Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
WizarDru
Adventurer
Hi, Destan and crew!
Been a few weeks since I've had a chance to get to read the story hour and catch up (although my players have definitely commented on it).
Simply fantastic stuff, as usual. The showdown with Baphtemet? Pure brilliance. Excellent pacing, your usual deft way with words and imagery (the image of missing his book reading under a tree as he thought he breathed his last) and a darn good story to tell make this story hour a genuine pleasure. Your ability to infuse each character with a solidly unique voice is one of your strengths, and you and your players should be dutifully proud of their characterizations and your interpetation of same.
The juxtaposition of the assasination made for some confusion, though. You might want to edit that one and put a disclaimer above it, to make it easier for new readers.
Oh, and I hope you're getting sleep! It's been a couple of years since my second (and we haven't decided on a third or not), but I remember the sleep deprivation all too well.
Been a few weeks since I've had a chance to get to read the story hour and catch up (although my players have definitely commented on it).
Simply fantastic stuff, as usual. The showdown with Baphtemet? Pure brilliance. Excellent pacing, your usual deft way with words and imagery (the image of missing his book reading under a tree as he thought he breathed his last) and a darn good story to tell make this story hour a genuine pleasure. Your ability to infuse each character with a solidly unique voice is one of your strengths, and you and your players should be dutifully proud of their characterizations and your interpetation of same.
The juxtaposition of the assasination made for some confusion, though. You might want to edit that one and put a disclaimer above it, to make it easier for new readers.
Oh, and I hope you're getting sleep! It's been a couple of years since my second (and we haven't decided on a third or not), but I remember the sleep deprivation all too well.
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
WizarDru said:
Done! Good advice, thanks Dru.
On a somewhat related note - do new readers come along when story hours are this far advanced? I know, personally, it was somewhat intimidating to dive into story hours that include so many updates. Piratecat's excellent tale could (and should) encompass four to five novels!
Certainly, there's the professional SH readers - Lela, Darklone, Broccli_Head, Horatio - but I wonder if the normal bored-in-his/her-cubicle reader will take such a burden upon his/herself. Should I end this thread and start a new one, or doesn't that make much of a difference either way?
Bah, I'm rambling.
More to the issue at hand: It appears my little experiment of four consecutive, daily updates went awry after update #3. I've been tired, sick, blah blah blah. Anyway, I should have the most recent update posted today. Tomorrow at the latest.
The Brotherhood of Olgotha fast approaches a "major event". I made the mistake of mining my players' memories to help me write the next couple updates - I had forgotten quite a bit. A lot of stuff is about to happen, and I wanted to get it factually correct. Or, at least, as close as possible.
D
Lela
First Post
Yeah, yeah. You say that now.Capellan said:Don't fret: every cent we make from our SHs, we pass on to you
But when you guys are finally discovered and the plethora of crappy writers who smash up a good settings die off all I'll get is endless happiness from reading your books. And a lot of debt pilled up from buying them all (cause there's no way I'm not owning them) and a bookshelf to put them on.
And you guys will be raking in the cash that brilliant writers deserve. And after the movie rights come through. . .
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Cheiromancer
Adventurer
I know that when I am up to date with my favorite story-hours, I start to look around for others. But I don't want to get into a story that is going to fold after three installments. Stories that get updated and seem to have a regular fan-base will attract me months after they have started.
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Death at the Dusk Ford
In Axemarch, when the rücken had first broken through the Dunden Crust, Baden had said nothing during the subsequent Warmoot. He listened, quietly, and the bitterness grew in his breast.
Afterward, none had asked him for his thoughts.
Then, months later, the Far Warrens had drummed with the bootheels of dwem raiders. Rumli was killed in the first volley. Larnido died more slowly – they found him bound and gagged days after the assault had been beaten back. Again, a Warmoot was held. And, this time, Baden spoke.
Afterward, none had asked him for his reasons.
The morhedrel had joined the fray shortly thereafter. A small group of astum eg’lor, Ones Already Dead, entered Axemarch from above rather than below. Volri, who had not died when Rumli fell, was slit from navel to neck and left hanging, his beard tied to a crossbeam. A third Warmoot was held, yet Baden did not attend; he had already decided his home was no longer within those halls.
Afterward, none had followed to ask him why.
Baden Dost had his reasons why he left Axemarch. He had his reasons why he rode a pony, alone, under the Foggun Maw, down the Steppingway, and onto the Cormick plains. He had his reasons why he turned his back to the Balantir Cor, why he afterward ignored rumors of war as they drifted downward from the mountains to the lands of Men. And he had his reasons why he vowed never to go back.
Problem is, Baden now thought, none o’ em are any good.
The Axemarch dwarf swung Borbidan’s waraxe – his waraxe – through the autumn air. The weight was good, the balance perfect. A few more practice strokes and his shoulders were loose. He dug his boots into the half-frozen ground, shook his heels back and forth to gain better footing.
Forgefather, Baden prayed, you know I have never broken faith. Not with you. I’m a little upset you decided to grant me wisdom now. I could’a used it back when I was opening my fool mouth at the Warmoot. Could’a used it before I placed bit and bridle on ol’ Marmbly and rode her outta me homeland.
