John Q. Mayhem
Explorer
I've got some old Superman comics that have a parallel world called Urth in them.
The Happenings of Lucifus Cray: Update{23}07/06/06 - The Threading of the Weave
- Thread starter Herremann the Wise
- Start date
Mortepierre
First Post
BUMP 'cause I bet more than a few of us await Sarrash's arrival anxiously 
Herremann the Wise
First Post
The Catalyst
Hello everyone and apologies for not keeping you updated. Unfortunately, holidays have set me back a small ways in my writing. Things should be a little more regular now. I apologise if you have to go back and re-read stuff to pick up the thread of the story again.
About Urth
I asked Paul the DM and he just shook his shoulders - he had not seen it before. As you guys say though, it's a pretty obvious change on earth.
...
Not exactly a candlelit dinner with accompanying jewellery but as you pointed out, all a matter of perspective. Glad you're enjoying.
I try my hardest to entertain. As for your own skills, I certainly would not be selling them short. You are a wonderful writer.
Sarrash
There is much to reveal here but also a couple of things to background. I think the wait will be worth it though.
At about this time elsewhere, in a dank and dripping cave deep in the lands of the Pianatha Tribe, the Shaman of that tribe was performing the gruesome rites of his most powerful divination; all for the culmination of his dread plans almost forty turns{1} in the making…
The screams had receded somewhat to painful groans and sporadic oaths as Karodo, Shaman of the Pianatha focused above at the strung up and tortured form of one of the Strauchn. Captured and brought to him several days earlier, the fate of the pathetic warrior had been cruelly applied over this time. The heavy basalt boulder underneath the tortured, dangling body was dark with the splatters of blood, the uncongealed drips of further crimson fluid glowing in the harsh, shadowy light as they struck the rocks surface. All he needed now, mixed with the blood of his enemy was the shattering power of extreme pain and the spirits of divination would be satisfied. Karodo shuffled his ancient bones to the side of the rock and pulsed a command to one of his assistants.
He heard the muffled footsteps of respect as the attendant entered the shaman’s sanctum quickly and quietly, urgent to his summons. He could feel and sense if not see the boy’s fear. Where others had been gifted with orbs and the sight they provided, Karodo had instead been born bereft of vision, the sockets instead spawning calcified bone that had steadily grown over his lifetime. To look upon, Karodo’s face was grossly and demonically altered; the bones from his sockets were like horns adhered to his skull, one reaching to his right ear, and the other snaking up his forehead to his crown. His frightening appearance and dread aura as well as the helpless bleeding body strung up high above had the assistant cowering in fear.
“Provide me with the bag of dust from yonder rock”, commanded Karodo, motioning towards a series of rocks with a variety of materials resting upon their surfaces. “After you have done this… bring in the wampa{2}.”
The assistant nervously moved towards the stone repository and sought the requested item. Karodo sensed him delicately lifting it making sure the dust of diamond contained within the skin did not spill out. He would have him tortured and killed for such an indiscretion. One of his many former attendants had been paraded naked through the entire village before being flayed alive for disposing of unwanted materials before being asked. He made sure that they knew they were never to do more than was asked and certainly not an iota less. He convulsed in pleasure, remembering the feeling of living bloodied flesh and skin in his hands, the screams of utter pain pleasing to the ear. Unfortunately, the current attendant had adjusted to the shaman’s required precision very quickly, the loss of several blackened fingers having expedited the learning process.
Karodo sat waiting, surprisingly impatient. He had spent almost forty turns of the sun waiting for this point in time. Soon his plans would be complete, the prophesised fate of his soul to be fulfilled. He was standing upon the precipice of his fated victory. He would finally destroy those who had stood in his way, rising over the pitiful tribes that hindered his path to greatness. The celestials above were in position, the phases of prophecy and fate aligned to this point in time. With the destruction of the Strauchn clan as the catalyst, Karodo, Dread Shaman of the Pianatha would soon achieve the immortality he craved.
His reverie was broken by the sense of movement within the cave. He could hear the angered snarls of the wampa like the cracking of whips at the cave’s entrance. It was brought into his presence, tied up and bent backwards; it still strained in fury against its bonds with its powerful muscles. He could feel its life force, young, not fully developed. Its senses would be rich and undulled by age.
“Bring the beast here and place it upon the Lahrum(3). It must not touch the ground”, intoned the blind shaman. The attendant was struggling to hold the creature. He manoeuvred it but suddenly stopped fearing it had somehow touched the cave floor to the side of the sacrificial rock. He was paralysed, waiting for the master’s reaction. There were several moments of silence.
“You would have me wait? Do you feel the need to displease me?”
