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The Ambergate Chronicles - Galahorn or the Curious Adventure of the Glass Coffin
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<blockquote data-quote="eris404" data-source="post: 2609299" data-attributes="member: 5338"><p><strong>Chapter Two - Nightmares</strong></p><p></p><p>Our students have left Ambergate. If you follow this road, not much more than a wide, dusty path from years of wagon traffic, you can catch up with them in no time. Worthen’s wagon is driven by two strong, thick-bodied horses. Worthen sits on the bench in front while Dante, Serai and George ride in the hay-filled cart. Jade has his own horse, a sleek animal with a dark mane and white spot between its eyes, and rides beside the wagon. It’s an Elvin breed, with a proud bearing and a sure, light step.</p><p></p><p>Worthen begins, “You know, there was a dragon in Bellhold about fifty years ago. Copperdeath was its name and it lived in the copper mines near the town. It enslaved the entire town, every last man, woman and child, to mine the copper for it.”</p><p></p><p>“What did it do with the copper?” Dante asks.</p><p></p><p>Worthen shrugs. “Who knows what’s in a dragon’s mind? No one was certainly going to ask it. Anyway, some ‘adventurers’ came into town and killed Copperdeath. The townsfolk were so happy that they treated these heroes like the emperor himself. The adventurers decided they liked the town well enough and so they stayed. Their children live there to this day. It’s a nice little town, though I’ve heard rumors lately about a plague. Not like any sickness I’ve ever heard of, though. People say they get nightmares and can’t sleep most of the night. Some think the water’s been poisoned. Others think the dragon is back and is avenging itself.”</p><p></p><p>“The masters wouldn’t send us there if they thought it was truly dangerous, would they?”</p><p></p><p>Worthen smiles. “Of course not! Sometimes simple folk get superstitious and turn small things into disasters. I hear they worship Dagoth there. I’m surprised missionaries from the Church haven’t put an end to that.”</p><p></p><p>Dante’s eyes widen at that name: Dagoth, the God of Nightmares, a mysterious deity of unknown origins.</p><p></p><p>“What do you know of Dagoth?” Serai asks, a certain tension in her voice.</p><p></p><p>Worthen shrugs. “You’re the student, you should tell me about Dagoth. He causes bad dreams. What else do you need to know?”</p><p></p><p>At this point, the conversation finds a desert and dries up. The dull fog of boredom settles over our little party once the novelty and excitement of travel expires. It is unpleasant to be so confined for so long in such an uncomfortable vehicle, with nothing but the slowly passing landscape (mostly farms on low hills with copses of wood, seldom changing) and the monotonous creak of wagon wheels for company. Dante occupies himself by reading a large tome he borrowed from the school’s library. Serai and George chat with Worthen about the trees, the trail and whatever ordinary details about the town ahead he wishes to part with, but they soon tire of the effort. Jade, inscrutable as ever, watches the land as if expecting an ambush. His viper lays coiled about his neck and warms itself between his cloak and body heat.</p><p></p><p>George asks the elf, “Does your snake have a name?”</p><p></p><p>“Vor,” Jade replies.</p><p></p><p>“Vor?” George repeats. He isn’t sure he heard that properly.</p><p></p><p>The elf thinks for a moment, then adds, “Martha.”</p><p></p><p>Not wanting to seem dense, George refrains from asking him more. Instead, he whispers to Serai, “Which is it, Vor or Martha?” She shrugs and shakes her head.</p><p></p><p>Now, George is bored, and he would like for the conversation to continue, but he can’t think of anything to talk about. He doesn’t want to consider the coming school year, for example, let alone speak of it. He knows nothing more of Bellhold to add and Ambergate seems suddenly dull when considering the exotic places Serai has lived and visited. The landscape of farmland is achingly same and if it wasn’t for the punctuations of milestones, and the rough jostling of the wagon’s wheels in the ruts of the roads, he might believe they were standing perfectly still. This trip has become tedious, George is disappointed to discover, and he fears the worst, that it will be a waste of several precious days of freedom before the new school year starts.</p><p></p><p>So our little group drowses in the warm autumn afternoon and even the horses plod along half-asleep, until sharp-eared Jade hisses and announces the approach of another traveler, coming from the direction of Bellhold, with a curt “Look!”