Just a Little Chip

===

    Late morning sunlight filtered through tall, stained glass windows resting in stone archways long since weathered by many years. While each window was emblazoned with their own images, some of battles of history past, others of myths and legends, and others yet of figureheads near forgotten, it was the light that entranced him most.
    The light, run through that stained glass, ignited into a rainbow of color every morning, using the stained glass as its paints to splash a spectrum of hues across every stone and brick that lined that long hall. And, with the miniscule bits of dust that drifted from the ceiling on particularly lucky days, the colors seemed to even dance in the air.
    Today was one of those lucky days.
    While RM-BH-022 lacked the mindful programming of some of his brethren to allow him to truly appreciate the beauty that the natural world provided, something about the light in that hallway always drew him back to it. He’d return to it day after day, mopping and sweeping and cleaning the corners like clockwork, even when his scheduling didn’t actually call for it.
    A bug. One of the arcanists called it.
    A quirk. Another said.
    Too much time to figure it out. The headmaster finally declared.
    Why would they care if the mechanized cleaner happened to clean one particular hall more often than required? It was doing its job after all. So long as it didn’t get in the way of the students attending.
    Perhaps that’s why they had spent so much time trying to figure out the little quirk.
    “Move it, tin-can.” one of the students said as they barreled down the hall, nearly slamming into him as he leaned over the mop, trying to get up a particularly stubborn bit of who-knows-what on the floor.
    A split second later, a human male, dressed in the long, flowing garments typical of the Illusion Branch, followed after the other student, calling after him and actually shoving aside the mechanical janitor.
    “Hey, wait up!” the human shouted as RM-BH-022 hit the ground with the clang of metal on stone.
    His mop, bucket, and several hand brooms went flying as he hit the ground, scattering cleaning implements in all directions with janitorial tools sliding across the floors, bouncing off the walls, and one particular brush banging against one of the stained glass windows.
    The hallway quickly filled with students as the period came to a close. No one paid the Forged in the hall any mind as he picked himself up off the stone, seemingly no worse for wear, began gathering the tools of his trade, and continued about his duties.
    After all, why would he, a drone seemingly identical to the twenty nine others that wandered the campus, stand out in any manner? They might as well pay attention to an individual brick in the wall.
    For that matter, why would they care about him leaving the hall? Surely he’s got somewhere to be and it couldn’t have anything to do with them being there.
    
