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Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)
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<blockquote data-quote="Fiasco" data-source="post: 3273905" data-attributes="member: 15187"><p><strong>*Author's Note*</strong></p><p></p><p>The previous two SH posts have been slightly re-written to make a little more sense.</p><p></p><p><strong>*End Note*</strong></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>As the sun passed from overhead and began making its long descent into the West, the companions conferred on their next course of action. With their successful raid against the Blood Sails and the slaying of Grisha, they had achieved all they were likely to on Sorcerer’s Isle. It was now a matter of finding the best way of returning safely to Yorathton. </p><p></p><p>Knowing Grisha to have been a recluse who discouraged visitors, the Hydra decided that they had at least a day before having to worry about the wizard’s death being discovered. Rich with coin, they were eager to take advantage of the exotic attractions of the town’s numerous spell workers. Despite their painful injuries, the companions made the return to the Port of the Warlock with a light step. After securing lodgings at the Hat and Staff they quickly went about their affairs, determined to squeeze as much as they could out of what would hopefully be their last day on Sorcerer’s Isle.</p><p></p><p>Morgan and Argonne’s random perambulations found them drawn down an ally so tiny they had only discovered it because Argonne had accidentally stumbled inside. A dim shop that lurked unobtrusively at the back of the alley, with a glance at each other they pushed forward. The entrance consisted of a crude bead curtain, embellished with numerous finger bones. They clattered unpleasantly as Morgan eased them aside and cautiously entered.</p><p></p><p>The interior smelt strangely, a melange of old clothes, dust, cabbage soup and an unidentifiable acrid odour that stung the back of the throat; all partially concealed by the heavy of spice of several slow burning scented candles. A large clump of clothes moved suddenly, revealing itself to be an old woman. With a pained grunt she shuffled towards the companions, craning her neck upwards to compensate for the sharp curvature of her spine.</p><p></p><p>“Customers, customers”, she cackled before coughing wetly on the back of one liver spotted hand. “Welcome to Grelda’s little shop of naughty delights, my sweet cakes.” She swung oddly back and forth between the two men as she continued, ”So then, what will you strapping young drakes be looking for? Be it a love potion or a lust potion, a purgative, an aphrodisiac or a restorative? Maybe its something more serious that you are after? Don’t be shy, I heard it all before, no rash too nasty... How about a nice, saucy nymph in a bottle?”. </p><p></p><p>Throughout this overwhelming barrage, Argonne and Morgan had found themselves backing away towards the door. They were about to turn and take the final step to safety when to their horror they realised the crone had deftly manoeuvred herself to block their exit. Shoulder’s slumped in resignation, they began to examine the disquieting wares on display while Grelda’s unpleasant, insinuating prattle assaulted their ears. “Don’t be shy…”</p><p></p><p>Moxadder’s fevered imagination burned as brightly as the tip of the devil weed he was drawing on. In one trembling hand he clutched the mighty conch gifted the Hydra by the prince of the tritons. On his hip he felt the satisfactory weight of a pouch full of sliver coins. One final drag diminished the weed to a few glowing embers that burned the tips of his fingers before he flicked them carelessly away. Setting his shoulders left the concealment of a shadowed doorway and entered the prosperous shop of the town’s most skilled arcane craftsman. To its increasingly astounded owner he explained what he wanted done and how quickly. The stunned protest that followed was decisively quenched by the heavy weight of coin which splashed carelessly across the artisan’s work bench.</p><p></p><p>While Gerard spent the day in languid extravagance, the gnome and the Black Elf went about more serious work. Once certain they had escaped the notice of their companions, especially Morgan, they made the now familiar journey to the Tower of Noverod. The fear of their previous visit was replaced with anticipation as they were soundlessly disappeared within its soulless black walls. Inside, secrets were laid bare and mighty oaths sworn. They left late in the afternoon, their battered minds filled with dreadful knowledge and the secrets of an ancient ritual that would seal the allegiance they had sworn to the masters of the tower.