I'm A Banana
Potassium-Rich
MOSTLY EVIL
(WARNING: Content your parents don't want you to see! Passing mention of nefarious deeds glorified in the minds of the characters. Nothing too awful, but you've been warned.
)
Deep beneath the planet, where the sun never shines and rain never falls, lives a people cut off from what is known of the world. They are the descendants of slaves, captive from birth, called by numbers. They are the slaves of the underdark, where an elf and a dwarf can grow up next to each other, and never know the hatred they're supposed to feel...
Down, below the Drow, below the Illithid, below the Azer and the Aboleth, lurks a race all but forgotten on the surface. Thought to be destroyed years ago, they only lurk in forgotten artifacts and vague mentions in old poems.
The are the Slarecians.
This is a story of a group of slaves perhaps destined for greatness, perhaps for an early grave. This is a quest for freedom from the bonds that life imposes on you. A story about heroism, and belief.
But mostly it is a story about a bunch of dickwads and the trouble they cause.
Meet Cinder. A human, big, strong, and bulky. He calls himslef "Cinder," and has, ever since he can remember, had a strange fascination with the flame. He would stand for hours and watch a torch dance in the stale air of the cavern, fascinated by this spirit which eminated heat and light. By it's magic, he could see.
Stories also exist of Cinder often giggling in some perverse glee whenever some other slave hit an oil well and wound up au flambe.
Cinder seemed particularly intrigued with the small scarf he found, laying aside a rock...bright red, with a dash of gray....he took it, and hid it beneath s robes...
Was that a voice in his head? No matter, back to work!....
Meet the man known as Syldir. A hard worker, he always took a certain strength in the ground itself, and had a bit of a friendship with the rats in the loft where he slept. He had a certain belief about the inherent worthiness of life, though he couldn't have gotten it here. His elvish mind remembered something from long ago, and far away -- something...green...though he didn't have a name for the color, it sprung unbidden to him anyway....from a small blade, half-buried in rock...a weapon? For him?
Meet the man known only as Number Seventeen. The stong, silent type, he had been known to laugh occasionally when a slave near him got whipped, or to get a certain satisfaction when he sliced into the rock...and this blade that peeked up from the stone...surely, it could sink deeply into the skin of anything he thrust it. Seventeen's eyes gleamed with a sadistic glee as he took it and hid it beneath his cloak...
Meet Cirrus. An overseer of the mine, descended from rather successful elven slaves, Cirrus was dedicated, but strangely distant. He said no more than was needed, and kept mostly to himself. He seemed almost afraid, frightened that if the masters knew of his strange dream of a gigantic cavern with an endless roof, where white, puffy things drifted on winds that blew, and everything was heated by a giant torch...if they knew, they would break him...and if they broke him, he would not stand it...the sight of endless blue would not be calmed...
And that's when he discovered the ring...small...blue...a hope he could hold on to. A message to keep perservering, that, one day, freedom would be his...
Lastly, meet the man known as Ohzama, a man whose brown-nosing knew no dignity. He didn't work in the mines...he labored as a house slave. Locally, his type were known as sell-outs, cowards, shameless hacks who would gladly lick the slime off of their masters's shoes. Ohzama prefered to think of himself as an enterprising, wily man...not so much a shameless hack as a man who knows who has the power -- and the easiest way to get it from them. He had a trusting face, which made it all the worse when one was trying to determine if he was lying or not.
He didn't find a blade or ring or scarf in a cavern...he found a cactus...under a chair...that talked to him. It was green, spikey, and smelled good....so he wrapped it in cloth, and hid it beneath some moss in his cell...
Sleep comes even to slaves, and a rested slave works more willingly. The Slarecians had a pattern for it -- 12 hours of rest, 12 hours of work, roughly matching the internal clock of these surface-spawn. Back to the hole, entwined in moss, curled up for a well-deserved rest, Cinder, Syldir, Seventeen, and Cirrus all slept...and had a vision.
Nearby, in a stone mansion, Ohzama talked to his cactus....
A tingle at the base of the skull...a feeling of warmth....a red mist falling down....the same speach, delivered by a different form..
