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<blockquote data-quote="Altalazar" data-source="post: 2639600" data-attributes="member: 939"><p>Cordozo – Chapter Four – Two Rooms, Two Doors, Too Stubborn</p><p> </p><p> What a nice, silver bowl we found. I contemplated my reflection in its shiny surface as the tendrils of my mind slipped back around my scalp. </p><p> My mind was definitely feeling stronger. I could not wait to flex my mental muscles. But in the meanwhile, some muscle flexing of a different sort was happening not ten paces away from my reverie. The room with the dead garbage monster had two additional doors leading out of it. The doors looked old, rusted, and ill-used. This led the diminutive one to conclude that they were not likely points of departure for our quarry. The Pelorian echoed this sentiment. Then a dispute erupted between the barbarian, who wanted to boldly go through the door here, and the diminutive one, who wanted to retrace our steps back to the stone door labeled as the way to the “honored dead” back near where we entered, because that door showed evidence of recent use. </p><p> Much indecision ensued. </p><p> Back when I started as a young barrister, trying my first case, full of fire and fury for the law and zeal for my client, I was sitting in court, waiting for my turn to argue my case. The previous case was going on and on, far over the time it should have rationally taken, far beyond what any sane person would ever have argued, far beyond what any insane person with a penchant for filibustering would ever even dream of going in some deranged half-drunk delusional rant, and well beyond what, I determined later, anyone ever would attempt in court because cases were so often decided based on bribe or influence long before any words of argument were ever uttered. But that argument was short compared to the dispute between which door to take. </p><p> Just as I was about to consider the issue of stopping to rest moot, because enough resting time had already passed, there was movement on the indecision. It became a quick-draw of rashness between the two impulsive members of our little troupe, with the barb blinking first – on the dust of the diminutive one as she rushed off to the door to the “honored dead.” We all quickly followed. I was especially keen to keep her in sight, given her predilections and her even scarier, rasher thoughts that often translated, unfiltered, into action. </p><p> We all lined up before the door. The Pelorian queried if everyone was ready. The barbarian answered quickly, and with a graceful, brutal elegance: “Me bash dead.” I hefted the crossbow the Pelorian had given me to use. It felt solid, though slightly alien, in my hands. Standing behind the others, I worried I would more likely strike them rather than any foe. </p><p> And so, after much ado, debate, and indecisive action, she opened the door. I caught a quick glimpse of five coffins. Full coffins. Coffins soon to be empty, as their occupants climbed out, perhaps with the intention of correcting any misconceptions about the distribution of their estates. Idly, I wondered who handled their probate, if such a thing even was done when they were interred. I tensed for action, hefted the crossbow, and readied every nerve in my body for the coming combat. Combat that could redefine who I was. Physical combat. A fight of the sort that I, as a member of the scholar class, had never before contemplated, much less participated in. And then she closed the door. And then I heard the very clear sound of a bar being drawn across the door (on the other side) and locked into place. Ok, off the barbarian went back to the other door (in the other room). I guess they’ll wait, seeing that they’re dead. </p><p> Unfortunately, there were two doors in that other room, and now the barbarian and the diminutive one yet again could not agree as to which door to open. Fortunately, the barbarian, slow that he is, learned a trick from her and immediately went to the northern door and opened it and then boldly went down the hallway behind it, as far as he could before he found himself in the dark and required a torch. Except that he is afraid of fire, so the Pelorian had to supply that light for him. And he’s learned to let the diminutive one to search for traps, which she then refused to do because she wanted to go through the other door. The Pelorian asked her nicely to help. In order for her to do so, the barbarian had to climb out of the way, crawling along the floor to avoid the torch of the Pelorian standing behind him. I sat down on the cold stone floor, opened my briefcase, and started to go through my old briefs. </p><p> By the way, the exchange above involving the Pelorian, the diminutive