    The next day passed much as any other.
    RM-BH-022 moved from task to task, passing students, faculty, and Forged alike, bustling about the campus without thought. When he found a mess, he cleaned it. When he arrived at his scheduled regions, he sanitized them. He worked quickly, diligently, thoroughly, and always stayed out of the way of his betters.
    He was everything he was programmed to be.
    Except for that bug.
    At the same time the following day, late in the morning, when the sun was just beginning to filter through stained glass, the hall one again had a single occupant.
    Mop in hand, RM-BH-022 slowly wiped and worked the old stone floors while the dustmotes, always the last and seemingly regularly forgotten element of his work, drifted down from the ceiling.
    As always, the hall lit up with the rainbow of colors, dozens of stained glass windows illuminated by the sun behind them.
    With an exception.
    Looking up from his mopping, RM-BH-022 realized that there was something different about the light in this room today. It was miniscule, but a single, small beam of sunlight shined unabashed through one of the windows.
    No color.
    Only pure, natural sunlight.
    RM-BH-022 set down the mop and made his way over to the offending window, leaning down to examine the minute difference in color. To the average student, it likely would have been left unnoticed for quite some time; either til someone was looking directly at it at the right time or if the damage got worse. However, to a Forged meant to pick out the most mundane details, the small, centimeter wide hole stood out as plainly as if someone had put their fist through the glass.
    It was the same window he had been in front of the day before when he was knocked over. The one his hand-broom had hit.
    He ran his finger over the hole, watching the light appear and reappear and noting the slight difference in heat that it put out compared to the filtered light. Again, it would be nothing to any regular person, but he wasn’t.
    RM-BH-022 knew without checking that he did not have the ability to repair the glass. While all of it had been cast by artisans several centuries back, repair required a mage’s touch; someone with the ability to fix it without removing or warping the precious window.
    There was nothing he could do, so why should he waste anymore time than just reporting it and moving on?
    He stepped back away from the miniscule hole in to see the larger picture.
    The window before him, like the rest of the windows in the hall, was emblazoned with something significant to the original founders of the Academy. This one, though RM-BH-022 himself did not know it, showed the principle hero of the War of the Gryphons; a man by the name of Hrothnar the Wise.
    In the window, Hrothnar, cloaked heavily in red velvets and brown leathers, stands upon a hill, one hand extended to point towards something unseen, his other hand at his side, loosely holding a tome. Behind him, set in relief, before a boiling sea of blue and white, seemingly a hundred Gryphon-mounted Cavaliers wearing White, Silver, and Gold and brandishing swords, axes, and spears, fly forward towards where Hrothnar points.
    Were he actually studying here, he’d likely know that this was the turning point of that War. He’d know that Hrothnar, having chartered an agreement with the Gryphons using the aide of his brothers-in-arms, a Druidic Shaman by the name of Colgan and the Ranger Le’ara, used the power of the Gryphon riders to overcome the tyrannical Kingdom of Trevania. He’d likely also learn that this was the first recorded instance of Gryphon-Human relations and one of the founding moments that would eventually lead to a multitude of achievements for the Human species; in particular the dawn of the Erengale Empire, which still to this day relied heavily on the regal creatures.
    But, to be fair, he would have also likely fallen asleep were he to have that level of comprehension.
    “On your left!” a voice shouted behind him before, a moment later, something slammed into the back of his head.
    And his head went through the window.
    The glass shattered loudly, exploding outward in a sparkling array of ruby reds and emerald greens that showered the lawns four stories below the window, though RM-BH-022 only had a split second to comprehend this before momentum of the shove finished slamming his face into the stone windowsill.
    “Caleb! You broke the window!” a second, familiar voice shouted.
    “Yea, whatever. They can bill me.”
    RM-BH-022 leaned up for a moment, the action causing his neck and back to fight against him, and saw the same two from the day before. The second student, a human in Illusionist robes, and the first, a blonde haired half-elf wearing the same.
    Crick.
    RM-BH-022 looked up just as the weakened window started to crumble.
    ShhhCRACKcrack!
    And as it gave way directly on top of him.

    “Testing. Testing.”
    “Seems like audio cues are working well. Visual should be coming online shortly.”
    “You sure you aren’t worried about that chip?”
    “It’s fine. The restrictions the inhibitor chip place on them are just redundant backup. Their programming is really what takes care of it. Besides, mending the broken head and shoulders was already a nuisance. We’d have to replace the entire chassis to replace that chip.”
    “Okay. If you insist. I’m just wondering if we shouldn’t wait til it can be replaced.”
    “Yea, right. You want to talk to the headmaster about ordering a party down to Ironrock Keep to find the gems required to make one?”
    “Not really.”
    “It’ll be fine. It’s just a custodial Forged. What’s it gonna do? Mop aggressively?”
    “Yea. You’re prolly right.”
    The world, all at once, snapped into stark relief. Brilliant blue and white lights glew all around and at him while a smaller gnome male, his hair shock white and tied back, leaned forward with some sort of metal instrument.
    “Begin tracking.”
    Doing as he was told, RM-BH-022’s eyes focused on the metal instrument before him and the gnome, no, the biologic known as Felros, the head artificer, proceeded to test his visual acuity. The other biologic, a dwarf female called Elna, the head arcanist, took notes as they worked.
    “Good.” Felros declared proudly.
    The two started saying something. Was it to him? Was it to each other? He was having trouble focusing on them. What were they saying? Did it matter? It probably didn’t matter, right? Why would it matter?
    And for that matter, why was the other biologic so flushed? Her skin seemed oddly red. Was it always like that? Had he just never noticed. And she was so…wet around the edges. Particularly under the arms. Actually, so was the first biologic. His lips in particular. Everytime he talked, he could hear the saliva slapping on his lips. And everytime either of them moved, they sounded…squishy.
    Were they always squishy?
    “Repeat.” Felros said with a snap of his little meaty appendages. “Designation number.”
    “Sir…” the other biologic said, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “Something seems off.”
    “Enough, Elna.” the old, frail little biologic snapped at the stouter one. “Designation number. Now.”
    “Designation Number: Ru..Ru… RuM-BuH-022.” RuM-BuH-022 responded in an unfamiliar, chipper voice.
    “Seems like that replacement voice circuit might be bad.” the fat female biologic commented.
    “Whatever. It’s not like they’re conversationalists.” the little, easily broken biologic said dismissively. “Objective.”
    “Objective as last: Monitor, maintain, and Sanitize grounds for Academy.”
    “Retain Objective as Last and begin primary programming.”
    “Acknowledged.”
    RuM-BuH-022 stood and walked past the squishable, disgusting little biologics and made his way promptly out of the room without another word.
    “See. Voice circuit works fine. It was just his designation number that was the problem.”

