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Story Hour
Eberron: A Simple Plan - Completed 7/16/05
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<blockquote data-quote="ragboy" data-source="post: 2407915" data-attributes="member: 4151"><p><em>short break and wrap up tomorrow...</em></p><p>---------------------</p><p>###</p><p>Vrabel stopped on the street outside the apothecary shop, its faded wooden placard depicting a cluster of flowers. He steeled himself and pushed open the door. Cloying perfumed smoke immediately caught in his throat, and he began to cough. Clouds of the stuff spiraled lazily over the dim empty front room. He leaned against a thin pillar of intricately carved wood, as the fit passed. A heavy dark form loomed in the back of the shop, hunched over a cluttered worktable. </p><p>“Approach, friend-Vrabel,” a sonorous voice called. “I am sorry for causing you discomfort, but strange energies are at work this night.” </p><p></p><p>Vrabel wiped his watering eyes, and walked to the back of the room. A massive minotaur sat at the table, its shaggy black head gilded with silver-embossed brands. The creature swung its downward-curving horns about, similarly carved and embossed with arcane symbols, and beckoned the visitor to sit, then started back to work writing out a recipe. </p><p></p><p>“How’ve you been, Kevl?” Vrabel said, more to break up the pen-scratching silence. His voice was more strained than he expected. The concoction he’d found in a nearby dead-drop was already wearing off. The spasms in his jaw and stomach muscles began anew. </p><p></p><p>Kevl finished a line of text and carefully sat his pen in an ivory box. Turning his soft watery eyes to his visitor, he licked a nostril and breathed wetly.</p><p></p><p>“You are poisoned,” the minotaur said. “And not long for this world.”</p><p></p><p>“You always know how to start a conversation,” Vrabel said, trying to smile. His lips jerked awkwardly. </p><p></p><p>“Come,” Kevl said, rising to his full height. “I have a bed in back.” </p><p></p><p>Vrabel tried to rise, but a fit of gagging seized him. The minotaur lifted him from his feet and carried him to a padded worktable, lying him there. </p><p></p><p>“Shall we talk of the latest play from Yancy McGuine?” the minotaur said, as he strapped Vrabel’s arms and legs down to the table. “He has a new actress, a changeling, who is much too sublime for his pedantic works.” </p><p></p><p>“Haven’t seen it,” Vrabel said, grimacing. </p><p></p><p>“As I suspected,” Kevl said. “You are not here to debate the debatable Menthis arts.” </p><p>Vrabel grinned, a little light-headed with the thick air. The alchemist stepped away into a cluttered storage room and rummaged through several boxes before coming out with a sheaf of tanned and rolled animal skins. Towering over his patient, he flipped through the skins and finally selected one. </p><p></p><p>“Your wounds are deep,” Kevl said. “I am not certain I can halt the ichor’s destruction, or reverse what has been done.”</p><p></p><p>“Always the optimist,” Vrabel said, and then went into a full seizure as the last of his potion wore off. </p><p></p><p>Through the excruciating pain, he was vaguely aware of the glimmering light on Kevl’s arcane brands and the minotaur’s lowing mantra. He held one thought as consciousness began to fade: Pym has crossed us again with that damn stone.</p><p></p><p>It seemed to him that he had only closed his eyes for a moment, but Vrabel noted that sunlight streamed through the shop window. Kevl leaned over him holding a scryglass to the easing welts on Vrabel’s neck and bare chest. The minotaur’s liquid eye reminded Vrabel of the Khyber shard he now sought. </p><p></p><p>“How long have I been out?” he asked. </p><p></p><p>Kevl placed the scryglass carefully on his worktable and turned his massive head back to his patient. </p><p></p><p>“Six hours,” he said. “You spoke of many things in your fevered state. A Breaking Stone and swarms of Vadalis bureaucrats chewing out your liver.” </p><p></p><p>“It’s not my liver at risk if I get my hands on that bastard.” Vrabel sat up, still feeling woozy, though the room was clear of scented smoke.</p><p></p><p>“The toxins in your blood are completely voided,” said Kevl. “What other service could I provide you this day?”</p><p></p><p>Vrabel tried to collect his scattered thoughts and remembered something from the fight. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the bronze token.