The young half-orc of some intelligence suddenly tried to move the constrained creature but its hind had been freed from his grasp. It lurched out ferociously with its back legs before the attendant once more grasped its hindquarters, the wicked claws renting deep gouges in his hands. He used all his strength to finally still it. He could feel the master’s unseeing gaze upon him. Judging him.
Karodo waved his hand at the creature calling a spirit to the prime. “You may go and await your fate”, he whispered with menace to the attendant. The creature had been constrained by means beyond the lads understanding. He quickly departed, the smell of his terror left lingering in the cave. He sensed the life force of the wampa once more. Fear was now starting to bore through its body, a completely alien and unnatural emotion for the beast; the realisation that it had gone from caged hunter to helpless prey. Karodo focused upon the spirit embedded in its body preparing it to suddenly coalesce and focus upon the creatures sensitive back and nerve centre. He called forth yet another spirit to extinguish the dangling life of the living flesh above the sacrificial rock. He then pulsed the command and the wampa reared in absolute agony as the spirit it housed focused entirely upon it’s back. In its arched death throws, its spastic movements gradually slowed as the pain it was experiencing swelled beyond its capacity. Before its body stilled, Karodo commanded and bound the spirits of divination to his will.
They did not respond favourably.
Several minutes later, with the spattered remains of the Strauchn warrior and wampa having been blasted and strewn across the cave floor, walls and ceiling…
Karodo was still and unmoving, quiet rage having distorted his features when the voice came to him unbidden. “So there is a new player in your game. It has come to thwart our ambition.”
He ignored the voice of the demon spirit.
“Now is not the time for silence oh brother. You must act and act quickly or we will fail. Your fate slips through your fingers while you…”
The spirit was blasted back to its resting place, the shaman’s pulse of pure energy stunning it.
Five turns earlier, Karodo whilst calling the spirits of the dead to his command had rebounded as the powerful demon had snuck through the opened portal trying to capture and possess his soul. It failed. Karodo’s victory over the demon however had not been complete. It had now affixed itself in some unholy symbiosis to his being and could not be removed by force, trick or bargain. While he could push it from his consciousness with ease, the constant effort would eventually tax him. The demon for reasons of its own remained passive at this point.
Karodo on impulse decided to enact his plans, not because of the demonic instruction but because the various prophecies he had revealed all pointed to this moment. How could one aberrant divination spoil half a lifetimes worth of preparation? It must not. He would defy the most recent and pathetic message of the spirits. It had warned him that a mortal “not of the blood”{4} could spoil his plans but only if it could touch him. He thought some more.
He would remain here in his domain and cave, protected from intrusion. No one could penetrate the protective wards he had established to touch him here. He would be safe from the divination. He must. But why would the spirits of fate deliver him this message now. It did not make sense unless…
He called Jengus, the massive Leader of the Pianatha Clan into the cave. While much younger than the shaman, Jengus was considered of middling age for his role of leadership. At twenty-seven turnings of the sun, he was a giant of a man, a veteran of war brought up suckling upon the milk of hate. He was the perfect tool for this mission. It would be “The” mission: the catalyst.
A huge figure stalked into the cave entrance, intoning the protective spirit words given him. He advanced with care if not in fear. At almost eight feet in height, he was revered and feared by those of the tribe. He bowed his colossal frame towards Karodo, his head touching the ground. The shaman sensed his presence. The spirits of fate seemed to hang closely to his being. He was the one chosen to destroy the flame of their enemy.
“The time has come Jengus. I have spoken to the spirits and they are in accord. They will aid your passage, strengthen your arm and sharpen your axe.” Karodo motioned towards a tall spear, carefully pushed into the cave floor. “Her head must be on this spike before the current moon vanishes. Otherwise we will be defeated before the moon swells once more.” He pushed his will towards a place behind the gigantic warrior and leader. A spirit of the air swirled immediately into existence. Karodo motioned towards the sacrificial rock; the creature as if pulled, glided towards the Lahrum, swelling upon the rocks essence. “This creature will guide your path. You will be invisible to any of the Strauchn and so your journey will be without interruption.”
“I will not fail Master”, said Jengus, his low voice an echoed rumbling in the dark cave.
Karodo motioned the warrior forward and handed him something. “This will protect you. When the task is fulfilled, snap it in half and you will return to this place immediately. Do not fail me.”
Jengus kneeled and took the charm. He placed his head to the ground once more before departing the shaman’s presence. The journey to the outcropping of their enemy would normally take several days. He must do it in one.
{1} Some of the more advanced Derman tribes who paid closer attention to the movements of the celestials measured the passing of time. Like other cultures, time was split into factors of days (or suns), months (or moons) and years (or in this case turns).
{2} A wampa was a psuedo-feline species native to the Derman coastline. Its senses were like lightning, its manner quick and ferocious. Its use in the current exercise was for its heightened senses. The pain it was to experience would be beyond that of a hundred dying clansmen, thanks to its dynamically extreme and sensitive physiology.
