Showing posts with label rpg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rpg. Show all posts

Thursday, November 7, 2019

The Tales of Raythia: Trojan Horse | Chapter 2: "Judgement"

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The Tales of Raythia
Trojan Horse
Chapter 2  -  Judgement


    Amelia swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat and the breakfast that was threatening to come up right behind it, down.
    Despite the absolute terror she felt at that moment, no one looking at her would be able to tell. Her amber eyes were steady, locked directly ahead of her. Her golden hair, straight, cut short, and tied close to her skull, was immaculate, without a single strand out of place. Her lips were a thin line, her jaw hard set, and her posture perfect. Arms rigid but ready, back straight but flexible, knees locked but trained to respond at her slightest thought.
    No, if you looked at her, she was a statuesque model of everything she had been trained to be.
    And people were looking at her.
    Eight other sets of eyes, each a matching hue of golden amber identical to hers, stared back at her: each a hard, trained gaze with many more decades experience then hers’. More decades then she could hope to achieve in her lifetime.
    Old men in a profession that killed young.
    The Eight Points of the Council of the Sun.
    The hand-appointed of the Goddess Solair.
    Each sat at their designated seat around the Council table, their bodies just as hard and ruthlessly trained and ready as her own. Despite their age, Amelia knew that she would not stand a chance in a one-on-one with any one of them and, with that passing thought, she once again had to swallow down breakfast.
    No face gave away any emotion. No thoughts could be made out from any of their stoic faces.
    “Recite the Doctrine of the Radiant.” Paladin Golina, the closest to her, commanded in his gravelly voice.
    The simple instruction brought a sudden stillness to her thoughts. A calmness that quelled her fear from the moment before.
    The words slipped out one by one, clear and crisp as easily as breathing.
    “A paladin is a tool to be used by the Golden Lady and by Man-Kind alone. Their sword is the blade to cut down foes and wheat alike. Their pommel is a hammer to crush evil and grind grain equally. Their shield a fortress to protect the innocent from evil and darkness no matter where it is found.”
    “A paladin is to serve until such time as they are released by death or the Golden Lady herself. Their work is for all and forever, a dedication of the one life they are granted in honor of all those who might lose such lives they have been gifted without one to stand against evil for them.”
    “A paladin may stand alone on the battlefield but never alone in life for all Man-Kind is but one blood. No bloodline is special and though all are unique, all are the same. The man to a paladin is their brother and the woman their sister and all are family lest they are a foe.”
    “A paladin does not seek judgement, but they do uphold it. Those that have wrought themselves an enemy of life, of the Golden Lady, and of Man-Kind are a foe to be dealt with. To be corrected, to be culled, and to be brought to the light under the sun.”
    “A paladin shall only use violence in defense of oneself or in defense of another and only so if peace or diplomacy is impossible or such acts would be corrupted by a foe to a twisted version of their original intent.”
    “A paladin understands that no foe is too great to be defeated and no weakness too small to be exploited. They know that everyone and everything will be brought to their end and so they must never fear the mighty while never believing themselves to be such.”
    “A paladin knows that a disarmed foe is not a harmless one for a snake without fangs still has venom and it needs only cunning to use it. However, when one is helpless, stripped of their mental, physical, and all other capabilities to defend or to harm, they are to be treated with absolute dignity and honor.”
    “A paladin without honor is paladin no more. All life is precious; a gift to be cherished and loved until that day which Hamet take us. Death is not a punishment but the end of a journey and should never be inflicted lest it be the permanent end of an otherwise dangerous foe. A dead man does not learn the error of their ways and it is only through life that a foe may be a friend and honor restored.”
    “A paladin stands before the Rising Sun as a symbol of peace, power, and righteousness. They hold themselves above all others not in glory, but in aid; a servant on their knees at the edge of a cliff pulling those below them up and standing before the gathering darkness to beckon the Sun and defend all who might fall back down without them.”
    “A paladin carries the Light of the Rising Sun within them wherever they go. Darkness may infiltrate the hearts of men, but the paladin is the light at the end of the tunnel, even if they merely hold the torch needed to find their way out of the gloom. No soul is forgotten, and every life is a blessing to be cherished and bolstered.”
    “I stand before you and the Golden Lady in reverence and solace and do hereby swear it that I, a paladin, will uphold these laws until Hamet take me from this life and beyond.”
    Every word that left Amelia’s mouth was clear.
    Crisp.
    Perfect.
    She had to wonder at times what she had done more of through her life: swinging her sword or reciting the Doctrine. Put to the test, she had to think that the numbers might be pretty close overall. She said it out loud and to herself dozens of times a day, everyday and had been doing so ever since she had learned it at the start of her training.
    A lullaby turned promise and a promise turned prayer that had been drilled into her since she was a babe.
    Paladin Golina glanced back over his shoulder towards Paladin Stillwater. They exchanged an unknowable look though this time Amelia felt less uneasy, her nerves calmed by the promises she had made to her Goddess and to Man-Kind. They were here to judge her right to be granted the mantle of Paladin but, if for some reason they elected not to, Amelia would simply continue her training and present herself again on the next Day of the Rising Sun.
    It would be a disappointment, but one she could and had dealt with before.
