It's only in Cora that you'd have six farmer's children sitting around listening to a vampire bard string his stories and amaze their minds...These tales are done in a variety of formats. From first person accounts to scattered journal entries to third person stories. Some are modern, some are past, all of them from various places in the universe. Some you may like, others may be bloody awful! But either way feel free to express your opinions. I will agree that some of these are pretty bad. Others are unfinished or very short. Others are long and complete.
This is intended to stimulate other's ideas and give me a place to keep my own personal record. Don't really care if anyone reads them :S Tale #1 Askelon Noor, the Harrowed Genre: Background, Modern Spoiler:Show
The inspiration for this came from a D&D class by Lord_Gareth at the Giant in the Playground forums. The picture is her's also, I believe. Askelon Noor, The Harrowed Hijacked Destiny
Askelon was only seventeen when her life came to a close. Her destiny ceased to be, or so the world thought. A drunk driver crashed into the bicycling girl in mid-day on her way to meet some friends for a weekend lunch. The funeral was held on April 7th, 2006. It was a somber day with the family in black. Her mother cried while her father stared in shock at the brightly lit coffin of wood and bronze.
Askelon had always been an unusual girl. While she was a good student she preferred to spend her time doing sports. By age six she could ride a bicycle as well as boys of fourteen. At ten she had participated in several skateboarding contests, knew how to ski, snowboard, water-ski and surf. At fourteen she discovered yet more extreme sports in the water, kite-surfing, wind-surfing, sailing and diving. She had training in various sports and had expectations to become a trainer at a foreign beach some day. She had a loving family of Arabic descent and was very astute in their religion. She had a brother, a mother and a father who were left behind. Life would move on without the girl, or it should have.
Ten days later, the world messed up. Askelon was rudely interrupted, her destiny taken hostage, her body hijacked. A creature calling itself Haagenti kidnapped her soul, her body; and woke her up. The entity was a fierce, animalistic presence and tore apart the coffin and earth in its search out. Askelon was locked away as the beast tore across the graveyard in her body. An old widow stood laying flowers at her husband’s grave only to see a dirty and seemingly deranged girl run at her. She let out a scream that ended with a cough of blood as Askelon’s hand transformed into a black furred and taloned claw. Four inch long talons tore through the old grandmother splattering her body across her husband’s grave. It would have been her eighty fifth birthday next week.
Askelon screamed and screamed, unable to cope with what was happening. But her screams went unheard. Haagenti laughed at her and told her that nothing she said or did could prevent this. It was simply too bad that her soul was still attached and would have to go along for the joyride. The dripping poison and disgust for humanity in the creature’s voice hardened the girl. This will not do. She said and she fought for control, barely managing to wrest herself from its grasp. She stood in the graveyard, splattered in dirt and blood and knew not where to go. A World Abandoned
Askelon went to her home, but did not approach her family. What do you say after something like this? What do you say after a funeral? Hey Dad, Hahah! Joke’s on you? Oh by the way there’s a murderous beast inhabiting my corpse with me now.
She watched for weeks and struggled to control the demon within. She found that it’s possession had seemingly granted her strange powers. She could transform her hands into long, sharp claws. She could also move with supernatural speed. She began to see Haagenti in her head as this six limbed wolf-like creature. It had twelve inch claws, much like the hands she could form. And its eyes were a brilliant, emerald green. It’s breath dripped with caustic substance and it did not think like anything remotely human.
After a few weeks she quickly realized that her body no longer needed to eat and was not decaying. Whatever Haagenti was it was making her into something that was not human. She was an undead. The unreal nature of her situation drove the girl to extremes. She attempted drowning herself, throwing herself off of mountains and even bought a gun, shooting herself in the head. After each very painful event she found that she simply healed and woke up days later either floating in the ocean, in a dumpster or, in one case, in a morgue. Haagenti laughed at these attempts and used them to rise to the surface, the girl barely holding on.
She finally realized that staying in her home town would only bring ruin and she went forth into the wilderness. Legends and Myths
Askelon walked for ages. She lost track of time, no longer knowing or caring. She hitch-hiked her way along America until she found the wilderness of Canada; and there she lost herself. The weight of the situation crashed upon her and she gave in to Haagenti's whispered assurances. The beast triumphed and roared through the wilderness, destroying anything it came across. Askelon’s mind huddled within, shivering and hiding from what was going on with her own body. Rabbits, birds and even bears came to fear when this little girl was near. Campers went missing in the woods and whispers of a werewolf in the woods drew hunters. They believed it must be a crazed wolf of some sort that was attacking people.
They were in for a big surprise. When Askelon, or we should say Haagenti, came across the hunters they first believed her to be lost. All of them were dead before they could even pick up a weapon. Askelon forced Haagenti aside and went into a nearby town. She went to the authorities and told them the truth, she was the killer and was possessed and in need of a super-human prison. They laughed at her but due to her dirty, unkept appearance they took her to a nearby asylum. There her torn clothes were replaced with white, her hair cut and washed and her body cleaned. Askelon waited there two days before escaping, using the powers Haagenti granted her. She grew more and more in control of the beast, but Haagenti resents her willpower more than anything else and strives to cause her to do harm or to let him free.
To Freedom
Time passes, seasons come and go. Askelon is not sure what year it is or how long she has been in the woods. Unknown to her, it has been about a year. During this time sightings of her when Haagenti obtained control have given her the name The Werewolf of Saracha after the name of the forest she has taken up inhabiting. These tales interested a group of international researches who had investigated numerous supernatural sightings either finding the ‘super-powered being’ responsible or trying to prove the myths false. Using various super-powers and technology the team manages to find Askelon during one of her controlled periods. She tries to escape but ends up captured and taken in for research and help.
The scientists treat her well and gain her trust. They begin to study her to see if they can aid her in subduing Haagenti for good. One of the researchers, a man called Frederick Gygin, is an associate of Duncan Summers and contacted the dean. He told the dean of the girl’s powers and difficulties in addition to her age and the fact that did not seem to have completed general education. Duncan takes Askelon into Claremont to help her control her powers, study a cure and give her a basic education. Askelon never gives a last name and insists that her family must not be told of her life.
Tale #2 The Story of Jack and Old Rawhorn Genre: Random Story of Character's childhood, fantasy Spoiler:Show
The Korc hills were nothing spectacular compared to the great mountains and gorgeous cliffsides Jack had climbed up over his life. But they did hold one thing of value—Old Rawhorn. Some say he’s the biggest ram in the Nath, others that he’s not only the biggest but the oldest and meanest to top. The myths say that Old Rawhorn has killed dozens of men who have sought to take his horns as their trophies. Jack would love to say that all those myths are false and there’s no way any ram like that could exist. He’d also like to say that he’d never be foolish enough to chase after it.
So thinking, Jack slides down a hill to rest at the bottom of a small valley and takes a deep breath of air. His heart is pounding and his breath fogs the air around his head in deep gasps. The last flash of a white-furred animal the size of a baby mammoth disappeared around the side of the hill. Jack gave a groan of frustration and got to his feet, sprinting after the form. He gave chase like an ice devil from legend was on his heels when really the only thing after him was his own ego. He turned the corner of the hill and swallowed a small scream of surprise.
Standing before Jack was the prize he’d been after. The sought after horns of Old Rawhorn himself. Unfortunately, they were still attached and the goat was anything but happy at being chased around the hills like a chicken. A handful of arrows dotted the thick hide of the old beast and it let out a long, low growl as its harasser came into view. Jack stopped for just a moment to consider his next action before turning and racing up the hill behind him.
Jack reaches the top of the hill and realizes he cannot outrun a bloody goat. He turns around and watches it charge up the hill at him when he gets a grand idea. As the goat closes he runs back down, straight at it. His momentum allows him to plant one foot in the beast’s face and run down it’s back leaping off of it onto the hill. He slips and slides down into the valley but comes up from a barrel roll and sprints down another valley hoping to hide and wait for a good ambush.
About an hour later Jack has managed to hide from Rawhorn behind a small collection of boulders covered in ice. The goat is trundling around looking for him in the same valley. Jack grins at his opportunity and lines up a shot with the back of animal’s head. He lets first one, then a second arrow fly. The first arrow soars forward and bounces off the back of its skull doing minimal damage. The second hits the spine and slides up behind the skull into the brain. Rawhorn lets out a roar of outrage, and falls over dead. The young tribal lets out a scream of success and draws his axe as he runs to Rawhorn intending to cut off its horns.
It is almost dusk by the time he manages to cut the horns off and tie them up with a length of rope. As he drags the horns through the snow, Jack wonders how people could have been so afraid of this thing. It had been huge and somewhat mean but it did not seem like a carnivore. He dragged the horns away. A snow owl flew over his head toward the valley and alighted near where Jack had come face to face with the beast. A head being swiftly decayed by several Nath Hoppers sat nearby. The owl pecked one of the insects off the skull and flew away, leaving the poor victim to an unburied rest.
Tale #3 Rite of Adulthood Genre: Continuing on Jack's childhood adventures Spoiler:Show
The other boy crouched before Jack’s hiding spot. He was calling loudly for Jack to come out and stop hiding. This was not the way the rite was supposed to go. As a foreigner everyone expected the frail Jack to get killed. The boy had a wooden club in one hand and was facing away from Jack’s hiding spot, leaving him perfect for an attack.
A nearby stone provided the perfect means of doing this and Jack threw it at the back of the kid’s skull. A sound thwack echoed through the leaves and he fell without a further sound. Unfortunately the movement had alerted two other boys who ran to the area and pointed to Jack’s hiding spot. “There he is! Let’s get him! There’s no way a foreigner can win this gauntlet.” The two boys ran forward and Jack stood up. He couldn’t let them reach him. He was far too frail to have a hand to hand fight. As the neared he picked up another stone and knocked the one on the left down on his knees. The kid cursed and covered his broken nose with one hand as blood splashed the ice. The other neared and tackled Jack to the ground, or at least attempted to. Jack did a forward somersault under the tackle and came up with the first boy’s club in one hand. He brought it down with enough force to knock out the second kid and then threw it behind him straight into the other boy’s charge.
He stood there surrounded by three unconscious tribals and grinned. Maybe he wouldn’t be killed today. Heck maybe he would even become the next Champion, although he doubted they would let him have the title. He rushed off into cover once again to search for his next victim. This was getting fun.
Tale#4 Arashi Eire on Justice Genre: Background for a character I never got to use Spoiler:Show
The resounding drip of water practically pounded in Arashi’s ears. It was slight, pattering sound coming from a stormdrain not five feet away but after listening to it for the past two hours it was becoming unbearable. Her attention was focused on two men sitting near the window of a tavern across the street. The man on the right had a thick, black beard and a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over his face. The man on the left was a sneaky looking fellow with thin, greasy hair and a portly belly. The two had been speaking quietly over several pitchers of ale for the past few hours.
Arashi was currently sitting in a pile of damp rags under a ragged cloak with a hood pulled high over her head. In her right hand was a tin cup with a few coppers rattling around in it. Pretending to be a beggar was starting to hurt her back and more than one person had looked at her poor disguise with an odd look. She was a paladin, not some thrifty street rat! And all this work just to see if her hunches were right.
She let out a tired sigh and tried to keep her eyes open as they sagged down. The patter of the nearby drain was starting to drive her crazy but at the same time it was so consistent it was also making her very sleepy. Suddenly the man on the right, with the beard, stood up. Arashi’s eyes opened wide and her hand slid to her side where a short sword hung beneath a very patched bag. This was it the moment she’d been waiting impatiently for. Black-beard shook the slimy man’s hand and headed to the door, taking a large brown cloak with him.
