KidCthulhu
First Post
Me. I'd play Pip. I know he wasn't around for long, but I have a thing for cute little doomed halflings.
The Liberation of Tenh (updated April 24)
- Thread starter (contact)
- Start date
When the topic of Jespo having a girlfriend/wife came up, I had this sudden flash of The Scotsman from "Samurai Jack" talking about his wife and going "She's just a wee delicate little thing. Ot'ch so fragile" (of course she's built like a brick house and tougher than Jack and the Scotsman put together).
(contact)
Explorer
Morte said:
Jespo is an adventuring NPC that recieves a full share of XPs. Regda, Dabus, Cmin, Thrommel, Spoiler and Spoiler are cohorts, and recieve a half-share of XP (but full share of treasure found).
However, by this point, Thrommel has been fired and is now just a lonely old NPC.
Tau *was* a PC, but his player dropped the game shortly after he started due to conflicting time commitments, so Tau became a non-adventuring NPC.
Jespo began the campaign out of the picture, because I didn't want the burden of running classed NPCs in my first 3e campaign. Later, I seized upon an idea to use Jespo as a Plot Hook, and he got Teh Shaft, winding up without any gear, peniless and in debtor's prison.
Recently, my players decided they wanted Jespo around for the final push against Iuz, so they nerfed my *second* Really Evil Sub-Plot featuring Jespo Crim getting in trouble off-stage, by summoning him and saying the magic words: "We need you."
They have actually been foiling my sub-plots left and right, but done so without really knowing what was building up against them.
It's like a Laurel and Hardy episode where they keep creaming the burgular with the ladder, the door, the window, etc., even though they don't even know he's there.(contact) said:
They have actually been foiling my sub-plots left and right, but done so without really knowing what was building up against them.
Hmmm. could this mean that Heydricus and Prisantha's surviability is related to the infamous "Clouseau Effect" where most of the damage done to the bad guys (and the surrounding terrain) is from the villians trying to kill our heros?
Actually, that would explain a number of things. Most particularly Thrommel's death rate. He's Chief Inspector Dreyfus!
Last edited:
Zaruthustran
The tingling means it’s working!
Keep it up, (contact). Love the dialogue. This is good, no, great stuff.
-z
-z
Morte
Explorer
Ah-hah. Smaller party than I thought. That would explain why it has that "small party story hour effect", with the relationship between the characters coming to the fore.
BTW, I pegged Crim for an intermittent PC you'd written out for a trip or something like that, because his lines were just too good for an NPC.
"Please sir, will you heal my cat".
I swear you used to have a picture of him on a website ("The Rekatorium" or something like that) but I can't find it no more. It was well cool.
BTW, I pegged Crim for an intermittent PC you'd written out for a trip or something like that, because his lines were just too good for an NPC.
"Please sir, will you heal my cat".
I swear you used to have a picture of him on a website ("The Rekatorium" or something like that) but I can't find it no more. It was well cool.
(contact)
Explorer
Morte, the Rekatorium got moved-- you can find it here: http://home.earthlink.net/~cklarock/rekatorium
There are a couple of pictures of Jespo up, IIRC. Jespo *was* my PC, but after the TOEE2, Heydricus' player stopped DMing and picked up H. full time, while I retired Jespo.
There are a couple of pictures of Jespo up, IIRC. Jespo *was* my PC, but after the TOEE2, Heydricus' player stopped DMing and picked up H. full time, while I retired Jespo.
(contact)
Explorer
Reaping 6, CY 593
53: Bedfellows make for strange circumstances.
The next morning arrives and passes, with no news from the happy couple. Regda takes to the mines, and spends the morning with the emotes. Heydricus tracks Jespo down in the kitchens.
“So,” he says. “Did you pop the question?”
“Well, to be precise, I did not.” Jespo’s haughty façade cracks, and a look of sheer terror overcomes his features. “I don’t know what to say. What if she says no? What if she laughs at me? Gods above,” he says, starting to panic. “I don’t even have a ring!”