{3} The Lahrum or sacrificial stone was intrinsic to most work of the various shamaness’ or shamans around Derman. It was the typical centrepiece of any work of importance.
{4} “Not of the Blood” or Feirgha is the name given to any of the "lesser" humanoid beings not of a Derman clan or tribe. Those from other parts of Urth would fall into this category.
Hello everyone and apologies for not keeping you updated. Unfortunately, holidays have set me back a small ways in my writing. Things should be a little more regular now. I apologise if you have to go back and re-read stuff to pick up the thread of the story again.
About Urth
I asked Paul the DM and he just shook his shoulders - he had not seen it before. As you guys say though, it's a pretty obvious change on earth.
Wellpogre said:
...Not exactly a candlelit dinner with accompanying jewellery but as you pointed out, all a matter of perspective. Glad you're enjoying.
Thank you very much for the heartfelt feedback. It is gold. (And thanks for the bump - my very first).mortepierre said:
I try my hardest to entertain. As for your own skills, I certainly would not be selling them short. You are a wonderful writer.
Sarrash
There is much to reveal here but also a couple of things to background. I think the wait will be worth it though.
***
At about this time elsewhere, in a dank and dripping cave deep in the lands of the Pianatha Tribe, the Shaman of that tribe was performing the gruesome rites of his most powerful divination; all for the culmination of his dread plans almost forty turns{1} in the making…
The screams had receded somewhat to painful groans and sporadic oaths as Karodo, Shaman of the Pianatha focused above at the strung up and tortured form of one of the Strauchn. Captured and brought to him several days earlier, the fate of the pathetic warrior had been cruelly applied over this time. The heavy basalt boulder underneath the tortured, dangling body was dark with the splatters of blood, the uncongealed drips of further crimson fluid glowing in the harsh, shadowy light as they struck the rocks surface. All he needed now, mixed with the blood of his enemy was the shattering power of extreme pain and the spirits of divination would be satisfied. Karodo shuffled his ancient bones to the side of the rock and pulsed a command to one of his assistants.
He heard the muffled footsteps of respect as the attendant entered the shaman’s sanctum quickly and quietly, urgent to his summons. He could feel and sense if not see the boy’s fear. Where others had been gifted with orbs and the sight they provided, Karodo had instead been born bereft of vision, the sockets instead spawning calcified bone that had steadily grown over his lifetime. To look upon, Karodo’s face was grossly and demonically altered; the bones from his sockets were like horns adhered to his skull, one reaching to his right ear, and the other snaking up his forehead to his crown. His frightening appearance and dread aura as well as the helpless bleeding body strung up high above had the assistant cowering in fear.
“Provide me with the bag of dust from yonder rock”, commanded Karodo, motioning towards a series of rocks with a variety of materials resting upon their surfaces. “After you have done this… bring in the wampa{2}.”
The assistant nervously moved towards the stone repository and sought the requested item. Karodo sensed him delicately lifting it making sure the dust of diamond contained within the skin did not spill out. He would have him tortured and killed for such an indiscretion. One of his many former attendants had been paraded naked through the entire village before being flayed alive for disposing of unwanted materials before being asked. He made sure that they knew they were never to do more than was asked and certainly not an iota less. He convulsed in pleasure, remembering the feeling of living bloodied flesh and skin in his hands, the screams of utter pain pleasing to the ear. Unfortunately, the current attendant had adjusted to the shaman’s required precision very quickly, the loss of several blackened fingers having expedited the learning process.
Karodo sat waiting, surprisingly impatient. He had spent almost forty turns of the sun waiting for this point in time. Soon his plans would be complete, the prophesised fate of his soul to be fulfilled. He was standing upon the precipice of his fated victory. He would finally destroy those who had stood in his way, rising over the pitiful tribes that hindered his path to greatness. The celestials above were in position, the phases of prophecy and fate aligned to this point in time. With the destruction of the Strauchn clan as the catalyst, Karodo, Dread Shaman of the Pianatha would soon achieve the immortality he craved.
His reverie was broken by the sense of movement within the cave. He could hear the angered snarls of the wampa like the cracking of whips at the cave’s entrance. It was brought into his presence, tied up and bent backwards; it still strained in fury against its bonds with its powerful muscles. He could feel its life force, young, not fully developed. Its senses would be rich and undulled by age.
“Bring the beast here and place it upon the Lahrum(3). It must not touch the ground”, intoned the blind shaman. The attendant was struggling to hold the creature. He manoeuvred it but suddenly stopped fearing it had somehow touched the cave floor to the side of the sacrificial rock. He was paralysed, waiting for the master’s reaction. There were several moments of silence.
“You would have me wait? Do you feel the need to displease me?”
