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Very Hot Topic (More than 25 Replies) Group Story (Fantasy) (Read 20,728 times)
CubaLibre
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Re: Group Story
Reply #30 - Feb 27th, 2013 at 3:12pm
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The sounds of drunken revelry filled the countryside, emanating from a large roadside tavern which served the merchants, travellers, and soldiers journeying between Dunwor in the West and the land of Drebul in the East. The tavern was also the last stop for those souls who were brave enough, or desperate enough, to cross the vast desert to the south.

Brother Wood sat alone at a table, demure as ever. The two knights in their party were downing ale as if it were water. He watched as Lord Derek ascended the stairs, a young wench in each arm.

Brother Wood sipped his tea and meditated. His mind kept drifting to the ruins of Qebhet. It was strange, as he had only heard of the ruins as a child, when he was still a Novice of the Order.

A movement in the corner of his eye brought him back to reality. Brother Wood saw that Shayl had taken the seat next to him. He acknowledged her presence with a silent nod.

Shayl looked around. The two of them were far enough away, and there was enough noise, that they should be able to talk privately.

"How much do you know?", Shayl asked right off the bat.

Brother Wood took a sip of tea and answered: "I know that you are not what you seem. You have great power within you, which you conceal with great skill. I also suspect that your alliegance is not to Lord Derek."

Shayl was concerned at these words. "And your alliegance is to Lord Derek?", she asked, somewhat nervously.

"My alliegance is to Aes, and nobody else", he answered resolutely.

Shayl inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. So her secret was safe, for now, at least. Brother Wood suddenly asked a question that seemed to come out of nowhere. "What do you know of the ruins of Qebhet?"

Shayl was surprised to hear this question. "I know little of them", she answered. "I have heard tales of the Ursonei and their great city here and there, but nothing more. And yet...". She paused for a moment, as if pondering, before continuing. "These past three nights I see the ruins in my dreams."

"So I am not the only one", said Brother Wood. "The ruins beckon us, for some reason. They are in our destiny." Brother Wood finished his tea and spoke in a decisive tone. "We must go to the ruins."

Shayl nodded, then suddenly realized something. "What of Lord Derek and the others?"

Brother Wood chuckled, then muttered something in the language of the Adepts of Aes. After he had finished his incantation, he said "I have a feeling they will find the ale a touch too strong, and will not awaken until noon tomorrow."

Later that night, as everyone else in the tavern was sleeping, Shayl and Brother Wood snuck out through a side door, saddled up their horses, and took the road which led southward, toward the great desert.
  
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thetycoon
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Re: Group Story
Reply #31 - Feb 28th, 2013 at 10:59am
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Lord Grembell was sitting at his dinner table, an enormous U-shaped table that contained an area where up to twenty entertainers were performing permanently for him and his retinue of courtiers, counselors, generals, devilishly beautiful women. They were jugglers, fire eaters, animal trainers and their animals, fakirs…etc…
He was gnawing at an enormous elk leg, perfectly roasted and seasoned, and yet he barely noticed any of it. He was absorbed in his thoughts. He had been in this mood ever since Rahatlakam his most efficient hatchet man had come with the news. They had found the place deserted and apparently with no traces of any of the three guards or of the child.
But the shrewd Rahatlakam didn’t give up so easily, he asked for bloodhounds to be brought to the place and after a couple of hours of search they had found the bodies in the well, it took some effort to fish them out since they had been weighed with rocks and were laying at the bottom of the water. A quick examination by Rahatlakam of the wounds left no room for any doubt; the skill and the precision, the killer had to be one of his specially trained assassins.
“But why?” Grembell was yelling these words inside his head, totally oblivious of the dozens of people trying to distract him from his brooding. The killer had to be the third guard. But in spite of a thorough search by dozens of his soldiers they had found no traces of the child. So he must have taken the child with him!
And by this strange alchemy that makes sometimes people come to the right conclusions through a set of wrong assumptions Lord Grembel realized: “The child! He must be the key to all of this!” Lord Grembell threw his barely eaten elk leg to his favorite dog that let out a bark of anticipated pleasure and went at it greedily while looking gratefully at his owner. He then left the room without a single look at anyone. A very proficient group of body guards maneuvered in order to shield the lord from any sudden attack while being so unobtrusive that Grembell barely noticed them and always found a clear path before him wherever he directed his steps. As soon as he was out of earshot of his courtiers of whom he was always suspicious as any despot worth his salt should be, Grembell turned toward one of his servants and said “Bring me Rahatlakam.” He then walked down the corridor to one of his private rooms. The guards positioned themselves automatically at the crucial points, ready for anything to happen.

