affirms. <em>There is some sort of curse upon the enemies of Clymorian in the book that I could learn,</em> he thinks ruefully as he watches Otis hurry off. <em>What does a sorceress want of it anyway?</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Autumn is truly settling in. Cur is striding along under cloudy skies one minute, and the next he is in a deluge. The first true rain of the season has begun.</p><p></p><p>Moving through the deepening shadows as evening sets in, Cur Sed Seed sets about looking for shelter. After a few short moments, he spies a flicker of firelight against a boulder, and upon giving it a closer look he finds a small shelter and fire, with a single figure huddled in it. There looks to be just enough room for two.</p><p></p><p>”May I join ya?” Cur calls in Kamendan. There is no answer. He switches to Orcish. “It’s a devil of a storm- may I share in yuir shelter?”</p><p></p><p>To his surprise, a deep, gravelly voice answers in the same tongue. “An you mean no harm, come in.”</p><p></p><p>Cur crawls in next to a burly orc. The two eye each other across the tiny fire. They are filling the shelter so much that their feet are out in the rain. They must lie down, for there is no room to even squat or sit. </p><p></p><p>“A half-blood, huh?” The orc’s snort rankles Cur. “What’s your name, boy?”*</p><p></p><p>“I am Cur Sed Seed,” replies the half-orc. “An’ now I’ve given ya mine, how about you give me yuirs?”</p><p></p><p>“I’m called Skeetles. What are you doin’ out in this?”</p><p></p><p>“I am an outcast,” growls Cur. “I have no home. I live off the land, wanderin’ from place ta place, huntin’ my own meat.”</p><p></p><p>“You must be pretty tough,” remarks the orc with what sounds suspiciously like a sneer. “Tell me, boy, how many men ya killed?”</p><p></p><p>Cur licks his lips. “Well, there was this dead guy- and we’ve killed lots of rats-“</p><p></p><p>“No, how many <em>men</em> have you killed? Human, dwarf, orc, whatever?”</p><p></p><p>“Well, none, but-“</p><p></p><p>“Then you’re just a boy.” The sneer is stronger now. “Until you kill a <em>man</em> all you will ever be is a boy.” </p><p></p><p>“What about you?” demands Cur Sed Seed. “How many men have you killed?”</p><p></p><p>The orc shrugs in the shelter. “I don’t know. More than my fingers and toes. More than twice that. Maybe more still. Plenty.”</p><p></p><p><em>That’s a lot of men,</em> Cur admits to himself. “Well, why are you out in this?”</p><p></p><p>Skeetles laughs softly. “I’m <em>old.</em> No matter how many men you can kill, eventually you start to slow down. I stay with my old tribe, and some young buck will come along eventually and put me down. That’s why I left.” </p><p></p><p>The two lay in silence beside the tiny fire for nearly an hour. Finally, Skeetles observes, “Rain’s letting up.”</p><p></p><p>“Yep,” agrees Cur.</p><p></p><p>“Once you’ve killed a <em>man</em> or two, why don’t you come seek me out,” suggests the orc. “Maybe we’ll talk more then.”</p><p></p><p><em>Or maybe we’ll dance,</em> thinks Cur.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Dahlia is staring at the fireplace in her hut. She still hasn’t really decided to move to Castle Laagos’ ruins; those ants are still there, and they are potentially a very dangerous threat. She is daydreaming when the knock on her door comes. Startled, she almost spills her tea. <em>A visitor?</em> she wonders. <em>Did I imagine-</em></p><p></p><p><em>Knock, knock.</em> </p><p></p><p>Dahlia answers the door and finds a heavily robed, muffled figure standing on her doorstep. “Good evening,” the figure says in a clear, feminine voice. “Ah, you must be Dahlia.”</p><p></p><p>“Uh- who are you?”</p><p></p><p>The figure bows. “I wish a moment of your time. I wonder if you might perhaps be able to help me with some questions about my heritage. May I come in?”</p><p></p><p>“Reveal your face,” Dahlia insists. “Nobody needs to come into my home hiding their face.”</p><p></p><p>After a moment’s hesitation, the figure throws back her cowl. She appears to be a human woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. As she steps in, she introduces herself as Persiparie. Soon she has drawn Dahlia into a deep conversation. She claims to have a certain amount of elvish blood, “though much less than you,” she tells Dahlia. Still, she is very interested in elven culture, any elvish ruins or elf blooded folk that Dahlia knows, etc. She answers vaguely when asked about her origin, claiming merely to be a traveler and to have wandered from somewhere far to the north, but she makes no threatening moves. </p><p></p><p>Ultimately, Dahlia tells Persiparie, “You know who would know a lot about the elves? The old-timer! He claims to be the first baby born in Whitewater, and he’s definitely an elfblood.”</p><p></p><p>“Really? Hmm... I have an errand to run first, but perhaps we could meet at Whitewater in a couple of days.”</p><p></p><p>“What sort of errand? Maybe I could help you,” Dahlia offers.