one, and the barbarian was translated from “No light bring stick,” “funny wall here,” “go get woman she check for trap.” And again, I was awed by the clarity of his inner voice saying exactly the same thing, right down to the clipped pronunciation. When I looked up from my briefs, the search was over. Maybe I ought to leave my briefs for the daylight. I then idly wondered whether the barbarian was aware that the symbol of Pelor was a flaming hammer. That’ll be a fun bridge to cross if the Pelorian ever gets one. </p><p> </p><p> Cordozo – Chapter Five – Saint Bethesda Stoned</p><p></p><p> It was with a great sense of relief that the final door in the room of the garbage creature was opened. Interestingly, it led to a corridor bisected by another corridor, with a very realistic looking human female statute right in the middle of the intersection between the two corridors. Using our vast knowledge (we read the base of the statute) we determined that the statute was supposed to represent Saint Bethesda, the patron to the ruins we were then infesting. Another clue to her identity was the booming female voice intoning “Welcome Brothers. May the healing balm of Saint Bethesda ease your suffering” that then echoed throughout the dank walls of our explorations. </p><p> We ought to have been more alarmed by this obvious alarm, but since it repeatedly said it each time someone approached the statute, we quickly ignored it. On the plus side, we spied several slimy lavender worms heading straight down the hallway, toward a rather large, sinister looking room with a stone sarcophagus and many impressive pillars. If I had an honest judge in an impartial court, I could have convicted that sarcophagus of harboring our fugitive. We held court soon enough.</p><p> </p><p> Cordozo – Chapter Six – Lavender Worms in a Smegowski Suit</p><p></p><p> The diminutive one charged boldly forward, right up to the sarcophagus. And of course, the lid came up and out came – well, if I were blessed with the virtues of an artist, I could draw it. As it is, I will have to paint this thing with words. If one could imagine a colony of thousands of slimy, tiny, smoldering lavender worms wearing the emptied out husk of a corpse (freshly killed) as if it were a set of noble garments, that would begin to describe the sight that was before us there. Fortunately, I was, as always, far in the rear. (The barbarian had moved up to the diminutive one after the Pelorian summoned him with his great battle cry (“E, Care to join us?”) </p><p>I should probably mention that the slimy corpse-suit of worms was armed with two longswords and had three tentacles, one of which suspiciously looked like a mouth, but all of which were made of dripping, slimy, lavender worms. And while I’m sharing, I should probably also mention the acid. But that wasn’t the worst of it, as the barbarian found out. </p><p>From where I was standing, I could tell things were not going well. The diminutive one was all but dead when she came staggering back into the hallway for the Pelorian’s healing touch (always accented with “The power of Pelor can heal you”). I noted five of those slimy lavender worms attached to the diminutive one’s chest. Once again, I was thankful to be in the back. </p><p> Then the barbarian took his own beating, ending with the central pseudopod latching onto his face where apparently it had inserted itself down his throat. I could almost hear the barbarian’s own voice in my mind speaking my own words. “Be in back. Good.” </p><p> In the meanwhile, my new, more powerful mind was busy trying to crush the life out of the worms, without much success. One unfortunate discovery is that most creatures I’ve tried to crush with the power of my mind have been strangely resistant to it. </p><p> Things were starting to get desperate. Yes, I might have had to move from being in back (and from safely down the hall, no less). All three of my erstwhile companions were right up next to the sarcophagus. I heard a few times just how the power of Pelor is good at healing (paraphrasing, at this point), usually preceded by squishy-sickening thunks of lavender worms striking pale pink flesh. The barbarian’s face was still locked in a perverse embrace with the “mouth” of the lavender worm’s, well, mouth. “Back. Good.” </p><p> Gathering up all of my powers, all of my concentration, throwing everything I had left into it, I tried one last time to crush the lavender worms’ collective mind. Much to my great surprise, it failed to resist me and dropped to the floor in a big, slimy heap of dying worms, letting the barbarian go. </p><p></p><p> The fight over, my companions still unsure of my powers at that point, we licked our wounds (well, their wounds. I have yet to get