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"An Icy Grave" : A Tale of Two Brothers
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<blockquote data-quote="Jon Potter" data-source="post: 308290" data-attributes="member: 2323"><p><strong>Part 15: Nobody's home</strong></p><p></p><p>"Ye shou' rest, chalak," the Battleguard advised. "Yer injuries are worse than mine."</p><p>Karak harrumphed and shook his head.</p><p>"Me thinks ye shou' give me a draught o' some elixir," the warrior replied. "I need a little more spring in me step."</p><p>"What ails ye?" Malak asked as he began rummaging through his medicine kit.</p><p>"I still feel tha chill," Karak told him, stretching his tired limbs. "And I feel slowed."</p><p>Malak eyed his brother and closed his bag.</p><p>"It's lack o' sleep, chalak," the cleric explained. "There's naught in me bag what a few hours' rest won't cure. Lay down an' I'll take first watch."</p><p>"Nae," Karak countered. "I say we up ta tha top and dispatch o' this 'ere thing. Then we can get some rest."</p><p>The cleric looked at his brother and the expression on Karak's face told him that there was little point in arguing.</p><p>"Let's prepare tha weapons as ye suggested," Malak said, drawing his claymore from the sheath on his back. "I'll start soakin' rags in oil."</p><p>"Ye read me mind, chalak," the warrior smiled. "Ye read me mind."</p><p></p><p>They prepared their weapons with care, but also with haste. The howling wind outside kept sounding to them like the return of their opponent, and neither wished to be caught unprepared. They were, however, able to successfully wrap unmolested the business ends of their weapons in rags soaked with the oil Karak had brought with him in his pack. Carrying their weapons in one hand and a lit torch in the other, they climbed the stair to the landing and then up to the top of the monastery.</p><p>The room at the top was as they had last seen it except for the fact that where the two statues had once stood guard now stood only empty pedestals. There was little else to see and they turned their attention to the two doors. Again, they approached the door on the left and Malak performed his usual checks while Karak stood vigilant, his warhammer at the ready. Finding no traps, the Battleguard opened the door. There was no light in the room beyond other than the orangey flicker of the dwarves' torches. Nothing sprang at them immediately from the darkness, and Karak walked hesitantly inside until his torchlight picked out the shadowy details of the place.</p><p>It was in utter disarray.</p><p>Like the antechamber, the large room had a sloped roof, higher in the center and lower to the left and right walls and it comprised the remainder of the monastery's third floor. The opposite wall of the room was occupied with an uncomfortable-looking bed carved from a rich, dark wood neither of them had ever seen before. Overturned tables, half-buried beneath piles of shredded and crumpled paper were strewn about the room. A fireplace on the right, which like the others they had seen was likely vented directly to the coal-burning furnace in the basement, was choked with ice. A drift of snow covered the floor around the hearth and a deathly cold filled the room.</p><p>Their breath puffed out in silvery clouds like furtive ghosts that slowly faded into the chill blackness pressing around them.</p><p>There were no windows in the place, but outside, the full strength of the storm seemed to have turned its attention on the monastery. The roof and walls creaked and groaned with the roaring wind. There was an air about the room that they didn't belong - a sensation that they were trespassers in the place. As dwarves, neither brother had ever been bothered by tight places, but there was something about the room that made even them feel claustrophobic.</p><p>Karak swallowed thickly and when he spoke, his voice sounded very small and hollow. "There be nae sign o' tha beastie, hereabouts," he said. "But I likes this place, nae at all, me chalak."</p><p>"Aye," Malak nodded. "On that point we agree."</p><p>The cleric raised his torch higher in an effort to dispel the shadows but succeeded only in causing them to slide across the wall and pool up in the corner. At last, he leaned his rag-cloaked claymore against the wall between the two doors and looked meaningfully at his brother.</p><p>"Stand ready, chalak," the Battleguard instructed. "I'll see if'n there's nae somethin' here what can explain what's happened."</p><p>Karak nodded and Malak began rummaging through the paper and debris. The sheets of parchment were covered with nearly illegible human characters. What little Malak could read seemed to deal with the day-to-day running of the monastery. There was nothing dated more recently than a year ago.</p><p>In one corner, he found a bundle of 40 dusty crossbow bolts. Above the fireplace hung a finely wrought light crossbow, and on the mantelpiece lay a leather quiver with another 10 bolts. The crossbow was carved with dwarven runes that spelled out the message: "To Alluzin, the most steadfast of dwarf-friends. From Vithar of Niddlein. I am in debt to you and your progeny."</p><p>Niddlein, Malak knew, was a dwarven delve many leagues to the northwest. Who Vithar was, he couldn't say.</p><p>Beneath another mound of papers, Malak found a stout ironbound chest. It was latched but not locked and held several hundred gold pieces worth of mixed coinage. He spied a few square bronze karns and karn'as and a silver dikarn or two amongst the human coins.</p><p>Two other chests contained clothes, all of them sized for a male human. One chest contained a fine black monk's habit with carved wooden slippers. The other contained more mundane clothing: short breeches, hose, two doublets, a heavy woolen overtunic, and a light gray cloak embroidered along the hem with a repeating leaf pattern.