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 Topic  |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
 Posted - 17 Apr 2010 : 09:58:44
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Greengrass 1367DR
Radiant shards of sunlight danced on the surface of Lake Azoun, while the whole of the world burst with life anew. The lush green of new spring competed with the prismatic spray of early flowers in vibrant bloom, each tree and hedge's beauty magnified by the careful placement of each among the others. The Royal Gardens of Cormyr at Greengrass were alive before the Silent Room, and as Brace Cormaeril left the gates of that grand temple to Deneir, he smiled as he had never smiled before. A bent shouldered scribe of The Lord of All Glyphs and Images, nearly blind by the fierce afternoon light of gate duty so different from his dark scribe's cell, laughed,
"Mi'lord, if I am over bold then say as such... " he looked up from his bow and continued, agrin, "why do you smile so?"
Brace handed the scribe a heavy handful of coin, and replied,
"This is the finest coin I have ever spent, on the grandest day I have yet known."
The scribe eye's lowered,then his leapt to meet those of the young noble,"Lord, we humble scribes bid a tithe of but five Lions, this is five Tricrowns!"
"A tithe I make with great humility, good scribe! My father's library is great, truth, and I have read every folio, chapbook, grimoire and paper there thrice at least; but I have today read from tomes which predate the Dragon Throne, five fragments regarding the Eye Tyrant Wars, and a bard's script account of the songs of all the birds of Cormanthyr. Good monk, your life is a good one."
The narrow eyed scribe smiled broadly as he moved to gather up Brace's kit, surrendered upon his arrival at The Silent Room. Rising with brightly polished round steel shield laden with sword, spear, crossbow and pack, the monk replied,
"You have the manner of a scribe, my young lord," the monk's countenance then shifted,his gaze not the deep pools of man's eye, but something greater. "You could serve Deneir, and thus the Binder, Great Oghma, as a great student here."
"No great master," Brace's eyes narrowed, "I cannot. For today I go to serve the Purple Dragon, to become a grand knight of the Forest Kingdom." Brace then smiled, and could not hide a low chuckle,
"If, of course, they'll let me into the army." He turned on his heel, waved over his shoulder, then called back at last, "Until swords meet, good monk."
"Sweet water and light laughter until next", the monk replied in the lilting tongue of the Elves. "Though you will know far too little of each, young lord," the monk with great bright eyes thought, "far too little".
The young noble made his way along the grand Promenade of Suzail, but was swiftly taken in by the elaborate decorations hung for Greengrass, ribbons of white and green along with wreaths of lilac and willow. The aromatic bouquets entwined with bard songs on the streets and on the greens of the Royal Gardens, with the crush of festive revelers in the afternoon sun, and with the staccato rhythm of a Purple Dragon patrol before the gates of the Royal Court. Brace found himself with coin, cheer, and for the first time, true freedom from his father's watchful eye. He had not been to the capital since he was a boy, and to be in the city at the height of spring-coming festival made his return seem fortuitous and magical.
A great throng within the festive crowd had assembled at a cross roads ahead, Brace noticed, and with a smile made his way to investigate just what had drawn the attention of so many. He circled the crowd, as the plaza formed by the Street of Staves and the Promenade was a crushing tide of exuberant men and women, some near the center of the crowd chanting with vigor. Curiosity piqued, Brace eased forward into the crowd, then slowly made his way forward, often cast back two steps for every step gained. More patient than forceful, the young noble made his way along a heavy and superbly crafted stone wall, noting it's apparent relative youth compared to the other great stone buildings within Suzail's core. He soon rounded it's corner to stand below eaves adorned with a bright signboard depicting a dragon's gaping maw.
At the center of the crowd, two men in workmans garb adorned with broad white and green sashes, with fierce smiles of wild abandon, made fine sport of wrestling in the street.
"At Greengrass the heart of everyman is renewed and engulfed by the fire of spring," Brace thought, "In the hearts of these men, they are fighting anew the battles of old."
Almost as if in response, the crowd cheered a great "Huzzah!" as one combatants well timed arm bar drove the other hard into street. The felled champion struggled for only a moment with great effort, then slapped the hard stone of the street with his free hand, shouting
"I yield, Forlgar, great Tyr!" He laughed, "Would you take that arm with you as tribute!"
The roaring combatant was soon upon his feet, to be met with, "No, good Tarr. You'll need both when you plow my eastern field!"
Mirtul 1 1367 DR
Brace awoke to the sound of street clamor, all manner of sounds erupting through his shuttered windows. He leapt out of bed, nearly striking his head against the pitch of the roof, whose sharp angle delineated the already narrow room. He took a few steps, the few that were available to him in the contracted room, and then stretched and yawned broadly. Baking bread, sweet and pervasive, filled his rented room above the kitchen.
“In The Dragon’s Jaws, no less!” Brace grinned. “By all the Gods, this adventure of mine could not be going better!” He dressed quickly, hung his peace-knotted blade on his baldric, and trotted down the slender stairway outside his door to the ground floor of the inn. The common room of The Dragon’s Jaws was alive with patrons devouring thick broths, ring-loaves and morning ale. Brace looked left, right, all around the common room. Every lass carrying a tray was more lovely than the last. As he turned in to the common room, one, a lovely brunette turned lusty eyes on him and curtsied very low,
“My lord”, she whispered. Brace smiled, and nodded. He turned on his heel away from the girl and entered the common room, when a patron on his left nearly leapt from his chair, sloshing warm broth over simmered strips of eel.
“My lord”, he bowed.
“Sure, yes, thank you, good sir.” Brace waved.
And so it went; a step taken, another patron encountered; another bow or curtsy, and a returned polite smile. His progress across the common room became comically slow, as he smiled or waved or nodded his way across the floor. “This is not working,” he said, turned, snatched a heavy ring loaf from a servant boy who carried a stave containing a score of them, shouted,
“Sorry, thank you!”, tossed two golden lions on the bar, and ran back to his room. He grabbed his warrior’s kit, round steel shield and suit of mail, then threw open the shuttered windows. With one hand gripping the shoulder strap of his kit, the other upon the pommel of his sword swinging on its baldric, and the ring loaf clenched firmly in his teeth, he leapt from the second story window to a low, sloping roof of The Dragon’s Jaws. He landed nimbly, slid briefly, then leapt to the street. Folk looked up in momentary horror, immediately mollified by the ridiculous young noble smiling broadly behind a pastry gripped in his teeth. Then the bowing started. Again.