</p><p></p><p>“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t say,” Persiparie demurs. “It is something... held in confidence.” She smiles reassuringly. “But as I said, why don’t we meet in a couple of days?”</p><p></p><p>“...All right,” agrees Dahlia after a moment.</p><p></p><p>But, a couple of days later, Persiparie never shows up.</p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Brandon Mallard makes a sad announcement! Our heroes find a new adventure! Find out what it is- next time!</p><p></p><p></p><p>*At this point all the jokes about prison sex started from the other players. “You got a purty mouth!”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 2436493, member: 1210"] [b]In Between Adventures[/b] Lazarus squints at the books open before him and sighs. He is half done, probably, but not much more. He leans back and stretches, sighing as bits seemingly frozen in place pop and shift for the first time in hours. A glance out the window reveals that evening has fallen- nay, full night. He missed the evening completely, so wrapped up in his work was he. Bemused, he glances again at the books. [i]If only Bevin Tanner kept neater records, this would be much easier,[/i] he thinks wryly. [i]Then again, if he kept his books well he would have no need of my services. I must count myself lucky- and must remember that my place is there, pouring over the books.[/i] Still, before Lazarus gets back to work, he takes a moment to gather a bowl of stew. Settling before it, he devours it quickly. Chunks of goat, peas and potatoes and carrots- it is a filling and delicious meal. Or so he tells himself. In reality, the broth is thin, the chunks are smaller and the flavor is blander than he might have wished, but for the nonce there isn’t much he can do about it. Not until he gets paid, and that won’t happen until he finishes the books for his client. Nonetheless, Lazarus maintains a cheery disposition as he returns to his labors. Ever since his youth in Kamenda City, he has shuffled papers for a living. It is his only way to make up the money he was robbed of at the festival. His quill jabs into the inkwell, then slashes across and down the paper in a long list of items sold, their prices, their cost, the time that Tanner put into them and the value of the time he spent on the item. He is deep in his work when a gentle rapping comes at his door. Surprised, Lazarus answers- and he finds that it is Otis, a local scribe and apprentice to the sorceress of the tower. The two have long since made each other’s acquaintance. A scribe and a bookkeeper have a certain natural affinity for each other, and a tendency to need the same things for their professions. “Greetings,” says Otis. “I have acquired something that I think you might find interesting.” With that, he pulls a book from his backpack- the book that only Sir Cedric could retrieve. As he sees the script on the front of the book, Lazarus looks up at Otis. “This is fairly old,” he remarks. “We found it in the ruins of Castle Laagos,” Otis replies. “My Lady Xastys bade me retrieve it, but it is in a somewhat archaic style. I thought you might be able to make more of it than I.” “It’s a book of prayers,” Lazarus says, wonder tinting his voice. “To Clymorian!” He looks at Otis. “Lady Xastys wishes to study it, but I thought I could leave it with your for a day. Perhaps later, she might be persuaded to part with it...” Lazarus turns the book over in his hands and then returns his eyes to Otis. “By what right does she claim it? I am a priest of Clymorian. I would think that gives me more right to it than her.” “She is very powerful,” Otis says tactfully, “and she commanded me to retrieve it.” “You think she would blast me over it?” Lazarus demands. “I think she would blast [i]me[/i] over it.” ”I see.” Lazarus puts the book down on his writing desk. “Well, then, a day will have to do.” He glances ruefully at the books he was working on; he knows that they will now wait for another day. His think stew will have to do for a little longer. He sits and begins to read. After a minute Otis leaves, heading towards the tower, past the swimming hole, out north past the east edge of town. When he arrives, he finds Xastys sitting up, reading a book. She glances at him. “Ahh, you return. How did it go?” “It went all right,” Otis allows. “We captured or killed the bandits and fought a couple of intriguing undead creatures that-” “Did you retrieve the book?” Xastys demands. “Yes. I did more than retrieve it- I have begun the process of translating it into a modern vernacular.” “Let me see it.” “I don’t have it.” “What? You fool! Who does?” “The- the bookkeeper, Lazarus. I thought he-“ “He is a priest of Clymorian. That book could be very valuable to him!” “Exactly. And I thought that if he had a chance to study it-“ “He might learn its secrets for free! Go retrieve it at once!” Chastened, Otis hurries from the tower. He spends several bitter hours wondering what it will take to win Xastys’ affections. Then he returns to the bookkeeper’s house, where Lazarus reluctantly turns the book over to him. “When she’s done with it, I want it!” he affirms. [i]There is some sort of curse upon the enemies of Clymorian in the book that I could learn,[/i] he thinks ruefully as he watches Otis hurry off. [i]What does a sorceress want of it anyway?