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Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 966341" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Chapter 3</p><p></p><p>As the sun began to set behind the distant western horizon, the fifty-foot high city walls of the city of Cauldron, fashioned of massive slabs of black malachite, blazed with a glow that seemed almost magical. In the light of the setting sun the wall became a temporary shining crescent that ran halfway around the circumference of the great caldera. It was a dramatic sight, but one that the city’s four and half thousand residents, accustomed to the view, generally ignored as they hastened to complete their day’s business before the final waning of the day. </p><p></p><p>As the final remnants of sunlight faded and the city settled into shadows the glows of lamps and torches began to pop up throughout the city. From above it appeared as though the lights were clinging to the interior slope of the crater, for the town descended in concentric rings until one reached the lip of the dark lake that filled the center of the dormant volcano. A hundred sounds filtered together within the confines of the bowl; the clop-clop of horses and the creak of wheels as teamsters hurried home after the final run of the day, the general sounds of a hundred different conversations as folk likewise returned from their daily labors, even the whisper of the evening breeze from the mountains as it passed over the walls and swirled for a bit within the crater before continuing on its way. </p><p></p><p>Zenna staggered with difficulty down the wide boulevard of Obsidian Street, the outermost of the four avenues that ringed the interior of the crater. The pain in her arms and legs had subsided to a mercifully dull ache, but every step she took felt increasingly difficult, as though she was walking up a hill that grew steeper with each passing stride. In her arms, clutched against her body, she bore the limp form of Mole, only the labored sound of her breathing offering reassurance that her friend still lived. </p><p></p><p>Around her passed shadows, the citizens of the crater town. Her own mixed heritage gave her the power to see as clearly in the dark as in the brightest day, but to her eyes the people around her were still shades, insubstantial beings rather than living, caring people. Thus far, at least, the people of Cauldron had proven less than considerate, not that Zenna had expected anything different. Since leaving her home, the tiefling girl’s perceptions of the world had grown increasingly cynical. Faerûn was a cruel and heartless place, this sentiment only reinforced by the things that she saw and heard, and only those with strength and determination survived. </p><p></p><p>She could not know that the people of Cauldron had been confronted with their own difficulties in recent tendays, and that it was in part the stranger woman’s own demeanor that drove them away, rather than offering to help. Those few people she’d asked for directions had been startled at the way she’d appeared, a cloaked figure with her cowl drawn well down to conceal her face, carrying a heavy burden close against her body, and speaking with a voice drawn to the edge of hysteria, turning away half-before the surprised townsperson could fully realize what was happening. </p><p></p><p>But Zenna, in her agitation, lacked the perspective to see this, instead projecting her own feelings onto the strangers around her. </p><p></p><p>At least she’d gotten into the city, she thought grimly. The guards had been suspicious of the lone woman arriving at the north gate as the sun was setting below the horizon, but at least they’d let her bring Mole into the guardhouse, and one of them, an old veteran who’d clearly seen his share of battlefield injuries, helped by cleaning the ugly wound in the gnome’s shoulder and applying a fresh bandage. They’d directed her to the church of Helm, a short distance from the north gate, where she could find a cleric to help her injured friend. </p><p></p><p>Zenna bit back a curse as her boot scuffed on a loose paving stone, barely recovering from her stumble before she fell. If those guards had sent a rider to get a cleric, Mole would already be well, instead of just clinging to life. That part of her that was mired in cynicism wondered what the guards would have said if they’d seen her true form. The <em>change self</em> spell was among the first that she’d learned, allowing her to hide, at least for a brief time, the obvious features that betrayed her heritage. That brief duration, in fact, was what had driven her to haste, all but grabbing her friend from the surprised guardsmen and heading into the city to find the promised cleric. </p><p></p><p>A thin voice in the back of her mind whispered a warning, of how the clerics of the Vigilant One might respond to her appearance, but she squashed that thought ruthlessly. She could not afford to let that divert her, for Mole’s sake. </p><p></p><p>But it was with a sob that she hurried on, carrying her stricken friend. </p><p></p><p>She passed before the mouth of a dark alley, and it was her distraction, rather than an inability to see through the shadows, that caused her to miss the watcher until she was almost right on top of him. </p><p></p><p>Surprised, she drew back suddenly, as the dark figure stepped out from his vantage in the lee of one of the high brick walls of the alleyway. </p><p></p><p>The stranger was a man, and with her darkvision Zenna could clearly see that he wore a mask—no, his face was painted, with a garish design that covered half of his face in black, the other in white. He wore his greasy black hair tugged back into a ponytail, and a silver stud glinted slightly in one earlobe. He was clad in a black tunic that could not fully conceal the bulk of armor underneath, and the hilt of a short stabbing sword jutted from his belt. </p><p></p><p>“Move on,” the man hissed. “This is none of your concern.”