He sighed, ate his ring loaf, purchased morning ale, and then resolved himself not to smile at every commoner who bowed as he passed. His Father has said it was a bad habit, his mother disagreed; even lauded Brace’s belief that he was born to serve Cormyr, indeed, that all the noble class were elevated to their station only so that they could better serve the common citizens of Cormyr. Nobility was a burden, Brace believed, a belief not commonly held within most of Cormyr’s myriad noble houses. He hurried, head low, down the Promenade. Today, he would prove his worth, and serve the Forest Kingdom. Today, he would become a Purple Dragon Knight.
________________________________________
Greengrass 1367 DR
Screaming, the dense timber of the curragh Manticore's hull heaved against the squall. Brachalus of Eshpurta pitched within the fetid, wet, cramped cargo hold; heavy crates splintering about him as the captains hounds bayed and wailed. Lightning tore great rents in the sky, illuminating the hold in staggering light. Umberlee's rage howled in the deep night, and Brachalus knew great despair. Six in ten among the crew had begun to show signs of plague only three days out of Procampur. On the fourth, forward winds of storm boxed the compass. By the fifth, they were off-course. And now, the Manticore lie on her beam, ravaged by storm, her crew pustular and listless.
Brachalus moved swiftly to secure each sick man behind a bulkhead, and as he threw the last bight, the curragh suddenly twisted a heave-to across the beam, whirled about her aft, then crashed into a massive swell. Brachalus raced to the booby, threw it open, and sprung upon deck in time to see hope consumed. Thunder roared and lighting rent in unison as the Manticore's single mast burst in twain and aflame, while her captain, Vael Shalvaer crooned in slavish supplication.
"Eight drowned souls, Bitch Queen! I give you eight drowned souls, my wicked mother! Drowned men, drowned!", Shalvaer shrieked in time with his baying hounds.
"You are mad, Vael, mad! You invite death to us all!" Brachalus roared while tossing a heavy hemp line over one shoulder, across the opposite hip, then stepped over it once to secure a bight on his thigh. "You will not live to see Suzail, Shalvaer; if your Bitch Queen does not come to eat your soul, I will send you to her!"
"The Dark Lady of Winds aids me now; she comes for you!"
The ship again rotating about it's aft, stern raised sharply into the air, was then aglow with radiant silver light. While dark clouds filled the horizon, churning dark and malevolent in all directions, Brachalus looked up to see Selune' silver face, somehow shining above him. Impossibly, the fierce winds lulled and the sea began to lull, though storms raged beyond the moon's silver light.
Brachalus leapt out of the bight, and ran swiftly up the near vertical deck of the now careening Manticore, heaving against the line. His shortsword appeared with all the speed of lighting into his hand, and was just as swiftly buried in Vael Shalvaer's throat. With Brachalus' swordstrike, the stern once more crashed into the Sea of Fallen Stars, hurling the captains sallow corpse, and his baying scrag-hounds, swiftly to Umberlee's cold, dark embrace.
The sky above turned green, the moon's light then hidden. Though storm still raged all about the curragh, only a light, warm rain fell upon her decks. Bracalus moved to the nearly sundered prow, and looked anxiously at the glimmering port at Suzail yet leagues distant. Making those few leagues would be nearly impossible, and perhaps yet his and the lives of the plague ridden crew were forfeit to the Bitch Queen. Brachalus smiled a sardonic smile, one hand at the beam, and another on his crimson stained blade.
"If the gods do not kill me," he thought, "Grandfather is sure to."
Mirtul 1 1367DR
Midnight's hellish squall lead to near dawn's strange, ephemeral light. Brachalus of Eshpurta gripped the beam of the Manticore, crouched low in the stern. He eyed the distance from the incapacitated curragh and Suzail, dark in the predawn haze.
"Too far," he calculated coldly, standing from the stern and stretching mechanically. Brachalus turned with a scowl as Dursk Thraer's weak, choking cough predicated the appearance of his long, gray, sea matted hair at the booby. Brachalus instantly smiled charmingly.
"Back below deck, Dursk, we know not when those clouds may take a turn." Brachalus admonished himself for the weak lie, pointing at the horizon without losing his smile.
"No, Brachalus," the old man began, hauling himself on elbows and knees across the deck, hoarsely wheezing, to the beam. Hauling himself to his feet, he leaned heavily on one elbow, “I’ve made my life as a chirugeon by the Sea of Fallen Stars and the Dragonmere… I’ll see it end with this sunrise.”
“Dursk,” Brachalus began, his friendly veneer cracking while sincere empathy filled his eyes, “there’s a Blue Dragon galleon five league off the coast of Suzail. It will have spotted us, and be moving to intercept. The wind will impede it progress, but you will live tomorrow,” he continued, a real smile filling his eyes through a cold expression.
“No, lad I cannot feel my left arm, nor my leg.” Dursk feebly attempted to clutch his chest with his right fist, still awkwardly balancing on his right elbow. He looked on at Brachalus with fear filled eyes, which in a moment flooded with tears. Dursk Threaer took two furtive, shambling steps, and then collapsed under his own weight. Brachalus seized him about the shoulders, saving him from the fall.
“Your help tending to the crew was, you…” Dursk, coughed, wheezed, then began to tremble; “you saved those men’s lives Brachalus. You followed my instructions perfectly, made good medicine. Ilmater has blessed you, lad. You are a good boy, Brachalus.” Dursk looked sorrowfully out across the Dragonmere, beheld the sun rising from the Sea of Fallen Stars, trembled weakly, and then saw no more. With that, Brachalus lowered the dead man to the deck of the Manticore. He moved to the stern, and calculated.
“Twelve leagues”, he muttered in whispered tone, “too far in water so cold.” There was no reason to assume, even if the galleon had a spyglass, that the Blue dragon vessel would see them. The tiny mistrunner was sundered, the ship lost. Brachalus moved to the booby, and then leapt into the hull. He moved to a large keg of lard, stripped off his clothes, and then meticulously smeared his body with the fatty paste. He replaced his small clothes and breeches, tunic and boots, then moved to his satchel stowed witin a small footlocker within the cargo hold. He opened it, and withdrew his fighting leathers. He dressed quickly; tightening straps at the waste, shoulders, knee, ankle and wrist of his leather armor mechanically. He placed a form fitting black cowl over his head and face, and tied it firmly. He checked twice the position and fit of his weapons, the moved again to the booby. The low groans of those plague victims who yet lived among the crew issued out from behind the bulkhead.
