This isn't meant to be in-character, so feel free to comment. One convention that I'll ask be observed, though: if you want to comment on the story, or on how stupid this thread is, please do so in italics - or somehow differentiate it from the story. If you don't we can probably figure it out anyway, but I thought this would help.
Feel free to add characters or move everyone around as you see fit, but I'll suggest that the story should remain centered on our title character, Wil.
Here we go.
********************
Wil Mitford dropped into the chair, eager to rest his sore feet. He had not realized that it was such a long walk from his father's farm to Greyhawk, nor that the city itself was so big. He doubted he had ever walked so much at once in his young life. He winced at a twinge in his shoulder that flared as he sat, and ruefully acknowledged to himself that sleeping on the ground last night did not help matters.
Around him, the other patrons of the Green Dragon Inn chattered and drank. A serving wench approached and he uncertainly asked for an ale. She nodded and, with a swirl of her skirt, strode to the bar.
Wil brushed his shaggy reddish-blonde hair out of his eyes, then rested his hand back on the well-worn scabbard that lay across his lap. He knew the quality of the sword was questionable, but it was the best he could afford - at least for now. When he had become a successful adventurer, he could afford a better one. But even this one was better than the tools he had used on his father's farm.
He remembered his father's anger at his decision to leave the farm to pursue what his father called "a dangerous and frivolous dream." But Wil was as stubborn as his father, and would not be swayed.
Now he just hoped he could find a way to make money before what he had ran out.
Wil twisted his head swiftly to the left and right winching at the pain in his sore shoulder as he turned his head in anticipation of meeting a man important enough to be call Sir or even Master. You could see Wil's cheeks glow a rosey red when he realize this small creature was referring to him. I am no sir or master little one but why don't you tell me what bother's you so.
Yes, master I will tell you what troubles me. But before the small creature could continue Wil halted the dimunitive fellow from uttering another word. Please my little friend I am Wil and I can't claim to be anyone's master.
Ok master, umm master, umm master Wil. I was needing some assistance with talking to other big folk just like you. But many big folk don't rather much respcet me is all. So I was wondering if you would help me out with speaking to big folk sir. Wil could not of felt larger he was already receiveing some form of respect maybe this adventurering thing wasn't such a bad idea.
The serving wench brought over a frothed stein of ale but before the wench could set it down upon Wil's table the creature was taking hold of the large stein and handing it to Wil personally. Here's your drink Master Wil. While Wil's head grew to the size of a full pig bladder, he tried to gain a cool composure. Well little man you treat me with the proper respect so tell me exactly what it is you need and what is in it for me?
Wil braced for the impact, sure he was about to be leveled by the falling warrior. Just then, he felt a jerk on his tunic. He watched the warrior slam, unconscious, into the chair that he had been sitting in only a moment ago.
"Master Wil was in danger," the small creature said simply.
By the way this goes for anyone who wishes to continue the story.
Wil look down and was startled to see the stein of ale resting in his clenched fist. He managed to rescue the precious brew without spilling a single drop. "Not bad," he murmured to himself. He took a long pull from the stein, then handed it to his new friend. "Hang on to that for me would you?"
The small man took the mug, and looked doubtfully up at Wil, "What are you going to do, Mas...er Wil?"
"It looks like this is just what I came here to find," the young man replied. "Be right back!" Wil cracked his knuckles and waded in to the thickest part of the brawl....
Wil grinned, a wild glint in his eyes. This was more like it! This was what his father didn't understand. Wil never felt more alive than when he was fighting.
“This one’s alive after all,” he heard a nearby voice report.
Wil opened his eyes, blinking them slowly into focus. He saw a man standing over him, wearing the insignia of the city watch. His head throbbing, Wil sat up and looked around.
Several members of the watch were spread around the Green Dragon Inn. Two of them had a grip on the man that Wil had seen throw the first punch. Another knelt next to a small form sprawled on the floor not far from Wil. That man looked up at the one standing beside Wil and said, “This one’s not.”
The man beside Wil shook his head. “Sometimes these brawls turn ugly,” he said, more to himself than to Wil. Then he turned back to Wil and said, “According to our witnesses, you weren’t one of the instigators, so you’re free to go. Just keep your nose clean while you’re here.”
Wil nodded. As the man turned and strode away, Wil’s eyes fell on the small, still form sprawled nearby. With a shock, he realized it was the small creature that had been asking for his help.
As Wil watched, the two watchmen began speaking to each other. “Find anything on this halfling?” asked the one who had spoken to Wil.
“He was carrying this knife and these thieves’ tools,” answered the other, holding up the items he mentioned. “He also had a sap, a garrote, and a vial of something – might be poison,” he continued, gesturing toward some items laid on the floor beside the dead halfling.
Wil stared. “Gods above . . . . This creature asked for my help,” he breathed.
Both watchmen suddenly turned their eyes on Wil again. “What did you say?” asked the nearer of the two.
Seeing their suspicious looks, Wil realized that he had just linked himself to a dead thief in the minds of the city watch. Speaking quickly, his words spilling over each other in his haste to explain, Wil told how the halfling had approached him, speaking respectfully and asking for his assistance.
“Must have made you out to be an easy mark,” the first watchman said. “You’ll have to be more careful if you’re going to remain in this city.”
Wil nodded.
“Look here,” said the other watchman, still kneeling by the dead halfling. “He had a key in his pocket.”
The first watchman leaned close. “Looks like a room key, probably an inn.”
“If it is, then we can match it to a room. Might even be nearby,” said the other.