Heydricus takes Jespo by the shoulders. “Buck up, Crim. You’re the one who makes demands of celestials, remember?” Heydricus leans in and whispers. “Marriage should be less frightening than adventuring.”
“You’re right, but . . .”
“Do it at sunset.” Heydricus says. “That way you’ll look the romantic instead of the coward. Take her to the wall, on some pretense of viewing the statues, or the stars. I can arrange for the guards to be gone, you will have complete privacy.” Heydricus pauses to think, then says. “I have a ring for you, as well. It is a protective ring, the most minor sort, but it will size to fit.”
“A wedding ring of protection,” Jespo says to himself. “Would that I were not penniless, I could have it enchanted up.” He sighs, and hitches the hem of his scholar’s robe. “You’re right, Heydricus. This isn’t the Temple, after all, and Regda is no Zinvellon.”
-----
Heydricus, pretending not to watch, spies Jespo leading Regda to the walls, and makes himself improved invisible. He follows the duo silently, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Now, it stands to reason that the sort of man who has spent the greater part of his adult life memorizing arcane phraseology and convoluted passages in long-dead languages would have an easy time with a prepared speech. But terror makes fools of the brightest men, and love ties even the bard’s tongue.
“Damnit, Crim, don’t you blow this,” Heydricus mutters to himself, silently willing the balding conjurer to just spit it out.
“Ah, Regda. Well.” Jespo says, his voice shaking. “I uh, have . . . well, you see. In fact, it has occurred to me, and I’m not alone, I think. So.”
Regda smiles at Jespo placidly, her horse-mouth reflecting the last of the sun’s light off of unusually white teeth. She places a comforting arm on his shoulder, and Heydricus notes with some surprise (he must admit) the look of complete and utter devotion in her eyes.
“Which is to say,” Jespo continues. “That we have known each other well enough to wish for more, I suppose. And it is thought by many, myself included (and I should hope you concur) that one must always attempt to retain one’s honor in all situations with a social aspect. Of course, I mean only that, well . . . I love you, Regda. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Sure,” Regda says through her smile.
“Because if you need some time to . . . oh,” Jespo says. Fräs emerges from her pouch, with the ring in her mouth. “Ah, the ring. I know it looks awfully small for your hands (I believe this was worn by my old friend Keriann when we killed her, and she was a small woman), but it will size to fit, I assure you.”
“Great!” Regda says, and puts the ring on.
-----
The Liberators are gathered in the small sun-room that Martak had formerly used to dry his severed head collection. Since her arrival, Mialec has decorated this room with a very charming floral motif.
“Here is the List,” Heydricus says. “Jespo, are we missing anyone?”
Jespo examines the parchment. “Who are the ‘druid f-ckers’?”
“They’re new,” Heydricus says.
“Well,” Jespo says, “If you mean to include the entirety of the Greater Boneheart, you must add Null, a wizard, and a fellow named Kermin Mind-Bender. He is an enchanter.”
Dabus scribes the new names.
“So we’re thinking that we might first go after Esril and Lucius and see about getting them resurrected,” Heydricus says. “The others are destroyed.”
“Yet there is this matter of the slain nobleman,” Jespo says. “A Nyrondeese heir, I believe?”
“Yes,” Prisantha says. “The Barony of Woodwych, in fact. He is sole heir.”
“Well, I think that should be our first duty,” Jespo says. “It has been postulated that the nobility are by their nature more refined of feeling, so we can surmise that their suffering must by its nature be most profound.”
“What kind of elitist crap is that?” Heydricus sneers.
Prisantha rolls her eyes. “If you are referring to that questionable treatise by the Marchion of Valdeese, I think you misread the man. He was speaking metaphorically, and discussing politics at that; had you read his biography, you would have found that he was later discredited as an apologist for the late Ivid II, the man who lost the lands which became Nyrond and the Pale.”
“Well,” Jespo says, raising his eyebrows and assuming a stiff pose. “We should still retrieve the boy first. We have a chance to ease a mother’s suffering, and could we ask for a more noble cause?”
“You’re right, Jespo,” Heydricus says. “First the boy, and then our companions.”