Their names were Herin, Gerdrous and Fleruk.
Gerdrous’ wife gave birth to a daughter just two tenday past.
Fleruk’s jests were crass, though he was clever and kind.
Herin was somber, and seemed always alone. Brachalus knew well the darkness of solitude.
“Do not be a fool, Brachalus,” he thought to himself, “these men are better dead to you than alive.” This ship kept no manifests; indeed, it cargo was five heavy crates of cheap thalander steeped in phaenaelo, the dried. Indeed, were the ship to be seized by Cormyr’s navy, the men within would be sent to prison. But hard labor under the crown was better than dead. Freedom was better yet. Quickly, Brachalus hauled the heavy rates to the deck, and placed the five out at the stern. The phaenaelo infused thalander would’ve commanded two hundred tri-crowns, and the crew of this ship would’ve been wealthy for the rest of their lives. But that was not to be.
Brachalus hauled in the curragh’s sails from the sundered mast, and wound it around the crates. Taking up two oil lanterns, he dashed them across the crates, which instantly burst into flame. A heavy tendril and bluish-green smoke issued upward, high into the sky.
“They are sure to see that”, Brachalus muttered ruefully.
Brachalus then turned, and dove over the beam. Powerful strokes lead him away from the curragh swiftly. He never looked back. Two hours later, he reached the banks of the Dragonmere, cursing daylight as he crouched within a heavy stand of reeds. Planting his feet firmly in heavy mud, he settled himself in to wait for nightfall. His first job afield, and already everything had gone wrong. He scowled bitterly.
“I will end the Cormaeril’s life, and then have done with this foul country.”
Brachalus of Eshputa was sixteen years old, an elite Shadow Thief, and aching in his heart. He would do what was required of him. He would please the Grandfather. He would kill.
He was an assassin.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus,” Dursk Thraer’s word’s haunted him.
He was an assassin. He would kill the Fire Knife. The Grandfather would be pleased.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus…
a good…
boy”.
Mirtul 1 1367DR
The Citadel of the Raven
Zur’s small darting eyes scrutinized the ledger lain before him, they dark spheres hidden within heavy, bulbous cheeks. His brow furrowed like the crags of some wasteland, bordered by a thick brow and barren pate. He rose from his heavy throne, it lavishly engraved and inlaid. His back hurt; he gripped his temples with forefinger and thumb, kneading his aching skull. Simultaneously, he reached instinctively to the pommel of his hornblade Seilasinaes, then scooped the final leather-bound ledger from the mountain of many much the same. Peering out from under a heavy hand still gripping furtively at an ache he could not force to abate, he grimaced sourly, tossed the ledger upon his desk and strode across the heavy hewn stone floor of his safe-room.
“Kerryth, have prepared, and now, ‘qawah’!”, he bellowed at the heavy iron barred door. “Black! Hot!”
His daughters, Sharyndi and Shesael, came unbidden to Zur’s mind’s eye. They were withering before his eyes, spending more coin at nightly revels on dreammist and wine than a Moonsea miner or timber man would earn in a lifetime. His wife, Kiiraen, a once buxom and beautiful maiden of Mistledale, had grown fat and pompous; a once inconceivable departure from the winsome farm maid whom he had elevated from agrarian servitude. Zur snarled, and mentally berated these leeches that spent his gold on fineries and purchased fame; but then admonished himself with a wicked grin. The coin spent by these whores he had beget upon the world were but the merest scraps compared to the vast wealth he commanded.
“Let them have their play-pretties and stupors,” Zur growled in his deep, yet sonorous , bear’s voice, “ere long, I will set Sembia to dance, Cormyr to kneel, Amn to fetch, and Tethyr to crawl.”
Two sharps raps on the safe-room door drew Zur’s gaze and ire.
“Enter”, he commanded. The barred door opened, and a young Zhentilar officer rushed inside with obvious care, thwarted by haste. Steaming ‘qawah’ splashed from the large earthenware mug across his fingers, which he attempted to hide by hugging the heavy mug close to body; while absorbing some of the spill on his black uniform, his next footfall jostled the mug yet further, sloshing scalding black brew across his hands. He looked up at Zur in horror. Zur seized the mug with one meaty hand, and while the servant made his quick exit, drew a long sip of ‘qawah’. His headache seemed to fade, if only a little, but almost instantly.
Suddenly, the safe-room began to glow with a hellish red light.
“Gods,” Zur swore, and ran towards the back of the room as twin eldritch spheres writhing with arcane sigils; one silver, one black, swirled in unison, overlapping each other by half. Once within in the overlapping spheres, Zur spun on his heel and drew his heavy blade. As he did so, abjurations cast throughout the safe-room burst in a cascade of witch-light. A vicious arc of black lighting tore from the safe-room flagstones, burning a man’s height wide and licking the vaulted ceilings. It danced violently for a moment, until an even darker cloaked figure emerged from the vile lighting, crackling fingers of plasma clinging to its form. Brandishing his blade from within the confines of his protective spheres, Zur steeled his resolve. The arcane protections he had lain by mercenary spellwork, now destroyed, cost him hundreds of pounds of gold. This lightning walker was no mageling assassin.
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The Silver Fire's Blade: A Novella in Nine Parts, Available Soon, in the Adventuring Forum!
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 13 Jul 2010 21:25:28
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Nicolai Withander
Master of Realmslore
Denmark
1093 Posts |
Posted - 28 Apr 2010 : 21:26:28
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| Nice... Im reminded of The Shire! Pretty cool! |
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Cyril Lokner
Seeker
USA
63 Posts |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 25 Jun 2010 : 11:50:00
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Greengrass 1367 DR
Screaming, the dense timber of the curragh Manticore's hull heaved against the squall. Brachalus of Eshpurta pitched within the fetid, wet, cramped cargo hold; heavy crates splintering about him as the captains hounds bayed and wailed. Lightning tore great rents in the sky, illuminating the hold in staggering light. Umberlee's rage howled in the deep night, and Brachalus knew great despair. Six in ten among the crew had begun to show signs of plague only three days out of Procampur. On the fourth, forward winds of storm boxed the compass. By the fifth, they were off-course. And now, the Manticore lie on her beam, ravaged by storm, her crew pustular and listless.