    No matter what happened, she knew where her heart laid, and an organization of men mattered little in the face of who she was as a person. No decision would burden her because, in her mind, nay, in her soul, she was a paladin already.
    She would fight for Golden Lady.
    She would fight for Man-Kind.
    She would lay her own life on the line to be the hammer and the blade for all others who stood under Solair’s radiance.
    Her title didn’t matter.
    Paladin Golina and Paladin Stillwater’s gaze turned to the other side of the table, this time both towards Paladin Jecoux who gave a very small nod.
    “You speak well, Sister.” Paladin Golina declared, looking back towards Amelia. “And you Know the Doctrine.”
    Strange choice of words. Every initiate knows it.
    “Thank you, Brother.” Amelia said.
    “You have called upon the Council before for Paladin-hood on the Day of the Rising Sun, have you not?”
    “I have.”
    “And you were denied.”
    “I was.”
    “How many times?”
    A wince of annoyance flashed in her mind. They all knew the answer. It’s not like they weren’t all there for it.
    “Seven.” She responded simply, giving away no sign of the momentary emotion.
    “And you continue to try.”
    “I continue to serve. It is my only desire.”
    “Hmm.” Paladin Golina hummed with a soft nod.
    The unease started to bubble up again from her belly. They’d done this before, and this was normally where they kicked her out. Recite the Doctrine and get the Hells out. Get back to drilling in the yards.
    “How long have you been training now, Sister?”
    “Twenty-six years. Since I was three, Brother.”
    “Yes, of-course. And how long will you continue to try?”
    Damnit all to the Hells.
    “Until I bear Solair’s mantle or Hamet take me, Brother.”
    “And what will you do until then?”
    “I will train. I will learn. And I will be a teacher and a servant to all, acting on and honoring the Doctrine no matter my title.”
    Paladin Golina held Amelia’s gaze for a long time. She was ready to be dismissed; ready to be excused. But it wasn’t coming. Granted, it was a slightly longer conversation then normal, but…
    And then he turned his back on her.
    One by one, Paladins Golina, Stillwater, Jecoux, Kimo, Redbark, Feign, Ianara, and Lasset all turned away from her and faced their place at the Council Table.
    Amelia had no idea what to say or do. They had never done something like this before. Normally they just told her to try again and come back next time around. This was new.
    So, in light of the unusual circumstances, she didn’t do anything.
    The Paladins each extended their hands out to their sides, just barely touching fingertips with their neighbors on either side, and forming a circle of gloved, metal gauntlets around the Council table. Their heads bowed and eyes closed, they begin to speak in perfect unison.
    “Oh, Radiant One!” they declared in a single, booming voice. “Rising Sun of the Heavens and Eternal Flame. We ask for your judgement. Look upon us and rejoice. Look upon us and sing. Look upon one who will be your Hero and your Champion. A Paladin of the People. Look upon her and let her be judged. To Know you. And you, to Know her! Know what is in her heart and let her be judged!”
    With each word, the sounds in the room seemed to echo and intensify. They seemed to bounce off the walls and each word began to feel like a punch to the gut. By the end, the force of each syllable felt like a hammer in her chest and she could only clench her jaw to keep from crying out in pain. Then it all stopped, and the room fell deathly still.
    Around her, the candles and torches winked out.
    No. she thought. They’re still burning. They’re just…not giving off as much light…?
    Wisps of flame seemed to sizzle, almost imperceptibly, away from the flickering, dulled candles and torches towards the center of the room. It gathered at the center of the table and began to form into a minute, flaming sphere. A tiny ball of fire that gave off for more light than anything that size should have been capable.
    Was this some sort of spell? Magic? But why?
    Amelia stared at the little dancing sphere as it started to grow both in size and intensity. The room growing hotter and sweat running down her chest and legs beneath the steel armor. None of the other paladins were looking at it and she wondered if she shouldn’t be either, but she couldn’t help it.
    It reminded her of the sun.
    An unconscious smile slipped across her lips as she stared at it.
    Why would she fear the sun?
    Why should she fear Solair?
    The heat was no longer too hot.
    The light was no longer too bright.
    The radiance of the little sphere was not too much for her because she knew that it would never harm her. The radiance she felt and the love she felt was that of her Goddess and both of them knew she would carry her Doctrine for the rest of her life in Solair’s name. She would love and be loved by the Golden Lady and she would be a beacon of light for all to rally behind.
    She wasn’t going to be a Paladin.
    She already was one.
    As quickly as it had come, the sphere vanished, and the room suddenly felt colder and darker for it. It was nothing compared to the love of her Goddess. The light that she cast.
    And, to her surprise, Paladin Golina was suddenly in front of her, cradling her cheek with an ungloved hand and a knowing look in his eyes.
    “It is alright, Sister.”
    A choked sob escaped her throat that she hadn’t known was there and she realized her cheeks were wet, stricken with more tears than she’d cried since she was a child. The tears still ran freely and, reaching up take Paladin Golina’s hand, she found she shook too hard to do so.
    “That was…” she barely managed.
    “It was. Just for a moment. And she has smiled upon you.”
    Paladin Golina took her hand, gently as the grizzled man could, and placed it against her own breastplate. There, emblazoned where it had not been before in glittering gold and red rubies, was the eight-point star.
    The symbol of Solair.
    The symbol of a Paladin of the Rising Sun.
    Any resolve Amelia still had was broken in that moment. She clung to Paladin Golina as a child might, collapsing to her knees but for the older man’s strength holding her up, sobbing uncontrollably.
    The tears would not stop coming.
    And there was joy in her heart.

