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Eberron: A Simple Plan - Completed 7/16/05
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<blockquote data-quote="ragboy" data-source="post: 2416947" data-attributes="member: 4151"><p>Even at this late hour, a handful of worshippers clustered around the various icons of the Sovereign Host evenly spaced along the chapel’s walls. Acolytes to the respective deities spoke quietly to their charges, some holding candles, while others allowed the wavering shadows and light to punctuate their sermons. </p><p></p><p>Vrabel stooped over the icon of Dol Dorn, knowing that his martial skill needed every boost he could get. The god of arms was singularly neglected in these simple neighborhood chapels. Not a particularly religious man, Vrabel bowed his head and envisioned Pym eviscerated on a jagged pike. Surely Dol Dorn dealt in invocations such as this.</p><p></p><p>He shifted the heavy robe, hoping that it concealed his weaponry long enough to do what he had to do. An ancient man, barely able to creep through the chapel, joined him. Vrabel eyed the heavy scars running down his cheeks and forearms. This man has seen loss, he thought, keeping his own losses buried. </p><p></p><p>The scatter of sacrifices on the altar to Balinor caught Vrabel’s attention, and he made a vague gesture in the air with his hand then moved slowly over to the beast god’s slot. In the center of the pile sat a Children of Winter token, the once shiny icon of the deer’s skull burned black.</p><p></p><p>He glanced over his shoulder at the short wooden door leading to the back rooms. A quick survey of the nave was all he needed to confirm that everyone was occupied, and he slid into the shadows along the back wall. Coming up next to the door, he kept his eyes on the worshippers and tried the doorknob. The door eased open and he slipped in then shut it softly. A short hallway led to another door, but a ladder into the ceiling caught his eye. He pulled off the heavy robe and hung it on a hook ladened with similar garments, then climbed quickly into the attic. </p><p></p><p>Cupping a faint light in his hand, he glanced around. A massive stained-glass window filled the wall behind him providing soft colored light. Deftly, he made his way across heavy wooden beams, ducking under those supporting the roof. Even from across the attic, he could hear the drone of conversation and presently, he came to an open area overlooking a steep staircase. Light shone around the doorframe at the base of the stairs. </p><p></p><p>Extinguishing his light, he padded down the stairs and put his ear to the door. </p><p>“…assure you, sir, that my intentions are in line with yours. We seek to join with you and your cause. Freeing our masters from their damnable prisons has been our dream since long before the Last War.” He knew that voice. Pym!</p><p></p><p>“Master Ruckin,” a second, strange voice replied. “My goals couldn’t be further from yours. Those fool enough to get themselves trapped by…” A sibilant, skittering laugh sounded. “By winged snakes. Please. Are these beings worthy of your devotion? There is a better way, Master Ruckin. Or should I say, Master d’Vadalis?”</p><p></p><p>In the long silence, Vrabel pulled the crossbow from its strap and carefully cocked and loaded the thing. Cradling the weapon in one arm, he reached for the door only to have it snatched away from his hand. </p><p></p><p>Before him stood the woman in the green dress, her patchy, lank hair whipping back with her head. Her eyes glared with an unnatural light and Vrabel went into a frenzy of motion. His kick sent her sprawling into a line of heavy chairs, and he came into the room in a crouch seeking cover. As Pym’s broad, surprised face came around, Vrabel raised the crossbow and pulled the release. The quarrel split the back of Pym’s chair with a loud crack, but the wily station chief was not in it.</p><p></p><p>A heavily robed figure stood up at the head of the room, his body seemingly of strange proportions. </p><p></p><p>“Well,” the figure said. “It looks like quite a nice reunion. Even our friend Dester Burke made it.”</p><p>The figure gestured, and Dester’s jerking, bloated corpse stumbled out of the shadows at the back of the room. The zombie’s mottled skin seemed to crawl with unnatural life. The Friar lowered his hood and waved his hands magnanimously. </p><p></p><p>“Please, Vrabel d’Vadalis,” he said, his voice punctuated by oddly spaced clicks. “Sit with your cousin.” </p><p></p><p>Vrabel recognized the Friar’s gestures, and threw up a defensive spell, shattering the paralyzing beam before it reached him. His blood pumped with a fury that he had not known since the day of the raid, so many years ago. With hundreds of his brothers dying, Pym had ordered him and Dester and a handful of Hussars to break away from the fight and find the Friar and that damnable Khyber shard. He had fallen under this selfsame spell, and had to watch as his comrades were slain, one by one, on the Friar’s life-drinking goblin knife. Vrabel and Dester would have met the same end if the battle hadn’t shifted and the Friar been forced to flee. </p><p></p><p>“What happened?” Vrabel said, easing away from his dead companion’s slow painful approach. “Did you lose your little toy when Cyre exploded?”