A Prime's Guide to the Planes (Or: An Epic-Level Love-Story) (Updated 9-13-07)

[Shieldhaven]

You've definitely got my attention so far. =)

Haven

 

[Zelda Themelin]

I really like your story. Writing style is interesting and I find it very good way to tell this story.


I hope your writing project will continue and reveal much more of story and characters.

 

[The Great Hippo]

Episode 2: Enter the Drow​

Imagine

a waiting room​

as far as you can--​

--Well, okay. It wasn't that bad.

The cramped smoke-choked den was illuminated only by streaks of sickly gold spat by several barred windows that lurked high out of reach, as if placed in a direct attempt to prevent its occupants from escaping. Beneath them was a room that had devoured and digested several others, producing a savage clash between well-cushioned leather chairs and charred metal comforters. The stench of death was thick enough to choke on.

There were also some magazines. And nice music. And a few pleasant plants.

BUT THE PLANTS WERE DEAD.

Four figures of note were present:

Jarle of the Three-Blades, a sword-master of some renowned who had made his name in the war-hungry depths of Acheron. It was said that the old, haggard tiefling had stolen two of the blades from the forges of Dis itself, and that he had forged the third blade with his own blackened hands. His father had supposedly been a fiend, and his mother a hag--it was said that through her he came to know all the deepest darks in matters of steel. He sat in a twisted and blackened metal chair to the left, remaining perfectly still.

Viviana the Beautiful, a lovely dark-haired sorceress who wore her victims' teeth around her throat as if it were a necklace. Said to be part succubus, she was widely known both for her infallible abilities at treachery (despite being known for it) and her immense skills at the mystical arts. She sat in a comfortable leather chair to the right, remaining perfectly still.

Snape the Clever, an always-grinning handsome grey-skinned smoke genasi who had a penchant for escape. It was said that he managed to slip free of Carceri itself--twice--and that the Sons of Mercy had become so fed up with him that they were busy designing a prison just for him. He sat in a chair built out of random unused bone-golem parts, remaining perfectly still.

And finally, a dark-elf--otherwise known as drow. He was wearing ink-black robes, standing in the corner. Smoking.

More on him in a bit.

The door opened. A rather slender looking robed devil with rust-red skin and a pair of over-sized spectacles stepped in, reading off a clipboard. "Ahem. Gentlemen, ladies. I believe we're ready to discuss the matter of your payment--"

Something was wrong. The devil leaned forward, scrutinizing the scene. Three of the four people here were remaining far too still.

Lifting his hand up, the robed devil spoke a word, illuminating the room in a fierce burst of light. The dark-elf winced.

Jarle of the Three Blades was currently being pinned up to the metal chair thanks to the aid of his three blades--all of which had been used to impale the old soldier through the chest, emerging from his ribcage like the back-end of tacks from a notice. His jaw had dropped, eyes wide and glassy with death.

Viviana the Beautiful was slumped comfortably back on her leather chair, hands wrapped around her own throat--where the necklace of fangs had been drawn so tight they had bit deep into her skin. Her face was a contortion of choking, smothering agony, baring the signs of death by suffocation.

Snape the Clever was still grinning. His head was, anyway--that was all that was left of him. The head was smoothly decapitated and pinned to the chair by means of a dagger through a knot in the hair; there was no sign of the rest of his body.

"Excuse me," the devil said, scowling. "What happened here?"

"Cancer," the drow said morosely.

"...cancer?" This took the devil by surprise.

"Yeah," the drow said. "It's the silent killer."

"You're telling me that all your fellow assassins died from cancer?"

"Tragic as hell. They put up a heroic struggle, every last one of them. But you can't really beat cancer, can you?"

"Can you explain, then, why one of them has no body--one of them seems to have been choked--and another is impaled on all three of his swords?"

"Dire Cancer."

The devil's scowl intensified. "I suppose that means there's only the matter of your portion of the payment, then."

"Oh, yeah. Funny thing. All these folks left their shares of the reward to me," the drow announced, drawing a wreath of rolled paper out of his robes and tossing it to the devil. "Last will and testament."

The devil snagged the document, unfurled it, and peered at it critically. "All of them, while dying--"

"From Dire Cancer," the drow reminded him.

"--found the time to write out and sign a document bequeathing their portion of the reward to you."

"Amazing, isn't it? They were heroes to the last." Finishing with the cigarette, the drow flicked it to the ground and lazily crushed it beneath his heel.

"I see. Well, then."

"Well?"

The devil smiled toothily. "Everything looks to be in order. This way, please."

~*~​

"I must admit. I've never met an assassin as--as--"

"Mmm."

"So direct about things," Bartleby announced.