    The next day did not pass like any other.
    RuM-BuH-022 moved aimlessly from place to place, passing students, faculty, and Forged alike, seemingly dragging as he was unable to focus on any task. His head and body felt strange. Almost foreign. As though he were wearing the metal of another and someone had left a beehive behind in his head. He didn’t work though he notated those locations that really should have been.
    He felt like he was drifting and, despite answering what he knew he was supposed to say, he felt no direction.
    No programming.
    The only habit that felt right came at the same time the following day, late in the morning, when the sun was just beginning to filter through stained glass.
    The damage from the day before had already been fixed. The mages had been by, no doubt due to dozens of complaints from students about the dangerous conditions of a broken, twenty foot window, and already mended Hrothnar the Wise. The window was good as new without even the minor chip to speak of.
    For long minutes, RuM-BuH simply stood there, staring up again at the stained glass window. From time to time, he’d glance to and fro, marveling at the glittering colors that seemed to drift in the air and paint the walls, but mostly he just marveled at the window.
    Who was this man?
    What was his story?
    Where could he fi-
    “Watch it, Ro-”
    Rum-Buh spun in place, already anticipating the shove that was coming, and perfect, metal fingers clasped around fragile, meaty wrist. There was a crunch as pathetic bone splintered under barely trying servos and the ensuing scream of pain from the little Illusionist biologic was promptly cut off as a single metal hand closed over his mouth.
    “What?!” the second biologic Rum’Buh already knew was going to be there shouted. “Caleb!”
    A thousand things ran through his mind in a moment, but something bubbled up that felt right. Felt correct.
    “Please. Do not interrupt the Custodians. We are helping to make this your home away from home.” came out a chipper, robotic voice.
    Releasing both the little biologic’s mouth and shattered radius and ulna, Rume’Buh shoved him harshly to the stone floor.
    “Caleb!” the second one shouted again as he dropped to the ground by his friend.
    “It appears you have suffered an injury from tampering with facility maintenance Forged. This would be inadvisable in the future as the machines that maintain this facility are much stronger and more durable than you.” He continued in that same chipper voice. “I recommend reporting to the physician. Would you like me to take you there?”
    “No!” the second biologic shouted as the first sobbed, holding the purple and red mess of an arm. “We-we got it.”
    “Carry on then.” Rume’Buh said as he turned and walked away, admiring the gleaming colors of the hall.
    They were gone before the rest of the students arrived.
    And neither saw the smile that graced his metal lips.
    Pushing his way through the quickly crowding hall, he continued on through the gathering flood of stinky, sweaty bodies until he crossed outside into a small courtyard that looked down onto others below it. Flowers hung from vines sneaking through trestles above and snaked their ways along columns and benches. Some students were gathered here, but many were thankfully quiet.
    With an exception.
    “I’m telling you, you need to stop talking to that guy.”
    “You’re telling me. He’s the one that keeps showing up in my dreams. At least your’s doesn’t talk.”
    “I don’t think the talking is the problem.”
    Two male biologics, similar in appearance despite the difference in hair color, sat off to one side speaking over a small lunch. One, the blonde speaking about dreams, appeared particularly haggard and looked like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest in several days.
    “What’s up, boys!” Rume’Buh heard shouted from behind.
    Turning to look back at the third voice, another blond haired biologic came walking through door of the courtyard, waving to the first two.
    “What’s Up?” Rume’buh responded.
    The two biologics both fell silent and a queer smile cross the third one’s lips as, looking to Rume’buh for the first time, a chuckle escaped his lips.
    “What’s up to you, too, big guy.”
    “Rume’buh.”
    “Sorry?” the blonde biologic responded.
    “I think you made a friend.” One of the two said as they walked up to the third.
    “Didn’t know they could talk.” the other said.
    “I am Rume’buh.” Rume’buh clarified.
    “Arioch.” the third one responded before pointing to the other two. “That’s Locke and Pal, though don’t make me tell you which is which.”
    “Nice to meet you.” Rume’buh declared.
    “Huh. I didn’t know they could talk.”