</p><p></p><p>“I was hoping you could tell me what this symbol is.” </p><p></p><p>The minotaur took the token and the scryglass, holding them up to the morning sunlight. </p><p></p><p>“Where did you come by this?” he asked. </p><p></p><p>“Some trouble in the Cogs,” Vrabel said, shifting his legs to hang off of the makeshift bed. “Three elves, Valenar, by their accent, and a woman, possibly of Karrnath.” </p><p></p><p>“But late of the Eldeen Reaches, I suspect?” Kevl swiveled his head slowly to his guest.</p><p></p><p>“That was Dester’s guess.” </p><p></p><p>“It is not a guess on my part,” the seer said. “This is one of the many symbols for the Children of Winter, an amoral death cult among the Druids. They deal in poisons and fouler things. Surely they sent these swarms against you? Control of vermin is their forte” </p><p></p><p>“I can vouch for that.” Vrabel pushed himself off the table, and gathering his legs, paced to clear his head. “Any word of them operating here in Sharn? Or maybe Wroat?” </p><p>The minotaur sat the sigil on his table and then hunched on a stool that looked much to flimsy for his bulk. </p><p></p><p>“They are a small, diffuse group, friend-Vrabel,” he said. “But, their philosophies are enchanting enough to spawn imitators. Perhaps that is what you have seen?”</p><p></p><p>“Maybe,” Vrabel said offhand, and suddenly a thought struck him. “Give me that.” He gestured to the Children of Winter token. </p><p></p><p>After he uttered a simple incantation, the token emitted a faint pink glow. </p><p></p><p>“I was able to use my dragonmark to control the swarms once they attacked me.” Vrabel said. “It’s unheard of for the Mark of Handling to reach mindless vermin.” </p><p></p><p>“As I said,” Kevl intoned. “It is the Children’s sphere of control. This is probably a bauble enspelled to assist those within their clan without sufficient power.”</p><p></p><p>“Interesting.” Vrabel slid the token back into his pocket.</p><p></p><p>Kevl started and stood quickly. “I almost forgot,” he said, bustling to the front of the room. “I received a message from your companion.” </p><p></p><p>Returning, the minotaur placed a sealed sheet of paper in Vrabel’s hand. He popped the seal and read it quickly. </p><p></p><p>“He found the Friar,” Vrabel said. “What do you know about Stonebridge Church?”</p><p></p><p>“A chapel, really, to the Host. Adherents to such watered down deities are sure to be ensnared by more volatile causes,” the seer said, offhandedly. “Perhaps this is the case with your quarry.” </p><p></p><p>“That stone destroyed an airship,” Vrabel said, gathering his things on unsteady legs. “It breaks down magical prisons and barriers.”</p><p></p><p>“Perhaps a Khyber-touched priest? Enamored of those trapped in that dark prison?”</p><p></p><p>“By Siberys, I hope not,” Vrabel said, strapping on his traveling bag. He reached up and sat his hand on the seer’s massive shaggy shoulder. “I appreciate what you did for me, old friend. Take this. I’ll have more before too long.” He held out a pouch with a few coins in it. </p><p></p><p>“I cannot accept such from you, friend-Vrabel,” Kevl said. “Perhaps you can return and we can discuss the low-dramas of Lower Menthis.”</p><p></p><p>“I look forward to it.”</p><p></p><p>Vrabel turned and walked quickly out of the shop with more concerns etched onto his brow.</p><p></p><p>###</p><p></p><p>After an hour of waiting for Dester and watching penitents flow in and out of Stonebridge Church, Vrabel slunk away through the early evening. The heavy wooden shutters on Dester’s flat were locked tight. He slipped under the shadowed awning and withdrew a key. Pressing his hand to the doorknob, the door inched open. Ice shot through his veins, and Vrabel edged into the dark room, dreading the scene within. Gesticulating a ball of light, he saw Dester’s swollen corpse sprawled across a finely crafted chaise. The bulbous flesh exposed around his collar and sleeves showed multiple bites from the Children’s hellish spawn. </p><p></p><p>The initial shock boiled away into a blinding rage, and he kicked the chaise over. His mind consumed, Vrabel stormed through the flat flinging open doors and shutters, roaring for the killers to show themselves. </p><p></p><p>He found himself slumped into a chair in the dark room, spent and shaking. A shutter banged in a quickening wind. He remembered long days on the campaign with Dester at his side. Wild aerial battles on the backs of their griffons, zooming in and out of great formations of Karrnathi raven riders. Their last mission into Cyre, only days before the great catastrophe, had been for the Black Gem. The Breaking Stone. It went by a hundred names, but Pym d’Vadalis knew them all. He’d been the one that commissioned the original raid. Dester and Vrabel had been among the handful of Breland First Air Hussars to survive. </p><p></p><p>“And now there’s one less,” Vrabel said. “And Pym’s going to pay for every drop of blood spent.” </p><p></p><p>He stood and walked through the room, blind but purposeful. Reaching over the fireplace, he took down Dester’s crossbow, a massive thing specially crafted and balanced. The weight felt right in his hands. Strapping the quiver over his shoulder, he walked out of the apartment and into the twinkling Sharn night.