</p><p></p><p>You’ll see the traveler in a few moments: a plain-looking man in homely-woven clothes and a straw hat to keep the sun off his bearded face. An old, stubborn ox drives his cart, which is crammed full of sacks, barrels, boxes, crates and odd bits of furniture. It takes him a little while to get within earshot of Worthen’s wagon, but the students are already perked with interest and Worthen waves his friendliest greeting. The man slows his beast with a few tugs on the reins and appraises Worthen with a suspicious eye.</p><p></p><p>“You’re coming from Bellhold?” Worthen asks.</p><p></p><p>The man spits to ward off bad luck, a peasant superstition, before he speaks. “Lived there all my life and leaving now. I’d do the same if I were you.”</p><p></p><p>Dante’s breath catches and he asks quickly, “Why? What’s the matter? We’ve heard all manner of strange rumors.”</p><p></p><p>The man grunts, “All of it true, no doubt. Awful bad dreams, a plague of them, if you ask me. Town’s cursed and the very water is poison. Don’t go there, I say. Turn back and leave it to the Nightmare God.”</p><p></p><p>Dante and George exchange glances before Dante continues, “I’m afraid we have business to conduct there. Surely it isn’t as bad as you say?”</p><p></p><p>“It’s worse,” the man snaps. “Not a precious moment of sleep none of us have had. The folk snarl and snap like starving dogs at each other.” He shakes his head. “Even my poor ol’ dog here growls and nips and twitches in his sleep.” He pats the old, sad-eyed hound lying by his side. “I had to leave my whole life back there. But it’s better to flee and lose your livelihood than lose your life.” He points an accusing finger at Worthen. “If you be so foolish to go to Bellhold and take these whelps with you, the Nightmare God can have you. Me, I can’t leave fast enough.” He clicks his tongue and snaps the reigns. The heavy ox stirs and plods on, slow but obliging.</p><p></p><p>“What do you think that was all about?” George exclaims after the man has moved on. But no one answers him. Dante is already jotting notes in the margins of his book, while Worthen and Jade scan the landscape as if the very trees might attack. Serai has pulled her knees up to her chest and hugs them as if to seal and protect herself.</p><p></p><p>The air of foreboding and wariness finally infects George as well and he takes from his bag a special leather case. If you notice, he has a matching leather holster on his belt. Actually, you can’t miss it, since it holds a heavy pistol with a long barrel decorated with curlicues and other abstract, and arcane, designs. The case holds small jars and oilcans, soft cloths and brushes. He smiles at the familiar smell of grease and metal and absorbs himself with the homey task of cleaning his pistol.</p><p></p><p>Serai had noticed the pistol before, but until now has been too polite or distracted to ask about it. So George is surprised, but glad, when Serai unfolds herself and crawls over the straw to inspect the pistol.</p><p></p><p>“Is it a magical pistol?” she asks.</p><p></p><p>“No, it’s just an old military pistol. Unna gave it to me for passing my examinations last year.” He sees her brow furrow slightly, so he explains, “Unna is a smith at Emrys College. She’s been my mentor since I first came to Ambergate. Sort of like a mother, actually. I’m not the best student and I’ve been close to failing so many times that I’ve lost count. I know she’d keep me on as her apprentice, but she doesn’t think that’s good enough. She wants me to graduate and become a real mage, make my family proud.” He hesitates. “I’m not a very good mage. I can manage a few cantrips, but not much else. I can’t seem to get the hang of the memorization, though I could mimic the effect if someone showed it to me first.” George flushes, embarrassed. He shoots a steely look at Worthen and Jade, as if to daring them to laugh, but neither seems interested in this conversation. Scowling, he steals a look at Dante, but the pale, thin lad is hiding behind his book. By the redness in his ears, George judges Dante is embarrassed, too.</p><p></p><p>“So why the gun?” Serai asks. If she notices George’s discomfort, she has the grace not to mention it.</p><p></p><p>George shrugs. “I just liked it. I was always asking to borrow it anyway and I was a decent enough shot. And I like mechanical things, I’m pretty good at fixing them. She thought maybe I’d make a good alchemist and she could teach me how to make gunpowder and whatnot. Then one day I was watching the mage blades spar in the courtyard and I realized what they were doing, that they were channeling magic through their swords. And I wondered if I could do that, too.”