Getting back to reading and writing, a bit, so I thought I would perform
a little C&C while I'm at it. And since I play in the Forgotten Realms
on a regular basis, I might as well start with a piece from outside the
former bounds of the FFML.
DB Sommer wrote:
In celebration of exapnding the list, here's a little story I had set in
the Forgotten Realms setting, though all the main characters are
originals. You don't need to know anything about the FR to understand
the story. As always, any C+C would be appreciated.
Sewage
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sewers, Throngar Ironbow decided, were the worst places in the world.
Orc lairs were dirty and smelly, just like their owners, but the
creatures had some sense of value. Gold, silver, and other precious
metals could be found strewn through the refuse that lined their homes.
Kobold lairs held less valuables and more smell, but there were always a
few coppers and sometimes a decent weapon or two. Even dim-witted
owlbears liked shiny objects, which meant an occasional gem might be
found when digging through their caves.
But when it came to sewers, there was nothing but garbage, all of it
unwanted and shoved out of sight from the city above. Tons of waste
without a single item of value to be found. And the stench! It would
take weeks to remove the aroma of trash, and other far more unpleasant
smells, out of his leather armor. At least Throngar had possessed enough
sense to wear his older set. In the worst case it could be tossed out�
probably ending up in a sewer.
Heh.
As Throngar walked (and lamented) though the muck, he passed a bloated
corpse floating on top of the knee-deep water. He stared at it
impassively, walking past and saying, "Remind me why I'm slogging my way
through this cesspit."
The (and lamented) doesn't quite seem to fit to me with the remainder of
the sentence-- I'm not sure how one would go about lamenting through the
muck. Lament in general seems a bit passive for what Throngar was doing
as well, so it might be best to just drop it entirely.
The question was directed to his companion, Artemis 'the Dashing', who
led the way bearing a torch in one hand and a short sword in the other.
The warrior looked over his shoulder and smiled. "You're here for the
reward Lady Embeth will give us for the return of her stolen precious
family heirloom. Father Gorpa divined its location as somewhere in this
area of the sewers. His divinations are rarely wrong."
"Isn't he the one we hired to locate that stolen statue and ended up
directing us to a medusa's lair?"
Extra line needed between the paragraphs.
"Well, there were many statues there, so it's an understandable
mistake," Artemis assured him.
A cheery voice behind them declared, "Oh, look, I think that's a corpse."
Throngar's teeth gnashed together. He fingered his battle axe grimly as
he shot a scowl over his shoulder. Even with the dull illumination
provided by Artemis's torch, the young man dressed in bright yellow
robes and a hot pink headband wrapped around his forehead, practically
glowed in the dark. He looked like a giant banana.
Maybe "with a hot pink headband"? Doesn't quite parse right to me with
"and".
Throngar hated bananas.
"Remind me again why he's tagging along," he grumbled.
"You know what they say, you can never have too magic on your side, and
Welleby is a powerful apprentice who comes with the highest
recommendations," Artemis explained.
too much magic
The warriors moved toward Welleby, who was crouched over a narrow,
semi-dry ledge along a wall. As Artemis brought the torch closer,
Throngar saw the wizard scrounging through an unremarkable pile of
refuse. "What is it?"
Welleby fished something out of the pile and held it up high. "It's a
dagger. Honest to goodness booty."
"Booty is a nautical term. On land we call it treasure," Artemis pointed
out.
Heh.
Throngar examined the dagger in the light. It was more rust than blade,
judging by the dark splotches along the length of the blade. It was
worse than worthless given the sorts of diseases one could contract when
cut by a rusty weapon.
Depends on how soon you need your opponent dead and how closely you want
to be associated with the death. I'm sure there are a few assassins who
wouldn't mind a mark dropping dead of tetanus a few weeks after they
were anywhere near them. (No idea on how long it actually takes to die
of tetanus.)