a scratch) and examined the sarcophagus and its unfortunate former inhabitant. </p><p> The sarcophagus itself was carved from a single giant piece of wood and was rather ornate and well adorned with symbols of healing. We briefly toyed with the idea that sleeping in it would heal, but we decided to abandon it and take the body to the surface. Given the nature of the worms, it seemed apparent that we had found our quarry. Hopefully the corruption of the guards was not so much that they would not accept the truth even when it locked onto their face and tried to shove worms down their throats. </p><p></p><p> Cordozo – Chapter Seven – We file the Smegowski Suit with the Guard and then give at the Temple</p><p></p><p> Much to my surprise, the head of the guard grudgingly accepted the slimy pile of worms as the perpetrator of the heinous crime. If he hadn’t, I must say, I would have been sorely tempted to crush him with my brain. Perhaps they would have considered it natural causes. Though on second thought, this guard would probably have found someone to hang for natural causes as well, out of spite for not otherwise having someone’s neck to use for an afternoon’s entertainment in the town square. </p><p> The Pelorian, bless his inner voice, wanted to find the family of the poor soul worn by the lavender worms as a suit, and asked the guard if he could do so. They just wanted to burn it to make sure it was dead. More out of a desire to manipulate the guard captain than to help the Pelorian, I primed myself for battle and in combat dangerous and real, beat him in the arena of words and convinced him to let us take the body back to the Pelorian temple. They did warn us that if anything happened, the Pelorian would be held responsible. Well, good enough for me. </p><p></p><p> As fate would have it, there was an adventurer staying at the temple who had some sort of special glove that could determine prior ownership of objects. It was determined that the body belonged to a Mike Smegowski (prior to its belonging to something called a wormwraith. I would guess there would be some lavender worms in there somewhere). We posted the name for the family to find his fate and then burned the husk. </p><p></p><p> Cordozo – Chapter Eight – Honoring the Dead</p><p></p><p> We rested for the night, myself and the diminutive one in an expensive inn across the street from the temple, the Pelorian with his fellow brothers, and the barbarian in an inn of ill repute. While Morwen and I paid a handsome gold coin for a night of rest, E the barbarian paid much more, as he awoke to find his gold purse gone. Sometimes it pays to pay up front. He really ought to get himself some reputable representation. </p><p> We then returned to the underground lair of Saint Bethesda to lay rest to the honored dead. Brother Marcus, the Pelorian, insisted that it was the proper thing to do. </p><p> So back and down we went. For reasons unclear to me, however, we headed in the opposite direction, to open one last door before honoring the dead. Once again, I kept well back, and we played roulette with the front ranks as we found a room well stocked with bandits, six in all. First the diminutive one, then the barbarian were surrounded and nearly slain before the diminutive one (dim for short) tumbled back and the barbarian held the doorway as they threw daggers his way. Once again, my mind fresh, I tried to crush them with my brain, one by one. Once again, they seemed strangely resistant. Either that, or my skill is not what I hoped it would be. The Pelorian did note that, while I once again hefted his loaned crossbow, I did not even attempt to fire it. As he asked me if I should really have it, I cried out in frustration that I was trying to crush them with my brain. The Pelorian’s eyebrows lurched upwards at this and I could tell he was intrigued by the concept, for he spoke of it no further and turned his attention back to our rout. At that moment, I crushed the leader’s brain into fine pulp as the barbarian slashed another into oblivion. </p><p> In their wake, we found 500 pieces of gold, a tiger eye, and a potion of unknown elixir. In a rather macabre display, we also took the equipment and weapons of the slain. I guess this is the buffet version of probate court. </p><p> The rest ran, leaving one behind to open the door for the other’s escape. To quote the barbarian. “You not leaving.” Too bad for him. I wonder if he had a proper will. Briefly, I considered what business opportunities I was forsaking as we left the room and headed, finally, to the honored dead. </p><p> Or so I thought. Now they all wanted to explore yet another hallway, one which I presumed led to the surface, much like the hall the bandits used to escape. I was