The young half-orc of some intelligence suddenly tried to move the constrained creature but its hind had been freed from his grasp. It lurched out ferociously with its back legs before the attendant once more grasped its hindquarters, the wicked claws renting deep gouges in his hands. He used all his strength to finally still it. He could feel the master’s unseeing gaze upon him. Judging him.
Karodo waved his hand at the creature calling a spirit to the prime. “You may go and await your fate”, he whispered with menace to the attendant. The creature had been constrained by means beyond the lads understanding. He quickly departed, the smell of his terror left lingering in the cave. He sensed the life force of the wampa once more. Fear was now starting to bore through its body, a completely alien and unnatural emotion for the beast; the realisation that it had gone from caged hunter to helpless prey. Karodo focused upon the spirit embedded in its body preparing it to suddenly coalesce and focus upon the creatures sensitive back and nerve centre. He called forth yet another spirit to extinguish the dangling life of the living flesh above the sacrificial rock. He then pulsed the command and the wampa reared in absolute agony as the spirit it housed focused entirely upon it’s back. In its arched death throws, its spastic movements gradually slowed as the pain it was experiencing swelled beyond its capacity. Before its body stilled, Karodo commanded and bound the spirits of divination to his will.
They did not respond favourably.
***
Several minutes later, with the spattered remains of the Strauchn warrior and wampa having been blasted and strewn across the cave floor, walls and ceiling…
Karodo was still and unmoving, quiet rage having distorted his features when the voice came to him unbidden. “So there is a new player in your game. It has come to thwart our ambition.”
He ignored the voice of the demon spirit.
“Now is not the time for silence oh brother. You must act and act quickly or we will fail. Your fate slips through your fingers while you…”
The spirit was blasted back to its resting place, the shaman’s pulse of pure energy stunning it.
Five turns earlier, Karodo whilst calling the spirits of the dead to his command had rebounded as the powerful demon had snuck through the opened portal trying to capture and possess his soul. It failed. Karodo’s victory over the demon however had not been complete. It had now affixed itself in some unholy symbiosis to his being and could not be removed by force, trick or bargain. While he could push it from his consciousness with ease, the constant effort would eventually tax him. The demon for reasons of its own remained passive at this point.
Karodo on impulse decided to enact his plans, not because of the demonic instruction but because the various prophecies he had revealed all pointed to this moment. How could one aberrant divination spoil half a lifetimes worth of preparation? It must not. He would defy the most recent and pathetic message of the spirits. It had warned him that a mortal “not of the blood”{4} could spoil his plans but only if it could touch him. He thought some more.
He would remain here in his domain and cave, protected from intrusion. No one could penetrate the protective wards he had established to touch him here. He would be safe from the divination. He must. But why would the spirits of fate deliver him this message now. It did not make sense unless…
He called Jengus, the massive Leader of the Pianatha Clan into the cave. While much younger than the shaman, Jengus was considered of middling age for his role of leadership. At twenty-seven turnings of the sun, he was a giant of a man, a veteran of war brought up suckling upon the milk of hate. He was the perfect tool for this mission. It would be “The” mission: the catalyst.
A huge figure stalked into the cave entrance, intoning the protective spirit words given him. He advanced with care if not in fear. At almost eight feet in height, he was revered and feared by those of the tribe. He bowed his colossal frame towards Karodo, his head touching the ground. The shaman sensed his presence. The spirits of fate seemed to hang closely to his being. He was the one chosen to destroy the flame of their enemy.
“The time has come Jengus. I have spoken to the spirits and they are in accord. They will aid your passage, strengthen your arm and sharpen your axe.” Karodo motioned towards a tall spear, carefully pushed into the cave floor. “Her head must be on this spike before the current moon vanishes. Otherwise we will be defeated before the moon swells once more.” He pushed his will towards a place behind the gigantic warrior and leader. A spirit of the air swirled immediately into existence. Karodo motioned towards the sacrificial rock; the creature as if pulled, glided towards the Lahrum, swelling upon the rocks essence. “This creature will guide your path. You will be invisible to any of the Strauchn and so your journey will be without interruption.”
“I will not fail Master”, said Jengus, his low voice an echoed rumbling in the dark cave.
Karodo motioned the warrior forward and handed him something. “This will protect you. When the task is fulfilled, snap it in half and you will return to this place immediately. Do not fail me.”
Jengus kneeled and took the charm. He placed his head to the ground once more before departing the shaman’s presence. The journey to the outcropping of their enemy would normally take several days. He must do it in one.
***
{1} Some of the more advanced Derman tribes who paid closer attention to the movements of the celestials measured the passing of time. Like other cultures, time was split into factors of days (or suns), months (or moons) and years (or in this case turns).
