shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

Armes Albrecht for decades had made a habit of doing her morning exercises in solitude as the sun rose, alone in the training hall. Her routine was simple – following the motions of battle. Swing. Thrust. Parry. Lunge. Backswing. Step. All of them were executed with excruciating slowness, however, while holding an awkward, heavy sledgehammer – the strain of keeping the thing steady as she moved glacially from form to form made even her bulky arms tremble, and her hair and simple training garb was soaked with sweat. She was in the middle of an estrelitta when a furious voice spoke out just behind her, startling her badly enough that she nearly dropped the hammer.

              “You left me to die, Albrecht!”  

She acted on instinct and whirled, raising the weapon in a sweeping strike, but received her second shock of the morning as she found herself being stared down by the outraged eyes of the king’s Fool. Unable to stop the motion, she released the hammer, letting it whirl off to crash into a rack of training weights on the wall. The Fool didn’t flinch, carried forward with his anger, and stabbed his finger at the center of her collarbone, glaring up into her eyes. His jester’s motley was travelworn and singed, and he looked exhausted.

              “You set the inn on fire, and you left me to die! I woke up in an inferno, Albrecht! That you caused! Do you have any idea what that’s like? And after I managed to get out intact, what kind of scene awaited me? Did you lose your mind, demon? Did the bloodlust become too strong? You left the innkeeper in HALVES! What the devil happened?! Where did you go?!”

              Armes was pale with realization. “They had stolen her. They were stolen her, and I, ah… I forgot about you. My duty was too important, and I acted without thinking.” She thought back to that night – returning to her room, which she had left so briefly, only to learn that her belongings had been snatched, including her pack with its precious cargo – the Princess, hidden away. “I was ordered to-“

              Though it seemed impossible, the Fool actually managed to get even angrier. Armes actually took a step back – she didn’t know the jester had a temper at all. “You FORGOT me? In your haste to what, Albrecht!? To slaughter a few pickpockets? For swiping your precious toy? I know you threatened me to keep it secret, but I didn’t think you were truly that mad!” He snatched his belled cap on his head, twisting it in his hands. “What in all the gods names could be that important?”

              She took a steadying breath, her composure beginning to return. Heavens above, what a shock that had been. She was losing her edge. And who would have imagined he could move so silently with all those bells? She took another breath. “I will show you. Come with me, to the Princess’s chambers.”

              He didn’t agree to follow her right way, and when she finally managed to coax him into coming along, he spent the entire journey through the halls haranguing her, delivering insults cruel enough to blister. She couldn’t fault him for it. She hadn’t thought for even one moment about his fate after running to Alysia’s rescue. She accepted that enough retainers and guards had witnessed her beratement that she would simply have to live with the consequences. She raised a hand as they approached the door to her rooms, however, and he briefly paused his tirade. “What you are about to see is a secret. A secret of the Realm, not just of myself. Everyone who has borne witness must swear an oath not to reveal it to anyone who may be able to endanger the Realm, on pain of death. Do you understand?”   

              He gestured impatiently as he made the sign of the Redeemer, rapidly rattling off the customary vow, and she knocked, opening the door only after hearing the Princess’ assent. “So let’s see what’s so blasted important that you- ah, Your highness! Good morning!”

Alysia sat at the window, staring down at the town below the walls as she rested her chin in her hand. Her bear-self sat in the crook of her arm, staying still as her puppet-self turned to regard her visitor. “Oh, it’s you! Thank goodness! I was so worried, after that night at the inn!”

              The Fool approached, laughing and smiling. “Oh, you heard about that? Hahaha, the fire found my jokes in such poor taste that it wouldn’t devour me, though I-“ He froze as he drew near, though. His eyes darted to the bear, clearly recognizing it, and then back up to Alysia’s face. He stepped closer, and she shifted with a quiet rattle of wooden joints, surprised when he reached out to gently touch her wooden cheek. “You’ve been through some changes since the last time we saw each other here at the castle, haven’t you, Princess?”

              “Well, the last time we saw each other was actually that day on the road you spotted me in Armes’ bag, really…” She said with her bear-self, holding herself up and taking his hand with two small paws. “It’s been quite a year for me.”

              The Fool’s eyes were bright with wonder. “What on earth happened?” As she told him the whole story, including all of the near misses and dangers, his face – usually so expressive that each emotion seemed almost a caricature of itself – was still, as he merely listened intently, nodding at points, occasionally murmuring a quiet request for clarification. When she described the brief death of Armes and her terror in the witch’s jar, he squeezed her paw tightly. “It’s a miracle. You being here, to speak to me today, is truly a miracle. The songs they’ll sing about your journey will be incredible, when this is all behind you and the tale can be told.”

              He looked over his shoulder at Albrecht, who had taken a seat on an ornate little sofa. “I understand a bit more, now. You’re still a beast in human shape.” His expression softened slightly. “But at least you’re a loyal beast.” He sighed, and looked back to Alysia. “So! You’re blessed with two bodies now, then? Would you reward your dear Fool with a little demonstration of what you can do? I’ve never seen anything like this before, even when I toured the Magisterium.”

“Of course!” Alysia rose and gave the fool her seat, joints rattling softly as she paraded back and forth through the room, both of her bodies in unison. She danced a courtly ballroom dance with an imaginary partner, and with the slim decorative rapier she had been given ages ago by her father even fenced with the air, thrusting and parrying. “Elbow in, Alysia,” Armes murmured softly, the puppet rolling her eyes even as her expression remained carved neutrality.

              The Fool made suitably impressed noises, but as he watched intently he began to frown, and raised his hand. “You find people are uncomfortable around this form even when you disguise it carefully, don’t you? Odd looks. Confusion.”

              Alysia blinked and nodded, carefully returning the rapieer to its scabbard and tossing it carelessly onto her bed. “Yes. Even when I wore gloves to cover my hands, and hid my face behind a fan – people would get uneasy around me. Like they could sense something.”

              “I’m not surprised. You’re marvelous, truly, but…”

              “But what?”

              “You’re clearly an amateur.”

              “I beg your pardon?” both of Alysia’s voices asked, simultaneously.

              The Fool didn’t seem to notice her irritation, rubbing his chin as he thought things through. “A gifted amateur, but still. It’s not both of them, though. Your little body looks as alive as anyone has ever looked. It’s the big one. That one’s not ‘alive’ in the same way. You have to think about what you’re doing, don’t you? It’s not second nature.”

              “I- well, yes. But How can you say that? I can play cat’s cradle with it! I can knit!  I couldn’t do that before I was changed!” She sounded hurt, like a youth who’s schoolwork was being criticized. “What else could there possibly be?”

              The Fool seemed to struggle to put it into words, and finally shook his head. “I have to show you. It won’t mean anything if I don’t show it. I’ll be back in a moment – if I am permitted to leave, Albrecht? Unless you planned to throw me out of the window once you revealed this whole plot to me?”

“I don’t care for defenestration. Come and go as you like, you’re the Fool. The castle is your home. And… I’m sorry.” She bowed her head slightly in apology. The Fool merely hmphed as he passed, before jogging off with a clatter of bells.

“I can’t believe you forgot him.”

“I had to maintain my priorities! You came first!”

“In a burning building!

“I said that I was sor-“

 They were interrupted as the Fool returned, carrying a sturdy trunk. He unlocked it and carefully removed a lovely marionette, making the Princess gasp in wonder. It was half of a matched pair, silly caricatures of a princess in pink lace and a prince with puffy sleeves and floppy hat. He carefully set the prince-puppet aside, and after smoothing her lace and gown, took up the handles of the princess-marionette.

“With puppets, you don’t just wiggle a string, and it moves,” he said, as he guided it gently in a graceful walk across the floor. “It isn’t enough to make the movement ‘right’. It needs more, if you want your audience to believe it. You have to give it the illusion of life. And that’s where you’re falling short.” He carefully tipped the handles and tugged strings, and the puppet danced, a dance just like Alysia herself had performed a little while before. Her bear-self walked closer, watching with wonder and frustration – in the Fool’s clever hands, the doll truly did seem to come to life in a way that she knew her own puppet-self didn’t. But she couldn’t understand what exactly he was doing differently.

“Every one of us from birth, though we don’t know it, is a student of human emotion. We know what it looks like, we know the universal motions of joy, of rage, of grief. And we know when something is missing, too. We might not be able to articulate why, but in our minds, we recall every time we’ve seen an emotion before, and we can tell something is lacking. To perform, you have to be more than a student. You must become a scholar.” The puppet’s dance faltered, and it stumbled, taking a few wobbly steps before sinking to its knees. Its posture hunched and it folded its hands across its chest, drawing inward, head lowering – seeming to sink into sadness so profound that Alysia raised one of her paws to comfort it almost without realizing what she was doing. “You must become a mirror that you hold up to audience, so they see their feelings reflected in you. That makes it true, that makes it real.” The puppet turned its carved wooden face up to Alysia, reaching out to touch her paw with its stiff fingers. It nodded, as if in gratitude for her kind gesture. And then in a heartbeat the fool whirled it up and away, to sprawl it carefully on a table, lifeless again.

“How? How do I do that?” Alicia’s puppet-self had risen, and took a few uncertain steps closer, the Princess suddenly very conscious of her own motions.

The Fool smiled. “I’ll teach you.”

-----

              “No, no! Do it again. Remember – you’re showing the delicate pleasure of a secret you can’t wait to reveal! It’s about what you DON’T show as much as what you do! You’re being too coarse, too blatant. I know that you know this – now show me!” Armes watched with fascination as Alysia faced the tall, expensive mirror the Fool had demanded and smoothed her dress with her wooden fingers before settling into the role. While the Fool wasn’t satisfied, it was still remarkable in the knight’s eyes as the puppet seemed to relax, and then tighten, setting her shoulders just so, her head taking a very specific set as she flicked a fan up to hide her wooden non-smile. She glanced furtively left and right, and the fingers of her free hand held a delicate curl – as if she wanted nothing more than to call for someone’s attention, to whisper in their ear. “Good, good – you’re getting there… Better. Next. Your duty calls. You are in the court, and you are to meet a dignitary of the State. You wish to convey respect, but only precisely enough, and not an ounce more – you are the future queen, after all. Do it just as you used to. Think back to that time. Feel it. That moment never ended. You are living in that moment. Now… Show me.”

              The Princess’s body language had become so much more nuanced in the last few months that the trusted handmaidens who came in the midday to keep her company had finally begun to relax in Alysia’s company, smiling more naturally and even sharing the gossip and current events of the court. Armes marveled to see Alysia laughing with them, her shoulders shaking, chest rising and falling with nonexistent breaths. Her motions on the road to the castle had been mechanical and stiff, but they had gathered new grace – easing from stillness into motion, back delicately into stillness – little secondary gestures layered onto every action bringing them to life, a skillful recreation of her unconscious manner when she was embodied in her original form. The puppet body dutifully stepped into a wardrobe any time the King had visited, but the knight now wondered if maybe she shouldn’t any longer. Soon, if one didn’t know what to look for, Alysia would be able to walk through a crowded room with no one the wiser.

              The Fool and Princess had moved on to other subjects. “I still feel foolish, sometimes, when I exaggerate my motions. What purpose does that serve?” She made a show of picking up an empty teacup and saucer, each step of the procedure done in the manner of a pantomime. She even made a slurping sound as she touched it to her carved lips.

              “In our practice, you exaggerate so that in the moment, every little part of the gesture is second nature.” The Fool mimicked her motion with his empty hands. “We take the cup, we hold it. Ah, so hot! Pinky out. We blow on the tea. We close our eyes, we inhale, we savor. That first sip – ah, the warmth fills us! A sigh of satisfaction. You’re dividing your attention two different ways. If you internalize every gesture, you don’t have to think about it anymore. Your body’s memory will take care of the details for you. Does Albrecht think every time she swings her blade?”

              “Of course I do, I’m a thoughtful woman.”

              “God hates a liar, Albrecht.”

             


Fireball

Apr. 21st, 2025 11:14 pm
shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

Sunrise still glowed pink and yellow above the distant hilltops in the east. The air was dry and growing hotter by the minute even that early in the morning. A day touched by Fire. It was auspicious, the old man decided. And even in his heavy grey wool and soot stained asbestos apron, heat seldom bothered him the way it appeared to bother his companion.

“I don’t know why I have to learn a spell like this in the first place,” the sweating young man in clean, freshly pressed white robes complained, “It’s so pedestrian. I’m not interested in becoming some shoddy traveling spellminster, I want to learn proper wizardry!” He kicked a stone with an expensive shoe, fussing as some of the artillery range’s dust came up with it and stained his hem. “This isn’t what my father is paying you for!” His cry echoed off the distant canyon walls, little burnable vegetation in the area to muffle them.

Arcanist Waldbrand waited patiently as his student – Klaren Elderflower, third son of a rich family, definitely not an apprentice, this little scrap of kindling would never survive a proper apprenticeship - whined, seemingly endlessly, till he had exhausted his supply of complaints. After a sullen silence fell at last, the mage spoke, his voice quiet but hoarse from a lifetime of breathing smoke and ash. “In a lifetime of practicing the Art, one will sometimes find oneself in circumstances that were unplanned for, unaccounted for. Even a master Magus can be caught off guard. And in those moments, you will not have time to scribe a circle of warding, you will not have breath to incant the thirty verses of blessing, and you will not have the presence of mind to utilize seven unseen servants to rend your enemies limb from limb. But you will have this.” He turned partially away, and with a swiftness and economy of movement demonstrating decades of practice, traced a complex pattern and flung out his empty hand, speaking the rough syllables of the true name of flame. The ball of fire flickered into existence already in motion, traced a swift arc and detonated midair a hundred yards away, briefly forming a red-orange sphere before winking out of existence. The hot wind of its explosion and implosion blew the youth’s hair back and forth, the youth rubbing his dazzled eyes.

“Agh! But – but why would I ever find myself in those circumstances in the first place? I want to learn to transmute lead into gold, to live forever, to enrich my family – not go into battle! A cannon could do it just as well or better!” The boy was shouting over the ringing in his ears.

“If you have found something worth finding, a lesser one will think it worth stealing. They won’t come to your door and knock, asking to purchase it. They will study you, they will hunt you, they will find the weakness in your guard, and they will murder you. It is a reality of the world – even among Arcanists, among the high Magisters themselves, you will find thieves. You must be prepared to defend yourself. And to defend yourself, you need a powerful ally. And the oldest ally of all people is Fire. Now, enough discussion. Attend!”

To the boy’s credit, while he did grumble softly, he did indeed attend. Within an hour, he had gained a fair grasp of the gestures for a simple hand-ball sized sphere of modest flame, and by midday had learned to speak the true name of fire without it catching within his throat. The youth was breathing heavily as the Arcanist gently helped him apply a healing ointment to his burned fingers, showing him how to wrap them lightly in clean cotton bandages in a way that wouldn’t hinder their motion. The boy cleared his singed throat, and rasped a question. “I didn’t really mean to... to demean, Arcanist. But couldn’t it be done in more a more elegant way? Fire is simply the reaction of excited elements, full of energy, given something to eat and air to breath. One need not…” He made a vague impression of the throwing gesture, mindfully NOT making any motions with his stinging fingers.

