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Nebulous's Keep on the Shadowfell (FR)
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<blockquote data-quote="Nebulous" data-source="post: 4614591" data-attributes="member: 31465"><p><span style="font-size: 15px">Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon</span></p><p></p><p><strong>PART THREE</strong></p><p></p><p>He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness. </p><p></p><p><img src="http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew1.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p></p><p>He’s not terribly worried yet. He did not descend far; he’s surely in the upper level of Silverymoon’s sewer system, which is well maintained by sweepers and ratters. His keen directional sense gives him an idea of which way to go, and he knows that the aqueducts empty to the east. Plus, he has several sunrods that will light the way if all else fails, but he doesn’t want to use them quite yet. Too much light. Feeling along the wet, slick walls, Douvan eventually finds a torch sconce and half a torch. He lights it with tindertwigs and looks around him in the wan illumination. He’s on the cusp of a sluggish, stinking channel, bobbing with all sorts of glistening, unsavory things. </p><p></p><p>Douvan starts walking toward what he hopes is an exit. </p><p></p><p><img src="http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew2.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p></p><p>The debacle upstairs worries him though. Merple has never wronged Douvan, not that he’s aware, and his punishment at the hands of the mage seems unduly cruel. Transmogrification or Polymorph, whatever they call it, also seems illegal. Douvan starts to wonder if there is a way to blackmail the wizard, and then he has second thoughts about that as well. He’ll need to speak with Merric first. One must never be careless with a wizard.</p><p></p><p>Half an hour later Douvan stops cold when he hears a new sound over the swish of dirty water – a rhythmic flapping like a wet leather sheet, and it is moving closer. He pulls his sword and waits, unable to see anything down the dingy tunnel more than twenty feet or so, listening to something draw nearer, and nearer, and nearer, and THEN—</p><p></p><p><img src="http://www.zikadik.com/silverymoon/sew3.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p><img src="http://www.zikadik.com/silverymoon/sew4.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p></p><p>Something bulbous, pink and veined explodes around a corner at high speed! It careens off a wall and whips past him, darkness swallowing it within seconds, coming and going so fast that Douvan barely caught a glimpse. His heart rate finally starts to slow, and he thinks back on what he knows about creatures in the sewer system. It must have been a sludge bat, a relatively harmless if disgusting denizen of the region. </p><p></p><p>He continues, eventually reaching a junction blocked by slick green slime dripping from the ceiling. He can possibly leap to the far side but would rather not risk it. Untold diseases lurk in the water. Douvan hunches down and waits, anticipating some flotsam and jetsam to float by eventually, maybe something that will support his weight so he can vault across. </p><p></p><p>He hasn’t been waiting long when he hears voices in the distance. </p><p></p><p>Douvan slowly grinds out his torch and retreats a short ways, watching torchlight approach from a tunnel across the watery channel. </p><p></p><p>“I’m hungry,” a voice rasps. “Where’d that sludge bat go?”</p><p></p><p>“I dunno,” says another. “Shut up.”</p><p></p><p>Douvan also hears rats squeaking, and a few moments later several unsavory characters enter his sight. They’re ratmen, almost surely the lycanthrope kind, with elongated noses and twitching whiskers. They’re armed with shortswords, and the foremost wererat carries a torch. A few filthy rats scurry around their feet. </p><p></p><p><img src="http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew5.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p></p><p>Douvan presses his back against the wall, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. They’re heading his way, and their vision is much, much keener than his own. This is also their element, and he’s not sure if he can take on two of them at once. Separately perhaps, yes, but both? They’re filthy, cruel little monsters, and he is sorry that he encountered them. Worse, as lycanthropes, he lacks a silver weapon to make the wererats truly howl in pain. This won’t be easy.