{2} A wampa was a psuedo-feline species native to the Derman coastline. Its senses were like lightning, its manner quick and ferocious. Its use in the current exercise was for its heightened senses. The pain it was to experience would be beyond that of a hundred dying clansmen, thanks to its dynamically extreme and sensitive physiology.
{3} The Lahrum or sacrificial stone was intrinsic to most work of the various shamaness’ or shamans around Derman. It was the typical centrepiece of any work of importance.
{4} “Not of the Blood” or Feirgha is the name given to any of the "lesser" humanoid beings not of a Derman clan or tribe. Those from other parts of Urth would fall into this category.
Mortepierre
First Post
pogre said:
I concur! This keeps getting better and better
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
Mortepierre
First Post
Page 3 already? For shame!
BUMP
BUMP
Herremann the Wise
First Post
The Threads of Fate Twist Once More
Hello again everyone.
Apologies for the delay, it has been a busy time with our office moving as well as other commitments. It has taken me a while to get this story in order but I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labour.
A small tattered group who had miraculously escaped the previous day’s sea raid finally make it to the rugged shoreline holding onto several planks and a barrel, barely a league to the south of the primary encampment of the Strauchn Clan. Dehydrated, exposed and without significant equipment, there is conflict within the group.
Isaac looked across the narrow beach of darkened sand. He searched for any signs of hostility but failed to see more than several birds flying in low swift swoops from place to place in the dawn light. The beach was bordered by a mass of high rocky crags at its northerly end and a hillside of brush and gorse to the south skirted by scree, loose sticks and other detritus. Large grey boulders emerged from the southern hillside like massive granite monitors surveying and guarding the vicinity. An unnatural quiet pervaded the place as the sun momentarily breached the foreign horizon before several darkened clouds hid its rays once more.
Less than two days before, the Sea Lady’s Passion had been making excellent Northerly progress towards its Ayland destination when the terror of several Derman longships had struck. The Captain had initially tried to outrun the barbarians but a slackening breeze, frenzied Derman passion and a momentary lapse of concentration from the helmsman resulted in the ship thrusting to windward, the rudder jamming and the force of it all throwing the helpless pilot to the deck. The defences of the ship while significant were not used to the determined methods of the Derman and thus barbarian purchase upon board was gained without significant resistance.
Between the firing of the ship, a caustic smoke and the hell of numerous barbarians unleashing their terrible strength and might upon sailor, mercenary and passenger alike, the ship had little hope of survival. Seeing this, Isaac disobeyed his charge of the ship’s protection and fled with several others. Through what could be no better described than the hand of fate herself protecting them from the Derman, half the group had survived the elements and exposure to make land, somewhere upon the Northern Derman coastline. The quiet of the beach with only the subtle hush of the sea’s wash to augment it was almost like a nirvana. At least the situation could have been worse if not by much thought Isaac at this point.
He tried to look down at the two other men who had survived the horrific journey but his legs were like jelly underneath him, the rush of blood forcing his body painfully back to the harsh shale sand. All three of them were naked except for the sodden bloodstained rags that clung to their bodies. The fat bastard of a priest had somehow survived when others more able had disappeared in the water behind them. He had held to a barrel of wine with a faith far surpassing that to his god. No wonder he had been useless on board; Isaac could spot a charlatan a mile away and this fat bastard was one of the worst. How fickle was fate when one such as he could survive but one like Kalar fall. The other man lying there, he did not know except that his name was Moro, a wiry sailor from the ship. His features where sparse, his body lean. He attempted to say something but could not utter more than a hoarse and scratched whisper.
The priest’s podgy fingers still grabbed onto the barrel as it was buoyantly lifted from the sand by the incoming water, threatening to return to the sea once more. His fat, pink and bruised body was doubled over like some quivering mass of rotten jellyfish. His voice was then heard, a surprisingly clear tenor. “Is this land I feel beneath my bones? Hath our pilgrimage to hell finished?”
“I believe it has only just begun priest,” croaked Isaac as he looked up the slopes once more to see if they had attracted any native attention. The hillside was still clear. “We must find shelter and soon. I have no idea where exactly we are or who else lives here except perhaps more of those barbarians. I don’t wish to find out either so hurry up and find your legs, we need to get out of here.”
Moro stood stretching his legs painfully with a limp while the priest rolled over onto his stomach, his gut the size of two men. The priest then heaved his awful mass upon his knees with a protracted groan. By Terrefin he must have some strength to lug that body around Isaac thought.
“Ize ave me a knife. Tis all but”, Moro said as he checked the back of his leg, the gash reddening as he spoke. It seeped fresh blood with his movements, the anger of infection having taken hold. Isaac knew the man would not be walking in a day, would be fevered the next and likely dead the day after. He looked to his own wounds – several gashes and a raft of broken fingers on his useless left hand – as a sense of hopelessness gripped him. Isaac realised the full consequences of their situation. They were as good as dead.
