Blackdirge's Vignette Vagabonds & Homeless Heroes (Updated 12/12/16 - "Phylactery")

[BLACKDIRGE]

Hey, folks. Some of you might remember me from way back. I used to be pretty active in the Story Hour forum (in fact, one of my threads is still stickied at the top of the forum), but it's been years since I posted anything. Anyway, over the last ten or so years, I've worked professionally as an RPG designer, editor, writer and so on, and I now write novels for Privateer Press. Point being, I've written a ton of stuff, and some of it didn't make it to publication for one reason or another. Much of it is narrative fiction, so I thought I'd share some of those literary orphans here.

What will follow are vignettes mostly, though some of them might pass the test for flash fiction. Basically, quick reads. I've got a bunch of these things collecting digital dust on my hard drive, so if you folks dig them, I'll keep posting them until I run out. A lot of them will be D&D related, but I've got some horror and other bits and pieces I might put up here as well.

I'm going to shoot for an update every Monday.

BD

---

Story Links:

1. "The High Road" - Minotaurs and dwarves just can't get a long.

2. "For Abbey" - A horror flash piece about a little girl and her new puppy.

3. "The Challenge" - In a world full of adventurers, picking fights can get you into a lot of trouble.

4. "The Dragon's Key" - A horror/fantasy flash piece that riffs of Sleeping Beauty a bit.

5. "Thunder & Lightning" - An urban fantasy story at 20,000 feet.

6. "A Red Night" - Apparently, I write stories about half-orcs picking fights with the wrong dudes. Here's another.

7. "Sometimes You Need the Big Gun" - Another short urban fantasy piece about guns and dragons and Corvettes, bro!

8. "A Pointed Education" - A D&D vignette with stubborn young dwarves and wise old dragonborn.

9. "Phylactery" - This short horror story explores the supernatural hazards of garage sales.

 

[BLACKDIRGE]

The High Road

One of the publishers I used to work for was Goodman Games, a great company run by a great guy, Joseph Goodman. They’re doing some awesome stuff right now with their Dungeon Crawl Classics RPG, and I most definitely urge you to check them out. Anyway, around 2009, I wrote or co-wrote a bunch of player-centric Dungeons & Dragons supplements for 4E. Two of them were never published, and they included a bunch of short fiction vignettes I’ve always liked.

This vignette was the intro to a fighter build, I believe. Anyway, its got minotaurs and dwarves and stuff.

---

The High Road

Tarnak snorted in irritation when he saw the two dwarven warriors standing in the middle of the road, blocking his path. Both were armed with short-hafted battleaxes and wore sturdy coats of riveted mail. Each dwarf also carried a heavy wooden shield nearly as tall as the warrior behind it.

“This is King Ivar’s road, beast,” one of the dwarven warriors called out. “Your kind has no business on it.”

Tarnak wasn’t overly surprised at the dwarves’ reaction. He was a minotaur and that meant ‘monster’ to most. No matter he had served in the dwarf king Ivar Stonehammer’s armies as an auxiliary field commander. No matter he had personally led the charge that shattered Azagar Bloodfist’s goblin horde in the Battle of Ivory Plateau, assuring victory for the dwarven monarch whose name was now used to reinforce dwarven bigotry.

He set the head of his poleaxe on the ground, letting the haft rest against his shoulder. He took his hands off the weapon and held them out, palms up. “I understand your concern, and your dedication to protecting the road is admirable,” he said. Tarnak had learned long ago those who showed him the most prejudice expected a violent response from his kind, a stereotype he was not about to enforce. “I have papers from the court of your noble king proving I am his servant. Will you let me show them to you?”

Both dwarves scowled but said nothing. This was not the response they had expected . . . or wanted.

Tarnak took advantage of the dwarves’ silence and dug into his pouch for the writ of passage bearing King Ivar’s personal seal. “I promise, if you give me a moment, I can prove—”

“We’re not interested in your forgeries, beast,” one of the warriors said. He was the older of the two and his beard was long, braided, and streaked with gray.