wrong. It did, however, put the diminutive one to sleep. The Pelorian woke her, almost falling asleep himself. At the end of the hall was a lovely painting of a tunnel on a dead-end. Ahem. </p><p> We found a back approach to the hall of the honored dead. Boldly, the Pelorian went forth down the hall. Boldly, the Pelorian fell down a twenty foot deep pit. I make a note in my briefs. “Never be bold.” After the diminutive one jams the pit cover closed, we sally forth. </p><p></p><p> Now, yet again, the moment has come. We are ready for battle. I heft the crossbow in my sweaty palms. The Pelorian readies his well worn, but piously so, holy symbol. We are there. We are ready. The barbarian steps into the room. The caskets open. The Pelorian raises his holy symbol and invokes the power of his god. And then it’s over. Four of them fall to dust, the last cowers, until the barbarian decapitates him. I wiped the sweat off of my palm and put away the crossbow. </p><p> The Pelorian blessed the corpses. He also asked us if we wanted to join his church. He had a rare disparity between his inner and outer voice with his plea, one I could almost call a virtue. His outer voice said that there were many paths to salvation, even as his inner voice added the caveat that only Pelor’s path will get you there. </p><p></p><p> Cordozo – Chapter Nine – Contingency Fees all around</p><p></p><p> I quickly took stock of all we had found, as did the diminutive one. For all her failings in the ways of the wise, she certainly can add up the value of trade goods down to the last battered piece of copper. All told, we each took a one fourth contingency fee from our common gains and found ourselves three hundred and fifty three gold thicker in the belt pouch. I easily ought to be able to update my wardrobe with that. </p><p> I think I enjoyed that crawl through the dirt rather more than any court I’ve ever been in. At least in the thick of battle, with vile beasts nipping at your throat, there is no fake veneer of polite society or civilization. The bandits, vile though they were, were at least honest in their vileness. They did not claim to be doing the work of lawful good and justice as they tried to slit our throats and steal our treasures. While I cannot abandon my profession, I think I may take a sabbatical with these three when opportunities present themselves. Perhaps my gold would be better spent if it were invested in that endeavor rather than in more noble rags to impress the bailiffs. But where to begin?</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Altalazar, post: 2639600, member: 939"] Cordozo – Chapter Four – Two Rooms, Two Doors, Too Stubborn What a nice, silver bowl we found. I contemplated my reflection in its shiny surface as the tendrils of my mind slipped back around my scalp. My mind was definitely feeling stronger. I could not wait to flex my mental muscles. But in the meanwhile, some muscle flexing of a different sort was happening not ten paces away from my reverie. The room with the dead garbage monster had two additional doors leading out of it. The doors looked old, rusted, and ill-used. This led the diminutive one to conclude that they were not likely points of departure for our quarry. The Pelorian echoed this sentiment. Then a dispute erupted between the barbarian, who wanted to boldly go through the door here, and the diminutive one, who wanted to retrace our steps back to the stone door labeled as the way to the “honored dead” back near where we entered, because that door showed evidence of recent use. Much indecision ensued. Back when I started as a young barrister, trying my first case, full of fire and fury for the law and zeal for my client, I was sitting in court, waiting for my turn to argue my case. The previous case was going on and on, far over the time it should have rationally taken, far beyond what any sane person would ever have argued, far beyond what any insane person with a penchant for filibustering would ever even dream of going in some deranged half-drunk delusional rant, and well beyond what, I determined later, anyone ever would attempt in court because cases were so often decided based on bribe or influence long before any words of argument were ever uttered. But that argument was short compared to the dispute between which door to take. Just as I was about to consider the issue of stopping to rest moot, because enough resting time had already passed, there was movement on the indecision. It became a quick-draw of rashness between the two impulsive members of our little troupe, with the barb blinking first – on the dust of the diminutive one as she rushed off to the door to the “honored dead.” We all quickly followed. I was especially keen to keep her in