“I am dechipering the discern location spell even now,” Prisantha says. “I expect to have it completed in a few days, and then we can locate the boy’s body, or at least the largest piece of it.”
-----
Prisantha secludes herself in deep study. The spell is complex, and the scroll she studies from is written in a particularly archaic hand. On the fourth day of her study, she is interrupted as a figure appears out of thin air, sobbing profusely.
The woman is wracked with tears, her long red hair draped fetchingly over a low-cut green velvet gown of the finest make. The scent of expensive rose-petal perfume clings to her, and her elaborate jewelry jingles as she reaches out to place a hand on Prisantha’s shoulders.
“Oh Pris,” she cries. “I have nowhere else to turn!”
Prisantha’s eyes widen. “Gwendolyn?” she asks incredulously.
Gwendolyn wipes a tear from her face and looks pleadingly at Prisantha. “Oh, please don’t send me away. I’ve nowhere else to go. I’ve left the Academy.”
“You left the Academy?” Prisantha stares at the woman with a shocked expression.
“I had a spat with the Dean. He implied that my work with Butrain was not as crucial as I thought, so I chided him. We grew angry at one another and I called him a bald, fat apprentice.”
Prisantha is shocked. “You called the Dean of the Academy an apprentice?”
“I also questioned his lineage,” Gwendolyn sniffs. “But that was weeks ago.”
Prisantha stares at her. Gwendolyn’s tears streak her face and form a pool in her ample cleavage. “I cannot return to Chendl, and Willip is out of the question,” she says. “I fear I am a wanted woman. A common outlaw.”
“Wanted?” Prisantha says.
“Yes. I turned the Baron into a donkey.”
“You . . .” Prisantha is speechless.
“He found out about my lover, and flew into a rage.”
“You kept a lover?”
“Besides Butrain, you mean? I had several. He found out about his leatherworker (deft hands, you know). I suspect I was betrayed by court gossip. He meant to strike me, the cretin.”
“The leatherworker?”
“No, the baron. Can you imagine? Striking a woman of my pedigree! Fortunately, I was reading his mind at the time, so I polymorphed him before he could carry out his intent.”
Prisantha shakes her head. “Well, can it not be dispelled?”
Gwendolyn sniffs and snuffles, then continues. “Actually, no. Before I polymorphed him, I used a limited wish to make it undispellable,” she says. She begins to cry again. “We have broken for good, I’m afraid, and I am ruined! Oh, Prisantha, you must let me stay here—you know I have always thought highly of you.”
“You have?” Pris asks.
“Well, you are so studious and dedicated. Do you recall how I would return to the academy after my social engagements, and see you in the library? I knew then that you would be greater than me someday, and I was so jealous. Plus, you are so much prettier than I am.”
“I am?” Prisantha asks.
“Oh, yes. You don’t use magic to color your hair and skin.”
“That is true,” Prisantha concedes.
“Here,” Gwendolyn says. “I’ve brought you something.” She hands Prisantha a scroll of Otto’s Irresistable Dance. “Could you scribe it?”
“Of course,” Prisantha begins, trying to recall her courtesies.
“I cannot!” Gwendolyn sniffles. “I always knew you would surpass me. That someday you’d be wishing and I . . . I would still be limited wishing!” Gwendolyn breaks down into tears.
Prisantha reaches out tentatively to lay a hand on the crying debutante of the Furyondian Royal Academy, and Gwendolyn collapses into her arms. Prisantha holds the woman awkwardly, trying to think of something comforting to say.
After Gwendolyn has cried herself out, and dried her face, Prisantha regards her. “So you were . . . involved with Butrain?”
“Oh, yes. He’s boorish, but rich.” She smiles craftily and rattles her bracelets. “Cha-ching!”
“And you were involved with other men?”
“Well, ‘one is for money, two is for fun’.”
“But, how did you . . .” Prisantha is shocked.
“Dominate person, if they lacked skills,” Gwendolyn says. “It’s all rather mundane.”
Prisantha gasps.
“Oh, don’t be so prissy, Pris,” Gwendolyn says. “I mean, haven’t you taken to bed that strapping fighter you run around with?”