</p><p></p><p>Belatedly, Zenna became aware of a commotion further down the alley. Looking in that direction, she saw a pair of tall men, attired and disguised in similar fashion to the one before her. The two men were assaulting a third figure, who was sprawled out on the dirty cobbles between them, trying in vain to shield himself from the kicks that the other two were raining down on his torso. </p><p></p><p>Zenna felt two things simultaneously; a tremor of fear that clutched at her gut like a cold hand, and a surge of anger that was so intense that for a moment red flecks flared in her vision. The man watched her, his eyes wary, with a touch of nervousness as they flicked out over the main boulevard, but all Zenna saw was the sinister mien, the threat inherent in the man’s posture, that hilt that his hand drifted toward...</p><p></p><p>The conflicting surges of emotion gave her strength. Clutching Mole against her body with one hand, she twisted the fingers of another in an arcane gesture, close against her body where the man would be unlikely to see in the gathering gloom. She felt a tingle as magical power flowed through her, the touch of the Weave that always sent a rush like the first flush of intoxication into her body. It was addictive, that feeling. </p><p></p><p>Zenna opened her mouth, and the cry she uttered was a stark scream, sounding too-loud in the quiet murmur of the evening. </p><p></p><p>“Guards! Guards!”</p><p></p><p>“Damn it,” the masked man muttered, coming forward quickly, his sword hissing as it issued from its scabbard. He lifted the weapon with its hilt forward, perhaps intending to quiet her with a quick blow to her head. </p><p></p><p>But Zenna’s spell was already taking effect, and even as the echoes of her cry faded in the night, other sounds were audible from a short distance down the street. The sounds of heavy boots on the cobbles, the clank of metal on metal, the voices of men drawing nearer. On hearing them the man abruptly came up short, his attack arrested in mid-stroke. With only the briefest hesitation he darted into the alley, where his two compatriots had already interrupted their assault, listening. </p><p></p><p>“It’s Gothrok’s boys!” the watchman hissed, and with that the three turned as one and darted down the alley, where it sloped down sharply toward the next lower street below. Behind them their victim lay stirring on the ground, moving in obvious pain. </p><p></p><p>The sounds of the approaching guards faded—it had been merely an illusion, a <em>ghost sound</em> cantrip summoned by Zenna’s magic—and the young woman started back down the street toward her destination. Before she’d gone more than a few paces, however, she hesitated. In her arms, Mole was quiet, but Zenna could feel the soft rise and fall of her chest. As the rush of excitement from the brief confrontation faded, her exhaustion returned tenfold, and only determination kept her from sagging against the front of the nearby building. For a moment, she thought she could almost hear Mole’s voice, remonstrating with her in that way she always did. </p><p></p><p>Sighing, she turned back to the alley and the battered victim of the masked men’s mugging.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 966341, member: 143"] Chapter 3 As the sun began to set behind the distant western horizon, the fifty-foot high city walls of the city of Cauldron, fashioned of massive slabs of black malachite, blazed with a glow that seemed almost magical. In the light of the setting sun the wall became a temporary shining crescent that ran halfway around the circumference of the great caldera. It was a dramatic sight, but one that the city’s four and half thousand residents, accustomed to the view, generally ignored as they hastened to complete their day’s business before the final waning of the day. As the final remnants of sunlight faded and the city settled into shadows the glows of lamps and torches began to pop up throughout the city. From above it appeared as though the lights were clinging to the interior slope of the crater, for the town descended in concentric rings until one reached the lip of the dark lake that filled the center of the dormant volcano. A hundred sounds filtered together within the confines of the bowl; the clop-clop of horses and the creak of wheels as teamsters hurried home after the final run of the day, the general sounds of a hundred different conversations as folk likewise returned from their daily labors, even the whisper of the evening breeze from the mountains as it passed over the walls and swirled for a bit within the crater before continuing on its way. Zenna staggered with difficulty down the wide boulevard of Obsidian Street, the outermost of the four avenues that ringed the interior of the crater. The pain in her arms and legs had subsided to a mercifully dull ache, but every step she took felt increasingly difficult, as though she was walking up a hill that grew steeper with each passing stride. In her arms, clutched against her body, she bore the limp form of Mole, only the labored sound of her breathing offering reassurance that her friend still lived. Around her passed shadows, the citizens of the crater town. Her own mixed heritage gave her the power to see as clearly in the dark as in the brightest day, but to her eyes the people around her were still shades, insubstantial beings rather than living, caring people. Thus far, at least, the people of Cauldron had proven less than considerate, not that Zenna had expected anything different. Since leaving her home, the tiefling girl’s perceptions of the world had grown increasingly cynical. Faerûn was a cruel and heartless place, this sentiment only reinforced by the things that she saw and heard, and only those with strength and determination survived. She could not know that the people of Cauldron had been confronted with their own difficulties in recent tendays, and that it was in part the stranger woman’s own demeanor that drove them away, rather than