</p><p></p><p>“This, you mean?” the Friar held up the Breaking Stone, a black, irregularly shaped gemstone shot through with traceries of gold and somehow blacker bands. “Oh, I had a bit of a falling out with my masters.” </p><p></p><p>He gestured to Pym’s rigid form leaning against the wall. “The mutant prisoners of Khyber are a double-dealing lot. When I decided not to use the Stone to free them, they exacted a bit of payment.” </p><p>He flung open his robe to reveal the same crawling, undulating flesh as the zombie that now stalked Vrabel. </p><p></p><p>Vrabel thought of it as no one. The Dester part of Dester was long gone. This was a corrupted shell. As he paced out of the creature’s range, he kept his eyes on the priest and his downed minion. She was stirring already. </p><p></p><p>“What is it? What have you done to yourself and my friend?” he called, easing the crossbow into a cocked position. </p><p></p><p>The Friar tried a quick incantation, but Vrabel was ready, brushing it aside with a counterspell. </p><p></p><p>“You are good,” the priest said, sliding off the black robe. His pale skin was shot through with the same black veins as the dwarf Vrabel had left in the Cogs, only the Friar’s pulsed and writhed. </p><p></p><p>“Vrabel, you idiot!” Pym grated out of his frozen jaw. “That gem would have given us a bargaining chip like no other. Between Lyrander and Orien, do you realize how much they’d pay just to make sure it was destroyed?”</p><p></p><p>“You are both ingrates,” the Friar said. His legs seemed to be stretching, raising him to an disproportionate height. “Do you take me for a dupe of the Khyber dragon? Your petty little house is caught up in the mundane flow of politics in a single city in a single corner of the world.”</p><p>The priest continued to grow, the squirming skin of his legs stretching bizarrely below his robe. </p><p></p><p>“Stranger things have slouched out of the dark places,” the Friar continued. </p><p></p><p>Vrabel could see the creature’s face beginning to strain, as if something invisible pulled at it. </p><p></p><p>“On the day that Cyre died, I died,” he said. </p><p></p><p>The priest’s legs seemed to split and burst, gushing forth a torrent of scrabbling, wriggling insects. Long fiery centipedes twisted around fleshy pale beetles. Grotesque wisp-legged spiders moved swiftly through the swarm as if part of some strange sensory organ. </p><p></p><p>“But on that day also, I was trapped in this horrid, magnificent prison.” the creature continued. Bugs began to pour from shattered eyes. “The stone, you see, full circle…freedom.”</p><p></p><p>So taken by the horror of it, Vrabel never saw the woman leap from the ground, a heavy spear in her grasp. The iron spearhead slammed into Vrabel’s gut throwing him back and over a low table. He crashed into the ground, his head popping the stone floor. The zombie was upon him with a thick moan. He saw his friend’s swollen face leaking black ichor as the hands closed upon his neck. Through a haze of tears, he pulled out the bronze token. </p><p></p><p>I’m sorry Dester, he thought. I’m sorry it came to this. </p><p></p><p>The Mark burned across his back as power coursed from it and through him. The token felt like a brick of ice in his fist, but he thrust it out into Dester's face. Flailing, his body reacting violently to the strangling fingers of the zombie, Vrabel tried to concentrate on touching the collective insectoid minds. </p><p></p><p>At first there was nothing, then he felt Dester’s grip loosen on his throat. The creature finally released him and backed away, a trace of Dester’s old smile on his unnaturally twitching face. A long black millipede coiled out his nostril and down his chin. </p><p></p><p>Vrabel could hear the druid shrieking and he turned to see parts of the Friar’s skittering body detach and engulf her. He concentrated on backing the zombie off then shouted a spell that disintegrated the creature into a pile of dust.</p><p></p><p>The Friar’s spirit gibbered as the swarming mound reformed, the Breaking Stone now seeming to suck the light from the room. Only bones remained where the Winter witch had lay. The vermin, in vaguely humanoid form, slithered across the floor toward Pym, still paralyzed against the wall. </p><p></p><p>“Step back. He’s mine.” Vrabel said, pushing his will onto the collective mind.</p><p></p><p>The swarm reacted as if bludgeoned, recoiled, and threatened to lose its consistency. </p><p></p><p>“What is this?” the Friar moaned. “I must have his soul to replace me in this cursed form…And his form for my own.”</p><p></p><p>“Stand over there and shut up,” Vrabel said, gesturing. </p><p></p><p>The swarm flowed back toward the wall, tendrils of its living host skittering away an alarming rate. </p><p></p><p>“You cannot do this. My freedom is close at hand.”</p><p></p><p>“Thanks for reminding me.” Vrabel spat a stream of arcane words and the gem shot out of the creature’s writhing appendage and into Vrabel’s hand.