Waldbrand nodded approvingly. “That’s a fair question. And I’ll acknowledge it – you’re right, it need not be so…” he mimicked the boy’s throwing motion. “It is known - it’s a coarse spell, a workman’s spell. The magician’s hammer. And some of my brethren have an artisan’s pride, and love to use and demonstrate their fifty different hammers without considering that they don’t look particularly different or interesting to one who isn’t versed in the intricacies.” He indicated a line of wooden effigies down the range, archery or javelin targets on days when conventional martial training was occurring here. “The third one from the left will be our subject – and the third one alone. Attend.”

Drawing a wooden stylus from his robes, he knelt and scribed a neat block of pictograms in the ashy soil. “Don’t concern yourself with memorizing the details of this example, but take note – like any other spell, we work in specifics, and we set hard limitations. Fire is our ally, but the hunger of Fire inspires it to find any weakness in the invocation, so it may eat more. Our distance….” He extends his arm and raises his thumb, gauging the effigy against it. “…85 yards. We only wish to affect a single man, so we restrict our spell to our target alone, not to a point in space or an area, so he may not simply leap out. We invoke the flame for only as long as we need to kill, and dismiss it after – mind that! If you fail to dismiss the flame it WILL persist as long as the fuel allows whether you will it or not. Are there any other factors I may wish to control?”

“…Something to encase the radiant heat, so that the other ones aren’t also set alight, Arcanist…?” the boy offered uncertainly, smiling despite himself at the rough man’s sharp nod of approval. “Absolutely correct. We add that in the same verse where we define the target. In this way our called Fire stays contained where we bid it, and nowhere else.”

Waldbrand’s knees creaked as he rose back to his feet, and he dusted himself off. He reviewed his work again, and then incanted, the unnatural syllables flowing fast and fierce, embers and sparks following each arcane word and spilling over his asbestos apron. They were accompanied by movements almost like a dance, each phrase having its companion motion, which made the ashen old man seem for a moment nonetheless like a living flame himself. And eighty five yards away, precisely as the final gesture concluded, the archery target was wrapped in hungry fire, fire that burned white with its intensity yet didn’t roar or radiate heat. It glowed for about one and a half minutes, before winking out with a peculiar gasp as air rushed in to fill the empty space where the target still stood, but now was only thin sticks of charcoal and ash that tumbled upward with the hot air that was finally free to escape.

The boy made a satisfied nod, as if he himself had cast the spell. “That’s more like it! It’s neat, it’s efficient, it’s a proper spell!” He coughed, his seared throat still rough, and took a careful sip from the waterskin Waldbrand offered him. “Yes, that it is, boy. Now setting aside the one we just burned, nine men still stand there, and ah – they each have a bow. They mean to kill you, I dare say. You have…. Ten seconds before they’ll be close enough to have a sure shot. Deal with them elegantly.”

“What? Deal with-“

“Nine. Eight.”

Klaren drew forth his own stylus and quickly knelt to the dusty ground, trying to scribe something similar to the Waldbrand’s spell as the magister counted down, but had hardly completed a line before the arcanist kicked dirt over it. “You’re dead. Rise. Again. Ten seconds, defend yourself from them.” This time the boy managed two lines before Waldbrand placed a booted foot on his shoulder and casually kicked him over. “You’re dead. Again.” The third time an arrow of hardened smoke buried itself in the middle of his scribing on the ten count, dangerously close to his hands. “Again, dead man! Defend yourself!” Each time the youth’s work grew more frantic, and each time the consequence for his failure was rougher, till the boy was clearly growing panicked, even genuinely frightened. “I can’t do it! There’s not enough time!”

“You’ll defend yourself or you’ll die here, boy! No gold, no immortality, just another dead fool in the dirt! I’ll burn you into ash myself if you don’t, mark my words! Now CAST, mage!” Waldbrand’s eyes were flame and the heat of his body was raising a whirlwind of smoke and ash. In the eyes of his young student, he had all the seeming of a fire-devil, and the boy fell backwards, scrabbling away. “No! No, please!” And in his panic, without even really thinking about it, he whipped his hand forth, a complex gesture clumsily spelled out in his blistered fingertips, and tumbled forth the true name of Fire, the rough syllables smoking as they escaped, and an angry red sphere burst into existence, wrapping itself around Arcanist Waldbrand and exploding with ferocity that rebounded off the distant walls of the canyon again and again. The boy cringed on the ground, trembling, fearful to look up in the silence that followed, broken only by soft footsteps approaching.

“Well cast, young mage,” the man said hoarsely, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Well cast.” The boy trembled as he looked up at Waldbrand, unburnt, ashen, dusty and gaunt and yet still somehow wrapped with potential light and heat and flame all at once. Klaren finally saw him for the full fledged arcanist he was, instead of a self-important old firecaller. “Forgive my theatrical approach. Fire tends to call to artistic souls,” he chuckled like two scraping rocks, before coughing and spitting. He helped the youth back to his feet, lending him an arm to stay steady. “In your time as a practitioner of the Art, you’ll no doubt learn many different spells, of all sorts. Not all of us become so tightly wound up with one aspect, like my brethren and I. But if you learn any one spell from me, let it be that one.” They began to walk towards the gates of the range, where distant, heavily shielded barracks and stables awaited. “You can depend on it. There’s a time for elegance, and a time for precision, and a time for efficiency. But for simple problems like ‘that man intends to stab me with a sword, right now’ a simple solution is the best. Learn it to the bone.”

“It didn’t do much against you, Arcanist,” the boy said, glancing sidelong at his teacher.

“No, that it did not.” The old man grinned. “Fire may be your ally, but it’s my friend. It loves me better.” The lad scoffed. “And also, I wouldn’t be much of a teacher if I hadn’t been warding both of us to hellfire and back this entire time – I could never allow real harm to come to you in training.” He spoke a word of unbinding, and the exhausted boy stumbled as he felt the weightless weight of unseen protections suddenly lift, like his entire body somehow skipped a beat. He hadn’t been aware at all.

“What about other wizards? Would it work on them?”

“I said it’s for simple problems, and no wizard has ever been called ‘simple.’ Some much less than others. If I ever found myself confronted by that insane geomatriarch who did in Nabjak the Vile, for instance, I’d just run, or give her what she came for and call it good enough if I remained intact.”

“Geomatriarch…?” Klaren repeated slowly, rolling the unfamiliar term around in his mouth. “Is she so strong?”

“From 'geometry'. And Hell if I know. But that one, she’s definitely complicated, and I don’t feel like being lectured at about how stupid fireballs are by someone who also knows spells that can unravel you alive like a worn out piece of knitting while she lectures. Whatever she came for, she can have the damned thing, it isn’t worth the hassle. Now let’s get you home and cleaned up before your lordly parents discover what a mess I’ve made of you, young mage.”

Malice

Jan. 29th, 2025 10:06 pm
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Malice. Malice, greatest offspring of the dreaded hell-kite Spite, and considered to be the last true heir of the legendary wyrm Hatred, the Hatred that had burned the realm to ash, whose rage had raised this mountain range in what had once been gently rolling hills. Hatred's last grandchild Malice, supposedly slain hundreds of years ago, the heroes who had laid him low immortalized in song.

Aluin had first heard the name (outside of song) as a squire, seated beside his knight-master Rowena in a sleeping hall in a wet little mountain town, listening to a bandaged, ill woman rave. A miner, she had been found collapsed on the road out of the heights, feverish, filthy, covered in wounds, with broken ribs and arms. She'd been searching for a seam of silver, and found what she thought was an abandoned wyrm-lair, the largest she'd ever heard of, with coins driven into the muddy floors, melted by the dragon's breath into rivulets of gold that had flowed between cracks in the stone. But it hadn't been abandoned at all. She'd seen a dragon, green fading into black, wings ruined and tangled by a harpoon and chain, eyes that were white and blind. A dragon longer than a hundred feet that lunged out of the darkness to eat her screaming mule in three quick snaps, the animal's jerking legs kicking and sending the miner off of the path, falling into the chasm below.

"It was Malice, oh Redeemer protect me, it was old Malice of the stories. He yet lives, oh, he lives...!" she had cried, grasping at his master's sleeves, her wide eyes unfocused, trapped in her terrified memory.

She had spent days crawling up from the rocks where she had fallen, until she had managed to reach the path again and stumble her way towards town, where she had finally been found earlier that day. The knight and her squire had been called to hear her story, once the healer had done what he could to comfort the woman, who looked to be on death's door.

His knight-master had sworn to deal with the threat immediately, though she confided to Aluin that she thought it likely just some mere hell-kite that had taken up residence in a mineshaft. Rowena had confidently led a group of volunteers up the pass, following the path the miner had described till they found what looked like the place. There she'd had them lay black powder charges and put the torch to it just as the thing began to emerge from the shadows, detonating the entrance and trapping the worm within, where it could harm no one. The beast had been heard screeching within and scratching at the rubble for weeks, but eventually went silent. That had been more than fifteen years ago.

Aluin's master was long dead, catching a crossbow bolt through the visor of her helm in some meaningless battle over a meaningless square of land in a meaningless duchy leagues from their homes. Aluin had been elevated to knighthood himself, though he hadn't done much with it. He was ostensibly on errantry, on a mission to visit every corner of the Realm while searching for wrongs to right, but in practice he had mainly found himself imposing on small villages and landowners, making a nuisance of himself, too dangerous to throw out the door but too insignificant to take seriously. That's how he'd found himself lurking in the smoky, dim common room of this forest village inn at the foot of the hills. It was too small to even have a name - it was simply 'the inn.' The only one for miles. He had been the subject of whispered conversation initially, but after a few days interest had faded, talk returning to normal concerns. That was when he heard the name again.

"Found ten deer dead in the glen. Not even eaten, just... just rent to pieces and left there. Damnable Malice will be the death of the Wood."

The name jerked him out of his revery, and he snapped to alertness, to see three woodsman talking quietly near the hearth. "Pray say that again, neighbor - what did you find?" He said, putting on an appearance of amiability and rising to join the men, who looked at him with discomfort.

"Oh, ah, it's... I found some deer, Sir. Looks like they were killed by some beast," the man said. He was shorter than the others, but they seemed to defer to him, nodding in support. "I was sure I heard you say 'Malice,' neighbor - I know that name," Aluin said, pressing for a little more. "That beast is meant to be dead."

"I'm sure you're right, of course, Sir, but.. there are some who have seen it, and they describe it so: green that becomes black, crawling on broken wings, dragging chains... It had the breastplate and ribs of a knight speared and tangled in it's horns." That last detail wasn't in any song. The only other person who had spoken of that was the miner, who had died of her injuries shortly after his master had rode off to seal the dragon away. Aluin felt a chill run through him, but pushed the feeling down. "Have you found this sort of scene before?"

"For maybe... three summers now?" he raised his voice to a questioning tone, and one of the other men mumbled a confirmation of, "Aye, three summer at least." Aluin bit his lower lip thoughtfully and nodded. "Well, whether it's a beast of legend, or just a common wyvern, we can't have the monster running roughshod through the King's Wood, mm? I won't ask you to guide me to where you found the deer, but perhaps if I drew a map, you could show me a path...?" The man, who had clearly been dreading the thought of being pressed into service, visibly relaxed and nodded. "Of course, Sir knight, of course. Happy to."

Letting the men guide his hand, Aluin drew an ink sketch of the area - not a terrible drawing, but he had never been more than acceptable at drafting and surveying. Centered on the village, the forest stretched for miles to the north and south, following the mountains, except for one spur which followed a stream into a canyon, rising up in a narrow back and forth twist into the peaks itself. The slaughtered animals had been found in a glen near that canyon. Aluin realized with discomfort that that mountain town he'd been in all those years ago was fairly close on the opposite side of the peaks - he marked it with an x.

"I'll be leaving in the dark, so that I can begin tracking in the light tomorrow. Advise your fellows to stay away from the foothills until I return," he advised the man, assuming that if he listened, the others would do the same.

"And if you, ah... do not return?"

Aluin grinned mirthlessly at the man. "Then stay away from the hills forever, neighbor. If it can kill a knight, it can kill you as well, and more easily. Move away and learn to farm." The woodsman had looked ill at Aluin's jest, shaking his head and muttering in a troubled fashion as he hurried away to spread the word.


The knight slept lightly, and rose only a few hours after midnight, stepping silently into the stable and saddling his horse himself rather than wake the poor stablehand sleeping in the straw. He grunted with effort as he lifted himself astride the animal, feeling the weight of his mail more than he had in a long time - he hadn't needed to wear it for more than ceremony in quite some time. He was glad of it, though, considering it a talisman against harm even if it wouldn't do him much good against something that could eat livestock whole, or burn him into greasy ashes. His sword was belted at his waist, and his worn old kite shield was strapped across his back, and he had a bundle of rough harpoons resting in the lance cup - all of them hastily modified pruning hooks and limb saws. He wasn't intending to joust the beast if he did happen to cross paths, honor be damned.

He rode slowly in the moonlight that filtered through the branches, letting his horse choose her steps carefully through the wooded path, trusting the animal to make the best choice for their steps as he chose the general direction. As they'd ridden, he'd listened carefully to the sounds of the knight. Owls. Shrews. A pack of wolves, thankfully distant. The buzzing of insects, the choir of frogs. Occasionally he would hear a branch snap, and see the glowing eyes of a deer looking back at him, the moonlight seeming even brighter in it's eyes. If he hadn't been paying such close attention, he might not have noticed as the sounds grew muted, and then fell into a near silence - a kind of breath-held stillness that reminded him of the moments before a battle began, or a storm erupted. It wasn't peaceful, but tense. In that tension, the sudden smell of death slapped him in the face, and he coughed, drawing a rag from his saddlebags and tying it over his face for a rough mask. He'd reached the glen.

Dawn hadn't yet broken, but the lightening sky was enough for him to take in the carnage. The woodsman back in the village hadn't exaggerated - if anything, he had shown considerable restraint in his assessment of the scene. A herd of at least fifteen deer had been... he wasn't sure "slaughtered" was the word for it. They had been torn into pieces by something monstrously large and terrifyingly fast, that had rent them with massive teeth and claw but eaten little, leaving parts strewn for yards in all directions. It was... brutality for brutality's own sake, as near as he could tell, not the act of a hungry animal. The dragon was lashing out at anything it could get it's teeth into.

The only sound beyond the breathing of himself and his animal was a constant, omnipresent buzzing of flies, which rose up in black clouds as he dismounted, gritting his teeth to keep from retching as he waved them away and walked slowly to the center of the glen. The grass was sticky with blood. It was horrifyingly similar to walking through a battlefield after the enemy had gone, retrieving any who lived. But here, nothing lived. "Mercy, protect me," he breathed, his first prayer in more years than he could remember. He had found a track.

It had taken a moment to understand that it was a track - it was more than two feet wide, claws like daggers pressed more than a foot into the soft earth, tearing furrows a yard long - he realized there were more, and deer track as well. In his mind, he thought he could recreate the scene of the beast's attack.