Offense entered Welleby's tone. "I'll have you know this is a magical
headband. It protects the wearer from fire. It was a gift from one of my
master's friends, Finny. Well, Finnegan is his proper name, but he
insists I call him Finny. We get along quite well. Anyway, when he heard
I was going on an actual adventure, he insisted I take it since it could
mean the difference between life and death."
"Finnegan the Flamboyant?" Artemis asked. "Effeminate wizard? Has an
affinity for bright, sequined outfits? Serving staff composed of only
handsome young men? That Finnegan?"
"Why yes. Do you know him?"
Heh.
"They shot at me!" the wizard complained.
Throngar resisted the urge to toss Welleby back out in the line of fire.
"Let me explain something to you. No one comes down to the sewers to
meet new people and engage in witty banter. They do it because it's an
out of the way place to conduct things in secret. They value their
privacy highly, so highly they are frequently willing to kill to keep
it. Stop writing that down!"
Thus the corpse earlier on. Though given that this is Waterdeep, there
are plenty of other methods for it to have arrived there.
"Right." Welleby returned the quill and paper back into the folds of his
robe.
Throngar peered over the edge of the pile. "Still, these guys might be
the ones who stole the heirloom."
Artemis said, "I doubt that. What race were they?"
"Human," Welleby said. "I'm certain because I placed a darkvision spell
upon myself. Bright as day down here. I can even see the ale stain on
your collar."
"It isn't the thief then." Artemis rubbed at the stain.
"How do you know?" Throngar asked.
"I was there when it was stolen. The thief wasn't human and he wasn't
the kind to give up the item."
And here I'm beginning to think Artemis is the thief... (assuming he's
not human)
"You didn't mention that before. What race was the thief then?"
Artemis made a silence gesture with his hand. "Listen."
The sounds of multiple feet splashing through sewage reached the trio.
The reverberations echoed off the walls, making locating them
impossible, though some sounded as though there might be coming from
behind them.
"I think they're trying to flank us. We'd better change our position."
Artemis backed away from the debris.
Throngar conceded the point. Their foes would undoubtedly know these
sewers better than any of them, and he didn't like the idea of getting
caught in a crossfire on an enemy's terrain.
The trio ran quickly, opting for speed over stealth. They fled straight
down the passageway, splashing through the refuse. Throngar made it a
point to not look down at what they were stepping on. There were times
when ignorance was a reward greater than gold.
Wise man.
He was dead. Throngar knew it. Battling a neo-otyugh was bad enough, but
to do it sightless with only another blind warrior and an incompetent
mage on his side? No, his deeply unsatisfied life as a mercenary was
over, never having made the big score that would have left him with an
early retirement and enough gold to enjoy years of wine and women. He
would end up devoured by an irate garbage eater. But if that was his
fate, he would take the one responsible for his death with him into
Cyric's dark embrace.
There seem to be very few mercenaries who actually reach that state of
retirement, no matter how big the scores get. Apart from the obligatory
18th level barkeeps of course.
The sounds of the angry neo-otyugh were right on top of him, but Welleby
was still babbling an apology, and Throngar could locate him over the
din. He brought back his axe, hoping the mage was within blade's reach.
As he swung backward there was a thud as the axe became embedded in
something thick and meaty. A loud roar of pain came from directly behind
Throngar, and then it stopped abruptly. The axe was wrenched out of his
hand as something heavy landed in the water next to him, producing a
wave that nearly bowled him over.
A pinpoint of light formed in the darkness as Throngar's vision slowly
returned. Welleby's slightly nasally voice could be heard. "By Mystra,
you brought him down with one blow. Or maybe it was a she. Perhaps it's
asexual. I'm not sure when it comes to neo-otyughs. I shall have to ask
Master Yorkon about that."
A hand fell on Throngar's shoulder. "That was amazing, my friend. I had
no idea you could fight blind."
And here's where he claims credit for a complete accident...
Throngar blinked a few times. Surroundings became light enough to form
outlines. He squinted at Artemis's silhouette. "Yes, well, it takes a
lot of practice to get that good with an axe." It wasn't so much lying
as it was being polite in not disillusioning his old comrade. Friends
did that for friends.