</p><p></p><p>“Channel magic?”</p><p></p><p>He nods. “Through the pistol. Using it as a focus instead of the special ingredients the wizards use. Only I can’t find anyone to teach me how to do it properly, so I’m having to figure it out on my own.”</p><p></p><p>Absently, Serai touches the crystal where it rests on her brow. She frowns a moment in thought, then replies, “I don’t think some things can be taught, George. I think some people are just born with a talent. Someone can help you refine it, but if it isn’t there to begin with…” She pauses, letting the thought go unfinished. “You recognize something in it you can’t describe, like a sense of kinship, a shared soul.”</p><p></p><p>George turns to Dante, who has been listening to and staring at them all along, the book open but forgotten on his lap.</p><p></p><p>“That’s an interesting observation,” Dante notes. “I think the same could be said of quite a few people.”</p><p></p><p>“Some of who may be in this very wagon,” she replies with a smirk.</p><p></p><p>“Look,” Jade interrupts, his voice blade sharp. Quick hoof beats and shouts erupt from up ahead. Jade spurs his sleek, red-brown horse to a gallop and George, expecting trouble, loads his pistol with charge and shot. They see men in rough, work-stained clothes chasing a horse, which whinnies and gallops at a merry pace. Jade reaches the renegade first, his horse matching it stride for stride, and with a gentle hand calms the beast to a walk. The men are all laughs and grins now, shaking hands with the dismounted elf and slapping him on the shoulder. The students climb out of the wagon, eager for an excuse to stand and stretch. They yawn. Most of the day is gone and the sun is sinking into the trees on the horizon.</p><p></p><p>One of the men, a kindly-faced fatherly type with silver hair, introduces himself as Othic, the owner of the local farm from which this horse escaped. His house is nearby and would they like to join him for dinner and a night of rest? The weary travelers are happy to accept his invitation and are treated to a hot stew of vegetables and rabbit meat in a thick, savory sauce. Dante thinks to ask if Othic has been troubled by bad dreams, and though he has heard the townsfolk complain of such, his sleep is untroubled, though he does admit his water comes from a well, not the river that flows near town. The students drink deeply the water from his well and fall into sound and pleasant sleep. They look peaceful, don’t they?</p><p></p><p>In Bellhold, a loud copper bell rings in its tower at sunset. You can see a faint glimmer of the last sunlight play across its tarnished curves. The night comes.</p><p></p><p>At the inn, men speak in subdued voices over warm, bitter beer. Look in the window: even with the merry fire in the grille, it is a dark and cheerless place. The men have sunken eyes burning with weariness, and yet none are in any hurry to get home to bed. One slumps on the table only to wake himself with a start a moment later. Several reflect on the objects hung on the wall: a pitted sword, a dwarven battleaxe, a badly dented round shield and a talon far too large for any normal animal. Mostly, it’s the talon that holds their attention, but what they think of it they share with no one. Outside a man is screaming, warning them of the apocalypse and their impeding doom. The men in the tavern groan.</p><p></p><p>“Shut him up” someone snarls, to no one in particular. But the barkeep is listening and finds the poor soul outside. He brings a dish of warm food and a mug of beer with him, a peace offering. The raving man spits and smashes the mug to the ground.</p><p></p><p>“Poison!” he screams.</p><p></p><p>“Cobble, please.” The barkeep pleads. “You’re annoying my customers. Please, go home, try to get some sleep.”</p><p></p><p>“Sleep!” Cobble shrieks. “No, not sleep! The dragon awaits in sleep! We are abandoned to Dagoth! Expect no mercy, you poisoner, you filth eater!” He snatches the bowl away and tosses the food at the innkeeper. Down his apron, brown gravy and lumps of meat run in warm, thick rivers.</p><p></p><p>“What did you call me?” the bartender snaps. “Get away! GET OUT!”</p><p></p><p>Cobble dances away, frightened but still shrieking nonsense and bloody spittle. Irritable, sleepy faces poke out from windows and doors from nearby cottages. A few people shout for quiet – sweet, merciful Alioth, be quiet! But Cobble is already gone, leaving the innkeeper shaking with rage in the street. With a vicious snarl, he kicks everyone out of the bar for the night and throws a pail of water on the fire – he cannot bear to look at the flames any longer. He is so very tired, but instead of going to his bed, he sits on a bench and stares into the darkness until he can no longer tell if his eyes are opened or closed.