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ragboy, post: 2407915, member: 4151"] [i]short break and wrap up tomorrow...[/i] --------------------- ### Vrabel stopped on the street outside the apothecary shop, its faded wooden placard depicting a cluster of flowers. He steeled himself and pushed open the door. Cloying perfumed smoke immediately caught in his throat, and he began to cough. Clouds of the stuff spiraled lazily over the dim empty front room. He leaned against a thin pillar of intricately carved wood, as the fit passed. A heavy dark form loomed in the back of the shop, hunched over a cluttered worktable. “Approach, friend-Vrabel,” a sonorous voice called. “I am sorry for causing you discomfort, but strange energies are at work this night.” Vrabel wiped his watering eyes, and walked to the back of the room. A massive minotaur sat at the table, its shaggy black head gilded with silver-embossed brands. The creature swung its downward-curving horns about, similarly carved and embossed with arcane symbols, and beckoned the visitor to sit, then started back to work writing out a recipe. “How’ve you been, Kevl?” Vrabel said, more to break up the pen-scratching silence. His voice was more strained than he expected. The concoction he’d found in a nearby dead-drop was already wearing off. The spasms in his jaw and stomach muscles began anew. Kevl finished a line of text and carefully sat his pen in an ivory box. Turning his soft watery eyes to his visitor, he licked a nostril and breathed wetly. “You are poisoned,” the minotaur said. “And not long for this world.” “You always know how to start a conversation,” Vrabel said, trying to smile. His lips jerked awkwardly. “Come,” Kevl said, rising to his full height. “I have a bed in back.” Vrabel tried to rise, but a fit of gagging seized him. The minotaur lifted him from his feet and carried him to a padded worktable, lying him there. “Shall we talk of the latest play from Yancy McGuine?” the minotaur said, as he strapped Vrabel’s arms and legs down to the table. “He has a new actress, a changeling, who is much too sublime for his pedantic works.” “Haven’t seen it,” Vrabel said, grimacing. “As I suspected,” Kevl said. “You are not here to debate the debatable Menthis arts.” Vrabel grinned, a little light-headed with the thick air. The alchemist stepped away into a cluttered storage room and rummaged through several boxes before coming out with a sheaf of tanned and rolled animal skins. Towering over his patient, he flipped through the skins and finally selected one. “Your wounds are deep,” Kevl said. “I am not certain I can halt the ichor’s destruction, or reverse what has been done.” “Always the optimist,” Vrabel said, and then went into a full seizure as the last of his potion wore off. Through the excruciating pain, he was vaguely aware of the glimmering light on Kevl’s arcane brands and the minotaur’s lowing mantra. He held one thought as consciousness began to fade: Pym has crossed us again with that damn stone. It seemed to him that he had only closed his eyes for a moment, but Vrabel noted that sunlight streamed through the shop window. Kevl leaned over him holding a scryglass to the easing welts on Vrabel’s neck and bare chest. The minotaur’s liquid eye reminded Vrabel of the Khyber shard he now sought. “How long have I been out?” he asked. Kevl placed the scryglass carefully on his worktable and turned his massive head back to his patient. “Six hours,” he said. “You spoke of many things in your fevered state. A Breaking Stone and swarms of Vadalis bureaucrats chewing out your liver.” “It’s not my liver at risk if I get my hands on that bastard.” Vrabel sat up, still feeling woozy, though the room was clear of scented smoke. “The toxins in your blood are completely voided,” said Kevl. “What other service could I provide you this day?” Vrabel tried to collect his scattered thoughts and remembered something from the fight. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the bronze token. “I was hoping you could tell me what this symbol is.” The minotaur took the token and the scryglass, holding them up to the morning sunlight. “Where did you come by this?” he asked. “Some trouble in the Cogs,” Vrabel said, shifting his legs to hang off of the makeshift bed. “Three elves, Valenar, by their accent, and a woman, possibly of Karrnath.” “But late of the Eldeen Reaches, I suspect?” Kevl swiveled his head slowly to his guest. “That was Dester’s guess.” “It is not a guess on my part,” the seer said. “This is one of the many symbols for the Children of Winter, an amoral death cult among the Druids. They deal in poisons and fouler things. Surely they sent these swarms against you? Control of vermin is their forte” “I can vouch for that.” Vrabel pushed himself off the table, and gathering his legs, paced to clear his head. “Any word of them operating here in Sharn? Or maybe Wroat?” The minotaur sat the sigil on his table and then hunched on a stool that looked much to flimsy for his bulk. “They are a small, diffuse group, friend-Vrabel,” he said. “But, their philosophies are enchanting enough to spawn imitators. Perhaps that is what you have seen?” “Maybe,” Vrabel said offhand, and suddenly a thought struck him. “Give me that.” He gestured to the Children of Winter token. After he uttered a simple incantation, the token emitted a faint pink glow. “I was able to use my dragonmark to control the swarms once they attacked me.” Vrabel said. “It’s unheard of for the Mark of Handling to reach mindless vermin.” “As I said,” Kevl intoned. “It is the Children’s sphere of control. This is probably a bauble enspelled to assist those within their clan without sufficient power.” “Interesting.” Vrabel slid the token back into his pocket. Kevl started and stood quickly. “I almost forgot,” he said, bustling to the front of the room. “I received a message from your companion.” Returning, the minotaur placed a sealed sheet of paper in Vrabel’s hand. He popped the seal and read it quickly. “He found the Friar,” Vrabel said. “What do you know about Stonebridge Church?” “A chapel, really, to the Host. Adherents to such watered down deities are sure to be ensnared by more volatile causes,” the seer said, offhandedly. “Perhaps this is the case with your quarry.” “That stone destroyed an airship,” Vrabel said, gathering his things on unsteady legs. “It breaks down magical prisons and barriers.” “Perhaps a Khyber-touched priest? Enamored of those trapped in that dark prison?” “By Siberys, I hope not,” Vrabel said, strapping on his traveling bag. He reached up and sat his hand on the seer’s massive shaggy shoulder. “I appreciate what you did for me, old friend. Take this. I’ll have more before too long.” He held out a pouch with a few coins in it. “I cannot accept such from you, friend-Vrabel,” Kevl said. “Perhaps you can return and we can discuss the low-dramas of Lower Menthis.” “I look forward to it.” Vrabel turned and walked quickly out of the shop with more concerns etched onto his brow. ### After an hour of waiting for Dester and watching penitents flow in and out of Stonebridge Church, Vrabel slunk away through the early evening. The heavy wooden shutters on Dester’s flat were locked tight. He slipped under the shadowed awning and withdrew a key. Pressing his hand to the doorknob, the door inched open. Ice shot through his veins, and Vrabel edged into the dark room, dreading the scene within. Gesticulating a ball of light, he saw Dester’s swollen corpse sprawled across a finely crafted chaise. The bulbous flesh exposed around his collar and sleeves showed multiple bites from the Children’s hellish spawn. The initial shock boiled away into a blinding rage, and he kicked the chaise over. His mind consumed, Vrabel stormed through the flat flinging open doors and shutters, roaring for the killers to show themselves. He found himself slumped into a chair in the dark room, spent and shaking. A shutter banged in a quickening wind. He remembered long days on the campaign with Dester at his side. Wild aerial battles on the backs of their griffons, zooming in and out of great formations of Karrnathi raven riders. Their last mission into Cyre, only days before the great catastrophe, had been for the Black Gem. The Breaking Stone. It went by a hundred names, but Pym d’Vadalis knew them all. He’d been the one that commissioned the original raid. Dester and Vrabel had been among the handful of Breland First Air Hussars to survive. “And now there’s one less,” Vrabel said. “And Pym’s going to pay for every drop of blood spent.” He stood and walked through the room, blind but purposeful. Reaching over the fireplace, he took down Dester’s crossbow, a massive thing specially crafted and balanced. The weight felt right in his hands. Strapping the quiver over his shoulder, he walked out of the apartment and into the twinkling Sharn night. [/QUOTE]
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