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The Adventures of Olgar Shiverstone (Angelsboi: In memorium)
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<blockquote data-quote="Olgar Shiverstone" data-source="post: 261706" data-attributes="member: 5868"><p><strong>Ch 2, cont.</strong></p><p></p><p>Olgar awoke in a sweat. <em>What an ‘orrible nightmare!</em> he thought,<em> it was so real. A vision from Kraig? </em> It the middle of the night, and the party was camped in a small grove just off the main road, still a day’s march out of Aerolite City.</p><p></p><p>“Wodyn, wake up!” Olgar called. “I jus’ had a vision!” He kicked the halfling and kobold awake, and related the vision excitedly as the others stared at him groggily. </p><p></p><p>“That no nightmare. That dream,” the kobold said dismissively, and rolled over and went back to sleep. </p><p></p><p><em>Alton would’a understood it, bloody kobold wench.</em> Olgar shrugged, and went back to sleep himself, haunted by dreams of an ambush in a cobblestone alleyway.</p><p></p><p></p><p>The group arrived on the outskirts of Aerolite City two mornings later without incident. Aerolite City was a city in name only; it had the appearance of a large but prosperous town of about 2,000 souls. The buildings were stone, packed closely together, and the streets were cobbled. </p><p></p><p><em>Streets’re oddly familiar,</em> Olgar thought, and then dismissed the thought. He had a temple to find.</p><p></p><p>A rapidly growing tent city was being erected just outside the city gate. As the adventurers passed by, they overheard a great deal of talk about an upcoming bardic competition, scheduled to be held that very evening. Many of the locals seemed quite agitated about it – something about a murder or murders in town.</p><p></p><p>Olgar approached one of the locals who was jabbering away excitedly about the recent murders, and asked for directions to the temple of Kraig.</p><p></p><p>“South end of town,” the local woman replied. “Are ye sure you want to go there. Don’t think the two little one’s’ll survive!” This last was said as she waved at the halfling and kobold.</p><p></p><p>“Aye, yes!” Olgar replied with a broad grin, and the group set off for the south end of town.</p><p></p><p>As they walked, the halfling asked curiously, “So, did you hear them talking about the murder in town?”</p><p></p><p>“Local problem,” Olgar growled, “none o’ our business. We gots our own work t’ do, get’n me head fixed ‘n all, ‘n th’ items we looted off’n that priest o’ Moloch figg’red out. No need t’ go stickin’ our noses inta som’n else’s business.”</p><p></p><p>The group halted outside a large building that appeared to be a tavern. A sign out from read “The Prancing Alehouse” and depicted a bar stool zipping through the air. The human and halfling looked at each other, then back at the building. Olgar was already making his way up the steps. The halfling followed a few feet behind him.</p><p></p><p>Olgar ducked as he pushed the front doors open, allowing the chair that came tumbling through the opening to pass safely over his head. The flying furniture knocked the halfling flat, sending him sprawling back down the steps. </p><p></p><p>Inside the building, a full-fledged bar brawl appeared to be in session. Insults, catcalls, mugs, and bits of tables and chairs flew back and forth across the room. A number of dwarves in armor seemed to be hitting each other with various bits of the furniture. A tall human was breaking a chair over the head of a female dwarf who was carrying two pitchers of ale. In one corner, a group of feral-looking elves dressed in loincloths were cutting at each other with small daggers. In another was the only quiet soul in the place, a colorfully-dressed dwarf with a lute at one side, who was scribbling on a piece of parchment between smacking the occasional bystander with his instrument. Even the dwarven bartender was throwing empty bottles at his patrons. It was a scene of total chaos.</p><p></p><p>“Ah, home!” Olgar sighed, and with a grin he pushed his way into the throng, dropping one dwarf who stepped into his path with a stiff arm to the forehead. “Ale fer me ‘n me companions!” he shouted to the bartender over the din, “an’ kin ye point me t’ th’ high priest?”</p><p></p><p>“Yer talking t’him,” the bartender replied, “An’ what’s so important ye must interrupt me at vespers?”</p><p></p><p>“Aye, yer worship,” Olgar replied, “I know it be the pratyt hour ‘n all, and we should be celebrat’n Kraig wi’ a bit o’ destruction an’ comradely warriorship, but we ha’ urgent business. We run afoul o’ an evil temple, an’ it did this t’ me,” pointing at his recently acquired brow ridges, “a devoted chaplain o’ Kraig.”</p><p></p><p>“I see,” the high priest/bartender replied, “I’ll give ye a moment t’ explain it. Are they with ye?” he asked, pointing at the others, who were trying to avoid being brained by flying bits of furniture.</p><p></p><p>“Aye,” Olgar replied, “’r t’least we’re travell’n in t’ same direction fer now.”</p><p></p><p>“Very well, follow me.”</p><p></p><p>The priest led them back down a long hallway lined with doors on either side. Far from the din of the common room, he opened the door to a large office and ushered them inside. The room was plain – spartan, even – but held one object of great interest. A greatsword, burning brightly with crimson flames, hung point down behind the desk.