</p><p></p><p>As Vrabel released his hold on the swarm, he began a complex incantation directed at the pulsing black rock in his hand. The Friar’s integrity dissolved, bugs collapsing on the floor like a pail of water. A pale green phosphorescent gas remained. A faint harrowing scream filled the room as the released spirit fought to reach its rigid host. Pyms own rictus wail seemed to add to the struggle and the cloud was suddenly sucked across the room and into the gem.</p><p></p><p>A void of silence followed. Vrabel dared a look away from the gem and picked up the crossbow. He check it to make sure it still held a quarrel. Pym had collapsed against the wall, his eyes jumping about as if seeing ghosts. Vrabel flung the gem into his bag like it was a whipping snake. He calmly pointed the Children’s tool at the dispersing vermin host. </p><p></p><p>He caught a question in Pym’s eye as the amorphous creature began to reform. </p><p></p><p>“There is the matter of your incompetence killing the only friend I had in the world.” </p><p></p><p>Pym’s head whipped from Vrabel to the approaching mound of writhing insects. </p><p></p><p>“Vrabel, this is crazy,” he said, panic rising anew in his voice. “I…I… it’s need to know, you know that. I couldn’t tell either of you what was going on. We have to compartmentalize…”</p><p></p><p>“Save it you son of a whore!” Vrabel shouted. “We chased that gods blasted thing all over Khyber’s creation, killing more of our own men than any of Breland’s enemies could ever manage.” Vrabel tilted his head toward the bag swinging at his waist. “And here it is. And now it’s just you and me.” </p><p></p><p>The door behind him burst open and Vrabel swiveled and fired the crossbow without a single thought. The bolt glanced harmlessly off of the gleaming steel plates of a massive warforged. Vrabel recognized him. </p><p></p><p>“You are both under arrest for murder of a priest of the Sovereign Host, disturbing prayer services, destruction of church property and various other offenses!” shouted the warforged. “Please do not resist!” </p><p></p><p>Vrabel flung the crossbow at the warforged and dashed out the side door and up the stairs into the attic. He leaped from beam-to-beam like a crazed cat. Over the thunderous pursuit he heard Pym’s inhuman wail dissolve into incoherent screams. </p><p></p><p>The stain-glassed window cast a soft glow of light at the end of the attic. Each of the Host was represented in the priceless work of art. He was through it before he could remember whether another building was nearby to catch his fall. After he landed, he wasn’t sure if the leaded window or the flat slate roof had broken his arm, but he was free. Free of his past, his House and any attachment he ever held dear. Vrabel ran for himself, now, and he would never run for anyone else again. </p><p> </p><p style="text-align: center">The End... </p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ragboy, post: 2416947, member: 4151"] Even at this late hour, a handful of worshippers clustered around the various icons of the Sovereign Host evenly spaced along the chapel’s walls. Acolytes to the respective deities spoke quietly to their charges, some holding candles, while others allowed the wavering shadows and light to punctuate their sermons. Vrabel stooped over the icon of Dol Dorn, knowing that his martial skill needed every boost he could get. The god of arms was singularly neglected in these simple neighborhood chapels. Not a particularly religious man, Vrabel bowed his head and envisioned Pym eviscerated on a jagged pike. Surely Dol Dorn dealt in invocations such as this. He shifted the heavy robe, hoping that it concealed his weaponry long enough to do what he had to do. An ancient man, barely able to creep through the chapel, joined him. Vrabel eyed the heavy scars running down his cheeks and forearms. This man has seen loss, he thought, keeping his own losses buried. The scatter of sacrifices on the altar to Balinor caught Vrabel’s attention, and he made a vague gesture in the air with his hand then moved slowly over to the beast god’s slot. In the center of the pile sat a Children of Winter token, the once shiny icon of the deer’s skull burned black. He glanced over his shoulder at the short wooden door leading to the back rooms. A quick survey of the nave was all he needed to confirm that everyone was occupied, and he slid into the shadows along the back wall. Coming up next to the door, he kept his eyes on the worshippers and tried the doorknob. The door eased open and he slipped in then shut it softly. A short hallway led to another door, but a ladder into the ceiling caught his eye. He pulled off the heavy robe and hung it on a hook ladened with similar garments, then climbed quickly into the attic. Cupping a faint light in his hand, he glanced around. A massive stained-glass window filled the wall behind him providing soft colored light. Deftly, he made his way across heavy wooden beams, ducking under those supporting the roof. Even from across the attic, he could hear the drone of conversation