[/i] *** Autumn is truly settling in. Cur is striding along under cloudy skies one minute, and the next he is in a deluge. The first true rain of the season has begun. Moving through the deepening shadows as evening sets in, Cur Sed Seed sets about looking for shelter. After a few short moments, he spies a flicker of firelight against a boulder, and upon giving it a closer look he finds a small shelter and fire, with a single figure huddled in it. There looks to be just enough room for two. ”May I join ya?” Cur calls in Kamendan. There is no answer. He switches to Orcish. “It’s a devil of a storm- may I share in yuir shelter?” To his surprise, a deep, gravelly voice answers in the same tongue. “An you mean no harm, come in.” Cur crawls in next to a burly orc. The two eye each other across the tiny fire. They are filling the shelter so much that their feet are out in the rain. They must lie down, for there is no room to even squat or sit. “A half-blood, huh?” The orc’s snort rankles Cur. “What’s your name, boy?”* “I am Cur Sed Seed,” replies the half-orc. “An’ now I’ve given ya mine, how about you give me yuirs?” “I’m called Skeetles. What are you doin’ out in this?” “I am an outcast,” growls Cur. “I have no home. I live off the land, wanderin’ from place ta place, huntin’ my own meat.” “You must be pretty tough,” remarks the orc with what sounds suspiciously like a sneer. “Tell me, boy, how many men ya killed?” Cur licks his lips. “Well, there was this dead guy- and we’ve killed lots of rats-“ “No, how many [i]men[/i] have you killed? Human, dwarf, orc, whatever?” “Well, none, but-“ “Then you’re just a boy.” The sneer is stronger now. “Until you kill a [i]man[/i] all you will ever be is a boy.” “What about you?” demands Cur Sed Seed. “How many men have you killed?” The orc shrugs in the shelter. “I don’t know. More than my fingers and toes. More than twice that. Maybe more still. Plenty.” [i]That’s a lot of men,[/i] Cur admits to himself. “Well, why are you out in this?” Skeetles laughs softly. “I’m [i]old.[/i] No matter how many men you can kill, eventually you start to slow down. I stay with my old tribe, and some young buck will come along eventually and put me down. That’s why I left.” The two lay in silence beside the tiny fire for nearly an hour. Finally, Skeetles observes, “Rain’s letting up.” “Yep,” agrees Cur. “Once you’ve killed a [i]man[/i] or two, why don’t you come seek me out,” suggests the orc. “Maybe we’ll talk more then.” [i]Or maybe we’ll dance,[/i] thinks Cur. *** Dahlia is staring at the fireplace in her hut. She still hasn’t really decided to move to Castle Laagos’ ruins; those ants are still there, and they are potentially a very dangerous threat. She is daydreaming when the knock on her door comes. Startled, she almost spills her tea. [i]A visitor?[/i] she wonders. [i]Did I imagine-[/i] [i]Knock, knock.[/i] Dahlia answers the door and finds a heavily robed, muffled figure standing on her doorstep. “Good evening,” the figure says in a clear, feminine voice. “Ah, you must be Dahlia.” “Uh- who are you?” The figure bows. “I wish a moment of your time. I wonder if you might perhaps be able to help me with some questions about my heritage. May I come in?” “Reveal your face,” Dahlia insists. “Nobody needs to come into my home hiding their face.” After a moment’s hesitation, the figure throws back her cowl. She appears to be a human woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. As she steps in, she introduces herself as Persiparie. Soon she has drawn Dahlia into a deep conversation. She claims to have a certain amount of elvish blood, “though much less than you,” she tells Dahlia. Still, she is very interested in elven culture, any elvish ruins or elf blooded folk that Dahlia knows, etc. She answers vaguely when asked about her origin, claiming merely to be a traveler and to have wandered from somewhere far to the north, but she makes no threatening moves. Ultimately, Dahlia tells Persiparie, “You know who would know a lot about the elves? The old-timer! He claims to be the first baby born in Whitewater, and he’s definitely an elfblood.” “Really? Hmm... I have an errand to run first, but perhaps we could meet at Whitewater in a couple of days.” “What sort of errand? Maybe I could help you,” Dahlia offers. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t say,” Persiparie demurs. “It is something... held in confidence.” She smiles reassuringly. “But as I said, why don’t we meet in a couple of days?” “...All right,” agrees Dahlia after a moment. But, a couple of days later, Persiparie never shows up. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Brandon Mallard makes a sad announcement! Our heroes find a new adventure! Find out what it is- next time! *At this point all the jokes about prison sex started from the other players. “You got a purty mouth!” [/QUOTE]
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