The wyrm had erupted from between the trees... there. It had forced them aside so violently that they'd been ripped partway from the earth, their roots exposed. Then, it had charged the deer in the clearing, and struck them so violently that some had been thrown to the ground. It had killed... a doe, here, then a young buck - velvet still on the antlers - then two more does. On and on, following each animal as it had attempted to flee, catching each one with dizzying speed, scattering it. And then... he followed a trail of crushed, smeared grass that seemed to have had some massive form dragged over it. And then it had crawled back into the trees, in the direction of the canyon he'd drawn on the map. Towards the mountains above.

Sunlight was beginning to paint the tops of the trees as it crested the eastern horizon, the coolness of night already promising to fade into a warm morning. But Aluin felt cold to his very bones, almost too weak to stand. He was afraid. He was terrified. His breathing was growing faster, and he thought of a dozen different lies he could tell the people of the village when he rode back through. Or maybe he could simply pass the village by and leave them to assume he had died. It would all be the same. No one would ever have to know. No one outside of these woods ever needed to know what he had seen. He gave a shuddering breath. Trembling, he mounted his horse with difficulty, clutching the saddlehorn to keep steady. Then he gave her a light tap with his heels, setting her on a course across the glen.

Towards the mountains.

If he moved now, the trail looked fresh enough that he could still follow it - if he delayed, it might get disturbed. He couldn't afford to lose this monster. Every atom of his body screamed to flee, but... he wasn't sure how he could ever face Rowena in the next world if he fled in the face of a beast she had ridden out to meet almost cheerfully.


The sounds of the forest didn't return even after the stink of death had been left far behind. The very few creatures he saw were furtive and shy, rodents moving silently through the underbrush, or birds flitting from tree to tree in short, scared dashes. He wanted to do the same - go to ground and hide, hide till this horrid presence was gone. Instead he pressed on, till the sun was high overhead. At a certain point the terrain grew too rough to proceed mounted, so he climbed back to the ground and unsaddled the horse, leaving her untethered. He wasn't one of those saintly knights who seemed to speak with their horses, but he and the animal knew each other well enough that he trusted her to wait here for him for at least a day or two - or to run like the wind if the wyrm came down the trail instead of him. He didn't feel like tying her to a tree and guaranteeing her death just to be sure he didn't have to walk home.

As Aluin hiked the rough, rocky wildlands, he saw more and more evidence of the creature, which hid its presence less and less - nearing it's lair, he imagined. Trees torn from the ground and tossed aside like weeds, massive stones shattered into splinters, a broad trail littered with occasional ragged scales. He stopped to pick one up, holding it up to the light. While it was rough and scratched, the color beneath was breathtaking - a green darker than a leaf in a moonless forest night. It transitioned ever so slightly lighter near the end than at the root - he was quite sure now that this was definitely the dragon of the song, now. It was just as it said - clad in armor of midnight leaves. Either the real beast or it's offspring. Either way, it needed to be put down. If it was venturing so close to villages and acting out so cruelly to mere animals, it was only a matter of time before it began to kill people. And its cruelty to thinking beings would be worse, since it was people that had mutilated it before. It had to die.

The trees - those that hadn't been snapped or otherwise destroyed - thinned as he climbed higher, and he realized he could smell something different - a sharp, sulfurous reek. It was similar to that of a wyvern's nest, but magnitudes stronger. He followed the scent like a bloodhound, moving swiftly but silently, carefully balancing his harpoons on his shoulder so they didn't clatter against his shield. He was grateful he wasn't in plate - not only would it have been a special hell to climb here in it, but the clatter would have announced his presence hours before he arrived. He froze as he followed the dragon-stink around a tall rock, and found himself staring into a long, dark passage. The cave they had blocked up on the peak must have been part of a greater system. The beast had found a way out.

This is stupid. This is stupid, and I shouldn't be here. I'm going home. I'm renouncing my knighthood and going home to become a monk. Stepping as carefully and silently as he could, he began to make his way into the darkness.

The cave was about fifteen feet wide, but tall, with a ceiling high above - a wide crack that ran into the heart of the mountain. Water dripped constantly from the stone above, and Aluin paused to rummage through his backpack, retrieving his flint and a sturdy little tin oil lamp. He struck a spark to it, wincing at the scrape of the stone against the rough steel, but the dragon didn't immediately come charging out of the darkness. So there was that, at least. He kept the flame as low as he could without risking it guttering out, and proceeded further, feeling as though the world shrank to a dim, wavering orange circle a few feet around as he did.

The stones of the cave floor beneath were raw stone and slick mud, sometimes black and shiny with wet mildew. Fresh white scratches he been made into the stones, though, dozens and dozens of times - years of Malice's hunts. Sometimes the wyrm seemed to have been taken with a fury, and the gouges grew deeper, carving ragged furrows that were inches deep into the living rock. Holding his light high, he realized they went higher than his dim lamp could show, perhaps all the way up to the ceiling above. He had to clench his jaw to stop from shivering, the lamp trembling in his hand. He didn't understand how any of the heroes in the stories could have challenged dragons so bravely - it was he could do not to sprint down the hills, screaming. He did almost scream, in fact, when he took his next step while still looking up, and found his boot crunching through the skeletal chest cavity of some long dead cadaver. His chest heaved and he breathed hard through his nose, mouth clamped shut because the moment he started to scream he knew it wouldn't end. He had seen death before - oh, he had seen so much - but here under the earth, it felt different, worse. This poor soul would never see light again. He swallowed bile as he wrenched his foot free, and leaned heavily against the wall to clam his pounding heart before he - carefully watching his step - continued.

The ceiling of the cave eventually grew lower, the crack narrowing and taking sudden surprising turns, climbing steadily into the darkness. The dripping water formed a thin stream that flowed and pooled, and sometimes Aluin felt small living things in the water when he had to step through it. The sound of the water splashing in little falls created echoes, so many that he couldn't tell if they were above or below, behind or before him. It came as a surprise then when he so carefully heaved himself up over a ledge, and found himself on the edge of a much larger chamber. Holding the lamp high, he stepped gingerly within, willing his eyes to perceive every detail of the darkness. The floor seemed to be made of round little stones, here, slathered in mud. But when he nudged a few of them together with his toe, they made a muted, soft clink. It was... coin. Coins! He stood in the hoard!

It wasn't as marvelous as the hoard of Spite was described to be. He could see rough, vaguely humanlike forms that might have been statues, but they were blackened by flame, smashed into limbless, headless remains. The fine tapestries on the walls were rags, and the gold, the gold had been trampled into the mud, or blasted and melted into heaps of rough slag. It was a ruin. Still...

As he reached down, thinking to pocket at least one or two pieces of gold, he felt some subtle change in the air. The scent of dragon, which he had grown numb too, was suddenly fresh and sharp, almost nauseatingly powerful as it filled his nose and lungs. He straightened carefully, so carefully. Dimming his lantern till the wick within flickered desperately, struggling to stay lit, he let his other senses extend. A whisper, a hiss of.. iron against stone, tile sliding against tile - scales. the deep, powerful breaths of an unbelievably immense creature. The almost inaudible rumble of each footstep, which reverberated through the stone and up through his feet. He could feel it, feel it stalking. Malice was approaching. He held still, clenching his jaw tightly as he felt a sudden heat - a heat coming from behind him. He had been followed into the cave, hunted even while he thought himself the hunter. Oh, Justice, please protect your foolish servant.

Malice crawled up over the ledge he had crested himself a few moments before, and he peeked over his shoulder as the dragon - so hard to see in the dim light, a shadow among the shadows - craned it's massive head back, and then forth again, a long tongue tasting the air. It's blind eyes were white, wide open in the dark. It spoke, which was such a shock that it nearly set him running. "You hide, then...? Good, rabbit, hide... I will dig you out, dig you out..." it was whispering to itself, but as big as it was it's voice rumbled like a drum. "Crack your ribs open and stuff you with rotten deer, leave you to hang, to age, yes..." The dragon finished crawling out of the tunnel, the chains piercing it's shredded, ruined wings jangling as they dragged across the stone. Malice used its broken wings like a third set of legs, and crawled forward through the chamber, the hot scales of its belly almost brushing the top of Aluin's head as it passed. Gods above and below, the thing was immense - the idea that this monster had once flown was astonishing. It's tail swayed as it moved on into the dark, and Aluin realized he'd been holding his breath the whole while, letting it out as slowly as he could as he felt the vibrations moving farther. His heart was pounding as hard as it had in any battle - he might not live long enough for the dragon to kill if this went on too long. He retrieved his lamp, and began to increase the flame, recalling those blind eyes. The little knob to adjust the wick creaked slightly.

It was only a moment of intuition that kept him from dying immediately. The dragon was on him in less than a heartbeat, it's head - half the size of an entire horse - darting back out of the darkness and snapping where he had been a fraction of a second before. Malice's jaws crashed shut on a pile of coins while Aluin bolted, running madly into the dark, acutely aware of his breathing, kicking piles of coins with each step. The monster screamed - a scream full of pure, distilled hatred. This thing wouldn't simply kill him, when it caught him, it would make him beg for it. Desperately, Aluin tossed his harpoons to the side, shrugging his shield off of his back and grabbing the edge. He came to a sudden halt, and heaved it as hard as he could to the side, closing his eyes briefly in prayer - if this didn't work, he didn't want to see what was to come. He heard the shield spinning in the silence before clattering into a mountain of detritus, and the dragon changed course, smashing into it and raging about. Aluin went to the floor, crawling silently back to his harpoons, freezing each time the thrashing beasts tail swung pash him - the tip moving so fast he feared it might strike his head cleanly off. He'd look just like one of the ruined statues, then. The thought gave him pause, and he realized he had... not a strategy, but maybe a desperate hope that could pass for one.

The dragon had risen from the heap of treasure it had been rampaging in, and in a fury vomited gouts of flame that hit the ceiling and spread like a wave to every corner of the chamber. The ragged remains of every tapestry burst into flame, ash and smoke stinging Aluin's lungs as he prepared a spear. He stood with his back to one of the statues. one that might have been a marble knight long ago - in it's rough broken hand it still clutched a stone spear of its own. Aluin swallowed, and dropped a few coins to the floor, watching the beast whirl to face him. He was startled by how beautiful it was in the firelight, even in it's wounded state. He had been a stupid fool to dream that he could defeat this creature.

Malice roared, its hatred shaking the foundations of the earth, and lunged with speed that was almost impossible to believe. Aluin readied his harpoon as the opened jaws raced towards him, and then collapsed to the ground beneath at the last second, letting the dragon lunge past, jaws open wide - and scream in agony as it impaled its soft upper palette on the broken stone spearman. Gouts of boiling-hot blood poured out, splashing on Aluin's face, causing him to scream in his own agony as his left eye went dark. With all the strength he could summon, he gripped his harpoon and plunged it upwards into Malice's throat, the creature's cries of agony bubbling and gurgling as blood flooded it's lungs. It rose up, crying out its defiance before collapsing to the floor, stones falling from the ceiling from the shock.

Aluin groaned as he rolled away from Malice, drawing his sword and watching the dragon's warily before approaching nearer. It struggled to breath, bubbles frothing from the corners of its open mouth and the wound in its throat. It's head rested on the cave floor, eyes half shut, staring at nothing. "Filthy insect..." it wheezed. "Every one of your kind... will burn..."

The knight carefully walked past the twitching claws, steeling his nerves as he stepped within the dragon's reach, placing a hand lightly on its hot scales. The creature shuddered, and he marveled at the way the motion made the scales shimmer in the dwindling flames. He suddenly realized that part of him would always feel shame for what he had done this day, necessary though it might have been. "Your pain will be over in a moment, king of the skies."

Malice snarled its hatred, kicking ineffectually with one of it's hindlegs before shuddering again. "You... will never know peace... insect. Forever, I curse..." it rasped. Aluin nodded solemnly. "If that is how it must be, then it shall be so. I hold no grudge against you. Rest, now, sky king." He placed the tip of his sword against a crack between two of the dragon's breastplate scales, and slid it home as swiftly as he could in his wounded state. The pitiful creature stiffened, and he hissed as its internal furnace heated the blade to red hot, burning the impression of the grip into his palms - a final rebuke. Then it began to cool, and coils of oily smoke leaked past the guard, the beast finally relaxing fully to the cave floor. It was over.

In the silence that followed, he considered taking some kind of proof that the wyrm was slain, but the thought of mutilating the dragon further than it already had been made him nauseous. He settled for collecting a scale from the ground, holding it in trembling hands and offering a deep bow to the slain dragon. "Rest well." His voice echoed in the silence. He didn't leave until it had faded completely.


Songs about the slaying of the great Malice came eventually to include a final movement wherein a nameless stranger arrived after the knights who first wounded it, who taught the dragon the virtues of Justice and escorted the dragon to the next world with kindness and grace. He is identified only by being blind in his left eye, his face scarred with burns, while his right eye is an incredibly dark green, shading into black.

Heelbiters

Jan. 23rd, 2025 08:08 pm
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"I'm telling you there's something DIFFERENT about these goblins!" shouted the youth, his eyes desperate as he looked from face to face with the rest of the party. He had been hired to pick locks and snoop - not for battle strategy. But after their third bloody encounter with this goblin band, which had ended with the pompous wizard dead, drowning in his own blood with a goblin crossbow bolt in his throat, someone had to say it. "They... they aren't stupid. They're playing us!"

The fighting woman snorted with disgust, spitting with in the direction the band of little freaks had retreated. "Coward. They're goblins. Just nut up and fight instead've hiding in a tree or whatever the hell you were doing last time. Coriander might still be alive if you had been there." 

The boy could see that the rest of the group seemed to be more or less on the same page - some looking at him with open contempt, the elven priestess with something like pity. Her white robes were dotted with blood - in the last sortie numerous small darts had been thrown at her as she tried to approach the dying mage to heal him. 

"Please, my child, do not surrender to fear. Our group has triumphed over much worse odds, time and again... these small fiends pose little true threat." Her eyes were wide, pupils enormous - even for an elf, something seemed off, her speech slurred slightly. Oh gods, he thought. They put something on the darts.

"They flanked us! They isolated the wizard, disabled him, and used him as bait! That's not 'goblin mob', that's tactics! Please, please - look at her! We need to withdraw, we need to-" He broke off, hearing a twig snap. They were being watched. The fighter followed his gaze to the underbrush, where suddenly a little figure began to loudly flee, laughing nastily and scuttling through dead leaves. 

"You'll die for what you've done to my friend!" she roared as she tore headlong after it, ignoring the boy's cries to let it go. The twin rangers looked at him with disgust before they moved to follow, hastening when her distant footfalls became a crash of collapsing wood and stone, her shouted challenges become shrieks of agony. No sounds of battle followed - the screaming simply continued, cries for help, for rescue, echoing through the unnaturally silent wood. 

"I must help her," The elf said dreamily, turning slowly in that direction and taking a wobbly step before he caught her wrist. 