While walking through the door he put his hood up since it was raining ever so slightly. Arashi liked to call it ‘misting’ rather than rain because you could never tell where it was coming down from. Black-beard passed her and dropped a coin into the cup. Arashi kept her head desperately down hoping that he wouldn’t notice her clean features or dyed hair. Damn, she thought, I should have found someone to do this disguise for me. However, he didn’t seem to be paying much attention and did not notice anything odd. Or at least if he did, he didn’t act like it.
Arashi waited until he was beyond a stone’s throw away before standing and shuffling after him. She tried to be inconspicuous, as if she was merely heading down the street to try begging somewhere else. The man made several turns and Arashi followed him the whole way down to the city’s warehouse district.
Here she hung back behind a pile of fish-smelling crates and watched as he approached one of the smaller warehouses. From what she had gathered this warehouse has been leased to an organization called Horton’s Southern Exports. The organization was a small subset owned by the Azhure Plumes guild. She had seen several day delivers delivering spices from the Neuf Province. But this false front did not dissuade her suspicions. She had heard from several people that Horton was a slave dealer.
The disappearance of one of her friend’s had drawn her attention to the place. That had been two days ago. She had not seen any shipments leaving the warehouse but after paying an ox-handler a handsome sum of gold she had found out that Horton was set to send off a shipment on in a caravan this night. The name of the wagon was the Gull’s Kettle. She wasn’t sure why a gull would have a kettle or why a land bound vessel had a name like a ship’s but she was positive that it would be leaving full of slaves. Arashi would have none of that now.
Black-beard knocked on the door three times and it opened, letting him in. Arashi’s suspicions had led her to this man because he was seen hiring several known thugs in the area in addition to having worked at Horton’s warehouse for a long time. No one was sure if black-beard was Horton or not, because when asked he gave his only name as ‘Dave.’ Arashi just knew that it had to be a false name, it seemed far too suspicious. She had also seen several iron manacles in one of the crates within the warehouse.
Arashi snuck around the side of the warehouse to a pile of broken crates. Beneath the crates was a simple longspear and a few javelins that she had stored there the previous night. She hadn’t wanted to leave her prized guisarme at the Temple, but it was far too bulky to carry about with her and leaving it where it could be stolen was not an option. She quickly gathered up the weapons and used a rope ladder she had set up the night before to clamber to the top of the roof. She crawled her way to the skylight and peered down into the warehouse.
It was dark; too dark to see anything. Arashi cursed herself and began to back towards the rope ladder again. However, the misting had made the roof slippery and she slid across the roof making a loud noise to fall through the window and into the warehouse below. The shattering of glass and her shout of surprise would have alerted anyone beneath to her presence. She managed to land somewhat on her feet and looked around as her eyes adjusted.
The shouts of men sounded in the warehouse and dim torches lit the walls. A line of ragged looking people with gags over their mouths and with hands and arms clamped together stood against the back wall. Black-beard and five other men stood facing her with weapons drawn. Somewhere during her fall, Arashi’s disguise had torn apart and it was easy to see her leather armor and strange hair now. Her hair fell down her back in two pigtails, the left dyed red and the right side dyed blue. She grinned at the men staring at her only to have them laugh back.
“Who are you, girl? What are you, sixteen? And and..what is on your head? Did you come here to try and steal our gold?” The questions of Black-beard were broken up by his own guffaws. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes as they teared from the great bellows coming from his mouth full of half-decayed teeth. The other slavers, for Arashi’s suspicions were right on target, were also laughing but steadily moving toward her with longswords drawn.
Arashi stood tall and cried out to the laughing men. “Laugh not, fools. I am of the Justicars of the Silver Hand and I come to give you your just reward. We do not like slavers in this city and I won’t let you get out of here without chains on your own wrists. Give up now or face certain death. Even now my fellow paladins encircle your warehouse and prepare to storm it with but a call. However, if I call them in they will surely sunder you limb from limb. Save your lives and give up.”
Arashi held her breath, praying to the Light that her bluff might pay off. The other paladins would have looked down upon her for lying even in this situation, but she had always thought that almost any means necessary should be used to bring about justice. Even if it did require a lie or too.
Black-beard looked at the skinny girl before him. She had a sling of javelins on her back and a spear held ready. She looked like she could put up a fight but there was no way she could defeat his five men. He felt that there was no need to get involved. And as for her bluff, well, he had heard better lies from old men. “Get her. Bring her here alive if you can, we can add her to the slave line. I’m sure the little miss could do with a hard day’s work.”
The five men rushed at Arashi expecting her to stand and fight them like a stalwart defender of justice. Arashi looked at them rushing her and shook her head. Well so much for plan A. And she turned and sprinted across the warehouse between the stacks of crates. Her retreat brought even more laughs from the men and she could hear them insulting her bravery from behind her. Fools, she thought, Did they really think I would fight fair? I can’t take out five men by myself!
Upon reaching the crates Arashi turned for a moment and threw a javelin at the oncoming men. Their own momentum prevented them from getting out of the way in time and a blonde-haired slaver in the front was speared through the chest. He fell back and screamed in pain, blood pouring from his chest and washing over his chest like a slow tide. The four men paused for but a moment before charging her. The first to reach her was a thin man in his late thirties. He had graying hair and a nasty scar across his lower lip. As he approached Arashi lunged with her spear, scoring a shallow gash across his thigh. He grinned at her and jumped over her spear, lashing out at her.
If it wasn’t for a quick lean backwards, Arashi would have received a cut right across the face. She scowled at him. They would dare harm a woman’s face? Pfshaw! Off with their heads. Arashi cackled at the man and swung her spear at him. He dodged out of the way and stepped up next to her. The two men behind him stepped forward to engage Arashi and forced her on the defensive. She moved backwards and fended off sword blows.
It seemed as if she would do fine when a precise strike reached under her spear and stabbed her in the side. The cut was deep and she used the chance to stab the man who’d cut her in the ribs. Leaving her spear in the last victim she turned and ran deeper into the warehouse, holding her side to keep the blood from seeping out too fast. When she reached the wall she turned and threw another javelin which flew true and struck a third bandit in the leg. He cried out and fell the floor, clutching at the wooden stake jutting several feet from his leg.
Three down, two to go. Arashi turned a corner and drew her short sword. A teetering crate of paprika stood by her side and it gave her a savage idea. When the fourth slaver, a man with long, shaggy hair stepped around the corner he was hit in the face with a crate full of spice. He fell back with a cry of surprise followed by a scream of pain. Arashi had opened the top of the crate before she threw it hoping that the spice would get in his eyes. It seemed that the Light was on her side and her fourth foe was blinded by the company’s own goods. The old man with the gray hair stepped over his companion and approached her.
“You did good, girl. Managed to kill two of our men and disable two others. But you’re bleeding fast. You’re going to die tonight. How about you surrender? I’m sure me and Dave could help you out a bit. No use letting a good bit of flesh going to waste now, eh?” The man walked toward her and brandished his longsword, grinning as he did so. Arashi shrugged and dropped her short sword.
“Okay. If you promise to keep me alive then what can I say?” The man laughed at her easy surrender and stepped up to her, forgetting the mistakes his companions had made in underestimating her. Arashi allowed a brief smile to flash across her pained face. The man frowned and wondered why she was smiling only to realize as he was kneed with the only part he had been thinking with. As her fifth victim went down in pain, Arashi thumped in soundly with the hilt of her blade on the back of the head. She nodded, satisfied with the fact that only two men had to die this night.
She went back the way she had come and knocked out the blinded man, who was crawling around looking for his sword. As she approached the man with the javelin in his leg he backed away from her. “P-please don’t kill me! I needed money for my family and and they promised to sell my daughter if I didn’t help them!” Arashi shook her head as she approached.
“I’m not here to kill you. Let me help you and if you help me rescue the slaves I will put in a good word for you with the authorities.” Arashi leaned forward and poured her healing energy into the man. Bending forward sent waves of nausea through her due to her own wounds, but she couldn’t leave this man to die from the leg wound she had given him. The amount of blood on the floor made it obvious that he would die soon if not tended too. The man stood shakily and looked at his leg which was almost completely healed over. “You..you helped me. Why?”
“As I said, I did not come to kill. Remember, I did ask for surrender first. Now return my favor and help me with this so-called Dave.” The man nodded and thanked her profusely as they returned to the center of the warehouse. Dave stood near the slave line with a knife against a beaten looking woman’s throat.
“What’s this? Frederick, remember what I said about your daughter? She’s mine when this is over. You dare betray me to this girl? She killed your friends!”
“She came to help me. If only I had the bravery to stand up to you like she had.” The red-haired man charged Dave even though Arashi called out for him to stop. The threat to an innocent’s life was far more important to her then killing the slaver but her attempts were futile. As Frederick ran at him, Dave stabbed the woman in the throat and turned to face the man. He managed to get his arm up to protect himself from a mortal wound but was now bleeding everywhere. Frederick pressed him back until Dave was impaled on his former ally’s sword.
During this fight, Arashi rushed to the woman’s side. She reached her just as Frederick dispatched the head slaver. “You idiot! Oh please..Light preserve this woman until I can bring her to a healer.” Arashi quickly freed the other slaves and picked up the dying, or perhaps dead, woman. She rushed from the warehouse, calling out behind her that the slaves were now free. One of the slaves, a pretty lass with long brown hair ran to Arashi’s side and helped lift the woman. Arashi looked over at her and smiled, realizing that it was her friend, Janice. The two ran to the nearest temple and broke into it crying out for a cleric.
An old man was putting several candles out around an altar in the church when they burst in. He turned to them with a smile on his face that quickly turned to one of shock and horror. He rushed to their side. “What has happened here? We must get this woman to a doctor, we have no one here with the power to heal. Warren! Warren, come here quickly! Go and fetch Doctor Vakhinson from his home. Run, boy, run!”
Arashi collapsed in a pew, staring at the blood covering the woman’s body. Her eyes were wide open and unmoving. Arashi knew that look, it was the look of death. Janice hung at her shoulder and thanked her for coming to the rescue trying to comfort her friend. But it was to no avail, Arashi knew that she had made a mistake in trusting a man who would stoop so low as to work for a slaver. This wasn’t justice. Her eyes hardened and she took one of her last javelins from its shoulder sheath. Standing, she headed for the church’s door.
“Arashi, Arashi, where are you going? Please stay here, we can still help her..she isn’t dead..is she?” Janice clutched at the hem of Arashi’s torn shirt but was brushed off.
“No. I go to bring justice. Stay here, I will be back.”
Hours later, Arashi returned. She held one broken javelin in hand with blood staining its end. Her eyes were tired and angry. Blood, not hers, stained her arms. Janice did not ask what transpired and Arashi did not speak for the rest of the night.
Tale #5 Victor Alderidge, Pirate, Mercenary, Drug Dealer Genre: Background, character description Spoiler:Show
This image is by YoshiyukiKatana of a character of his own design. It was the inspiration for Victor. This person's art is awesome, I suggest checking it out! Growing up with pirates isn’t easy. For that matter, who really thought that there still were pirates? When Margaret Alderidge left her family on a cruise ship, she didn’t expect anything truly exciting to happen. She’d always been called the ‘wild child’ of the family with her various exploits into faraway lands. This cruise was supposed to be a short venture into the Mediterranean before dropping her off in Israel for a camel-back trek across the desert to Egypt where she would stay for a bit before heading down to live in the Sahara for a few months.