“Nah, my money’s on someplace in the Thieves’ Quarter. Maybe the Gold Digger – lots of halflings frequent that place,” replied the first.
At that moment, the man who had started the brawl began struggling against the watchmen who held him. He jerked free.
"He's loose!" one of the other watchmen shouted.
The brawler started throwing punches at anyone he could reach, sending one of his guards crashing to the floor. The rest of the watchmen converged on him, some brandishing clubs.
As the two watchmen nearest the dead halfling rushed toward the fresh brawl, Wil's eyes fell on the halfing's key. It lay on the floor beside the body. As he stood up, Wil leaned toward the body and scooped up the key. He quickly tucked it into his belt and headed toward the door leading out to the street.
Wil struggled against his attacker, but the arms holding him were like granite and kept him pinned. As Wil tried to get free his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see that his assailent was much taller than any person he had ever seen. He also became aware that there was a another, smaller man behind the brute. He was dressed in black leather, trimmed with a sickly looking green lace. Wil noticed that his eyes were two different colors; the right was hazel, the left shifted between brown and red as the shadows danced on his gaunt face.
The small man began to speak in a guiet, raspy whisper...
http://s40.photobucket.com/albums/e245/btmcrae/?action=view¤t=wil1.jpg&refPage=&imgAnch=imgAnch22
Then he heard a shout from the road. "Try that way! He can't have gotten far!" He recognized the voice as belonging to one of the watchmen he had spoken with in the Green Dragon Inn.
Wil's mind reeled. They must have noticed that the key was missing, and now they were looking for him. It seemed that his choice was to remain here or take his chances with the watch....
"You were speaking to a halfling inside the inn," the man said.
It was not a question, but Wil answered anyway. "Yes..."
"Poor little bastard, now dead by an unknown hand." At this, the man chuckled. "He was carrying something that is of interest to me. I believe you may be able to help me with that..."
"Indeed," the small man said, as a slight breeze made the green lace flicker about.
"Uh... well, um... how exactly could I help you?"
"Oh, I think we both know how. I saw you grab something before you left, and I think that something is mine. Give me the vial," the small man said, with a threatening gleam in his multi-hued eyes. "I paid the halfling handsomely, and that vial belongs to me."
This was not how Wil imagined spending his first night in Greyhawk. He had imagined meeting up with dwarven warriors, or a holy knight on a quest, or some ancient wizard seeking out Wil's sword to do what even the mightiest magics could do not. Instead, he was on the run from the city watch, being shaken down in an alleyway by a lunatic who hired thieves and had a huge scarred manservant. Maybe Wil's father was quite a bit smarter than he had given him credit for.
Realizing the dilemna he was in, Wil decided that perhaps the truth would get him out of this situation. "The vial? I didn't take the vial. I took a key. I left the vial on the floor. The guards said it was poison, and I didn't want it. I was curious about the key."
Will shuddered as the small man's demeanor changed. He no longer had that slimy grin of someone working a mark. He had the cold face of a killer. And that wasn't what Wil was hoping to see.
"Ah, so you are worthless afterall. No matter. You shall meet the same fate the halfling was destined for, even had he survived that tavern brawl. You should have grabbed the vial, boy. At least then your death would have been quick."
With those words, all thought of escape left Wil. He was doomed. Gren's griptightened on his shoulder. Wil reached for his sword, barely finding the hilt in his haste. He started to pull the weapon loose, not caring that it would be of no use with the brute so close. Gren quickly moved to stop him though, stopping the hideous man from drawing his own dagger.
Wil life was spared for another moment. The small man reached down to hi sown belt, pulling out a dagger, as he advanced slowly on Wil.
"Hold him still Gren. Our Lord Nerull gains another soul tonight." And then the small man lunged.
With those words, Wil slumped. His knees buckled, and with Gren only gripping his shoulders, he nearly fell. Wil's own spinning head and weak knees had saved his life, for the small man's dagger missed his throat and instead punctured only air. Wil fell to the ground as Gren released his hold and drew another dagger.
From the entrance of the alleyway, there was a cry, as the city watch had finally found there man. "There he is, the brute in the alleyway!" the guard cried. "They're armed! Open fire!"
Crossbows clicked, and bolts erupted in the chest of Gren. A dull roar erupted from his throat, for he had no tongue with which to truly scream. The small man, unharmed, dashed for the other end of the alley and the shadows it contained. Several watchmen rushed after him.
Wil slowly got to his feet, not quite sure how he was still alive. He looked down at the scarred body of the thing known as Gren. In the light of a torch the watchmen carried, it was clear that it had once been a half-orc. What had happened to its face could only be guessed at, but the cry to Nerull left uneasy clues.
The city watch looked uneasily at Wil, unsure of his place in this. Wil's mind raced. Were they after them all this time? Perhaps they hadn't noticed the missing key. Or was that just wishful thinking? How could he explain his presence in the alleyway with a Nerull cultist?
The watchmen still seemed unsure, and Wil noticed a couple of them reloading their crossbows. He reasoned that he was better off with the truth than any story, and decided to tell it to them - or at least most of it.
He told how he had been in the Green Dragon and been knocked unconscious in a brawl, and when he left after he awoke, he was pulled into the alley by the slain creature and the man who had fled. He deemed it best to leave out his theft of the key, and on a whim, decided not to specifically mention the vial, either. He closed with, "Apparently this creature's master had some business with the halfling that lies dead in the Green Dragon, but what exactly it was, I don't know." That, he thought, was at least mostly true.