“Heydricus? No, we . . .”
“Really? Why ever not? He’s so handsome.”
“Well, it’s not for lack of trying. He simply cannot take a hint—I have nearly thrown myself at him.”
Gwendolyn casts an appraising eye across Prisantha, and then tugs on her blouse, lowering her neckline by several inches. “This will improve your aim, I think.”
“You don’t know Heydricus,” Pris says.
“True, but I have met him, and frankly he strikes me as the family type. Perfect for you.”
“Perhaps he thinks of me as a sister,” Pris sighs.
“Dear heart, it doesn’t matter if he does. Men are simple; it is women who make things complex. After all, you are an enchantress—adventuring, battle, or love, it is all the same. Oh, let me stay with you and I promise that I will be your loyal friend. I will help you get this Heydricus, and I will help you twist him about your finger until he no longer knows where he ends and your will begins.”
“I don’t know,” Pris says
“Oh, you must! I’ve nowhere . . .”
“Else to go.” Pris finishes. “I recall.” Prisantha stands up, and absentmindedly caresses her crystal ball. “Will you swear an oath to me? An oath of loyalty?”
“I will!” Gwendolyn exclaims, sitting up straight and clasping her hands in a pious gesture.
“And you must swear an oath to keep our secrets.” Prisantha says.
“I will do better than an oath, I will submit to a geas!” Gwendolyn leans forward. “Fetch one of your gay priests, and have him cast the spell.”
“One of our gay priests?” Prisantha gasps.
“Whichever one you’d rather,” Gwendolyn says. “The skinny one or the new one.”
Prisantha is shocked. “Do you think that Dabus . . .”
“Well, don’t you?” she asks.
At just this moment, the sound of a half-dozen screaming children becomes audible, and grows louder. Heydricus enters the room, literally covered in laughing children, who cling to his back, front and sides. “Hey Pris, I . . . well, holy sh-t.”
“Hello, Heydricus,” Gwendolyn says, favoring the Liberator with her most fetching smile.
Prisantha leans in to whisper into Gwendolyn’s ear. “You must also swear to stay away from Heydricus!” she hisses.
“Done,” Gwendolyn whispers back, as Heydricus disengages himself from the morass of children and sends them away.
“Gwendolyn will be staying with us,” Prisantha says in a tone that brooks no discussion. “She has turned the Baron Butrain into a donkey, and must hide from the authorities. She has sworn a vow to keep our secrets, and will submit to a geas.”
“Okay,” Heydricus says sunnily. “You turned Butrain into a donkey?’
“I did,” Gwendolyn says haughtily. “He meant to strike me.”
“He’d hit an unarmed woman?” Heydricus exclaims. “Why, if I were there, I’d . . .” Heydricus makes crushing gestures with his hands. “So you’re coming adventuring with us, then?”
Gwendolyn blushes and looks at the floor. “I have a confession to make.”
“I imagine you have several,” Prisantha observes.
“I have never adventured before.”
“Never?” Pris asks.
“It’s easy,” Heydricus says. “Just remember, call for healing when you need it, stay away from anything that glows until you know what it does, never split the party, and take it one level at a time, kill everything, then move on.”
Gwendolyn is taken around Cur’ruth, and introduced to everyone in the bustling and happy place. Heydricus and Prisantha are revered beyond all expectation, she notes, and are greeted warmly by everyone they encounter.
“It’s very cheery here,” Gwendolyn says.
“We love our job,” Heydricus replies.
“Plus, there are celestials in the basement,” Prisantha says.
Jespo looks up from where he and Regda are playing cards with Fräs, and his eyes narrow. He stands before Gwendolyn with one hand tucked inside his vest. “Oh it’s you,” he sneers. “Let me see . . . Jezebel isn’t it?”
“Hello, Crim,” Gwendolyn says icily. “I thought you were still at that . . . school, teaching cantrips to lackwits.”
“I am taking an adventuring sabbatical.”
“So I see,” she says, indicating the card game. “You know, before I left Butrain, I was assigned to seduce you in order to confirm his suspicions about Thrommel. I turned down the assignment.”