What a pal.
As Throngar recovered his axe, and his vision slowly returned, his
hearing remained a touch more acute than usual, thanks to his temporary
blindness. That was why he was able to hear multiple splashes bearing in
on their position before his companions. "They're coming again. They
must really be worried about being identified if they're this
persistent. Let's keep going." Luck against one creature was one thing,
but Throngar was damned if he'd count on bringing down every one of
their attackers with random swings.
Once again the trio ran quickly down the main passageway, avoiding any
larger piles of apparent garbage. Almost immediately a mist appeared
ahead of them. It was wispy at first, but it became thicker the farther
they traveled, until eventually it seemed to form a wall.
"That's weird." Artemis rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I need to shave,"
he added.
Throngar wielded his axe warily. "What's that doing down here?"
"Temperature variations frequently produce mists," Welleby said. "It's
perfectly natural. Nothing to fear." He entered the mist.
You can tell he hasn't been adventuring long.
"At least compared to what's behind us," Throngar agreed, entering the
fog with Artemis following close behind.
It didn't take long for the mist to become so thick the trio had to stay
within arm's reach of one another to keep from separating. Even the
ancient stone walls of the sewer seemed to fade away, leaving the
impression they were walking through an endless limbo. They continued on
at a slow pace for nearly five minutes before Throngar's patience grew
thin. He was about to suggest doubling back when several blood-curdling
screams echoed through the passageways behind them.
"What was that?" Welleby asked, hands held up in preparation to cast a
spell.
"It sounded like several people in a great deal of pain, though not for
long since the cries died so abruptly," Artemis said.
"That�s not a good thing, is it?"
Well, assuming whatever caused the screams is full now, it could be, but
probably not.
"No, it's not," Throngar answered. "I've had enough of this. First way
we find up to the surface, we take it. No reward is worth getting killed
over."
Welleby said, "What if it was a resurrection scroll and ten thousand
gold? Would that be worth getting killed over?"
Nah, you still have the level loss to deal with. ;)
"Shut up!"
Despite the question, or perhaps because of the lack of a convenient
resurrection scroll, Welleby moved just as fast as the warriors as they
continued onward at a more hurried pace, still making certain to stay in
sight of one another. Suddenly the sound quality changed. Instead of
noise echoing through tight corridors, it seemed to travel much farther
than before.
"I believe we're in a cistern," Welleby explained. "It's a junction of
waterways in a sewer. Some of them can be quite large, especially in a
city as old and storied as Waterdeep. Some are probably hundreds, if not
thousands of years old."
"Let's go back." Throngar started to turn around when he spotted a
movement in the fog out of the corner of his eye. It was slight, but
seemed to move against the flow of the mist around it. Years of fighting
made him instinctively tense up and bring his axe back. Better to draw a
weapon on an ally than have it sheathed against an enemy was his motto.
His allies didn't tend to care for the saying, though.
I'm thinking that comment about Cyric was a little more than a
colloquial saying...
The zombies were upon them. Throngar noted they came in a wide variety,
some in a very advanced stage of decomposition that made them appear
more like skeletons than zombies, others that hadn't been dead for a
week. All of them were deadly since their teeth and club-like arms were
intact. Luckily, an axe was a fine weapon against them. Finesse weapons
were next to useless against creatures that could feel no pain, but an
axe could lop off a head, a few limbs, even break a back or two. It
caused, as Throngar's mentor had dubbed it, 'catastrophic structural
damage.' Not many warriors used that term, but most hadn't been
architects before taking up the sword.
Throngar did strike me as a bit more intellectual than your common run
of fighter, name or not.
Isebert Darkstone, middling priest of Cyric, gazed upon his realm with
an imperious eye. Such as his realm was, consisting of a sewer. But what
lay within the sewer was his key to victory and moving up the Zhentarim
food chain. The cistern, at three stories high and fifty meters across,
Taking place a few years back then? The Banites have pretty much
cleaned Cyric's followers out of the Zhentarim I believe.
was the largest in the forsaken deeps of the miles long cesspit. More
importantly, it was filled to the brim with zombies. Thousands of them.