A little later that same evening:

With a gesture Grembell signified to Rahatlakam that this would be a short meeting where efficiency overrode decorum. And then said: “I want that child found at all cost! ALIVE!” “If anything happens to him even a scrape on the knee. I want it made perfectly clear that I’ll see to it that the man responsible is then skinned alive by the most skilled of my executioners.” “I don’t care if they have to kill an entire village to get to him or if they have to comb the entire region, but I want him found!”
  
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CubaLibre
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Re: Group Story
Reply #32 - Feb 28th, 2013 at 12:04pm
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Lord Derek slowly opened his eyes with a low groan. His companions of the previous night were gone. Just as well. He was never one for affection. Turning now to the window, he noticed that it was nearly noon. He sat up with a jolt, and his hands shot up to his throbbing temples.

Throwing on his robe and armor, he stormed out of his room and looked for the rest of his group. They should have set off at dawn! After inquiring, he found the two knights in a small room, still sleeping peacefully.

"Wake up, you two, it's nearly noon!", cried Lord Derek.

The two knights groaned. One of them, a bearded fellow named Voridex, offered a clumsy apology. "Y'see, my lord, the ale was a bit strong..."

"I don't care how strong the ale was", shouted Derek, before again massaging his throbbing temples. "Just get your things together and let's be off. Tell the other two as well."

Voridex was confused. "The other two?"

"Yes, you know. Shayl and that stern priest fellow", muttered Lord Derek, his eyes closed, hands still massaging his temples.

"I don't know where they may be", answered Voridex. "I thought you knew where they were."

In his hazy, pounding head, Lord Derek realized what had occured. He made his way to the back door of the tavern and stepped outside. With a sharp cry and a grimace, he shielded his eyes from the sunlight. Squinting through his hand, he saw that two horses, the ones belonging to Shayl and Brother Wood, were missing.

Lord Derek returned to where Voridex and his companion were getting things ready. "They're off! It's treason, I say!"

Voridex and his companion stared questioningly. Lord Derek yelled again. "Get ready! We must get back to Dunwor immediately! There's treason afoot!"

Lord Derek was furious. Furious with Shayl and Brother Wood for deserting. Furious at Voridex and his companion for being stumbling buffoons. Furious with the tavern owner for keeping such strong ale. He was even furious with the two wenches for not having the courtesy to so much as cuddle.

Muttering angrily to himself, Lord Derek stepped outside to wait for his two knights.
  
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Re: Group Story
Reply #33 - Feb 28th, 2013 at 1:26pm
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They rode on the dusty grave of an old flood bed, pillion on the boy's horse because Rejnick's had pulled up lame after driving a cactus spine into the frog of one hoof. The spine had come out cleanly with a quick yank, but had pierced deeply; the animal, tethered to the boy's saddle and limping along behind them, would be unable to bear weight for at least a few days.

When it had become obvious the boy's sense of direction was uncannily accurate relevant to their destination, Rejnick decided to switch from daytime to nighttime traveling not only to beat the heat but to conserve water. The main drawback wasn't a lack of light - the moon was just waning from fullness, and even without it the myriad scattered stars provided enough illumination to see by - but the uncomfortably chilly desert nights which forced them to ride with their blankets wrapped around them from nose to knees. During the day they used the blankets as awnings to keep them shaded while they slept using their saddles as pillows, allowing the hobbled horses to fend for themselves.

The boy asked, "Do you know any stories?" Rejnick yawned. He said drowsily. "I think maybe one."

"Then tell it," the boy said, leaning back against Rejnick and pulling his blanket higher.