“This is the Baron’s creature!” Jespo says to Heydricus and Prisantha, pointing an accusing finger at Gwendolyn. “Trust her not!”
“She turned the baron into a donkey, Jespo,” Heydricus explains. “She’s all right by me.”
Jespo sniffs. “Well, it could be a trick.”
Prisantha stands between Gwendolyn and Jespo and removes her crystal ball. She scries Butrain, and is rewarded with a scene of the Baronial Court at Willip. Courtiers stand along either side of a long red carpet, as various pompous Southern Lords march in a stately procession toward the throne, where they take a knee in front of a thin, wretched-looking donkey attended by an old peasant woman festooned with a menagerie of folk charms and trinkets.
The donkey brays, and the old woman says, “the Baron expects you to hold your fief, and orders you to uphold the Laws of the Realm. Rise, and be recognized, as a peer of the Court.”
The woman says more, but Prisantha cannot make it out over the laughing of her companions. The donkey does not appear to notice the scrying, and holds its shaggy head up and emits a dignified braying.
Heydricus is wiping tears from his face. “If that’s the lengths he’ll go to pull one over on us, hell, I’ll give him Thrommel myself! I haven’t laughed so hard since . . . since . . .”
Jespo chimes in, “Yes, then I’ll kill Thrommel with my own hands!”
Everyone stops laughing and looks at him.
“Get it?” Jespo asks. No one replies.
Jespo raises one finger in the air and says, “I’ve just read a noted authority on humor, who states that all comedy is based on the unexpected, do you see? Thus, since it is unexpected that I might throttle the prince, it becomes funny.”
“Anyway,” Prisantha says. “We see that Gwendolyn has told us the truth. Let us prepare this geas and be done with it!”
53: Bedfellows make for strange circumstances.
The next morning arrives and passes, with no news from the happy couple. Regda takes to the mines, and spends the morning with the emotes. Heydricus tracks Jespo down in the kitchens.
“So,” he says. “Did you pop the question?”
“Well, to be precise, I did not.” Jespo’s haughty façade cracks, and a look of sheer terror overcomes his features. “I don’t know what to say. What if she says no? What if she laughs at me? Gods above,” he says, starting to panic. “I don’t even have a ring!”
Heydricus takes Jespo by the shoulders. “Buck up, Crim. You’re the one who makes demands of celestials, remember?” Heydricus leans in and whispers. “Marriage should be less frightening than adventuring.”
“You’re right, but . . .”
“Do it at sunset.” Heydricus says. “That way you’ll look the romantic instead of the coward. Take her to the wall, on some pretense of viewing the statues, or the stars. I can arrange for the guards to be gone, you will have complete privacy.” Heydricus pauses to think, then says. “I have a ring for you, as well. It is a protective ring, the most minor sort, but it will size to fit.”
“A wedding ring of protection,” Jespo says to himself. “Would that I were not penniless, I could have it enchanted up.” He sighs, and hitches the hem of his scholar’s robe. “You’re right, Heydricus. This isn’t the Temple, after all, and Regda is no Zinvellon.”
-----
Heydricus, pretending not to watch, spies Jespo leading Regda to the walls, and makes himself improved invisible. He follows the duo silently, vowing to himself that he wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Now, it stands to reason that the sort of man who has spent the greater part of his adult life memorizing arcane phraseology and convoluted passages in long-dead languages would have an easy time with a prepared speech. But terror makes fools of the brightest men, and love ties even the bard’s tongue.
“Damnit, Crim, don’t you blow this,” Heydricus mutters to himself, silently willing the balding conjurer to just spit it out.
“Ah, Regda. Well.” Jespo says, his voice shaking. “I uh, have . . . well, you see. In fact, it has occurred to me, and I’m not alone, I think. So.”
Regda smiles at Jespo placidly, her horse-mouth reflecting the last of the sun’s light off of unusually white teeth. She places a comforting arm on his shoulder, and Heydricus notes with some surprise (he must admit) the look of complete and utter devotion in her eyes.
