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Story Hour
The Fall of Civilization
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<blockquote data-quote="the Jester" data-source="post: 4646570" data-attributes="member: 1210"><p>General Argos’ hands clutch the bars of his tiny window. He stares, full of despair, as the sun sinks another time in the west. Another day draws to a close- and with every day, the troops of the enemy draw closer. With a groan, he presses his forehead against the wall. <em>They’re going to execute me. Or leave me to rot. Or release me when it’s too late- when the enemy is already at the gates.</em> He closes his eyes. <em>And then I won’t be able to do anything other than slow them down. I have to get out of here!</em> His thoughts turn to his adjutant, loyal throughout the years. <em>Jaxe, if you have any strings left to pull, pull them now. There is no more time to waste!</em></p><p></p><p>It cannot be real- it must be his imagination- but General Argos thinks, for a moment, that he catches a whiff of the unique smoke that comes from battle: burning wood, and sulfur, and tar; and the porcine smell of burning human flesh, too.</p><p></p><p>He shudders. <em>Not yet,</em> he thinks. </p><p></p><p>In his mind’s eye, he pictures orcs, goblins, kobolds rushing through the streets of Fandelose, putting people to the sword. He can see his troops, even under the command of a brilliant successor, being slaughtered by the overwhelming forces of the Six-Fingered Hand. Buildings smashed down by ogres. The tower he is in, burned, falling, killing him without ever giving him a chance to fight back. The people of Fandelose, impaled with their bellies slit open for the amusement of Heshwat the Eviscerator, master of the forces of the Six-Fingered Hand in this area. </p><p></p><p>He shudders, and shudders, and shudders, all through his nightmares, all the way until dawn.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Forty miles away, the town of Lopack burns. It is too far from the Black Tower that Argos is imprisoned in for him to have scented it- but Argos <em>knows.</em> His mind contains a perfect map of the region, with all the military routes, paths, tracks and trails picked out in exquisite detail.</p><p></p><p>If the Hand is on track, he knows, they will have reached Lopack yesterday or today.</p><p></p><p>Woe to the townsfolk.</p><p></p><p>The enemy swept in, goblin worg-riders at the forefront. Their loud whoops woke and panicked the peasants. A few grabbed up pitchforks or rakes to defend themselves and their land. By the time they reached the town’s main square, several houses on the outskirts were already aflame. Before they could organize a defense, the swift worgs carried their riders into the mass of the town, snarling and snapping and slashing and stabbing. The cobblestones of the square were slick with blood, and then soon covered in a thick wet inch of it. </p><p></p><p>Some locked themselves in their homes, only to be burned out or slaughtered when the orcs rampaged in, looking for rapine and loot. Others fled for the outskirts of the town, only to find- to their horror- that they were already surrounded.</p><p></p><p>The lucky ones were killed in the fields and streets of Lopack. The unlucky would die, too, but not a clean death. Not at all. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The Gentlemen’s Club is a high-class place. Exclusive. No rabble allowed. The decor is lush but not decadent. There are nice plants growing in plots. And drinks. Lots of drinks.</p><p></p><p>Hkatha walks with all of the swagger that his station in life entitles him to- not to mention his heritage! He belongs in places like this. Despite his tiefling horns, his blood is blue. His family has a lot of money and power. He is entitled to come here, where no lesser entities are allowed. </p><p></p><p>Chiron daVoi, as always, looks bored. He hies himself to a dice table and lays down an extravagant wager before picking up the bones and giving them an inattentive toss. General Pythock’s eyes are glued to the dice. They bounce a few times before coming to rest. </p><p></p><p>“Eh,” daVoi says dismissively, as the house takes his bet. He puts down another. “Bring me a drink, Millbury.” daVoi’s henchman scurries off; meanwhile, he picks up the dice again and gives another toss, losing another small fortune. He shrugs. “Not my table,” he sniffs, and moves to the next. General Pythock takes his place, greedily grabbing up the dice. But Hkatha notices that his wager is significantly smaller than daVoi’s was.</p><p></p><p>The tiefling plucks a tall glass of wine from a serving girl and moves to the dice table General Pythock is at. The game changes to Bone Racing, a competitive dice game with four players. Hkatha plays, but doesn’t bet too extravagantly. He is already rather in debt from recent weeks, and doesn’t want to get in too much deeper. The family fortune is generous, but has been severely depleted in recent months.