Monday, May 20, 2019

The Chronicles of Jhool: A Hero twice Born, Once Dishonored | Chapter 2

All Rights to Elder Scrolls and Bethesda for their wonderful Artwork.
The Chronicles of Jhool
Chapter 2

  
    BOOOOOM!
    The sound of the statue's head exploding reverberated through the empty city with a baritone Tarver could feel in his bones. It was promptly followed by a sprinkle of gravely bits raining at the stone man's feet and the shiiiiiiiiink of cold steel drawn from the now decimated neck hole where the warhammer sat partially embedded.
    "Wow." the little halfling commented through food stuffed cheeks.
    Lenna didn't even bother to acknowledge him.
    Instead, the well-built, elven woman, warhammer firmly grasped in both hands, strode several feet down to the next stone effigy. She looked it in the eyes, spat, and swung again.
    BOOOOOM!
    This time the head didn't powder as much as before. Instead, the sprinkle of gravel and bits was accompanied by a soft rush of air as a large chunk, a good half of the stone head, quickly soared several yards backwards past the limits of the road, over the the precipice, and into the darkness below.
    "Yea!" Tarver cheered as he ripped off another far-too-large bite of jerky. He was gnawing at it and opening his flask when something caught his attention. "Looks like Bron's on his way."
    Once again, Lenna didn't bother looking up, intent still on destroying the next in what Tarver thought was a bizarrely long line of humans, notably the same human, for what was supposed to be a Dwarven city.
    That didn't much matter to Bron though.
    "Whit th' bugger is wrong wi' ye?" the massive brawler demanded in his near indiscernable Truskin accent. "Urr ye trying tae wake th' deid, ye dumb boot?"
    BOOOOOM!
    The larger man openly growled, baring his teeth and reaching out to grab the hammer's hilt. But before his meaty fingers could wrap around the cold steel, he found the head of the weapon pointed directly at his face, Lenna's eyes narrowed into vicious slits.
    "Don't tell me what to fucking do, dirtwhore!" the generic insult for Truskins was literally spat through a snarl just as menacing as the much-larger man's but with far more ferocity and venom.
    "Whoa!" Tarver exclaimed in surprise, a dribble of whiskey trickling from his lips. "Calm down. No need for that."
    "Shut your face, Tarver!" Lenna barked, her ire stilled locked on Bron who was bristling at the challenge. "It's neither of your fucking business!"
    The two stood there like that for far too long, their eyes locked; each one furious and daring the other to move. Luckily, neither made the first move.
    "Calm down." the little halfling repeated, having set down his lunch and moved slowly up to the duo. "Len'. You wanna destroy a bunch of statues of....ehh..."
    He glanced at the line of stone humans, each in a different pose.
    "Whoever that is than I'm sure that Bron-"
    "WHOEVER THAT IS?!" the elven woman roared, spittle spraying as she glowered down at the halfling.
    Whatever the next words were supposed to be, it was lost in a moment of rage as she turned away from her adventuring party and roaring again, swung the warhammer like an oversized baseball bat, slamming the head of the weapon directly into the chest of the nearest statue. The statue's entire torso was rent from its legs with a crunching and grinding sound. Stone flew backward into the chasm beyond while mithril rebar glittered in the pale torchlight, bent and broken in a dozen different angles.
    The three of them watched the granite soar into he darkness below for several seconds. Lenna's chest heaved with anger and Tarver backed away slightly, but it was Bron who spoke first.
    "Urr ye dane destroying hings noo, ye doolally wifie?" his anger with Lenna the moment before quickly turning to exasperation.
    Lenna screamed again and threw down the hammer, carving a chunk out of the road below, and began pummeling the next statue down the line with her bare fists. Her blows landed with far more purchase than any flesh really should against a stone anything, however a brief universal misunderstanding of physics and biological fortitude didn't stop her from caving a rather large hole into stone man's chest and side along with leaving behind more than a few chipped dents scattered about his torso.
    "Fur th' loue o' th' gods, let me ken whin this doolally witch gets her heid oan straecht." Bron groaned. "A'm aff tae scout ahead."
    "Yeah. Okay..." Tarver nearly whispered, his eyes still locked on the elven woman whose breath was now hitching in her throat. She wasn't quite cradling her hands, but he could plainly see blood dripping from shattered knuckles and gouts of the crimson liquid staining the glittering mithril rods in the freshly opened holes in the stone. "We'll catch up."
