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"An Icy Grave" : A Tale of Two Brothers
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<blockquote data-quote="Jon Potter" data-source="post: 296103" data-attributes="member: 2323"><p><strong>Part 8: Dear God, It's Me...</strong></p><p></p><p>"Hmm, me chalak," Karak groaned. "I nae like tha looks o' this."</p><p>Malak plucked the sheet of oil-soaked parchment from his brother's axe and looked at it. Moisture and time had totally obliterated the lines of text written there. The cleric grunted and tossed the sheet aside. The oil had turned waxy in the cold, but it thawed quickly in the heat from his hand. He wiped his fingers dry on his leg of his trousers.</p><p>"What was this monk, 'ere, about ta do?" Karak asked and Malak shrugged.</p><p>"I dunno," the Battleguard confessed.</p><p>"It's seemin' ta me 'e was ready ta torch this place," Karak said.</p><p>"Aye," Malak agreed. "That much seems clear."</p><p>"But for what?" the warrior asked, stroking his blonde beard with one hand. "What was he lookin' ta protect?"</p><p>"Or destroy?" Malak suggested and started to step around his brother. Karak stopped the smaller dwarf with one hand.</p><p>"Before we fully investigate, let's 'ave ye stick yer pin pricker in that snow bank there," the warrior offered. "I dinna want a snow crab ta launch itself at me 'ead. Aye?"</p><p>Malak nodded once and thrust his scimitar into the snow ahead of them. There were obstacles buried in the snow - overturned benches and ruined volumes - but nothing alive to challenge them. Snow blew in from the unshuttered windows.</p><p>"Let's look for a book or scroll what catches yer eye," Karak suggested. "After that I say we check tha rest o' tha monastery, put these dead souls ta rest and wait out tha storm. What say ye?" </p><p>Malak flipped absently through a leather-bound book made fat by moisture and shook his head. He dropped the volume back into the snow.</p><p>"There be nothin' 'ere ta find," the Battleguard said with a sigh. "Anythin' worth catchin' me eye's already succumbed ta tha weather."</p><p>Karak peered at the monk, frozen with his unlit torch held before him. At a distance, he'd thought the man had died without a mark on him. Upon closer inspection, he found that was not the case. He could now clearly see the imprint of a bony hand frozen across the monk's face in ice crystals.</p><p>"Come on, me chalak," Karak muttered. "I want ta finish our sweep o' tha monastery. An' tha sooner, tha better."</p><p></p><p>They exited the library via the only other door that didn't lead out onto the storm-wrapped balcony. As with the other door, they could hear the wind whistling around it. As before, they found no traps on the door and neither was it locked.</p><p>The room beyond was half the size of the library with a single door set directly opposite the one by which they had entered. Shelves lined the walls and a small table sat in the corner to their right. A robed figure was slouched across the table, dried garlic strewn around the table in a semicircle.</p><p>Karak raised his axe defensively as the figure began to stir.</p><p>It lurched stiffly from behind the table, knocking a bottle of dried ink, a pen, and a scrap of parchment to the floor. Its fist struck only air near Karak's thigh, but the dwarf's efforts to avoid the undead blow made his retaliatory strike go wide of the mark.</p><p>Malak maneuvered to get himself into position, giving his brother the time for another swing. It was a well-placed strike; and would have cleaved the thing in half if the dwarf had his full attention on attack. He was so eager to avoid being hit, however, that the huge blade missed the unliving monk's abdomen entirely.</p><p>The walking corpse was making no attempt to avoid the dwarves' attacks, but somehow Malak's scimitar missed the thing's ice-choked head. Fortunately for both Malak and Karak, the monk was having no more luck hitting them.</p><p>Malak swung his sword, the crescent tore away a scrap of frozen meat from one undead bicep and the creature shuddered from the impact. Karak stepped forward and delivered a killing blow that split open the thing's chest; it fell to the ground in two large pieces.</p><p>"How many o' these things must we face?" Malak wondered aloud as he wiped his blade clean on the monk's robe.</p><p>"I ken nae, me chalak," Karak admitted. "Perhaps one o' these books or scrolls will tell us somethin'."</p><p>Malak picked up a few of the books and cast each aside, one after the other. Like the books in the library, they were hopelessly ruined by exposure to moisture. Only the single scrap of parchment that had been shielded beneath the monk's body was legible. It contained a prayer hastily written in Common:</p><p></p><p>"Oh lord Merrika, thou who watches over the lands of men with thy golden countenance. Look in mercy upon our accursed monastery in this our hour of need! For we are beset by a nameless evil against which there seems no defense. It comes at the stroke of midnight and kills without discrimination. Only four of us remain now. Brother Cook and brother Apothecary have retreated to the meditation room and seem resigned to death. Only brother [and here, the word 'brother' was scratched out] abbot Zeal still works feverishly on a solution. I, lord Merrika, put my fate in your hands and repent my sins in the name of Orin who was lifted up to bear your shield across the heavens. I wren -</p><p></p><p>- He comes!"