</p><p></p><p>The tiefling gambles less than is his wont and is careful not to drink too much. Most of the other gamers present don’t even notice; few associate with him outside of the Club. Even if it weren’t for his family’s peculiar reputation, the fact that he is a tiefling would be enough for most people to shun him.</p><p></p><p>Fortunately, money opens doors. And the Ilmixies have always had plenty of money, gained fair or foul. <em>Although,</em> Hkatha muses, <em>I seem to be spending my way out of it pretty quickly... Well, no matter. If what my new friends tell me is accurate, there is a considerable army on the march towards Fandelose, and if the city burns to the ground, my money counts for nothing. </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>And besides, daVoi has been kind enough to make me a loan or two in the last few weeks. I’m sure I can squeeze some more out of him- and maybe even use that as a pretext to keep a closer eye on him... and his cousin, General Pythock.</em></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Cook watches passively, carrying a tray of drinks. When he is accosted by the Gentleman’s Club’s staff, he protests that he is “Master daVoi’s personal servant. He has very, uh, <em>unique</em> needs, and wished to give the honor of serving them.” The dire implications of the word “unique” win the argument for him, as nobody wants to be the subject of a daVoi’s “unique needs”. Cook can almost see the thought flash in the minds of the staff: <em>Better this dwarf than me!</em></p><p></p><p>So, carefully unobtrusive, Cook keeps a close eye on the evening’s proceedings, shielding himself from discovery behind a wall of servitude. </p><p></p><p>The dice clatter on the tables. Cards shuffle with a loud riffing sound. Drinks are served, and snacks. Several of the gamblers leave early, one of them grinning at the fact that he has nearly doubled his fortune, the others more glumly. Not long after, General Pythock is in a deep game of cards, and the betting gets too hot for him.</p><p></p><p><em>Now what will he do?</em> wonders Hkatha. He watches, darkly amused, as the general approaches Chiron daVoi, only to be rebuffed in a humiliating manner. “I have already staked you too much, cousin,” daVoi waves Pythock off, and the general stalks off to the side, growling under his breath. </p><p></p><p>Hkatha and Cook both watch with interest from their respective places as Millbury, Chiron daVoi’s henchman, quietly slides over to the wounded general. He places a hand on Pythock’s shoulder and murmurs to him, too softly for our heroes to hear; but Hkatha spies Millbury slipping a fat-looking purse to the general. </p><p></p><p><em>Very interesting,</em> thinks the tiefling.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>A couple of hours later, Pythock, Chiron daVoi and their retinues- including a dwarven servant who is remaining silent and unnoticed, at least so far- head for home. Hkatha elects to go to his own home, as he is exhausted and has done quite enough for one night. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>By the morning, Cook is wearing Pythock’s livery. He manages to make a surreptitious search of a few rooms within Pythock’s mansion. He finds some financial ledgers in an office. <em>Most interesting,</em> he thinks, leafing through them. <em>It would seem that General Pythock is in quite some debt- to Millbury. It would also seem that he has already taken a pay advance for as much pay as he can- and he has spent that, too. And on nothing more than gambling.</em> Quickly, he pulls a book from the shelf in the office and opens it to the middle. Using a sharp dagger, he slices a hiding place out of some of the pages and stuffs a few key pages of the ledger into it, then hides the book in his bag, beneath some mushrooms and beetles that are starting to go.</p><p></p><p>He continues poking around. The next door that he opens is an opulent bedroom. Cook freezes.</p><p></p><p>The bed contains a tumble of people, including General Pythock. All but one are asleep.</p><p></p><p>She is staring right at him.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>At about the same time, the others are meeting with High Civilizer Marron. He elaborates on what he had said the night before, at the ball: as the high priest of Hamel, he serves the cause of civilization. He explains that he plans on using his knowledge and powers to help the city withstand the coming attack, if he can- and if the worst should happen and the Six-Fingered Hand should conquer Fandelose, he plans to make a great door through which the people might be able to escape.</p><p></p><p>“What do you mean, a door?” asks Torinn. “To where?”</p><p></p><p>“It is hard to explain,” the High Civilizer responds. “I’m not precisely certain...”</p><p></p><p>“You mean it’s random?”</p><p></p><p>Marron hesitates. “You could say that,” he allows. </p><p></p><p>“Isn’t that dangerous?”</p><p></p><p>“I think by the time we use it, it will already be a last resort,” Vann-La says.</p><p></p><p>The party falls silent at that. The Kree warrior has a point, and they all know it. If they are taken by the Six-Fingered Hand, they will be lucky if they wind up tortured to death.