Brachalus moved swiftly to secure each sick man behind a bulkhead, and as he threw the last bight, the curragh suddenly twisted a heave-to across the beam, whirled about her aft, then crashed into a massive swell. Brachalus raced to the booby, threw it open, and sprung upon deck in time to see hope consumed. Thunder roared and lighting rent in unison as the Manticore's single mast burst in twain and aflame, while her captain, Vael Shalvaer crooned in slavish supplication.
"Eight drowned souls, Bitch Queen! I give you eight drowned souls, my wicked mother! Drowned men, drowned!", Shalvaer shrieked in time with his baying hounds.
"You are mad, Vael, mad! You invite death to us all!" Brachalus roared while tossing a heavy hemp line over one shoulder, across the opposite hip, then stepped over it once to secure a bight on his thigh. "You will not live to see Suzail, Shalvaer; if your Bitch Queen does not come to eat your soul, I will send you to her!"
"The Dark Lady of Winds aids me now; she comes for you!"
The ship again rotating about it's aft, stern raised sharply into the air, was then aglow with radiant silver light. While dark clouds filled the horizon, churning dark and malevolent in all directions, Brachalus looked up to see Selune' silver face, somehow shining above him. Impossibly, the fierce winds lulled and the sea began to lull, though storms raged beyond the moon's silver light.
Brachalus leapt out of the bight, and ran swiftly up the near vertical deck of the now careening Manticore, heaving against the line. His shortsword appeared with all the speed of lighting into his hand, and was just as swiftly buried in Vael Shalvaer's throat. With Brachalus' swordstrike, the stern once more crashed into the Sea of Fallen Stars, hurling the captains sallow corpse, and his baying scrag-hounds, swiftly to Umberlee's cold, dark embrace.
The sky above turned green, the moon's light then hidden. Though storm still raged all about the curragh, only a light, warm rain fell upon her decks. Bracalus moved to the nearly sundered prow, and looked anxiously at the glimmering port at Suzail yet leagues distant. Making those few leagues would be nearly impossible, and perhaps yet his and the lives of the plague ridden crew were forfeit to the Bitch Queen. Brachalus smiled a sardonic smile, one hand at the beam, and another on his crimson stained blade.
"If the gods do not kill me," he thought, "Grandfather is sure to."
Mirtul 1 1367DR
Midnight's hellish squall lead to near dawn's strange, ephemeral light. Brachalus of Eshpurta gripped the beam of the Manticore, crouched low in the stern. He eyed the distance from the incapacitated curragh and Suzail, dark in the predawn haze.
"Too far," he calculated coldly, standing from the stern and stretching mechanically. Brachalus turned with a scowl as Dursk Thraer's weak, choking cough predicated the appearance of his long, gray, sea matted hair at the booby. Brachalus instantly smiled charmingly.
"Back below deck, Dursk, we know not when those clouds may take a turn." Brachalus admonished himself for the weak lie, pointing at the horizon without losing his smile.
"No, Brachalus," the old man began, hauling himself on elbows and knees across the deck, hoarsely wheezing, to the beam. Hauling himself to his feet, he leaned heavily on one elbow, “I’ve made my life as a chirugeon by the Sea of Fallen Stars and the Dragonmere… I’ll see it end with this sunrise.”
“Dursk,” Brachalus began, his friendly veneer cracking while sincere empathy filled his eyes, “there’s a Blue Dragon galleon five league off the coast of Suzail. It will have spotted us, and be moving to intercept. The wind will impede it progress, but you will live tomorrow,” he continued, a real smile filling his eyes through a cold expression.
“No, lad I cannot feel my left arm, nor my leg.” Dursk feebly attempted to clutch his chest with his right fist, still awkwardly balancing on his right elbow. He looked on at Brachalus with fear filled eyes, which in a moment flooded with tears. Dursk Threaer took two furtive, shambling steps, and then collapsed under his own weight. Brachalus seized him about the shoulders, saving him from the fall.
“Your help tending to the crew was, you…” Dursk, coughed, wheezed, then began to tremble; “you saved those men’s lives Brachalus. You followed my instructions perfectly, made good medicine. Ilmater has blessed you, lad. You are a good boy, Brachalus.” Dursk looked sorrowfully out across the Dragonmere, beheld the sun rising from the Sea of Fallen Stars, trembled weakly, and then saw no more. With that, Brachalus lowered the dead man to the deck of the Manticore. He moved to the stern, and calculated.
“Twelve leagues”, he muttered in whispered tone, “too far in water so cold.” There was no reason to assume, even if the galleon had a spyglass, that the Blue dragon vessel would see them. The tiny mistrunner was sundered, the ship lost. Brachalus moved to the booby, and then leapt into the hull. He moved to a large keg of lard, stripped off his clothes, and then meticulously smeared his body with the fatty paste. He replaced his small clothes and breeches, tunic and boots, then moved to his satchel stowed witin a small footlocker within the cargo hold. He opened it, and withdrew his fighting leathers. He dressed quickly; tightening straps at the waste, shoulders, knee, ankle and wrist of his leather armor mechanically. He placed a form fitting black cowl over his head and face, and tied it firmly. He checked twice the position and fit of his weapons, the moved again to the booby. The low groans of those plague victims who yet lived among the crew issued out from behind the bulkhead.
Their names were Herin, Gerdrous and Fleruk.
Gerdrous’ wife gave birth to a daughter just two tenday past.
Fleruk’s jests were crass, though he was clever and kind.
Herin was somber, and seemed always alone. Brachalus knew well the darkness of solitude.
“Do not be a fool, Brachalus,” he thought to himself, “these men are better dead to you than alive.” This ship kept no manifests; indeed, it cargo was five heavy crates of cheap thalander steeped in phaenaelo, the dried. Indeed, were the ship to be seized by Cormyr’s navy, the men within would be sent to prison. But hard labor under the crown was better than dead. Freedom was better yet. Quickly, Brachalus hauled the heavy rates to the deck, and placed the five out at the stern. The phaenaelo infused thalander would’ve commanded two hundred tri-crowns, and the crew of this ship would’ve been wealthy for the rest of their lives. But that was not to be.