</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Jon Potter, post: 296103, member: 2323"] [b]Part 8: Dear God, It's Me...[/b] "Hmm, me chalak," Karak groaned. "I nae like tha looks o' this." Malak plucked the sheet of oil-soaked parchment from his brother's axe and looked at it. Moisture and time had totally obliterated the lines of text written there. The cleric grunted and tossed the sheet aside. The oil had turned waxy in the cold, but it thawed quickly in the heat from his hand. He wiped his fingers dry on his leg of his trousers. "What was this monk, 'ere, about ta do?" Karak asked and Malak shrugged. "I dunno," the Battleguard confessed. "It's seemin' ta me 'e was ready ta torch this place," Karak said. "Aye," Malak agreed. "That much seems clear." "But for what?" the warrior asked, stroking his blonde beard with one hand. "What was he lookin' ta protect?" "Or destroy?" Malak suggested and started to step around his brother. Karak stopped the smaller dwarf with one hand. "Before we fully investigate, let's 'ave ye stick yer pin pricker in that snow bank there," the warrior offered. "I dinna want a snow crab ta launch itself at me 'ead. Aye?" Malak nodded once and thrust his scimitar into the snow ahead of them. There were obstacles buried in the snow - overturned benches and ruined volumes - but nothing alive to challenge them. Snow blew in from the unshuttered windows. "Let's look for a book or scroll what catches yer eye," Karak suggested. "After that I say we check tha rest o' tha monastery, put these dead souls ta rest and wait out tha storm. What say ye?" Malak flipped absently through a leather-bound book made fat by moisture and shook his head. He dropped the volume back into the snow. "There be nothin' 'ere ta find," the Battleguard said with a sigh. "Anythin' worth catchin' me eye's already succumbed ta tha weather." Karak peered at the monk, frozen with his unlit torch held before him. At a distance, he'd thought the man had died without a mark on him. Upon closer inspection, he found that was not the case. He could now clearly see the imprint of a bony hand frozen across the monk's face in ice crystals. "Come on, me chalak," Karak muttered. "I want ta finish our sweep o' tha monastery. An' tha sooner, tha better." They exited the library via the only other door that didn't lead out onto the storm-wrapped balcony. As with the other door, they could hear the wind whistling around it. As before, they found no traps on the door and neither was it locked. The room beyond was half the size of the library with a single door set directly opposite the one by which they had entered. Shelves lined the walls and a small table sat in the corner to their right. A robed figure was slouched across the table, dried garlic strewn around the table in a semicircle. Karak raised his axe defensively as the figure began to stir. It lurched stiffly from behind the table, knocking a bottle of dried ink, a pen, and a scrap of parchment to the floor. Its fist struck only air near Karak's thigh, but the dwarf's efforts to avoid the undead blow made his retaliatory strike go wide of the mark. Malak maneuvered to get himself into position, giving his brother the time for another swing. It was a well-placed strike; and would have cleaved the thing in half if the dwarf had his full attention on attack. He was so eager to avoid being hit, however, that the huge blade missed the unliving monk's abdomen entirely. The walking corpse was making no attempt to avoid the dwarves' attacks, but somehow Malak's scimitar missed the thing's ice-choked head. Fortunately for both Malak and Karak, the monk was having no more luck hitting them. Malak swung his sword, the crescent tore away a scrap of frozen meat from one undead bicep and the creature shuddered from the impact. Karak stepped forward and delivered a killing blow that split open the thing's chest; it fell to the ground in two large pieces. "How many o' these things must we face?" Malak wondered aloud as he wiped his blade clean on the monk's robe. "I ken nae, me chalak," Karak admitted. "Perhaps one o' these books or scrolls will tell us somethin'." Malak picked up a few of the books and cast each aside, one after the other. Like the books in the library, they were hopelessly ruined by exposure to moisture. Only the single scrap of parchment that had been shielded beneath the monk's body was legible. It contained a prayer hastily written in Common: "Oh lord Merrika, thou who watches over the lands of men with thy golden countenance. Look in mercy upon our accursed monastery in this our hour of need! For we are beset by a nameless evil against which there seems no defense. It comes at the stroke of midnight and kills without discrimination. Only four of us remain now. Brother Cook and brother Apothecary have retreated to the meditation room and seem resigned to death. Only brother [and here, the word 'brother' was scratched out] abbot Zeal still works feverishly on a solution. I, lord Merrika, put my fate in your hands and repent my sins in the name of Orin who was lifted up to bear your shield across the heavens. I wren - - He comes!" [/QUOTE]
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