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="eris404, post: 2609299, member: 5338"] [b]Chapter Two - Nightmares[/b] Our students have left Ambergate. If you follow this road, not much more than a wide, dusty path from years of wagon traffic, you can catch up with them in no time. Worthen’s wagon is driven by two strong, thick-bodied horses. Worthen sits on the bench in front while Dante, Serai and George ride in the hay-filled cart. Jade has his own horse, a sleek animal with a dark mane and white spot between its eyes, and rides beside the wagon. It’s an Elvin breed, with a proud bearing and a sure, light step. Worthen begins, “You know, there was a dragon in Bellhold about fifty years ago. Copperdeath was its name and it lived in the copper mines near the town. It enslaved the entire town, every last man, woman and child, to mine the copper for it.” “What did it do with the copper?” Dante asks. Worthen shrugs. “Who knows what’s in a dragon’s mind? No one was certainly going to ask it. Anyway, some ‘adventurers’ came into town and killed Copperdeath. The townsfolk were so happy that they treated these heroes like the emperor himself. The adventurers decided they liked the town well enough and so they stayed. Their children live there to this day. It’s a nice little town, though I’ve heard rumors lately about a plague. Not like any sickness I’ve ever heard of, though. People say they get nightmares and can’t sleep most of the night. Some think the water’s been poisoned. Others think the dragon is back and is avenging itself.” “The masters wouldn’t send us there if they thought it was truly dangerous, would they?” Worthen smiles. “Of course not! Sometimes simple folk get superstitious and turn small things into disasters. I hear they worship Dagoth there. I’m surprised missionaries from the Church haven’t put an end to that.” Dante’s eyes widen at that name: Dagoth, the God of Nightmares, a mysterious deity of unknown origins. “What do you know of Dagoth?” Serai asks, a certain tension in her voice. Worthen shrugs. “You’re the student, you should tell me about Dagoth. He causes bad dreams. What else do you need to know?” At this point, the conversation finds a desert and dries up. The dull fog of boredom settles over our little party once the novelty and excitement of travel expires. It is unpleasant to be so confined for so long in such an uncomfortable vehicle, with nothing but the slowly passing landscape (mostly farms on low hills with copses of wood, seldom changing) and the monotonous creak of wagon wheels for company. Dante occupies himself by reading a large tome he borrowed from the school’s library. Serai and George chat with Worthen about the trees, the trail and whatever ordinary details about the town ahead he wishes to part with, but they soon tire of the effort. Jade, inscrutable as ever, watches the land as if expecting an ambush. His viper lays coiled about his neck and warms itself between his cloak and body heat. George asks the elf, “Does your snake have a name?” “Vor,” Jade replies. “Vor?” George repeats. He isn’t sure he heard that properly. The elf thinks for a moment, then adds, “Martha.” Not wanting to seem dense, George refrains from asking him more. Instead, he whispers to Serai, “Which is it, Vor or Martha?” She shrugs and shakes her head. Now, George is bored, and he would like for the conversation to continue, but he can’t think of anything to talk about. He doesn’t want to consider the coming school year, for example, let alone speak of it. He knows nothing more of Bellhold to add and Ambergate seems suddenly dull when considering the exotic places Serai has lived and visited. The landscape of farmland is achingly same and if it wasn’t for the punctuations of milestones, and the rough jostling of the wagon’s wheels in the ruts of the roads, he might believe they were standing perfectly still. This trip has become tedious, George is disappointed to discover, and he fears the worst, that it will be a waste of several precious days of freedom before the new school year starts. So our little group drowses in the warm autumn afternoon and even the horses plod along half-asleep, until sharp-eared Jade hisses and announces the approach of another traveler, coming from the direction of Bellhold, with a curt “Look!” You’ll see the traveler in