and presently, he came to an open area overlooking a steep staircase. Light shone around the doorframe at the base of the stairs. Extinguishing his light, he padded down the stairs and put his ear to the door. “…assure you, sir, that my intentions are in line with yours. We seek to join with you and your cause. Freeing our masters from their damnable prisons has been our dream since long before the Last War.” He knew that voice. Pym! “Master Ruckin,” a second, strange voice replied. “My goals couldn’t be further from yours. Those fool enough to get themselves trapped by…” A sibilant, skittering laugh sounded. “By winged snakes. Please. Are these beings worthy of your devotion? There is a better way, Master Ruckin. Or should I say, Master d’Vadalis?” In the long silence, Vrabel pulled the crossbow from its strap and carefully cocked and loaded the thing. Cradling the weapon in one arm, he reached for the door only to have it snatched away from his hand. Before him stood the woman in the green dress, her patchy, lank hair whipping back with her head. Her eyes glared with an unnatural light and Vrabel went into a frenzy of motion. His kick sent her sprawling into a line of heavy chairs, and he came into the room in a crouch seeking cover. As Pym’s broad, surprised face came around, Vrabel raised the crossbow and pulled the release. The quarrel split the back of Pym’s chair with a loud crack, but the wily station chief was not in it. A heavily robed figure stood up at the head of the room, his body seemingly of strange proportions. “Well,” the figure said. “It looks like quite a nice reunion. Even our friend Dester Burke made it.” The figure gestured, and Dester’s jerking, bloated corpse stumbled out of the shadows at the back of the room. The zombie’s mottled skin seemed to crawl with unnatural life. The Friar lowered his hood and waved his hands magnanimously. “Please, Vrabel d’Vadalis,” he said, his voice punctuated by oddly spaced clicks. “Sit with your cousin.” Vrabel recognized the Friar’s gestures, and threw up a defensive spell, shattering the paralyzing beam before it reached him. His blood pumped with a fury that he had not known since the day of the raid, so many years ago. With hundreds of his brothers dying, Pym had ordered him and Dester and a handful of Hussars to break away from the fight and find the Friar and that damnable Khyber shard. He had fallen under this selfsame spell, and had to watch as his comrades were slain, one by one, on the Friar’s life-drinking goblin knife. Vrabel and Dester would have met the same end if the battle hadn’t shifted and the Friar been forced to flee. “What happened?” Vrabel said, easing away from his dead companion’s slow painful approach. “Did you lose your little toy when Cyre exploded?” “This, you mean?” the Friar held up the Breaking Stone, a black, irregularly shaped gemstone shot through with traceries of gold and somehow blacker bands. “Oh, I had a bit of a falling out with my masters.” He gestured to Pym’s rigid form leaning against the wall. “The mutant prisoners of Khyber are a double-dealing lot. When I decided not to use the Stone to free them, they exacted a bit of payment.” He flung open his robe to reveal the same crawling, undulating flesh as the zombie that now stalked Vrabel. Vrabel thought of it as no one. The Dester part of Dester was long gone. This was a corrupted shell. As he paced out of the creature’s range, he kept his eyes on the priest and his downed minion. She was stirring already. “What is it? What have you done to yourself and my friend?” he called, easing the crossbow into a cocked position. The Friar tried a quick incantation, but Vrabel was ready, brushing it aside with a counterspell. “You are good,” the priest said, sliding off the black robe. His pale skin was shot through with the same black veins as the dwarf Vrabel had left in the Cogs, only the Friar’s pulsed and writhed. “Vrabel, you idiot!” Pym grated out of his frozen jaw. “That gem would have given us a bargaining chip like no other. Between Lyrander and Orien, do you realize how much they’d pay just to make sure it was destroyed?” “You are both ingrates,” the Friar said. His legs seemed to be stretching, raising him to an disproportionate height. “Do you take me for a dupe of the Khyber dragon? Your petty little house is caught up in the mundane flow of politics in a single city in a single corner of the world.” The priest continued to grow, the squirming skin of his legs stretching bizarrely below his robe. “Stranger things have slouched out of the dark places,” the Friar continued. Vrabel could see the creature’s face beginning to strain, as if something invisible pulled at it. “On the day that Cyre died, I died,” he said. The priest’s legs seemed to split and burst, gushing forth a torrent of scrabbling, wriggling insects. Long fiery centipedes twisted around fleshy pale beetles. Grotesque wisp-legged spiders moved swiftly through the swarm as if part of some strange sensory organ. “But on that day also, I was trapped in this horrid, magnificent prison.” the creature continued. Bugs began to pour from shattered