“If we stay on the beach, we may be able to hail a passing boat”, said the priest, a ridiculous sense of hope upon his features.
Moro not believing what he’d just heard quickly retorted in stupefied anger, “You stinkin’ stupid massa orse turds. Who the hell dya thinks gonna come past here? A ship fulla whores to plays with your toddle? Those Derman bastards will take one look atcha un be feasting on ya privates before ya can say…”
“Quiet!” whispered Isaac with intensity. “There ain’t going to be no ship and I don’t want no Derman choking on the priest’s slug. We’ll get away from here and then work out what we’re going to do. Moro, with luck, you’ll walk for another day. And you priest{1}… just don’t upset him… or me.”
The priest looked away as if hurt by the comments and language while Moro swore in pain as he tried to walk past him. Isaac himself looked up at the darkening sky as if the early morning storm was waiting for the worst possible moment to start reaping the coastline. With no idea of direction, nothing but rags upon their bodies and little more than a sailor’s knife to protect them, they headed slowly over the hillside. Little did they realise that the sharp eyes of a clansman almost a mile away had spotted movement high upon the southern hills – the area known by the Strauchn as the Furg Harta or “Lonely Hills”. With speed and alacrity, the clansman headed back to gather others for the hunt.
Dannikin, former priest of Galasso fell once more to the ground, his bare feet stumbling upon a hidden rock. Well over six foot tall, he did his best to keep up with the other two but he kept falling further and further behind. His lack of faith had tortured him for many months since his expulsion. His current circumstance was the result of trying to gain his faith once more. He had sworn that he would find Galasso’s faith to which the cruel Arch-cleric of their monastery said that indeed he would. In fact Galasso would forgive him if he journeyed to the Aylish{2} territories far abroad. The snide little man! He must have known that something like this would happen. Such were the thoughts of the former priest.
Dannikin’s misguided and hateful reverie was only disturbed by the two ahead quickly going to ground. They had ventured to the top of a craggy hillside. The man he only knew as Isaac got up slowly, realising that what he had quickly glimpsed had not moved. Even though Dannikin was a ways behind, he could smell a thoroughly putrescent tang in the air. Dannikin cautiously stepped to the others position. They all ventured a dozen steps towards a disgusting scene ahead. Rotting half eaten heads had been jammed on stakes, a mass of feculent flesh stuffed into the distended jaws. The three men once of Amborna stood still and in silence, the extreme brutality before them totally and barbarically foreign.
As they all stood as cold and frozen granite a rasping voice of anguished despair was heard. “You will all die soon, like those of the Pianatha if you continue towards yonder valley.”
The three turned around as one to see the ragged form of an old woman, naked except for a grey staff. Her body had been withered to blotched skin and in fact the feint reek of noisome decomposition emanated directly from her position several strides behind them. She had appeared as if by the foulest magic. They would have run except for fear. Moro drew his knife and held it timidly in front of him as he mouthed a prayer to Terrefin.
“Put your impotent steel away fool. I do not seek your deaths and its edge would do nothing to me besides.”
“If ever your faith was worth anything priest, now is the time to show us” said Isaac, his desperation palpable amongst the rotten air.
Dannikin heard the voices but quivered, the entire situation surreal and beyond his comprehension. Surely they had all passed on unknown to a hell on Urth or elsewhere.
“Your friend is no priest. His god’s foul trinket has not been hung from his neck for some time. Even as I speak to you, your death is but moments away; those of the Strauchn seek your death and will take your lives as easily as they will spit on your corpses and rend your pathetic heads from your bodies. However, I have need of you and can promise you safety for a while. Follow me if you value what life is left to each of you.”
With this she turned away and headed back down the valley they had traversed. She cast her staff in a circle, a dark cave appearing from craggy nothingness in front of her. She waited patiently, beckoning them inside.
Isaac looked at the other two before staggering ahead. He stopped short of her foul form before continuing. They had no options left. Surely any death at her hand would be better than that at the hands of some barbaric clansman. Unfortunately, his imagination was not as good as Dannikin's. Fearfully, the priest joined the other two quickly as the hoots and echoed calls of several barbarian half-orcs were heard. They entered the cave just in time as the clansman launched themselves with long strides into the shallow valley, the threatening storm erupting at this precise moment. The undead form of Ochrisi na Dura(3) laughed at the foolishness of mortals as she shadowed the cave entrance once more. The revenge that drove her hatred was almost complete. She now had the prophesised tools she had been waiting so long for.
{1} Most priests had no divine ability; they were merely experts of theology and some of healing. At this point, Isaac believed the "Priest" of Galasso a fraudster, out to mulct good citizens and live on their misguided good will.