Margaret used the word ‘cruise’ loosely so that her parents would actually let her take the ship. It was an oil tanker carting lots of empty oil and lots of money. When a small ship approached while she was watching, Margaret thought nothing of it. When the grappling hooks where thrown over and men with guns came over she got more than her share of excitement for that trip. The ship was quickly taken over by these Modern day pirates.
They had planned to execute everyone on board, but it seemed that their new leader was both ruthless and a philanthropist. He spoke to the men of the tanker and made a deal which allowed them to get out alive. He was like a sweet drink with a shot of adrenaline and danger mixed within. Margaret was instantly infatuated. She insisted that she be able to come along and join the crew, which drew great derision from the other men. However…
Five years later, I was born at sea, in a thunderstorm screaming and wailing like all hell was loose. Or so they tell me. I grew up learning how to swim, shoot and drink. Mom passed away when I turned ten due to a bad case of cancer. I always told her she smoked too much. She did get her exciting life though with all the heists, cons, raids and pillages we went on. It was a great adventure but it wasn’t to last.
When I turned twenty we got caught. This wasn’t a you all go off to jail caught, this was third-world country justice. The police raided the ship and began shooting everyone. It wasn’t like a raid though, it was like a war. I do not know how many I killed before I jumped overboard and swam away. I saw the ship go up in an explosion when I reached dock and the force of it threw me into a pile of crates. Somehow, I wasn’t caught. So here I was stuck in some god forsaken port town with no ship, no friends and no money. I spent a few weeks working as a bartender before joining up with a crew of mercenaries heading to a war in Kenya. It was some drug trafficking gang war but I got to drink, shoot people and gamble. What more could a man ask for?
After a couple of months of that I managed to off the leader and take command. I always disliked the way he got a higher cut then the rest of us. Well, now I got that higher cut. We got stuck in a bad spot where most of the mercenaries got killed or caught and I was done with that gig. I took the money, the guns and the drugs and got the hell out of there. But what I had stolen was a lot more than a cart of cocaine. This was pure, grade A Max. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was on the way to the big leagues again.
I found a seller in a place called Freedom City and headed there. I should arrive on tomorrow into the port. This ought to be fun.
Chicory Victor’s rifle, Chicory, is always at his side. He carried it in a leather case that resembles an instrument case for some type of wind instrument. When others ask, he simply says it’s his trusty trombone. Chicory is a unique weapon that Victor found while diving in an old shipwreck. The ship’s name had been worn away with age and almost everything of value taken. When Victor saw the case he opened it and found the seemingly normal looking rifle.
It was anything but normal, however, and Victor has slowly added more bullets to the arsenal Chicory can fire. When he first got it the blast was so strong that it could knock a super down at a huge range. This was amazing for a man without any powers himself so he kept it around. Over the years he’s modified it to fire stun grenades, magical ice grenades that lower the temperature of an area, and even a trans-dimensional shot that Victor can ricochet off nearly anything.
Cyber Eye When Victor was a mercenary he had an unfortunate accident. A shard of shrapnel from a frag grenade tore into his eye and damaged the retina. With only one eye his perception and aim was off and practically destroyed. He contacted an old friend of his father’s, a tinker, who had hired them for various theft jobs in the past. He paid a handsome sum of money and paid off two favors to get a cybernetic eye implanted that could see through concealment and see heat.
Tale #6 Enter a Black Port Genre: Random section of a story never written Spoiler:Show
Enter a black port, the smoky darkness obscures all but the dim lighted crates along the wooden docks. The city itself is nothing but a black figure in the background waiting patiently, silently for new victims to disembark. Shambling dock workers carry boxes back and forth from warehouse to ship to warehouse again. Their purpose and intent are unknowable. Many wear tall, lopsided hats with wide brims. The brims obscure the facial features and yet a dull, red glow seems to emanate from where eye sockets should be. Our ship scrapes along the stone dock walls and a rope is thrown to a waiting worker.
The worker catches the rope and begins to crawl up it like a spider onto our ship. This is not the realm of the living nor a place where any man is welcome. The ship’s crew are already below decks, laying about in a lazy mess. Their blood seeps through the boards and leaves a bloody wake. I stand on board the deck…waiting.
One, then two, then a half dozen of the red-eyed denizens clamber aboard. The scent of blood is in their corrupt nostrils. They can smell it, feel it even. The coagulating mess of life spread out in a macabre horror. Remains of men and women are spread out like a grisly meal for the creatures as they ignore my hiding spot and lap at the sticky pools with purple, bloated tongues. Not a one notices as I step from behind and swiftly behead three with a single blow. The remaining creatures seem barely disturbed so confident are they among their own territory. It has been centuries since anything has dared interfere with their malicious activities.
The other three collapse as their heads come free of twisted, malformed necks. There is a spurt of black and purple blood from each as they die slowly. A quiet bump echoes across the otherwise silent port as the last of them falls into a heap. That sound fills the dock, echoing and seeming to become louder with each bounce off of seemingly abandoned houses and shop fronts. A still silence ensues across the entire abandoned shipping area. It lasts for but a moment before the town seems to stir to life. Clawed hands and hideous visages appear at windows and doors. The appearances seem confused at first, unsure of what the sound could have been. However, the new ship sitting in the bay with a single man standing on board beside several broken figures made what had happened fairly obvious.
Welcome to Vah’Dinell.
Swarms of so called citizens swarm out of their respective places towards the blood-soaked ship. There are hundreds of these beasts and I am here to clean up the mess. They have grown complacent in this domain of fear and insecurity. A new age is coming, an age not of fear but of man. An age where none of these fantasy creatures shall be left where magic is but a decadent memory of times long past when man huddled within dark caves full of stored food and bread—leftovers of harvests years past. And now, they fall.
The first to jump on board bare their fangs and roar incomprehensive vulgarities. I do not speak the old tongues and have no need to know what types of curses they murmur to me. A flick of my wrist and a barrage of slim, whirring blades fly from my sleeve embedding themselves with loud, squelching sounds. A flood of pure black corruption springs forth as they fall forward onto the ship. The deck is soon coated ankle-deep in dark sludge.
As more of the beasts clamber aboard they begin to slip on their brother’s fallen organs crushing it into a primordial mess of organs and gore. I dance amongst the vampires a single slim blade in each hand and a spinning collection of steel out of my small backpack. A grey, ugly bastard leaps over a truly dead corpse to meet a kick to the face. Another grabs my leg and receives a skinny blade down its open, leering mouth. It’s mouth closes like a trap and falls away dragging my hand with it.
Pain runs through my arm as another latches on like a leech attempting to drain me of as much blood as it can. I am no one’s meal. I release my sword and flip a dagger into that hand, driving it deep into the beast’s skull. The grey gore that explodes out as its skull is crushed by my hand drives the remaining creatures to renewed vigor. Hundreds more are crawling onto the ship like a never ending tide of lice from an old man’s hair.
Tale # 7 Fireside Stories Genre: Intended to be on a character for a game that was never finished Spoiler:Show
Past and present often come to blows with one another. The conception of the past that the present can paint varies more than the colors of an endlessly spinning prism. A recollection of a simple afternoon day could seem standard to one and yet to another the transformative force in changing their life for the better—or for the worse. It is this aspect of the past that best represents how stories come to be.
Myths, legends and barroom tales all come from somewhere. A tale may be true within the mind and memory of one man but be a fantastical, falsified conception to another. What is truth and what is not has great bearing on the relativity of these stories, however it bears no relation to the never-ending joy brought by a damn good story. These thoughts float through my head as I listen attentively to my fellow soldiers against the occult.
The first story to be told on this rainy night within the warmth of the barroom’s fires was spouted by a slender man not much older then I. He had long, straight blonde hair that seemed to shimmer within the firelight. His eyes betrayed a harsh countenance with many lines. He proudly wore a tabard with the symbol of our organization over a chainmail shirt and leather breeches. A scythelike axe hung from a shoulder-strap like the blade of a guillotine waiting to fall on those unworthy of life. He leaned forward and took a sip of a frothy beer before clearing his throat.
“So, friends, would you like to hear the story of the Island of Eret? I tell you know that it will warm your bellies like a good whiskey. Although funny now, at the time it was a terrifying ordeal.” After a resounding thump on the table he began to weave his tale…
The boat rocked gently along the waves as it approached the white sands. Tropical trees could be seen stretching out around and beyond the small port town that the ship headed to. Warren Wentworth leaned over the rail and bellowed out in joy. “Land! Oh thank Godric that this voyage is over. I can’t wait to find the first bar and find a nice young lass…”
A squat woman sidled up to him and considered pushing him into the waves. “Warren, stop swinging around and go sit somewhere until we pull into port. You should be thinking about the information supplied to us; and not where to get your next drink.” The woman and short, curly hair and thick chain armor. A gleaming falchion with silver filigree adorned her back while a bronze badge hung around her neck like a trophy.
Warren winked at the woman. “Rachel you need to learn how to enjoy these adventures…although not the sailing part. Sure, we’re here for work but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves!”
Rachel merely shook her head and trudged back to a pair of men carrying large packs. Each man was dressed in simple brown garb that bristled with weaponry. Maces, swords and daggers enveloped them like a protective shroud. While similar in size, one was about a head shorter than the other. The taller one also had a scythe sticking out of one of his bags. Rachel approached them and addressed the shorter of the two.
“Barrum, do you recall where we are intended to meet with our contact? I’d like to know if anything further has been gleaned from this situation.” The shorter man looked at her with his one good eye, the other being covered with a grey patch, and grinned.
“Of course, Rachel. Leave the arrangements to Timothy and I. You concern yourself with keeping an eye on our new trooper. He looks a tad unexperienced for this sort of mission. I’m worried that he may drag us down.” The man named Timothy frowned and nodded his head with Barrum’s assessment.
Rachel merely huffed and sat down near the rail with her boots dangling over the ship’s edge. The water below rolled and splashed against the boat and Rachel could see the shape of small fish swimming beneath the waves disturbed by the ship’s passage. A pair of flying fish leapt from the azure waters and sailed through the air for several feet before splashing back into the water. Rachel looked up from the sea and towards the approaching island.
The ship reached a port with only a few men standing around waiting to help the ship dock. Lines were thrown back and forth and tied off. Sails were brought down and large pulley systems were set up to bring cargo down to the town. The four passengers disembarked onto the soaked platform and walked the short distance to town. The town’s port consisted of several docks and two small buildings. One was but a shack and was apparently the port official’s house who dealt with taxing goods for the local government and other issues of the docks. A bald, portly man in well-tailored silks came walking out and headed hurriedly to Falcon’s Plea, the ship they had just arrived on.
The other building was of a much different sort. Its worn wooden structure and large, bamboo doors had numerous cracks and holes scattered throughout. Various goods could be seen within. Large crates were stacked in an orderly fashion and piles of ship sails and large wooden masts could be seen within its depths. Through one open door one could see that the building was split into two parts. Where one section was filled with ship-fixing items the other was filled with an array of steel arms and armor. Barrum pointed to the apparent armory and turned to Timothy.
“What is that man? We weren’t told about any militia in this village.” The others in the group merely shrugged or shook their heads. None knew what reason the town would have for such a large surplus of military supplies. Barrum decided to find an answer to his question and quickly headed to intercept the portly Dock Lord. He walked with a swift step and stopped before the man. “I see this town has quite a large amount of arms in that there warehouse. Could you perhaps tell us for what?”