“Which is to say,” Jespo continues. “That we have known each other well enough to wish for more, I suppose. And it is thought by many, myself included (and I should hope you concur) that one must always attempt to retain one’s honor in all situations with a social aspect. Of course, I mean only that, well . . . I love you, Regda. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Sure,” Regda says through her smile.
“Because if you need some time to . . . oh,” Jespo says. Fräs emerges from her pouch, with the ring in her mouth. “Ah, the ring. I know it looks awfully small for your hands (I believe this was worn by my old friend Keriann when we killed her, and she was a small woman), but it will size to fit, I assure you.”
“Great!” Regda says, and puts the ring on.
-----
The Liberators are gathered in the small sun-room that Martak had formerly used to dry his severed head collection. Since her arrival, Mialec has decorated this room with a very charming floral motif.
“Here is the List,” Heydricus says. “Jespo, are we missing anyone?”
Jespo examines the parchment. “Who are the ‘druid f-ckers’?”
“They’re new,” Heydricus says.
“Well,” Jespo says, “If you mean to include the entirety of the Greater Boneheart, you must add Null, a wizard, and a fellow named Kermin Mind-Bender. He is an enchanter.”
Dabus scribes the new names.
“So we’re thinking that we might first go after Esril and Lucius and see about getting them resurrected,” Heydricus says. “The others are destroyed.”
“Yet there is this matter of the slain nobleman,” Jespo says. “A Nyrondeese heir, I believe?”
“Yes,” Prisantha says. “The Barony of Woodwych, in fact. He is sole heir.”
“Well, I think that should be our first duty,” Jespo says. “It has been postulated that the nobility are by their nature more refined of feeling, so we can surmise that their suffering must by its nature be most profound.”
“What kind of elitist crap is that?” Heydricus sneers.
Prisantha rolls her eyes. “If you are referring to that questionable treatise by the Marchion of Valdeese, I think you misread the man. He was speaking metaphorically, and discussing politics at that; had you read his biography, you would have found that he was later discredited as an apologist for the late Ivid II, the man who lost the lands which became Nyrond and the Pale.”
“Well,” Jespo says, raising his eyebrows and assuming a stiff pose. “We should still retrieve the boy first. We have a chance to ease a mother’s suffering, and could we ask for a more noble cause?”
“You’re right, Jespo,” Heydricus says. “First the boy, and then our companions.”
“I am dechipering the discern location spell even now,” Prisantha says. “I expect to have it completed in a few days, and then we can locate the boy’s body, or at least the largest piece of it.”
-----
Prisantha secludes herself in deep study. The spell is complex, and the scroll she studies from is written in a particularly archaic hand. On the fourth day of her study, she is interrupted as a figure appears out of thin air, sobbing profusely.
The woman is wracked with tears, her long red hair draped fetchingly over a low-cut green velvet gown of the finest make. The scent of expensive rose-petal perfume clings to her, and her elaborate jewelry jingles as she reaches out to place a hand on Prisantha’s shoulders.
“Oh Pris,” she cries. “I have nowhere else to turn!”
Prisantha’s eyes widen. “Gwendolyn?” she asks incredulously.
Gwendolyn wipes a tear from her face and looks pleadingly at Prisantha. “Oh, please don’t send me away. I’ve nowhere else to go. I’ve left the Academy.”
“You left the Academy?” Prisantha stares at the woman with a shocked expression.
“I had a spat with the Dean. He implied that my work with Butrain was not as crucial as I thought, so I chided him. We grew angry at one another and I called him a bald, fat apprentice.”
Prisantha is shocked. “You called the Dean of the Academy an apprentice?”
“I also questioned his lineage,” Gwendolyn sniffs. “But that was weeks ago.”
Prisantha stares at her. Gwendolyn’s tears streak her face and form a pool in her ample cleavage. “I cannot return to Chendl, and Willip is out of the question,” she says. “I fear I am a wanted woman. A common outlaw.”
“Wanted?” Prisantha says.
“Yes. I turned the Baron into a donkey.”
“You . . .” Prisantha is speechless.
“He found out about my lover, and flew into a rage.”
“You kept a lover?”