</p><p></p><p>“So what do you need help with?” asks Heimall. “Funding?”</p><p></p><p>“Of course, that always helps,” Marron replies, “but really, I need a sturdy group to retrieve something from me. There is a unique mineral. There is literally only one at a time in existence. When it is consumed, a new one grows in the same place each time. It looks somewhere between a lump of firestone and a black diamond. This is called the Caratite. I need it.”</p><p></p><p>“Where is it?” asks Sta’Ligir. </p><p></p><p>“It’s in a shaft in the Black Gorge,” the High Civilizer tells the group. </p><p></p><p>“Is it guarded?” wonders Iggy.</p><p></p><p>“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a natural phenomenon, and not of great value; it just so happens to be necessary- or at least, extremely helpful- to my current work.”</p><p></p><p>Naturally, our heroes agree to seek this out. The High Civilizer provides them with a map and a warning. “The dwarves of the Black Gorge are not known for their friendliness. They look at outsiders as probable claim jumpers trying to steal resources from what they see as dwarven land.”</p><p></p><p>“We’ll be careful,” Nowhere Jones says, pricking his thumb with the point of a dagger. </p><p></p><p>Our heroes buy tickets for the play <em>Nowhere Jones</em> two days hence on their way out of the city.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The Black Gorge is where most of the firestone that lights and heats Fandelose comes from. Take away the firestone, and you take away Fandelose’s industry. Take away the firestone, and you leave Fandelose dark and cold at night. Although, truth be told, you might clean the air some, but who cares about a thing like that? There is <em>money at stake</em> here.</p><p></p><p>The party treks to the location designated on the High Civilizer’s map. Along the way they have a rough skirmish with a group of orcs, but they don’t have any other types of humanoid with them, nor do they have uniforms or other indications that they are from the Six-Fingered Hand. Searching the bodies, Torinn finds an item that will come to be so associated with him that it is actually put into statues of him: a coonskin hat. </p><p></p><p>“How do I look?” the dragonborn cleric asks with a grin, striking a pose. </p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>The party follows the map into a side canyon of the Gorge. Ahead, they spy a cave. </p><p></p><p>“I wonder if this could be it,” says Kratos.</p><p></p><p>“I think he said a shaft, didn’t he?” asks Heimall, but Kratos is already walking towards it. The others follow him with a collective sigh.</p><p></p><p>Then a strange hooting sound echoes from the darkness in the cave. </p><p></p><p>“Hello?” calls Kratos.</p><p></p><p>There is a scrambling sound; then a much louder sound, like a hoot mixed with a strange, phlegmatic roar. Kratos squints; is that movement?</p><p></p><p>And then two owlbears rush out of the cave.</p><p></p><p><em><strong>Next Time:</strong></em> Our heroes against a mated pair of owlbears! Plus: Is Cook caught? And: the Caratite Shaft!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="the Jester, post: 4646570, member: 1210"] General Argos’ hands clutch the bars of his tiny window. He stares, full of despair, as the sun sinks another time in the west. Another day draws to a close- and with every day, the troops of the enemy draw closer. With a groan, he presses his forehead against the wall. [i]They’re going to execute me. Or leave me to rot. Or release me when it’s too late- when the enemy is already at the gates.[/i] He closes his eyes. [i]And then I won’t be able to do anything other than slow them down. I have to get out of here![/i] His thoughts turn to his adjutant, loyal throughout the years. [i]Jaxe, if you have any strings left to pull, pull them now. There is no more time to waste![/i] It cannot be real- it must be his imagination- but General Argos thinks, for a moment, that he catches a whiff of the unique smoke that comes from battle: burning wood, and sulfur, and tar; and the porcine smell of burning human flesh, too. He shudders. [i]Not yet,[/i] he thinks. In his mind’s eye, he pictures orcs, goblins, kobolds rushing through the streets of Fandelose, putting people to the sword. He can see his troops, even under the command of a brilliant successor, being slaughtered by the overwhelming forces of the Six-Fingered Hand. Buildings smashed down by ogres. The tower he is in, burned, falling, killing him without ever giving him a chance to fight back. The people of Fandelose, impaled with their bellies slit open for the amusement of Heshwat the Eviscerator, master of the forces of the Six-Fingered Hand in this area. He shudders, and shudders, and shudders, all through his nightmares, all the way until dawn. *** Forty miles away, the town of Lopack burns. It is too far from the Black Tower that Argos is imprisoned in for him to have scented it- but Argos [i]knows.