Seeing the stalwart warrior bearing a tabard with the symbol of Godric’s Fist on it seemed to greatly upset the little man. “By God, Godric’s fist? Who sent for you men? I do hope you are here to deal with the disappearances we’ve been having?” He stumbled on his words in a very undiplomatic fashion. While to have such a post he must have been at least a friend to a man of standing he did not seem to have any of the charisma such men typically possess.
Barrum snorted at the man’s barrage of questions and shook his head at the man’s ignorance. Any well informed dockhand would know when Godric’s Fist was sent for by the local governor. He scowled with visible anger and silently gripped the hilt of his sword. Timothy stepped forward and put a calloused hand on his brother’s shoulder, his grip gently telling him to stand down. Accepting Timothy’s leadership, Barrum steps aside and allows his more diplomatic brother to deal with the Dock Lord.
“We are here under orders of our commanding officers who have been contacted by Renauld So’lior the governor of this island if I am not mistaken. We had heard that this town has been having a recent plague of female kidnappings of some kind and it is suspected to be connected to arcane symbols found carved throughout the woods. We would like you to answer our questions and if you refuse then we would like you to know that any resistance will be met with due force as is granted to us by your own governor. With only two towns on this island and his own manor he is expectedly disturbed by any massive decrease in the populace. You are after all his workers and his income.”
Having suitably chastised the man, timothy smiled his best smile and nodded his head. While he had insulted the man he had done so in a way that gave him some allowance and was not out of line. They did not want to distress the people here or it would be more difficult to accomplish their work.
“Alright alright. I’m sorry for all that was jus’ a tad surprised you see? Those arms there are for the townsfolk. The Baron thought it would be wise to provide them in case of attack since we have no official arms. There have been…stirrings in the woods in addition to the disappearances. “ The man shuffled his feet, wrung his hands and visibly sweat under Timothy’s look. After receiving a faint nod from the warrior he stayed but long enough to mumble out a hasty goodbye before running to the docked ship. He began to berate dockhands seemingly taking out his humiliation on the peasants.
Timothy looked at his assembled band of warriors and grinned. “That was fun. Now let’s head to the inn to meet up with the Eye.” The band walked through the streets and noted the visible lack of a single woman as they walked. Being a small town it was not long before they found what seemed to be the only inn; a small place aptly named the Mouse Tavern. They walked through the door, Barrum and Timothy first with Rachel and Warren trailing behind.
Tale # 8 Tragedy of the Rosencruz Family Genre: Background, History Spoiler:Show
The Rosencruz family was a noble family dwelling in the city of Sallintium to the Northeast of Godric’s Citadel. The family home was a large mansion ten miles north of the city with many acres of farming and pasture lands. The family’s primary income came from these farmers who paid dues on the land and for protection against the occasional bandit in addition to the family dealing with any disputes that arose including theft, murder, land disputes and other such trifles. The Uvel Militia was the family’s proud private army which protected the lands and dealt out punishment when necessary. Unlike some noble families the Rosencruz were loved by those dwelling on their land. The commoners were treated as people and not cattle.
However, tragedy struck the family from within. A shipment of grain from the north brought with it several wererats. The rats hid as workers bringing in the grain and then transformed and hid away in the grain. They had heard of the massive fortunes of gold within the Rosencruz vault and had come to steal it. They began to turn the servants in the mansion. Any servant who resisted the change or still refused to join the weres disappeared. These disappearances troubled the head of the family and he sent several guards to investigate. Unfortunately, these guards were already infected and reported that the servants had run away to the city.
The rats had sufficient numbers to get into the vaults and take the gold away without notice. One night the guards on the vault unlocked the vault and began to unload heaps of gold coins, heirlooms and other precious items into several wagons. The activity went largely unnoticed due to the number of weres protecting the operation. However, Elizabeth Lee Rosencruz stumbled into several guards carrying a sack of gold which spilled across the floor. She quickly screamed for aid and ran away. The operation revealed, rats began transforming into their hybrid form and chased the woman with hopes to kill her before she could inform too many people.
Elizabeth managed to awaken the majority of the household and loyal guards flushed into the area beginning to fight the monsters in their midst. It seemed that wherever they turned a servant or guard would transform and turn on their former friends. The Rosencruz family had many strong warriors within it and the nobles led the battle for their household and wealth. Blood washed the floors. Jacob Rosencruz, brother to the head of the family and husband to Elizabeth also father of two, was the greatest swordsman in the family and the battle quickly turned in their favor. However many of the wererats had remained in human form and had fought with the humans, waiting for the right moment. With Jacob’s attention on the fleeing hybrids four guards stabbed him simultaneously as many in the battalion transformed into wererats.
The Uvel Militia was decimated and attempted to retreat. They were all slain to a man along with every member of the family. The rats went from room to room killing women and children. Rachel and Victor Rosencruz were the children of Elizabeth and Jacob. Victor had some training in the martial arts and attempted to fight the creatures using his twin daggers. His attempts were in vain and they had to run. The two siblings managed to escape through a window. However, as their mother climbed after them she was slashed in twain by a greatsword wielding, former Uvel Militiaman.
The children escaped but to their knowledge no one else had. Unable to trust anyone for fear they would end up being a lycanthrope shapeshifter the children took to the woods where they hid. At ages 10 and 13 they were orphaned. They spent several months hiding in the wilderness traveling away from Sallintum.
Upon reaching a small town they decided to attempt to settle. They lived as guides, leading people to various small woodland farms and villages in the area. A seething hatred for lycanthropes dwelled within them and between guide jobs they learned all they could about the beasts wanting to be able to hunt down the creatures. Unable to find much knowledge amongst the small villages and towns they travelled between the children chose to move to a new place.
Four years after the initial tragedy they found themselves in a small city where rumors of wererats had been heard. Victor gained an apprenticeship as a member of the local assassin’s guild to perfect the art of killing. His sister worked as a finder of lost items both in the city and surrounding locales. Together they looked for information regarding the supposed wererat infestation. Victor was the one to find them first.
He discovered the taint of lycanthropy amongst several of his fellow assassins. Discovering this he lured them into places where he and his sister could slay them. The disappearances did not go unnoticed and the guild discovered that it was Victor doing the killings. Thinking him insane they placed a bounty on his head. The siblings fled into the forests making only occasional treks into the city to kill more rats. It was during these ventures that they were watched by a Godric’s eye also investigating the wererat infestation. After a group of Godric’s fist was called in to finish off the creatures he approached the two Rosencruz siblings. He recruited them as members of the guild and sent them to the citadel for training.
Since then they have performed several jobs hunting and killing lycanthropes while calling upon the Fist to finish off large groups of them. Rachel became Victor’s squire at the guild rather then becoming a fully fledged member.
Tale #9 Unnamed Genre: Continuing the backgrounds of the Rosencruz siblings, Unfinished Spoiler:Show
April 7th 345, Year of the Wilting Rose
Spring has yet to arrive in this province. I have spent three days here waiting to be contacted by my sister. She had told me she had a lead on a pack in the area and sent for me to come investigate immediately. Thus far I have spent my time walking around town, talking to the townsfolk and assuaging their fears of strangers. What an odd place.
The weather has been particularly odd although I have recently been informed that it is not unusual for this place. Located within the Province of Hueme not a hundred miles southwest of the Citadel, this place should be a shining beacon of spring. On the way here I passed many places full of life only to reach an area of barren snowlands. The depressing weather is not natural. Whether it has been this way for generations or not, something is causing it and it is not pleasant.
Victor sat up from his journal and placed the quill aside. A single knock upon the door had disturbed his focus. It was a knock he had been waiting for. He stood slowly, unwinding his legs from the tavern’s cat which had taken to sleeping beneath his desk. The knock sounded again, a single strong knock. A knock that symbolized Victor’s preferred type of answer to an interrogation, a strong definitive. He strode to the door in three quick steps and opened the door with one hand on a slim, curved weapon at his side. One could never be too certain of who was an ally and who wasn’t.
The door creaked open to reveal the grinning face of a short, brown haired woman. “’Lo braher. How’re you doin now? You goin’ ta let me in?” Victor smiled and reached out to hug the girl. “I was wondering what kept you.
Tale # 10 Jack as Chaos Incarnate Genre: Abstract, Starring my favorite repeat character in multiple roles...Jack! Spoiler:Show
Awash in a sea of control the singular man simply known as Jack to his friend’s settled on the outcropping of stone behind the manor house. Strictly formulated plans lay each granite square in symmetrical patterns forming the wall. Each stone was 1’ by 1’ and 2’ deep. Each corner was a perfect 90 degree angle without a single crack, mar or other shadow of chaos infringing upon the establishment.
The wall led down to a boring, square patio surrounded by a marble banister with not a single stain. The roof of the patio was covered in triangular red shingles each fitting into one another in a pattern resembling the scales of some creature. Nothing was out of place in this controlled environment. No moss marred the surfaces, no unwanted animals or droppings or even markings from rain, water, graffiti or hundreds of other things that affected the people and buildings outside these walls.
Jack dropped onto the patio’s roof from his perch and peered upward. His perch had been a perfect cylinder atop the exactly thirty foot wall. Rather then decorate with gargoyles or angels, this place was a work of law and geometric standards. It spoke of order to the highest degree. He turned his attention back to the grounds below. A garden stocked with herbs each symmetrically trimmed into neat hedges and laden with stone slate pathways rested before the patio.
Circular orbs of granite and marble decorated the garden although the pattern they lay out created a circle with the garden marking off specific areas to those who knew it’s pattern. Jack didn’t, nor did he care. He took a leap and in mid-air performed a tumbling somersault to land on his feet with his back to the garden. Now facing the small patio he looked about, his eyes and ears alert for something, anything that had been alerted to his presence. After a few moments of uninterrupted silence he felt it was safe enough to proceed.
He vaulted over the marble railing and into the patio’s central area. A square wooden table was the only furnishing. Behind the table were a pair of equally wooden, perfectly matched simple doors. Jack brazenly stepped forward and thrust open both doors before leaping into the threshold and proclaiming, “Jack’s here!”
No one answered his joyous call. He peered curiously about and nodded as if satisfied. He strode through cubical rooms where the only furnishings where cubes, spheres or other arrays of perfectly formed, drab shapes. The house was peculiar in that way. Jack had found out that the owners were both concerned particularly with aspects of order in ways surpassing even the most organized individual. He had chosen to bestow upon them his special gift. A gift of insight.
After several long minutes the man, if he could really be called that, found his prize. A large, circular room held up by various pillars. Jack moved to one pillar and tapped, feeling it out. A sly grin spread across his face and he let out a single, confident laugh. The laugh echoed through the room and seemed to quiver in the air. It was a laugh that signified the end to something old and the start ofsomething new. However, as we all know, change is not always for the best nor is it always easy. Jack knew all about change. He knew more about change then any living, dead or otherwise thinking creature.
The next day Philip & Teresa Warrington stood before a large stone pile. Pale skinned with silver hair the pair looked like a matched set in equally matching silver garb. The wrinkles lining their skin seemed carved there purposefully in a set pattern. Phillip stood with his hands before him, clasping and unclasping them in a nervous manner. A single tear coursed its way along his perfectly designed face along a crack and into the corner of his mouth.