</p><p></p><p>The wererats push open a moldy door and root around inside, then exit again and stand at the lip of the channel. “We’ll jump,” one of them says. “Stand back, need room.”</p><p></p><p>Douvan sees his chance. He unslings his bow, peeking around the corner from cover. The ratman has backed up, testing his footing, and then sprints forward, gaining momentum to leap over the gap. Douvan readies to fire just as the wererat is about to leave his platform. The arrow catches him square in the chest. It shrieks in midair, floundering, hits the corner of the far walkway and flops into the water. It rises, sputtering and choking and squealing as the current carries it down the tunnel.</p><p></p><p>“Meazel! HELP!”</p><p></p><p><img src="http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew6.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p></p><p>The other wererat follows, extending a hand to pull him out. Smiling, Douvan shoulders his bow and backtracks until he finds a hidden storage room. Inside he finds some old mops, one of which is sturdy enough to use as a pole. Praying for the luck of Tymora, he prods the bottom of the stinking channel, and then hurls himself across. He thuds to the other side, safe and sound, and keeps walking. He soon finds a new door, but it is swollen in the frame. He rams a shoulder into it, bounces off, and then tries a better plan.</p><p></p><p>Skullthumper.</p><p></p><p>He takes the maul out and starts hitting the door. Cracks appear, spreading wider and wider, and soon he has battered the door down. He steps inside a disgusting room filled with rotting bags of grain covered with tiny black insects. There is a cracked barrel that he rolls in front of the door, and then he takes some time to reapply the pitch to his torch. There is only enough fuel left for a few minutes, but he still has the sunrods. Unfortunately, the sunrods will draw the attention of anything nearby long before Douvan sees it approaching. </p><p></p><p>He finds a second door, but there is only wrecked equipment beyond it. Then he sees the ladder.</p><p></p><p>The same sort of ladder that led him down here to begin with. He has just started climbing up rungs when he hears footsteps approaching! Outside the ravaged door he sees the wobble of torchlight. Fearing that is the wererats again, he climbs the ladder double haste, pushes through a lid at the top and finds himself in a narrow drainage tunnel flooded by a beautiful thing—</p><p></p><p>SUNLIGHT!</p><p></p><p>There is an iron grill above his head, but once he laces his fingers through it Douvan finds that the grill is firmly secured. He hears wagons outside rolling across flagstone streets and the neigh of horses. He sees legs walking by, so he’s probably standing in a drainage tunnel on a main thoroughfare. </p><p></p><p>“Hey! Someone help me!” he calls out. He’s ignored for the most part, and then he hears sounds from below. At least one person has entered the room beneath him. </p><p></p><p>“Is anybody there? I need out of here! Help!”</p><p></p><p>Finally, a pair of immaculate shoes stops beside the grate. The face is unseen because of the dazzling corona of the sun behind the man’s head. </p><p></p><p>“What are you doing in the drain?” asks the man. Douvan is VERY disappointed to find that the man’s voice is familiar. </p><p></p><p>“Ah…please…ah…please help me out,” he says lamely.</p><p></p><p>The other man is quiet for a moment, and then with an exasperated huff, mutters, “Very well. Stand back.” He pulls forth a maple wand, taps the iron grid, it shudders violently, and then peels back like the skin of a soft fruit. Thanking the gods for his fortune (and wondering at the incredible irony of his benefactor being someone he does not want to see again), makes sure his assumption is correct.</p><p></p><p>It is. His savior is none other than Balthazar of the Potion Emporium, with a rather mean-looking pseudodragon curled about his shoulders like a scaly cat. Up close Douvan sees his bushy black eyebrows, and the glint of intelligent green eyes. </p><p></p><p><img src="http://www.zikadik.com/silverymoon/balthazar.jpg" alt="" class="fr-fic fr-dii fr-draggable " style="" /></p><p></p><p>“Can you help me up?” asks Douvan. </p><p></p><p>Rolling his eyes, the mage in the pointed hat starts to oblige, but pulls back. “By the gods, man, you reek! No! I won’t help.” </p><p></p><p>Douvan pulls himself out and stands up, turns around calmly, and fires an arrow down the shaft. He hears a shriek. </p><p></p><p>“Do…I know you,” asks the wizard slowly.</p><p></p><p>Douvan shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t believe you do.”