Brachalus hauled in the curragh’s sails from the sundered mast, and wound it around the crates. Taking up two oil lanterns, he dashed them across the crates, which instantly burst into flame. A heavy tendril and bluish-green smoke issued upward, high into the sky.
“They are sure to see that”, Brachalus muttered ruefully.
Brachalus then turned, and dove over the beam. Powerful strokes lead him away from the curragh swiftly. He never looked back. Two hours later, he reached the banks of the Dragonmere, cursing daylight as he crouched within a heavy stand of reeds. Planting his feet firmly in heavy mud, he settled himself in to wait for nightfall. His first job afield, and already everything had gone wrong. He scowled bitterly.
“I will end the Cormaeril’s life, and then have done with this foul country.”
Brachalus of Eshputa was sixteen years old, an elite Shadow Thief, and aching in his heart. He would do what was required of him. He would please the Grandfather. He would kill.
He was an assassin.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus,” Dursk Thraer’s word’s haunted him.
He was an assassin. He would kill the Fire Knife. The Grandfather would be pleased.
“You are a good boy, Brachalus…
a good…
boy”.
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The Silver Fire's Blade: A Novella in Nine Parts, Available Soon, in the Adventuring Forum!
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 12 Jul 2010 00:48:04 |
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Markustay
Realms Explorer extraordinaire
USA
15724 Posts |
Posted - 27 Jun 2010 : 20:57:20
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Where is Lake Azoun? 
Nice prose BTW - you should write professionally. 
Edit: Two critiques, the first rather minor -
Line 13 in the first post, you use the word 'great' twice in a row.
In the second post, the first sentence just doesn't work for me - beginning with 'Screaming' draws the reader in, but no-one is really screaming, so its misleading. Also the word curragh seams out-of-place. I understand the need to deliver as much info as possible to the reader, but I find it distracting.
Perhaps something like –
“The curragh listed heavily to one side, dense timbers screaming, as the Manticore's hull heaved against the squall.”
Just a suggestion, mind you. Everything else I enjoyed. 
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"I have never in my life learned anything from any man who agreed with me" --- Dudley Field Malone
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Edited by - Markustay on 27 Jun 2010 21:14:50 |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 28 Jun 2010 : 04:03:58
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quote:
Originally posted by Markustay
Where is Lake Azoun?
Lake Azoun is the large lake in the Royal Gardens of Cormyr. (OGB, pgs. 81-82)
Edited to add citation. |
The Silver Fire's Blade: A Novella in Nine Parts, Available Soon, in the Adventuring Forum!
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 28 Jun 2010 04:09:31 |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 29 Jun 2010 : 19:29:02
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Some small notes:
Greengrass is not the same as the 30th day of Tarsakh.
Be careful of using "it's" when you mean to use "its", and vice versa. The danger with these commonly confused words is that most spell-checkers also won't pick up the mistake.
"Selune" is actually "Selûne". On most Microsoft based operating systems, Alt-150 will give you that character (therefore easy to remember for us Faerûn fans).
Dialogue, or sentences containing dialogue, should always be separated from the preceding and following paragraphs.
Be careful of real-world terms or anachronisms creeping into Realmsian dialogue. Brace wouldn't have read "and paper" (emphasis mine), but rather something like "scroll", "scrip" or "parchment".
Some punctuation isn't well formatted (missing spaces before or after).
Either use "something, something, and then something else" or "something, something then something else" (without the last comma) when stringing an afterthought to the rest of your sentence.
"Lions" and "tricrowns" aren't capitalized.
Reasonably good writing otherwise, except that I felt you didn't show the reader enough motivation for the killing of Shalvaer. While your characters may be aware of who the Bitch Queen is, and why that may have motivated Brachalus, more exposition is required. The same can be said about the difference between a "lion" and "tricrown" leading to the scribe's surprise. Simply dropping "gold" into "a heavy handful of coin" would already have made a "lion" clearer, inferring that "tricrowns" are even more valuable than gold.
Just some suggestions, for whatever they're worth. |
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Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36906 Posts |
Posted - 30 Jun 2010 : 00:13:55
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quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
"Selune" is actually "Selûne". On most Microsoft based operating systems, Alt-150 will give you that character (therefore easy to remember for us Faerûn fans).
It's Alt-0251 on every system I've used. |
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Ashe Ravenheart
Great Reader
USA
3249 Posts |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 30 Jun 2010 : 00:43:30
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quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
Some small notes:
Greengrass is not the same as the 30th day of Tarsakh.
[*] # Be careful of real-world terms or anachronisms creeping into Realmsian dialogue. Brace wouldn't have read "and paper" (emphasis mine), but rather something like "scroll", "scrip" or "parchment".
I thought it was apparent that Greengrass was being celebrated.
Thank you for thoughts regarding punctuation. You'd be surprised at how frequently something as trivial as spaces between the end of one sentence and the beginning of another are subject to reevaluation in writing circles. Lucky for me I am not a member of any. Perhaps this is not the case in South Africa.
Paper is used appropriately. (GHotR, pg. 138, relevant section by Greenwood?) Perhaps you should add this to your Glossary, Kyrene? |
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 30 Jun 2010 01:22:42 |
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Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36906 Posts |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 30 Jun 2010 : 09:18:39
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quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
I thought it was apparent that Greengrass was being celebrated.
It was, but your heading of "Greengrass Tarsakh 30 1367 DR" is in error.quote:
Thank you for thoughts regarding punctuation. You'd be surprised at how frequently something as trivial as spaces between the end of one sentence and the beginning of another are subject to reevaluation in writing circles. Lucky for me I am not a member of any. Perhaps this is not the case in South Africa.
It's a pleasure. But I think you misunderstood me. I'm not a debater of single-space vs. double-space (preferring single anyway), but what I meant was that you were missing whole spaces in places. That is not trivial. Examples:quote:
laughed,"Mi'lord
quote:
lowered,then
quote:
noble,"Lord
Edit: Fixed typo, after being pounced on by a typo-Nazi. 