The Tales of Raythia: Trojan Horse | Chapter 3: "Assignment"

---

The Tales of Raythia

Trojan Horse

Chapter 3: Assignment

    “Alright. One last time.” The NCO said as he cycled back a few slides to the topographical map.

    Pvt. Marie LeRoux let out a long, slow sigh and sat up straighter in her chair after realizing that she was beginning to list off to one side out of sheer, absolute fucking boredom. Her hand drifted up to her hair and traced the valleys of her tightly knotted locks with her fingers; the old habit of running her fingers through her curly hair replaced once she joined the army and had been required to wear it regulation.

    She glanced over at Diego, or Sergeant Olvera as the baby-faced Team Leader insisted on being called, as he stared intensely at the slide for the third…no…fourth? Fourth time they’d gone over it.

    LeRoux had always thought the Sarge was a little cutie and she’d even taken a swing at him the first time they’d met, but he’d been just as straight-laced then as he was now. Hell, he was actually maybe a bit MORE straight-laced, but that wasn’t here nor there. He was a good lead but not her type when it came to personality.

    Still, he was good eye candy. Sharp brown eyes, brown skin, and clean-cut brown hair that shaped his face nicely even with that softer chin.

    “You day-dreamin’, girl?” Johnson whispered.

    “Only about throwing you through a window, Johnson.” She whispered back with a side-eye towards her Grenadier Rifleman.

    “You promise to try?”

    If she was honest with herself, it would probably take hitting the massive man with a dump truck to actually do so, so try was really all she COULD do in that scenario. Part African American, part American Bison, and probably part cinder block, Pvt. David Johnson worked out about as religiously as a priest went to church and probably was near three-hundred pounds of pure muscle.

    “Yea. If you promise to eat shit, lug-head.”

    “Stow that shit.” Sergeant Olvera barked, glaring at both of them for a half second before looking back at the map.

    Spc. Andrew Merrick, FireTeam Bravo’s remaining member and the team’s Dedicated Marksman, gave them both the side-eye before smirking wordlessly and looking back towards the map. LeRoux frowned and did likewise.

   The blonde man always made her just a little bit uncomfortable. He was practically her antithesis. Cold, calculating, and collected, not to mention tall, thin, and was always perfectly trimmed well beyond regs. She knew he could rely on him like a brother, but that didn’t make his silence and cold perfection unnerving sometimes.
    Still, she liked the college boy. He tended to be unexpectedly fun even if she didn’t see it coming half the time.

    “As I was saying…” the NCO began again. “Satellite and Drone imagery have confirmed the presence of an enemy encampment here on this hillside.”

    The man motioned towards the far end of a topographical map that had been highlighted with a red circle and a variety of scribbled information.

    “While we have been aware of it for several weeks, it appears well-fortified and, while it could hypothetically be taken care of with drone strikes, we believe a high value target Hassan Asghar calls this place home. If we can take him alive, the rest can be dealt with cleanly.”

    “Now, as of yesterday, we have identified movement on the far end of the hillside.” The NCO now motioned towards the opposite side of the map. “Here.”

    “Following this discovery, we scanned the hillside and confirmed with thermal imaging that there are a series of tunnels that appear to potentially lead directly to the enemy encampment and that these individuals are potentially using the tunnels either as a primary or secondary route into the camp.”

    “Unfortunately, we cannot confirm this at this time as the individuals we have spotted have been dressed primarily in civilian clothing, mostly robes and shawls. Additionally, we have been unable to confirm any weaponry, leading to the possibility that this is an unrelated farming or herding community, though we have not identified any cattle or produce as of yet.”

    “Now, it’s possible that this community, if one exists, may have ties to the enemy encampment and are providing aid or it’s possible that undercover operatives dressed as civilians are using it as a backdoor before slipping off into the cities. We need to find out what’s going and, more importantly, if whether we can use this backdoor ourselves to secure Hassan before calling in the big guns.”

     “Your mission is simple. Recon. Go in, investigate the tunnels, see if a community exists and extrapolate what their purpose is. Identify if a route exists through the tunnels to the enemy encampment and report back. Engage only if engaged and no heroics. In. Out. Debrief.”

