Post by Athenna on Aug 21, 2007 7:26:34 GMT -5
Corrupted Sovereigns
In the warm, smoky tavern of the bustling Aluvian town of Arwic, a man approaching middle age sat alone at a table by the fire. His wide shoulders and bulky arms marked him as a warrior. His alert eyes and wary posture, even as he nursed a mug of beer, marked him as a sensibly paranoid man in a time when strange disruptions were occurring all over Dereth. His name was Girion the Unlucky, and he was about to be surprised, despite his best efforts.
A hand touched him softly on his shoulder. Unaware that anyone had approached him, Girion reacted instinctively. He twisted his shoulder and launched himself up and back out of his chair, trying to knock down whatever fool had decided to try to get the drop on him. Expecting his elbow or shoulder to hit his opponent, he was put off balance when he met only empty space behind him, and a blow to the back of his knee from his unseen assailant was enough to drop him on his back.
Girion blinked away his surprise and noticed someone looming over him. The face was familiar. The last time he’d seen it was over a year ago, in the Chapterhouse of the Whispering Blade…
“Adso, sir?” He could hardly believe it. His second meeting with Adso, and it started off just as the first one had – with him clumsily attacking the skilled assassin, and Adso putting him down with minimal effort.
Adso laughed “Well met again, Girion. Please, I didn’t mean to interrupt you quite this dramatically. I apologize for not announcing myself before I touched you. I will not do that again in the future.” He extended a hand to help the larger man stand, then motioned for Girion to sit back down. Adso pulled up a chair from another table and sat across from him.
“What can I do for you, Adso sir?” Girion asked, sipping his beer to try and recover his equilibrium.
“Well, Girion the Unlucky, I’d like to help you earn yourself a new name,” Adso said, smiling. “And maybe a new weapon.”
Girion shook his head ruefully. The last time he’d met Adso, he’d been given a wondrously crafted new mace and asked to scout the woods near Arwic. He’d died almost instantly, overwhelmed by hordes of Mukkir, and lost the new mace. He’d lost a weapon and gained a nickname within minutes of leaving the Chapterhouse. He never did recover the mace…
“I’m interested,” he told Adso. “Tell me more.”
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Adso leaned close. “The Olthoi-infested valley north of here, on the other side of the mountains. Being a local, I’d assume you were familiar with that land. Am I correct?”
Girion nodded. “Yes. Great training ground. Always some excitement to be found in the Olthoi lands, especially lately.”
Adso grinned conspiratorially. “Excellent. We have reason to believe that the Olthoi of that region are building up to something. We believe it’s being caused by the same force that is agitating other creature populations in Dereth. I’d like you to go up there and investigate a certain hive. And in exchange for your help…” He reached into the pack at his side and drew out an oblong cloth-covered bundle.
Before he could unwrap it, Girion held up his hand. “If that’s a runed mace like the last one you gave me, please give it to me after I’ve come back,” he said. “I don’t want to lose this one too.”
Adso laughed. “As you will. Maybe you should be known as Girion the Wise.”
* * * * * * * *
Girion stood over the corpse of an Olthoi Warrior, the last of a group of three that he’d killed. Viscous green gore dripped from the spiked head of his mace and his shield was scraped and scratched and acid-scorched from the vicious attacks of the giant insects.
He’d been in the Olthoi-infested valley for almost half a day. So far, so good. He’d advanced pretty deeply into the tunnels that Adso had asked him to investigate. So far he’d encountered nothing too worrisome. He, like anyone else who called Arwic home, was an old hand at doing battle with the fearsome creatures that had once enslaved all the humans living in Dereth. He was well practiced in the principles of fighting Olthoi: keep the wall to your back, keep your shield up, and pummel their joints until they go down. He knew that, as long as he wasn’t surprised, he’d be able to survive even against multiple foes.
Feeling very pleased with himself and already thinking of the beautiful and powerful weapon that Adso had promised him, he didn’t think too much of it when a single Olthoi stepped into the passageway in front of him, a stone’s throw away.
He readied his shield and brandished his mace, advancing slowly. From its shape and size, he judged it to be another Warrior. The beast became aware of his presence and it charged, chittering furiously.
Girion waited for it to come to him. Just before it got to him, he lowered his shoulder and charged, using his shield as a battering ram to knock the Olthoi off balance and get in a good uppercut swing. The funniest thing happened when he collided with the Olthoi, however. There was a shriek of tortured metal, and he felt a hot burst of pain in his left shoulder. The unexpected pain robbed some of his strength, and he wasn’t able to put all his power into that first swing of his mace. The mace made a good solid thwacking noise as it hit the chitinous armor, but it didn’t seem to do much damage. He wobbled for a second but managed to keep on his feet.
