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Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
- Thread starter Destan
- Start date
The day a story hour as superb as this is banned because of controversy will be the day I leave EN World.
Without fresh ideas and the controversy that comes with them, there can be no progress. All the musicians, artists and writers that we now consider great were controversial in their time because they challenged the norm by expressing themselves in ways that others found unconscionable. They went against what society or religion believed was acceptable and made people think in different ways.
I know this is an unecesarry rant because the thread is safe, but even the idea of this story hour being shut down because some people found it too hot to handle makes me extremely angry.
Rock on D-man.
Without fresh ideas and the controversy that comes with them, there can be no progress. All the musicians, artists and writers that we now consider great were controversial in their time because they challenged the norm by expressing themselves in ways that others found unconscionable. They went against what society or religion believed was acceptable and made people think in different ways.
I know this is an unecesarry rant because the thread is safe, but even the idea of this story hour being shut down because some people found it too hot to handle makes me extremely angry.
Rock on D-man.
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Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Luke's First Laugh
In the end, the rain had made their decision an easy one. The morning after…the morning after they had faced Ippizicus Child-Eater, the black-fleeced heavens opened with a vengeance. A deluge lasting three days had settled upon central Valusia, turning the Battlemarch into an infestation of muddy pools and near-concealed bogs. After their wagon had become lodged in the mud for the third time in as many hours, the Larrenman directed the party south across the plains until reaching the Great Coastal Road. The rolling fields were pockmarked with rocks and rivulets, but the land thereabouts was higher than the Battlemarch and not nearly as sodden.
Hence, the party made their return to Ciddry along a different route than that utilized on their departure. Travelers – mostly merchant caravans heading between Val Hor and Mon Mith – were more common along the Coastal Road than they had been on the Battlemarch, and the terrain to either side was devoid of much in the way of cover. Thus Raylin no longer scouted ahead of the group, for attempting to avoid fellow travelers was a hopeless proposition.
So it was that, when the lumbering wagons of the southbound caravan first came into view, the party could do nothing but pull over to the side of the roadway and wait.
“Ale and warmth, friends,” called the lead drover in Valusian. The man pulled on the reins of his team, doffed his cap, and nodded.
Raylin spread his hands from astride his own mount. “Ale and warmth. What news from the north?”
“Wet. But clear.” The man dug into his cheek, pulled forth a badly-worried sprig of root, and tossed the herb into a water-filled rut. “’Least ‘tis clear this side ‘o Jedborough. Drier, too, once ye be travelin’ underneath the Grove.”
Raylin nodded. “Those are glad tidings.” The ranger jerked his chin southward. “The road south is much the same. Lots of traffic in and out of Mon Mith, though.”
“Sure there is, sure there is,” agreed the man. “There’s soon to be a war, and Mon Mith is a welcoming harlot for those carrying food. You come up from the city, then?”
“Aye,” Raylin lied.
The man took a moment to eye Raylin’s companions. His gaze lingered on the dwarf and the half-troll. “Yer an odd bunch, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
A horseman wandered forward. The man was garbed in a sodden cloak of mouse fur, a great helm hanging from the cantle of his saddle. “An odd bunch,” he echoed, “with an odd wagon.”
Raylin let his smile fade as he watched the rider approach.
The man peered through the bars into the now-empty cage. John leaned forward and likewise looked into the wagon. Both men eyed one another silently before John said, simply enough, “Bears.”
“Eh?” The caravan guard squinted.
“Bears from the Borsk. We sold ‘em to a tavern owner in Mon Mith.” John paused before continuing. “The man holds a bear-baiting about this time each year. Stuffs the beasts’ snouts full o’ pepper before loosing the hounds on ‘em.”
“Does he now?” The man frowned. “I been to Mon Mith more times than ye have hairs on your groin, sir. Never seen no bear-baiting.”
The man sat back in his saddle. “Thought that was some fool sport they did down by way of Reynholt and parts south.” He eyed John. “You sound like a southlander.”
John recalled how Edric of Tarn Cal had once said much the same thing, only to be struck dead by Amelyssan’s arcane bolt. The bard desperately hoped it would not come to blows – the past twenty days had shown him enough bloodshed to last the next twenty winters.