{2} The Aylish territories were best described as a province stuck in the old ways. Barely expressing a desire to leave its dark aged and feudalistic outlook, Ayland traded with the far away southern Ambornan ports for an erratic if sometimes spectacular profit. Various merchantmen could be found traversing the Sea of Amber periodically throughout the Urthen calendar year.
(3) Ochrisi na Dura was the former shaman of the Strauchn, defeated by the current Shamaness Ugari.
Hello again everyone.
Apologies for the delay, it has been a busy time with our office moving as well as other commitments. It has taken me a while to get this story in order but I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labour.
The Dawn of the Following Morning…
A small tattered group who had miraculously escaped the previous day’s sea raid finally make it to the rugged shoreline holding onto several planks and a barrel, barely a league to the south of the primary encampment of the Strauchn Clan. Dehydrated, exposed and without significant equipment, there is conflict within the group.
Isaac looked across the narrow beach of darkened sand. He searched for any signs of hostility but failed to see more than several birds flying in low swift swoops from place to place in the dawn light. The beach was bordered by a mass of high rocky crags at its northerly end and a hillside of brush and gorse to the south skirted by scree, loose sticks and other detritus. Large grey boulders emerged from the southern hillside like massive granite monitors surveying and guarding the vicinity. An unnatural quiet pervaded the place as the sun momentarily breached the foreign horizon before several darkened clouds hid its rays once more.
Less than two days before, the Sea Lady’s Passion had been making excellent Northerly progress towards its Ayland destination when the terror of several Derman longships had struck. The Captain had initially tried to outrun the barbarians but a slackening breeze, frenzied Derman passion and a momentary lapse of concentration from the helmsman resulted in the ship thrusting to windward, the rudder jamming and the force of it all throwing the helpless pilot to the deck. The defences of the ship while significant were not used to the determined methods of the Derman and thus barbarian purchase upon board was gained without significant resistance.
Between the firing of the ship, a caustic smoke and the hell of numerous barbarians unleashing their terrible strength and might upon sailor, mercenary and passenger alike, the ship had little hope of survival. Seeing this, Isaac disobeyed his charge of the ship’s protection and fled with several others. Through what could be no better described than the hand of fate herself protecting them from the Derman, half the group had survived the elements and exposure to make land, somewhere upon the Northern Derman coastline. The quiet of the beach with only the subtle hush of the sea’s wash to augment it was almost like a nirvana. At least the situation could have been worse if not by much thought Isaac at this point.
He tried to look down at the two other men who had survived the horrific journey but his legs were like jelly underneath him, the rush of blood forcing his body painfully back to the harsh shale sand. All three of them were naked except for the sodden bloodstained rags that clung to their bodies. The fat bastard of a priest had somehow survived when others more able had disappeared in the water behind them. He had held to a barrel of wine with a faith far surpassing that to his god. No wonder he had been useless on board; Isaac could spot a charlatan a mile away and this fat bastard was one of the worst. How fickle was fate when one such as he could survive but one like Kalar fall. The other man lying there, he did not know except that his name was Moro, a wiry sailor from the ship. His features where sparse, his body lean. He attempted to say something but could not utter more than a hoarse and scratched whisper.
The priest’s podgy fingers still grabbed onto the barrel as it was buoyantly lifted from the sand by the incoming water, threatening to return to the sea once more. His fat, pink and bruised body was doubled over like some quivering mass of rotten jellyfish. His voice was then heard, a surprisingly clear tenor. “Is this land I feel beneath my bones? Hath our pilgrimage to hell finished?”
“I believe it has only just begun priest,” croaked Isaac as he looked up the slopes once more to see if they had attracted any native attention. The hillside was still clear. “We must find shelter and soon. I have no idea where exactly we are or who else lives here except perhaps more of those barbarians. I don’t wish to find out either so hurry up and find your legs, we need to get out of here.”
Moro stood stretching his legs painfully with a limp while the priest rolled over onto his stomach, his gut the size of two men. The priest then heaved his awful mass upon his knees with a protracted groan. By Terrefin he must have some strength to lug that body around Isaac thought.
“Ize ave me a knife. Tis all but”, Moro said as he checked the back of his leg, the gash reddening as he spoke. It seeped fresh blood with his movements, the anger of infection having taken hold. Isaac knew the man would not be walking in a day, would be fevered the next and likely dead the day after. He looked to his own wounds – several gashes and a raft of broken fingers on his useless left hand – as a sense of hopelessness gripped him. Isaac realised the full consequences of their situation. They were as good as dead.
“If we stay on the beach, we may be able to hail a passing boat”, said the priest, a ridiculous sense of hope upon his features.