The watchman at the head of the group looked Wil over, then nodded. "All right," he said, "but I'll need you to come back to the Green Dragon to talk with my supervisor."
Wil nodded his assent.
"I will suffer your insolence no longer, you will answer me," she snarled; once again questioning Wil's presence with a dread follower of the Reaper.
Finally, he found the courage to squeak a response, "Honestly, I do not know who he was. He tried to kill me!"
With a motion that Wil's eyes were not quick enough to follow, she procured a vial from the folds of her clothing. "Perhaps this will loosen your tongue."
"This is familiar to you, isn't it?" she said. "Tell me what you want with it."
Until that moment, Wil had been awed and fearful, but at that accusation, Wil's indignant anger finally won out. "Now wait just a minute," he shouted, stabbing his index finger in the captain's direction. He started to take a step toward her, and was abruptly restrained by two other watchmen. He tried to shake them off, but they only gripped him tighter. Undeterred, he continued yelling.
"Listen, since I got here, I've been knocked unconscious in a bar fight and abducted by killers hiding in an alley. 'Gem of the Flanaess,' my arse!"
The watchmen looked uncertainly at their captain, preparing to force this unruly bumpkin into submission. She stared impassively, however, as Wil continued his rant.
"I already told you that the dead halfling approached me asking for assistance with 'other big folk.' I guess he figured I was an easy mark, like one of your men told me. Then this cultist and his creature attacked me in the alley because they saw me talking to the halfling. I haven't done anything!"
The captain's ruby lips slowly broke into a smile. "Spoken like an innocent man," she said.
Wil felt his anger drain away, replaced by a sudden awareness of how attractive he found this woman to be. Feeling a flush rise in his cheeks, Wil averted his eyes from meeting hers. Then, off to the side, he saw a shadow move and a flash of pale green.
"He's here!" Wil shouted.
Maybe it was Wil's shouted warning, or maybe it was just her own skill - Wil would never be sure afterward - but the captain threw herself to the side, twisting to avoid the missile. The knife sliced through a silken sleeve, but failed to find flesh.
Wil wasn't sure what to do. He scanned the shadows carefully, trying to catch another glimpse of the pale green lace that had spoiled the cultist's surprise attack, but couldn't. He thought of grabbing his sword and helping with the hunt, but when he had been brought back here, they had taken his sword away from him. After a moment, he caught a glimpse of it through the tangle of activity in the Inn, leaning against a wall away from the direction that the knife had come from.
Feeling that the watch captain now believed he was innocent, Wil saw no reason why they wouldn't allow him to be armed. He certainly thought he'd feel better under the circumstances if he had his sword. He took a few steps toward it, then noticed something on the floor.
The vial. In the excitement, the watch captain must have dropped it and forgotten it. Wil bent over to pick it up. As his hands closed on it, he thought he caught another flash of pale green out of the corner of his eye.
He scanned his surroundings feverishly. No sign of the cultist with the pale green lace. He frowned.
Eyes still darting back and forth, Wil reached out. As his free hand closed over the hilt of his sword, he grinned with satisfaction.
Then, Wil saw a streak of pale green at the periphery of his vision.
Growling, rage growing in him, Wil raised his sword and charged at the cultist. He brought the sword down on the man like a blacksmith's hammer, but he blocked the blow with the knife and rapier together.
"Foolish whelp," the cultist hissed through clenched teeth. "You only prolong your death. Give me what I seek."
For all the man's apparent confidence, Wil noticed that his eyes kept darting to the sides. Then Wil thought he caught what might have been fear. For a moment, Wil thought that perhaps the great force of his first blow had shaken the cultist, but he reluctantly rejected that as unwarranted pride. No, what the man feared was an extended encounter, because such a thing would surely bring the members of the watch who now searched the inn down on top of him.
As if in response to Wil's unspoken thoughts, the cultist swung with the rapier and followed it with a wicked slash of the knife. Though surely intended as a finishing strike, both maneuvers failed. Wil sidestepped the rapier, and blocked the knife with his sword.
Blades still locked together, Wil lauched his free fist at the cultist's face. The action brought an immediate twinge from his shoulder. The punch connected, though, and the cultist stumbled back.
At that moment, Wil became aware of sounds growing behind him - approaching members of the watch. He spared a glance back, then when he turned again, the cultist was gone.
"After him!" Wil heard a shout.
The wound felt strange to Wil, though it was not his first. He could feel the burning sensation spreading - down his arm, up his neck. Suddenly the room tipped on its side, and Wil's head hit the floor. Darkness swallowed him.
When he awoke, he was someplace he had never seen before.
Wil shook his head to clear the cobwebs that still gripped his mind. He instantly regretted it. A wave of vertigo swept over him, and his shoulder began throbbing again. He laid back down again.
Now the other voice spoke from the other room: "But he's been in the middle of this whole mess from the start. I don't believe in coincidences." A male voice, sharp and angry.
So, Wil thought, they're arguing about me. Wonderful.
Wil looked around again as he lay on the cot, wondering where he was. Beneath the sounds of the argument from the next room, he thought he could hear the muted sounds of city life. He must still be in Greyhawk, but where?
Suddenly the door swung open, and he saw the female guard captain who had spoken with him at the Green Dragon.
"Ah, you're awake. Good. We need to talk."
Wil tried to speak, found that his mouth was dry. He coughed, and tried again.
"Where am I?"
"The River Quarter guard station, just down the road from the Green Dragon," she answered. "You should be safe here, at least for now. I'll have some water brought down here, and then, like I said, we need to talk."
"Your name is Wil, isn't it?" she asked.