Tarnak stopped looking for the writ. “You would bar passage to a servant of your king on simple bigotry?”

The older dwarf’s face twisted into an ugly frown. “If bigotry means keeping the likes of you off roads used by decent folk, then aye, I’m a bigot,” he said and shifted his shield into a more comfortable and battle-ready position. “The only way you get by the two of us, ghrakha” – the dwarven word for ‘animal’ was not lost on Tarnak ­– “is with an axe between your horns.”

Tarnak sighed and lifted his poleaxe from the ground. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

The elder dwarf smiled and turned to his companion. “Uthar, let me show how you how to deal with a big lummox like this.”

“Take him down, Borgrim,” the younger dwarf said, grinning.

“Oh, this is exactly what I want, beast,” the dwarf named Borgrim said and started forward, axe held high, shield tucked beneath his bearded chin.

Tarnak let the dwarf advance and took his poleaxe in a fighting grip, one hand below the axe head and the other on the worn haft some two feet below that. He spread his legs and let the weight of his body settle evenly over his stance.

Borgrim’s advance turned into a charge, and he dropped his axe low to his side, where he could more easily strike at his opponent’s legs, a classic dwarven fighting technique. The stout race had been battling creatures bigger than themselves for millennia, and every dwarven warrior had learned that ogres, trolls, and minotaurs were easier to dispatch when cut down to a more manageable height. But Tarnak had been fighting alongside dwarves for years, and he was well versed in their battle strategies. He took a step back and whipped his poleaxe up over his head, letting both hands slide to the end of the weapon’s haft, then he brought the axe down with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Tarnak’s great reach allowed his blow to strike first, halting his opponent’s advance for a crucial second as the dwarf caught the axe head on his shield. Borgrim had likely anticipated the attack, but he had underestimated the power behind it. Tarnak’s poleaxe smashed through the dwarf’s shield with a loud crack of splintered wood, then it parted the mail between Borgrim’s head and shoulder, cut through the thick padded gambeson he wore beneath it, and finally plowed a ragged swath through his body, lodging in his breastbone with a hollow, metallic thump.

Borgrim remained standing, his weapon dangling from nerveless fingers, eyes as big as saucers, Tarnak’s axe still buried in his body—it was all that was keeping him upright. Tarnak put a hoof on the dwarf’s chest and ripped his axe free. Blood sprayed from the hideous wound, splattering Tarnak’s face and tunic. Borgrim toppled forward onto the shattered ruin of his shield, dead before he hit the ground.

The remaining dwarf looked on, mouth agape, his weapon forgotten at his side. Tarnak advanced, his axe still red and dripping.

“P-please don’t kill me,” the dwarf said as Tarnak approached. He dropped his axe and shield in the middle of the road.

The minotaur bent down and pushed his horned head close to the young dwarf’s bearded face. He was barely more than an adolescent. “Uthar is it?”

The dwarf nodded, tears brimming in his eyes.

“I will tell you something, so you may learn from this day,” Tarnak said. “All the wood and iron in the world cannot stop a minotaur’s axe at full swing.” He straightened, towering over the young dwarf. “Sometimes you need to get out of the way.”

 

[BLACKDIRGE]

For Abby

This next piece is a bit of horror flash fiction I wrote for an exercise/competition where the participants were given a photo prompt and then asked to write a story under a thousand words in no more than one hour. Yeah, it's not D&D related, but I could see this fitting into a CoC game or another horror RPG.

Here's the photo prompt.



And here's the story I came up with to go with it.

---

For Abby

The shop smelled like rotten eggs, and Dale wrinkled his nose as the door shut behind him. The place wasn’t like any pet store he’d ever seen. There were no cages filled with frolicking puppies and kittens, no rows of aquariums sporting colorful exotic fish, and no soft screeches and chirps of parrots and finches. It was empty, really, just a square room with a bare concrete floor and a long counter against the far wall. The single note of color was a red door behind the counter.