I find that writing (fiction, but often I even use it for lenghty replies here, comments in code, etc.) in MS Word (or your word processor of choice) helps a lot. If something is not auto-corrected for you, running the Spelling and Grammar check will pick up 99% of your errors for you. I'm not clear on what you mean by "not the case in South Africa." Could you elaborate?quote:
Paper is used appropriately. (GHotR, pg. 138, relevant section by Greenwood?) Perhaps you should add this to your Glossary, Kyrene?
Depending on context, I definately will. Just goes to show, you're never too old to learn something. And it's not my Glossary, but a collaborative effort (which you've become a part of).   |
Lost for words? Find them in the Glossary of Phrases, Sayings & Words of the Realms
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Edited by - Kyrene on 01 Jul 2010 08:43:46 |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 30 Jun 2010 : 09:27:59
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quote:
Originally posted by Wooly Rupert
quote:
Originally posted by Ashe Ravenheart
It's both!
ALT characters
ALT-0 characters
Ah, my bad. I'm so used to the Alt+0 keys that I assumed he meant Alt+0150, which comes up with a different character.
Hehe!  That's one of the neat tricks I use to remember weird characters. Alt-150 (without the preceding zero) gives the lowercase U-caret (û). Alt-0150 gives that nice long dash (I think it's called an "em-dash") for when you absolutely, positively need to interject just one more time–but have run out of commas (and braces), or find yourself already in braces. |
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Edited by - Kyrene on 30 Jun 2010 09:39:00 |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 30 Jun 2010 : 23:49:27
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quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
It was, but your heading of "Greengrass Tarsakh 30 1367 DR" is in error.
Oops, my bad. I've corrected it. |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 01 Jul 2010 : 08:53:28
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quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Oops, my bad. I've corrected it.
If you're truly interested, you still missed the following 'your bads':
quote:
scribe's cell, laughed,"Mi'lord, if I am
quote:
as such... " he looked up from
quote:
continued, agrin,
quote:
scribe eye's lowered,then his leapt
quote:
scribe eye's lowered,then his leapt
quote:
the young noble,"Lord, we humble
quote:
but five Lions, this is five Tricrowns!
quote:
countenance then shifted,his gaze not
quote:
into the crowd, then slowly made
quote:
wall, noting it's apparent
quote:
soon rounded it's corner to
quote:
two men in workmans garb
quote:
And now, the Manticore lie on her
quote:
Drowned men, drowned!", Shalvaer
quote:
across the opposite hip, then stepped
quote:
ship again rotating about it's aft,
quote:
looked up to see Selune' silver face
quote:
looked up to see Selune' silver face
quote:
hurling the captains sallow corpse
Only if you're truly interested, mind you! |
Lost for words? Find them in the Glossary of Phrases, Sayings & Words of the Realms
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 01 Jul 2010 : 09:44:58
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You're hired.
(Intern rates apply.)
Keep up the good work. |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 01 Jul 2010 : 20:21:40
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quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Paper is used appropriately. (GHotR, pg. 138, relevant section by Greenwood?) Perhaps you should add this to your Glossary, Kyrene?
I have reviewed the relevant page:quote:
The Grand History of the Realms by Brian R. James, Ed Greenwood, George Krashos, Eric L. Boyd, Thomas Costa (page 138; emphasis mine)
This bloodstained letter was found among the papers of the murdered Tarjtan Eremantul
Clearly it doesn't refer to "paper" as you alledged. I cannot therefore add it to the Glossary. Sorry about that! |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 18:00:39
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quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene
quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Paper is used appropriately. (GHotR, pg. 138, relevant section by Greenwood?) Perhaps you should add this to your Glossary, Kyrene?
I have reviewed the relevant page:quote:
The Grand History of the Realms by Brian R. James, Ed Greenwood, George Krashos, Eric L. Boyd, Thomas Costa (page 138; emphasis mine)
This bloodstained letter was found among the papers of the murdered Tarjtan Eremantul
Clearly it doesn't refer to "paper" as you alledged. I cannot therefore add it to the Glossary. Sorry about that!
Yeah it does. A bloodstained letter was found among the papers of the murdered Tarjtan Eremantul.
Where was the bloodstained letter found? It was found among the papers of murdered Tarjtan Eremantul.
I understand where you are coming from, you attempted to take me to task for using what you believed was a "real-world term or anachronism" in the first bit of short fiction I posted in this thread.
I read your response, noted that it was in error, and immediately posted a source (Greenwood?) to correct you. I understand that this has to be embarrassing for you, Kyrene, what with your work compiling realms-speak phrases. Not to mention the fact that it took me all of five minutes to generate a canon, probably Greenwood, source. However, this embarrassment shouldn't blind you to *english*! If you feel that "paper" in the above context (Greenwood) is different than the context in which I used it, you are mistaken again.
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 18:14:04
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I've posted the offending quotes below, so you can compare them:
quote:
Originally poster by Brace Cormaeril
"A tithe I make with great humility, good scribe! My father's library is great, truth, and I have read every folio, chapbook, grimoire and paper there thrice at least; but I have today read from tomes which predate the Dragon Throne, five fragments regarding the Eye Tyrant Wars, and a bard's script account of the songs of all the birds of Cormanthyr. Good monk, your life is a good one."
quote:
The Grand History of the Realms
James, Greenwood, Krashes, Boyd, Costa
from page 138:
This bloodstained letter was found among the papers of the murdered Tarjtan Eremantul, a member of the wealthy Athkatlan merchant family that bore that name. Three young daughters were the only Eremantul survivors of the conflict that sages now call the Great Amnian Trade War. One girl fled to Scornubel, another to Zazesspur, and the third to Westgate. Charessa was murdered in Tethyr by sons of a rival family, but Roanele and Ambriiya are thought to be living still, under other names.
I hope this side by side comparison helps to demonstrate the use of "paper", referring to a document, in Forgotten Realms canon and I suspect, in the writing of Greenwood.
As can be clearly seen, the use of "paper" to refer to a document, as used by me, is not a "real-world term or anachronism" inappropriate to Realms fiction.
Edit: But if you *really* want to take me to task, Brace calling musical notation "bard-script" may not be canon. I really have no idea what musical notation in the Realms is called.
Sage? |
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 02 Jul 2010 18:17:10 |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 19:18:37
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quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
blah.
blah.
I understand...blah.
I...blah. I understand that this has to be embarrassing for you, Kyrene, what with your work compiling realms-speak phrases. Not to mention the fact that it took me all of five minutes to generate a canon, probably Greenwood, source.