Wil nodded. He remembered giving her his name when she began interrogating him at the Green Dragon.
"I'm Shae Pardra, the ranking officer at this watch post."
"It's nice to meet you," Wil said, more out of politeness than out of any genuine sense of pleasure at the meeting. While Shae seemed pleasant enough, Wil wasn't sure anymore that it had ever been a good idea to leave his father's farm.
"Wil, you're clearly a marked man."
The words hit Wil like a slap in the face, sharp and abrupt. "Wh - what do you mean?"
"I'm not sure how, but you've gotten involved in something deadly serious. No random attacker would have come after you at the Green Dragon, not with so many members of the watch present. They're either supremely confident, or very desperate. Either way, you're in it deep."
Wil felt numb. He barely noticed one of the watchmen bringing in a cup of water.
"So, Wil," Shae continued, "why do you suppose someone would go to such lengths to kill you?"
Wil began to question whether it was still a good idea to keep quiet about what the cultist had said about the vial - or about the key on the dead halfling, for that matter.
"I really don't know what's going on here," he said.
Shae held up a small, familiar-looking vial. "What about this?"
Wil sighed.
"Look, I don't know what it is. The halfling was carrying it, and the cultist wanted it. That was why he had his creature grab me and pull me into that alley."
Shae nodded. "That's probably why the cultist killed the halfling, or had someone else do it. We'll try to have the contents of this vial identified. Anything else?"
Wil opened his mouth, about to mention the key, then thought better of it. He still wanted to try to find his own answers, and that key was the only clue he had. He twisted his mouth into what he hoped looked like a thoughtful frown and shook his head. "Nope," he added.
Shae eyed him for a moment, then said, "Okay. Where are you staying, in case I want to talk to you again later?"
"I haven't got a room anywhere yet." He hadn't been in the city for long, and still had not taken the time to get a room. He wasn't sure he could afford one, anyway.
"Let me know when you find one, then. You're free to go."
As he walked, he passed the Silver Dragon Inn on his right, then farther down, the Black Dragon Inn on his left. Soon he was wending his way through the Low Market. Ahead he saw the Black Gate, beyond which lay the Thieves Quarter - and perhaps, some answers.
Meanwhile, Shae Pardra rolled up a parchment, slid it into a leather tube, and handed it to a watchman. "This is my report concerning the events at the Green Dragon. Take it to the Constable; she needs to know about this, but I need to continue my investigation."
The watchman saluted smartly and strode out of the watch station. However, once he was out of sight of the station, he stopped and looked around, then darted into an alley. He stood waiting, nervous, until a figure clad in leather trimmed with pale green lace emerged from the shadows.
"What have you learned?" the cultist rasped.
The watchman extended the leather tube with a shaking hand. "H-here," he stammered.
The cultist opened the tube and slid the parchment out, reading it quickly. He nodded, and tossed a small clinking pouch at the watchman. The watchman snatched the pouch out of the air and hurried back out to the street. The cultist paid him no further attention as he returned the parchment to its case and vanished back into the shadows.
"Ooooow!" Thought Wil. "I should _not_ have had that burrito before I set out." Now, he was surely in for it. A sudden tightening sensation and quick flatuent squeal caused in Wil a wild panic born of no certain knowledge that he could, with sufficient haste, unburden himself of his now heavy load. Wil concentrated, fighting for control. "Must. Not. Foul. Self." He thought, as beeds of sweat broke out on his forehead.
The wind now risen to a howling gale forced Wil to seek the shelter of a nearby alley. Looking around quickly in the half light of the burgeoning storm, Wil's eyes narrowed as a sly grin stole over his lumpish features. Maybe here! Surely, no one would be about in such weather!
Drawing back deeper in the alley, Wil hurried to be began his preparations. As the next to the last of the straps came away beneath his thick fingers, Wil moved into a half crouch.
"Well, well, well, what do we have ere?" The laughing voice was thickly slurred from the obvious effects of alcohol and held a note of menace scarcely concealed by any mirth.
Wil wheeled around in surprise, grasping for his belt and sword simultaneously. It was doubly too much. Wil lost control! Thoughts of swords and his dignity vanished in the onrush of sweet relief. Only too late did Wil see the giant of a man behind him. "My sword!" Wil's mind screamed. "OH GAWDS!" The stranger grunted as the sight and smell of Will reached even his inebriated senses. The two women, one on each of the big man's arms, catching sight of Wil howled with laughter and pointed at Wil. The impact was immediate. "My sword!" Wil's mind screamed as he frantically sought to cover himself.
The rain began to poor down.
[Okay. Next person go! Golly this is fun. I think I'm going to try to work in Elminister and some hampsters!]
Also, when I asked for "Greyhawk flavor," I didn't realize that included burritos.
"Ooooow!" Thought Wil. "I should _not_ have had that burrito before I set out."
"He drops his sword and reaches for his dagger!" the big drunk boomed, either to himself or the now-absent women. Then he laughed even harder, clearly amused at his own cleverness.
Wil's cheeks burned red at the indignity. He perhaps should have realized that a big city like this would be different than the farm, but to be interrupted and then laughed at stung bitterly. He hiked up his trousers, keeping his eyes on the big man.
"I'm sorry to have bothered you," Wil said, fighting down the anger and embarrassment. "I'll just be going."
He bent down to retrieve his sword, still carefully watching the big drunk.
"No, I don't think so," the hulking brute slurred. He lumbered toward Wil.