The drow was in his office--a typhoon of paperwork, books, gifts, trophies, and other meaningless planar detritus that had apparently gathered around his employer not through any conscious work but merely by Bartleby's sheer magnetism when it came to crap. The drow was sure that if he spent hours digging through the piles of self-important nick-nacks that surrounded him, he'd never find so much as a functional bottle-opener. Bartleby was just incapable of attracting anything useful to himself.

Which made the drow wonder--how the hell did Bartleby manage to hire him?

"Speaking of direct--money."

"Oh, yes. Your payment. My devil-friend over there told me you'll be accepting the shares of your assassin friends. They all died apparently? Very tragic."

"Yeah, tragedy, terrible, choked up, will send flowers. Payment, please."

"Of course, of course." Bartleby slid up to his feet, wobbling about. The man wasn't just overweight--he had long flew past the boundaries of polite obesity on a rocket-propelled sled, making a rude gesture as he went by. The man was fat, and that was the end of the discussion. He waddled towards the far side of the room, shoving aside a few bits and pieces of refuse to get at the safe.

"I must admit, it's been an exceptional thrill to have a legend working for me," Bartleby said.

The drow peered out the window behind Bartleby's desk, observing the cityscape far below. "Eh? Oh, you heard of me?" he muttered distractedly.

Bartleby nearly sprang up to his feet. "Well of course I've heard of you! Who hasn't heard of you?! You're a downright legend around here, sir!"

"Mmm. Good to know," the drow said boredly.

"In fact," Bartleby continued, returning to his work on the safe. "I have all your books. I must say, they're quite interesting. Do you write them yourself, or does someone else write them for you?"

"Books?" The drow's eye twitched. His mouth began to spasm. Oh, Gods, please. Please, no, he thought to himself. Please make him shut up. Make him shut up right now.

"Yes, yes. I've read them all. Several times! Although I've been wondering--aren't you supposed to have that panther with you? What was his name--"

The drow turned away from the window, staring at Bartleby's back. If the city bureaucrat could see him, he would have recognized a look of such pure murderous sociopathy that it might have killed him on the spot.

The safe clinked open. Bartleby reached inside, fishing out the necessary amount of cash. "Well, anyway. Truly, it's been an absolute honor to have the legendary Drizz't Do'Urden working for m--"

Five seconds later, a window on the top-floor of a tower exploded, a screaming fat man emerging. He flailed his arms for a good 1.3 seconds before slamming into the ground with a sound best described as 'incredibly moist'.

~*~​

Bristling with weapons, the guards kicked down the door and stepped into the room. They found three things of note.

Bartleby, their employer, was missing.

The very large window behind Bartleby's desk was currently broken.

In Bartleby's place was a very angry looking drow. An angry drow with a hood and two very nasty looking swords.

"Cancer," the drow croaked.

"Holy mother of pearl!" One of the guards yelled. "Do you--do you know who that is?!"

"Eh?" Said another.

"That's Drizz't Do'Urden!"

"GODS DAMN IT!" The drow roared, charging.

 

[The Great Hippo]

Also, thank you for the responses! D:

This is a short part; I'm putting it up now just to get it out of the way. I should have the next part up much later tonight or early tomorrow (this episode isn't done).

 

[Fimmtiu]

BUT THE PLANTS WERE DEAD.

This is quite possibly the single funniest individual post I've ever read in this forum.

 

[Bryon_Soulweaver]

I like the drow assassin. "Cancer killed them." I never laughed so hard.

 

[Anthelios]

Awesome story, for sure! Truly reminiscent of HGttG, but incredibly creative and probably one of the funniest things I've ever read.

Oh, and when first describing Jarle, I think you missed the word "chair".

"He sat in a twisted and blackened metal to the left, remaining perfectly still."

 

[Tal Rasha]

Gently bumping this thread and very subtly reminding the writer of his readers.

Regards.

 

[Mahtave]

Second Bump - I too laughed out loud when the deaths were all due t cancer..

Please write more!

 

[The Great Hippo]

My apologies for my long lack of presence; a buttload of school-work hit me, and in the resulting doldrum I went over what I've written here and realized that although I don't like a lot of it, there's a little potential.

I've decided to actually try to write a book. One concerning the power of love, friendship, and steam-powered necromancy (not really, but hey--I should write that idea down). This means sterilizing a lot of my ideas from their specific Planescapian roots, serious proof-reading, and not posting the result on the tubes.

If the attempt fails miserably and I'm left with nothing but a manuscript thick with cobwebs and dust, I'll probably end up posting it here anyway. I expect to finish it sometime near the end of October, but after that I can't say how long I'll try to get it published (in part or as a whole) before I just throw my arms up in disgust and offer it as a sacrifice to the gibbering Elder Gods of the Internet.

Anyway, apologies for playing the shell game on you all.