[/i] His mind contains a perfect map of the region, with all the military routes, paths, tracks and trails picked out in exquisite detail. If the Hand is on track, he knows, they will have reached Lopack yesterday or today. Woe to the townsfolk. The enemy swept in, goblin worg-riders at the forefront. Their loud whoops woke and panicked the peasants. A few grabbed up pitchforks or rakes to defend themselves and their land. By the time they reached the town’s main square, several houses on the outskirts were already aflame. Before they could organize a defense, the swift worgs carried their riders into the mass of the town, snarling and snapping and slashing and stabbing. The cobblestones of the square were slick with blood, and then soon covered in a thick wet inch of it. Some locked themselves in their homes, only to be burned out or slaughtered when the orcs rampaged in, looking for rapine and loot. Others fled for the outskirts of the town, only to find- to their horror- that they were already surrounded. The lucky ones were killed in the fields and streets of Lopack. The unlucky would die, too, but not a clean death. Not at all. *** The Gentlemen’s Club is a high-class place. Exclusive. No rabble allowed. The decor is lush but not decadent. There are nice plants growing in plots. And drinks. Lots of drinks. Hkatha walks with all of the swagger that his station in life entitles him to- not to mention his heritage! He belongs in places like this. Despite his tiefling horns, his blood is blue. His family has a lot of money and power. He is entitled to come here, where no lesser entities are allowed. Chiron daVoi, as always, looks bored. He hies himself to a dice table and lays down an extravagant wager before picking up the bones and giving them an inattentive toss. General Pythock’s eyes are glued to the dice. They bounce a few times before coming to rest. “Eh,” daVoi says dismissively, as the house takes his bet. He puts down another. “Bring me a drink, Millbury.” daVoi’s henchman scurries off; meanwhile, he picks up the dice again and gives another toss, losing another small fortune. He shrugs. “Not my table,” he sniffs, and moves to the next. General Pythock takes his place, greedily grabbing up the dice. But Hkatha notices that his wager is significantly smaller than daVoi’s was. The tiefling plucks a tall glass of wine from a serving girl and moves to the dice table General Pythock is at. The game changes to Bone Racing, a competitive dice game with four players. Hkatha plays, but doesn’t bet too extravagantly. He is already rather in debt from recent weeks, and doesn’t want to get in too much deeper. The family fortune is generous, but has been severely depleted in recent months. The tiefling gambles less than is his wont and is careful not to drink too much. Most of the other gamers present don’t even notice; few associate with him outside of the Club. Even if it weren’t for his family’s peculiar reputation, the fact that he is a tiefling would be enough for most people to shun him. Fortunately, money opens doors. And the Ilmixies have always had plenty of money, gained fair or foul. [i]Although,[/i] Hkatha muses, [i]I seem to be spending my way out of it pretty quickly... Well, no matter. If what my new friends tell me is accurate, there is a considerable army on the march towards Fandelose, and if the city burns to the ground, my money counts for nothing. And besides, daVoi has been kind enough to make me a loan or two in the last few weeks. I’m sure I can squeeze some more out of him- and maybe even use that as a pretext to keep a closer eye on him... and his cousin, General Pythock.[/i] *** Cook watches passively, carrying a tray of drinks. When he is accosted by the Gentleman’s Club’s staff, he protests that he is “Master daVoi’s personal servant. He has very, uh, [i]unique[/i] needs, and wished to give the honor of serving them.” The dire implications of the word “unique” win the argument for him, as nobody wants to be the subject of a daVoi’s “unique needs”. Cook can almost see the thought flash in the minds of the staff: [i]Better this dwarf than me![/i] So, carefully unobtrusive, Cook keeps a close eye on the evening’s proceedings, shielding himself from discovery behind a wall of servitude. The dice clatter on the tables. Cards shuffle with a loud riffing sound. Drinks are served, and snacks. Several of the gamblers leave early, one of them grinning at the fact that he has nearly doubled his fortune, the others more glumly. Not long after, General Pythock is in a deep game of cards, and the betting gets too hot for him. [i]Now what will he do?