    But Bron was already gone, muttering something the little halfling couldn't make out as he wandered off into the darkness of Bhar-al'Jhool.
    Lenna, on the other hand, collapsed to her knees. Each breath brought either a racking sob or a furious, albeit small, roar.
    "Easy, Len'. Easy." Tarver whispered, trying to comfort her. "It's okay."
    Once again she glared at him but this time it was plain to see the tears bubbling at the corners of her eyes.
    "It's okay." he repeated, trying to muster a smile.
    Lenna glanced back to the bloodied statue before finally speaking, her voice a rasping whisper.
    "I'm not okay."
    "Sure, you are. I mean, you made that statue know what's-what, am I right?"
    "It's not the statue, you stupid fu-"
    "Let's not start that again now."
    She glared at him for a moment before a new fit of rage gripped her. She stood and swung again. However, her fury was quite short lived this time as her roar was instantly replaced with a scream of pain. Despite her keening wail, Tarver could hear the crunching of her splintering knuckles and saw the bone shards jutting through the back of her hand as she collapsed to her knees once more, one hand gripping the bloody meat.
    This time there were only sobs racking the woman's chest.
    "Yea. I pretty much figured that would happen." he said, already digging through his hip satchel. A moment later the halfling fished out a small vial with a glittering red liquid inside. Popping the top, the smell of dust was immediately replaced by a whiff of summer blooms and cherries and he couldn't help but feel a little giddy even smelling the concotion.
    "Drink, stupid." he said cheerfully.
    Lenna shook her head hard from side to side, tears streaming down her face, cradling her openly bleeding compound fracture.
    "Driiiiiink." Tarver said again with a smile in a sing-song voice, softly shaking the red liquid. "Tastes goooooood. Makes the pain go away."
    The elven woman let out one more heaving sob before tilting her head back and letting the little halfling help her drink the elixer. A wash of warmth ran through her body the instant it touched her lips and a buzz of pleasure ran through her very being that replaced her cries with a hushed moan. Her eyes roll into her head and closed a second later as her bones began to reknit and the lost blood quickly replaced itself. Within moments, the healing potion had made the horrific injury nothing more than a distant memory that, through the intoxicating effects, she couldn't quite recall. A passing thought about a nightmare lost in a dream.
    "Beeetter?" the halfling asked cheerfully, a smile still played across his lips.
    She nodded.
    "Wanna tell me about him?"
    She shook her head.
    "Why not?" he jidedly softly as he tucked away the empty vial.
    Lenna stared at the bloodied statue in response. She sat like that for a long time unblinking. Far too long. Her eyes slowly unfocusing as her eyes met the cold, granite ones above her.
    "That's Jhool..." she finally rasped through a raw throat.
    Tarver's eyebrows shot up in realization. He should have put it together sooner. The stories the elven woman had told him about the Liar God-Bourne. About the things he had done. About the things his cowardice had caused. Had taken away from her.
    "THAT'S him?" he asked, more out of shock then needing confirmation. After all, she'd been mad enough to break her own fist on a statue of the man.
    Lenna gave a small nod.
    Now Tarver found himself staring at the statue, disbelief and horror washing away any semblance of cheer or joviality in an instant.
    "I'm sorry..." Tarver whispered after a long moment.
    And he meant it.
    The elf was much, much older than him. She had lived so many more lives than any one of his race could ever hope to achieve. Been so many things. Seen and felt and experienced so much. But with that age, certain things that were nothing more than legend to him today could still burn bright hot for those that lived near to it. For those that were children when it happened. For those that lost so much that even millenias later, their fury was insurmountable.
    "Come on..." he whispered, very gently coaxing her to her feet. "Let's go."
    Lenna sobbed again, all rage gone for her, replaced by an overwhelming sadness he'd never seen in his lover before. Despite her powerful frame, she shook like a leaf on a dead branch and felt weak beneath his palms.
    "Let's go see what Bron found. Get out away from these ghosts." he cooed, his voice soft. "Don't forget your hammer."
    The elven woman nodded one last time and reached down, drawing the weapon up to her from the dent she left in the road. As they walked, she seemed to cradle the weapon like a child holds a toy to protect themselves from the dark; leaving behind the damaged statue, her blood still wet and dripping from the broken hole in its side.
   