Dale took a few steps into the shop and stopped. Something had been scrawled on the concrete floor in fading white chalk: a big circle with a five-pointed star in the middle. He found he really didn’t want to step in that circle. To his relief, there was enough room to move around it.

“Hello?” he said and approached the counter.

There was no answer.

The smell, the weird symbol on the floor, and the shop’s apparent emptiness were starting to unnerve him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the post-it note Dr. Falders had given him. She’d written and address and two words on it: For Abby. This was the address. It had been difficult to find, and it was in an area of town he’d never visited, had never known existed.

“Is anyone here?” he said. This time, he heard muffled footsteps behind the red door and took a step back. The door opened, revealing darkness beyond, and disgorged a stink so revolting he slapped a hand over his mouth and turned away.

“Can I help you?”

Dale turned back to the counter. A very pretty woman in a white dress was now standing behind it. She had long black hair, pale skin, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her age was difficult to determine. She could be eighteen or thirty.

The smell had faded and Dale took his hand away from his mouth. He stepped up to the counter and set the post-it note on the faded wood. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Dr. Falders sent me . . .”

The woman nodded and smiled. Her lips were very red. “Of course. She said you would be coming.”

“It’s about my daughter,” he said. “She needs a new pet. Something a little more . . . resilient than a dog or a cat.”

The woman cocked her head, and her smile brightened. “I understand completely, Mr. Richards.”

“She doesn’t mean to hurt them,” Dale said. “It’s just that puppies and kittens are so fragile.”

The woman placed one long-fingered hand on Dale’s forearm. Her skin was cold and smooth. “You don’t have to explain. Dr. Falders has told me all I need to know.”

Dale nodded. “Oh,” he said, surprised. What else had the doctor had told this woman about Abby? “So you’re a pet store?”

“Of sorts,” the woman said and removed her hand from Dale’s arm. “We cater to very special clients with very special children, like you and Abby.”

“I don’t see any cages,” Dale said.

“We keep a very limited stock,” the woman said. “But I have just the thing for Abby.”

Dale smiled. “Really? Oh, man, that would be great. Her fits are always better when she has something to play with.” He was afraid to hope, but Dr. Falders had been right about everything else.

“Step around the counter, Mr. Richards,” the woman said and opened the red door. The stink returned, but it didn’t bother him as much now. If this woman could really help Abby, he could put up with a little stench. He followed the woman into a small dark room that held a big cage, the kind you might keep a wild animal in, like a tiger or a bear. There was something in the cage, but it was too dark to see it clearly.

“Let me turn on the light,” the woman said. There was a slight pause, and then the room was bathed in white light from an overhead fixture. He sucked in a short, sharp breath at the sight of the thing in the cage. It was lying on its side, its massive head turned in his direction. At first, he thought it was a dog, but it was too big for that, plus the horns, the burning red eyes, and the shark-like teeth all added up to something very much not a dog.

“Jesus,” Dale said. He suddenly felt the shopkeeper’s icy grip on his arm, painfully tight.

“That is not a name I like to hear in my shop, Mr. Richards,” the woman said, frowning, her voice tight, angry.

“Uh, sorry,” he said. “Abby doesn’t like it either. What is that thing?”

“A pet for a girl like Abby,” she said. Her smile had returned.

“It’s a little big,” Dale said.

“Look closer, Mr. Richards,” the woman said.

He turned back to the cage and the thing within it. On closer inspection he saw there were several small, squirming shapes in the straw beneath the beast, nuzzling its belly. He realized with mingled disgust and delight the squirming things were the creature’s young.

“I can have one of the . . . puppies for Abby?” he asked.

“You can,” the woman said. “It will weather your daughter’s affections quite well, and when it is grown, it can protect her from those who might wish to harm her.”