Still, one needed to be prepared. John looked over the speaker’s shoulder at his fellows. Ten men. Two on each of their four wagons, and two on horseback. Cudgels, crossbows, leather armor. The rider before him was the only one in mail – it glistened with rainwater underneath the mouse-fur cloak. John tried to sound friendly, “Perhaps because I am from Pell-”
“Pell?” A voice suddenly called out from the second wagon. An overweight man stood, huffing, and dropped over the side. He strode forward with his hands in his belt. As he looked up at John, recognition spread across his face.
John threw back his head and laughed, relief flooding his veins. “Laughing Luke! By the sixty great gods, you do get around, don’t you?”
Luke held his belly as he chortled. “Well, John, these parts are surely far from the Pink Brothel, but – you know me - I go where I smell coin.”
John dismounted and embraced the fat man as the two groups bore silent witness to the sudden turn of events. John held Luke at arms’ length for a moment. “You always could smell gold, couldn’t you?”
“Always,” Luke said without hesitation, pressing a finger to his bulbous nose. “And them fool Luc Valusians will pay damned near my asking price for food, arrows, oil. They be quaking in their boots, fearing the Apians mean to invade with the spring.”
John nodded noncommittally, apparently unconcerned with any talk of military conflict, “What has it been – a year? Two? The last I saw you, you had nearly choked to death. I told you no man could stuff ten prawns in his mouth…”
“Ah, well,” Luke had the grace to appear sheepish. “You offered to pay five crowns for each o’ them, so I was determined to do my best.”
“What have you been doing since then, Luke?”
“Growing rich,” Luke answered at once. “My purse is nearly as heavy as my belly. Been so long here in the north that I even bought a house - on the Fenfinger south and west of Jedborough. Ever been there?”
“No,” John shook his head. “I heard it’s a miserable place.”
“Worse now, for I brought Mia and the girls up here with me.” Luke earned his moniker with another guffaw. “But what of you?” The merchant glanced at the caged wagon. “Bears, truly?”
“No, not truly.” John winked at the horseman that had been questioning him earlier. The man’s face grew flushed.
Luke followed John’s look and grinned. “Corban is a good man. I pay him to be suspicious. And he don’t like southlanders too much.”
“You’re a southlander,” John reminded.
“Aye, well, I pay him enough to forget.” Luke looked at the stone-faced guardsman. “In the southlands, ‘tis a well-known fact that one must ask John of Pell the same question three times before digging the truth from him.”
Luke patted John on the shoulder. “But, enough of me! What of you, John? I see you have made friends.” The merchant leaned forward and whispered with feigned conspiracy. “They’re not nearly as easy on the eyes as them you used to frolic with.”
John feigned surprise as he studied his companions with Luke. “Why, I don’t suppose they are…but the dwarf is considered a real looker among his clan, or so he claims. And, I must admit, the elf has grown on me.”
Luke and John were alone in their laughter. Neither seemed bothered by the fact.
John continued. “Alas, we were hired by the Lord of Longsnow to pull some rabble from his dungeons and transport them the Mon Mith. The poor fellows will doubtless be manning the battlements when the Imperials arrive, but I suppose it’ll be a sight better than scratching ticks on a dungeon wall.”
Luke digested this latest fabrication for but a moment. “Ah, Johnny,” he chuckled, “that seems like an awful lot o’ traveling just to deliver some poor fools for the fighting this spring. I see no colors of Longsnow, nor Valudia, on your breasts or beasts. And since when did those lords north of the Jaspar give a fig about helping those to the south?”
“Since the Queen offered three crowns for each able-bodied man to aid in the defense of Mon Mith.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, Johnny.” Luke waved a hand. “Working for some Longsnow noble ain’t your style.”
John shrugged. “I’ve matured.”
“Auril’s ass, I say!” Luke slapped his fat hands against his legs. “Tell it true, John.”
John allowed the mirth leave his face. “Since you asked me a third time, I suppose I shall have to.”
“Do not,” warned Raylin.
John ignored his companion, relishing the theatrical drama of the moment, then answered, almost casually. “Five days ago we - my homely companions and I - were on the banks of the Bluehorn in a ruined church. While there, we summoned a demon.
“And then we killed him.”
Luke took a moment to collect himself. “Gods and devils, but I believe you.” His eyes were as wide as platinum plates. “Now that would be a story I’d like to hear you tell.”