Wil's fingers closed on his sword. He pulled the blade from its scabbard. By then, the brute was on top of him. Wil reeled as a meaty fist connected with his cheek. Then Wil swung his sword. The blade sank deep, and Wil felt a warm flow mingling with the cold rainwater on his hands. The brute fell. Wil quickly wiped the sword on the man's dirty clothes, sheathed it, and ran. As he reached the end of the alley, he looked back. Several rats were already crawling over the body. He left the alley and began looking for someplace dry off and wait out the rain.
"Hello there," came a female voice. "Can I help you?"
Wil turned and saw a young woman approaching him. She appeared to be a few years older than him, and she carried herself with great dignity. His eyes fell on the small silver medallion that she wore around her neck, and he was struck by its fine quality. Then he realized she was still waiting for an answer.
"Uh, hi," Wil said. "I just, uh, was just looking." Wil didn't want to admit that he just wanted to get out of the rain, because he was afraid she might make him leave.
"Looking at what?" the woman demanded. "This is a servant agency. We hire and train servants for those who can afford such things."
"Um, at you..." It came out more like a question, so tentative was Wil's response. He was starting to consider that it might have been better to tell the truth, but felt constrained to stay with his original story.
The woman seemed pleased, however. "Really? Did you recognize me? I haven't worked as an actress for a while, but I still... well, anyway, we should be formally introduced. I am Xerien Albhart."
"Wil Mitford."
"Pleased to meet you, Wil."
Xerien invited Wil to have a seat, and offered him some tea. They chatted for a while, and Wil learned that Xerien had indeed been an actress, although he suspected that perhaps she had not been a very good one. Wil told her about the bar fight at the Green Dragon and some of its aftermath, but left out the bits about the key and the vial. He decided he'd better not mention the drunk that had just attacked him, either. After a while, he noticed that the rain had let up. Wil expressed his genuine appreciation for Xerien's hospitality, and politely excused himself.
"If your luck doesn't turn around, Wil, come back and see me. I might have work for you."
Wil thanked her and left.
The ramshackle little building looked abandoned, although it still had a sign hanging above the door that read, "Madame Serena's Fortunetelling." Another sign, this one nailed to the door, proclaimed "The Dead House."
As Wil approached the shack, he thought he heard the wind picking up. Then he realized that not a breath of air had stirred his hair or clothes. What he had taken to be wind now seemed more like indistinct whispers. Then the susurration resolved into words: "Stay here no more. Leave while you can."
Wil stumbled back.
Holy !
Reason: Masking removed, you know the rule
Oops, sorry Randal, and to anyone who may have been offended. I didn't think there was any problem with referring to an expletive so long as I didn't actually spell out the whole word. I know that we're all presumed to know the Code of Conduct intimately, but I really hadn't read it; I typically just rely on common sense. Would it have been more acceptable if I had used this smilie
? And if that was the case, was the warning from the dead fortuneteller? What had she seen?
Chills running down his spine at the thought, Wil could not help but shudder. Eyeing the Dead House warily, he gave it a wide berth and continued walking.
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**********
Wil shuddered as he sped up to put distance between himself and the Dead House. As he walked, he realized that the gloom of the earlier stormclouds which had made the day seem like night had given way to the lengthening shadows of twilight. He hoped he would reach the Gold Digger Tavern soon; he didn't think he wanted to be walking the Thieves Quarter after dark.
Just then, the heavy oaken door of the tavern burst open and a burly half-orc was sent sprawling into the street. He bounced once on the battered flagstone then did not move. Wil's eyes shot back to the tavern door in time to catch a glimpse of three satisfied-looking dwarves in the doorway as they turned and headed back inside.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, Wil strode toward the door, stepping carefully over the unmoving half-orc as he did.
The place was lit, but not brightly. A haze of pipe smoke swirled around the rafters, and Wil was immediately struck by several unfamiliar scents. An assortment of dwarves, gnomes, halflings and a few humans sat at the bar or at tables spaced throughout the place. Three of the dwarves had spun, glaring, when the door had opened, but had relaxed upon seeing Wil; he realized that they were the same three that had just tossed that half-orc into the street. Fragments of a half-dozen conversations competed in Wil's ears: news of the Principality of Ulek and the orcish invasion from the Pomarj, tales of past adventures, rumors of great fortunes to be had, and more.
To one side, Wil saw a set of stairs leading up to the rooms for rent. Reaching into his belt pouch for the key found on the dead halfling at the Green Dragon, Wil headed for the stairs.
Shae was alone in a small temple antechamber with a priestess and the remains of a halfling slain recently at the Green Dragon. The priestess was chanting and gesticulating and clutching a symbol depicting a red skull. After a few moments, the priestess stopped and began to watch the corpse expectantly. Then she raised her eyes to Shae. As Shae looked from the priestess to the corpse, she saw that the dead halfling's waxy lips were moving.
"You may ask your questions," the priestess said.
"Who were you working for?" Shae demanded.
The pale lips moved soundlessly at first. Then, a gravelly voice came in a monotone: "A dark man."
Shae scowled and considered her next question.
Again, the gravelly monotone came in response: "A dark man."
"Why?"
The dead halfling did not respond immediately. Shae was about to repeat the question when the sepulchral voice resumed. "For what I carried," it said.
"What did you carry?"
"My belongings. And a key."
Key? This puzzled Shae, as her men had not reported finding any key on this halfling's body. "A key to what?"
"Death. Doom. Destruction."
Shae pressed the animated corpse for additional details, but it made no further response. Finally, it was clear that Shae would get nothing more.