</p><p></p><p>Olgar made the sign of the fist, holy symbol of Kraig, and nodded toward the sword, symbol of “Kraig’s Blessing.” He then took a seat with the others, as the old dwarf sat behind the desk, pulling out a set of glasses, demeanor completely changed from the wild man who had been throwing bottles across the bar a few moments earlier.</p><p></p><p>“All, right, tell me yer story,” he said.</p><p></p><p>Olgar motioned to Wodyn, who related their story at great length, passing the items they had discovered in the hidden temple across the desk one at a time.</p><p></p><p>“We was hopin’ ye might be able t’ tell us what they are, ye worship, and help me atone fer th’ curse ‘r some such as well,” Olgar said, as Wodyn finished relating the story.</p><p></p><p>The old man considered for a long while, examining each of the objects in turn.</p><p></p><p>“I can tell you some, but not much,” the dwarf finally continued. “There is a name scribed here on the wand ‘Neiltar Nomasday,’ but what the wand does I cannot tell you, nor the other items. This book with the strange writing deals with an ancient purification ritual, though I can tell you little else. Find a library or temple of knowledge for that. There are temples to Moloch, Veriday, Obi, and Jewel in town that might tell you more. This other book appears to be a diary. It is written in a language that is familiar, but I cannot quite place it. Give me a day or two, and I might be able to translate it for you. As for yer atonement, I am but a humble priest, and granting that is far beyond my abilities. You will have to travel to Aphis, Averna, or Oerid for that.”</p><p></p><p><em>Bloody useless,</em> Olgar thought. The group collected up the majority of the items, leaving the diary with the priest.</p><p></p><p>“Ken we stay a few days?” Olgar asked, as they prepared to return to the common room.</p><p></p><p>“Of course, fer one of the faith. But yer friends will of course have to provide a suitable donation,” the old dwarf said reverently. The others reluctantly handed over a few coins each. “See me again in two days, an’ with luck I’ll have the book translated for ye.”</p><p></p><p>The party departed. Olgar decided it was time to pay his respects to Kraig, and joined the brawl in the common room. Soon he was happily throwing chairs and turning over tables with the rest of the dwarven acolytes. Wodyn leaned against one wall, taking in the scene, while Belarn dodged kicks and punches and went to hide in the corner. Soon he was in conversation with the dwarven minstrel. Between blows to the head, Olgar noticed Yuusdrail slinking back out through the front door, cloak pulled down over her head and tail.</p><p></p><p><em>Could pass fer an ugly peck under tha’ cloak, </em>Olgar thought, <em>good riddance an’ hope ye never return.</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Olgar Shiverstone, post: 261706, member: 5868"] [b]Ch 2, cont.[/b] Olgar awoke in a sweat. [i]What an ‘orrible nightmare![/i] he thought,[i] it was so real. A vision from Kraig? [/i] It the middle of the night, and the party was camped in a small grove just off the main road, still a day’s march out of Aerolite City. “Wodyn, wake up!” Olgar called. “I jus’ had a vision!” He kicked the halfling and kobold awake, and related the vision excitedly as the others stared at him groggily. “That no nightmare. That dream,” the kobold said dismissively, and rolled over and went back to sleep. [i]Alton would’a understood it, bloody kobold wench.[/i] Olgar shrugged, and went back to sleep himself, haunted by dreams of an ambush in a cobblestone alleyway. The group arrived on the outskirts of Aerolite City two mornings later without incident. Aerolite City was a city in name only; it had the appearance of a large but prosperous town of about 2,000 souls. The buildings were stone, packed closely together, and the streets were cobbled. [i]Streets’re oddly familiar,[/i] Olgar thought, and then dismissed the thought. He had a temple to find. A rapidly growing tent city was being erected just outside the city gate. As the adventurers passed by, they overheard a great deal of talk about an upcoming bardic competition, scheduled to be held that very evening. Many of the locals seemed quite agitated about it – something about a murder or murders in town. Olgar approached one of the locals who was jabbering away excitedly about the recent murders, and asked for directions to the temple of Kraig. “South end of town,” the local woman replied. “Are ye sure you want to go there. Don’t think the two little one’s’ll survive!” This last was said as she waved at the halfling and kobold. “Aye, yes!” Olgar replied with a broad grin, and the group set off for the south end of town. As they walked, the halfling asked curiously, “So, did you hear them talking about the murder in town?” “Local problem,” Olgar growled, “none o’ our business. We gots our own work t’ do, get’n me head fixed ‘n all, ‘n th’ items we looted off’n that priest o’ Moloch figg’red out. No need t’ go stickin’ our noses inta som’n else’s business.” The group halted outside a large building that appeared to be a tavern. A sign out from read “The Prancing