Cinder saw a tall woman, looking almost skeletal. Her skin was yellowish, with spots on it. She had long, pointed ears, serrated at the back, and a long tail of red hair. She wore a suit of armor, and weilded a shimmering silver blade...she called herself "Cherry," a battle maiden with mystic mind powers. Her speach was short, to the point, without any superfluous talk...
Syldir saw a very short man, leaning heavily on a staff. Squirrels played at his feet, and he seemed to be a walking garden himself. Calling himself "Bugsy," he gave a speach that droned on for a bit, as is the nature of the elderly, and finished with something about "kids these days."
Seventeen saw a creature he vaguely recognized from a battle, long ago. With gold-red skin, dressed in a heavy coat of armor, and wielding a large blade, he called himself "Kregu," a hobogoblin of a very military nature. His speach was quick, short, and clipped. Very ordered, very structured for impact...
Cirrus saw a man of gray skin, stretched tightly over his small frame. He spoke mentally, his slit-mouth barely moving, his deep black eyes reflecting nothing. In whispers and hints, he told of freedom and glory, of reaching for the dreams you have. He spoke of rebellion, and Cirrus listened closely. The speaker of dreams was Kith
Ohzama saw a woman best described as a humanoid rat. With large, flared ears, and an upturned nose, she glowered at him, her lip curling in disgust. Her wiry black hair fell about her form, and her exotic robes barely concealed the weapon she wielded. She gave orders, and did not expect him to disobey them. She looked down on him, this slave in his subservience. She called herself "Nezumi," and Ohzama listened, but cared only for the words of power with which she spoke.
They were all told to go with a man in white robes, to win their freedom with his help. They would find power, and release, gain glory and might. And perhaps, survive. But they would be able to be free, at the end -- and that was a prize worth fighting for.
The gong sounded in the morning, and torches lit along streets. The five were taken to market, and sold like heads of cattle. The man was fairly young, nervous-looking, but with a purpose in his bearing. He baught them for the price of a good inn room, and loaded them onto his cart.
It was there that their lives made their truly remarkable turn, and their destiny began to unfold...
(WARNING: Content your parents don't want you to see! Passing mention of nefarious deeds glorified in the minds of the characters. Nothing too awful, but you've been warned.
)Deep beneath the planet, where the sun never shines and rain never falls, lives a people cut off from what is known of the world. They are the descendants of slaves, captive from birth, called by numbers. They are the slaves of the underdark, where an elf and a dwarf can grow up next to each other, and never know the hatred they're supposed to feel...
Down, below the Drow, below the Illithid, below the Azer and the Aboleth, lurks a race all but forgotten on the surface. Thought to be destroyed years ago, they only lurk in forgotten artifacts and vague mentions in old poems.
The are the Slarecians.
This is a story of a group of slaves perhaps destined for greatness, perhaps for an early grave. This is a quest for freedom from the bonds that life imposes on you. A story about heroism, and belief.
But mostly it is a story about a bunch of dickwads and the trouble they cause.
Meet Cinder. A human, big, strong, and bulky. He calls himslef "Cinder," and has, ever since he can remember, had a strange fascination with the flame. He would stand for hours and watch a torch dance in the stale air of the cavern, fascinated by this spirit which eminated heat and light. By it's magic, he could see.
Stories also exist of Cinder often giggling in some perverse glee whenever some other slave hit an oil well and wound up au flambe.
Cinder seemed particularly intrigued with the small scarf he found, laying aside a rock...bright red, with a dash of gray....he took it, and hid it beneath s robes...
Was that a voice in his head? No matter, back to work!....
Meet the man known as Syldir. A hard worker, he always took a certain strength in the ground itself, and had a bit of a friendship with the rats in the loft where he slept. He had a certain belief about the inherent worthiness of life, though he couldn't have gotten it here. His elvish mind remembered something from long ago, and far away -- something...green...though he didn't have a name for the color, it sprung unbidden to him anyway....from a small blade, half-buried in rock...a weapon? For him?