“Happy to,” John quickly answered.
The bard glanced, somewhat guiltily, at the smoldering faces of his companions before wrapping an arm about Luke. “Tell your men to pull off the road. If I know you, you’ve enough wine and food to feed an army – and do it in style. You share your meal with my companions and I, and I'll share our tale with you.”
“Done,” Luke said at once. “What is the story called?”
John stopped walking and tilted his head in thought. The Larrenman’s Last Stand? The Abyssal Battle of the Bluehorn? Children’s Vengeance? No, no, and no. Suddenly, John snapped his fingers. “Why, the tale is called - How John of Pell Slew Ippizicus Child-Eater.”
“Not entirely imaginative,” observed Luke wryly.
“Nor entirely true,” agreed John, unruffled. “But let’s not let that ruin the story.”
I'm placing this little 'Easter egg' here. Since the advent of the Word documents that include all the posts from this first Sins' thread, I'd imagine no one actually reads the orginal internet updates. If you are here, then it means I was wrong. Go ahead and post, on this old thread, and I'll send you a free copy of the Valus sourcebook and the Return of Ippizicus Child-Eater module. Just my way of saying thanks to anyone who's slogging through these old posts.
UPDATE: Dolza won this little contest about one day after I posted it. Thought it would last longer. If you're reading this now, I apologize - but I'd still like to hear from folks who are reading through these old messages!
In the end, the rain had made their decision an easy one. The morning after…the morning after they had faced Ippizicus Child-Eater, the black-fleeced heavens opened with a vengeance. A deluge lasting three days had settled upon central Valusia, turning the Battlemarch into an infestation of muddy pools and near-concealed bogs. After their wagon had become lodged in the mud for the third time in as many hours, the Larrenman directed the party south across the plains until reaching the Great Coastal Road. The rolling fields were pockmarked with rocks and rivulets, but the land thereabouts was higher than the Battlemarch and not nearly as sodden.
Hence, the party made their return to Ciddry along a different route than that utilized on their departure. Travelers – mostly merchant caravans heading between Val Hor and Mon Mith – were more common along the Coastal Road than they had been on the Battlemarch, and the terrain to either side was devoid of much in the way of cover. Thus Raylin no longer scouted ahead of the group, for attempting to avoid fellow travelers was a hopeless proposition.
So it was that, when the lumbering wagons of the southbound caravan first came into view, the party could do nothing but pull over to the side of the roadway and wait.
“Ale and warmth, friends,” called the lead drover in Valusian. The man pulled on the reins of his team, doffed his cap, and nodded.
Raylin spread his hands from astride his own mount. “Ale and warmth. What news from the north?”
“Wet. But clear.” The man dug into his cheek, pulled forth a badly-worried sprig of root, and tossed the herb into a water-filled rut. “’Least ‘tis clear this side ‘o Jedborough. Drier, too, once ye be travelin’ underneath the Grove.”
Raylin nodded. “Those are glad tidings.” The ranger jerked his chin southward. “The road south is much the same. Lots of traffic in and out of Mon Mith, though.”
“Sure there is, sure there is,” agreed the man. “There’s soon to be a war, and Mon Mith is a welcoming harlot for those carrying food. You come up from the city, then?”
“Aye,” Raylin lied.
The man took a moment to eye Raylin’s companions. His gaze lingered on the dwarf and the half-troll. “Yer an odd bunch, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
A horseman wandered forward. The man was garbed in a sodden cloak of mouse fur, a great helm hanging from the cantle of his saddle. “An odd bunch,” he echoed, “with an odd wagon.”
Raylin let his smile fade as he watched the rider approach.
The man peered through the bars into the now-empty cage. John leaned forward and likewise looked into the wagon. Both men eyed one another silently before John said, simply enough, “Bears.”
“Eh?” The caravan guard squinted.
“Bears from the Borsk. We sold ‘em to a tavern owner in Mon Mith.” John paused before continuing. “The man holds a bear-baiting about this time each year. Stuffs the beasts’ snouts full o’ pepper before loosing the hounds on ‘em.”
“Does he now?” The man frowned. “I been to Mon Mith more times than ye have hairs on your groin, sir. Never seen no bear-baiting.”
The man sat back in his saddle. “Thought that was some fool sport they did down by way of Reynholt and parts south.” He eyed John. “You sound like a southlander.”