</p><p></p><p>The cage with Toady had been very dark, and Douvan scampered from sight before they had a good look. But the pseudodragon looks suspicious…and so does his master. </p><p></p><p>Nevertheless, Douvan thanks them again and then jogs into the crowded streets, putting as much distance as he can between them, and tries to remember how to get to the Green Tankard to tell Merric the story. He needs a beer after all of that.</p><p></p><p>And a bath.</p><p></p><p></p><p>And there we stopped.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Nebulous, post: 4614591, member: 31465"] [SIZE=4]Side Trek (II): The Streets of Silverymoon[/SIZE] [B]PART THREE[/B] He’s trapped down here. Wherever “here” is. He can’t see a thing in the pitch blackness. [img]http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew1.jpg[/img] He’s not terribly worried yet. He did not descend far; he’s surely in the upper level of Silverymoon’s sewer system, which is well maintained by sweepers and ratters. His keen directional sense gives him an idea of which way to go, and he knows that the aqueducts empty to the east. Plus, he has several sunrods that will light the way if all else fails, but he doesn’t want to use them quite yet. Too much light. Feeling along the wet, slick walls, Douvan eventually finds a torch sconce and half a torch. He lights it with tindertwigs and looks around him in the wan illumination. He’s on the cusp of a sluggish, stinking channel, bobbing with all sorts of glistening, unsavory things. Douvan starts walking toward what he hopes is an exit. [img]http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew2.jpg[/img] The debacle upstairs worries him though. Merple has never wronged Douvan, not that he’s aware, and his punishment at the hands of the mage seems unduly cruel. Transmogrification or Polymorph, whatever they call it, also seems illegal. Douvan starts to wonder if there is a way to blackmail the wizard, and then he has second thoughts about that as well. He’ll need to speak with Merric first. One must never be careless with a wizard. Half an hour later Douvan stops cold when he hears a new sound over the swish of dirty water – a rhythmic flapping like a wet leather sheet, and it is moving closer. He pulls his sword and waits, unable to see anything down the dingy tunnel more than twenty feet or so, listening to something draw nearer, and nearer, and nearer, and THEN— [img]http://www.zikadik.com/silverymoon/sew3.jpg[/img] [img]http://www.zikadik.com/silverymoon/sew4.jpg[/img] Something bulbous, pink and veined explodes around a corner at high speed! It careens off a wall and whips past him, darkness swallowing it within seconds, coming and going so fast that Douvan barely caught a glimpse. His heart rate finally starts to slow, and he thinks back on what he knows about creatures in the sewer system. It must have been a sludge bat, a relatively harmless if disgusting denizen of the region. He continues, eventually reaching a junction blocked by slick green slime dripping from the ceiling. He can possibly leap to the far side but would rather not risk it. Untold diseases lurk in the water. Douvan hunches down and waits, anticipating some flotsam and jetsam to float by eventually, maybe something that will support his weight so he can vault across. He hasn’t been waiting long when he hears voices in the distance. Douvan slowly grinds out his torch and retreats a short ways, watching torchlight approach from a tunnel across the watery channel. “I’m hungry,” a voice rasps. “Where’d that sludge bat go?” “I dunno,” says another. “Shut up.” Douvan also hears rats squeaking, and a few moments later several unsavory characters enter his sight. They’re ratmen, almost surely the lycanthrope kind, with elongated noses and twitching whiskers. They’re armed with shortswords, and the foremost wererat carries a torch. A few filthy rats scurry around their feet. [img]http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew5.jpg[/img] Douvan presses his back against the wall, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. They’re heading his way, and their vision is much, much keener than his own. This is also their element, and he’s not sure if he can take on two of them at once. Separately perhaps, yes, but both? They’re filthy, cruel little monsters, and he is sorry that he encountered them. Worse, as lycanthropes, he lacks a silver weapon to make the wererats truly howl in pain. This won’t be easy. The wererats push open a moldy door and root around inside, then exit again and stand at the lip of the