They were so thick one could walk across the tops of their heads from
one side of the chamber to the other. Well, almost. They were several
areas free of them. The altar for one, which was seated next to
Isebert's throne (which at one time had been a discarded tavern chair,
but now held the honor of being the seat upon which Isebert's glorious
posterior resided). Also it was one of the few dry spots in the chamber,
which made it worth its weight in gold. Still, he made plans to buy one
gilded in platinum with ruby inlays when his plan saw fruition.
The continual light spells cast about the cistern illuminated the
waterfalls that were formed by the raw sewage that emptied into chamber,
and then continued flowing out to the ocean. Those areas were also free
of zombies. The water eroded them like it would rock, only much quicker,
and every zombie counted when one planned on unleashing an undead horde
on Waterdeep.
Now that's just asking for trouble.
There was also a path leading from the altar up a ramp to one of the
high sewer ways, one free of falling water. That was the course that
Isebert's Ravaging Horde (as he had named it) would take when they razed
the city. Once the pathway was clear of obstructions, in any case.
Maybe a block or two-- given how many adventurers make their homes in
Waterdeep, he'll be lucky if he gets that far. :)
Isebert's acolytes were already clearing the way, removing the next to
last barrier to the surface. Then the army would finally march.
Isebert had to hand it to himself, his plan was pure genius. True, he
had stumbled on the magic altar when he had been forced to move through
the sewers over a disagreement with loan sharks who refused to grant a
soon to be high priest of Cyric an extension on a loan, but it was his
superior intellect that had come up with 'The Plan'. Realizing the power
of the altar allowed a single priest to create an unlimited army of
zombies loyal to him, he began to use it for that very thing. He made
his headquarters in the sewers, recruited several acolytes to Cyric, and
began collecting every body he could find. It had taken every gold he
could scrounge up. He had nearly every gravedigger in Waterdeep
funneling bodies to him over the last six months. Those forces were
bolstered by the zombies themselves as they came across people in the
sewers that wandered too close to the altar. Every person the zombies
killed became another recruit to the cause when their corpses were
brought to Isebert and raised to a higher calling.
Now Isebert's Ravaging Horde numbered over two thousand, a force poised
to strike in the heart of Waterdeep. The priest had discovered an old
sealed off waterway that led to the grounds of Piergeiron Paladinson
himself. There was nothing Piergeiron could do to fend off an army of
undead thousands strong that was dropped right in his self-righteous
lap. And when the zombies were through with that annoying leader, they
would run rampant through the rest of the city, causing chaos in the
name of Cyric and the Zhentarim. Why, Fzoul Chembryl himself would
probably elevate Isebert to High Priest. And then that platinum throne
with ruby inlays would be in his grasp.
Definitely a few years back. Though from what I recall, Fzoul
worshipped Xvim during Bane's period of being deceased, so even taking
place a bit in the past this might need some alteration. Unless Isebert
is further gone that it seems.
And perhaps most importantly, Isebert would be out of this miserable
sewer. He was fairly certain his ability to smell was ruined. But not so
badly he was unable to notice the aroma of his surroundings.
Another hour, two at the most, and it would all be over. There was only
one downside to everything. "I have no one to share my genius with," he
sighed aloud. He wanted to boast, to taunt, to laugh uproariously as
someone, anyone, applauded his intellect, but all that surrounded him
were zombies. Oh, he had tried bragging to them, but it was like talking
to a brick wall; useless and vaguely disturbing.
"Now I see why no respectable priest surrounds himself with only
undead," Isebert grumbled. When he was elevated, he would keep at least
a half dozen acolytes close at hand to brag to. They would acknowledge
his brilliance, and if they didn't, he would assail them with spells of
pain until they did.
A repugnant odor suddenly permeated the room. One so powerful it made
even Isebert's weary nose recoil.
"What is that?" he thought aloud.
Missing a blank line.