eyes. “The stone, you see, full circle…freedom.” So taken by the horror of it, Vrabel never saw the woman leap from the ground, a heavy spear in her grasp. The iron spearhead slammed into Vrabel’s gut throwing him back and over a low table. He crashed into the ground, his head popping the stone floor. The zombie was upon him with a thick moan. He saw his friend’s swollen face leaking black ichor as the hands closed upon his neck. Through a haze of tears, he pulled out the bronze token. I’m sorry Dester, he thought. I’m sorry it came to this. The Mark burned across his back as power coursed from it and through him. The token felt like a brick of ice in his fist, but he thrust it out into Dester's face. Flailing, his body reacting violently to the strangling fingers of the zombie, Vrabel tried to concentrate on touching the collective insectoid minds. At first there was nothing, then he felt Dester’s grip loosen on his throat. The creature finally released him and backed away, a trace of Dester’s old smile on his unnaturally twitching face. A long black millipede coiled out his nostril and down his chin. Vrabel could hear the druid shrieking and he turned to see parts of the Friar’s skittering body detach and engulf her. He concentrated on backing the zombie off then shouted a spell that disintegrated the creature into a pile of dust. The Friar’s spirit gibbered as the swarming mound reformed, the Breaking Stone now seeming to suck the light from the room. Only bones remained where the Winter witch had lay. The vermin, in vaguely humanoid form, slithered across the floor toward Pym, still paralyzed against the wall. “Step back. He’s mine.” Vrabel said, pushing his will onto the collective mind. The swarm reacted as if bludgeoned, recoiled, and threatened to lose its consistency. “What is this?” the Friar moaned. “I must have his soul to replace me in this cursed form…And his form for my own.” “Stand over there and shut up,” Vrabel said, gesturing. The swarm flowed back toward the wall, tendrils of its living host skittering away an alarming rate. “You cannot do this. My freedom is close at hand.” “Thanks for reminding me.” Vrabel spat a stream of arcane words and the gem shot out of the creature’s writhing appendage and into Vrabel’s hand. As Vrabel released his hold on the swarm, he began a complex incantation directed at the pulsing black rock in his hand. The Friar’s integrity dissolved, bugs collapsing on the floor like a pail of water. A pale green phosphorescent gas remained. A faint harrowing scream filled the room as the released spirit fought to reach its rigid host. Pyms own rictus wail seemed to add to the struggle and the cloud was suddenly sucked across the room and into the gem. A void of silence followed. Vrabel dared a look away from the gem and picked up the crossbow. He check it to make sure it still held a quarrel. Pym had collapsed against the wall, his eyes jumping about as if seeing ghosts. Vrabel flung the gem into his bag like it was a whipping snake. He calmly pointed the Children’s tool at the dispersing vermin host. He caught a question in Pym’s eye as the amorphous creature began to reform. “There is the matter of your incompetence killing the only friend I had in the world.” Pym’s head whipped from Vrabel to the approaching mound of writhing insects. “Vrabel, this is crazy,” he said, panic rising anew in his voice. “I…I… it’s need to know, you know that. I couldn’t tell either of you what was going on. We have to compartmentalize…” “Save it you son of a whore!” Vrabel shouted. “We chased that gods blasted thing all over Khyber’s creation, killing more of our own men than any of Breland’s enemies could ever manage.” Vrabel tilted his head toward the bag swinging at his waist. “And here it is. And now it’s just you and me.” The door behind him burst open and Vrabel swiveled and fired the crossbow without a single thought. The bolt glanced harmlessly off of the gleaming steel plates of a massive warforged. Vrabel recognized him. “You are both under arrest for murder of a priest of the Sovereign Host, disturbing prayer services, destruction of church property and various other offenses!” shouted the warforged. “Please do not resist!” Vrabel flung the crossbow at the warforged and dashed out the side door and up the stairs into the attic. He leaped from beam-to-beam like a crazed cat. Over the thunderous pursuit he heard Pym’s inhuman wail dissolve into incoherent screams. The stain-glassed window cast a soft glow of light at the end of the attic. Each of the Host was represented in the priceless work of art. He was through it before he could remember whether another building was nearby to catch his fall. After he landed, he wasn’t sure if the leaded window or the flat slate roof had broken his arm, but he was free. Free of his past, his House and any attachment he ever held dear. Vrabel ran for himself, now, and he would never run for anyone else again. [center]The End... [/center] [/QUOTE]
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Eberron: A Simple Plan - Completed 7/16/05
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