</p><p></p><p>Early in the evening, the companions sat down to their final meal on Sorcerer’s Isle. It was a lavish one made up of the finest the Hat and Staff had to offer. Only sporadic conversation was made as the Hydra enjoyed both the privacy of their thoughts and the fine provender set before them. </p><p></p><p>Besides Morgan rested a fearsome iron war mask made of ancient design. Throughout the evening the others found their eyes drawn to its brooding presence, almost as if it were an extra guest at their table. Morgan’s fingers unconsciously traced the fine designs engraved in the metal whenever they weren’t otherwise occupied. </p><p></p><p>Argonne also fondled his new purchase, a gaudy amulet set with semiprecious stones that was suspended from a heavy gold chain. His escape from Grelda’s shop had proven costly and both he and Morgan were nearly as skint as when they had first stepped on the isle. </p><p></p><p>What little conversation was made chiefly dwelt on the absence of any sign of the Blood Sails. It seemed the Rumscully Jack had been a man of his word. Mortec also reminded his companions of their need to inform the Baron of their doings with the magical amulet supplied them. With luck he would be satisfied with what they had learned and recall them to his castle. To the relief of all, this was exactly what occurred and they retired gratefully to their rooms.</p><p></p><p>The dawn had only just begun to stain the sky blood red when the Hydra cast off their boat’s moorings and rowed gently into the silky calm of the bay. They worked with a will and soon passed through the islands foggy shroud and into the open sea. A stiff wind blew favourably towards Yorathton and Argonne wasted no time and raising the Swift’s sail to take advantage of it. The others rested on their oars, relieved to be spared of the arduous work.</p><p></p><p>For the first hour they made good progress though the sea became increasingly choppy. In the second hour, conditions worsened to the point where the Swift was climbing waves many times higher than itself and plunging dangerously into the troughs. The wind had also increased to near gale like conditions, threatening to snap their mast or tear their sail asunder. Argonne leapt up to try and take it down when the boat pitched unexpectedly and spilled him into the water. Keeping his cool, Argonne clutched the amulet around his next and tried to invoke its power of water breathing. </p><p></p><p>Nothing happened, and he only received a deep lungful of seawater for his efforts. As he coughed and choked he desperately tried to find the Swift but the wind and waves obscured if for site. Another fit of retching shook him and he sank despairingly beneath the waves.</p><p></p><p>Panic erupted aboard the boat at the loss of their one capable seaman. Gerard and Mortec scanned the waves in the hope of spotting Argonne while Stravarius and Morgan successfully lowered the sail. Another massive wave nearly pitched them overboard, as did the fall as they plunged down its back.</p><p></p><p>Amidst the chaos, Moxadder maintained a fatalistic calm. With difficulty he brought up the conch horn secured at his waist and began to fumble for a concealed pocket in his clothing. </p><p></p><p>Steadying himself with his knees, he deftly packed a tight wad of devil weed into the silver cone devised by the artificer from Sorcerer’s Isle and set at its narrowest point. With a deft scoop he half filled the shell with sea water and raised it to his lips. By thumbing a tiny button near the cone he caused a tiny jet of blue flame to appear as he sucked hard on the conch. Contrary to any reasonable expectation, a powerful tone emanated from the horn, its pitch so deep as to be barely audible though the Hydra’s chests vibrated painfully in sympathy. The effect was quite spectacular for as the sound spread it flattened the waters at an ever increasing radius. Soon as far as the eye could see the ocean had become dead calm.</p><p></p><p>With a heaving splutter, Argonne broke the surface of the water and began swimming feebly towards the boat. Acting quickly, Morgan pushed out an oar for the woodsman to grasp and dragged him aboard. As Argonne vomited copious amounts of water into the boat, the rest of the companions looked at each other in amazement at the effects of the horn. Their contemplation was interrupted by Moxadder when he collapsed insensate into the scuppers, completed robbed of his wits by the magical conch and the weed.</p><p></p><p>It took three hard hours of rowing to reach Yorathton, but none of the companions begrudged the effort, such was their relief at reaching dry land in safety. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed and there was a messenger awaiting them to escort them to see the baron immediately. Stretching legs cramped by their voyage, they began the painful climb to the castle.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">*****</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Fiasco, post: 3273905, member: 15187"] [B]*Author's Note*[/B] The previous two SH posts have been slightly re-written to make a little more sense. [B]*End Note*[/B] As the sun passed from overhead and began making its long descent into the West, the companions conferred on their next course of action. With their successful raid against the Blood Sails and the slaying of Grisha, they had achieved all they were likely to on Sorcerer’s Isle. It was now a matter of finding the best way of returning safely to Yorathton. Knowing Grisha to have been a recluse who discouraged visitors, the Hydra decided that they had at least a day before having to worry about the wizard’s death being discovered. Rich with coin, they were eager to take advantage of the exotic attractions of the town’s numerous spell workers. Despite their painful injuries, the companions made the return to the Port of the Warlock with a light step. After securing lodgings at the Hat and Staff they quickly went about their affairs, determined to squeeze as much as they could out of what would hopefully be their last day on Sorcerer’s Isle. Morgan and Argonne’s random perambulations found them drawn down an ally so tiny they had only discovered it because Argonne had accidentally stumbled inside. A dim shop that lurked unobtrusively at the back of the alley, with a glance at each other they pushed forward. The entrance consisted of a crude bead curtain, embellished with numerous finger bones. They clattered unpleasantly as Morgan eased them aside and cautiously entered. The interior smelt strangely, a melange of old clothes, dust, cabbage soup and an unidentifiable acrid odour that stung the back of the throat; all partially concealed by the heavy of spice of several slow burning scented candles. A large clump of clothes moved suddenly, revealing itself to be an old woman. With a pained grunt she shuffled towards the companions, craning her neck upwards to compensate for the sharp curvature of her spine. “Customers, customers”, she cackled before coughing wetly on the back of one liver spotted hand. “Welcome to Grelda’s little shop of naughty delights, my sweet cakes.” She swung oddly back and forth between the two men as she continued, ”So then, what will you strapping young drakes be looking for? Be it a love potion or a lust potion, a purgative, an aphrodisiac or a restorative? Maybe its something more serious that you are after? Don’t be shy, I heard it all before, no rash too nasty... How about a nice, saucy nymph in a bottle?”. Throughout this overwhelming barrage, Argonne and Morgan had found themselves backing away towards the door. They were about to turn and take the final step to safety when to their horror they realised the crone had deftly manoeuvred herself to block their exit. Shoulder’s slumped in resignation, they began to examine the disquieting wares on display while Grelda’s unpleasant, insinuating prattle assaulted their ears. “Don’t be shy…” Moxadder’s fevered imagination burned as brightly as the tip of the devil weed he was drawing on. In one trembling hand he clutched the mighty conch gifted the Hydra by the prince of the tritons. On his hip he felt the satisfactory weight of a pouch full of sliver coins. One final drag diminished the weed to a few glowing embers that burned the tips of his fingers before he flicked them carelessly away. Setting his shoulders left the concealment of a shadowed doorway and entered the prosperous shop of the town’s most skilled arcane craftsman. To its increasingly astounded owner he explained what he wanted done and how quickly. The stunned protest that followed was decisively quenched by the heavy weight of coin which splashed carelessly across the artisan’s work bench. While Gerard spent the day in languid extravagance, the gnome and the Black Elf went about more serious work. Once certain they had escaped the notice of their companions, especially Morgan, they made the now familiar journey to the Tower of Noverod. The fear of their previous visit was replaced with anticipation as they were soundlessly disappeared within its soulless black walls. Inside, secrets were laid bare and mighty oaths sworn. They left late in the afternoon, their battered minds filled with dreadful knowledge and the secrets of an ancient ritual that would seal the allegiance they had sworn to the masters of the tower. Early in the evening, the companions sat down to their final meal on Sorcerer’s Isle. It was a lavish one made up of the finest the Hat and Staff had to