Tale (?) #11 Mutant Descriptions Genre: Character Descriptions for a story never written Spoiler:Show
Alexis DeAngelis: Long brown hair let loose, dark green eyes. Fair white skin, Lives in Chicago, Not very athletic, smart, likes card games, gambling and risk, likes risk only when it doesn’t involve hurting herself too much. Wears leather pants or black, knee length skirts, and band tee’s: Seether, dimmu borgir, megadeth, metallica, Age: 16 Power: Ability to call up effigies of nearby dead. They appear as ‘spirits’ but are not really the souls of the departed. Instead they are formless shapes that seem to have limited intelligence and no memories of past lives. Each spirit has the power and strength of a normal person, but they can go through objects if Alexis wishes them too. She can see and feel what they do so if one is ‘killed’ she can not bring it forth again (as far as she knows) and she feels the pain of its death. While she doesn’t suffer any real damage the pain has caused her to be afraid of using her power in case one of the spirits is killed.
Jack Covington:Age: 17 Long Island resident, Ridge, Suffolk county. Blonde hair cut short. Blue eyes. Wears unbuttoned shirts over white tee’s. jeans, likes skateboarding. Part of debate team, wants to go on to Law. Powers: Internal Combustion. Jack has the ability to ‘combust’ covering himself in fire. He can only seem to combust air within a few feet of himself. Flames do not hurt him. This is not restricted to just his own flames but others as well. He learned this after falling into a campfire. Unfortunately, his clothing can and does occasionally catch fire.
Levi Covington: Long Island resident. Twin brother to Jack. Blonde hair cut into crew cut, blue eyes. Wears Gap, aeropostle, etc. Likes khaki’s and shorts over jeans. Enjoys surfing, waterskiing and swimming. Listens to europop, techno. Wants to move overseas for college and stay there. Not for a dislike of America but he enjoyed their Italian trip so much that he wants to go to school there. Can fluently speak german & italian
Aiden Rollis: Wears contacts(blue), has hair dyed blue. Likes martial arts. Wears jeans and t-shirts. Has an earing in left year. Cuts school often. Teaches martial arts at a local place and plans to work there for a good while. From New Hampshire. Age 16 Powers: psychic Force. Aiden can project forcefields around himself and those close to him. These shields are invisible but for a slight shimmering in the air.
Tale #12 Shapeshifters Genre: Uncompleted work on an NPC from a d&d game run Spoiler:Show
The wooden table could easily seat twelve people with plenty of elbow room. The surface was scratched but still held that new look that told you it hadn’t been in serious use for but a few weeks. The table was crowded with a variety of people from humans to elves and even a large, broad shouldered goliath.
The nearby fireplace was crackling and warmed the room up against the outside cold. Everyone’s focus was on one man seated at the head of the table next to a pretty young blonde. He had short, dark hair and was drinking wine out of chipped and worn wooden mug. He was speaking with words slightly blurred from the wine in his system. “If you liked that last story, then you’ll love this next one. Let me tell you about the first shapeshifter I ever met…”
A merchant wagon built rumbled down the muddy road in a fine Keldonian morning. It was autumn and the nearby pines were still as green as ever. A fine sheen of slush made disgusting sounds beneath heavy wooden wheels. The red painted sides bore a multicolored feather, the symbol for the Prismatic Plumes merchant guild. Two men sat in the front of the wagon discussing the weather over a warm cup of tea.
The man on the left was skinny and dressed in tan linens and a heavy woolen coat. A purple hat was slanted across his brow with a large blue feather dangling from the top. It perched atop his bald head. His face was content and filled with aged lines. A bushy black caterpillar was crawling across his upper lip; or so it appeared. I never did like the look of those heavy mustaches the Timorien’s wore.
The man’s name was Falken and he was talking about how warm it had been recently in Temain, the district we were travelling through. For the past five ten-days I’d been his ever constant companion as he travelled from town to town collecting guild dues from people he knew.
“Really, Falken. Every morning is the same with you. Awake at nine, tea by ten and walking by eleven. As soon as we get moving you start talking about the weather first, then the last trade you made and then our next destination. It’s like clockwork with you. How do you manage?”
Falken looked at me and laughed with that booming, deep laughter you expect to come from a man of three hundred pounds, not one-eighty. “Vincent, Vincent! You amuse me to no end. I am so glad that Miss Decraic insisted on me hiring you to come along. What would I do without your gleeful face in the morning?” This comment earned him a nasty look. I hated mornings. But it was hard to hate Falken; he simply had this air about him that made him so damn un-hateable.
I opened my mouth for a smart retort and barely noticed the black streak by my face. Reacting on instinct I ducked and pushed Falken down to the bench. A slim arrow struck the wooden wagon behind us with a solid sound. If I had been a moment too slow…
“You’re a fast one. I hope you’re smart enough to stop where you are. Falken we’ve been looking for you.” The new voice was winy and grated on the ears. It came from a man in a heavy green cloak and black woolen clothing. He looked unarmored but I knew better. The man was none other then Warren Colentin, a slaver and all around rogue. Six men stood behind him with crossbows held levelly pointing at us. I slowly raised the hand that had been on my sword and put it in the air.
“Don’t shoot, Warren. What is it you want?” I could see Falken quivering next to me, trying to hide behind the small ledge at the front of the wagon. ****, the idiot had done something stupid this time hadn’t he. Even though he was a member of the Prismatic Plumes, Falken seemed to make quite a number of enemies. I wish I could fault him, but I wasn’t one to speak.
“Why Vincent, it has been awhile. Last we met was in that lovely village of Garnet Hill, was it not? I don’t suppose you’ve forgiven me for escaping with all those children, now have you? Don’t worry they received good homes in the mines in Dormithar. Falken, sit up or you’ll get shot. Hand over the Torque and we’ll let you be on your way.” Falken slowly sat up in the bench and glanced over at me. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. Merchants were great companions, until you got into trouble. A layer of sweat was appearing on his upper lip and I didn’t like the helpless look he gave me. His voice trembled as he responded to the slaver.
“I-I don’t have that an-anymore. P-p-please don’t kill me. I sold it in Jakill.” One thing I couldn’t fault Falken on was his lying. I was pretty sure I knew what torque Warren was talking about. It was this slim, golden collar with a wolf head on the front that had ruby eyes.
It was worth a small fortune since it had belonged to an old time elven family from before the Drow wars. I was sure it was magical but neither I nor Falken knew what to do with it. We figured the guild would pay a handsome price for it. Right now it was stoyed beneath our feet in a secret compartment inside a velvet red bag. Now here’s to hoping Warren believed the merchant…
“Falken, my my. You wouldn’t lie to me would you? Why would you sell something worth that much in a small town like Jakill? Who could afford it? Now hand it over. You test my patience and I can always search the wagon after you’re dead.” Warren was slime but he wasn’t a killer. Something about not liking the sight of a dead body. Sure he’d cut off your fingers and laugh about it but kill? Never. He was a sick bastard.
“Alright alright. Let me get it. Just don’t shoot.” Falken was a coward but I was only getting paid to escort him and the pile of gold in the back. I was told nothing about protecting any other investments, although he had promised me quite a commission on helping with that stupid jewelry. I watched as Falken hit the hidden switch and reached for the bag.
“Oh come on Falken! We went through **** to get that. Remember those small time adventurers we had to hire to help us get it? You owe me extra for that if you’re just giving it away.” Warren just laughed at me and Falken threw him the bag. Didn’t look like I had much say in what went on from here on out. Warren walked forward and picked up the bag, taking out the torque.
“Thank you. Now I have no desire to make enemies of a Timorien merchant guild so I will leave you to go on your way. Good luck Falken, Vincent.” The slimeball turned his mount and rode away with the six others following him leaving us to sit in our wagon and glare at one another.
“Did you have to do that?” I grabbed Falken by the shirt and shook him. I tried not to yell but it was hard. “You idiot! I almost died to get that thing. Do you know what it does? Huh? Well I mean..I know you don’t but it could do something fiendish! We can’t let him have it. Or the money! It’s worth an easy ten thousand gold!” I was ******. There were a number of things I truly disliked, but being cheated was the top of the list.
“Sorry, Vincent. But we can get it back and we couldn’t get it back if he’d killed us. I had heard a rumor that Warren was looking for us when we were in Jakill so I made plans for it. I found out that he didn’t want it to sell but wanted it for use! Although I don’t know why.
One of the merchant’s I talked to told me that Warren has a small hideout near the village of Nierdye’s Rest. It’s a small place by the woods and a good hide out for any slaver who’d dare to do business in Keldon. You know we can’t involve the paladins in on this or they’d just take the torque themselves. Probally give it to some elven museum too without paying us.” I grinned at Falken and hugged him. Remember what I said about it being hard to hate him? Yea he was just like that. He always had a plan.
We continued to ride in silence for several hours before we reached the turnoff for Nierdye’s Rest. Falken’s wagon came to a stop and he looked over at me with a mischevious sparkle in his eye. “Here we are, Vincent. I’ll wait in Naxen for you to finish? It’s only another day’s journey by foot.”
“Wait you want me to go in there alone? Are you mad? Falken tell me your plan is better then this.” I was not happy. I knew that if we took the wagon down into the small village that it would give us away to Warren and we’d never catch him, but that didn’t mean I had to go in alone. Falken typically knew someone and I expected him to give me names. Being a guild merchant came with a lot of benefits, one of which included a large number of contacts.
“You know we can’t bring the wagon down and you know why. I’m not very good in a fight either. When you get to town look for a small log cabin near the back edge of town by the woods. A man and his sister live there. Tell them that Falken sent you to pick up that favor they owe him and they’ll help you out. The man’s name is Zachary Tinnes and his sister is Elizabeth. Good luck, Vincent.” And with those last words the snake ran off with the wagon. Well, let’s hope that his friends are willing to help. If not I may have to take back what I said about Falken being unhateable.
Tale #13 Meeting the Ma Genre: From same game as above, a short excerpt from the game. Spoiler:Show
Adelphie pulls a heavy woolen shirt over her silk clothing and three long scarves of red, blue and gold. Even with the approaching spring, Keldon is always chilly and being from Timoriel gave her little immunity to the cold. She leads you out the door of the headquarters and into the street. The sky is slightly overcast and a few beams of light strike through it like the grace of a god, perhaps Cort is looking kindly upon Redtol today.
The street is filled with armed men walking this way and that. The Redtol Wyverns is placed straight in the heart of the mercenary and adventurer district. Various exotic peoples walk through the streets, although perhaps not nearly as exotic as your other guild members. Few artathi like the cold Keldonian weather and hardly anyone has even heard of the rare Oorish goliaths.
The three of you proceed down the street and make many turns skirting the religious districts until you come into the merchant’s quay. Wagons, caravans, shops, stores and tents fill this area in organized chaos. Several armed Justicars walk around pretending to be relaxing but keeping a sharp eye out for pickpockets and thieves. Adelphie walks swiftly in front of you and walks with a grace unusual for children her age. She leads you to a small tent of yellow and black with a large wagon resembling a small house on wheels parked next to it.
“Here we are! Welcome to the Cargillinie family home. Our pard may be small but we love visitors.” Adelphie turns from you and sticks her head into the tent yelling, “Ma! I’m back with Mr. Wyce’s bodyguard peoples!” She then proceeds to walk into the tent, waving you in to follow her.
The inside of the tent is much warmer then the outside air. A small fire beneath a hole in the top of the tent is the main reason. The walls of the tent have also been covered with long yellow blankets. A woman in clothing similar to Adelphie’s is seated on the floor in front of a small table. You can see a crystal ball and a tarot deck on the edge of the table, out of the way. The woman herself is maybe thirty years old and has long, yellow hair. Her eyes gleam at you and you realize they are yellow and angled just like a cat’s. She grins when you walk in.
“Welcome to my humble home. I am so glad that Wyce has decided to help us out. He does owe us after all. I am Chioma Cargillinie. I do hope you can help us with this..dilemma. Please, seat yourself.” She motions toward the numerous pillows strewn about on the various rugs. “Would you like some tea? Or something to eat?”