Dale nodded, remembering the priest at the hospital when Abby was born. He’d thrown a fit about the birth mark on Abby’s arm, and the police had removed him. There had been others, doctors mostly, a few neighbors, too. They’d had to move several times.

“I’ll take it,” Dale said. “What do I owe you?”

He felt the woman’s cool touch on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Her voice was in his ear. “Nothing, Mr. Richards,” she said. “Just keep her safe. All that is owed will be repaid when she is ready.”

 

[doghead]

What will follow are vignettes mostly, though some of them might pass the test for flash fiction. Basically, quick reads. I've got a bunch of these things collecting digital dust on my hard drive, so if you folks dig them, I'll keep posting them until I run out.
BD

Have spade. Am digging. Please continue.

thotd

 

[doghead]

The High Road

...

I like minotaurs. Regardless of how it is pronounced. And monster characters.

As this tale unfolded I was hoping that the minotaur would resolve the situation without bloodshed - or at least without killing. Oh well. I wonder how the minotaur's actions will affect his reception when he gets to the kings hall.

It also made me think about how the world of D&D is different from the real world. High level characters are orders of magnitude more dangerous than low level ones. At the high levels they can survive damage that would kill a dozen of ordinary people, and dish out as much damage as a squad of low level warriors. The dwarf was a fool for picking a fight without knowing anything about his opponent.

thotd

 

[BLACKDIRGE]

Have spade. Am digging. Please continue.

thotd

Will do. Glad you're excavations are proving enjoyable.

BD

 

[Quartz]

He's back!

 

[BLACKDIRGE]

He's back!

Yeah, found myself missing my old stomping grounds.

 

[BLACKDIRGE]

The Challenge

Here’s another tidbit from ancient history, back from the days when I was working full-time as an RPG designer/writer/editor for Goodman Games. Like the first vignette in this series, “The High Road,” this one comes from an unpublished manuscript for a player-oriented supplement for 4E Dungeons & Dragons. Also, like the previous entry, this tiny tale is meant to introduce a new rules system for the game in a narrative fashion (the crunchy bits came directly after the vignette).

This one is called “The Challenge,” and, if I remember correctly, it introduced a brawling/monkish fighter build.

---

The Challenge

Karog brought the axe down with a satisfied grunt. The man's head came away from his neck in a warm, red spray, and Karog kicked the twitching corpse off the butcher’s block he’d been using as a makeshift executioner’s slab. Two of his men hurried forward to drag the body away.

The half-orc wiped blood from his face and breastplate and offered a tusk-filled smile to the remaining townsfolk of Harvest Tide, herded together before him and staring in open-mouthed horror at the carnage in their town square. His men stood behind the crowd, weapons drawn, faces and armor caked in the blood and soot of their conquest.

They’d ridden into Harvest Tide at dawn, drawn by rumors of an adventurer who had retired in the village with fabulous wealth. There had been little resistance, and Karog and his twenty followers had looted and slaughtered for a full day, but they had not found the treasure they sought.

“Right,” Karog said. “That’s fourteen of you sorry sons of whores dead by my axe because you fools won’t tell me where the treasure is hidden. Will it take fourteen more?” Karog grinned; nothing made him feel more alive than murder. “Or, if one you is brave enough to step on out here and stop me …” He let his last statement sink in–the absurdity of one of these bumpkins actually fighting him was just too rich. “I thought not,” Karog said after moments of silence. “Okay, Yarl, bring me the mayor—“

“What assurances do we have your men will leave us in peace once you are defeated?” a voice called out.

Karog’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Which of you dead men said that?” he said, searching the crowd of frightened faces for the speaker.

“I did.” A slim figure moved through the crowd and into the blood-soaked square.

Karog threw his head back and laughed. The elven man stood just under six feet in height–tall for an elf–and wore a simple leather kilt and a rough spun shirt. His feet were bare, and he was unarmed.