sight, given her predilections and her even scarier, rasher thoughts that often translated, unfiltered, into action. We all lined up before the door. The Pelorian queried if everyone was ready. The barbarian answered quickly, and with a graceful, brutal elegance: “Me bash dead.” I hefted the crossbow the Pelorian had given me to use. It felt solid, though slightly alien, in my hands. Standing behind the others, I worried I would more likely strike them rather than any foe. And so, after much ado, debate, and indecisive action, she opened the door. I caught a quick glimpse of five coffins. Full coffins. Coffins soon to be empty, as their occupants climbed out, perhaps with the intention of correcting any misconceptions about the distribution of their estates. Idly, I wondered who handled their probate, if such a thing even was done when they were interred. I tensed for action, hefted the crossbow, and readied every nerve in my body for the coming combat. Combat that could redefine who I was. Physical combat. A fight of the sort that I, as a member of the scholar class, had never before contemplated, much less participated in. And then she closed the door. And then I heard the very clear sound of a bar being drawn across the door (on the other side) and locked into place. Ok, off the barbarian went back to the other door (in the other room). I guess they’ll wait, seeing that they’re dead. Unfortunately, there were two doors in that other room, and now the barbarian and the diminutive one yet again could not agree as to which door to open. Fortunately, the barbarian, slow that he is, learned a trick from her and immediately went to the northern door and opened it and then boldly went down the hallway behind it, as far as he could before he found himself in the dark and required a torch. Except that he is afraid of fire, so the Pelorian had to supply that light for him. And he’s learned to let the diminutive one to search for traps, which she then refused to do because she wanted to go through the other door. The Pelorian asked her nicely to help. In order for her to do so, the barbarian had to climb out of the way, crawling along the floor to avoid the torch of the Pelorian standing behind him. I sat down on the cold stone floor, opened my briefcase, and started to go through my old briefs. By the way, the exchange above involving the Pelorian, the diminutive one, and the barbarian was translated from “No light bring stick,” “funny wall here,” “go get woman she check for trap.” And again, I was awed by the clarity of his inner voice saying exactly the same thing, right down to the clipped pronunciation. When I looked up from my briefs, the search was over. Maybe I ought to leave my briefs for the daylight. I then idly wondered whether the barbarian was aware that the symbol of Pelor was a flaming hammer. That’ll be a fun bridge to cross if the Pelorian ever gets one. Cordozo – Chapter Five – Saint Bethesda Stoned It was with a great sense of relief that the final door in the room of the garbage creature was opened. Interestingly, it led to a corridor bisected by another corridor, with a very realistic looking human female statute right in the middle of the intersection between the two corridors. Using our vast knowledge (we read the base of the statute) we determined that the statute was supposed to represent Saint Bethesda, the patron to the ruins we were then infesting. Another clue to her identity was the booming female voice intoning “Welcome Brothers. May the healing balm of Saint Bethesda ease your suffering” that then echoed throughout the dank walls of our explorations. We ought to have been more alarmed by this obvious alarm, but since it repeatedly said it each time someone approached the statute, we quickly ignored it. On the plus side, we spied several slimy lavender worms heading straight down the hallway, toward a rather large, sinister looking room with a stone sarcophagus and many impressive pillars. If I had an honest judge in an impartial court, I could have convicted that sarcophagus of harboring our fugitive. We held court soon enough. Cordozo – Chapter Six – Lavender Worms in a Smegowski Suit The diminutive one charged boldly forward, right up to the sarcophagus. And of course, the lid came up and out came – well, if I were blessed with the virtues of an artist, I could draw it. As it is, I will have to paint this thing with words. If one could imagine a colony of thousands of slimy, tiny, smoldering lavender worms wearing the emptied out husk of a corpse (freshly killed) as if it were a set of noble garments, that would begin to describe the sight that was before us there. Fortunately, I was, as always, far in the rear. (The barbarian had moved up to the diminutive one