This is a tale told among my people, about a mercenary who long ago sojourned with us while accepting coin to rid our hills of bandits. He was a fearsome warrior who laughed as he killed, killed without quarter, and quartered with whichever maid could make him laugh. His people had been nomads of the southern plateau and foothills of the Kraan Dragonsbacks, called the Ou, and his name Ou'Zaa; but he had long since put the dust of his tribe behind him. Still, when he was in his cups he spoke fondly of his youth among the Ou, of the small but stocky shaggy horses they herded, and of their trackless existence moving with the seasons; of close winter encampments and summer's pleasures of hunting and fishing. As a boy his primary task was herding the horses from high pasture to pasture, and rounding up strays as they strayed.

One day, as he told it, in his 13th summer, just days before his Blooding into manhood, he was searching for a stray pony whose spoor showed had wandered into the rugged hills above a nameless grassy valley in which his tribe was encamped for a few weeks. Ou'Zaa made his way high into those hills, following the track, and soon lost sight of the camp. This was of no concern since he had the sun to guide him back, and, if need be, the stars too.

As his search stretched the sun began to sink and clouds to gather. Even before the sun fell behind the western horizon, the storm broke upon him with lashing rain and thunder, and hot strokes of lightning. Now there was no way to move forward with his search, and none to find the way back, and it could mean death to expose oneself to the bright spears of the Stormlord. Ou'Zaa knew he must needs find shelter. After a time he found a cave, really just a short blind hole in the lee side of a cliff, scooped out by fickle winds. The mouth was about the breadth of his spread arms, and the passage ran back into blackness. He dismounted and hobbled his horse, then approached the hole with shortspear in hand, in case there was an unfriendly occupant within. He had just reached the edge of the opening when one of the Stormlord's spears found his pony. The blast blew him violently into the cave, and fetched him hard against the back wall. He lost consciousness, and could not say for how long. But when he woke he could still smell burnt horseflesh through the downpour, and the cave, only about twenty feet deep, was empty. Or so he thought until another stroke of lightning illuminated the interior and he saw the back of a large man wearing a scarred leather cuirass and halfhelm, with sodden hair dripping over broad shoulders, crouched near the entrance, an iron-bound and bossed oaken shield on the ground beside him, and a double-bitted greataxe leaning against the wall.

Ou'Zaa gathered himself in the darkness and, not sure of what to expect next, took up his spear. But before he could take any action, the figure before him spoke without turning, saying in a mild voice, "Son of man and woman, do you think to stab me in the back?"

Even of tender years and in the presence of an armed and armored man, Ou'Zaa was no knock-knee. He answered, "I think nothing until I know of your intentions." The stranger spoke again, still without turning. "I seek shelter from the storm, as you - a shame about your pony, by the way. But had my intention been to kill you I could have done so easily while you were unconscious. Tell me, what are you called?"

Ou'Zaa replied boldly, "This cave is mine by right of first occupancy. Courtesy and custom demand that it is you who should first answer that question."

The stranger laughed, and the sound was as if a handful of purest silver coins had been thrown down a long flight of stairs. He turned finally, and an opportune flash of lightning revealed a female face - of striking ugliness, to be sure, but unmistakably a woman's. As darkness reflooded the cave again Ou'Zaa saw her eyes glowing green like a cat's, and for the first time he was unnerved. "Your name," she repeated evenly.

He began, "I hight--"

"... Ou'Zaa - Zaa of the Ou - son of Ou'Egctlo and of Liss," the woman finished for him. "Oh, I knew I liked you the moment I saw you, and sensed your brave, youthful spirit."
« Last Edit: Feb 28th, 2013 at 5:53pm by Darwinist »  

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Re: Group Story
Reply #34 - Feb 28th, 2013 at 1:28pm
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She smiled, and even in the dark Ou'Zaa could see she had even, white, perfect teeth, though the rest of the features in her square face were heavy, and her nose had plainly been broken, probably more than once.

He asked, "You know me - my name, the names of my parents? Who are you?"

The smile of the woman warrior broadened between her curtains of ratted black hair. She asked, "No guess?"

Ou'Zaa did not slacken his grip on his shortspear, nor move its point away from her. "You are plainly either demon or god. Which is it?"

The glow in the woman's cat-green eyes brightened. She said, "By some I am called Sister to Heartrock; by others, Mate of Battle. I am 'The Axe That Splits The Mountain' - in the language of my kindred Eiklefir Cendimgloim. Do you know me?"