John recalled how Edric of Tarn Cal had once said much the same thing, only to be struck dead by Amelyssan’s arcane bolt. The bard desperately hoped it would not come to blows – the past twenty days had shown him enough bloodshed to last the next twenty winters.
Still, one needed to be prepared. John looked over the speaker’s shoulder at his fellows. Ten men. Two on each of their four wagons, and two on horseback. Cudgels, crossbows, leather armor. The rider before him was the only one in mail – it glistened with rainwater underneath the mouse-fur cloak. John tried to sound friendly, “Perhaps because I am from Pell-”
“Pell?” A voice suddenly called out from the second wagon. An overweight man stood, huffing, and dropped over the side. He strode forward with his hands in his belt. As he looked up at John, recognition spread across his face.
John threw back his head and laughed, relief flooding his veins. “Laughing Luke! By the sixty great gods, you do get around, don’t you?”
Luke held his belly as he chortled. “Well, John, these parts are surely far from the Pink Brothel, but – you know me - I go where I smell coin.”
John dismounted and embraced the fat man as the two groups bore silent witness to the sudden turn of events. John held Luke at arms’ length for a moment. “You always could smell gold, couldn’t you?”
“Always,” Luke said without hesitation, pressing a finger to his bulbous nose. “And them fool Luc Valusians will pay damned near my asking price for food, arrows, oil. They be quaking in their boots, fearing the Apians mean to invade with the spring.”
John nodded noncommittally, apparently unconcerned with any talk of military conflict, “What has it been – a year? Two? The last I saw you, you had nearly choked to death. I told you no man could stuff ten prawns in his mouth…”
“Ah, well,” Luke had the grace to appear sheepish. “You offered to pay five crowns for each o’ them, so I was determined to do my best.”
“What have you been doing since then, Luke?”
“Growing rich,” Luke answered at once. “My purse is nearly as heavy as my belly. Been so long here in the north that I even bought a house - on the Fenfinger south and west of Jedborough. Ever been there?”
“No,” John shook his head. “I heard it’s a miserable place.”
“Worse now, for I brought Mia and the girls up here with me.” Luke earned his moniker with another guffaw. “But what of you?” The merchant glanced at the caged wagon. “Bears, truly?”
“No, not truly.” John winked at the horseman that had been questioning him earlier. The man’s face grew flushed.
Luke followed John’s look and grinned. “Corban is a good man. I pay him to be suspicious. And he don’t like southlanders too much.”
“You’re a southlander,” John reminded.
“Aye, well, I pay him enough to forget.” Luke looked at the stone-faced guardsman. “In the southlands, ‘tis a well-known fact that one must ask John of Pell the same question three times before digging the truth from him.”
Luke patted John on the shoulder. “But, enough of me! What of you, John? I see you have made friends.” The merchant leaned forward and whispered with feigned conspiracy. “They’re not nearly as easy on the eyes as them you used to frolic with.”
John feigned surprise as he studied his companions with Luke. “Why, I don’t suppose they are…but the dwarf is considered a real looker among his clan, or so he claims. And, I must admit, the elf has grown on me.”
Luke and John were alone in their laughter. Neither seemed bothered by the fact.
John continued. “Alas, we were hired by the Lord of Longsnow to pull some rabble from his dungeons and transport them the Mon Mith. The poor fellows will doubtless be manning the battlements when the Imperials arrive, but I suppose it’ll be a sight better than scratching ticks on a dungeon wall.”
Luke digested this latest fabrication for but a moment. “Ah, Johnny,” he chuckled, “that seems like an awful lot o’ traveling just to deliver some poor fools for the fighting this spring. I see no colors of Longsnow, nor Valudia, on your breasts or beasts. And since when did those lords north of the Jaspar give a fig about helping those to the south?”
“Since the Queen offered three crowns for each able-bodied man to aid in the defense of Mon Mith.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, Johnny.” Luke waved a hand. “Working for some Longsnow noble ain’t your style.”
John shrugged. “I’ve matured.”
“Auril’s ass, I say!” Luke slapped his fat hands against his legs. “Tell it true, John.”
John allowed the mirth leave his face. “Since you asked me a third time, I suppose I shall have to.”
“Do not,” warned Raylin.