channel. “We’ll jump,” one of them says. “Stand back, need room.” Douvan sees his chance. He unslings his bow, peeking around the corner from cover. The ratman has backed up, testing his footing, and then sprints forward, gaining momentum to leap over the gap. Douvan readies to fire just as the wererat is about to leave his platform. The arrow catches him square in the chest. It shrieks in midair, floundering, hits the corner of the far walkway and flops into the water. It rises, sputtering and choking and squealing as the current carries it down the tunnel. “Meazel! HELP!” [img]http://www.med.unc.edu/~saasha/keep/sew6.jpg[/img] The other wererat follows, extending a hand to pull him out. Smiling, Douvan shoulders his bow and backtracks until he finds a hidden storage room. Inside he finds some old mops, one of which is sturdy enough to use as a pole. Praying for the luck of Tymora, he prods the bottom of the stinking channel, and then hurls himself across. He thuds to the other side, safe and sound, and keeps walking. He soon finds a new door, but it is swollen in the frame. He rams a shoulder into it, bounces off, and then tries a better plan. Skullthumper. He takes the maul out and starts hitting the door. Cracks appear, spreading wider and wider, and soon he has battered the door down. He steps inside a disgusting room filled with rotting bags of grain covered with tiny black insects. There is a cracked barrel that he rolls in front of the door, and then he takes some time to reapply the pitch to his torch. There is only enough fuel left for a few minutes, but he still has the sunrods. Unfortunately, the sunrods will draw the attention of anything nearby long before Douvan sees it approaching. He finds a second door, but there is only wrecked equipment beyond it. Then he sees the ladder. The same sort of ladder that led him down here to begin with. He has just started climbing up rungs when he hears footsteps approaching! Outside the ravaged door he sees the wobble of torchlight. Fearing that is the wererats again, he climbs the ladder double haste, pushes through a lid at the top and finds himself in a narrow drainage tunnel flooded by a beautiful thing— SUNLIGHT! There is an iron grill above his head, but once he laces his fingers through it Douvan finds that the grill is firmly secured. He hears wagons outside rolling across flagstone streets and the neigh of horses. He sees legs walking by, so he’s probably standing in a drainage tunnel on a main thoroughfare. “Hey! Someone help me!” he calls out. He’s ignored for the most part, and then he hears sounds from below. At least one person has entered the room beneath him. “Is anybody there? I need out of here! Help!” Finally, a pair of immaculate shoes stops beside the grate. The face is unseen because of the dazzling corona of the sun behind the man’s head. “What are you doing in the drain?” asks the man. Douvan is VERY disappointed to find that the man’s voice is familiar. “Ah…please…ah…please help me out,” he says lamely. The other man is quiet for a moment, and then with an exasperated huff, mutters, “Very well. Stand back.” He pulls forth a maple wand, taps the iron grid, it shudders violently, and then peels back like the skin of a soft fruit. Thanking the gods for his fortune (and wondering at the incredible irony of his benefactor being someone he does not want to see again), makes sure his assumption is correct. It is. His savior is none other than Balthazar of the Potion Emporium, with a rather mean-looking pseudodragon curled about his shoulders like a scaly cat. Up close Douvan sees his bushy black eyebrows, and the glint of intelligent green eyes. [img]http://www.zikadik.com/silverymoon/balthazar.jpg[/img] “Can you help me up?” asks Douvan. Rolling his eyes, the mage in the pointed hat starts to oblige, but pulls back. “By the gods, man, you reek! No! I won’t help.” Douvan pulls himself out and stands up, turns around calmly, and fires an arrow down the shaft. He hears a shriek. “Do…I know you,” asks the wizard slowly. Douvan shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t believe you do.” The cage with Toady had been very dark, and Douvan scampered from sight before they had a good look. But the pseudodragon looks suspicious…and so does his master. Nevertheless, Douvan thanks them again and then jogs into the crowded streets, putting as much distance as he can between them, and tries to remember how to get to the Green Tankard to tell Merric the story. He needs a beer after all of that. And a bath. And there we stopped. [/QUOTE]
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