Embarrassing? Not in the least. Why would it be? You took what Ed, or whoever, had written as exposition text, and immediately assumed it canonises the word “paper/s” (document/s).quote:
However, this embarrassment shouldn't blind you to *english*!
Exactly! Since “paper/s” is a real-world term, in English no less, I am not blinded, nor embarrassed. |
Lost for words? Find them in the Glossary of Phrases, Sayings & Words of the Realms
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 19:38:46
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quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
As can be clearly seen, the use of "paper" to refer to a document, as used by me, is not a "real-world term or anachronism" inappropriate to Realms fiction.
So, let me understand you correctly? The word “paper” does not occur in real-world English? It occurs only as a Realmsian term, like for instance “patroljan”?
*sigh*
You know what? Much as this will probably make you feel like posting one of your nasty little PMs my way... You’re right, Brace! You’re always right, even when you’re wrong. I’m so embarrassed now that I will never ever post another single word on these fora. Did that just make your little day?
Edit: I lied a little there. You’re not worth that... |
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Edited by - Kyrene on 02 Jul 2010 19:42:45 |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 22:08:31
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quote:
Originally posted by Mr_Miscellany
The word "paper", as used in the story, is incorrect. Its placement next to "folio, chapbook, grimoire" breaks the line of thought: why would single square sheets of white paper be around in the Realms?
While I had no problem reading past it, for a true-as-true-can-be piece of Realms ficion, you'd want to use "parchment" or "scroll" or maybe "treatese" or even nothing at all—allowing "folio, chapbook, grimoire" to serve as is.
As for the comparison between GHotR and the story, GHotR's usage of "paper" is enough for the average reader to think "scroll" or "document" or "record". The usage of "paper" does not literally mean "paper" in the GHotR description.
Note the GHotR is speaking in an omniscient, non-NPC voice (and speaking to us, the real live human readers the book was meant for), whereas Brace is speaking as Brace the NPC.
There is no good reason to automatically conclude that the usage of a generalist word in a sourcebook allows for the same exact word to find its way into the lexicon of spoken language of NPCs of the Realms.
"Paper" is not IMO a term a native of the Realms would use to describe single sheets with words written on them.
I'm enjoying the story thus far!
Well, then, I'm afraid that you and Kyrene would be wrong. Now, we all know that Hasbro/WotC edits Ed's work to make things easier for DMs to work with, but I'll try and use published sources one more time to make this clear.
"Paper" was used appropriately. Ok, so you don't like the GHotR source. That's cool.
I have more.
"Mysteries of the Moonsea", pgs. 58, 61, 68, 73, 102 and 147.
Here, you find something called a "Zhent traveling paper", and some guards being described as doing "paperwork". "Mysteries of the Moonsea" is by Reid, Reynolds, Drader and Upchurch. Maybe you don't like that source...
How about another one from Greenwood?
From "Silverfall-Stories of the Seven Sister" by Ed Greenwood, page 177.
quote:
"You granted this request, installing the tradelord herein," Alustriel prompted, "then?"
"This Auvrarn was seen to meet with the tradelord, then depart. The tradelord remained in this room, as is usual given the papers and suchlike often involved in such meetings."
Praise Helm for my nigh-encyclopedic knowledge of 'Realmslore!
Huzzah!
Edited for a spelling error.
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 02 Jul 2010 22:10:16 |
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Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 22:40:17
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quote:
Originally posted by Brace Cormaeril
Praise Helm for my nigh-encyclopedic knowledge of 'Realmslore!
Huzzah!
And that, I think, sums it up perfectly.  |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 22:48:15
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quote:
Originally posted by Mr_Miscellany
Since you've clearly already made up your mind, there's no point discussing anything with you.
I'll not be reading your story any longer, as you seem to enjoy using it as a means for treating your fellow scribes like dirt.
Have fun with your story.
Is the quote from Taern Hornblade, a native speaker of "realmsian", not clear enough? In a Greenwood book?
You are correct, there is nothing further to discuss; "paper" is used in the 'Realms to describe a document.
quote:
Originally posted by Mr Miscellany
There is no good reason to automatically conclude that the usage of a generalist word in a sourcebook allows for the same exact word to find its way into the lexicon of spoken language of NPCs of the Realms.
Note "paper" (describing a document) has somehow found "it's way into the lexicon of spoken language of NPCs of the Realms". |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 02 Jul 2010 : 23:19:59
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quote:
Originally posted by Mr_Miscellany
Lolz I did a google search and it looks like industrial-scale paper making is done in the Realms, or ought to be....by gnomes.
Use your browser to find "paper" after you follow this link: http://www.forum.candlekeep.com/topic.asp?TOPIC_ID=1901&whichpage=29
I still wouldn't allow for using the word in NPC dialogue for my own fiction, but to each his own.
Paper is also one of Silverymoon's major exports. (Silver Marches, Greenwood and Carl).
quote:
Originally posted by Kyrene And that, I think, sums it up perfectly.
Agreed, Kyrene. My nigh-encyclopedic knowledge of the 'Realms allowed me to nearly instantly refute your blatantly erroneous, fallacious claims, fully sourced for the scribes here.
I do this as a service. One must lament the poor fate of a new comer here who could've taken your, clearly wrong, assessment as fact.
You're welcome.
Hammers High! |
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 03 Jul 2010 00:10:33 |
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Markustay
Realms Explorer extraordinaire
USA
15724 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jul 2010 : 00:25:17
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It takes from the immersion in the story, despite its canonicty, or lack thereof.
I do not care either way (and I, too, was enjoying the story), but using more 'flavorful' terms better immerses a reader into the era/world one is trying to capture.
Paper may be made in the Eastern Realms as well, but I don't feel like researching it. RW Chinese have been making it for centuries (rice paper), and I know that the Shou have had printing presses for centuries.
There is a short-story about a printing press somewhere around the Dragonreach (I think), involving Khoja of Khazari (from the Empires trilogy), but I can't seem to find what book that was in. There may actually be a canon example of a sheet of paper in that story, but without the volume in question I can't be sure either way.
Edit: Can't believe I'm defending Brace here, but where lore is concerned I have to be impartial. I just came across this on pg.24 of VGtC:quote:
"So she started her own print shop, where linen rag paper is made and printing is done."