“Besides Butrain, you mean? I had several. He found out about his leatherworker (deft hands, you know). I suspect I was betrayed by court gossip. He meant to strike me, the cretin.”
“The leatherworker?”
“No, the baron. Can you imagine? Striking a woman of my pedigree! Fortunately, I was reading his mind at the time, so I polymorphed him before he could carry out his intent.”
Prisantha shakes her head. “Well, can it not be dispelled?”
Gwendolyn sniffs and snuffles, then continues. “Actually, no. Before I polymorphed him, I used a limited wish to make it undispellable,” she says. She begins to cry again. “We have broken for good, I’m afraid, and I am ruined! Oh, Prisantha, you must let me stay here—you know I have always thought highly of you.”
“You have?” Pris asks.
“Well, you are so studious and dedicated. Do you recall how I would return to the academy after my social engagements, and see you in the library? I knew then that you would be greater than me someday, and I was so jealous. Plus, you are so much prettier than I am.”
“I am?” Prisantha asks.
“Oh, yes. You don’t use magic to color your hair and skin.”
“That is true,” Prisantha concedes.
“Here,” Gwendolyn says. “I’ve brought you something.” She hands Prisantha a scroll of Otto’s Irresistable Dance. “Could you scribe it?”
“Of course,” Prisantha begins, trying to recall her courtesies.
“I cannot!” Gwendolyn sniffles. “I always knew you would surpass me. That someday you’d be wishing and I . . . I would still be limited wishing!” Gwendolyn breaks down into tears.
Prisantha reaches out tentatively to lay a hand on the crying debutante of the Furyondian Royal Academy, and Gwendolyn collapses into her arms. Prisantha holds the woman awkwardly, trying to think of something comforting to say.
After Gwendolyn has cried herself out, and dried her face, Prisantha regards her. “So you were . . . involved with Butrain?”
“Oh, yes. He’s boorish, but rich.” She smiles craftily and rattles her bracelets. “Cha-ching!”
“And you were involved with other men?”
“Well, ‘one is for money, two is for fun’.”
“But, how did you . . .” Prisantha is shocked.
“Dominate person, if they lacked skills,” Gwendolyn says. “It’s all rather mundane.”
Prisantha gasps.
“Oh, don’t be so prissy, Pris,” Gwendolyn says. “I mean, haven’t you taken to bed that strapping fighter you run around with?”
“Heydricus? No, we . . .”
“Really? Why ever not? He’s so handsome.”
“Well, it’s not for lack of trying. He simply cannot take a hint—I have nearly thrown myself at him.”
Gwendolyn casts an appraising eye across Prisantha, and then tugs on her blouse, lowering her neckline by several inches. “This will improve your aim, I think.”
“You don’t know Heydricus,” Pris says.
“True, but I have met him, and frankly he strikes me as the family type. Perfect for you.”
“Perhaps he thinks of me as a sister,” Pris sighs.
“Dear heart, it doesn’t matter if he does. Men are simple; it is women who make things complex. After all, you are an enchantress—adventuring, battle, or love, it is all the same. Oh, let me stay with you and I promise that I will be your loyal friend. I will help you get this Heydricus, and I will help you twist him about your finger until he no longer knows where he ends and your will begins.”
“I don’t know,” Pris says
“Oh, you must! I’ve nowhere . . .”
“Else to go.” Pris finishes. “I recall.” Prisantha stands up, and absentmindedly caresses her crystal ball. “Will you swear an oath to me? An oath of loyalty?”
“I will!” Gwendolyn exclaims, sitting up straight and clasping her hands in a pious gesture.
“And you must swear an oath to keep our secrets.” Prisantha says.
“I will do better than an oath, I will submit to a geas!” Gwendolyn leans forward. “Fetch one of your gay priests, and have him cast the spell.”
“One of our gay priests?” Prisantha gasps.
“Whichever one you’d rather,” Gwendolyn says. “The skinny one or the new one.”
Prisantha is shocked. “Do you think that Dabus . . .”
“Well, don’t you?” she asks.