"Lady - no, sister. Sister. Please. Please, don't." He placed himself between her and the woods beyond. "It is a trap, and she is the bait. Our comrades have been killed. We need. To leave. We need to leave, now. Please, believe me." He looked directly in her gleaming eyes that looked through him, beyond him, imploring her silently to see his sincerity, to understand their situation. He swallowed, and tried to look as young and frightened as a human child (a child in the eyes of an elf, anyway) could look. "Sister, I'm scared...!"  

It finally seemed to reach her, and she shook her head as if to clear cobwebs. Her voice, while still slurred, regained a bit of clarity. "...yes. I will escort you to safety. I will return with aid." 

As they began to withdraw, as quickly as the youth could guide the unsteady priestess, he felt his skin crawl with the sensation of being watched, a dozen ugly little chuckles drifting around him. When the fighter's distant screams suddenly peaked and cut off, the two of them began to run. 

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Meghana the Magnificent and Olivine the Extravagant watched the revelers outside the tavern window as they sipped beers, smiling at all the small people waving banners and noisemakers, getting into trouble. An ocean of goblins of every sort had flooded into the city, emerging from seemingly every hole, crack, and treestump to join the parade, which had gone on for two days now. The tavern door was barred, and a bored dwarf sat half asleep in a chair beside it, to make sure that the party stayed outside, and the big people patrons weren't disturbed. "I wish Goblin Week could last forever," Meg sighed wistfully, the round little wizard laughing as a trio of short creatures climbed on top of a barrel opposite the window to get above the throng, only for it to tumble over a moment later. Goblins immediately began to roll it down the street. "It's the best week of the year." Olivine blinked, though, tipping back his pointed hat and adjusting his glasses to peer harder. "*Are* those goblins? They look like gnomes, from here."

"Goblin is not a species," declared Meg with a tone of great authority. "Goblin is a size category. Every little guy out there is a goblin." Olivine laughed, and shook his head. "That's totally false, but please, go on!" He bowed his head slightly, gesturing graciously, in a 'the floor is yours' manner, grinning.

Meg nodded, equally gracious, clearing her throat. "Thank you," she began, then took a long drink. "Goblin is a diverse category, containing many different varieties of little guy. None of these varieties resemble each other except for being 'a little weird guy'; rather, they resemble larger peoples, which leads us to our goblin guideline, that being: Everything small is just the small version of something big." She slid her mug into the center of the table, and then slid an empty shotglass up beside it. "Gnome," she said, indicating the shotglass. "Elf," she continued, gesturing at the mug. "They both have: pointy ears; magical disposition; fondness for trees; long lives. Gnomes are elf goblins."

Olivine couldn't help laughing. "I'm sure the gnomes on the High Council would love to hear that. Then what about, about, ah, 'goblin' goblins? Like these friends," he said, gesturing to a pair of green youths who were watching them in turn through the glass, pantomiming Olivine chatting at the table with exagerated manners and laughing uproariously. "Oh man, they have my number."

"Orc and hobgoblin goblins, and hobgoblins are goblins of bugbears," Meg said decisively. She gestured to different goblin folks as they reveled around, interfering with the business of a knight who tried clumsily to weave through the crowd without being tripped or stepping on anyone. "Kobolds - the dog-looking sort, that kind - that's a goblin gnoll. Kobold - the shapely kind, with the big tails, that's - that's a draconian goblin - and draconians are the goblin of full size dragons."

"So some goblins are a sort of goblin's goblin."

"Precisely. Because of the goblin guideline. And the 'little fellow with a candle on his hat' kobolds are a type of fae, and that's a hole other bucket of worms, but they are also DEFINITELY goblins. Halflings are the goblins of humans, and dwarves..." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully before decisively stating, "Goblin of giants."

"Giants!" Olivine replied incredulously, looking around for any scandalized dwarves who might have overheard, but then paused, considering it. "That's not.. wait. Wait, I see it, I see it!" He sipped his beer thoughtfully, stunned by this revelation. "I might be a little drunk - this is beginning to make a kind of sense. So then what about humans?"

"The furtive pygmy, so easily forgotten..." Meg intoned with great solemnly, shrieking in protest when Oli tossed the last swallow left in the mug at her in reply. She held up her hands defensively, laughing. They were both distracted by a line of young human children running through the mob, delighting in being the tallest for just this once. "Humans are goblins too. We just get a bit bigger than the rest." She set a few coins on the table, and pulled a pair of wooden noisemakers from the pockets of her robe. She handed one to Olivine with a grin. "So what do you see we go out and join our goblin kin in celebration, hmm?"

They crept past the dwarf doorman, now fully asleep, and flung the door open, making their way out into the din, laughing at the shrieks of dismay as the chaotic goblin mob spilled into the tavern behind them.

"Goblin Week! Goblin Week! Goblin Week!!!"
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"Starship pilot who HATES this part" - Make Up a Starship Pilot, Cohost, 2024


By law, all pilots had to have their consciousness imprinted into a digital backup. Ostensibly, this was to recover data from after an accident. But the reality of the situation was that it was necessary so they could resume piloting the ship as quickly as possible after the ship passed survivable rates of acceleration approaching light speed. All of the other unconcious crew members and passengers would simply die instantly and then slowly be rebuilt in the resurrection pods. But someone had to be conscious to make certain commands which legally couldn't be handled by the ship AI, even the advanced 'true' intelligences.

So the pilot stays awake. And dies. And reawakens about .65 seconds later. This is why pilots make the (alleged) big money vs navigators and other command staff. Not because they have unique skills, but as a minor compensation for having to endure this - sometimes several times in a trip.

M Singh has been a working pilot for four years now - closer to thirty years of time back home, thanks to time debts from near light travel. And in his four years he has gone through eightyseven jumps. And he was sure, so sure at the beginning, that it would get better after a while, that he would get used to it.

He has not.

This is pilot M Singh of the vessel Long Stepper. Control, I have reached safe transition distance. Is my departure vector clear?

All clear, Long Stepper. The road is all yours. Safe journey.

As he finished the final checks, his hands began to tremble, and the monitors in his combination resurrection/piloting module began to chirp alarms as his pulse spiked and his blood pressure dropped.

Long Stepper, beginning transition. In 3. 2. 1.

He took a shuddering breath, and gave the system the command through his uplink. The massive fusion engines flared into full life and he was immediately crushed under the weight of more gravity than any human body could endure. He would have screamed if his lungs hadn't already burst. Death came less than a second later.

Half a second later he returned to consciousness in his digital locker, the Long Stepper continuing to pile on gravities as it accelerated towards near light. Through metaphorically gritted teeth he forced himself to ignore the phantom sensation of pain from nerves that wouldn't be regrown for weeks, their last message to his brain echoing in the digital environment. Checking in on the rest of the crew and the passengers, he saw all had died, and their resurrection pods were in 'maintenance' mode, keeping the tissues preserved until the time came to begin repairing and jumpstarting the bodies. From their perspective, it would be like waking from a long sleep. None of them would remember dying.

He gave the go ahead to the ships systems to continue departure as planned, and "sat down" to his main responsibility - babysitting the computer until they left the inner solar system and it could be trusted to take over from there.

I hate this fucking job.

Mage Hands

Jan. 11th, 2025 01:12 pm
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"Berserker who was thrown out of magic school because "Smash It With Your Fists", while effective, is not traditionally considered "magic."" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2023


"Maybe you should talk to someone before you go back. About your uh.. anger problem."

"I don't have an anger problem," the dwarf said, his voice tense. "I have a problem with people making me angry." He finished the sentence he was penning with a stab that crushed and ruined the tip of his quill, spattering ink all over the page, discarding it into a dented wastebin beside his writing table, filled with dozens of others, along with masses of crumpled, ruined vellum sheets.

"Most people don't get kicked out of the Magisterium for their temper, Theo!"

Theophrastus Bombastus turned to his companion, his face and smooth shaven head taking on a mottled red tone. "The MAGISTERIUM can go to-" his words halt suddenly, and he adjusted his small eyeglasses, his thick mustache trembling as he visibly calmed himself. "The Magisterium made a mistake. And after I show them my thesis, they will see that and acknowledge it and know what fools they've been." He gathered the pages of the thesis in question, a hefty stack of manuscript written in a heavy hand. Many Hands Make Light Work - New Applications of Mage Hand and Parallel Casting, Exploring the Unrivaled Utility of An Underappreciated Spell. Stuffing it into his satchel, he rose and donned his coat, the seams stretching audibly over his broad shoulders. "This will be my day of triumph. They'll remember this day for years."

...

Outside the Imperial Magisterium's Hall of High Magi, two guard-magi with spell-wreathed halberds barred the way, crossing their weapons before the massive brass doors. A page ran swiftly down the hall, crying out for more guards and somewhere in the distance a bell began to ring. "Move aside, fools. I have business inside." The dwarf glared at them.

"You aren't welcome here, Bombastus, and you know it," said the more senior guard, in a voice that only trembled a little. "If you leave now, there doesn't need to be any trouble. Like last time."

Theophrastus narrowed his eyes.

...

The Council of High Magi had only just noticed the sounds of commotion outside when the iron doors of their chambers were ripped off of the hinges by a pair of colossal spectral hands, crumpled like tin foil and hurled aside to smash the stone walls. Through the dust and falling rubble walked the dwarf, dragging the two battered, limp guardsmen by the collars before dropping them like a child who has tired of their dolls. "I have returned to your halls, my esteemed peers, to allow you to make right your great error of judgement. Grant me my status of Magus immediately. Once you read my thesis, I'm certain you'll see-"

"Magus?!" cried out one of the council. "You're no mage, Bombastus! One spell doesn't make a wizard! You were barely an apprentice - even my weakest students can manage a dozen cantrips!"

"Bombastus the one spell wonder!"

"Did you learn a new one? Power Word: Foot?"

The dwarf's brows furrowed and his little spectacles gleamed in the dim light of the chamber. A vein visibly throbbed on his bald scalp as he growled his reply through clenched jaws. "I am certain. You will see. The value of my research." He withdrew his thesis, and ghostly hands carried the bundle of paper to the highest of the High Magi. "I am achieving levels of parallel casting that NONE have before, and-"

The High Magus's hard voice cut him off. "You are exiled from these halls. Permanently, and with no hope of forgiveness. You will leave, and if you ever claim to be a Magus again you will be thrown into a deeper pit than any dwarven mine, and sealed within." The elf took his manuscript in hand, and with a contemptuous syllable, ignited the pages with a green flame, till they crumbled into ash. "Begone." The guards summoned earlier began to rush into the chamber, leveling their weapons at Theophrastus, who trembled.

The ghostly magehands floated beside him, clenched into fists. Then they were joined by a second pair. A third, a fourth. Countless mage hands, a mandala of potential violence. Theophrastus cracked his knuckles - thousands of them - and chaos erupted.

...

It took weeks to clear the rubble away. The destruction was worse than if an alchemical bomb had been detonated - the entire chamber of the High Magi had been torn down brick by brick by a thousand hands, all the way to the foundations, every fixture smashed into splinters, every timber snapped into kindling. By some miracle, not a single person was killed, but each member of the High Magi had the appearance of being trampled by a cattle stampede or caught in an avalanche, and the entire corps of guard magi was found beaten unconscious.

In the interest of saving face, no official word was ever spoken about the events of that day, beyond a vague announcement that the Magisterium were attacked by some unknown devil, who was defeated but managed to flee. No official arrest warrant was issued for the dwarf who tore a path of destruction like a tornado all the way to the city walls and disappeared into the hills. Theophrastus Bombastus has not been seen again.

Mage hand is no longer taught, as too many of the instructors grow ill at the sight of it.

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"This well dressed adventurer is a tailor, on their way to conquer the dungeon with style." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024


from the pages of Well-Dressed Warrior Weekly

This season armor is out. But that doesn't mean you have to sacrifice safety when you're deep in the dungeon! Dungeoneer Designer Dantana has prepared a new line of enchanted embroideries that can withstand the most punishing challenges. Silks, linens, and cottons in styles to suit any savvy sorcerer or swordsman, with the spells woven into the fabric and amplified with empowering beadwork, stitchery, and applique that are proven to turn blades AND turn heads!

Dantana is the sole fashionista who is fearsome enough to put his own handiwork to the test on the front lines. He's gentled giants, swam through slimes, driven off dragons, and gone head to head with the hobgoblins, and looked like a million goldmarks the entire time. And now you can too - he's taking the show on the road and opening a touring pop-up shop in all the most stylish city states. He agreed to answer a few of our questions before the tour begins, though, so here is our exclusive interview!

WWW: We heard you just returned from an expedition! It's great to have you back safe - what was it this time?

DDD: It's great to be back! I was in the Steinwald, testing out a new pattern. (He indicates a complicated stitch decorating his collar) I'd recently designed this, to resist petrification, and the villages in that area were being harassed by basilisks and cockatrices, and it seemed like a perfect opportunity.

WWW: And it worked, I see.

DDD: Oh, definitely. It was pretty good to begin with, but I learned a lot while I worked, and now when it hits the store it's going to be even better. Nobody's going to have to cower behind their shield when they enter a gorgon's lair anymore - they can strut in with confidence.

WWW: Amazing! Do you have any other new items to show?

DDD: Well, yessss... but I want to keep a few secrets, so the customers can be surprised when we pop up. Our first stop is in the sandy city of White-Ship-On-A-Golden-Sea - why don't you catch up with me there, and see a little more of what I have to offer?

And there you have it, loyal reader - the first lucky city on the tour! Well-Dressed Warrior Weekly will be there, and if you're wise, you will be too!

shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

"Adventurer who has gone overboard in their academic research on slimes, oozes, puddings, jellies and other related dungeon-blobs." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024


The faint sound of a bell ringing brought Olivine slowly out of a hard-earned slumber, a drool-damp scrap of parchment sticking to his face as he roused and sat up at his writing desk. The thrilling life of the academic.

It wasn’t the ensorcelled bells the Magisterium used to announce a convening, or the sharp clang of a wooden spoon on a pot that heralded mealtimes for the apprentices and magii. More like a cowbell, maybe. He rose from his creaking stool with a groan, and poked his head out into the empty hallway. Yes, there it was, even clearer than before. Someone was definitely ringing a bell in the condemned east wing of the former Imperial Magisterium building, or what was left of it.

“You can’t be serious. It’s two in the morning!” He stuffed his feet into his slippers and went stomping down the halls, passing the snoring guard seated at the door with a snort. It was a clear night, and otherwise fairly quiet. He might not even have heard the bell if not for that. He ducked under the stanchions blocking the doors, and peered into a building he hadn’t entered since that incident with the mage-hand fellow knocking down half of the city years ago. He drew a deep breath and called out into the dark hallway, “Whatever fools are messing about, that’s enough! Get out of here before I bring the guardsmen!” The bell didn’t cease, or even falter. The mage scowled and stepped over some rubble, venturing inside.