after the Pelorian summoned him with his great battle cry (“E, Care to join us?”) I should probably mention that the slimy corpse-suit of worms was armed with two longswords and had three tentacles, one of which suspiciously looked like a mouth, but all of which were made of dripping, slimy, lavender worms. And while I’m sharing, I should probably also mention the acid. But that wasn’t the worst of it, as the barbarian found out. From where I was standing, I could tell things were not going well. The diminutive one was all but dead when she came staggering back into the hallway for the Pelorian’s healing touch (always accented with “The power of Pelor can heal you”). I noted five of those slimy lavender worms attached to the diminutive one’s chest. Once again, I was thankful to be in the back. Then the barbarian took his own beating, ending with the central pseudopod latching onto his face where apparently it had inserted itself down his throat. I could almost hear the barbarian’s own voice in my mind speaking my own words. “Be in back. Good.” In the meanwhile, my new, more powerful mind was busy trying to crush the life out of the worms, without much success. One unfortunate discovery is that most creatures I’ve tried to crush with the power of my mind have been strangely resistant to it. Things were starting to get desperate. Yes, I might have had to move from being in back (and from safely down the hall, no less). All three of my erstwhile companions were right up next to the sarcophagus. I heard a few times just how the power of Pelor is good at healing (paraphrasing, at this point), usually preceded by squishy-sickening thunks of lavender worms striking pale pink flesh. The barbarian’s face was still locked in a perverse embrace with the “mouth” of the lavender worm’s, well, mouth. “Back. Good.” Gathering up all of my powers, all of my concentration, throwing everything I had left into it, I tried one last time to crush the lavender worms’ collective mind. Much to my great surprise, it failed to resist me and dropped to the floor in a big, slimy heap of dying worms, letting the barbarian go. The fight over, my companions still unsure of my powers at that point, we licked our wounds (well, their wounds. I have yet to get a scratch) and examined the sarcophagus and its unfortunate former inhabitant. The sarcophagus itself was carved from a single giant piece of wood and was rather ornate and well adorned with symbols of healing. We briefly toyed with the idea that sleeping in it would heal, but we decided to abandon it and take the body to the surface. Given the nature of the worms, it seemed apparent that we had found our quarry. Hopefully the corruption of the guards was not so much that they would not accept the truth even when it locked onto their face and tried to shove worms down their throats. Cordozo – Chapter Seven – We file the Smegowski Suit with the Guard and then give at the Temple Much to my surprise, the head of the guard grudgingly accepted the slimy pile of worms as the perpetrator of the heinous crime. If he hadn’t, I must say, I would have been sorely tempted to crush him with my brain. Perhaps they would have considered it natural causes. Though on second thought, this guard would probably have found someone to hang for natural causes as well, out of spite for not otherwise having someone’s neck to use for an afternoon’s entertainment in the town square. The Pelorian, bless his inner voice, wanted to find the family of the poor soul worn by the lavender worms as a suit, and asked the guard if he could do so. They just wanted to burn it to make sure it was dead. More out of a desire to manipulate the guard captain than to help the Pelorian, I primed myself for battle and in combat dangerous and real, beat him in the arena of words and convinced him to let us take the body back to the Pelorian temple. They did warn us that if anything happened, the Pelorian would be held responsible. Well, good enough for me. As fate would have it, there was an adventurer staying at the temple who had some sort of special glove that could determine prior ownership of objects. It was determined that the body belonged to a Mike Smegowski (prior to its belonging to something called a wormwraith. I would guess there would be some lavender worms in there somewhere). We posted the name for the family to find his fate and then burned the husk. Cordozo – Chapter Eight – Honoring the Dead We rested for the night, myself and the diminutive one in an expensive inn across the street from the temple, the Pelorian with his fellow brothers, and the barbarian in an inn of ill repute. While Morwen and I paid a handsome gold coin for a night of rest, E the barbarian paid much more, as he awoke to