a few moments: a plain-looking man in homely-woven clothes and a straw hat to keep the sun off his bearded face. An old, stubborn ox drives his cart, which is crammed full of sacks, barrels, boxes, crates and odd bits of furniture. It takes him a little while to get within earshot of Worthen’s wagon, but the students are already perked with interest and Worthen waves his friendliest greeting. The man slows his beast with a few tugs on the reins and appraises Worthen with a suspicious eye. “You’re coming from Bellhold?” Worthen asks. The man spits to ward off bad luck, a peasant superstition, before he speaks. “Lived there all my life and leaving now. I’d do the same if I were you.” Dante’s breath catches and he asks quickly, “Why? What’s the matter? We’ve heard all manner of strange rumors.” The man grunts, “All of it true, no doubt. Awful bad dreams, a plague of them, if you ask me. Town’s cursed and the very water is poison. Don’t go there, I say. Turn back and leave it to the Nightmare God.” Dante and George exchange glances before Dante continues, “I’m afraid we have business to conduct there. Surely it isn’t as bad as you say?” “It’s worse,” the man snaps. “Not a precious moment of sleep none of us have had. The folk snarl and snap like starving dogs at each other.” He shakes his head. “Even my poor ol’ dog here growls and nips and twitches in his sleep.” He pats the old, sad-eyed hound lying by his side. “I had to leave my whole life back there. But it’s better to flee and lose your livelihood than lose your life.” He points an accusing finger at Worthen. “If you be so foolish to go to Bellhold and take these whelps with you, the Nightmare God can have you. Me, I can’t leave fast enough.” He clicks his tongue and snaps the reigns. The heavy ox stirs and plods on, slow but obliging. “What do you think that was all about?” George exclaims after the man has moved on. But no one answers him. Dante is already jotting notes in the margins of his book, while Worthen and Jade scan the landscape as if the very trees might attack. Serai has pulled her knees up to her chest and hugs them as if to seal and protect herself. The air of foreboding and wariness finally infects George as well and he takes from his bag a special leather case. If you notice, he has a matching leather holster on his belt. Actually, you can’t miss it, since it holds a heavy pistol with a long barrel decorated with curlicues and other abstract, and arcane, designs. The case holds small jars and oilcans, soft cloths and brushes. He smiles at the familiar smell of grease and metal and absorbs himself with the homey task of cleaning his pistol. Serai had noticed the pistol before, but until now has been too polite or distracted to ask about it. So George is surprised, but glad, when Serai unfolds herself and crawls over the straw to inspect the pistol. “Is it a magical pistol?” she asks. “No, it’s just an old military pistol. Unna gave it to me for passing my examinations last year.” He sees her brow furrow slightly, so he explains, “Unna is a smith at Emrys College. She’s been my mentor since I first came to Ambergate. Sort of like a mother, actually. I’m not the best student and I’ve been close to failing so many times that I’ve lost count. I know she’d keep me on as her apprentice, but she doesn’t think that’s good enough. She wants me to graduate and become a real mage, make my family proud.” He hesitates. “I’m not a very good mage. I can manage a few cantrips, but not much else. I can’t seem to get the hang of the memorization, though I could mimic the effect if someone showed it to me first.” George flushes, embarrassed. He shoots a steely look at Worthen and Jade, as if to daring them to laugh, but neither seems interested in this conversation. Scowling, he steals a look at Dante, but the pale, thin lad is hiding behind his book. By the redness in his ears, George judges Dante is embarrassed, too. “So why the gun?” Serai asks. If she notices George’s discomfort, she has the grace not to mention it. George shrugs. “I just liked it. I was always asking to borrow it anyway and I was a decent enough shot. And I like mechanical things, I’m pretty good at fixing them. She thought maybe I’d make a good alchemist and she could teach me how to make gunpowder and whatnot. Then one day I was watching the mage blades spar in the courtyard and I realized what they were doing, that they were channeling magic through their swords. And I wondered if I could do that, too.” “Channel magic?” He nods. “Through the pistol. Using it as a focus instead of the special ingredients the wizards use. Only I can’t find anyone to