Ou'Zaa gaped and his fingers went nerveless, though he managed not to drop his spear. "You are the Battle Maid of the northern dwarves, their goddess of war? But ... why are you here?"

The laugh like a fall of silver coins again. "Even gods like to stay dry, boy. Though I confess escaping the Stormlord's tantrum was not my only reason for being here in this particular place. Tell me, Zaa of the Ou, have you loved any woman of your tribe yet? Slipped your hand under a tanned jerkin to cup a handful of fluttering breast, felt the nipple stiffen beneath your touch? Or reached between some sighing girl's legs to enjoy the downy, warm wetness there with your fingers, your mouth, or your manhood?"

"No," Ou'Zaa admitted. "I am not yet Blooded, so I have never known yet of a woman."

"Well," said the Axe That Splits The Mountain, grinning as she set her halfhelm on the ground and began to remove her boots, cuirass and breeks, "There's a first time for eveything, I suppose ...."

Ou'Zaa rode back down to the Ou camp two days later, on the stray pony he had been searching for which Eiklefir Cendimgloim had thoughtfully called to him before departing. He was barely able to stay in the saddle, so utterly but sweetly drained was he.

His people had almost given him up for lost, and put his weakness down to his ordeal in the hills. A short time later his Blooding went without complication.

Ou'Zaa himself said nothing about the events of the cave, knowing he would not be believed. Yet his people soon noticed there was something ... different about him. By the third moon following his Blooding there was not a warrior among the tribe who could stand against him in weapons practice, not for more than a few moments. He was stronger than the tribe's smith, and could run almost as fast as a riderless pony. Best - or perhaps worst - of all, the women of his tribe began to find him almost irresistible, and in the night they would cry out with his name in the sleeping furs, instead of the names of their husbands. And so Ou'Zaa became the focus for every man's envy and jealousy, and within a short time he realized he must put his back to his people, or wake on some sooncoming moonless night with a knife in it.

And that is the story of how Ou'Zaa, a boy horse herder loved by a goddess, became a mercenary of legend. And, as the sages tell us, Ou'Zaa's story bears out the truth of things: There is no boon or benefit granted by a god which comes without its price.


"Well, what think you, boy?" Rejnick asked.

"I liked it," bubbled the boy. "Have you other stories?"

Rejnick roughed the boy's yellow hair. "No," he said, "Now you must tell me a tale, for that is the way of things. Do you know any?" The boy was suddenly grave. "Just one," he said.
« Last Edit: Mar 7th, 2013 at 12:42pm by Darwinist »  

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thetycoon
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Re: Group Story
Reply #35 - Mar 1st, 2013 at 3:55pm
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S'Hulm was riding his horse, at the moment he was at the head of the caravan, left and right and behind him were his best men, at the moment he was looking at the dial of what could only be described as a compass.
Only it wasn’t a compass at least not the typical one, it wasn’t indicating the magnetic north or as S’Hulm and his people called it the warrior’s shield (a constellation that looked like a shield with a little imagination that happened to be exactly over the magnetic pole, of course back then the people had no idea of what a magnetic pole was, much less a magnetic field, they just knew, probably residual knowledge from the ancient time, that iron treated a certain way would indicate “magically” and reliably that direction).
But the compass that S’Hulm was using was of another kind, an artifact millennia old that the old Volvap had given him. An artifact older than anything else made by man that was still around, it looked strange and was completely sealed and there were no apparent asperities or discontinuities between the dial, that was made from a material that looked like glass but according to Volvap was much more resilient and even though it didn’t seem as hard as glass, let alone diamond, it was impossible to scratch it using the latter, and the other part that looked like metal but seemed perfect and untouched by time.
What neither Volvap nor anyone of his time could know or understand is that in fact the whole object was protected by a tiny forcefield, a few molecules thick that was maintained from inside by a sort of battery that would last for millennia to come. The forcefield was so strong that nothing from the time of S’Hulm could get through it, which made the artifact, to all intents and purposes, unbreakable.
Up until a few weeks before it had remained perfectly inert in spite of the legend that had been passed down through generations to Volvap himself along with the object. And one day it had lit itself up and started making tiny beeping noises that you could only hear when everything was quiet around it.
It didn’t take long to Volvap to realize that no matter how you oriented the object or whether you were on the surface or underground the needle always indicated the same direction which wasn’t the north, his erudite knowledge of the ancient manuscripts and hours of work spent thinking about it, had led him to the inescapable conclusion that what they were seeking was precisely what was indicated by the object. So after the necessary time needed to put together the people and the equipment necessary to the expedition, led by S’Hulm himself they had departed, not knowing how long it would take them to reach the destination nor if they would even get there in time to thwart whatever power that was menacing their very existence.
Volvap given his old age was spared the effort of having to ride a horse and was instead in one of the wagons protected from the sun and unseen by the rest of the group. He didn’t mind the absence of sun as he had been a bookworm for most of his life and he minded even less the lack of company of people as he was practically a hermit as it were.
Volvap had faith in his knowledge and S’Hulm had faith in his old mentor and that was all that was needed to drive the expedition forward. They had skilled warriors, weapons, determination, all sorts of equipment to survive under diverse conditions. The only thing that was missing was the knowledge of what was ahead of them, of what army of demons would have to be defeated, of what conundrums would have to be solved, what traps would have to be avoided. Their greatest assets were their courage,  their determination and the arcane knowledge of Volvap.
  