find his gold purse gone. Sometimes it pays to pay up front. He really ought to get himself some reputable representation. We then returned to the underground lair of Saint Bethesda to lay rest to the honored dead. Brother Marcus, the Pelorian, insisted that it was the proper thing to do. So back and down we went. For reasons unclear to me, however, we headed in the opposite direction, to open one last door before honoring the dead. Once again, I kept well back, and we played roulette with the front ranks as we found a room well stocked with bandits, six in all. First the diminutive one, then the barbarian were surrounded and nearly slain before the diminutive one (dim for short) tumbled back and the barbarian held the doorway as they threw daggers his way. Once again, my mind fresh, I tried to crush them with my brain, one by one. Once again, they seemed strangely resistant. Either that, or my skill is not what I hoped it would be. The Pelorian did note that, while I once again hefted his loaned crossbow, I did not even attempt to fire it. As he asked me if I should really have it, I cried out in frustration that I was trying to crush them with my brain. The Pelorian’s eyebrows lurched upwards at this and I could tell he was intrigued by the concept, for he spoke of it no further and turned his attention back to our rout. At that moment, I crushed the leader’s brain into fine pulp as the barbarian slashed another into oblivion. In their wake, we found 500 pieces of gold, a tiger eye, and a potion of unknown elixir. In a rather macabre display, we also took the equipment and weapons of the slain. I guess this is the buffet version of probate court. The rest ran, leaving one behind to open the door for the other’s escape. To quote the barbarian. “You not leaving.” Too bad for him. I wonder if he had a proper will. Briefly, I considered what business opportunities I was forsaking as we left the room and headed, finally, to the honored dead. Or so I thought. Now they all wanted to explore yet another hallway, one which I presumed led to the surface, much like the hall the bandits used to escape. I was wrong. It did, however, put the diminutive one to sleep. The Pelorian woke her, almost falling asleep himself. At the end of the hall was a lovely painting of a tunnel on a dead-end. Ahem. We found a back approach to the hall of the honored dead. Boldly, the Pelorian went forth down the hall. Boldly, the Pelorian fell down a twenty foot deep pit. I make a note in my briefs. “Never be bold.” After the diminutive one jams the pit cover closed, we sally forth. Now, yet again, the moment has come. We are ready for battle. I heft the crossbow in my sweaty palms. The Pelorian readies his well worn, but piously so, holy symbol. We are there. We are ready. The barbarian steps into the room. The caskets open. The Pelorian raises his holy symbol and invokes the power of his god. And then it’s over. Four of them fall to dust, the last cowers, until the barbarian decapitates him. I wiped the sweat off of my palm and put away the crossbow. The Pelorian blessed the corpses. He also asked us if we wanted to join his church. He had a rare disparity between his inner and outer voice with his plea, one I could almost call a virtue. His outer voice said that there were many paths to salvation, even as his inner voice added the caveat that only Pelor’s path will get you there. Cordozo – Chapter Nine – Contingency Fees all around I quickly took stock of all we had found, as did the diminutive one. For all her failings in the ways of the wise, she certainly can add up the value of trade goods down to the last battered piece of copper. All told, we each took a one fourth contingency fee from our common gains and found ourselves three hundred and fifty three gold thicker in the belt pouch. I easily ought to be able to update my wardrobe with that. I think I enjoyed that crawl through the dirt rather more than any court I’ve ever been in. At least in the thick of battle, with vile beasts nipping at your throat, there is no fake veneer of polite society or civilization. The bandits, vile though they were, were at least honest in their vileness. They did not claim to be doing the work of lawful good and justice as they tried to slit our throats and steal our treasures. While I cannot abandon my profession, I think I may take a sabbatical with these three when opportunities present themselves. Perhaps my gold would be better spent if it were invested in that endeavor rather than in more noble rags to impress the bailiffs. But where to begin? [/QUOTE]
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Memoirs of a Lawyer turned Dungeoncrawler (Updated May 13, 2008)
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