teach me how to do it properly, so I’m having to figure it out on my own.” Absently, Serai touches the crystal where it rests on her brow. She frowns a moment in thought, then replies, “I don’t think some things can be taught, George. I think some people are just born with a talent. Someone can help you refine it, but if it isn’t there to begin with…” She pauses, letting the thought go unfinished. “You recognize something in it you can’t describe, like a sense of kinship, a shared soul.” George turns to Dante, who has been listening to and staring at them all along, the book open but forgotten on his lap. “That’s an interesting observation,” Dante notes. “I think the same could be said of quite a few people.” “Some of who may be in this very wagon,” she replies with a smirk. “Look,” Jade interrupts, his voice blade sharp. Quick hoof beats and shouts erupt from up ahead. Jade spurs his sleek, red-brown horse to a gallop and George, expecting trouble, loads his pistol with charge and shot. They see men in rough, work-stained clothes chasing a horse, which whinnies and gallops at a merry pace. Jade reaches the renegade first, his horse matching it stride for stride, and with a gentle hand calms the beast to a walk. The men are all laughs and grins now, shaking hands with the dismounted elf and slapping him on the shoulder. The students climb out of the wagon, eager for an excuse to stand and stretch. They yawn. Most of the day is gone and the sun is sinking into the trees on the horizon. One of the men, a kindly-faced fatherly type with silver hair, introduces himself as Othic, the owner of the local farm from which this horse escaped. His house is nearby and would they like to join him for dinner and a night of rest? The weary travelers are happy to accept his invitation and are treated to a hot stew of vegetables and rabbit meat in a thick, savory sauce. Dante thinks to ask if Othic has been troubled by bad dreams, and though he has heard the townsfolk complain of such, his sleep is untroubled, though he does admit his water comes from a well, not the river that flows near town. The students drink deeply the water from his well and fall into sound and pleasant sleep. They look peaceful, don’t they? In Bellhold, a loud copper bell rings in its tower at sunset. You can see a faint glimmer of the last sunlight play across its tarnished curves. The night comes. At the inn, men speak in subdued voices over warm, bitter beer. Look in the window: even with the merry fire in the grille, it is a dark and cheerless place. The men have sunken eyes burning with weariness, and yet none are in any hurry to get home to bed. One slumps on the table only to wake himself with a start a moment later. Several reflect on the objects hung on the wall: a pitted sword, a dwarven battleaxe, a badly dented round shield and a talon far too large for any normal animal. Mostly, it’s the talon that holds their attention, but what they think of it they share with no one. Outside a man is screaming, warning them of the apocalypse and their impeding doom. The men in the tavern groan. “Shut him up” someone snarls, to no one in particular. But the barkeep is listening and finds the poor soul outside. He brings a dish of warm food and a mug of beer with him, a peace offering. The raving man spits and smashes the mug to the ground. “Poison!” he screams. “Cobble, please.” The barkeep pleads. “You’re annoying my customers. Please, go home, try to get some sleep.” “Sleep!” Cobble shrieks. “No, not sleep! The dragon awaits in sleep! We are abandoned to Dagoth! Expect no mercy, you poisoner, you filth eater!” He snatches the bowl away and tosses the food at the innkeeper. Down his apron, brown gravy and lumps of meat run in warm, thick rivers. “What did you call me?” the bartender snaps. “Get away! GET OUT!” Cobble dances away, frightened but still shrieking nonsense and bloody spittle. Irritable, sleepy faces poke out from windows and doors from nearby cottages. A few people shout for quiet – sweet, merciful Alioth, be quiet! But Cobble is already gone, leaving the innkeeper shaking with rage in the street. With a vicious snarl, he kicks everyone out of the bar for the night and throws a pail of water on the fire – he cannot bear to look at the flames any longer. He is so very tired, but instead of going to his bed, he sits on a bench and stares into the darkness until he can no longer tell if his eyes are opened or closed. [/QUOTE]
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The Ambergate Chronicles - Galahorn or the Curious Adventure of the Glass Coffin
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