offering to help. Those few people she’d asked for directions had been startled at the way she’d appeared, a cloaked figure with her cowl drawn well down to conceal her face, carrying a heavy burden close against her body, and speaking with a voice drawn to the edge of hysteria, turning away half-before the surprised townsperson could fully realize what was happening. But Zenna, in her agitation, lacked the perspective to see this, instead projecting her own feelings onto the strangers around her. At least she’d gotten into the city, she thought grimly. The guards had been suspicious of the lone woman arriving at the north gate as the sun was setting below the horizon, but at least they’d let her bring Mole into the guardhouse, and one of them, an old veteran who’d clearly seen his share of battlefield injuries, helped by cleaning the ugly wound in the gnome’s shoulder and applying a fresh bandage. They’d directed her to the church of Helm, a short distance from the north gate, where she could find a cleric to help her injured friend. Zenna bit back a curse as her boot scuffed on a loose paving stone, barely recovering from her stumble before she fell. If those guards had sent a rider to get a cleric, Mole would already be well, instead of just clinging to life. That part of her that was mired in cynicism wondered what the guards would have said if they’d seen her true form. The [I]change self[/I] spell was among the first that she’d learned, allowing her to hide, at least for a brief time, the obvious features that betrayed her heritage. That brief duration, in fact, was what had driven her to haste, all but grabbing her friend from the surprised guardsmen and heading into the city to find the promised cleric. A thin voice in the back of her mind whispered a warning, of how the clerics of the Vigilant One might respond to her appearance, but she squashed that thought ruthlessly. She could not afford to let that divert her, for Mole’s sake. But it was with a sob that she hurried on, carrying her stricken friend. She passed before the mouth of a dark alley, and it was her distraction, rather than an inability to see through the shadows, that caused her to miss the watcher until she was almost right on top of him. Surprised, she drew back suddenly, as the dark figure stepped out from his vantage in the lee of one of the high brick walls of the alleyway. The stranger was a man, and with her darkvision Zenna could clearly see that he wore a mask—no, his face was painted, with a garish design that covered half of his face in black, the other in white. He wore his greasy black hair tugged back into a ponytail, and a silver stud glinted slightly in one earlobe. He was clad in a black tunic that could not fully conceal the bulk of armor underneath, and the hilt of a short stabbing sword jutted from his belt. “Move on,” the man hissed. “This is none of your concern.” Belatedly, Zenna became aware of a commotion further down the alley. Looking in that direction, she saw a pair of tall men, attired and disguised in similar fashion to the one before her. The two men were assaulting a third figure, who was sprawled out on the dirty cobbles between them, trying in vain to shield himself from the kicks that the other two were raining down on his torso. Zenna felt two things simultaneously; a tremor of fear that clutched at her gut like a cold hand, and a surge of anger that was so intense that for a moment red flecks flared in her vision. The man watched her, his eyes wary, with a touch of nervousness as they flicked out over the main boulevard, but all Zenna saw was the sinister mien, the threat inherent in the man’s posture, that hilt that his hand drifted toward... The conflicting surges of emotion gave her strength. Clutching Mole against her body with one hand, she twisted the fingers of another in an arcane gesture, close against her body where the man would be unlikely to see in the gathering gloom. She felt a tingle as magical power flowed through her, the touch of the Weave that always sent a rush like the first flush of intoxication into her body. It was addictive, that feeling. Zenna opened her mouth, and the cry she uttered was a stark scream, sounding too-loud in the quiet murmur of the evening. “Guards! Guards!” “Damn it,” the masked man muttered, coming forward quickly, his sword hissing as it issued from its scabbard. He lifted the weapon with its hilt forward, perhaps intending to quiet her with a quick blow to her head. But Zenna’s spell was already taking effect, and even as the echoes of her cry faded in the night, other sounds were audible from a short distance down the street. The sounds of heavy boots on the cobbles, the clank of metal on metal, the voices of men drawing nearer. On hearing them the man abruptly came up short, his attack arrested in mid-stroke. With only the briefest hesitation he darted into the alley, where his two compatriots had already interrupted their assault, listening. “It’s Gothrok’s boys!” the watchman hissed, and with that the three turned as one and darted down the alley, where it sloped down sharply toward the next lower street below. Behind them their victim lay stirring on the ground, moving in obvious pain. The sounds of the approaching guards faded—it had been merely an illusion, a [I]ghost sound[/I] cantrip summoned by Zenna’s magic—and the young woman started back down the street toward her destination. Before she’d gone more than a few paces, however, she hesitated. In her arms, Mole was quiet, but Zenna could feel the soft rise and fall of her chest. As the rush of excitement from the brief confrontation faded, her exhaustion returned tenfold, and only determination kept her from sagging against the front of the nearby building. For a moment, she thought she could almost hear Mole’s voice, remonstrating with her in that way she always did. Sighing, she turned back to the alley and the battered victim of the masked men’s mugging. [/QUOTE]
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