The halls which had once bustled with wizards, apprentices, researchers and alchemists now seemed so desolate, a thick layer of dust coating almost everywhere he looked. It was, he had to admit, a little eerie here – a place that had once been full of life, now as silent as a tomb. A tomb with an idiot cowherd jangling a bell. Where was that damned ringing even COMING from? He called forth a small ball of reddish-yellow witchfire and set it floating just above him, banishing the shadows, and followed the sound, deep into the dark, down spiraling stairs into the below ground levels. He hadn’t liked this area even when the building was inhabited, and now in this abandoned state it was uncomfortable. Was it always so dank? The hall had a musty scent, and the air was thick and wet. Ah, there! There it was – one of the doors had a bell hanging outside of it! A thin chain through the wall was yanking on it, and it jangled persistently.

Olivine banged on the door with an angry fist. “That’s enough!! Some of us are engaged in important research! What the devil do you think you’re up to?” The tugging didn’t even slow, and he hesitated. Was this some sort leftover automated mechanism someone had forgotten after the building was emptied? Or maybe… a test subject left behind, emerged from some slumber? Perhaps he should get the guard after all. But then again, it might be something interesting… He made up his mind.

The door swung open with a creak, revealing what looked like a research lab similar to his own, brightly lit with candles, with tables and shelves arrayed with jarred research samples of some sort of liquid. He entered hesitantly, squinting against the light.

“Hello?”

The little chain led back, back, to a chamber with glass walls, which seemed to contain – “Good lord!”

Inside the chamber was a gelatinous cube, the sort of monstrous ooze that the city used to keep the sewers free of refuse, vermin, and people. And floating within the cube holding the end of the bell’s chain was a nude woman, wearing heavy goggles over her eyes and a swim cap, a glass rod held in her lips extending all the way outside of the cube. As he got closer, she seemed to notice him, and through the blurry, wobbly creature, he saw her pointing to a rope lying on the floor, the end of which had dissolved into uselessness.

“Don’t worry! I’ll – I’ll get you free! Just wait!” He cleared his throat, and stepped back, taking the stance to cast Ullmer’s Lesser Obliteration, but stopped when he saw the woman inside shaking her head vigorously and crossing her arms.

“No? No?? But you’ll – What are you pointing at?“ He looked around the room again, and in the corner found a pile of tools and implements, leaning haphazardly against the wall. One of them, a dull metal hook on a long iron pole, just might do the trick. He’d have to get pretty close to that thing, however. He grabbed it with both hands, and returned to door, seeing the figure within nodding, giving him a thumbs-up through the goo. He cautiously opened the glass door and stepped into the chamber, coughing at the vinegar scented humidity of the air within.

The cube didn’t turn, or move, but he still felt that it was somehow aware of him – it’s wiggles and jiggles seeming to increase as he inched nearer. But that may have been the woman’s own attempts to swim closer stirring it’s various… ichors around, within. Steeling himself but prepared to leap back if the thing lunged, he gingery pressed the iron hook against it’s trembling side, shuddering in disgust as the membrane first resisted, and then abruptly yielded, allowing him to slide the tool in easily. The woman inside grabbed hold with both hands, and he throw his weight back, hauling her towards the creature’s exterior with all his strength, feet slipping at the last moment on the slick tiled floor and depositing him flat on his back. It was enough momentum that she finally pulled free with what could only be called a slurp, and fell coughing and gasping for breath on top of him, slick with cool goo that he could feel soaking into his robes already.

“Thank-“ She broke into a second cough, and spat unceremoniously to the side, as she sat up, straddling him. Olivine tried very hard not to think about it, or stare. “Thank you! I was beginning to think no one would come, and that would have been unfortunate! All of my research would have been pointless!”

“R-Research! You would have been dead!”

“That’s the thrilling life of an academic! Risking it all, for knowledge!”

“Don’t be absurd. Also, um, you’re – let’s move to the other room, away from that thing.”

“Oh, of course, of course.”

As she climbed off of him, he realized that he recognized the chubby little woman, though he wasn’t quite sure how yet. She walked around the monster, bare feet slapping on the wet tile, and cheerfully followed him out once she had retrieved a pair of incredibly thick spectacles from a table.

“I’m glad I didn’t take these inside. The gelatin won’t damage glass, but the wood of my frames would be ruined.” As she put them on and grinned cheerfully at him, it finally came home.

“Meghanna! You’re Meghanna, I know you! You were the one with that thing with the dragon!” He was agog – he hadn’t seen her in so long, he was sure she had departed the academy afterwards.

“Oh, that was years ago. The worms I found on that trip were very interesting – one of these days I’ve got to publish the research I performed with them. Right now I’m onto something else, though. Really great stuff.”

“What stuff? And do you want a… towel, or something…?” Olivine coughed politely into his hand, but Meg shook her head, seemingly totally unperturbed by standing around in her skin in front of a total stranger.

“No need, this stuff will flake off once it dries. Besides, it disintegrates plant fibers very quickly, I’ve learned. It’s much more effective on those than animal tissues, I think.” She bent down under her desk to retrieve something, and Olivine began to sweat a little. “Here!” She set a box down, rattling the jars inside. “I’ve got samples of more than three dozen different oozes, slimes, puddings, ichors, gels, jellies, and snots, from the various cave systems and dungeons within one hundred leagues of here. And I’ve been testing their properties, seeing if they have any applications that could be useful in food processing, or industry. We already use them for keeping things clean, why not explore more applications?”

“Because they aren’t safe! That one there attacked you!”

Meg blinked and looked over at the cube, which had begun to ooze aimlessly about its chamber. “Oh, no it didn’t. I was performing a test. I noticed when I was collecting my samples in the springtime that often I’d find these things with dead animals floating in them in their winter coats. I have a feeling that most people who die from these creatures aren’t killed by the digestion, but by drowning. I was inside of that thing for twenty minutes-“

“Twenty minutes!?”

“- and the only part of myself to be eaten was my pubic hair.” He was startled to see she was right, his cheeks reddening. “People entering caves or dungeons can bring hooks along to retrieve their friends if they should happen to be swallowed. This information will save lives!”

“S-still, that was far too reckless. You mustn’t do that again without someone to act as a safeguard!”

“Oh, I was sure someone would come along. And here you are! What was your name again?”

“Olivine the Extravagant. Ollie.”

“Meghanna the Magnificent. Meg.” She clasped hands with him and smiled. “Let’s head over to my room and scrape this off, put on fresh robes, and I’ll show you my notes.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, I ought to get back to my own-“

“You’re going to make quite the sensation in the Magisterium walking around like that.”

As he looked down, Ollie gasped to see that the cotton and linen of his robes and undergarments were in tatters, the material dissolved by the goo which had soaked it. He covered his groin with both hands, embarrassed, but the fat little wizard laughed and took him by the elbow and led him away.

The thrilling life of an academic, indeed!

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"Wizard who is NOT a sorcerer OR a warlock and furthermore how dare you" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2023


"Can you walk me through it one more time?"

Meghanna the Magnificent held her head in her hands and groaned in frustration as the musclebound swordswinger seated opposite her stared blankly. "Okay. Okay!!" She slapped her palms on the tabletop, making the various dishes rattle, drawing attention from other diners. She had had 'a few' drinks, and was perhaps a little tipsy. Just a little. "It goes like this."

"Magic is woven into every fiber of the world. Everyone has a little in them - even someone like you! It's in everything, and around everything, but most people can't see it or do much with it normally. Some species CAN, though, and when one group has power the others don't, you know how that usually goes, right? Of course you do. And people looked for protection, and they prayed, and finally something answered, and empowered their believers. Clerics. They are GIVEN magical power from beyond. Still with me?"

The fighting man nodded, looking as though he was trying to find an excuse to leave and failing. "R-right..."

"Now, not everyone is lucky enough to be loved by gods. Some people have to PAY for magic. With their soul, with service, with sacrifice - whatever. The point is, it comes with a cost, and at the pleasure of their patron. They buy their power. That's your warlocks, your witches, anyone who talks about 'pacts' - pactbearers. They're given a tome, or a weapon, or-"

"A tome! Like a grimoire!"

"NOT a grimoire! That's diff'rent! Don't interrupt!" Meghanna took a long drag from her wineglass, and filled it, and took another, letting the bottle roll away on the table. When did that go empty? "It's different. Anyway. So next there's your... Your bards, their songs tap into... Some sort of, the.. song sung during creation. I'm not exactly clear on that one. They can access magic through music. Neat. Everyone loves a song. Anyway." Another drink. The small wizard was a little red in the face.

"Here's where you ticked me off, pal. 'GoOd eVenINg SorCeReR' my ass. Sorcerers. Sorcerers won the lottery. They see the magic around us, and they swim in it like fish. It comes as easily as breathing, doing magic. And they look at all the rest of us and smirk and ask why we have to do it this way, with our notes, with our flutes, with our BOOKS, why, why don't we just DO it like they do? WELL MY GREAT GRANDPA DIDNT SHTUP A DRAGON OR A FAE QUEEN OR WHATEVER, NOT ALL OF US ARE SO LUCKY, PALLL!" She reached across the table and took someone else's wine, slamming it down. The entire common room was watching her, now.

"NOW, wizards. Magisters. Magi. Magusesssess. No one does our magic for us. We have to study. We figured it out for ourselves!! Learn to stare at the cube till you see the hypercube, turn your mind inside out and rotate it in four dimensions and SEE. Learned that if you stand facing precisely 32.75 degrees southwest and say," she climbed up onto the bench as she spoke but her next words were a discordant jumble of consonants, painful to hear let alone write down. "Then you hold your hand just so, and then you -" she seemed to draw something in the air, and somewhere behind the dumbstruck fighter the wall to the street outside simply ceased to be, leaving the other patrons shouting. "Then you can do THAT!"

"Please settle down, miss, I didn't mean any offense!"

"I'm not offended!! Not mad!! Lemme show you how not mad I am!!! Getta loada THIS!" She whipped a piece of chalk from her pocket, and with the chalk in her left hand and the bottle in her right began to draw a circle on the rough wood of the table.

Outside a few puzzled onlookers had gathered to stare at the inn's vanished wall, only to be pushed aside by dozens of fleeing patrons as the common room emptied, except for the wildly laughing little wizard standing over her magic circle. Light blazed, and a massive blast of pink smoke flooded out into the street and surrounding neighborhoods, sparkling with glitter, fireworks exploding in the air above.

"WIZARDS RULE, FUCKERS!"

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"A mage who meant to sign up for the course on worm studies, not the course on wyrm studies!" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2023

The first prompt I made, and the first story I wrote!


"I'm not-" wheeze "even supposed-" gasp "to be here!" Came the huffed protests of the little mage trailing at the back of the group.

Meghanna The Magnificent (or 'Meg the Mole' as other apprentices referred to her behind her back and also to her face) was not dressed for an excursion onto the Glassplains - she was more prepared for an afternoon working in the Academy's botanical sanctuary. Robes reinforced for kneeling and working in the soil, an apron with sample cups and empty jars, a pack full of tools and the various accoutrements of a mage in the studies of earth and growing were in stark contrast to the tough leathers and spell-woven shields of her classmates. She took care to avoid following the footsteps of the others, whose hard boots broke the thin crust of glass that covered much of the soil here, leaving splinters that could shred her thin shoes to ribbons.

Magister Porphyry, the wizard leading the group, signalled a pause and folded his arms impatiently as he waited for Meg to catch up. "Magus Meglana- "

"Meghanna." Several mages snickered quietly.

"Magus Meghada, that is enough!" He managed to snap and whisper at the same time. "Mixups regarding course assignments are not my problem, they are yours. What IS my problem is that you are slowing us down, making an appalling amount of noise, and generally being a real DRAG during what is supposed to be one of the highlights of this course - the field observations of the Glassplains Hellkite." The irate wizard's volume began to climb, and Meghanna cringed into her robes. "I am solving MY problem right now. If you insist you do not belong here, you may wait right here in this spot. Silently! When we have completed our observations, we will return this way and you may accompany us back to the designated Longjump portal site. Otherwise, come along, and attend. You may learn something of use to you in your, your... worm... studies. I will hear nothing further from you!"

Without waiting for a reply, the Magister turned on his heel with the crunch of splintering glass and stomped away, the other apprentices in the group smirking as they followed along, till Meg was left alone for a moment before shamefacedly trailing after the rear of the group.

Meg found herself unable to really hear Porphyry's whispered descriptions of the Glassyard Heckflier or whatever it was called, however, and instead found her gaze fixed on the ground. The glass was broken here and there by short, small leaves shrubs that pushed their way up through the crust, with thin bark that showed signs of surviving many, many fires. Small sticks and twigs lay in the ground below, long burned, studded with seedpods that had burst open in the heat. "Fire ecology," she mumbled to herself.

She knelt down, doubly grateful for the kneel padding on the front of her robe on the dangerous surface, and poked with growing curiosity at the exposed soil with the tip of the trowel she had brought, turning some over. A surprising amount of creatures began to squirm back under cover - beetles, ants, an earthworm of surprising charcoal black shade. She gently plucked it out, letting it wriggle in her palm. The soft body went from glossy black to ashen grey as she held it, and began to glow just beneath the surface, looking for all the world like a twig of ember in her palm. "Lumbricus... lumbricus ignis. Bonfire worm. Beautiful..." Something about it's presence unsettled her, though. She gently dropped it into a specimen jar with some soil and pocketed it. Bonfire worms. What was it about them?

She dusted herself off as she rose back to her feet, turning back the way the group had come, and froze. The footsteps left by the group positively WRITHED with the black worms, wiggling up from below and spilling onto the surface. Meg took a step back in alarm, sparking a grouchy protest from the apprentice she bumped into. The earth under the nearby bushes was also beginning to shift and churn as bonfire worms erupted to the surface. She suddenly recalled the other name associated with Lumbricus ignis. Wildfire worms. They had a mild mystical property of emerging in the moments before a fire broke out. In some lands they were used as a last moment warning system of sorts to prepare for a burn.

The gathered wizards startled as Meg's voice - usually described as "squeaky" or "mumbly" blasted loudly through bespelled hands. "EVERYONE TAKE COVER RIGHT NOW!" As they turned, they saw her summoning ghostly mole-like claws to the end of her hands and burrowing rapidly into the soil, ignoring the glass cutting her fingers. Then the wise among the group immediately ducked behind their shields, spells flaring up with protection against fire.

Porphyry, angry at this new interruption, began to shout a rebuke, and failed to notice the truly splendid example of the Glassplains Hellkite, crimson and scarlet, sweeping towards the group. Flying barely ten feet above the surface, it began to spew a wall of flame that swept over the group before it, roasting the flatfooted Magister in a single (mercifully short) moment. The surviving magi saw the beast snatch him up with it's claws in a motion described as "elegant" and "graceful" by many of them.

After a few minutes, the limited amount of fuel on the ground burnt away, and other than the smoke, soot and a brittle, thin coat of fresh glass in the sand, most of the evidence of the fire was gone. The worms retreated to the soil, and Meg the Mole poked her head back up from the ground, blinking in the bright light and hot air. "...if anyone is looking for something to fill the gap in their schedule now, I think there's still seats available in Mystic Vermiculture."

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"Bard who as a girl was cursed to have snakes and toads spill out of her mouth every time she spoke, which she leaned into for being "metal as fuck."" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024


Excerpt from an interview with Briarthorn Blacktongue, the lead singer of Toadmother, in the Bardic Quarterly issue of the 235 Imp. Winter

BQ: I don't think I've ever seen a troupe quite like yours. How did you all find each other?