Surprisingly, it was answered by a voice coming from the passageway
leading to Piergeiron's grounds. "Sewer gas, your eminence."
Isebert turned to see Tomas, one of his pair of acolytes, had returned
from his mission. Dangling limply in his arms was Isebert's other
minion, Lycas. "What has transpired?" He was boning up on his
vocabulary. In times past he would simply have said, 'what happened',
but 'transpired' sounded more imperious. Oh yes, he was learning.
No doubt Waterdeep will make him an emperor even if the zombie thing
doesn't work out.
Welleby flicked his wrist, lopping off the approaching zombie's hands as
if they were as solid as the mist surrounding them. Like all the others,
it reared back in pain, trying to grab at either of its stumps with
phantom hands. The wizard dispatched it like he had two dozen others by
thrusting the dagger into its chest. It shriveled up and fell where it
stood, becoming just another pile of garbage added to the sewer.
"I don't see what the stir is about zombies. They fall apart quite
easily. I could destroy a hundred of them without working up a sweat."
He held his hand to his chin in though. "Welleby, the Zombie Destroyer.
thought
Now that has a nice ring to it. Or perhaps Wellington the Undead Death.
That's catchy too."
Welleby's nose crinkled up as an awful stench suddenly swept into the
passageway. It wasn't like anything else he had smelled today, and he
had encountered all sorts of odors that he had no idea existed. But this
one was familiar. A laboratory smell? Did it have to do with methane?
Hmm... I'm suddenly seeing visions of explosions destroying considerably
more of Waterdeep (or at least its sewers) than that army is likely to
be capable of, particularly if its coming out in Piergeron's backyard.
Before Welleby could consider further he saw something that knocked
every other thought out of his mind. It was the thief. Moreover, he had
the purloined heirloom nearby, as though it was a trophy of honor. Well,
he would show the little sneak what it meant to mess with a powerful
apprentice come wizard.
"Have at you, you little rat." Welleby cast the spell which would make a
fan of flames burst forth form his hands in a wide enough arc that his
foe could not possibly escape.
And that would do it. Welleby obviously didn't spend quite enough time
in the laboratory.
"Look on the bright side, we couldn't have picked up any diseases from
the water. The heat would have killed them," Artemis said.
Throngar's miserable stare went to his friend. "I thought you'd be
bothered more by this. You look like a lobster."
Artemis examined his skin more closely. "I've been looking a little
weather beaten lately. I've been getting too much sun. This will enable
me to get my skin at just the right hue, not looking too pale or dark. I
look best with a light tan, enough to say I'm an outdoorsman, but not to
the degree of a ranger or druid."
Ahh, one of those silver cloud people.
Throngar sighed in misery.
After a handful of minutes that passed in silence, the guard returned,
this time with an official-looking man dressed in black robes. Six
guards escorted the figure, each one looking everywhere but in the
direction of the robed man. Collectively they appeared powerful enough
to wipe out a tribe of ogres and then take on a dragon for fun. And then
have lunch.
The guard said, "All right, saboteurs, this is the magister that will be
hearing your claims. Tell him what you told me. He's in need of a laugh
with his wife having left him for a halfling and all."
The magister shot the guard a look that nearly struck him dead on the
spot. Despite his still living state, the guard chose to position
himself near the exit.
Missing a blank line between the paragraphs.
Artemis acted as spokesman before Throngar could react. "Basically, sir,
there was an army of zombies led by some dark priest with an altar down
there. We blew them up and saved the city. We should be heroes."
Probably just as well.
Artemis went ahead and did the damage. "It was sewer gas of some kind. I
smelled it right before everything blew up. Take a whiff, some of it may
still be clinging to me." He offered a hand.
"It smells like everything is clinging to you," the magister said.
Unable to stand the odor any longer, he cast a spell which cleansed both
the prisoners' skin and clothing. They smelled as fresh as if they had
bathed for a week.
Ahh, prestidigitation. The adventurer's best friend.