At just this moment, the sound of a half-dozen screaming children becomes audible, and grows louder. Heydricus enters the room, literally covered in laughing children, who cling to his back, front and sides. “Hey Pris, I . . . well, holy sh-t.”
“Hello, Heydricus,” Gwendolyn says, favoring the Liberator with her most fetching smile.
Prisantha leans in to whisper into Gwendolyn’s ear. “You must also swear to stay away from Heydricus!” she hisses.
“Done,” Gwendolyn whispers back, as Heydricus disengages himself from the morass of children and sends them away.
“Gwendolyn will be staying with us,” Prisantha says in a tone that brooks no discussion. “She has turned the Baron Butrain into a donkey, and must hide from the authorities. She has sworn a vow to keep our secrets, and will submit to a geas.”
“Okay,” Heydricus says sunnily. “You turned Butrain into a donkey?’
“I did,” Gwendolyn says haughtily. “He meant to strike me.”
“He’d hit an unarmed woman?” Heydricus exclaims. “Why, if I were there, I’d . . .” Heydricus makes crushing gestures with his hands. “So you’re coming adventuring with us, then?”
Gwendolyn blushes and looks at the floor. “I have a confession to make.”
“I imagine you have several,” Prisantha observes.
“I have never adventured before.”
“Never?” Pris asks.
“It’s easy,” Heydricus says. “Just remember, call for healing when you need it, stay away from anything that glows until you know what it does, never split the party, and take it one level at a time, kill everything, then move on.”
Gwendolyn is taken around Cur’ruth, and introduced to everyone in the bustling and happy place. Heydricus and Prisantha are revered beyond all expectation, she notes, and are greeted warmly by everyone they encounter.
“It’s very cheery here,” Gwendolyn says.
“We love our job,” Heydricus replies.
“Plus, there are celestials in the basement,” Prisantha says.
Jespo looks up from where he and Regda are playing cards with Fräs, and his eyes narrow. He stands before Gwendolyn with one hand tucked inside his vest. “Oh it’s you,” he sneers. “Let me see . . . Jezebel isn’t it?”
“Hello, Crim,” Gwendolyn says icily. “I thought you were still at that . . . school, teaching cantrips to lackwits.”
“I am taking an adventuring sabbatical.”
“So I see,” she says, indicating the card game. “You know, before I left Butrain, I was assigned to seduce you in order to confirm his suspicions about Thrommel. I turned down the assignment.”
“This is the Baron’s creature!” Jespo says to Heydricus and Prisantha, pointing an accusing finger at Gwendolyn. “Trust her not!”
“She turned the baron into a donkey, Jespo,” Heydricus explains. “She’s all right by me.”
Jespo sniffs. “Well, it could be a trick.”
Prisantha stands between Gwendolyn and Jespo and removes her crystal ball. She scries Butrain, and is rewarded with a scene of the Baronial Court at Willip. Courtiers stand along either side of a long red carpet, as various pompous Southern Lords march in a stately procession toward the throne, where they take a knee in front of a thin, wretched-looking donkey attended by an old peasant woman festooned with a menagerie of folk charms and trinkets.
The donkey brays, and the old woman says, “the Baron expects you to hold your fief, and orders you to uphold the Laws of the Realm. Rise, and be recognized, as a peer of the Court.”
The woman says more, but Prisantha cannot make it out over the laughing of her companions. The donkey does not appear to notice the scrying, and holds its shaggy head up and emits a dignified braying.
Heydricus is wiping tears from his face. “If that’s the lengths he’ll go to pull one over on us, hell, I’ll give him Thrommel myself! I haven’t laughed so hard since . . . since . . .”
Jespo chimes in, “Yes, then I’ll kill Thrommel with my own hands!”
Everyone stops laughing and looks at him.
“Get it?” Jespo asks. No one replies.
Jespo raises one finger in the air and says, “I’ve just read a noted authority on humor, who states that all comedy is based on the unexpected, do you see? Thus, since it is unexpected that I might throttle the prince, it becomes funny.”
“Anyway,” Prisantha says. “We see that Gwendolyn has told us the truth. Let us prepare this geas and be done with it!”
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