Shae thanked the priestess for her help. The priestess responded, "My patroness appreciates the goals of the city watch. She is happy to aid in the search for a lawbreaker." The look in her eyes, though, seemed to convey an additional message.
Shae was prepared. She pressed a small sack of coins into the priestess's hand. "An offering as a token of my thanks," she said.
As Shae left the temple, the mystery of the key swirled in her mind.
"What could it matter?" one of them asked.
Shae Pardra gave him a hard look. "We shall see."
He moved forward slowly, trying to remain as quiet as possible. The first door he came to, on his right, barely muffled the sound of voices within. Wil could hear two voices, one male and one female, both dwarvish, but could not pick out any particular words. He moved on.
The next door, this one on the left, betrayed no sounds from within. Wil tried the key. It slipped easily into the lock, but would not turn.
Wil tried more doors, skipping any rooms that were obviously occupied. He guessed wrong once and heard angry threats from inside. Then, at the second-to-last door, Wil turned the key and heard a click. Surprised, he paused. Then he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
The room was small and tidy. The bed seemed like it would have been too short for Wil, and as he looked at it, Wil realized it probably would have been quite comfortable for a halfling. On the bed sat a small backpack. Wil drew his sword and prodded the pack experimentally. Nothing happened. With the tip of his blade, Wil pushed the pack open. It tipped over, spilling its contents on the bed.
One thing caught Wil's eye immediately: a small black box, bearing intricate carvings of disturbing images. Dominating the center of the box's lid was a single rune, like a diamond shape balanced on top of an inverted V.
Just then, Wil thought he heard movement in the hall.
Wil crept back across the room as silently as he could, teeth clenched in concentration. He pressed himself against the wall beside the door, sword raised, and waited.
The door opened by a crack, then stopped. Wil kept his breathing shallow, keeping utterly still. He still could not see anything – the door opened away from the side where he stood. After a seemingly interminable moment, the door opened further. The first thing Wil saw was a hand – with a familiar green lace at its wrist.
Panic gripped Wil’s heart, images of that dark alley outside the Green Dragon and the battle inside it running through Wil’s mind. Adrenaline surged through Wil’s veins. He struck, bringing the sword arcing down. It embedded itself in the dirty planks of the floor. Wil was sure he must have missed.
Then he saw the hand laying on the floor in a slowly-expanding pool of blood. The cultist’s screams of pain filled the room.
Wil heaved the sword free of the splintered plank. Then, sword gripped in one hand, he scooped up the dead halfling’s backpack and all its contents with his free hand.
As he turned back toward the door, Wil found his attention drawn back to the severed hand. It had fallen palm-up, and now Wil saw that it bore an intricate design, an unblinking eye surrounded by overlapping geometric shapes set in arcane patterns. Then he looked up and saw that the cultist was gone; only a pool of blood marked where he had stood.
A sharp pain in his side ended Wil’s speculation. Wil spun, slamming his elbow into the cultist’s jaw. The cultist’s remaining hand lost its grip on the dagger it had thrust between Wil’s ribs. The dagger clattered to the floor. Continuing his spin, Wil brought his sword down. It caught the man full in the chest.
The cultist collapsed, gasping and gurgling. “May the . . . Black Rider . . . take you,” he rasped. Then he shuddered once and moved no more.
Wil returned to the halfling’s room and tore strips of cloth from the bedsheet, fashioning a makeshift bandage, which he wrapped around his chest. The wound burned and throbbed now. Probably poisoned, he thought. He had to hurry.
With a final glance back at the motionless body of the cultist, Wil ran back down the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the night. He tried not to think about the dark shapes he saw moving in the streets, thinking only of getting back to Shae Pardra’s watch station. Then he saw a massive shape he could not ignore. He stopped, staring in disbelief. But he could not deny what he saw.
“Gren,” he breathed.
Remember, anyone can feel free to add to the story - just try to keep it appropriate to Greyhawk. No more burritos, if we can help it. ;)
But the creature veered away from Wil. It smashed open the front door of the Gold Digger, prompting shouts of anger and surprise from within. Wil lost sight of the creature then, as the sounds of battle erupted inside. Wil turned and began to run toward the River Quarter.
Thanks, Ivid. :D
Remember, anyone can feel free to add to the story - just try to keep it appropriate to Greyhawk. No more burritos, if we can help it. ;)
As soon as I find the time, I'll do a smaller contribution. ;)
He made it past several darkened buildings, perhaps a couple of city blocks away from the Gold Digger, before his legs gave out. He fell to his hands and knees. Sweat rolled down the sides of Wil's face. His chest heaved like a bellows, sucking air, though each breath caused him to grimace from the pain caused by the bloody wound in his side.
After kneeling on the dirty cobblestones for a while, Wil realized that men were shouting nearby. He sat back on his heels and looked up, into the eyes of a grizzled man in an unfamiliar uniform. The man seemed to have been appraising Wil, and now turned back to others, unseen in the darkness.
"Aye, he's wounded! I'm bringing him in!"
The man bent down to help Wil to his feet. Wil tried to retreat.
"You're all right now, lad. By the Cudgel, you'll be safe now - you're with the Nightwatchmen." Wil relented, and the man put an arm under Wil's shoulder, hoisting him up. As he did, he continued speaking: "Aye, you'll be safe now."
He sat up, quickly taking in his surroundings. He found himself in a small room, on a sturdy cot, covered with a thick woolen blanket. He could see bright sunlight outlining the dark curtains of the room's single window. A bandage encircled Wil's chest, like a bigger sibling of the one still wrapped around his shoulder: the signs of two wounds received from the same cultist. Other than these, he was naked from the waist up.