Moro not believing what he’d just heard quickly retorted in stupefied anger, “You stinkin’ stupid massa orse turds. Who the hell dya thinks gonna come past here? A ship fulla whores to plays with your toddle? Those Derman bastards will take one look atcha un be feasting on ya privates before ya can say…”
“Quiet!” whispered Isaac with intensity. “There ain’t going to be no ship and I don’t want no Derman choking on the priest’s slug. We’ll get away from here and then work out what we’re going to do. Moro, with luck, you’ll walk for another day. And you priest{1}… just don’t upset him… or me.”
The priest looked away as if hurt by the comments and language while Moro swore in pain as he tried to walk past him. Isaac himself looked up at the darkening sky as if the early morning storm was waiting for the worst possible moment to start reaping the coastline. With no idea of direction, nothing but rags upon their bodies and little more than a sailor’s knife to protect them, they headed slowly over the hillside. Little did they realise that the sharp eyes of a clansman almost a mile away had spotted movement high upon the southern hills – the area known by the Strauchn as the Furg Harta or “Lonely Hills”. With speed and alacrity, the clansman headed back to gather others for the hunt.
***
Dannikin, former priest of Galasso fell once more to the ground, his bare feet stumbling upon a hidden rock. Well over six foot tall, he did his best to keep up with the other two but he kept falling further and further behind. His lack of faith had tortured him for many months since his expulsion. His current circumstance was the result of trying to gain his faith once more. He had sworn that he would find Galasso’s faith to which the cruel Arch-cleric of their monastery said that indeed he would. In fact Galasso would forgive him if he journeyed to the Aylish{2} territories far abroad. The snide little man! He must have known that something like this would happen. Such were the thoughts of the former priest.
Dannikin’s misguided and hateful reverie was only disturbed by the two ahead quickly going to ground. They had ventured to the top of a craggy hillside. The man he only knew as Isaac got up slowly, realising that what he had quickly glimpsed had not moved. Even though Dannikin was a ways behind, he could smell a thoroughly putrescent tang in the air. Dannikin cautiously stepped to the others position. They all ventured a dozen steps towards a disgusting scene ahead. Rotting half eaten heads had been jammed on stakes, a mass of feculent flesh stuffed into the distended jaws. The three men once of Amborna stood still and in silence, the extreme brutality before them totally and barbarically foreign.
As they all stood as cold and frozen granite a rasping voice of anguished despair was heard. “You will all die soon, like those of the Pianatha if you continue towards yonder valley.”
The three turned around as one to see the ragged form of an old woman, naked except for a grey staff. Her body had been withered to blotched skin and in fact the feint reek of noisome decomposition emanated directly from her position several strides behind them. She had appeared as if by the foulest magic. They would have run except for fear. Moro drew his knife and held it timidly in front of him as he mouthed a prayer to Terrefin.
“Put your impotent steel away fool. I do not seek your deaths and its edge would do nothing to me besides.”
“If ever your faith was worth anything priest, now is the time to show us” said Isaac, his desperation palpable amongst the rotten air.
Dannikin heard the voices but quivered, the entire situation surreal and beyond his comprehension. Surely they had all passed on unknown to a hell on Urth or elsewhere.
“Your friend is no priest. His god’s foul trinket has not been hung from his neck for some time. Even as I speak to you, your death is but moments away; those of the Strauchn seek your death and will take your lives as easily as they will spit on your corpses and rend your pathetic heads from your bodies. However, I have need of you and can promise you safety for a while. Follow me if you value what life is left to each of you.”
With this she turned away and headed back down the valley they had traversed. She cast her staff in a circle, a dark cave appearing from craggy nothingness in front of her. She waited patiently, beckoning them inside.
Isaac looked at the other two before staggering ahead. He stopped short of her foul form before continuing. They had no options left. Surely any death at her hand would be better than that at the hands of some barbaric clansman. Unfortunately, his imagination was not as good as Dannikin's. Fearfully, the priest joined the other two quickly as the hoots and echoed calls of several barbarian half-orcs were heard. They entered the cave just in time as the clansman launched themselves with long strides into the shallow valley, the threatening storm erupting at this precise moment. The undead form of Ochrisi na Dura(3) laughed at the foolishness of mortals as she shadowed the cave entrance once more. The revenge that drove her hatred was almost complete. She now had the prophesised tools she had been waiting so long for.
***
{1} Most priests had no divine ability; they were merely experts of theology and some of healing. At this point, Isaac believed the "Priest" of Galasso a fraudster, out to mulct good citizens and live on their misguided good will.
{2} The Aylish territories were best described as a province stuck in the old ways. Barely expressing a desire to leave its dark aged and feudalistic outlook, Ayland traded with the far away southern Ambornan ports for an erratic if sometimes spectacular profit. Various merchantmen could be found traversing the Sea of Amber periodically throughout the Urthen calendar year.
(3) Ochrisi na Dura was the former shaman of the Strauchn, defeated by the current Shamaness Ugari.