[/i] wonders Hkatha. He watches, darkly amused, as the general approaches Chiron daVoi, only to be rebuffed in a humiliating manner. “I have already staked you too much, cousin,” daVoi waves Pythock off, and the general stalks off to the side, growling under his breath. Hkatha and Cook both watch with interest from their respective places as Millbury, Chiron daVoi’s henchman, quietly slides over to the wounded general. He places a hand on Pythock’s shoulder and murmurs to him, too softly for our heroes to hear; but Hkatha spies Millbury slipping a fat-looking purse to the general. [i]Very interesting,[/i] thinks the tiefling. *** A couple of hours later, Pythock, Chiron daVoi and their retinues- including a dwarven servant who is remaining silent and unnoticed, at least so far- head for home. Hkatha elects to go to his own home, as he is exhausted and has done quite enough for one night. *** By the morning, Cook is wearing Pythock’s livery. He manages to make a surreptitious search of a few rooms within Pythock’s mansion. He finds some financial ledgers in an office. [i]Most interesting,[/i] he thinks, leafing through them. [i]It would seem that General Pythock is in quite some debt- to Millbury. It would also seem that he has already taken a pay advance for as much pay as he can- and he has spent that, too. And on nothing more than gambling.[/i] Quickly, he pulls a book from the shelf in the office and opens it to the middle. Using a sharp dagger, he slices a hiding place out of some of the pages and stuffs a few key pages of the ledger into it, then hides the book in his bag, beneath some mushrooms and beetles that are starting to go. He continues poking around. The next door that he opens is an opulent bedroom. Cook freezes. The bed contains a tumble of people, including General Pythock. All but one are asleep. She is staring right at him. *** At about the same time, the others are meeting with High Civilizer Marron. He elaborates on what he had said the night before, at the ball: as the high priest of Hamel, he serves the cause of civilization. He explains that he plans on using his knowledge and powers to help the city withstand the coming attack, if he can- and if the worst should happen and the Six-Fingered Hand should conquer Fandelose, he plans to make a great door through which the people might be able to escape. “What do you mean, a door?” asks Torinn. “To where?” “It is hard to explain,” the High Civilizer responds. “I’m not precisely certain...” “You mean it’s random?” Marron hesitates. “You could say that,” he allows. “Isn’t that dangerous?” “I think by the time we use it, it will already be a last resort,” Vann-La says. The party falls silent at that. The Kree warrior has a point, and they all know it. If they are taken by the Six-Fingered Hand, they will be lucky if they wind up tortured to death. “So what do you need help with?” asks Heimall. “Funding?” “Of course, that always helps,” Marron replies, “but really, I need a sturdy group to retrieve something from me. There is a unique mineral. There is literally only one at a time in existence. When it is consumed, a new one grows in the same place each time. It looks somewhere between a lump of firestone and a black diamond. This is called the Caratite. I need it.” “Where is it?” asks Sta’Ligir. “It’s in a shaft in the Black Gorge,” the High Civilizer tells the group. “Is it guarded?” wonders Iggy. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a natural phenomenon, and not of great value; it just so happens to be necessary- or at least, extremely helpful- to my current work.” Naturally, our heroes agree to seek this out. The High Civilizer provides them with a map and a warning. “The dwarves of the Black Gorge are not known for their friendliness. They look at outsiders as probable claim jumpers trying to steal resources from what they see as dwarven land.” “We’ll be careful,” Nowhere Jones says, pricking his thumb with the point of a dagger. Our heroes buy tickets for the play [i]Nowhere Jones[/i] two days hence on their way out of the city. *** The Black Gorge is where most of the firestone that lights and heats Fandelose comes from. Take away the firestone, and you take away Fandelose’s industry. Take away the firestone, and you leave Fandelose dark and cold at night. Although, truth be told, you might clean the air some, but who cares about a thing like that? There is [i]money at stake[/i] here. The party treks to the location designated on the High Civilizer’s map. Along the way they have a rough skirmish with a group of orcs, but they don’t have any other types of humanoid with them, nor do they have uniforms or other indications that they are from the Six-Fingered Hand. Searching the bodies, Torinn finds an item that will come to be so associated with him that it is actually put into statues of him: a coonskin hat. “How do I look?” the dragonborn cleric asks with a grin, striking a pose. *** The party follows the map into a side canyon of the Gorge. Ahead, they spy a cave. “I wonder if this could be it,” says Kratos. “I think he said a shaft, didn’t he?” asks Heimall, but Kratos is already walking towards it. The others follow him with a collective sigh. Then a strange hooting sound echoes from the darkness in the cave. “Hello?” calls Kratos. There is a scrambling sound; then a much louder sound, like a hoot mixed with a strange, phlegmatic roar. Kratos squints; is that movement? And then two owlbears rush out of the cave. [i][b]Next Time:[/b][/i][b][/b] Our heroes against a mated pair of owlbears! Plus: Is Cook caught? And: the Caratite Shaft! [/QUOTE]
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