It goes on to describe the exact process she uses to create her 'paper'.
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"I have never in my life learned anything from any man who agreed with me" --- Dudley Field Malone
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Edited by - Markustay on 03 Jul 2010 00:31:52 |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jul 2010 : 01:09:36
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quote:
Originally posted by Markustay
It takes from the immersion in the story, despite its canonicty, or lack thereof.
I do not care either way (and I, too, was enjoying the story), but using more 'flavorful' terms better immerses a reader into the era/world one is trying to capture.
Paper may be made in the Eastern Realms as well, but I don't feel like researching it. RW Chinese have been making it for centuries (rice paper), and I know that the Shou have had printing presses for centuries.
There is a short-story about a printing press somewhere around the Dragonreach (I think), involving Khoja of Khazari (from the Empires trilogy), but I can't seem to find what book that was in. There may actually be a canon example of a sheet of paper in that story, but without the volume in question I can't be sure either way.
Edit: Can't believe I'm defending Brace here, but where lore is concerned I have to be impartial. I just came across this on pg.24 of VGtC:quote:
"So she started her own print shop, where linen rag paper is made and printing is done."
It goes on to describe the exact process she uses to create her 'paper'.
Not defending me, Markustay. Defending the scholarly virtues of the 'Keep. |
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Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36906 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jul 2010 : 01:18:23
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quote:
Originally posted by Markustay
There is a short-story about a printing press somewhere around the Dragonreach (I think), involving Khoja of Khazari (from the Empires trilogy), but I can't seem to find what book that was in. There may actually be a canon example of a sheet of paper in that story, but without the volume in question I can't be sure either way.
Off the top of my head, he was only in the first two Realms of anthologies. |
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Faraer
Great Reader
3308 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jul 2010 : 02:59:13
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I cracked a smile.
Meanwhile, literal paper (which 'papers' meaning documents doesn't imply, though the term occurs quite often in the sources, though rarely in the singular or in dialogue, for what that's worth) is most fully discussed in "Realmslore: Everyday Writing in the Realms". |
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Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36906 Posts |
Posted - 03 Jul 2010 : 03:27:21
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Okay, folks, I'm getting really tired of this. I just removed a couple of posts from this thread -- one a snarky response, one an insulting response to that snarky response.
I get that not everyone on these forums likes everyone else. Lurue knows that I'm less than fond of more than one person here... But holy mother of Mystra, can we not treat each other with a little respect? I'm getting tired of having to put on my mod hat every time someone disagrees with someone else, because both scribes decided to fling civility out the window. I don't like deleting posts, and I don't like editing posts. Stop making those things necessary! 
You don't agree with someone, fine. Ignore it or reply respectfully -- which means without snark and/or insult. If you can't do either of those things, take it somewhere other than the public forums -- because the rest of us don't want to watch your debate, and because you're breaking the rules.
I'm tired of it. Just behave, okay? |
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Brace Cormaeril
Learned Scribe
294 Posts |
Posted - 11 Jul 2010 : 10:08:05
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Mirtul 1 1367DR
Zur’s small darting eyes scrutinized the ledger lain before him, they dark spheres hidden within heavy, bulbous cheeks. His brow furrowed like the crags of some wasteland, bordered by a thick brow and barren pate. He rose from his heavy throne, it lavishly engraved and inlaid. His back hurt; he gripped his temples with forefinger and thumb, kneading his aching skull. Simultaneously, he reached instinctively to the pommel of his hornblade Seilasinaes, then scooped the final leather-bound ledger from the mountain of many much the same. Peering out from under a heavy hand still gripping furtively at an ache he could not force to abate, he grimaced sourly, tossed the ledger upon his desk and strode across the heavy hewn stone floor of his safe-room.
“Kerryth, have prepared, and now, ‘qawah’!”, he bellowed at the heavy iron barred door. “Black! Hot!”
His daughters, Sharyndi and Shesael, came unbidden to Zur’s mind’s eye. They were withering before his eyes, spending more coin at nightly revels on dreammist and wine than a Moonsea miner or timber man would earn in a lifetime. His wife, Kiiraen, a once buxom and beautiful maiden of Mistledale, had grown fat and pompous; a once inconceivable departure from the winsome farm maid whom he had elevated from agrarian servitude. Zur snarled, and mentally berated these leeches that spent his gold on fineries and purchased fame; but then admonished himself with a wicked grin. The coin spent by these whores he had beget upon the world were but the merest scraps compared to the vast wealth he commanded.
“Let them have their play-pretties and stupors,” Zur growled in his deep, yet sonorous , bear’s voice, “ere long, I will set Sembia to dance, Cormyr to kneel, Amn to fetch, and Tethyr to crawl.”
Two sharps raps on the safe-room door drew Zur’s gaze and ire.
“Enter”, he commanded. The barred door opened, and a young Zhentilar officer rushed inside with obvious care, thwarted by haste. Steaming ‘qawah’ splashed from the large earthenware mug across his fingers, which he attempted to hide by hugging the heavy mug close to body; while absorbing some of the spill on his black uniform, his next footfall jostled the mug yet further, sloshing scalding black brew across his hands. He looked up at Zur in horror. Zur seized the mug with one meaty hand, and while the servant made his quick exit, drew a long sip of ‘qawah’. His headache seemed to fade, if only a little, but almost instantly.
Suddenly, the safe-room began to glow with a hellish red light.
“Gods,” Zur swore, and ran towards the back of the room as twin eldritch spheres writhing with arcane sigils; one silver, one black, swirled in unison, overlapping each other by half. Once within in the overlapping spheres, Zur spun on his heel and drew his heavy blade. As he did so, abjurations cast throughout the safe-room burst in a cascade of witch-light. A vicious arc of black lighting tore from the safe-room flagstones, burning a man’s height wide and licking the vaulted ceilings. It danced violently for a moment, until an even darker cloaked figure emerged from the vile lighting, crackling fingers of plasma clinging to its form. Brandishing his blade from within the confines of his protective spheres, Zur steeled his resolve. The arcane protections he had lain by mercenary spellwork, now destroyed, cost him hundreds of pounds of gold. This lighting walker was no mageling assassin.
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Edited by - Brace Cormaeril on 12 Jul 2010 01:05:02 |
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The Silver Fire's Blade