“I am Eodain,” the elven man said. “If I defeat you here, now, will your men leave this town?”

“Defeat me with what?!” A chorus of derisive laughter burst from Karog’s men; laughter tinged with greedy anticipation of more bloodshed. “I’ll tell you what, Eodain,” Karog said after the laughter had subsided. “If you defeat me, my men will leave Harvest Tide like a herd of gentle lambs.” He looked around at the band of thugs and cutthroats that followed him. “Right, men?” More laughter.

“Swear upon Nygor, and I’ll believe you,” Eodain said softly, his emerald eyes boring into Karog’s.

The half-orc reflexively grasped the holy symbol of his god where it dangled from an iron chain around his neck. The joy he had felt moments before drained away, leaving only cold, murderous anger. A promise made to Nygor the Nightbringer, the bloody god he and his gang of bandits followed, was the only thing that would hold them to their word. The fact that Eodain had known that poked holes of white-hot rage in the thin veil of Karog’s self-control.

Karog’s men had grown silent at the request. Invoking the Nightbringer’s name was no mean thing, and all of them, Karog included, feared the deity’s wrath. “Very well,” Karog said between clenched teeth. “I swear upon the wings of Nygor my men will leave this village in peace if you defeat me.”

“Good enough,” Eodain said. “Let us begin.”

“Gladly.” Karog surged forward, axe in a two-handed grip. He meant to end the life of his unarmed, unarmored opponent with one brutal strike.

Eodain had other things in mind.

Karog had never seen anyone move so fast. His opponent whirled away from his blow with a liquid grace, letting the axe flash through the empty air where his neck and head had been a heartbeat earlier. Missing with the heavy strike caused Karog to lose his balance and stumble forward. He was a veteran of a hundred battles, though, and he regained his footing swiftly and turned to deliver another strike with his axe.

This time Eodain did not move away. The elf shout out a lithe, muscular arm and caught Karog’s axe by the haft as it descended, halting the blow with bewildering strength. Then, Karog’s opponent, whom he outweighed by nearly two hundred pounds, punched him in the face.

It was like being struck with a battering ram. Karog’s bones and teeth shattered like glass beneath the impact, and the rough cobblestones felt like a father bed in comparison as he crashed down upon them, stunned and bleeding. He struggled to suck air through his pulped nose and mouth, and only his bubbling breath broke the silence that had bloomed around him. Above, the stoic face of Eodain loomed, his thin lips set in a slight frown. The elf held something shiny between his fingers.

“This is what you seek, Karog,” Eodain said and tossed the single gold piece onto the half-orc’s breastplate. “My treasure.”

Karog fought down a tide of frantic laughter and tried to move, but a sharp pain at the base of his skull and the spreading numbness throughout his body told him Eodain’s strike had done much worse than break a few teeth.

“Quickly,” Karog whispered as Eodain again loomed over him, this time with his own axe in both fists–fists Karog now saw were little more than clubs of callus and scars.

“Gladly,” Eodain said and brought the axe down.

 

[BLACKDIRGE]

The Dragon's Key

Here's another flash piece I wrote as an exercise. This was another one-hour challenge, where you get a prompt and then have to write the story in one hour. I've gone on to publish a bunch of stories like that, but I there are a few I can't quite find a market for. This is one of them.

---

The Dragon's Key

Edward’s gaze lingered on the ornate silver key in his hand, on the five words etched into its blade. Open my heart. Release me. The words had haunted him for over a decade, and he had searched every dark corner of the world for their meaning. He’d traded all he owned, including his land and title, to learn the key’s origin, and more importantly, where to find the lock it opened. Penniless, his will nearly broken, his search ended here, atop a high, windy peak on the edge of the world.

Before him yawned an immense cavern, its entrance a raw sliver of darkness that opened like a wound in the mountainside. From out the cavern wafted the stench of brimstone and the rancid odor of the beast—the last obstacle in his way.