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CubaLibre
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Re: Group Story
Reply #36 - Mar 4th, 2013 at 11:24am
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The young boy looked at the shadows cast by the hot desert sun, recalling the story which he'd heard from the nuns at the first orphanage he had memory of. Turning to Rejnick, he began.

This is the story of the nations and kingdoms of the world, and of the first king, Auris Ben Aur.

In the beginning, the people of the world were one. There were no nations, and there was no one king. Back then, a class of people dwelt upon the land, who had special abilities. They were able to manipulate time and the elements. With their abilities they could cause rain to fall upon parched land or floodwaters to recede.

Because they used their abilities to help the people, they received the name Irs' Eni, which means "guardians", in the tongue of the ancients. One fateful day, the Irs' Eni suddenly disappeared. Thus began the age of darkness.

Without the abilities of the Irs' Eni, the land was stricken by storms, floods, droughts, and earthquakes. A new, harsh landscape was carved out of the once fertile land. Hungry and desperate, the people themselves divided into bands and fought for control of resources.

During this time, there was a man named Or who had managed to amass great wealth for his family. Or had twenty-seven children by his wife, and owned much land, cattle, and sheep. He also had houses on his land for his servants and their families.

Or was a generous man, often helping the needy. One evening, as Or was inspecting his fields, he saw a weary, ragged looking traveller passing by. Or approached the traveller and invited him to eat and spend the night at his home.

The traveller declined. "I do not wish to be a burden. Simply give me some water, if you are so kind, and I will be on my way."

"Please come into my home and let me feed and shelter you", insisted Or. "For the road is dangerous, and I should feel guilt if any harm befell you."

The two men entered into Or's home. Or asked his servants to prepare a massive feast for the entire household and their guest, for he always treated his guests well. After their meal, Or stepped outside, as he often did, to observe the night sky.

As he looked up at the stars, he noticed the traveller was standing beside him. "Your reputation for generosity is well deserved, Or, son of Us' ri."

"I perceive that you are no ordinary traveller", said Or.

"Indeed, I am a messenger of the heavens. I have been sent to inform you that the gods are pleased with your work and your generosity, and that they wish you and your family to tend to the land, until the return of the Irs' Eni."

Or stood in awe at these words. "So you mean that the Irs' Eni will return?"

"Yes, but do not ask me when, for that is not for any man to know."

Or was hesitant. "I do not desire to be a king, heavenly messenger. Is there not somebody else who could be appointed?"

"You are the one selected by the gods", said the messenger, firmly. "From this day forward, you shall be known as Auris Ben Aur, for it is through you that a golden day shall dawn over the whole of mankind."

Auris knelt, and the messenger placed his hand upon his head. "Rise, for you are now king."

And that is the story of how Or, son of Us' Ri became Auris Ben Aur, the first king of the land. In his reign, a new era of peace began. It is said that all kings are descendants of the line of Auris Ben Aur, and mankind awaits the return of the Irs' Eni to this day.
  