</p><p>There was nothing there to explain the presence of the bizarre creature they had fought, nor any sign when it might return.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Jon Potter, post: 308290, member: 2323"] [b]Part 15: Nobody's home[/b] "Ye shou' rest, chalak," the Battleguard advised. "Yer injuries are worse than mine." Karak harrumphed and shook his head. "Me thinks ye shou' give me a draught o' some elixir," the warrior replied. "I need a little more spring in me step." "What ails ye?" Malak asked as he began rummaging through his medicine kit. "I still feel tha chill," Karak told him, stretching his tired limbs. "And I feel slowed." Malak eyed his brother and closed his bag. "It's lack o' sleep, chalak," the cleric explained. "There's naught in me bag what a few hours' rest won't cure. Lay down an' I'll take first watch." "Nae," Karak countered. "I say we up ta tha top and dispatch o' this 'ere thing. Then we can get some rest." The cleric looked at his brother and the expression on Karak's face told him that there was little point in arguing. "Let's prepare tha weapons as ye suggested," Malak said, drawing his claymore from the sheath on his back. "I'll start soakin' rags in oil." "Ye read me mind, chalak," the warrior smiled. "Ye read me mind." They prepared their weapons with care, but also with haste. The howling wind outside kept sounding to them like the return of their opponent, and neither wished to be caught unprepared. They were, however, able to successfully wrap unmolested the business ends of their weapons in rags soaked with the oil Karak had brought with him in his pack. Carrying their weapons in one hand and a lit torch in the other, they climbed the stair to the landing and then up to the top of the monastery. The room at the top was as they had last seen it except for the fact that where the two statues had once stood guard now stood only empty pedestals. There was little else to see and they turned their attention to the two doors. Again, they approached the door on the left and Malak performed his usual checks while Karak stood vigilant, his warhammer at the ready. Finding no traps, the Battleguard opened the door. There was no light in the room beyond other than the orangey flicker of the dwarves' torches. Nothing sprang at them immediately from the darkness, and Karak walked hesitantly inside until his torchlight picked out the shadowy details of the place. It was in utter disarray. Like the antechamber, the large room had a sloped roof, higher in the center and lower to the left and right walls and it comprised the remainder of the monastery's third floor. The opposite wall of the room was occupied with an uncomfortable-looking bed carved from a rich, dark wood neither of them had ever seen before. Overturned tables, half-buried beneath piles of shredded and crumpled paper were strewn about the room. A fireplace on the right, which like the others they had seen was likely vented directly to the coal-burning furnace in the basement, was choked with ice. A drift of snow covered the floor around the hearth and a deathly cold filled the room. Their breath puffed out in silvery clouds like furtive ghosts that slowly faded into the chill blackness pressing around them. There were no windows in the place, but outside, the full strength of the storm seemed to have turned its attention on the monastery. The roof and walls creaked and groaned with the roaring wind. There was an air about the room that they didn't belong - a sensation that they were trespassers in the place. As dwarves, neither brother had ever been bothered by tight places, but there was something about the room that made even them feel claustrophobic. Karak swallowed thickly and when he spoke, his voice sounded very small and hollow. "There be nae sign o' tha beastie, hereabouts," he said. "But I likes this place, nae at all, me chalak." "Aye," Malak nodded. "On that point we agree." The cleric raised his torch higher in an effort to dispel the shadows but succeeded only in causing them to slide across the wall and pool up in the corner. At last, he leaned his rag-cloaked claymore against the wall between the two doors and looked meaningfully at his brother. "Stand ready, chalak," the Battleguard instructed. "I'll see if'n there's nae somethin' here what can explain what's happened." Karak nodded and Malak began rummaging through the paper and debris. The sheets of parchment were covered with nearly illegible human characters. What little Malak could read seemed to deal with the day-to-day running of the monastery. There was nothing dated more recently than a year ago. In one corner, he found a bundle of 40 dusty crossbow bolts. Above the fireplace hung a finely wrought light crossbow, and on the mantelpiece lay a leather quiver with another 10 bolts. The crossbow was carved with dwarven runes that spelled out the message: "To Alluzin, the most steadfast of dwarf-friends. From Vithar of Niddlein. I am in debt to you and your progeny." Niddlein, Malak knew, was a dwarven delve many leagues to the northwest. Who Vithar was, he couldn't say. Beneath another mound of papers, Malak found a stout ironbound chest. It was latched but not locked and held several hundred gold pieces worth of mixed coinage. He spied a few square bronze karns and karn'as and a silver dikarn or two amongst the human coins. Two other chests contained clothes, all of them sized for a male human. One chest contained a fine black monk's habit with carved wooden slippers. The other contained more mundane clothing: short breeches, hose, two doublets, a heavy woolen overtunic, and a light gray cloak embroidered along the hem with a repeating leaf pattern. There was nothing there to explain the presence of the bizarre creature they had fought, nor any sign when it might return. [/QUOTE]
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