Monday, March 25, 2019

The Chronicles of Jhool: A Hero twice Born, Once Dishonored | Chapter 1


Image credit: https://www.deviantart.com/caoranach/art/Erebor-440164029

The Chronicles of Jhool
A Hero twice Born, Once Dishonored


    Stone.
    It is said that the Dwarven clan of the Cragbourn, despite their legendary works of steel, gold, and mithril, held a special regard for the majesty of stone. Cut and hewn from the hard grey granite, every young dwarf of the clan, be them future craftsman or warrior alike, worked a single piece of stone as a symbol of their transition to manhood.
    Legend has it that the stone was both their mother and their child alike. That the rocks and crags bore them and they, in turn, bore the stone and metal they were recognized for. And, within that towering mound of rock and ice lost within the Pehrmaroust Mountain Range, they toiled and lived within the womb of the world.
    Bhar-al'Jhool was one of the seven great cities constructed by the Dwarven people during the Age of Th'uun the Builder. It was an immense work of military might and artistic mastery built by the Cragbourne.
    Its construction within the mountain's berth honoring the God-Bourne hero Jhool Grayscale-Cragbourne and his adventuring compatriots rivaled any city known then or now with its stone halls easily as grand as the Elven capitol of A'na'katal or the Human metropolis of Placid Lake. It was a marvel of engineering, dedication, and talent that housed hundreds of thousands of men and women, merchants and diplomats, dwarves, elves, and men.
    But that was before the fall of the Age.
    Before the treachery of man and their broken promises.
    Before the arrogance of the elves and their ceaseless warring.
    Before the greed of the dwarves and their hunger for riches.
    And it was before darkness.
    Like many tragedies in history, one only has clarity for the events to come when they already know the events that are coming. As the old gnomish precept goes: "Hindsight is clear as crystal, but foresight is but mud only to be divined by witches and charlatans." It is by that same unfortunate truth that the peoples of the land, mired in their own selfish matters, never realized the dangers that pressed in until they were drowning in pools of their own blood.
    Historians often spin fanciful tales of the great darkness that quelled the Age of Th'uun. Their favorite metaphor is that of a tankard of ink poured across a great map; of liquid blankness spreading and boiling across the surface of the world, marring and engulfing all that it touched.
    In reality, it was nothing so obvious.
    It started with the disappearance of the little town of Gold Fields. A human farming town on the outskirts of any map, no one took heed when the twenty three men, women, and children vanished without a trace. It was explained away or ignored. Who cared for peasants? Perhaps monsters got them.
    The scene repeated itself in Ogre's Bend. The village mattered to nothing and no one short of the few farmers that lived there, scraping together a simple life far from the clatter or chaos of crowded cities. Who was to care at the disappearance of another twenty some six months later?
    Who would even think such events, separated by time and a hundred miles, were even related to each other?
    Unfortunately, only the historians would see the pattern.
    As time rolled on with crops sprouting and harvesting, snow falling and receding, and the stone of Bhar-al'Jhool ever unchanged short for the addition of new statues, halls, and homes, very few realized first hand that anything was happening. The world is, after all, a very dangerous place. Monsters are a vicious sort and lives come and go.
    Only when the Golden Gates of Kana'ka'Loe, hidden within the Emerald Sanctuary, were broken in by hundreds of thousands of walking corpses, flanked by monstrosities of bone and monsters from the depths of the Forgotten Darkness, did anyone truly take notice.
    And by then it was far too late.
    The creatures of darkness washed over the lands in a flurry of blood, chaos, and death. Many of the great cities and even some races, now forgotten, were wiped away, sometimes overnight. Adventurers and heroes great and small stood before the flood and nearly all were washed away, many joining the very ranks they sought to defeat, with only a select few leaving a wake behind their bravery and sacrifice for the races of light to survive in. Pools of safety surrounded on all sides by unending, unyielding death.