John ignored his companion, relishing the theatrical drama of the moment, then answered, almost casually. “Five days ago we - my homely companions and I - were on the banks of the Bluehorn in a ruined church. While there, we summoned a demon.
“And then we killed him.”
Luke took a moment to collect himself. “Gods and devils, but I believe you.” His eyes were as wide as platinum plates. “Now that would be a story I’d like to hear you tell.”
“Happy to,” John quickly answered.
The bard glanced, somewhat guiltily, at the smoldering faces of his companions before wrapping an arm about Luke. “Tell your men to pull off the road. If I know you, you’ve enough wine and food to feed an army – and do it in style. You share your meal with my companions and I, and I'll share our tale with you.”
“Done,” Luke said at once. “What is the story called?”
John stopped walking and tilted his head in thought. The Larrenman’s Last Stand? The Abyssal Battle of the Bluehorn? Children’s Vengeance? No, no, and no. Suddenly, John snapped his fingers. “Why, the tale is called - How John of Pell Slew Ippizicus Child-Eater.”
“Not entirely imaginative,” observed Luke wryly.
“Nor entirely true,” agreed John, unruffled. “But let’s not let that ruin the story.”
I'm placing this little 'Easter egg' here. Since the advent of the Word documents that include all the posts from this first Sins' thread, I'd imagine no one actually reads the orginal internet updates. If you are here, then it means I was wrong. Go ahead and post, on this old thread, and I'll send you a free copy of the Valus sourcebook and the Return of Ippizicus Child-Eater module. Just my way of saying thanks to anyone who's slogging through these old posts.
UPDATE: Dolza won this little contest about one day after I posted it. Thought it would last longer. If you're reading this now, I apologize - but I'd still like to hear from folks who are reading through these old messages!
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Lela
First Post
Well, I have missed the hubub, haven't I?
First, I'd like to say to Destan that you definitally did not loose me as a reader (he had expressed concern via e-mail). If anything, I have been drawn depper into this tale. My absence has been due a large commotion involving a 17 page research paper (not mine, thank every good-aligned thing in existance) that prevented internet access on my part.
Truely, this really is one of the best stories I've ever read. My hopes to become both a better DM and a better writer because of your story are, IMO, very well founded. And, even if I didn't, I would enjoy reading it just the same.
And, hay, if a mod were to have shut you down, I would insist you e-mail me updates regularly. I'm sure others would too.
So, on to the last post,
You've got some of the best lines I've ever read. If there's one line that describes John, that's it. That's sig worthy, that is.
Now I just have to bite my nails until the next time you update.
Edit: As a side note, how does one pronounce Ippizicus?
First, I'd like to say to Destan that you definitally did not loose me as a reader (he had expressed concern via e-mail). If anything, I have been drawn depper into this tale. My absence has been due a large commotion involving a 17 page research paper (not mine, thank every good-aligned thing in existance) that prevented internet access on my part.
Truely, this really is one of the best stories I've ever read. My hopes to become both a better DM and a better writer because of your story are, IMO, very well founded. And, even if I didn't, I would enjoy reading it just the same.
And, hay, if a mod were to have shut you down, I would insist you e-mail me updates regularly. I'm sure others would too.
So, on to the last post,
Destan said:
You've got some of the best lines I've ever read. If there's one line that describes John, that's it. That's sig worthy, that is.
Now I just have to bite my nails until the next time you update.
Edit: As a side note, how does one pronounce Ippizicus?
Last edited:
Karrisbane
First Post
Lela said:
ih-PIHZ-ih-cuss. All the "i"s are soft.
Amelyssan
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A self-portrait
Ale and Warmth to all.
Since Destan is out of town for a bit, I thought I might throw out a little treat for all his fans.
The attached file not only allows you all to feast your eyes on my rugged good looks, but also shows the basic size and shape of the Isle of Valusia in the background. The little red circle over my shoulder is my beloved home port, the free-city of Pell.
John of Pell
Ale and Warmth to all.
Since Destan is out of town for a bit, I thought I might throw out a little treat for all his fans.
The attached file not only allows you all to feast your eyes on my rugged good looks, but also shows the basic size and shape of the Isle of Valusia in the background. The little red circle over my shoulder is my beloved home port, the free-city of Pell.
John of Pell
Attachments
Cheiromancer
Adventurer
Bump!