BB: Oh, yeah, haha, I'm sure. Most people with our condition get locked up or die in the woods or shit like that. (As she speaks, a large centipede crawls out of her mouth. she absently wipes her chin but otherwise makes no notice of it.) So like, you know how this happens, right? the usual fairytale shit, right? Some magic bitch wandering around and whenever she runs into a house with two daughters, she curses one and blesses the other. So like, my mom fucking sucks, right? She was always playing me and my sister off of each other, and that week I was 'her favorite'. But my sister was being "the good sister" and when she talks to the lady at the door, bam, next thing you know - blessing. Jewels every time she talks. And mom's too stupid to see what's coming, so she marches me out and has me demand the same, and I get this. (She spits, a black beetle that flies lazily away.) Guess who's the favorite now, right?

BB: Anyway like, me and my sister, we work it out between us eventually, she's cool now... She paid my way through bardic college, I couldn't ever have done it without her. Mom turned me out into the streets though, she can get fucked. Anyway. While I was in school I was collecting tales about people like me, and I find out this same fairy fuck wandered through like THREE different villages in our province! Can you believe that shit? And after graduation I went looking, and I found four girls, almost word for word same story. I was too late for the fifth one, she... it was pretty bad. But yeah, like, I taught the girls how to play, and next thing you fucking know, Toadmother.

BQ: What sort of reaction did you get when you first started performing?

BB: Oh my god, people HATED us! Like you wouldn't fucking believe! Not just because they weren't used to amplified sound, like, even if we went acoustic and accapella people, they were NOT into the- th- ohfuck- (she holds up her hands and waves our interviewer off as she retches and coughs out a large adult bullfrog, followed by a salamander) -jesusfuckingchrist, that was a bad one. I hate the bullfrogs, fuck. But like, they would freak out. We stopped just performing in the squares or whatever, started looking for... you know, OUR people. Finding our audience. Doing shows for black masses, covens, shit like that. They couldn't get enough of us! And we kinda spread from there, normal people started hearing our sound and liking it... and shit took off. It took years though. Might have gone a little faster but I was also doing quests and shit, because I have to make sure the girls are taken care of. They don't all have good relationships with their sisters, so I wanted to be sure they can be all right on their own even when we aren't working. Without having to rely on anyone but each other, you know?

BQ: That's generous of you.

BB: Hell no it isn't. They're my family, even if we've got different parents. We're all the same. We all know what it's like, and we can count on each other. (She spits out a small blue lizard, beautiful and gemtoned, catching the damp creature in her palm). Even if something happens to me, Toadmother will keep going, and they'll have each other, and everything we've built. (She releases the lizard into the grass.)

BQ: Do you all have anything big planned for this upcoming year?

BB: (Grinning) We're going on tour. We're taking the show to all five Realms, especially the Fae, and ending with a performance before the Summer Court and the Queen of the Sidhe. We're gonna show them just how... grateful we are, for the very special gift they've given us. We'll show them real fuckin' good.

(She leans towards the interviewer and opens her mouth, revealing a black serpent perched on her tongue, which slithers partway out and hisses - before retreating, being swallowed again.)

BB: We're gonna knock em fucking dead.

shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

"Adventurer who brings a stuffed bear on their journeys." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024


"Is that a- Oh my god, she's even got a little GOWN! Armes, this is so precious! Her little BOOKS!"

The knight froze dead midstride as she heard the cry of delight, not moving for just a beat too long. When she turned to face the rascal investigating her opened pack, she wore a wry, embarrassed grin on her face, which did very interesting things with her scars. She covered the distance between the two of them quickly - not rushing, per se, but not taking her time either, and firmly took her possessions in hand, closing the pack - or nearly closing it, leaving the flap open just a crack. The splendidly fluffy toy bear in the guise of a little princess hidden inside could only just be seen. "So this is who you were speaking to when I thought you talked to yourself! Astounding!"

"Haha, yes...you've caught me off my guard! You see, sometimes when errantry calls me far from home, it gets difficult to sleep without her. A little tiny... comfort of home." Armes' smile could have passed for friendly as she looked down at the fool she'd been traveling with, a fool in the truest sense - both by nature and by profession, a juggler and singer and teller of stories who evidently had never learned to mind his own gods damned business. "I'm sure I can trust you to be discreet about my little friend, yes? No amusing songs, no jokes at my expense?"

"How could I not tell anyone about THIS? The most feared, ferocious knight in the realm-"

Armes cut him off with a voice like iron. "Worked hard, HARD to build that reputation without needing to butcher every fool yokel who thought he could best her merely for her sex. And if rumors should spread like this, people might begin to think that way again. And this time maybe I may have to leave more than a few yokels butchered." Armes seemed to grow even taller as she loomed over the fool, who shrank back, his colorful motley dimmed in her shadow. "Maybe a few in every town. Down every road where bandits who should know better start feeling bold. When every idiot third son with a lance comes seeking to make a name. I'd have to leave them strewn about my feet in pieces. With you there with me, of course. Right beside me at every turn. I'd be counting on you to witness each deed and tell everyone. Of my fierce, murderous nature."

The fool went pale - nearly as pale as the face paint he wore when performing a pantomime, and swallowed hard. "I - ah. When you put it that way, it does seem... Trivial. Boring, even. N-no one would want to hear about that. You villain." That last part muttered under his breath, his eyes looking down and away.

"So happy you could see it my way, my friend," the knight murmured, and gave him a pat on the shoulder with a heavy hand, gently turning him to face the direction she had come from. "Speaking of yokels, I was about to tell you. We won't need to sleep rough tonight - there's a muddy little village just over the hill. They're going to be excited to see you - I doubt they ever see a true, dyed in the wool fool like you this far out from the courts. Perhaps you'd like to...?"

"Perhaps I'll scurry ahead and make myself known, yes! A splendid idea!" He looked relieved, both by the prospect of a bed - even a rough country cot - and at the chance to be away from her. "I'll, ah, make sure to warn them all to mind you! To stay on their best behavior! I don't want to see.. to see THAT. Not ever again." He picked his bag and his stick with a head on it and his bells and his curious triangular guitar and began to jog down the path. Not "run", certainly not "flee". A... Very quick jog. "I'll meet you there!" He called, voice receding quickly into the distance.

Armes watched him leave, and waited till she could see him nearing the foot of the hill they'd been hiking before she coughed theatrically into her hand. A small, feminine voice answered her sign.

"I nearly screamed when he opened the pack," said the little voice, laughing ruefully.

Armes kneeled on the ground and carefully opened her pack again, as the stuffed bear within shielded her eyes from the light, rose to her little feet and stretched, yawning. "Yes, princess. I'm sorry - if I had been more cautious about how I carried you, he would never have seen." She grimaced. "My apologies also that you had to hear that - I needed to make sure he would be discreet. I would prefer not to have to kill your father's fool."

"No, it was my fault, Armes. I wanted to read, and pushed the flap open. It's so miserably dark in here, you know!" The bear's stitched face managed to look both apologetic and haughty at once, as though she had just awoken the chambermaid at an unfortunate hour to complain of a draft. "Is there no way you could leave it open?"

The warrior shook her head immediately. "Impossible. We were lucky that he was the only one to see you today. And if he had caught you MOVING, the cat might have been entirely out of the bag. So to speak."

The princess stomped her little foot, her toy shoe thumping softly. "So we tell him! He's known me since I was a child!" ("One would think you still are a child," the knight murmured to herself, unheard.) "He can be trusted! He can help us find the ones responsible for my... condition!"

"Out of the question." Armes sighed after a moment, though. "However. While we walk to town. If you promise to stay low and out of sight." She paused. "I'll walk slow."

The Princess seemed on the verge of pressing the issue, but sighed herself, and flopped unceremoniously onto her bottom in the crowded bag. "Very well. ...Thank you, Dame Armes."

"Princess Alysia." replied the knight softly, as she hefted the pack carefully to her shoulder, checking to confirm her passenger was indeed low enough, and began her leisurely stroll down towards the valley below. She could see that the fool - a colorful dot of a figure now - had reached the village green, and people were beginning to gather. There would be a room for them to sleep in tonight, for certain.

Inside the bag, the teddy bear who had until very recently been Alysia Goldenseal, the realm's heiress apparent, eldest daughter of the king, crossed her little arms behind her stuffed head and looked up at the sky. She remembered her knight protector's words from earlier - she can't sleep easily without her, eh? Then it should be only natural for her to be in the knight's bed tonight. She chuckled as she cobbled together a plan.

"Shh."

"Oh, shush yourself."

shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

"Crowd pleasing gladiator who loves playing the heel." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024


Ferris waited patiently in her cell, arms resting on knees tucked to her chest as she listened to the roaring crowd above calling for her blood.

She was impressed - one didn't usually think of elves as the "roar with bloodlust" type. Evidently she'd really kicked the hornet's nest when she had fought her way into the king's palace. Maybe they didn't call him "king" but "Highest Star of Heaven's Light," blah blah blah, a king is a king. And maybe her shout of "Death approaches, fools! The time has come to face your destiny and fight!" had struck them as a little bit... Assassin-y. That was reasonable. It was a reasonable misunderstanding. And throwing her into a dungeon was a reasonable reaction. She hadn't helped her case by adding, "I WILL FACE YOUR STRONGEST CHAMPION BARE HANDED AND WIN, AND WHEN I BEST THEM I WILL HAVE YOU SPEAK TO ME, COWARD! YOU WILL HEAR ME OUT OR YOUR PEOPLE WILL ALL BE SLAIN! TO THE VERY LAST!"

Yes, she had handled it poorly, all things considered. Not her finest moment as a diplomat. It had seemed appropriate at the time, though, after spending over three weeks patiently entreating the court to grant her an audience, only to be constantly turned away with that oh-so-elvish smirk of superiority. As if she weren't here on a mission to save THEIR people. As if time wasn't DESPERATELY short already. The tide of darkness which had begun to roll across the lands from the north would be here soon. The elves would die if they didn't evacuate and join with the other nations marshaling in the south.

She shivered as she wrapped the ragged cloak they had left her with a little tighter around herself. They'd torn away all of her weapons, and armor, and a lot more besides, and left her in nothing but a breastband and loincloth before clapping the irons around her neck, wrists and ankles and beating her half senseless. The chains binding her to the wall were heavy and thick - she was flattered. She'd had several days to admire them so far, and had begun to think they'd thrown her into the dungeon to simply die and be forgotten when she'd abruptly been hauled, staggering, into a different cell, dragged and pushed at spear point with a sack over her head. The sounds of the crowd had begun a short while later, and Ferris allowed herself some optimism - maybe they were going to take her up on her challenge after all. She knew kings hated to appear weak when dramatically publicly insulted.

She carefully climbed to her feat and began to warm up her stiff, bruised muscles. If she was right, it was almost time to get to work.


The crowd, which had seemed to roar from deep in the pit, was all but deafening as Ferris was led, still chained and wearing nothing but her undergarments and a rough cloak, into the sands of the arena. The arena was a surprise - the sands were clean and new, and the witchwood trees forming the massive structure were still green and new. They must have had their wildermages shaping the trees from dawn till dusk growing it, and all for her benefit. She was deeply flattered. All of this, for what was surely meant to be her dramatic execution! She had made a deep impression on these elves. What must have been an entire city's worth of people filled the stands, shouting hatred at her, some even lowering themselves to hurl stones that struck the sand alarmingly close to her feet, only for the guards surrounding her on all sides to shout them down.

'Oh, they're angry angry,' she thought, and grinned fiercely. 'Good. You should be.' And to add a little fuel to the fire, she spat, ignoring the spear butted into her ribs. The outraged boos and jeers were just what she wanted. 'Just like that. Great energy.' She was considering egging them on a little more when she noticed a commotion, realizing that things were about to get moving, and quickly.

The star- the heaven's whatever- the king was one of your classic willowy wizard types. He had put on an air of disdain when she'd smashed her way into his court, and wore it still as he climbed to a viewing platform and stepped forward to address her. His voice was sweet and melodic - what a pleasure to be sneered at by such a pretty man, haha! - and it boomed forth with magical energy, filling her arena.

"While I knew your kind were crude, even childish, I never expected you to be so insultingly stupid as this. I don't know what you thought you would accomplish, to attempt to take my life in the seat of my very power. But it would be a waste of my time to speak reasonably with you. We will speak to you in a way your simple people can understand. With force. Come forward, Aurelio!" He made a gesture, and the crowd cheered as a gleaming figure stepped forth and into the sands. An elf like no other, truly splendid - more than six and a half feet tall, well built, beautiful, graceful. He wasn't armored, but his bearing suggested he might be one of the magical knights this kingdom trained. Perfect - they'd need him, and many more like him in the coming days. The crowd was exultant - they knew him, they loved him - she couldn't have asked for better. They'd sent her a hero!

The chains were struck, and Ferris rolled her muscular shoulders, shrugging off the cloak and inciting a gasp from the crowd. It might have been from the multitude of bruises on her pale northern skin, but she hoped it was from her scars, and her heavy, muscular build. She was a good half foot shorter than the elven champion facing her, but she was easily heavier - a gift from her dwarven mother, but with the height of her human father. She knew she was an imposing sight to see. To her opponent's credit, he made no sign of shock at either her physique or her condition, merely shedding his robes and approaching the center of the arena.

"I am Aurelio Swaying Leaf's Graceful Fall," he proclaimed in a bold voice clearly meant for the crowd, "And today I answer your challenge. Prepare yourself." In a softer voice, intended for her alone, he added, "I don't know what fool sent you to our lands, but you have been sent to your death. I hope you have no regrets." He extended his hand, courteously using the human fashion.

Ferris smiled inwardly, feeling her heart beginning to pound. Showtime. She regarded his hand coolly, and then slapped it aside, to the crowd's scandalized gasp. She gave them just long enough to really take it in, and then attacked, sending her heavy fist for his handsome jaw, which he neatly parried with a practiced hand. The expected counter came a moment later - an elegant but incredibly forceful kick to her midsection, in the beautiful style of the elven fighting arts. If she hadn't known something like that would be coming, it would have ended her battle almost as soon as it had begun.

She grunted as his shin hit her abdomen, folding and springing back just so, taking off just enough of the edge of the blow that she didn't crumple - thank goodness she hadn't eaten. Leaving her no time to think of a next move, the traditional followup came, two lighter kicks from the knee that rattled her skull. They were 'lighter' in the way that two blows from a carpenter's hammer were lighter when following a sledge, and only her long experience kept her on her feet. She staggered back a few steps as the crowd roared, and shook her head to clear it. The hero still had his foot poised, and resumed a fighting stance gracefully, his cool expression belied by his blazing eyes. She grinned, a feral baring of teeth, and rushed back to him, swinging blows that kept him moving, kept the energy high, as he deflected, struck back, danced through. Each retaliation rattled her, adding to her gallery of bruises and bloody welts.