    It was late in the cataclysm that the monstrosities reached the guilded gates of Bhar-al'Jhool. Of the original six heroes that once called that place home, only Jhool Grayscale-Cragbourne, weathered by the centuries and old age, and his Elven partner Ava Quihana stood behind the shuddering, crumbling doors of stone and gold. One hundred thousand Dwarven warriors in armor of mithril and wielding weapons of silver stood with them. Unfortunately, Jhool knew better than to believe they would make a difference against the millions of slathering monsters pressing in.
    Jhool had lived far too long and far too comfortably for far too many years. Though he was human in appearance, his God-Bourne lineage, also known as a demi-god to some for his father's divine standing, had blessed him with long life only rivaled by the near-immortal elves. He had been honored as a hero by the Dwarven people for centuries in the halls of Bhar-al'Jhool and it showed to even the most casual of passerby.
    His lustrous hair was long since grey and thinned. His hardened physique turned to a doughy pot belly. His glittering eyes dull and drab. Everything about him that had once made him a hero had been weathered away except for his smile and his tales.
    Stories turned to tales as time goes on. Tales to legends. And legends to myth. Unfortunately, when the focus of such myth lives within your city gates, very few remember or realize that many of the stories told before their transference to lore were told by the very same man that they recognizing.
    Were Jhool ever questioned, he'd always deny it, but only the Elven woman at his side remembered the truth of the story spinner. She remembered the battle with the Hundred-Headed Hydra and that is was not Jhool, but her compatriot that slew the beast. She also remembered the Lion of Alza'jam and how it was not Jhool, but actually HER that tamed and conquered it. She remembered all of his falsehoods and lies that led to his remembrance and good standing.
    For many years, Ava let the story spinner weave his webs of exaggeration and fancy for all that would listen. She didn't care for the glory Jhool always demanded to be surrounded by. Nor did any of her compatriots. Perhaps, she pondered, with the failing gates before her, that's why the lying demi-god had a city named after him for all the good it did.
    No. With age came the failure of the handsome young man's looks. The dwindling visage and years of placation had given way to a fat old man who stood terrified in piss-soaked britches before crumbling stone and the hordes of monsters beyond. The only thing left was a smile white as a freshly polished pearl and gilded words that fell from his lips as a viper might drool its a noxious green venom.
    And, it was with that same smile, still painted on his face like a playwright's mask, that Jhool turned and walked away from the failing gates, stating he would gather reinforcements to make their last stand.
    A hundred thousand warriors watched him slither away like the snake he was.
    Their anger was short lived though. As were the remainder of their lives in general.
    While the city of Bhar-al'Jhool fell along with many others before the darkness was vanquished, those few survivors did not forget the cowardice of the Liar God-Bourne Jhool Grayscale-Cragbourne. Like a fire in a dried thicket, the tale spread of the man who abandoned his city, people, and partner to the slathering hordes. Jhool found no purchase and no home ever again, dying alone in the woods hated and despised; eaten half-alive by a large snake just looking for a meal and finding the nice fat story spinner.
    So hated was Jhool Grayscale-Cragbourne that many families remember his name and the anger is palpable still today. While, in the scope of offense, a single coward in the face of overwhelming adversity is not as exceptional as many make it out to be, he stands out among the crowd. Maybe it had to do with the centuries of stories that he himself weaved into the world. Maybe it had to do with the fall of the great city that held his name. No matter the reason, many historians have realized a rather unfortunate truth for the legacy of the Liar God-Bourne:
     Stories turned to tales. Tales to legends. And legends to myth.
     Now the only thing that remains outside of anger for Jhool Grayscale-Cragbourne are his effigies. The stone statues, carved from the hard stone granite deep in the heart of Bhar-al'Jhool, have survived several millennia and would have survived several more were it not for the intruder into the dead city: a wicked smile on her thin lips and a massive warhammer across her shoulders.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