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Re: Group Story
Reply #37 - Mar 5th, 2013 at 11:33am
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Lord Derek was grumpy and itchy. Longer than a full cycle of the moon I've been in this bloody saddle, with barely a night spent in anything worthy of calling a bed, sleeping elsewise on hard ground, with poor companions and poorer food and drink. And I believe one of those bawdy wenches back at the inn gave me lice. He scratched his crotch furiously.

Voridex who had been Derek's squire and was now a member of his personal guard, and hand-picked for this mission, caught sight of his lord's discomfort from the corner of his eye and cantered his dun rounsey beside Derek's chestnut courser. "M'lord," he inquired with deepest gravity, "Beggin' your pardon for perhaps speaking out of turn but, you know, well, we common shieldmen have a cure for what seems to be ailin' you there." He nodded soberly toward Derek's inflamed nethers. "You bein' interested an' all, that is," he finished.

"What is it?" Derek growled. "At this juncture I'd be willing to try almost anything."

"Well m'lord, this particular bit o' relief would fall into that category of a certainty, it's true. But cure it is. Surefire, you might even say."

Hearing the conversation, Dommen, the other remaining knight from the original party of riders, rounded his horse to join them. He was a bigger man than either lord Derek or Voridex, and bigger still in a full-sleeved mailed byrnie, black leather breeks, flared gauntlets, and a steel-studded halfhelm tethered at the nape of his neck atop sweaty ropes of dust-darkened blond hair. His mustaches were long and heavy, drooping well below the corners of his mouth. His beard was a ridiculously perky imperial, waxed to a sharp point beneath his lower lip, but at its base hardly wider than a thumbnail; Dommen claimed it was the latest fashion in the Southron marches, though how he could possibly know this remained an unresolved mystery to his brother knights. He had caught enough of the conversation to know what it was about, and he caught Voridex's eye, who winked.

Derek scratched again. "Dammit, sir, what's this cure?"

"Well m'lord, two things you'll be needing first. A small lit faggot, and a fresh-whetted dirk."

"What, no powders or salves such as the apothecaries advise?" Derek asked, intrigued.

Dommen chimed in. "No, m'lord. This cure was happened upon by men in the field, soldiers on long marches, where apothecaries and chemists are in short supply and ever shorter of quick remedies for piddling afflictions like lice. ...Beggin' your pardon for 'piddling,' m'lord."

"Makes sense," Derek allowed. "Continue - at haste: the itching is driving me mad."

Voridex finished. "Very well, m'lord. Once you have faggot and blade at ready, you must needs drop your breeks. Then, using the blade, you must carefully shave your short hairs to the bare skin - but only on one side."

"Eh? How's that?"

"Please m'lord, I will explain. This cure requires exacting consideration of its details in order to work. So, as I was sayin', shave half the short hairs down to the skin. Then set your dirk aside - but keep it close because you'll need it again. Then take the burning lump and set your unshaved short hairs alight." Derek's eyes went wide and his jaw dropped open. Voridex finished in a rush of breath, suddenly grinning expansively, "Throw the faggot away real quick now, and take up your dirk again because as the little buggers come streaming out onto the shaved side to flee the flames, you stab 'em one after another on the point of your blade ... and you're cured!!"

Lord Derek roared with vexation and went for his sword as Voridex and Dommen instantly fled ahorse, both of them reeling in the saddle from spasms of laughter. "Rascals! Knaves! Recreants! I'll have your heads tarred on spikes, the pair of you!!" But instead Derek began laughing himself, and kept laughing, so hard he had trouble resheathing his blade. Voridex and Dommen reined their horses and trotted back, still guffawing. Tears of merriment cut through the dust on Derek's cheeks. "You are ... the both of you ... right bloody bastards to have played your liege-lord ... so foully," he gasped. "'Happened upon by soldiers in the field!' ... Oh rue, that I should have fallen for that!"

When the laughing ceased the trio took their positions again, Dommen at point, Derek in the center, and Voridex at rear-guard, riding back along the trail they'd taken previously.

On the third day in they passed through the site of their battle with the outlaws. The bodies were still there though heavily scavenged, reduced to sacks and scraps of bloodied cloth and disarticulated limb bones with only drying strings of tendon and gristle still attached. Few flies buzzed among them now, though each of the remains was alive with maggots and exhuded an eye-watering reek. They rode on. Later they came upon the moss-covered woodcutter's shack with its log-laden broken-down noddy.