    LeRoux looked up and down at the faces of her team. Sgt. Olvera’s eyes were hard set and he was giving a curt nod. Spc. Merrick was motionless as a statue except for his eyes being ever so slightly narrowed. Pvt. Johnson was also nodding, though he looked about as bored as she felt.

    “Any questions?” The NCO asked.

    No questions.

    “You have your orders. Dismissed.”

   

    “Man, I fuckin’ hate Recon.” LeRoux growled.

    “Trust me, we all know you do.” Johnson said with a barking laugh.

    The four of them were geared up and on their way towards the Humvee that would be dropping them off in the middle of bum-fuck-egypt. They’d get to hike the lovely two miles across open terrain under the cover of night to keep anyone from spotting the transport bringing them in. When they got out, they’d call for a ride and get the fuck out.

    “No listen to me, man…” LeRoux began before Johnson perfectly echoed her next words. “…it’s because it’s so fuckin’ boring. We go in, we look, we don’t shoot any-Hey. Stop that. The fuck? Stop that, man. Johnson. I swear to God you…”

    Johnson stopped echoing her when LeRoux reached up and slapped him on the back of his helmeted head.

    “Fout toné! Get manman ou! Tét zozo…” she swore.

    “Knock it off!” Olvera snapped at the two of them. “I swear, you’re both like bickering children.”

    “She started it.” Johnson said with a smirk.

    “And I’m ending it. Straighten the fuck up. We’ve got a job to do.”

    “It’s shit-detail, that’s what it is, Sarge.” LeRoux muttered.

    “Yea.” Johnson agreed, far louder than the little Creole woman. “It’s, how do you say it, LeRoux? Makakri?”

    “ENOUGH!” Olvera bellowed, stopping short and getting his face not inches from theirs. “You will pull your heads out of your asses this instant or I will ensure that the next time you want to do so, they’ll have to be surgically removed, comprende putas?”

    Johnson and LeRoux’s jaws both snapped shut and they both gave a quick nod.

    “Malditos chicos estúpidos…”Olvera mumbled and turned to keep walking, Johnson and LeRoux trading glances before Merrick walked up beside them.

    “You know,” he said in a whispered tone. “maybe if you ask ‘are we there yet?’ enough times, he’ll turn the hummer around. Won’t get McDonald’s, but what’s it worth to ya.”

    Both Johnson and LeRoux snorted, looking at the tall man as he passed, his hands in a shrugging gesture.

    “I don’t know, man. I like my McDonald’s.” LeRoux whispered.

    Johnson snorted again but said nothing further before the entire FireTeam gathered into the Humvee; the armor vehicle heading out into the darkened desert towards their next mission.

The Chronicles of Jhool: A Hero twice Born, Once Dishonored | Chapter 3

Image Credit currently unidentified. Unable to find original artist at this time. All rights to original artist.