The Dragon's Maw (Final) - The Chronicle's of Braum Stormforge

http://dragon.images3.org/picture/913-scary-dragon-breathing-with-fire-by-oustins/

    The last kobold hit the ground with a resounding thud.
    For half a moment, Braum just stood there, his breath coming in short ragged gasps. His head was spinning and his fingers were numb. Despite this, he could easily feel the liquid collecting in extremities of his armor; the combined blood and sweat from the fight pooling and sloshing about in the metal gauntlet's fingertips and at the base of his boots.
    Some of it was theirs. More of it was his.
    With a crackle and sizzle of electricity, the eidolon settled next to him as Ember made his way down the stairs, stepping gingerly over the corpses.
    "Well that was fun." the summoner commented.
    Braum could do little more than scoff as he brought his hand to his chest, the palm growing a distinct golden hue. A warmth spread through his body as his god's divine blessing touched him and, while he would need actual rest to properly heal, he felt the blood from his wounds stop flowing as the flesh began to knit itself back together.
    He let out a sigh as the burn of battle began to be replaced by a wash of relief.
    "Yea." Braum agreed with a half-hearted nod before turning his attention upwards towards the orb. "But at least we found the o-"
    The entire room shuddered with the force of a small earthquake.
    "-rb." he finished and quickly added. "What was that?"
    Boooooom.
    Another shake and shudder, the echoing explosion could be felt in their bones and Braum could actually see the shockwave run through the walls; sending dust and bits of loose debris skittering about.
    Ember's eyes narrowed and Braum, his body still burning from the battle moments before, wearily lifted his hammer again, ready for a fight.
    Unfortunately, they weren't ready for what came.
    A jet of flame, blazing blue with tinges of red and orange, exploded through the wall on the far end of the room. The solid stone didn't fragment as much as it did turn instantly to molten rock and splatter like liquid wax from the sheer force and heat of the blast.
    Half a second later, what wall hadn't been liquefied by the flames collapsed as the head and neck of dragon came crashing through. The beast was larger than any creature Braum had even dreamed about; a mountain turned monster. It's bright red scales shone brilliantly in the firelight and the gargantuan creature, quite literally large enough that it could likely use the entirety of Wyrmshorde as a nest, was quickly followed by a bolt of lightning that struck it across its face from somewhere beyond the wall's precipice.
    "GRAB THE ORB AND RUN YOU FOOLS!" the magically enhanced voice reverberated off the walls, echoing from the room the beast had just broken through from.
    While the speaker was unseen, both men knew instantly who it was. It was the priest of Bahumut. They very man who had sent them on the quest.
    And so they ran.
    Sparing an extra few seconds to climb the small pillar in the center of the room, Braum snatched the orb and tucked it away in his bag before sprinting for all he was worth. In that time, several more blasts of flame had turned the walls, ceiling, and a number of nearby treasure piles to boiling slag and at least a dozen bolts of lightning had ricocheted off the beasts glittering hide.
    "Just remember the old Elvish proverb!" Ember called back as they barreled up the stairs and away from the chaos. "One does not need to outrun the dragon. They just need to outrun the dwarf!"
    Braum could do little more than growl as the summoner laughed at him. The taller, lither man quickly picked up speed but, to his credit, used the headway to open the magical armoire at the far end of the hall instead of simply leaving him behind.
    With Ember at the front, Braum behind, and the mage's Eidolon taking up the rear, they quickly navigated the twisting stone tunnels and didn't stop running until they were a half mile out the cave's entrance and down the road.
    Once there, they both collapsed in exhaustion; their faces and bodies drenched in sweat as they openly wheezed.
    "Th-That was..." Ember started.
    "Yea...
    "And the priest..."
    "Yea..."
    "Why?"
    "Don't know."
    Nothing else needed to be said. The two sat there for a minute, trying desperately to catch their breath while watching hesitantly up the mountain road at the cave's entrance. Nothing followed them out, although Braum doubted that such a beast as they'd seen would use the cave. Based on its sheer size, it very well might take the mountain with it if it decided to pursue them.
    Weakly, he stood up.
    "Let's get back to town." Ember said, his words barely a whisper through his hoarse throat. "I'm not sure what we're supposed to do with this damned orb if our payday is in their with a dragon, but I'd rather not wait around here."
    "Agreed." Braum said with a nod.
    And so, after another minute of collecting themselves, the pair began their trek back down the mountain. He noted that the necromancer seemed to be missing but thought little of it at the time. There were other things on his mind.
    Braum was thinking about the glowing orb in his pocket. He was thinking about how strangely heavy it was and how it felt in his palm, a slight sensation of energy tingling through his nerves at every slight touch.
    He was also wondering. He was wondering what he was supposed to do with this thing now that they had acquired it and whether the priest, who very likely saved their life, would be able to collect it from him.
    What he was not doing was thinking about the future.
    He wasn't thinking about some sociopathic mage with a love of dead bodies. He wasn't thinking about the implications that such a man, with an entire troop of dead goblins, was no where to be seen. As he was not a fortune teller, he wasn't thinking about how this one act, this one little quest they had just performed, would change the world forever. And finally, he certainly was not thinking, wondering, or really had any way of knowing that this orb and its quest would not only lead to his death, but his rebirth, and how the wheels that were now turning would strip him of his title in the eyes of his god and his position as a paladin.
    Instead, his mind was on the orb and no where else.

===

(Hello Lovelies. I hope you enjoyed 'The Dragon's Maw'. While I'm going to be stopping here for a little bit, worry not, Braum will be returning later. More of his story exists and hopefully the ending gives you a hint at some of what is to come. For now though, I'm going to be returning to Little Island Tales as well as a few other new pieces. Some of them will be a return to the classics and heavily horror oriented while a few others will be attempts at branching out my talents. Check in soon for more and I hope you have a wonderful day.)