Tale #14 Caller Guild Politics Genre: History Spoiler:Show
A boy of fourteen walked into the doors of the massive Caller Guild in downtown Rotin. He had a letter of delivery for a man in the small village of Took not far from here and had been sent to the guild to retrieve a drake for the ride. The first sight he saw were men in heavy leather armor leading drakes of brown and green through the stables to owners in the street. The second sight were two lines with easily forty people each waiting to see the Rider Secretary.
Two hours and fourteen minutes later (He could keep track from the very expensive water clock resting between the two lines) the boy walked up to a small desk with a short, spindly man behind it. “What can I do for you, young man?” He asked with a sparkle in his eye.
The boy simply handed over the letter he had been told to give to the secretary. The man pushed his glasses up onto his face and looked down at the stamped note. “Oh ho! This is a mark for renting. You will have to go stand in the other line. I deal with the purchase of new drakes, so sorry. Soooo sorry!” The man dragged out his last sorry like a dying breath of air and the boy wondered if it would ever end. After a few moments he was directed to the other line, which had now grown to seventy people.
Hours later a haggard, no longer happy, boy walked up to the second secretary. A young girl not much older than himself with long blond hair happily accepted his note. “Why this is a mark for renting! Go down the hall to the right and to the third door on the left. Mr. Sora will see you and handle your rent for the day. Thank you!” The girl seemed unnaturally happy and our protagonist gave her a dirty look as he walked down the indicated hall.
It turned out that Mr. Sora’s room was a tiny cubicle with a thin wooden door. Inside was a toad-looking man behind a desk with neat, grey hair and a long hooked nose. He crouched at the desk like a predatory amphibian waiting for the boy to enter its lair. “Good evening, my boy! What can I do for you?” Much like the girl outside this man seemed too…happy. What was going on here, he wondered?
“Uhm…I’m supposed to rent a drake to carry a letter for the day. Here is the mark. I’ll need the drake for three days, one to get there, one to rest and one to get back.” The boy fumbled the note out once again and handed it over. A silence waited down on the room as the toad looked over the mark.
“Well okay then!” He exclaimed happily. “All is in order! We will give you one of our guild drakes for the ride.” The toad went through a pile of scrolls to this left throwing them into a second, smaller pile. Finally he grinned and shook the scroll in his hand at the boy.
“Here we go, here we go! Drake 47812 the perfect ride for one as young as yourself. No experience necessary! Just give the commands and the drake will obey. Take this scroll and…” he reached into a nearby shelf and picked up a stamp out of a box and took another scroll, writing something down in an indecipherable language. He stamped the scroll and handed it to the boy with the first scroll.”..this scroll to the stable master. He will have your mount saddled and prepared. Oh joyous day! Have fun on your journey, young one!”
The toad’s smile stretched across his face in what looked like a painful grimace. The fourteen year old quickly scrambled out with the two scrolls clutched in hand.
Tale # 15 A Day in Cabal Genre: Scrapped Intro for 4E D&D setting Spoiler:Show
The sun slowly fell behind the crumbling stone building to the west. Pink clouds floating amidst a blue sky which was tinged various colors associated with the coming sunset—orange, red and yellow. They painted the sky in a manner done easily only by the gods themselves. Stretching across the sky were the boughs of a green-leafed oak as if it wanted only to embrace the scene, or perhaps to strangle it.
The beautiful sight was quickly followed by a short, pierced scream. A man, barely visible, fell out of the tree with an arrow through his eye and tumbled to the grass below. The raid begins just as night strikes the small encampment beneath the tree.
A rain of bolts and arrows follows my single shot, falling amongst the tents like a brief rain. We run in after the hail drawing out swords. Lazarus, the blade I had found buried beneath so many tons of rock was clenched in my left fist while I drew a short dagger in my right. The ancient sabre blazed with an inner light and lit my face with the fires of hell. The first infidel to come out of his tent felt only my slim blade rupture several organs as he fell screaming back into the tent.
Blood dripped across the mix of grass and stone beneath my boots. A slow grin spread across my face flashing the long canines within. I could only imagine what the prey must think of our ranks sweeping upon them while they prepared for sleep. The shrieks of pain brought only pleasure to my ears and I could feel the trash of my tail signify my own agitation. It was time to rejoin the battle.
I let out a long war-cry for the infernal demon prince, Grazzt and rushed into a nearby skirmish. Two of my brothers were back to back against five of the vermin. Lazarus slashed across the back of one before spinning across my arms and between the eyes of another.
A third received a casually tossed dagger in the leg before being dispatched by a spear to the chest. The last two turned and ran, gibbering in whatever primate language they had to one another as they ran. There was no use following, they would not escape. I looked at my fellows and let out a low laugh while wiping Lazarus off one of the creature’s worn tunics. They both laughed back and turned to dash back into the fray, but not before stopping to adorn their horns in the blood of the fallen.
Tale #16 Bella Ricci, Relic Control Genre: Freedom City (M&M), Character background Spoiler:Show
Bella Ricci This image is by Wen-M on deviantart. I got the idea from his picture and from the description of the image.
Antique Purveyor
The Ricci family was in the antique business and that was all that Bella was expected to do when she got older. At the age of eighteen she was looking forward to going to college and getting a degree. She wanted to expand on her parent’s business and go into archaeology. However, running an antique business does not lead to great amounts of money. The Ricci family was poor, not dirt poor, but not of the means to send young Bella off to school.
Luck found the family in the form of an old friend. Harold Jackson had always visited the family’s store to sell and buy various rare antique items. He was also Bella’s father’s drinking partner. After a particular night of drinking, Giovanni, Bella’s father, told Harold of Bella’s wishes to become an archaeologist. The long-time friend revealed a great opportunity at that moment. The man had been a purveyor of rare antiques for quite some time and the Ricci family were not the only ones to receive his patronage. An archaeologist by the name of Tizio Caruso happened to be in need of additional interns and aid at a camp in an island near the north-west coast of Egypt.
The funding for Caruso’s expedition had been suddenly withdrawn just as they started to find evidence of which they sought. The expedition had been started in order to uncover what was rumored to be a Viking village and suspected to be the southernmost inhabitation of the group to date. Many of Caruso’s group had abandoned him since they could barely afford resources much less to pay anyone. Bella’s father rejoiced and immediately told Tizio that she would most likely love to go.
Preparations & Travelling
Bella immediately expressed her interest and began to pack while her father called up Tizio. Transportation was arranged from the nearby airport. Bella packed a single bag for herself before boarding. The flight was long and the road trip by jeep even longer. After arriving at the camp she got to see what it a true archaeologist’s expedition resembled, or at least one without much money.
Several small tents surrounded a much larger tent that covered the expedition’s finds. IT would not do to have sand and perciptation interfere with the work. Bella was assigned to the detailed work of scrubbing away dust and sand slowly and carefully from the stone tablets found. Weeks passed, then several months. The expedition found Viking-style figurines, pots and tablets that were in an ancient form of Norse that was still being discovered.
Among the artifacts found included a pair of daggers in surprisingly good shape with black, leather handles and dark blue looking metal. The weapons were intended to be shipped out for compositional investigation in order to determine what types of metals it had been made of, however, the expedition was almost out of funds. Thus, the two weapons sat with the other findings for when the group finally was forced to leave.
Bandits and Heroes
Four months after Bella joined up tragedy struck. Three jeeps filled with Egyptians carring automatic weapons drove up to the camp. They immediately began shooting and calling for Caruso to come out. The Italian man went out and started to negotiate with them. Apparently he had been taking gang money in order to fund the expedition but he had reneged on the conditions of the agreement. It had been agreed to hand over all findings to the group and a large portion of the findings had instead been secreted away within the camp.
Caruso ordered everyone to stay in the tents while he dealt with the issue. Whatever he said did not seem to satisfy the gangsters. The aging archaeologist was filled with automatic gunfire and the other tents started to get shot up also. Bella happened to be in the tent with all the artifacts and she hid herself behind several tables and stone tablets.
After a few minutes silence crept across the sands. She waited, holding her breath hoping that they had left the camp. No such luck was afforded to the out of place Italian girl. Instead, she heard the sound of the tent’s flap being jerked back violently. The voices of the Egyptian men bounced around the small tent and Bella began to panic. She saw the two old daggers on the table and grabbed them, knowing that she would be killed if found.
One of the men stepped to where she was hiding and crouched down, muttering to his companion about hearing something. Bella lashed out and stabbed him in the throat, but as she did so something peculiar occurred. A flash of blue light washed over the room and the man fell back, his face covered in ice.
His friend began cursing and screaming. After a moment he began firing his weapon at where Bella was hiding. She ran out from where she had been crouching and could hear the weapons whispering to her. The tent became freezing cold and it was plunged into sub-zero temperatures. She threw one of the weapons and it disappeared in mid-air only to reappear with a burst of ice shards in front of the gangster. Two men down and she hadn’t even fully understood what was happening. She ran from the tent and began wreaking vengeance on the gangsters. They retreated to their jeeps and fled the area. She managed to save many of the other archaeologists lives that day.
Powers
Bella discovered that the knives were some type of ancient magical weapon. They appeared as simple daggers but she could make them manifest as icy blades that extended from her forearm. It seemed that there were other powers associated with the weapon she could also make use of. At the same time, it seemed that this talent was unique to her. The other people at the camp could not do anything special with the weapons.
Bella took the daggers in hand and found that she could also speak to them. They were not intelligent, per se, but rather communicated more like a loyal dog. She could speak to the spirits of the weapons. Bella did not know if this was something unique to her or the daggers themselves. She didn’t care either, all she knew was that it gave her an edge; an edge that could help her to bring vengeance to the killers of Caruso. She didn’t want to just get the Egyptian gangsters that had showed up with their shiny automatics but also whoever had sent them. In order to do this she went to Cairo after sending notice to her parents of both Caruso’s death and her intentions.
The Making of a Hero Cairo was a ruthless city filled with dirty streets and black markets. The Italian girl had no idea how to start an investigation, but she would learn. By luck she found a private detective advertising in the classified of a small newspaper. The detective, a man by the name of Omar Rakhaa, had a small agency consisting of merely himself, a small desk and a file cabinet. She went to him and appealed for his aid. However, she didn’t want to leave it to someone else but rather get help on it. Being as she knew nothing about the art of a detective the investigation went slowly because of this.
Omar was a cold hearted man and did not want to help the girl at first. She had only limited money and no skills to speak of. Bella had kept the dagger’s secret with her and kept them hidden at her hip. It took a long time for Bella to convince him to help her. She finally did so by become his friend and appealing to his kinder side. He had gotten into the business because the police didn’t do the job properly and here was a chance to make a difference. He couldn’t say no to her logic and took her under his wing.
Two years passed. Bella turned twenty-three. A new president was elected in America. And Caruso’s death was still a mystery. The Italian girl had learned the art of a detective through the two years of experience. While she was no expert, she knew enough to actually aid the investigation. Omar and Bella worked hard to find information until they finally discovered something of importance.
They finally managed to contact Alexander Kamal who was listed as a contact by Caruso. Bella had asked all of Caruso’s colleagues who the man was but none of them had heard of him. Omar discovered him after asking a drug dealer who he had not expected to know anything. He had been questioning him on another, unrelated issue.