His father’s armor and sword were all that remained to him. The armor covered him from head to toe in the best steel smiths could provide. The plate and chain would turn aside a foeman’s blade and perhaps even the steely claws and fangs of the beast. His father’s sword gleamed in the fading sunlight, its slender blade etched with the words of his house—words no longer rightly his.

Edward stuffed the key into a pouch and strode forward, taking his longsword in a two-handed grip. As he neared the cavern entrance, he saw within the blackness a soft reddish glow, fiery and alluring. The glow became brighter as he moved into the cavern, at last illuminating both the prize for which he had long sought and the beast that existed to keep him from it.

The dragon lifted its scaly head from the serpentine tangle of its limbs and opened its eyes, molten pools of swirling gold and scarlet. Behind the dragon, upon a plinth of shining onyx, rested an ornate coffin with a glass lid. His breath caught in his throat, and any fear he had of the dragon vanished. All he could see was her raven black hair and alabaster skin. His lips moved as he reverently whispered her words. Open my heart. Release me.

“Have you the key?” the dragon said, its voice a bass rumble that seemed to shake the roots of the mountain.

The dragon’s question startled Edward and pulled his attention away from the glass coffin. Only now did he notice the scattered bones, cracked into shards, at the dragon’s taloned feet. Only now did he notice how large it was, that its scales glittered like a coat of mail, that its claws and fangs and fiery breath had spelled doom for dozens, possibly hundreds before him.

“You shall not keep her from me, beast!” he shouted, his voice wavering with both fear and longing.

The dragon opened its mouth and laughed, revealing many rows of ivory daggers, each a foot long. Its laughter filled his ears to bursting, caused his armor to rattle upon his body, and stole the strength from his limbs. He nearly dropped his sword and fled the cave, but he could still see her there, waiting for him, waiting for his key.

He stood his ground.

“I have no intention of keeping you from your prize, little man,” the dragon said. “That is not my role.” It glanced down at the charred bones on the cavern floor, and its fanged mouth split in a wide predatory smile. “I ask again, do you have the key?”

He did have the key; the others before him did not. He was the one chosen to free her from her slumber, to claim her for his own. He dug the key from his pouch and held it aloft. The dragon’s head shot forward on its long snaky neck until it was mere inches from his outstretched hand. The heat coming off the beast was suffocating, the radiant glow from its eyes blinding.

“That is the key,” the dragon said, obviously disappointed. It pulled its head back, rose to its feet, and stepped aside. “You may approach.”

Edward sprinted past the dragon to the plinth. He flew up the steps, his heart pounding in his chest, arms outstretched to touch his prize, to hold her in his arms.

When he reached the coffin, he flung open its glass lid and then stopped, struck dumb by the beauty of the woman laying within. She wore a thin white dress, gauzy and transparent in the reddish glow of the dragon’s eyes. Her face was unimagined perfection, her body young and supple. Her eyes were closed, and there was no breath in her body. Edward knew she was not dead, for upon her breast was that which held her in unnatural sleep. The locket was heart-shaped, its chain cleverly forged in the shape of interlocking hands.

Edward pushed the key into the locket, turned it once, and the locket parted and fell away in equal halves. He reached out to touch the woman’s face, and her eyes snapped open. Edward recoiled. Her waking did not bring the rush of joy and fulfillment he’d expected; instead, it brought a hungry surge of terror. Her eyes were the swirling scarlet yellow of the dragon’s, and when her hand locked around his throat with unbreakable strength he felt ragged talons bite into his flesh.

He tried to pull away, his feet scrabbling on loose stones beneath him. He looked down and saw, to his horror, there were no stones, only hundreds of keys, each like his own, each bearing the same words.

The dragon’s daughter opened her mouth and yanked him forward, down toward ivory fangs and the fire beyond them. Edward opened his mouth to scream, but her fiery kiss silenced him. The dragon’s booming laughter followed him down into darkness.