The cheering grew louder over the passing minutes, and Ferris could feel the knight's edge dull ever so slightly as he tired from her wild attacks, at last, curse his stamina. Time to make her play. She feinted high, and Aurelio, who at this point had only been dealing with a brute, went for it. As he extended his hand to parry, she sank low with a more fluid motion than could be believed from her bulky frame, planted her feet solidly (as solid as the roots of the mountains, the dwarven battlemasters used to say, drilling it into her), and delivered a sharp, precise blow to the ribs, seeing his eyes widen in shocked pain. She pivoted at the waist and gave him a blow to the sternum with her left, and then finished with a right to the jaw, sending him sprawling in the sand, the crowd shouting in dismay.

She wiped her bloody mouth and waited patiently as he climbed back to his feet, seeing a new respect in his eyes. She nodded to him, and assumed a proper stance for the first time, ready. Now the battle began in earnest, and as he attacked Ferris made no pretense of taking the blow, blocking and striking in kind. This part of the show was the most critical. It wasn't enough to beat her opponent - the people of the land had to understand just how strong he was - how very strong they themselves were. But they also had to know that despite that strength, they weren't unbeatable.

She fought as hard as she could, and the pitch of the crowd's roar seemed to change, less hatred for her, just... Exhilaration. It took everything she had to keep up with Aurelio, who fought with a ferocity she didn't know elves possessed. "Who are you?" He gritted through gritted teeth as they locked arms, straining to hurl each other down. "Ferris," she grunted. "Of the northern realm." Instant recognition lit up his eyes, and she took that moment to kick the back of his knee, staggering him.

She slipped his grasp and wrapped a powerful arm around his neck from behind and squeezed, pulling her wrist with her free hand to clench it and hanging on for dear life. The elf's thick neck bulged and he strained against her, and she growled as she strained to hold him. "Please don't make me kill you, hero. I beg you." The shrieks of the people reached a fever pitch, and then a horrified silence fell as the knight's eyes rolled back, and he finally slumped in her grip, Ferris lowering him gently to the sand. He was still breathing. She offered a prayer of thanks for that, before straightening and bowing deeply to her fallen opponent, her arms crossing her chest in the way of the north.

In the silence that had fallen, she turned and walked as proudly as she was able towards the king, bowing with respect equal to what she had shown her opponent. As she straightened, she saw his face - taken back, perhaps even afraid, though he was disciplined enough to control it. He must have never imagined his champion could lose. This was the moment, now - before he could think of an excuse to not listen. Her voice boomed out, powerful if still hoarse from her struggle.

"I came to your lands to beg an audience with you, Highest Star. Not because you are weak. But because you are mighty. You are mighty! Strong in arms, powerful in magic, brilliant in war. Few lands would dream of challenging you. They would be fools to try. But something is coming. A dark tide rolls over the land, filled with devils beyond number, with monstrous beasts, giants like none that have ever been seen. Your people are powerful like few others. And that power will not be enough. You will all die."

The Highest Star of Heaven's Light, to his credit, did seem to be listening, though he didn't appear won over. "We need only raise our wards. This so-called dark tide will wash past us like a stone in the waves, and then recede. We need only wait."

"There is no waiting out this storm, Highest. The dark will remain till it finds a weakness, and crack your wards like an egg. You must bring your people south, join the people of the southern lands. Join your strength with theirs!

"You tell me to lend our strength to this battle? Let your own people do it themselves!"

"It's too late for that." Aurelio spoke from just behind Ferris, who all but jumped out of her skin with genuine surprise.

"Gods! You're already up?!"

"Highest, it is too late for her people to join. She's Ferris Iron-wrought, the last knight of the northern realms. Her comrades were slaughtered to the very last when the Ironheart fell."

"Impossible! The Ironheart?? That fortress was impregnable! I was there myself when the walls were charmed!" The king was aghast, eyes wide in disbelief. He glanced furiously at a few nearby elves who must have been his advisors, who looked ashen - evidently this news from the human realms hadn't been considered important enough to deliver to the king.

"The charms were strong, Highest, but they failed in the end. The stones were thick, but they crumbled before the tide. Our warriors were noble and strong and brave, and they died. Our families. Everything. It's all been taken from us. And only I was sent away," It was impossible to keep the pain from her voice. "Sent to give warning. So that the other lands might have a chance to survive. Please. Please grant me an audience."

"It is granted. I will speak to you within the hour." He whirled from the platform and strode off, surrounded by his retainers and clamoring advisors, leaving the crowd buzzing fearfully in his wake. Ferris turned to Aurelio, who was massaging his bruised throat with one hand and eyeing her cautiously.

"The elves of this land are powerful indeed!" She said, her voice booming theatrically to catch the crowds attention. "I thank you for allowing me to win that spar, brave Aurelio Swaying Leaf's Graceful Fall, so that I could plead my case with the king! Your kindness is eclipsed only by your strength!"

The knight covered his confusion with an elegant bow, the grace of it only slightly spoiled by his disheveled hair. "You're an opponent like no other, noble Ferris Iron-wrought! I am forever grateful to you, for coming to the aid of my people, despite our poor welcome. I'm certain that with you at our side, we shall overcome this darkness!" The crowd's answering cheer was even louder than their calls for Ferris's death had been, making the mighty witchwood boughs of the arena tremble.

She reached out her hand in the elven fashion, and as he took it, he murmured, "I was pulling my punches," startling a laugh out of Ferris. "Were those punches? I thought it was one of those lovely elvish dances." His elvish mask of serenity slipped momentarily into a grin, and they faced the crowd together, and bowed hand in hand, bringing another cheer from the people. Then she walked proudly into the tunnel leaving the arena, only allowing herself to collapse once they were fully out of sight.

shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

"Princess who begs the kidnappers to release her because she knows what her knight protector will do to them and can't handle seeing that happen to anyone again." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024

"Forest and fields, you weren't kidding, it really does talk!"

The burglars were gathered around the traveler's pack they'd stolen, which had belonged to some sword-swinging giantess that had stumped into town earlier in the week. Something about her had smelled like money, so Eightfingers had his boys watch out, and if she went far enough from the inn they could sidle up to the room and see what there was to see. A few coins slipped to the innkeep made sure that he didn't see anything, and the whole operation went off nice and smooth. They had come back with a fairytale. Standing there in the pack was a wealthy child's toy, a beautifully sewn stuffed brown bear, wearing a perfect little replica of a noblewoman's gown and a little silver tiara. It was holding on to the edge of the bag tightly, squirming away when one of the lads reached out to grab it.

"Let me go! Please, please let me go!"

"Talks a bit too much, if you were asking me," grumbled Jughead, who had been carrying the pack till they reached their hideaway in the wood. "It's been carrying on like this since we nabbed it."

"Magic toy for some noble brat, you reckon?" asked Nimble, who finally managed to catch the bear in his hands, holding her up into the afternoon light. "Pretty little thing. Must have cost a fortune for whatever fool had it made."

"You're going to regret this! Just leave the bag and go!"

"It'll cost another fortune to whoever buys it," Eightfingers said, rubbing his chin. "I know a fellow who deals magic bits and bobs, and doesn't ask silly questions about how one came by it... He can set us up with a buyer. Put it in the old birdcage if it wants to sing so much."

"Pretty little bird gets a pretty little cage," agreed Nimble, tossing the bear to Jughead as he pulled the cage from a heap of other stolen pieces of junk and hung it from a tree limb. Fetching her back, he placed her lightly into the cage, giving a buffoonish imitation of a courtly bow after placing a rusty old padlock on it. "I hope it serves, humble as it is, Your Majesty-ness."

The little bear rattled the bars of the cage uselessly, continuing to plead for release as the gang set about making camp, getting a little fire going and starting supper.

"You don't understand! You don't know what she'll do to you!!!"


The strangeness and novelty of their treasure soon wore off of the band, and they alternated between ignoring the bear, joking about her, or discussing stuffing her back into the bag and throwing it under a pile of blankets. One of the band seemed fascinated by the bear though, a gangly teenager just gazing at her from the tree he sat in.

"Moonstruck over a toy," the others laughed, making filthy jokes at his expense, but he ignored them. Late in the evening, he climbed down and walked over, holding her cage still when the tree branch swung with a breeze. The little princess-bear looked up at him with anxious eyes.

"Are you a..." he whispered, struggling to phrase a complicated thought. "Are you a thing? Or are you real. Alive." He waited in expectant silence for her answer.

"I'm alive, just like you. I wasn't always like this." She whispered back. "Please, please. You have to let me go. You have to let me go before she finds this place."

"Who? Before who finds us?"

Their discussion was interrupted as Snoops, on high lookout, called down from the tree.

"The inn's on fire!! I can see it from here, lit up like a bonfire!"

Other thieves climbed the trees for a better look, but the youth stayed with the bear, who wore a look of horror, her hands over her face.

"She's coming, she's coming! You have to run! She's going to kill you!"

"Why should we run? Who is she?"

"Armes Albrecht, my knight protector. Please, please go!"

Now it was the boy who began to tremble. Armes Albrecht, the King's Butcher, the Bloody Hand, Gorefiend Armes, War-Demon Albrecht. She was real? She was real?? She was a fairytale! But the boy had another fairytale in his hands before him now. So, maybe...

"What do they call you? Quickly!" The bear whispered.

"Trapper. C-cause I caught my foot in a snare once," the youth stammered.

"Trapper, you need to take me out of this cage, and run towards the town. As fast as you can! If we hurry, we can get there before she-"

A hideous shriek filled the trees, and there was a sound of cracking branches and a heavy, dull thud as the body of Snoops hit the ground beneath. The thieves began to shout in alarm. Far, far too late. A roar that could scarcely be human answered, along with shattering wood and charging through the brush.

"Oh god, she's here! ARMES, PLEASE! DON'T HURT THEM! THEY DIDN'T KNOW!"


It only took the knight a few minutes. She didn't even wear armor, her traveling clothes soaked in gore, face masked in red.

The clearing looked like it had been blasted apart by cannonfire. Trees were splintered, and the thieves had been scattered in all directions - in pieces. The ground was wet with blood, and Trapper clutched the crying bear to his chest as he hid in the hollow of a tree. He wanted to close his eyes, but was too afraid, and watched the heavy booted feet of the warrior as she strode slowly through the camp, and then very deliberately walked towards him.

"Come out here." Her voice was like iron, the command in it impossible to resist. He crawled out, trembling, gently setting the bear on the ground. The knight knelt and bowed her head.

"Have you been hurt, Princess?"

"Please, Armes. Please. He's just a boy. Please."

"Go back to the pack." The knight stood back up. "He's seen you." She raised her heavy blade, eyes burning with fury.

"I command you to stop!!"

Trapper whimpered as the edge of the blade halted inches from his neck.

"You will not harm him!" The bear spoke with a surprising amount of iron in her own voice. She placed her tiny form between the two, as if she would shield the boy herself, arms spread. "He will make amends! Won't you, Trapper!"

"Yes! Y-yes, I will!" He knelt and quickly began to draw the mark of the Redeemer in the bloody dirt with his finger tip. "I make my s-solemn vow, I won't say a word of this night! To anyone! Redeemer strike me down if I lie!!"

Armes held her blade ready for several long moments, the anger still burning in her eyes, before swiftly wiping it off on her shirt and slamming it back into the scabbard.

"We leave in two minutes. Others may come, and if you don't want a repeat of this evening, you'd be wise to stay hidden. Say your goodbyes."

The stuffed bear fell back onto her bottom with a gasp as the knight heeded her words, and took several deep breaths before turning back to the boy.

"I'm sorry. My father ordered her to protect me. I'm so sorry." She reached out and touched his hand with her soft little paw. "Run away from here and keep your oath. If she ever hears word of this, she will return, so.. please. Please. Be wise." With that, she quickly followed after the knight, crawling into the backpack before the War-Demon carried her away into the darkness.

Trapper knelt there a long while, till the fire died. Then he quietly rose, gathered his few belongings and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Damien

Jan. 9th, 2025 08:23 pm
shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

"Adventurer who showed up early." - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024

CWs: child abuse mention.

Damien...

Walking slowly, sullenly down the path home from the village, Damien shook his head aggressively, trying to ignore the voice that called from the old well. He had heard it's whispers for weeks now, and tried to pretend nothing was happening. He couldn't tell anyone, he didn't want his parents to whip him for a liar again.

Damien, come... Help me, Damien... Help me, and I can help you... No one will ever be able to hurt you again...

The youth stopped, and couldn't help glancing at the well, his back throbbing from the numerous switch marks, bruises and cuts. Despite himself, he found himself trudging off the path and up the overgrown hill, till he was looking down over the slumped, moss covered stones, into the darkness. The cloudy day seemed to grow cooler, darker.

"What do you mean, you can help me?" He asked into the darkness. "What do you want from me?" The echoes came back, longer and louder than seemed right.

want want want you you you YOU YOU

Pull me up, Damien. Pull me up and I'll help you hurt them. And anyone else who ever made you sad.

The voice came out of the dark, but not like a real voice, seeming to come from below and behind him and just at his ear. Damien felt as though he were dreaming. He found himself reaching out and grasping the thick, rough rope hanging down, pulling it laboriously up in great heaves.

He toppled over as the bucket finally reached the top, spilling it on the grass as he fell backwards. Laying on the ground was a gauntlet, black and angular, with too many fingers. A black gem with a white flaw glinted on the back of the hand, like a dark eye. It was heavy and gigantic, but Damien knew instantly that it would somehow fit him perfectly.

Pick me up, Damien... Put me on. You were born to carry me...!

The youth's hand trembled as he climbed on to his knees, reaching out to place his hand into- he was seized suddenly by the shoulder, a woman's strong hand grasping him and pulling him backwards till he was sat on his bottom, restrained with his back against her chest.

"Nuh uh uh, you don't need any of that thing, kid. Don't touch it. Is this the one?" She asked over her shoulder.

"The very one." A wiry man with a long thin little wisp of beard coming from his chin came into view, with a massive hammer and a pair of tongs. "Looks like we made it here by the skin of our teeth, but we made it!"

HOW DARE YOU FOOLS

"Now, now, now. None of that." the thin man said. "We're just taking care of this now, instead of letting you use this poor boy for decades before someone kills him and starts the cycle over again."

IT IS MY DESTINY TO RULE ALL, AND HE IS THE TOOL BY WHICH I SHALL SEIZE THIS EARTH

"Let's shut this vile thing up," grumbles the woman holding Damien. "Stay back, my love, we won't let anything hurt you. You're safe with us."

The boy, still feeling lost in a dream, couldn't seem to move as the woman let him go, taking the heavy smith's hammer from the man as he carefully, carefully used the tongs to drag the gauntlet onto a flat stone.

I WON'T BE DENIED MY DESTINY! DAMIEN! KILL THEM, YOU MISERABLE FOOL! KILL THEM! KILLTHEMKILLTHEMKILLTHEMKILLTHEM-

The woman swung the hammer with a tremendous grunt of effort, and the words changed to a horrid shriek as the eye in the gauntlet cracked. The third blow shattered it, and it went silent.