Baden decided he had swung the axe enough – any more, and he would only be tiring himself. He sat the head upon the ground, crossed his arms over the haft, and waited.
In the corner of his mind, he heard the voice. It had happened so many times, now, that it no longer troubled him. What did trouble him, however, was the fact the voice was whimpering.
Ilvar, what is it?
- D-demons, Baden. They are near.
No, child – not demons. They be dogs. Or wolves.
- Hellbred hounds, Baden – that’s what they are. I’m scared-
Don’t be, little one.
Baden lifted his axe as he saw the first of the wolven crest the ridge.
I mean to go home. And no beast – demon or no – is gonna keep me from it.
***
John counted the shaggy heads as they appeared. One, two. The Pellman pressed the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder and took aim at the lead animal. Two? Only two?! Bigby, you half-bearded ass, we could’a waylaid these pups hours ago and saved the soles of my boots!
John pulled the four-fingered trigger and allowed himself time to smile. The bolt buried itself, fletching-deep, in the first wolven’s hackles. Both beasts’ heads swiveled downward to regard him, and his smiled faded. He saw intelligence in their eyes – malicious and thinking.
More than that – he saw hatred, too.
One of the animal’s snouts had been recently – very recently – stained with blood. Aha! Farewell, Mavis, you cold-hearted spinster. John reached into his leg quiver, let his fingers dance across different bolts, then withdrew a particularly unwieldy quarrel. The shaft, John knew, had a reservoir filled with alchemist’s fire. No sense in fighting fair.
The wolven charged downhill even as Vath charged uphill to meet them.
John swore as he took aim at the unwounded wolven; the injured one was now shielded behind the loping half-troll.
Aim – exhale – squeeze - Thunk!
Strands of fire showered outward upon the bolt’s impact, bathing the wolven’s hide in crackling flames. The beast yelped – sounding more like a Cymerian lapdog than a demonic hound – and wildly circled about, snapping at the half-buried shaft in fear and desperation. It took but a moment for Vath to strike outward with an open palm, breaking the distracted beast’s neck with an audible crack.
When I record this battle, John mused as he reloaded his crossbow, careful to use only a normal quarrel, I’ll need to add some spice to make it worthy of the telling. Shall I make it us against four wolven, each larger than a destrier? Or, hell, mayhaps six of the brutes would serve-
As John took aim, the remaining wolf nimbly leapt around Vath and opened his mouth as if to roar. Yet, instead of sound, a white mist exploded from the gaping maw. Huarto died where he stood, his face frozen into a crystalline expression of surprise.
“Two,” John whispered. He dropped the mundane bolt and withdrew his remaining shaft of alchemist’s fire. “Two is spice a’plenty.”
***
“Highskull Krix, I am sorry. It failed.”
“Wrong.”
“Your Grace?”
“It did not fail. You failed.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I shall cast the spell a second time-”
“Silence, fool! Are you but an acolyte?! The spell cannot be cast again for seven days, at least.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I shall remain by the body, without food or drink, and upon the first hour of the seventh dusk I will succeed.”
Seven days. They could be as far as Gordia - or beyond - in seven days’ time. Yet…what to do? Divination? No, the Father of Lies would despise such paltry requests for assistance. Ahh…yes, yes – expensive, but possible.
“Brother, tell me – you come from a noble family, yes?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Three sisters – all unmarried – yes?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Good. Take the Spur Lord Garavon and his team. Return forthwith to your family’s demesne. Sell your sisters to the Genns; Garavon will know where a nearby slaver agent may be located.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
“Deposit the coins with our agents in Pell. The donation must be five thousand crowns. Or more.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
Good, good - that should cover the expense of the diamond dust. Yet, will the man’s spirit agree to be raised? He might; he just might. Should the fool think his work here remains unfinished, he may hope to barter for his freedom upon his return-
“Shall I depart, Your Grace?”
“One last thing - if the donation is less than that required, sell yourself to the Genns. Have Garavon deposit the monies.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
“Tell Brother Henratt I shall attempt the resurrection on the morrow. His men must be ready to ride at first light. Until such time, I shall be in prayer and left undisturbed. Go, now - you sicken me.”
In Axemarch, when the rücken had first broken through the Dunden Crust, Baden had said nothing during the subsequent Warmoot. He listened, quietly, and the bitterness grew in his breast.
Afterward, none had asked him for his thoughts.
Then, months later, the Far Warrens had drummed with the bootheels of dwem raiders. Rumli was killed in the first volley. Larnido died more slowly – they found him bound and gagged days after the assault had been beaten back. Again, a Warmoot was held. And, this time, Baden spoke.
Afterward, none had asked him for his reasons.
The morhedrel had joined the fray shortly thereafter. A small group of astum eg’lor, Ones Already Dead, entered Axemarch from above rather than below. Volri, who had not died when Rumli fell, was slit from navel to neck and left hanging, his beard tied to a crossbeam. A third Warmoot was held, yet Baden did not attend; he had already decided his home was no longer within those halls.
Afterward, none had followed to ask him why.