offer. Only sporadic conversation was made as the Hydra enjoyed both the privacy of their thoughts and the fine provender set before them. Besides Morgan rested a fearsome iron war mask made of ancient design. Throughout the evening the others found their eyes drawn to its brooding presence, almost as if it were an extra guest at their table. Morgan’s fingers unconsciously traced the fine designs engraved in the metal whenever they weren’t otherwise occupied. Argonne also fondled his new purchase, a gaudy amulet set with semiprecious stones that was suspended from a heavy gold chain. His escape from Grelda’s shop had proven costly and both he and Morgan were nearly as skint as when they had first stepped on the isle. What little conversation was made chiefly dwelt on the absence of any sign of the Blood Sails. It seemed the Rumscully Jack had been a man of his word. Mortec also reminded his companions of their need to inform the Baron of their doings with the magical amulet supplied them. With luck he would be satisfied with what they had learned and recall them to his castle. To the relief of all, this was exactly what occurred and they retired gratefully to their rooms. The dawn had only just begun to stain the sky blood red when the Hydra cast off their boat’s moorings and rowed gently into the silky calm of the bay. They worked with a will and soon passed through the islands foggy shroud and into the open sea. A stiff wind blew favourably towards Yorathton and Argonne wasted no time and raising the Swift’s sail to take advantage of it. The others rested on their oars, relieved to be spared of the arduous work. For the first hour they made good progress though the sea became increasingly choppy. In the second hour, conditions worsened to the point where the Swift was climbing waves many times higher than itself and plunging dangerously into the troughs. The wind had also increased to near gale like conditions, threatening to snap their mast or tear their sail asunder. Argonne leapt up to try and take it down when the boat pitched unexpectedly and spilled him into the water. Keeping his cool, Argonne clutched the amulet around his next and tried to invoke its power of water breathing. Nothing happened, and he only received a deep lungful of seawater for his efforts. As he coughed and choked he desperately tried to find the Swift but the wind and waves obscured if for site. Another fit of retching shook him and he sank despairingly beneath the waves. Panic erupted aboard the boat at the loss of their one capable seaman. Gerard and Mortec scanned the waves in the hope of spotting Argonne while Stravarius and Morgan successfully lowered the sail. Another massive wave nearly pitched them overboard, as did the fall as they plunged down its back. Amidst the chaos, Moxadder maintained a fatalistic calm. With difficulty he brought up the conch horn secured at his waist and began to fumble for a concealed pocket in his clothing. Steadying himself with his knees, he deftly packed a tight wad of devil weed into the silver cone devised by the artificer from Sorcerer’s Isle and set at its narrowest point. With a deft scoop he half filled the shell with sea water and raised it to his lips. By thumbing a tiny button near the cone he caused a tiny jet of blue flame to appear as he sucked hard on the conch. Contrary to any reasonable expectation, a powerful tone emanated from the horn, its pitch so deep as to be barely audible though the Hydra’s chests vibrated painfully in sympathy. The effect was quite spectacular for as the sound spread it flattened the waters at an ever increasing radius. Soon as far as the eye could see the ocean had become dead calm. With a heaving splutter, Argonne broke the surface of the water and began swimming feebly towards the boat. Acting quickly, Morgan pushed out an oar for the woodsman to grasp and dragged him aboard. As Argonne vomited copious amounts of water into the boat, the rest of the companions looked at each other in amazement at the effects of the horn. Their contemplation was interrupted by Moxadder when he collapsed insensate into the scuppers, completed robbed of his wits by the magical conch and the weed. It took three hard hours of rowing to reach Yorathton, but none of the companions begrudged the effort, such was their relief at reaching dry land in safety. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed and there was a messenger awaiting them to escort them to see the baron immediately. Stretching legs cramped by their voyage, they began the painful climb to the castle. [CENTER]*****[/CENTER] [/QUOTE]
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Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)
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