The silence that followed seemed deafening, as the man carefully lifted the broken remnants of the gauntlet into a lead-lined wooden casket, which he slapped a stout lock onto afterwards before shoving it into his heavy pack. The woman tossed the hammer down into the well, and returned her attention to the boy, kneeling down beside him and gently taking him by the chin, drawing his gaze up to her face. "Are you alright, my love? You never touched it?"

Damien shook his head, feeling numb. The man joined them as well. He took off his pointed cap and set it aside, his balding head gleaming in the light as the sun began to break through the clouds. He had a kindly expression. "It promised you something, didn't it? What did it offer you, Damien?"

"It... It said it wouldn't let anyone hurt me again. And it would let me hurt them back."

"Is someone hurting you, my love?" the woman asked, her voice kind, but her eyes glinting with growing anger.

"My.. my parents, they..." he tried to say more, but suddenly found himself struggling to hold back tears, his chest hitching with sobs. The man placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and whispered softly to the woman, who nodded.

"My name is Nettle, Damien. And this is Thistle. We have been looking for you for a long, long time, my boy. And if want to, you don't have to go home. You can come with us." He used the handle of the tongs to scratch the mark of the Redeemer into the ground, to show his sincerity. "We won't allow anyone to hurt you again."

The boy nodded, uncertain, still gripped with the sensation that none of this was real. "I... I would like that."

The woman, Thistle, gave him a gentle squeeze, and as she stood up and dusted herself off the boy saw how powerfully built she was, despite barely being taller than himself. She made an odd pair with the wiry tall man. "I'll go to his home and retrieve his things. I'll... Explain the situation, to his parents." She practically spat that last word, her hands creaking as she balled her fists.

"We're going to start back to the village, then. We'll walk slowly, so you can catch up to us," Nettle said, and Thistle was off and marching down the hill, cutting an angle towards the path to Damien's cottage. Damien and Nettle began to slowly walk in the other direction, the youth's knees weak, leaning on the unusual oak staff the man lent him.

Nettle spoke quietly about the nature of the thing that had called from the well, explaining cycles of terror and quiet as it seized people and made them into tools of death. Dreadlords who brought ruin and despair. Damien swallowed.

"It said it was... My destiny. Is it?"

The man but his lip before answering. "It might have been, before. But not any more. That fate has been broken."

"Then what will I become?"

"Anything you want to be, Damien. You're free."

A little later, Thistle came calling as she strode up the path behind, and the three of them walked away, together.

shaker_e: A pixel art portrait of a cute clown, with white face paint, dotted with confetti. (Default)

"Dread Lord who will conquer the realms with the power of ROCK!" - Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024

"Time is relative," the saying goes.

And it really is. Mayfly species like humans or halflings or kender, they come and go in the blink of an eye in comparison to some of the more long lived peoples. The elves, for instance. They live a good little while, several thousand years, and their relative perception of time is obviously different. But it's still tied up in years, in months, in days and nights. It's fast time. The Dweller Beneath isn't concerned with that kind of time. She operates on a different scale. Deep time. Geologic time. The time it takes to take solid rock, bend and mold it like soft clay with heat and pressure.

The runes she placed in the bones of the earth were cut into the living stone over one hundred million years ago, and have been doing their slow, unstoppable work ever since, miles and miles below the sunlit surface. Shaping. Pulling. Changing the course of tectonic plates, pulling stone down into the furnaces of the earth, thrusting it back up in new configurations, new places. Molding the earth into the shape the Dweller sees fit to make it, one slow inch at a time.

There won't be any grand resistance by the surface nations. They won't unite to defeat her, undo her work. There will be no brave band of desperate heroes at the eleventh hour, because the work is the work of ages, indistinguishable from "nature" in it's slow, unstoppable course. If any of the short-lived people of the light can even survive in the world she's made when she can finally emerge. She had already won before the first elf sang to their first witchwood tree. She only needs to wait. Wait with the patience of the mountain. The patience of a stone.

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"For reasons that made sense at the time, this damp adventurer made a pact with the Overflowing Font of Slime and hasn't been the same since." -Making Up Adventurers, Cohost, 2024

Interview fragment, unknown publication, author unknown, date unknown but presumed pre-Unification

fragment begins

's it like?

"To be honest, it's not a bad gig, as far as 'serving an elemental otherwordly power' goes. The Overflowing Font of Slime doesn't ask for much." He is glistening with a green tinted sheen of slime and it splashes and drips from his hands after he slicks his hair back. "Mostly I just do my own thing."

What does it want you to do?

"Mostly it just wants to eat. and spread. And spread and eat. Like, you know slimes, how they do... they're not complicated. They grow, they spread, they eat stuff. The dungeon garbage disposal. I eat whatever I want, the Pact makes everything I don't need into slime - or ooze, maybe a gel once in a blue moon, it's a bit random - and it just falls off and wanders off to do whatever they do. I can go fucking hog wild at the buffet. It WANTS me to go hog wild at the buffet."

You leave monsters everywhere you go?

He raises his hands defensively. "They're barely more than amoeba, calling them monsters is kind of a reach, be real. Look, most of the ones I left behind today have already dried out." He points to his footprints in the grass, where the deposited slime has eaten the lawn down to the soil and simply shriveled up in the warm sunlight after. "I try to restrict my travels away from places with a lot of available uh, biomass - no forests or farmland - and I stick to where it's either warm and dry or mostly below freezing. The Font doesn't care. It's hands... uh... pseudopods off with me."

How'd you even end up like this?

"I was with a group moving through an old underground aqueduct system. It was wall to wall slimes in there, that's what they were paying us to fix, and we were getting steamrolled, literally just run over by the things. I had enough time to hold my breath and pray after getting pulled into one of those big fuckin cubes while watching my coworkers abandon me, and... turned out something heard. Next thing you know it spits me out and I have a new vocation."

What's the biggest difference in your life after that?

"Dating."

Worse?

"Thousand times better. They call me the

fragment ends

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"I suppose I should be honored by a visit from the kingdom's very own war devil. Come in, bloody one." The old woman didn't sound the least bit surprised to see Armes' massive frame filling her doorway, nor the least bit intimidated. "Get in before you let out all of the warm." The knight ducked into the cottage, shutting the door behind herself, and looked about warily as she drew back her hood.

The hovel was a single room, built around a rough stone chimney and hearth where a fire burned brightly, casting dancing shadows throughout. Wind whistled through gaps in the shutters, bringing the night's chill and the sound of rattling leaves and branches, the groan of he forest's trees swaying. The old woman was busying herself, hanging a black scorched kettle above the fire, picking through dozens of jars before settling on one with a nod, casting a few leaves into a earthenware cup. "Though I don't know what you expect a simple old woman like me to do for you," she added, watching Armes with sharp eyes. "Have you come to take taxes?"

"You are the witch Loemma." It was not a question. "You are a fugitive from the King's justice, for crimes against the crown and it's citizens. For the murder of children." The knight's voice was hard, but she didn't draw her blade, instead kneeling down and opening her pack. "But that isn't why I've come. The King's very own Magister spoke highly of your knowledge in arcane subjects."

The old woman's expression of indignant protest melted at the praise, and she grinned, revealing sharp teeth that gleamed in the light. "Ah, did he now? A miserable fool, but wise enough to know his betters!" she crowed, laughing like a rusty hinge. "So then! You come in need of my knowledge, my power, Armes Albrecht? To chase away the ghosts that haunt you at night? Something to quiet all of the screams of the dying?"

"I sleep well enough. You'll see why we've come momentarily. Myself, and the Princess." And she gently withdrew the Princess's small form from the bag, setting her on the table to face the witch. The bear gazed about the cottage for a moment, taking in her surroundings, and dusted her little toy paws off on her gown before dipping her head in courteous acknowledgement.

"Throw me in the Rot! What have you brought me?"

"Magister Orfeo was of the opinion that one who placed curses so deftly would surely have vast knowledge of their breaking as well," Alysia said in her small voice, the wide eyed witch drawing nearer in gleeful wonder. "If you know a means to undo the curse placed on me, I, Alysia Goldenseal, am empowered to offer a pardon for your... *previous acts*." The toy face was marvelously expressive, twisting as though she had a foul taste in her mouth as she spoke those words. "On the condition that if you commit any further crimes, you would face the immediate justice of the Crown." She spoke with the formal tone and cadence she would have used in her father's court, mustering as much dignity as her current state would allow. Being a plush toy only a foot or so tall didn't allow much.

Loemma snatched Alysia from the tabletop, making a contorted gesture at the same time with her free hand - as quick as Armes was, the witch was quicker. From the knight's perspective, the world seemed to swim and turn around her, and now "down" didn't go towards the earth - instead she fell backwards, her back crashing into the stone wall of the hovel, each of her limbs seeming to weigh dozens of stones. Her vision sparkled and she reeled with the impact. "Be still," Loemma scolded, sniffing as she turned the princess around, upside down. Alysia fussed and struggled, but the old woman's grip was harder than iron. "By the Pit, you truly are her, aren't you? There's a spirit in there, a shiny little soul. Bound tight. Fairy work." She held the bear up to her face, ignoring the way Alysia recoiled. No, not ignoring - she clearly enjoyed it, smirking. "Insulted some queen bitch of the realm Fae, did you? Needed to be taught a lesson, toy?"

"Y- That is correct. I was... not courteous." Alysia squirmed, and gasped as she saw Armes, who was struggling to breath under the magical weight crushing her in place. "Release my retainer! She will die!"

"Oh, that she will. I'll release her, by the Pit." Loemma sneered, and her hand twisted unnaturally in another painful gesture, which made Armes roar in agony, struggling briefly before sagging and falling to the ground in a heap. Her eye stared sightlessly at nothing. Alysia shrieked and flailed in the witch's iron grasp. "The only release that suits one of her sort. Now, as for you. Let's get you sorted." She hummed a cheerful tune, crowing to herself with laughter every now and then when one of the princess's sobs was particularly amusing. She spat onto a roughly human shaped doll made of knoted straw, and then breathed into it's featureless face for a moment, before carelessly throwing the bundle into a glass jar, which was in turn placed in a cage of sticks and wire. "I bet that halfwit Orfeo thought this was a transformation, and thought it might be unraveled. It's simpler than that," she murmured, absorbed as she drew a precise diagram around the cage with a lump of red chalk. A series of nested shapes, wormed throughout with writing that Alysia couldn't read, but felt as though she should understand - like a half-recognized form seen in an unlit room. "The faefilth drew your spirit out, and... pop. Threw it into another shell. I bet your body is decorating some fairylord's bedchamber now, or they stuffed an imp into your skin and are using it for a housemaid." Her musings were lost on the weeping princess, who was uselessly reaching for Armes.

"In any case. It's simple enough. I simply- " Alysia screamed briefly as she felt herself suddenly ripped from her form, the the pain was replaced with a cold non-sensation. A void. And then, suddenly... she was in a chamber made of dirty glass, resting on.. a straw mattress. No, not a mattress - a mannequin made of straw, as big as a person. She couldn't feel, but she could see and perceive. She was in the jar. The witch towered above her, laughing and tossing the little toy bear that used to house Alysia about before discarding it. She seemed woven all throughout with strings of light. "All better, Alysia Goldenseal?! Everything you could have asked for?!" Her massive face drew near, steaming the glass with her breath. "I'm sure I can find *some manner* of use for a shiny little royal soul... Or sell it to some prince of the Pit to dine on, perhaps!"

Alysia wailed, the sound making the glass reverberate around her shapeless form - she seemed to be nothing but a willow-wisp, a light in the glass. The world around her looked wrong, and strange - tangles of luminous threads connecting everything, both present and not present at the same time. Some even connected to her. She followed one with her "gaze", and saw it ran directly the stuffed bear she had inhabited. She felt a sudden urge to tug, and reached out with... with what, she had no idea - reached out and tugged the thread. The bear jerked slightly on the dirt floor, unnnoticed. The princess experienced a sense of vertigo, of being in two places at once - simultaneously in the jar and in the bear again. She released the thread and instantly was alone in her glass prison. She tugged the threads running to the straw doll, and similarly found herself within and without it. Alysia went silent. She would have held her breath, if she could breath at all. She looked in the direction of Armes, and saw that even in death, the threads of light still wove throughout her knight. They were fading, however. She reached across the distance - still not entirely sure what she reached with, or how - and grasped the thickest bundle. She held lightly, and understanding dawned. This rope, seeming to her tiny form as thick as a treetrunk. Strumming a chord on the bundle, the knight's stilled heart twitched and jolted. Alysia quickly began to work.

Loemma ignored the corpse and the foolish soul in the jar as she danced around her home, making plans, making great plans. With the power this could potentially grant her, why, she could topple the kingdom - she could topple it in an afternoon, for a lark! Ah, she could laugh, she could sing! What a day, for this opportunity to come walking into her very own front door. She was beginning to pour quicksilver into her scrying dish when the sound of breaking glass caused her to whirl around. The cage had toppled, and rolled to the floor, the jar broken. She snarled a curse, rushing over to catch the spirit before it could dissipate, but it was already gone. "Fucking hells and-" She stopped as the wood near her fireplace clattered to the floor, and looking around, realized the bear was gone. "You clever little *beast*!" she cried. "Too clever by half! I should have put you in a cold iron box, instead." She followed the little scuffed prints through the dust and ash, past the fireplace, and snatched with hands as quick as whip, pulling the filth-streaked bear out from the cabinet she'd hidden beneath. "Did you think you could hide, fool?"

"No, please! I - I promise! All will be forgiven, if you simply release me! Please! Un-unless... you refuse...?" The witch relished her pleading, and grinned her evil grin, sharp teeth seeming ready to bite.

"I refuse your *gracious* offer." Loemma answered, sneering gleefully.

"Then in the name of the King, die," answered the hoarse voice of the knight. Her massive blade, broader than a hand, erupted from Loemma's chest, the thick arm of Armes Albrecht wrapping around the woman's shoulders from behind for leverage as she drove it deeper, till it projected a full arm's length directly from her breastbone. She coughed and gurgled blood, wide eyed with disbelief, but no last curse or insult followed. She simply collapsed bonelessly to the floor, rattling a final breath. Armes let her down, but carefully caught the princess into her arms as she did, stepping away from the corpse without a backwards glance, gathering their belongings and carrying Alysia out of the accursed place, out into the wind and the night.

-------

Months later found Armes traveling in a loose caravan of pilgrims journeying to the temples of the capital, who kept their distance from the warrior - the ones who knew her reputation especially. Armes rode a nameless horse, traveling in silence, eyes vigilant and hand resting on her belted sword's pommel while the other held the reins. The dark skinned young woman riding beside her sat stiffly in the saddle, dressed in traveling clothes of fine quality, carrying a stuffed bear dressed as her twin in her lap. Her expression was a tranquil mask, never changing, though her eyes were active and keen. Her joints creaked in a strangely wooden way as she held up a hand and indicated something to the knight, who leaned close to speak. None of the pilgrims had ever seen the young lady part from the bear - some spoiled nobleman's daughter, for certain. Likewise none had seen her eat out of the privacy of her tent, and she only spoke from behind her raised hand or a fan - "The young Lady is shy," was the only explanation Armes would offer the procession's leader.

"She so resembles her Majesty the Princess."

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