Wil tried to remember being brought to the room he now occupied, but could not. The last thing he remembered was the face of the man who had helped him. That man now dozed on a chair near Wil's cot.
Wil saw his shirt, still blood-stained and torn, draped over the end of the cot, and he bent to retrieve it. As he did, the man on the chair roused.
"Oh, you're awake, are ye? Good, good. How d'ye feel?"
Wil moved his arms experimentally.
"I feel good," Wil answered. He was amazed to find that he was pain-free.
"That's the work of the Cudgel and his cleric. When I found ye, I was afraid it was already too late."
Wil unwrapped his bandages and found that his wounds had indeed been healed.
"Then you all have my thanks," Wil said.
"M' name's Tyvar Beckham," the man said, extending his hand. Wil shook it as the man continued, "And I'm curious t' know the story behind that cut ye had on yer back."
That box.
Perhaps that was the thing that should be left out now. Just seeing it had made Wil feel uneasy, and he could not forget that people had been willing to kill for it already. He wasn't sure he should tell anyone about it.
And yet, these people had saved his life. Beckham seemed nice enough. Maybe he could trust them.
Beckham whistled.
"Ha' ye tole that watch captain abou' any o' this?" Beckham eyed Wil expectantly.
Wil looked sheepish. "I didn't tell her about the key." Wil liked Shae, and felt bad about deceiving her.
Beckham seemed to relax a bit. "Tha's just as well. Corruption runs rampant in the city watch. E'en if this captain o' yours is honest enough, ye can bet that plenty among her men are not."
Wil felt a chill, but also some amount of vindication for his earlier reluctance toward full disclosure.
"Wil, me lad, I have some people I'd like ye t' meet. Seems there was a bit of a ... disturbance at the Gold Digger after ye left, an' we've been talking to some of the witnesses. I was goin' t' take ye t' see one o' them, but that can wait." At that, Beckham eyed the strange box. "The priests of the Cudgel may have some answers fer ye about that thing. Get up, lad, an' get ready to go."
Wil followed Beckham north along the Processional. Beckham kept pointing to places they passed and telling Wil stories about sensational crimes that had occurred there, or rumors that had reached the Nightwatchmen but had never been proven.
As they passed the Public Bathhouse, Wil asked, "What about that place? I bet lots of things have happened there." But Beckham shook his head.
"Nay," Beckham said. "All manner of thieves and assassins can be found there, but few ever disturb its peacefulness."
They walked on.
When they came to the Black Gate at the northern boundary of the Thieves' Quarter, Wil noticed that Beckham seemed to be eyeing the watchmen standing guard there with suspicion. He remembered then what Beckham had said about the rampant corruption in the City Watch. He still had trouble believing it was as bad as Beckham had described.
Then they passed through the open gate and entered the Artisans' Quarter. Beckham pointed out another Guildstation of the Nightwatchmen on their right as they walked by.
"How much farther?" Wil asked.
"A bit. We're headed into th' Garden Quarter - past th' River Quarter and Clerkburg, an' beyond the Garden Gate."
They were passing an open-air marketplace when Beckham suddenly stopped and pointed down a street heading off to their right.
"Down tha' way lies Maldin and Elenderi's shop. Watch out fer the both of them. They're sly, an' not always to be trusted."
Then Beckham set off again, at a brisker pace than before. Wil wondered to himself if Beckham's advice was based on personal experience, if he had once run afoul of those two shopkeepers. Judging from the scowl on Beckham's face, Wil suspected that he had. Yet for all his storytelling during their walk, Beckham did not seem interested in telling that tale.
"What did those two shopkeepers do to you?" Wil asked.
Beckham stopped suddenly and turned to Wil.
"Ye don't know o' them, do ye? They're no' jus' shopkeepers. They're mages - an' right shifty ones, too, if ye ask me."
At that, Beckham resumed his walk, and Wil had to hurry to catch up. Beckham said no more about the two mages, and Wil did not ask.
http://www.melkot.com/who-maldin.html
They passed a side street, and Wil realized it was the one that led to the Green Dragon and the River Quarter Watch Station. With a start, he recognized one of the pedestrians on that street as Shae Pardra. Her eyes were fixed on him, and she did not seem happy.
Beckham must have spotted her, too. "Oh, boy," he said under his breath, just loud enough for Wil to hear. Then, louder, "Good mornin' to ye, Captain!"
Shae's scowl remained unbroken as she stopped beside them, sparing a glance for Beckham before returning her gaze to Wil.
"We need to talk," she said. "Now."
"What is it?" Wil asked. The fact that she seemed so upset bothered Wil. He was sure that, whatever it was, it would mean more trouble.
"Not here," she replied. "Let's go back to my office."
Shae turned and Wil began to follow her, but Beckham stuck out an arm to restrain him. "Nay, tha's no' a good idea."
Shae spun on Beckham. "What do you think you're doing? Do you want me to arrest you for interfering with an investigation?"
"Captain, ye must know that th' walls in city watch stations have ears."
Shae's scowl deepened, but she offered no retort. Beckham continued.
"Come wi' us to the Temple o' St. Cuthbert. We can speak safely there."
Shae eyed Beckham a moment, then nodded. Without further discussion, Beckham struck off again for the Garden Gate and the Temple that lay on its other side. Wil fell in beside him, and Shae took the rear.
As they began walking again, Wil could swear that he heard Beckham mutter under his breath, to himself more than to anyone else, "An' there, we can keep a close eye on ye, Captain."