Dommen called from the front, "M'lord! Do you see how that shack yonder disappears into the hill? I'm like to wonder how deep it goes."

"I myself reflected on that, on our way in." Derek replied. "But then we were going, and now we are returning in no hurry since our charges saw fit to abscond. Let us see what we may see." They rode in toward the ruin and dismounted, tying their steeds to trees. Torches were produced and lit. Then Derek said, "Bide before we enter, sirs. Voridex, loan me your dirk."
« Last Edit: Mar 5th, 2013 at 8:10pm by Darwinist »  

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Re: Group Story
Reply #38 - Mar 6th, 2013 at 3:53am
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Stormheir  was now talking to an assembly made of Yscir and his men, a total of three dozens of fierce warriors trained in the art of combat by a guild as ancient as anything else in this world.
It was said that they had received their knowledge from the ones that were before, the ones that also originated the prophecy that Stormheir earlier revealed to Yscir, a simplified version of it actually. So Yscir already knew what was to be said to his men and even a little more.

Stormheir said “The signs don’t lie, they are all in concordance, the time has come, that we’ve waited for, for centuries.
We have a good idea of the place where all will begin and also of the role that we’ll play in these events. What we don’t know yet, is what these mages will look like or even how many of them there will be. According to the scrolls not even the mages themselves know who they are at this point. As we speak, each and every one of them is drawn inexplicably toward their destination but without even suspecting why.”

The Warriors were rustic men with scars and tattoos, done in the painful traditional way that was as much as everything else about them a testimony to their resilience and their courage. For some reason they could stare death in the eye and some of them already had and not even blink but the mystery of the scrolls filled them with respectful awe. They could endure intense pain for hours without even a look on their faces that would betray fatigue or fear. They would have laughed in the face of whomever would have put a knife to their throats and threatened to cut it unless they had yield to them, yet they would have flinched at the thought of being derelict in their duty.

They took enormous pride in being what they were, ferocious fighters of the guild and at the service of the cause.

Stormheir was continuing “Some of them may even have good reasons for being where they are but what they don’t know yet is that those reasons are but substitutes and pretexts, the real reason they don’t know what it is yet, it is buried deep down in their minds, the ancients have seen to that, many many years ago. When the mages will become aware of who they are and what their mission is they will all exhibit the signs and we will be able to recognize them. It will then be your duty to obey their orders to the best of your capabilities.”

The room had become silent… The time was getting near, months, maybe even weeks separated them from the ultimate fight…
  
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CubaLibre
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Re: Group Story
Reply #39 - Mar 6th, 2013 at 8:39am
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"What do you mean you could not find them?" Lord Grembell's voice was calm, but Rahatlakam could sense the impatience behind his lord's words.

"We have searched all the villages near the outpost. We have interrogated all the citizens. Nobody has seen a soldier and child travelling together." Rahatlakam paused for a moment, then continued when he saw his lord was silent. "It is my belief that Rejnick and the boy have fled south. Into the desert."

"Well, after them, then", Lord Grembell said, in a voice that revealed his shock that this had not been done already.

"My lord, the desert is vast, and the strong winds cover any tracks left by travellers." Seeing that Lord Grembell's temper was about to explode, Rahatlakam continued speaking. "There is one man, however, who can follow any track, however faint it may be..." he gulped and added "for a price."

Lord Grembell pondered for a moment, before asking a question he knew the answer to. "A bounty hunter. You mean him?"

"My lord, it is true you banished him years ago, but at this time, I believe he is the only one who can help us." Rahatlakam feared that he had spoken in a disrespectful tone, and expected his lord to yell at him.

Instead, Lord Grembell gave Rahatlakam a new order. "Very well. You are to contact him and solicit his help. I will pay him any price he asks."

"Where may I find him?" asked Rahatlakam, hesitantly.

"The last anyone ever heard of him, he was living as a woodcutter in the West." With that, Lord Grembell turned and walked away. He had to prepare a letter and payment for Rahatlakam's mission. He would pay any price, so long as the boy could be found.
  
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