The Chronicles of Jhool

Chapter 3

    With the adventurers making their way further into the darkness beyond, it was not long before a deathly silence settled over the city's entrance. The silence of the tomb that it had once become fell back into place.
    Light faded.
    Dust settled.
    The only sounds that infiltrated the darkness was an occasional boom from somewhere deep below, where the adventurers fought and bled against the unknown they had sought to find. And, infinitesimal to the veritable thunder-claps of far off combat, a soft chittering and scratching noise coming from the road leading in.
    A ferret, lithe and furred, chipped, chittered, and squeaked as it moved along the hard stone road. Its fur was patched with blacks and browns against a dirty ivory and it moved with the uncertainty of any wild beast in a new world. It had never been in this city before, this cave of sorts, and it wished to take no risks of being discovered by something larger and more ferocious that might have a taste for mustelids.
    Earlier in the day, it had seen the three humanoids, strange and goblin-like in their tendency to stand on two legs, pry open what the ferret had believed to be a sheer cliff-face. It had ignored the action as little more than a curio, an oddity the little weasel couldn't quite make sense of, in favor of hunting down something to fill its aching belly. But he was curious by nature and, once sated with a rather unfortunate field mouse, found himself returning to the scene a few hours later.
    He was hesitant at first to enter the hole the creatures had made in the cliff. While it didn't mind the dark of the cave, there was something distant that lingered in the air that he couldn't quite identify. Something smelled wrong about the air.
    Something dark.
    Something far below.
    The ferret's nose worked wildly, often catching a whiff of whatever it was that sullied the world of darkness, but occasionally finding something new and interesting. Very little smelled like food here. The most interesting thing thus far that didn't make his hair stand on end was the splattered remains of the elf's fists on the semi-broken statue.
    After a brief moment of investigation, the little mustelid considered that he was a fan of the hole left in the statue's side and that the elven blood tasted strangely sweeter than the mice he normally fed on, but that the statue offered little else.
    He moved on quickly.
    Doing what he could to avoid any contact with the offputting smell and the sounds of screams and explosions from down below, the ferret followed a branching path off of the main road that led away from the stench and the noise. The path lead down and away, curving smoothly past any number of closed doors and sealed portals. Every now and again he'd slither or snake his way through the occasional ancient skeleton or over a pile of debris, and soon found himself at the end of the road.
    The portal before him gave him pause, if only due to the ferret's attraction to shiny objects.
    The end of the hall was mostly blocked by a massive set of double doors that appeared to be made out of a forged tapestry of golds, silvers, and blues. Gems glittered and shown, accentuating the edges of the doorway in sapphire blues and ruby reds. In its hay-day, the little weasel could never hope to get through the nearly foot-thick metal, but gave little thought to the door short of a quick and valiant attempt to pry a gem from its socket before passing through the cavernous hole that rent most of the doors' base inward.
    What did it care of the obvious destruction? It knew nothing of the force required to cause such a hole. It just knew that the way was open.
    Better yet, there were other shiny things inside.
    With an excited squeak, he scampered through the destroyed door and promptly clambered up a glittering pile of gold coins and gems. He was so overwhelmed by his discovery that he tried to hop and accidentally rolled back down the loose terrain, buried in a tiny avalanche of gems.
    The ferret held no understanding of the colossal wealth before him, but his excitement was baser than that. While it wasn't food, he had a love of shiny things, and this room fit that love quite nicely.
    For as far as the ferret could see from the top of his little gold mound, the world around him shimmered. He could see golds and greens and blues and reds everywhere he looked, piled in veritable mountains that rivaled the hills and trees from the world outside. Everything seemed to buzz with an energy that, though he didn't know it, was the magic of thousands of different enchantments and items of untold power.
    The ferret didn't know what to do with himself.
    All thoughts of the sounds and smells from outside were gone. He lost himself running over, around, and digging through the different piles. He picked up and dropped coins and gems and baubles, replacing each with a new, more interesting one seemingly every moment. This world was overwhelming and he wanted all of it to take back to his den.
    The cycle repeated itself countless times as he worked his way further back. While he was unaware of it consciously, he knew that he had to find something. The perfect something.
    A green something.
    Yes, he agreed with the thought, something green.
    Something green as the trees. As deep as the forests. As alive as nature.
    That sounds good.
    The ferret snuffled and hunted. Sniffed and prodded. Licked and bit. Ran and scampered. The romp had become a hunt.
    He had to find it.
    Find me.
    He had to find it.
    Were the ferret paying attention as he had when he'd entered the city, the scent leaking through the walls might have given him pause or maybe even made him run back the way he'd came with the first shiny object he could find clamped in his teeth.
    But his attention was elsewhere.
    Find me!
    Why would he pay attention to that squishing noise? He had to find it. Whatever it was.
    Green as the trees. the voice whispered in its mind. Deep as the forests. Alive...
    He cared about the green of the thing after all. Not the black oozing through the walls. That didn't remind him of forests at all. It looked like tar. Tar didn't matter.
    FIND ME!
    Only it mattered.
    And find it he did.
    The green something, a strange smelling green gem unlike any the ferret had seen, was buried at the base of one of the many piles of treasure. Staring into the starry center was like staring into the deepest grove of oaks at twilight. The green seemed to glow but the dark core glittered with unseen starlight.
    Carefully, gingerly, the ferret closed his mouth around the iridescent green gem and felt a soft buzz of energy running through his body. It tingled and made him feel happy.
    Rewarded.
    Good.
    And then the mountain of treasure before him exploded outwards, a mass of black tar and shadow filling the space before him, reaching for the squealing ferret as he was thrown backwards into the air.

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.
   

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.