The magister turned to the guard. "It appears they are telling the
truth. At least they believe it's the truth. There are no spells on any
of them, and such an army might explain the disappearance of so many
bodies of late. I will have some of my people search for this altar the
men mentioned. Such an evil artifact might have been able to raise so
many undead in so short a time, and even if it was destroyed, there will
be remains. If it's there, we'll find it and validate their tale."
"Wouldn't it be wiser to wait until we find that stuff before releasing
them?" the guard asked.
The magister shook his head. "Ordinarily, yes, but there is a noblewoman
that's willing to vouchsafe for them. She has the favor of several of
the Lords. That is sufficient bond in this case. Release them and give
them back their belongings." He turned toward the trio. "But if I catch
you blowing up any portion of the city again, you'll be thrown in a
dungeon so deep you'll think you're Drow."
Drow should probably be single case.
"Yes, I did. When I heard what you had been accused of, I rushed to
help. I knew you weren't responsible for making the city so smelly.
Well, smellier than usual."
"Actually we sort of di--" Another elbow met Welleby's side. Throngar
noted he was becoming adept at delivering them.
If they stick together, its likely to be a skill he'll need in the
future, so that's just as well.
"You look even more ravishing than before," Artemis told her.
"And you look even more� crispy than before."
"You'll note I'm perfectly fine because of a magic headband I wore."
Welleby proudly indicated the hot pink headband that was returned to its
familiar perch.
Artemis reacted before Lady Embeth could. "In any case, I have a
surprise for you."
Missing a blank line.
He nodded to Welleby, a move that confused Throngar. Welleby handed
Artemis a long, singed object whose identity was difficult to determine
due to its damaged state.
"What is it?" Lady Embeth asked in distaste.
"The ribbon that was stolen from you the other day in front of the
salon. You remember, the one that you dropped and that awful rat grabbed
and ran into the sewer with."
A knowing light appeared in the lady's eyes. "Oh, that. I couldn't tell
since it looks like it's been burned, gnawed on, and dragged through a
sewer."
Missing a blank line.
Unperturbed, Artemis said, "I remember you saying it was your
grandmother's. I could hardly be considered a gentleman without getting
it back for you."
"Oh, you shouldn't have bothered. I have several dozen from her. She
collects them and gives them away. It's sort of a hobby of hers. When I
mentioned I lost one, she gave me three more exactly like it."
Throngar appeared as he would throw up.
appeared as if he would throw up? Not sure if that parses right either
though.
Once she had ridden out of earshot, Artemis turned to his companions.
"Did you hear that? I've been trying to get her to go out with me for
over a month. I knew if I could prove myself to her she'd give in. It
makes everything we endured worthwhile."
Assuming he survives the beating he's about to incur and can walk
afterwards.
"Vicious looking thing, isn't he?" Welleby said. "The only orc I've ever
seen was one my master turned to stone. He put it in his garden. He's a
bit weathered now and decorated in bird droppings. Nothing covered in
bird droppings is particularly intimidating. Since there's only one of
him, he should be easy to dispatch, right?"
It's never only one orc.
The orc raised his other hand to reveal a horn. He brought it to his
lips and blew a long resounding note that seemed to carry to Chult
itself. From over the rise of the hill there suddenly appeared a hundred
orcs, all battle ready, practically frothing at the mouth as they looked
for something to kill.
"Unless he's a scout for the main force," Throngar said.
It was at that moment the warrior had an epiphany, one he would have
thought impossible a day ago.
Maybe sewers weren't such bad places after all.
Heh.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
[End Story.]
.---Anime/Manga Fanfiction Mailing List----.
| Administrators - ffml-admins@anifics.com |
| Unsubscribing - ffml-request@anifics.com |
| Put 'unsubscribe' in the subject |
`---- http://ffml.anifics.com/faq.txt -----'
.---Anime/Manga Fanfiction Mailing List----.
| Administrators - ffml-admins@anifics.com |
| Unsubscribing - ffml-request@anifics.com |
| Put 'unsubscribe' in the subject |
`---- http://ffml.anifics.com/faq.txt -----'