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

The Dragon's Maw (Part 5) - Chronicles of Braum Stormforge


    Rattle.
    Rattlerattlerattle.
    Slowly. Cautiously. The pair glanced around the corner into the room.
    Rattlerattle.
    The celestial monkey had the armoire's knocker in hand and was pulling hard on it to no avail. It let out a few little frustrated screeches before turning and glaring at the both of them as though they were pulling some sort of prank and it only just realized.
    Judging them.
    "It's locked." Braum commented thoughtfully, trying to ignore the horrid little simian.
    "Didn't think of that one."
    In the room, they both found themselves just staring at the large cabinet once again. Given the other traps they'd already found, they were pretty certain it was going to go off like a bomb. However they'd never considered that maybe the magic was holding the damndable thing closed.
    After a moment of pondering, Braum was the one to take the lead this time.
    "Take a look around. Whoever this belonged to had a way to open it."
    Maybe it was some divine will. Maybe it was some sort of magic of the cabinet. Maybe it was just raw curiosity. No matter what it was, he felt determined to open the damn thing now. Earlier it was just a mild need to know what was inside. Now it was a mission.
    They spent the next several scouring the room looking for anything that stood out or might aid them in popping the cork on the cabinet. After nearly turning over the desk and actually turning over the chest, Braum noticed that the very edge of the bed seemed slightly higher than the other. And, with nothing else to go on, flipped the mattress.
    To his surprise, he found a journal and-
    A symbol of Trudd.
    He picked up the small, silver trinket. The masterfully carved symbol of a throne with a shield upon it's gleaming back was well worn and covered in five, large runes on either side. He felt his heart sink.
    This had been the home of a priest of Trudd.
    While it might have explained his desires to keep searching the place, it hardly forgave blowing up the man's chest or trying to crack open the armoire.
    "Ooo~" Ember cooed. "Found something?"
    "Maybe." Braum said half-heartedly, still examining the trinket.
    The symbol was nearly identical to his own but the scrawl of Trudd's name along the sides of the throne were in old Dwarvish. It was a language that he didn't speak and-
    And was on the armoire.
    Staring at the little symbol in his hands and carefully examining the runes, his gaze drifted back and forth from it to the large cabinet on the far wall. All of the symbols, the runes that he didn't initially recognize, were in old Dwarvish. And while he couldn't speak or read them, he had an idea.
    "Maybe." Braum repeated as he walked over and carefully cross examined the symbols.
    Hand shaking, he reached out to touch the first one. The first rune of Trudd's name in old Dwarvish.
    "Whoa, whoa. What're you doing?" Ember remarked.
    "Opening it."
    "Yea. Just in case. I'm going to be outside." the summoner said, already high-tailing out of the room, his monkey right behind him.
    Braum waited just long enough for Ember to leave the room. His fingers touched the glowing symbol gently and, to his surprise, the rune lit up a different color. It didn't explode or burn him or even set off an alarm. Just turned a different color.
    Emboldened, he did the next one.
    One by one. Five runes. Braum touched each one and each time felt a wash of relief when he didn't die. After the fifth one, there was an audible click and the door popped open.
    The old wood creaked as he opened it. Unfortunately, what he found inside was neither exciting nor surprising.
    Robes.
    The robes of the priest of Trudd hung neatly and cleanly in a row, albeit some were covered in a soft sheen of dust and cobwebs. There was a small broom and dust pan off to one side and a pair of well oiled, leather boots beneath the robes. But, aside from that, the armoire was empty.
    "Damn it." he cursed low under his breath.
    "What've you got?" Ember asked from outside.
    "Just a closet." Braum returned, unable to mask the disappointment in his voice.
    "Color me surprised."
    The summoner rejoined him, the monkey chittering softly as it sat on his shoulder, and shared the same look of disappointment that Braum was certain he wore as well.
    Something inside had told him getting this thing open was important. So why was he supposed to care about some musty old priest robes; Trudd's or otherwise.
    Ember dejectedly poked through the meager belongings, his annoyance plain on his face, when suddenly something at the back of the armoire caught his attention.
    "Wait a minute..." he said, reaching deeper into the cabinet.
    "What is it?"
    "This wall isn't real. It's an illusion..." Ember began before being suddenly cut off.
    A loud, horrible screech filled the hall outside. It might have been a roar short for the fact it came from a creature too small to produce such a fearsome cry. The cry was met and echoed by hundreds of others that called out in unison accompanied with the banging of shields, the thudding of boots, and the clanging of weapons far-too-nearby.
    Glancing outside, it was plain to see what caused it.
    A horde. No. An army of kobolds was advancing on them from the city. Literally hundreds if not thousands of small, dragon-like men brandishing bronze and steel armor and weapons were whooping and hollering and charging their direction from the unexplored city beyond.
    And the men were trapped in a room barely bigger than a broom closet.
    "Shit!" Braum bellowed, slamming the door not moments before the first wave of the fearsome dragonesque humanoids ran headlong into its simple wood.
    "Where the hell did they come from?" Ember demanded.
    Braum didn't answer. He had already drawn his massive tower shield Khadgar, using it to brace the door, and his lead-lined warhammer Magna waiting for the fight to come. The door was bowing and cracking beneath the force of an army and splinters and shards rained from its quickly collapsing doorframe despite his efforts and soon it would only be him and Ember against a thousand.
    But the fight didn't come.
    Instead, he suddenly felt Ember grab him from behind, tugging hard as the summoner pointed towards the armoire.
    "Here! Get in here!" he ordered Braum.
    The paladin spared one more glance at the collapsing door, at the vicious, snarling faces that could be seen through the cracks and holes in the splintering wood, before turning and following the mage into the armoire.
    They dove through the old, musty robes and through the illusionary wall into the darkness beyond. Just as the door finally gave way, Braum reached back through the false back and slammed the magically locking armoire shut from the inside; sealing the kobolds out. Or, perhaps, sealing themselves in.