Plodding ahead, the creature remained unaware of the pair of eyes that watched it from the shadows.
Once inside, an acolyte made motion to address the newcomers. Upon a look from Beckham, the acolyte stopped, bowed his head slightly, and turned back to his duties of filling the oil reserviors of the brass lanterns that hung on the walls of the vaulted, oak panelled chamber. Beckham ushered them down the side ambulatory and into a side passage with a number of rooms adjoined by simple wooden doors. At this point, Wil realized that Beckham had removed his hat and Wil quickly removed his leather cap lest he break some holy rule in this house of worship.
Shae, Wil, and Beckham were soon seated at a small table on stools within a windowless room lit only by a lantern. Sturdy stone walls surrounded them and they were separated from the outside world by a door that must have been four fingers thick by Wil's estimation. Beckham had even laid a plaid patterned rug along threshold to block the opening along the bottom of the stout door.
"Well, then," began Beckham, "We can talk 'ere, wi'out unwanted attention . . ."
"So, Cap'n, I'm wonderin'... Ha' any o' yer men gone missin' lately?"
Shae Pardra scowled. "What have you heard?"
"I've no' heard any such thing. I jus' suspected it may be so. Probably in league wi' the ones who attacked this boy - or at least on their payroll."
Wil felt the tension in the room and wondered for a moment if Shae were going to strike out at Beckham. Even if Beckham were right, Wil was not sure the guard captain would admit it to him.
Then Wil realized they were no longer alone. The priest had arrived.
Incabulos! Wil had been told stories about the god as a child and there was never a day on the farm when the god's name had not been cursed when too little rain fell or insect swarms had eaten a portion of the crop. When weevils infested the grainary or a neighbor took ill, even after a poor night's sleep, Incabulos was at work. Why would anyone bear such a symbol on their person? Wil wondered what could bring a person to embrace such an evil god. He was very familiar with Incabulos, but never knew a symbol to represent him. No one would ever desire such a symbol to invoke his power in the village he once lived. At once, Wil felt ill. The thought of carrying such an object on his person made him wish to go to the river at once and bathe.
The priest saw the effect that his words had upon Wil and felt reassured that Wil was a young man who could be trusted. "I shall take this filth and see it destroyed, however, we must know the contents of it. The information it holds mayhap guide us to do St. Cuthbert's will and protect us from the horror of the Plague God." Wil nodded his assent. The priest began to invoke his own god for protection and to dispel the evil surrounding the box before he would carefully lift the lid to examine the inside.
"Wh-where did you find this? How did it come to be in your possession?" she asked.
Wil drew in a breath, about to answer, when Beckham cut him off. "Hold a moment, m'boy. Allow me t' ask the good Cap'n here what'll happen when she files her report an' its contents get the lot of us killed."
Shae shot another cold look at Beckham. "My job is to uphold the law, not aid the lawless. I take pride in doing my job well."
Beckham appeared ready to launch another verbal salvo, but the old priest raised his hand. He studied Shae a moment with his good eye, his lips moving almost soundlessly, his other hand gripping the symbol of his god. Then he turned to Beckham and said, "Whatever the faults of her men, I sense no taint in this one."
At that, Beckham nodded and seemed to relent, though Wil was not sure that Beckham was entirely satisfied. But, for the moment at least, he fell silent.
Of course, nobody has to wait for me. If you feel moved to add something, go ahead. My only request is that it not stray too far from the proper flavor. (No more burritos, if we can help it.) Just take what has already been established and go with it. It doesn't matter if it goes in a direction I hadn't expected; that's part of the fun.
Sorry about the link business, but see the next portion of the story here:
http://s40.photobucket.com/albums/e245/btmcrae/?action=view¤t=wil1.jpg&refPage=&imgAnch=imgAnch22
Cebrion, I see that you did this with all three of the contributions you made. (I don't look back at previous pages very often, so I just noticed it now.) What prompted the move?
It had been curiosity, at first, that had prompted the pursuit. Now, it was with a rising concern that the figure watched. As the hulking creature and its bloody burden reached an intersection, a black-garbed sentry detached himself from the nearby shadows and inserted his dagger into a crack in the wall, triggering the release mechanism for a hidden door. Without a word, the creature shambled into the passageway revealed by the opening. The sentry closed the door behind the creature, then disappeared again into the shadows.
what lied beyond the door? who was sulking around in the shadows to open it?
his heart beating faster he felt as though he must act soon or its very pounding would be the sound that gave away his position.
And yet, after almost eight months, this thread had only fallen to page three. Does anyone come here anymore? Is there anyone left here to read this?
I'll continue to post when I get time (of which there has been precious little), and I'll encourage anyone who still visits this forum to feel free to add to the story as well.
EDIT: I just noticed that this post looks a lot like the one from January last year. I'm not surprised that time flies, but I guess I am continually surprised by just how fast it goes.
This was an experiment that I started quite some time ago. It began life in the Greyhawk forum because it was set in Greyhawk, but after a forum reorganization it ended up in Other Published Worlds. I can't say that the experiment worked particularly well, and at one point, it suffered from a deliberate attempt to drive it off the rails. It has now lain dormant for so long that it might be wiser to leave it that way. But I'm going to offer it up one last time to see if anyone else is interested in giving it a try.
The rules are pretty simple. Read through the story so far, and then add to it. The convention that I had been using - and which I continue here - is that any non-story text is italicized. It will work better if you take it seriously and try to create something coherent. If you post nonsense, then the experiment will have finally failed and it will die the death of obscurity it will by then richly deserve.