First Clue
Alexander Kamal was a short man of about thirty and was not happy when cornered. He held out for awhile but the duo had become quite intimidating in all their many ‘interviews,’ as they called them. Eventually Kamal gave in and told them about a group of people from far away that came seeking someone to lead a digging expedition for them. They had contacted him since he was known in Cairo as a ‘man who knew people.’ Alexander Kamal had contacted a friend of his who happened to know Tizio Caruso and that Caruso was looking for a funder for the expedition. Caruso was desperate for money and was willing to deal with anyone to get it. Kamal made the connections and the introductions.
The foreign gangsters were surprised to learn that Caruso was digging very near to where they wanted to send an expedition. They arranged for him to move to the new dig and begin work there. Kamal told the two detectives that the gangsters were seeking a ‘relic from the past.’ But he didn’t know anymore than that. With this information in hand, Bella and Omar went to where the meeting had been held.
Second Clue
The name of the place translated into The Damned Bar. The unpleasant name matched an equally unpleasant interior. The place was filled with drunks, cutthroats, junkies and dealers. After a swift talk with the barkeep and a few threats of violence, Bella and Omar were off to the docks to visit a man named Tim Tawass.
Mr. Tawass was a local mob boss who ran the dealing around the docks of Cairo’s waterways. It was impossible to gain an audience. As such, Bella and Omar developed a plan. Bella was staged as a dancer at a club Tawass frequented. She waited until he came in and flirted with him until he obtained a private room, whereupon Bella drew her daggers and made him talk. Tawass revealed that the people who had come were members of the Freedom City Mob and they had carted whatever it was they had been looking for back to Freedom.
Tale #17 The Testing of a Druid Genre: Traditional D&D, Character story Spoiler:Show
A light breeze brushes leaves along the morning air. Dew flutters down in drops, sprinkling across Cait’s tightly bound hair. She peers through the tree branches while perched in a large white oak searching for her prey. The young druid rests with one hand on the trunk and the other clenched around a wooden javelin. Her bright red hair has been bound back into a tight braid to keep it from catching on the trees. Her green eyes glint with the simple joy of hunting. The druid is dressed in the ritual garb of the hunting test a short brown shift decorated in green embroidered leaves. Her only weapon is a sling with several javelins that her friend Aaron had carved weeks prior to the test.
Cait’s pulse quickens as she watches the slim form of the deer eat from the leaves of a Girr Bush. From what Cait can recall of her lessons the bush is so named because of the odd, capital G shaped leaves and the small holes in the branches that make it growl when the wind brushes through it. The deer looked around with a mouthful of leaves as it ate, keeping both eyes open for danger. Lucky for Cait it did not seem to have seen her yet. The teenage noble lifted her left hand, the hand that was tightly wrapped around the javelin, and threw with all her might. Unfortunately, this also caused her to fall backwards out of the tree and into a holly bush. She let out a short scream as she fell and the deer bolted just as the javelin struck where it had been standing.
Cait crawled out of the bush and started cursing loudly. Small cuts ran across her face and arms from the bush’s horned leaves. It was early in the morning and Cait returned to her small camp after retrieving her javelin. It would not do to lose a weapon so early in the hunt. It was only her second day in the woods and she had been surviving on a diet of berries and small tubers but she was no closer to finishing the test. According to druid law, Cait must spend seven days out in the woods and return at noon on the seventh day with the head of a doe. It was the first test of her survival skills and was relatively simple, but it was not her strong suite. She decided to spend the rest of the day hunting for more deer trails, hoping to find another place that was frequented by the creatures as they would probably not return to the location of her failed ambush.
Tale # 18 From the Journal of Tiev Cobler, Citizen of Chancet Genre: Outside look at way a "good" death goddess could be used Obviously inspired by the Raven Queen Spoiler:Show
92nd Day in the Year of Solid Sky
Earlier this week my father fell very ill. He seems to have caught a base case of pneumonia and the local doctor has nothing that can be done for him. We sent a message to the Chapel asking them to send a priestess down here to say the last rites and give him some peace. Hopefully they will arrive before he passes away. I can’t believe he’s already so near. His face is wrought with fear for what is to come. He does not want to die.
95th Day in the Year of Solid Sky
The Chapel said that they had a special priest in the area who would be coming by to help. He has shown up at our door in a cloak of darkest velvet. He seems a little young for the work of a priest, perhaps he is but an acolyte? He also carries a large sword at his hip. I hope that he knows what he’s doing. Today father broke into tears and had a fit when the priest showed up. He began to yell and scream that he was too young to die. His father had not died until he was well past eighty where my father is approaching forty-three years of age.
96th Day in the Year of Solid Sky
This priest, a man by the name of Jack Cross, seems to have settled my father. Last night I heard them talking to one another and for the first time I think his eyes seem calm and almost…almost joyful. The young man sits by his bedside day and night and says prayers over him. I heard him telling father about the Valley of Eternal Light and the guardians that would lead my father to the valley. It sounds so peaceful, not at all like something to be afraid of.
97th Day in the Year of Solid Sky
My father has begun to cough up blood. He is very ill and the fear has settled upon him again. He is afraid of the pain and of what is to come when it all ends. The Priest, Jack, is still with him now. I do not know what he hopes to accomplish.
98th Day in the Year of Solid Sky
Today my father called me to his room. He said that his time was very soon and that he loved me dearly. He also said that he was no longer afraid. The Valley called to him through Jack’s words.
99th Day in the Year of Solid Sky
Father has passed away this afternoon. He lay there, breathing so quietly and then…it just stopped. I sincerely hope that he has gone to a better place as the priest preaches. The man of Lyaie said a few words over the body before taking his leave an hour ago. I do not worry too much about my father anymore, I have been settled by the words of this priest. They truly do bring us to understand that natural cycle that is our lives. I hope that I can have that same man come sit with me when I approach death’s door.
Tale # 19 Lekal, Doppleganger Genre: NPC background and idea sheet Spoiler:Show
Lekal was born in 82 N.R. in the seas outside of Cabal on the way to a trading ship to Rhenquist. His parents were both members of a small doppelganger group calling itself the Doirshin Clan. They have embedded themselves within the culture of the Children of the Storm and are virtually impossible to detect. The priests of the Children accept the doppelgangers only because of a pact made with the elves many years ago.
Lekal grew up on a ship and learned to swim before he could walk. He took on the persona of a small elven boy and kept his true name just as his parents had rather than disguise it with a false name. The trading routes between Rhenquist and Cabal’s ports became his home. But growing up in this environment was far from easy. Both parents were often too busy with affairs of the markets and sailing to give him much attention. As a result Lekal grew attached to one of the ship’s crew, a human man who went simply by the name Rynan. Rynan was a young human and known on deck for his quick feet and skill at knife throwing. When in port, Rynan was also a thief.
Lekal learned his trade from the scoundrel. Stalking through the alleyways and up onto rooftops to drop into unsuspecting people’s homes and wisk away their belongings became Lekal’s favorite pastime when not on the water. After a few years, when Lekal was about 23, Rynan disappeared from the ship when at port in Rhenquist and never showed up when the crew sailed out.
Lekal grew worried and attempted to convince his parents to stay behind to wait for the lost member of their crew, but they had an important shipment of livestock and didn’t want to wait any longer. He begged and pleaded to deaf ears. The first seeds of hatred grew that day.
Lekal stayed on board the ship for another year until his activities were discovered. He was walking up the plank to stow away a large gold statue that he planned to sell when back in Rhenquist. Unfortunately, his father was awake and pacing the decks because he could not sleep. A storm was approaching and he wanted to be sure that the ship was safe for the night. When he saw Lekal with the statue walking up the planks he confronted his child.
Lekal froze, unsure of what to do. He made a poor attempt to lie to his father about the origins of the treasure but his tongue stuttered over the words. It was fairly obvious that he had not come by it by any legal means. His father was furious. Lekal was immediately banished to his quarters and locked in. For his father was not furious simply because Lekal had been stealing, but because of where the statue had come from. Lekal had stolen from one of the priests of Lyaie. These sacred people among the Children of the Storm were whom the doppelganger had a pact with and Lekal was threatening that pact. Theft and dishonesty could be dealt with, but threatening the very livelihood of his people was considered so taboo that the only possible punishment would be exile.
His father and mother argued for several days over what to do. Finally, they chose their own positions within the faction over their son. They sent him away with a small bag and a few coins and told him never to return to the ports. Lekal had already been fuming at his parent’s for showing such blatant disregard for his friend and mentor Rynan and now only became further enraged. He left the ship that day only to return at night.
Rynan snuck into his parent’s rooms and stole all their valuables before fleeing the ship. He had briefly considered slitting their throats but had not yet fallen that low. He fled into the night and into Cabal’s dangerous and monster ridden streets into the territory of the Mirabel. There he sold off all he could and left with a small sum of gold. He used this money to set up a small house in one of the grey regions that fell not with any faction’s territory but was neither a territory in and of itself. Having kept the form of an elf for so long, Lekal chose to only change a few of his features. A few inches shorter, long brown braids and a new tattoo all helped mark him as a member of a elven tribe in the Union-Mirabel region known for their bird-like characteristics. He took up the name Robin and stole in order to make a small living.
It was during the committing of a burglary that Lekal encountered Ninian. He had run from a small townhouse only to be ambushed by a pack of feral wolves wandering the district. Since the district wasn’t in any faction’s territory it wasn’t uncommon for rogue monsters to savage people out at night. Lekal was saved by Ninian and the two fought off the animals. After which he learned of Ninian’s desire to carve out a small niche for himself with a gang that would protect the area. While Lekal was hesitant at first he realized that his participation would make him appear more legitimate to the people of the area and provide him with connections to hide behind if he was ever caught while stealing.
Tale # 20 Jack the Deathbringer Genre: More Jack tales Influences: Hood by Stephen Lawhead, more Raven Queen ideas Spoiler:Show
The Battle of Clatha Hill was a three day affair of nonstop bloodshed. It all started with a simple argument between brothers, for you see the last king of Arzvakia did not declare either of his twin sons the heir to the throne prior to his untimely death at the end of a long staircase. How he came to this fate is a story for another rainy day.
Suffice to say, neither brother wanted to give the other the title to the throne. This led to a civil war breaking out. Many of the organized religions and nobles stood behind Alashair Worthington II while fewer nobles and some of the military preferred Donovan Worthington. Alashair offered a bright future with little change from his father. He offered a continuance of the peace his father had created with the surrounding regions. However, his brother Donovan was focused on conquest. He wanted to create a new, powerful Arzvakia that could easily crush their foes and lead to the establishment of a much larger country.
The Church of Lyaie, Goddess of Death, had chosen no sides in this war. Death was wrought on both sides and the church was there to lead the people through their suffering, save who they could, and walk those they couldn’t into the Valley of Eternal Light. This all changed when Donovan reached for the dark magicks to secure the throne. He summoned forth scheming necromancers from foreign lands beyond the Veil to join his army. A vast host of walking dead began to stalk the land. Alashair’s army not only scattered but rose up against him as each man fell to the claws of former comrades or long dead peasants.
Lyaie’s clergy have always fought the forces of undeath and this blatant disregard for their practices would lead to Donovan’s final demise. An army of black-clad warriors arrived on the fields of battle to decimate the undead host. Swords, axes and hammers smashed through creaking bone to bring a final death to the tortured souls harnessed for these foul rites. The necromancers began to fall one by one as Lyaie’s church fought back with a ferocity close to that of a mother tiger protecting her young. They would not allow the souls and bodies of their flock to be used so.