Meet the man known only as Number Seventeen. The stong, silent type, he had been known to laugh occasionally when a slave near him got whipped, or to get a certain satisfaction when he sliced into the rock...and this blade that peeked up from the stone...surely, it could sink deeply into the skin of anything he thrust it. Seventeen's eyes gleamed with a sadistic glee as he took it and hid it beneath his cloak...
Meet Cirrus. An overseer of the mine, descended from rather successful elven slaves, Cirrus was dedicated, but strangely distant. He said no more than was needed, and kept mostly to himself. He seemed almost afraid, frightened that if the masters knew of his strange dream of a gigantic cavern with an endless roof, where white, puffy things drifted on winds that blew, and everything was heated by a giant torch...if they knew, they would break him...and if they broke him, he would not stand it...the sight of endless blue would not be calmed...
And that's when he discovered the ring...small...blue...a hope he could hold on to. A message to keep perservering, that, one day, freedom would be his...
Lastly, meet the man known as Ohzama, a man whose brown-nosing knew no dignity. He didn't work in the mines...he labored as a house slave. Locally, his type were known as sell-outs, cowards, shameless hacks who would gladly lick the slime off of their masters's shoes. Ohzama prefered to think of himself as an enterprising, wily man...not so much a shameless hack as a man who knows who has the power -- and the easiest way to get it from them. He had a trusting face, which made it all the worse when one was trying to determine if he was lying or not.
He didn't find a blade or ring or scarf in a cavern...he found a cactus...under a chair...that talked to him. It was green, spikey, and smelled good....so he wrapped it in cloth, and hid it beneath some moss in his cell...
Sleep comes even to slaves, and a rested slave works more willingly. The Slarecians had a pattern for it -- 12 hours of rest, 12 hours of work, roughly matching the internal clock of these surface-spawn. Back to the hole, entwined in moss, curled up for a well-deserved rest, Cinder, Syldir, Seventeen, and Cirrus all slept...and had a vision.
Nearby, in a stone mansion, Ohzama talked to his cactus....
A tingle at the base of the skull...a feeling of warmth....a red mist falling down....the same speach, delivered by a different form..
Cinder saw a tall woman, looking almost skeletal. Her skin was yellowish, with spots on it. She had long, pointed ears, serrated at the back, and a long tail of red hair. She wore a suit of armor, and weilded a shimmering silver blade...she called herself "Cherry," a battle maiden with mystic mind powers. Her speach was short, to the point, without any superfluous talk...
Syldir saw a very short man, leaning heavily on a staff. Squirrels played at his feet, and he seemed to be a walking garden himself. Calling himself "Bugsy," he gave a speach that droned on for a bit, as is the nature of the elderly, and finished with something about "kids these days."
Seventeen saw a creature he vaguely recognized from a battle, long ago. With gold-red skin, dressed in a heavy coat of armor, and wielding a large blade, he called himself "Kregu," a hobogoblin of a very military nature. His speach was quick, short, and clipped. Very ordered, very structured for impact...
Cirrus saw a man of gray skin, stretched tightly over his small frame. He spoke mentally, his slit-mouth barely moving, his deep black eyes reflecting nothing. In whispers and hints, he told of freedom and glory, of reaching for the dreams you have. He spoke of rebellion, and Cirrus listened closely. The speaker of dreams was Kith
Ohzama saw a woman best described as a humanoid rat. With large, flared ears, and an upturned nose, she glowered at him, her lip curling in disgust. Her wiry black hair fell about her form, and her exotic robes barely concealed the weapon she wielded. She gave orders, and did not expect him to disobey them. She looked down on him, this slave in his subservience. She called herself "Nezumi," and Ohzama listened, but cared only for the words of power with which she spoke.
They were all told to go with a man in white robes, to win their freedom with his help. They would find power, and release, gain glory and might. And perhaps, survive. But they would be able to be free, at the end -- and that was a prize worth fighting for.
The gong sounded in the morning, and torches lit along streets. The five were taken to market, and sold like heads of cattle. The man was fairly young, nervous-looking, but with a purpose in his bearing. He baught them for the price of a good inn room, and loaded them onto his cart.
It was there that their lives made their truly remarkable turn, and their destiny began to unfold...
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