Baden Dost had his reasons why he left Axemarch. He had his reasons why he rode a pony, alone, under the Foggun Maw, down the Steppingway, and onto the Cormick plains. He had his reasons why he turned his back to the Balantir Cor, why he afterward ignored rumors of war as they drifted downward from the mountains to the lands of Men. And he had his reasons why he vowed never to go back.
Problem is, Baden now thought, none o’ em are any good.
The Axemarch dwarf swung Borbidan’s waraxe – his waraxe – through the autumn air. The weight was good, the balance perfect. A few more practice strokes and his shoulders were loose. He dug his boots into the half-frozen ground, shook his heels back and forth to gain better footing.
Forgefather, Baden prayed, you know I have never broken faith. Not with you. I’m a little upset you decided to grant me wisdom now. I could’a used it back when I was opening my fool mouth at the Warmoot. Could’a used it before I placed bit and bridle on ol’ Marmbly and rode her outta me homeland.
Baden decided he had swung the axe enough – any more, and he would only be tiring himself. He sat the head upon the ground, crossed his arms over the haft, and waited.
In the corner of his mind, he heard the voice. It had happened so many times, now, that it no longer troubled him. What did trouble him, however, was the fact the voice was whimpering.
Ilvar, what is it?
- D-demons, Baden. They are near.
No, child – not demons. They be dogs. Or wolves.
- Hellbred hounds, Baden – that’s what they are. I’m scared-
Don’t be, little one.
Baden lifted his axe as he saw the first of the wolven crest the ridge.
I mean to go home. And no beast – demon or no – is gonna keep me from it.
***
John counted the shaggy heads as they appeared. One, two. The Pellman pressed the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder and took aim at the lead animal. Two? Only two?! Bigby, you half-bearded ass, we could’a waylaid these pups hours ago and saved the soles of my boots!
John pulled the four-fingered trigger and allowed himself time to smile. The bolt buried itself, fletching-deep, in the first wolven’s hackles. Both beasts’ heads swiveled downward to regard him, and his smiled faded. He saw intelligence in their eyes – malicious and thinking.
More than that – he saw hatred, too.
One of the animal’s snouts had been recently – very recently – stained with blood. Aha! Farewell, Mavis, you cold-hearted spinster. John reached into his leg quiver, let his fingers dance across different bolts, then withdrew a particularly unwieldy quarrel. The shaft, John knew, had a reservoir filled with alchemist’s fire. No sense in fighting fair.
The wolven charged downhill even as Vath charged uphill to meet them.
John swore as he took aim at the unwounded wolven; the injured one was now shielded behind the loping half-troll.
Aim – exhale – squeeze - Thunk!
Strands of fire showered outward upon the bolt’s impact, bathing the wolven’s hide in crackling flames. The beast yelped – sounding more like a Cymerian lapdog than a demonic hound – and wildly circled about, snapping at the half-buried shaft in fear and desperation. It took but a moment for Vath to strike outward with an open palm, breaking the distracted beast’s neck with an audible crack.
When I record this battle, John mused as he reloaded his crossbow, careful to use only a normal quarrel, I’ll need to add some spice to make it worthy of the telling. Shall I make it us against four wolven, each larger than a destrier? Or, hell, mayhaps six of the brutes would serve-
As John took aim, the remaining wolf nimbly leapt around Vath and opened his mouth as if to roar. Yet, instead of sound, a white mist exploded from the gaping maw. Huarto died where he stood, his face frozen into a crystalline expression of surprise.
“Two,” John whispered. He dropped the mundane bolt and withdrew his remaining shaft of alchemist’s fire. “Two is spice a’plenty.”
***
“Highskull Krix, I am sorry. It failed.”
“Wrong.”
“Your Grace?”
“It did not fail. You failed.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I shall cast the spell a second time-”
“Silence, fool! Are you but an acolyte?! The spell cannot be cast again for seven days, at least.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I shall remain by the body, without food or drink, and upon the first hour of the seventh dusk I will succeed.”
Seven days. They could be as far as Gordia - or beyond - in seven days’ time. Yet…what to do? Divination? No, the Father of Lies would despise such paltry requests for assistance. Ahh…yes, yes – expensive, but possible.
“Brother, tell me – you come from a noble family, yes?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Three sisters – all unmarried – yes?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Good. Take the Spur Lord Garavon and his team. Return forthwith to your family’s demesne. Sell your sisters to the Genns; Garavon will know where a nearby slaver agent may be located.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
“Deposit the coins with our agents in Pell. The donation must be five thousand crowns. Or more.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
Good, good - that should cover the expense of the diamond dust. Yet, will the man’s spirit agree to be raised? He might; he just might. Should the fool think his work here remains unfinished, he may hope to barter for his freedom upon his return-
“Shall I depart, Your Grace?”
“One last thing - if the donation is less than that required, sell yourself to the Genns. Have Garavon deposit the monies.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
“Tell Brother Henratt I shall attempt the resurrection on the morrow. His men must be ready to ride at first light. Until such time, I shall be in prayer and left undisturbed. Go, now - you sicken me.”
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