A special task force calling itself the Grellon, simply meaning “flock”, swarmed to the last citadel of the final remaining necromancer. This was not simply the home to the last of the foul practitioners, but also that of Prince Donovan Worthington. The group was ordered to take the man alive and annihilate any sign of the undeath within the walls of that tower. The journey up the tower was long and arduous. Among the Grellon, many fell until only three stood. Jack Cross was one of these three and the youngest of them. He had been considered the least experienced, but had shown an almost unnatural skill in both battle and supporting his allies.
Unfortunately, the Grellon had not expected the situation they came upon. The last necromancer was in truth Donovan himself. He stood there and laughed at their predictament. Under the ideals of the church, he was a foul creature that deserved naught but death, but under the orders of their country they were to take him in alive. The three made the choice to walk out of the tower with his head in hand and charged into the fray. A swarm of vampires and ghosts attacked the three paladins as they made their way across the circular top of the tower to their final destination. In the end, only Jack stood before the Prince. He swung his sword only to have the foul wizard destroy it with a word. As the paladin stood there not knowing what to do, Donovan struck with magicks.
Jack flew through the air and landed on the cobblestones; a bleeding mess of metal and bone. It is said that he then saw a vision. A great raven flew up in front of him and in its claws held a blade of pure darkness. The hilt glimmered with the power of a thousand moons and crackling blue runes ran up the flat of the blade. This sword was dropped before the warrior and the great raven disappeared without a sound. No one knows what else occurred on top that tower, but Jack Deathbringer walked out with the head of the Prince in hand. He gave no apologies for his actions and ignored all accusations by the nobility and by Alashair himself.
Since that day, the Deathbringer has been a hero to his church and to many of the common people. He stalks the land like a specter, seeking to aid those approaching their last breaths and to preside over proper burials. Many have said that he has not raised his sword since that day, but others say that a thousand unseen wars have occurred with Cross being the only soldier on the side of the Light. No one truly knows the truth except for Lyaie’s Church and as usual, they are close-lipped on information about their clergy members.
Tale # 21 Puppets! Genre: Random thoughts for a puppeteer class Spoiler:Show
The light overhead had disappeared hours ago and the slow tick towards midnight approached like a doomed sentence. Arabel scurried across the deserted city landscape towards the distant lights of the Downs. If he didn't reach it before midnight, the guards would never let him in! It was said that strange things walked about in the night, although in his many scavenging days he'd never seen anything at night.
The slim elf clambered over a crumbling wall and saw a young girl standing with her back to him about twenty feet away. He slid down the wall and called out to her. "Hey! Girl! What are you doing? It's practically midnight already. If you don't hurry on you'll be stuck outside the gates."
Arabel walked towards her slowly, unsure as to why this human girl was out in the ruins at all. When she didn't respond he thought that something must be wrong. The elf padded up behind her and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. The response was not what he had expected.
The girl's head turned toward him, letting out little clicks on the way. She had a kind face, a small mouth with wide brown eyes and a birth mark on her left cheek. She stared into his eyes with a blank expression, as if she was looking right through him. Suddenly, the little girl's mouth split and opened wide, wider then it should have. Gleaming steel teeth stood beneath those thin lips and a mechanical cackle echoed out of it.
Arabel stepped back suddenly and let out a scream. This was no human girl, but some kind of monster! He opened his mouth to yell again but no sound came out. Instead, a small explosion of red fluid fell to the cobblestones and dirt before him. The little girl looked up at him again, the same thin-lipped, close-mouthed smile on her face. Although this time she smiled up at him from his chest. The elf looked down at the hand turned sword buried in his stomach and wondered idly if it was yet midnight.
The elf collapsed to the ground in a small cascade of gore as blood and organs trailed after the puppet's bladed arm. A shadow rose from a pile of stone and walked swiftly towards the scene. A tall, spindly man with a top hat and a long mustache grinned at the puppet and tipped his hat to her. With a twitch of his wrist, the creature gave a splendid bow to her master.
"Good, good...now, I think we still have just enough time until midnight..."
Tale #22 Les Ghentel, Ex-Gambler, Ex-pirate, Ex-slave Genre: Character background Spoiler:Show
The Laughing Gallows is a terrifying place to grow up, and yet, the same aspects that make it so also make it far more entertaining to those who stay. Les was one of these. Orphaned at birth for unknown reasons, she grew up in Lady Wendle’s Orphanage. The orphanage was not too far from Notrim’s Singing Sails and was supported by several pirate captains who were always looking for new, and cheap, crewmates. Les enjoyed the constant change that, in her mind, was epitomized by the isle. She grew up in her own enigmatic ebullience performing various chores for Lady Wendle and taking care of the younger children. She slowly grew into a role of the lead child and would help run the entire facility. Of course, like most of the children, the day came that she was drafted onto a pirate vessel as cheap labor. It was, after all, the intent of the orphanage. Les was naught but a deckhand for several years being forced to scrub wood and kiss boots to keep herself from being thrown overboard.
However, this was no life of adventure or excitement. Sure the occasional raid did occur, but Les had no part in these. Rather she was forced beneath the deck by an intransigent captain who did not understand her fair hand at combat. It was not long before she chose to wander off for a new position, ignoring any threats of future violence if she didn’t return to the ship. Notrim’s Singing Sails provided an entertaining position that let her swiftly graduate to a key role in running the gambling tables. Notrim recognized her skill with others and her ability to expeditiously calculate how to achieve prime results from the customers. But this was not a position to last.
Her former captain, a man known as Siegfried Frosteye for his stiff gaze and one blind eye, noticed her while he was gambling away at Notrim’s. Not wanting to stir up any trouble, the corrupt human took a small fee and sold Les off to the captain. She was ambushed by several armed pirates while on her way back to the small shack she called home. Les was taken onboard the Wesling, the name of Frosteye’s ship, and beaten near to death for desertion. Afterwards she was kept below as a galley slave. This grueling position lasted for only two weeks before a battle occurred on the Wesling. Les managed to escape her bonds and help the invading ship against Frosteye’s crew. Unfortunately, even with her help, the other crew failed. As a last resort she leapt off the stern and soon blacked out. She awoke on the sandy shores of Daunton with no money and no contacts.
Les calculated her chances of survival and did not like the idea of spending her life as a beggar or thief. Her wanderings through the city and her investigations into possible escapes from her poor lifestyle led her to the gates of a small facility known as Tymon’s Barracks. The warrior Tymon was a former military captain who now ran a small fighting academy that tailored to those in the lower socio-economic neighborhoods. Les walked to his gates and went right in, knocking out anyone who tried to stop her. She approached Tymon himself and declared that he should take her in as an apprentice. When asked why, she simply grinned and proclaimed that she would take on any of his current students and show them up.
After several duels, Les was battered and torn. It was then she had to face Renauld Wexington. He easily beat her in skill at arms and with physical strength. The battle was very obviously stacked in his favor. It was then that Les performed what many at the school still claim was ‘cheating.’ She used her inborn gith skills to leap upon a nearby roof. She tore the shingles from the top, ripping skin and nail from her hands, and tossed the stones at Renauld until he surrendered. It was this action that likely caused her to gain Tymon’s appreciation. She did not have the physical brawn or skill to overcome some of the other students, but her keen mind, tactical awareness and refusal to lose allowed her to take advantage of terrain and openings others did not see. Over the years she grew fond of Tymon and became a constant rival to Renauld who strived to join the military and become an outstanding captain.
She stayed at Tymon’s Barracks for three years until she was 21. Les realized that there was little else that her master could teach her. Additionally, even if he did, she had no desire to stay in Daunton all her life. She took what she could, bid farewell to her master and began to plan her way to getting back at Frosteye. Her resentment of her former captain had grown like a tumor on her heart. The young gith decided to join the ranks of mercenaries in hopes that she could gather a fortune and one day stride upon the deck of a ship all her own.
==== Appearance and personality ==== Age: 21
Gender: Female
Height: 5'1"
Weight: 107 lb.
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Personality: Les is like the ocean. How do you describe someone so? She is constantly changing, always on the move and can go from friendly to vicious with little warning. Her harsh lifetime has had a tremendous effect on the way she values lives and possibilities. Some would call it avarice, Les calls it realism.
Physical Description: Les stands a little shorter than other female Gith, being only 5’ 1”. She has narrow features with wide, almond-shaped brown eyes. Her hair is an eclectic collection of colors. While typically silver, she puts red, gold and black highlights through its length. She likes to braid it into several braids each consisting of hair from each color intertwined around one another. Her long ears are pierced by several gold rings each and her left cheek bears the scar of a sword strike which she has elaborated upon with her own scarification to make into a cat-eye. Les’s armor is bronze chainmail beneath a blue tabard and a pair of black leather boots. When not prepared for battle she prefers to wear silk shirts and leather pants with numerous bangles and necklaces.
Her primary weapon of choice is an elaborate chain with small silver rings ending in a circular ring of spiked and barbs. Each spike is flat enough to have a single symbol engraved upon it. Les uses each symbol to represent a part of her life. Currently there is a ship, a coin and a mailed fist engraved upon three of the spikes.
Tale#24 Arathi, Idealist and Faux Rogue Genre: Character background Spoiler:Show
Arathi and her family dwelt on the outer edges of the city in a generally middle-class style home. Her twin brother, Aramal, and herself were born on the new moon of the Lunar cycle and considered particularly lucky by their parents. Arathi was a generally wild youth and edged towards the more feral nature of her ancestry. Her parents attempted to reign her in through several schools to diminish this behavior, if not eliminate it. Each school taught Arathi proper manners, eloquent speech and a variety of other skills deemed necessary for a lady.
However, she would have none of it. Her sporadic and capricious moods led to minor rebellions at each school. It was during the third scholastic attempt that Arathi met her friend and mentor, David Quinieth. The human boy was technically younger than her, but comparatively older. He was a cook at school cafeteria and quickly took a shine to the audacious elf as a younger sister. She learned the arts of chicanery and would gleefully play pranks on the other children at school. Her parents never wavered in trying to civilize their daughter.
Arathi had other plans for her life. The elaborate tales of the Five, and particularly [rgue] had fostered a truculent predilection within he young mind. Tales of great treasures, handsome warriors, and glorified adventures filled her mind. Of course, Arathi didn’t have any true idea of the pain and suffering that went along with those stories. That didn’t prevent her from practicing fencing with a dagger or firing a crossbow until she had created a fluid fighting style for herself. She then packed a bag, bought some rope (because you always need rope) and headed towards the tavern to look for adventure. Her parents forbade her to leave but were unsuccessful in preventing their daughter from striking off.
==== Appearance and personality ==== Age: 39
Gender: Female
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 134 lb.
Alignment: Good
Personality: Arathi is no quixotic idealist despite her false perception of what adventuring is like. She has a talkative and egregious personality leading to her making many friends. She epitomizes a duality of stubbornness and realization that is easily her strangest trait. She may be opinionate at times, but typically will go with the flow of life.
Physical Description: Arathi Moontear is still a very young elf. She is slender and pale with short, cropped silver hair. She has a sparrow tattoo on her left shoulder and thin bands of ink running down both arms. Her green eyes are offset by a silver ring in the left eyebrow. She set out of her home with only a few sets of clothes. Her typical wear is a fitted leather jacket of blue dragonhide over a silk blue shirt with a pair of matching blue dragonhide pants. The pants are tucked into brown boots with silver eyelets and wings engraved upon them.
Her daggers are set in a silver sash around her waist just beneath the jacket. Finally, her black velvet and leather backpack are carried everywhere with her. When in the field she has the ashen crossbow strapped alongside the daggers. Each bolt is carefully tailored with black fletching from a crow.