Alehouse” and depicted a bar stool zipping through the air. The human and halfling looked at each other, then back at the building. Olgar was already making his way up the steps. The halfling followed a few feet behind him. Olgar ducked as he pushed the front doors open, allowing the chair that came tumbling through the opening to pass safely over his head. The flying furniture knocked the halfling flat, sending him sprawling back down the steps. Inside the building, a full-fledged bar brawl appeared to be in session. Insults, catcalls, mugs, and bits of tables and chairs flew back and forth across the room. A number of dwarves in armor seemed to be hitting each other with various bits of the furniture. A tall human was breaking a chair over the head of a female dwarf who was carrying two pitchers of ale. In one corner, a group of feral-looking elves dressed in loincloths were cutting at each other with small daggers. In another was the only quiet soul in the place, a colorfully-dressed dwarf with a lute at one side, who was scribbling on a piece of parchment between smacking the occasional bystander with his instrument. Even the dwarven bartender was throwing empty bottles at his patrons. It was a scene of total chaos. “Ah, home!” Olgar sighed, and with a grin he pushed his way into the throng, dropping one dwarf who stepped into his path with a stiff arm to the forehead. “Ale fer me ‘n me companions!” he shouted to the bartender over the din, “an’ kin ye point me t’ th’ high priest?” “Yer talking t’him,” the bartender replied, “An’ what’s so important ye must interrupt me at vespers?” “Aye, yer worship,” Olgar replied, “I know it be the pratyt hour ‘n all, and we should be celebrat’n Kraig wi’ a bit o’ destruction an’ comradely warriorship, but we ha’ urgent business. We run afoul o’ an evil temple, an’ it did this t’ me,” pointing at his recently acquired brow ridges, “a devoted chaplain o’ Kraig.” “I see,” the high priest/bartender replied, “I’ll give ye a moment t’ explain it. Are they with ye?” he asked, pointing at the others, who were trying to avoid being brained by flying bits of furniture. “Aye,” Olgar replied, “’r t’least we’re travell’n in t’ same direction fer now.” “Very well, follow me.” The priest led them back down a long hallway lined with doors on either side. Far from the din of the common room, he opened the door to a large office and ushered them inside. The room was plain – spartan, even – but held one object of great interest. A greatsword, burning brightly with crimson flames, hung point down behind the desk. Olgar made the sign of the fist, holy symbol of Kraig, and nodded toward the sword, symbol of “Kraig’s Blessing.” He then took a seat with the others, as the old dwarf sat behind the desk, pulling out a set of glasses, demeanor completely changed from the wild man who had been throwing bottles across the bar a few moments earlier. “All, right, tell me yer story,” he said. Olgar motioned to Wodyn, who related their story at great length, passing the items they had discovered in the hidden temple across the desk one at a time. “We was hopin’ ye might be able t’ tell us what they are, ye worship, and help me atone fer th’ curse ‘r some such as well,” Olgar said, as Wodyn finished relating the story. The old man considered for a long while, examining each of the objects in turn. “I can tell you some, but not much,” the dwarf finally continued. “There is a name scribed here on the wand ‘Neiltar Nomasday,’ but what the wand does I cannot tell you, nor the other items. This book with the strange writing deals with an ancient purification ritual, though I can tell you little else. Find a library or temple of knowledge for that. There are temples to Moloch, Veriday, Obi, and Jewel in town that might tell you more. This other book appears to be a diary. It is written in a language that is familiar, but I cannot quite place it. Give me a day or two, and I might be able to translate it for you. As for yer atonement, I am but a humble priest, and granting that is far beyond my abilities. You will have to travel to Aphis, Averna, or Oerid for that.” [i]Bloody useless,[/i] Olgar thought. The group collected up the majority of the items, leaving the diary with the priest. “Ken we stay a few days?” Olgar asked, as they prepared to return to the common room. “Of course, fer one of the faith. But yer friends will of course have to provide a suitable donation,” the old dwarf said reverently. The others reluctantly handed over a few coins each. “See me again in two days, an’ with luck I’ll have the book translated for ye.” The party departed. Olgar decided it was time to pay his respects to Kraig, and joined the brawl in the common room. Soon he was happily throwing chairs and turning over tables with the rest of the dwarven acolytes. Wodyn leaned against one wall, taking in the scene, while Belarn dodged kicks and punches and went to hide in the corner. Soon he was in conversation with the dwarven minstrel. Between blows to the head, Olgar noticed Yuusdrail slinking back out through the front door, cloak pulled down over her head and tail. [i]Could pass fer an ugly peck under tha’ cloak, [/i]Olgar thought, [i]good riddance an’ hope ye never return.[/i] [/QUOTE]
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