His momentum, at least, knocked the Olthoi back and bought him a second’s pause to check out his wound. A gaping wound had appeared in his upper arm, matched to a hole in his shield… Somehow this Olthoi had punched through his shield and the armor plate of his pauldrons…
Suddenly terrified, he noticed the strange glow coming from the Olthoi’s sharpened attack limbs. Even as he noticed this, the creature attacked again. Reacting quickly despite his surprise, Girion angled his shield to deflect the blow. Again there was an explosion of pain, this time in his forearm, and he saw another hole in his shield and another grievous wound behind it. He growled in rage and came ahead, swinging his mace like a man possessed. He abandoned all attempts at defense and tried to pummel the Olthoi to death before it could finish him off.
A few wild seconds later, he stood over another dead Olthoi Warrior. The corpse glowed faintly, still displaying signs of the enchantment that allowed it to punch through his shield so easily. Girion took a deep breath, eyes almost tearing up from the pain emanating from half a dozen points on his arms and chest and one acid-burned strip of flesh on his thigh. Barely able to lift his shield and mace, he set the mace down and hurriedly took a gulp from a flask at his side. It helped, but not enough. If there were more of these devilishly enchanted Olthoi about, he knew he wouldn’t last long.
A few moments later, Girion saw another Olthoi in the corridor. This one was smaller than the other. It looked like an Eviscerator. Knowing what to look for now, he could spot the telltale glow of enchantment from its spearlike limbs. He sighed. The Eviscerator noticed him and chittered a challenge. Before moving forward to attack him, it let spew a gout of flame from its mandibles. The flare of fire lit up the cavern and made him squint his eyes.
Girion almost dropped his mace when he saw this Olthoi breathing fire. “That’s just not right,” he sighed, as he advanced to do battle with this exotically lethal breed of Olthoi.
* * * * * * * *
Girion materialized in front of the Arwic lifestone. He was battered, bleeding from a dozen different wounds, and scorched all over. As soon as the disorientation of his recent death faded, his eyes came to focus on a dripping cold mug in front of him, and he smelled the sharp, heady aroma of a high quality beer. He almost thought he’d found the way out of Dereth and into a proper afterlife, before he noticed that it was Adso holding the frosty mug in front of him. The assassin looked similarly abused, with his leather armor hanging in pieces from him, slashed and blasted all over.
Girion accepted the mug wordlessly from Adso and took a long gulp, quickly draining half the pint. He sat for a few moments, gathering his composure, then looked towards his employer.
“Bad?” Adso asked him.
“Very bad.” He showed off his perforated shield.
“That’s bad,” Adso agreed.
“And some of them breathe fire now,” Girion elaborated.
“Very bad,” Adso nodded.
“What happened to you?” Girion asked.
Adso grinned ruefully. “I was just trying to help a little girl find her lost toys.”
In the warm, smoky tavern of the bustling Aluvian town of Arwic, a man approaching middle age sat alone at a table by the fire. His wide shoulders and bulky arms marked him as a warrior. His alert eyes and wary posture, even as he nursed a mug of beer, marked him as a sensibly paranoid man in a time when strange disruptions were occurring all over Dereth. His name was Girion the Unlucky, and he was about to be surprised, despite his best efforts.
A hand touched him softly on his shoulder. Unaware that anyone had approached him, Girion reacted instinctively. He twisted his shoulder and launched himself up and back out of his chair, trying to knock down whatever fool had decided to try to get the drop on him. Expecting his elbow or shoulder to hit his opponent, he was put off balance when he met only empty space behind him, and a blow to the back of his knee from his unseen assailant was enough to drop him on his back.
Girion blinked away his surprise and noticed someone looming over him. The face was familiar. The last time he’d seen it was over a year ago, in the Chapterhouse of the Whispering Blade…
“Adso, sir?” He could hardly believe it. His second meeting with Adso, and it started off just as the first one had – with him clumsily attacking the skilled assassin, and Adso putting him down with minimal effort.
Adso laughed “Well met again, Girion. Please, I didn’t mean to interrupt you quite this dramatically. I apologize for not announcing myself before I touched you. I will not do that again in the future.” He extended a hand to help the larger man stand, then motioned for Girion to sit back down. Adso pulled up a chair from another table and sat across from him.
“What can I do for you, Adso sir?” Girion asked, sipping his beer to try and recover his equilibrium.
“Well, Girion the Unlucky, I’d like to help you earn yourself a new name,” Adso said, smiling. “And maybe a new weapon.”
Girion shook his head ruefully. The last time he’d met Adso, he’d been given a wondrously crafted new mace and asked to scout the woods near Arwic. He’d died almost instantly, overwhelmed by hordes of Mukkir, and lost the new mace. He’d lost a weapon and gained a nickname within minutes of leaving the Chapterhouse. He never did recover the mace…
“I’m interested,” he told Adso. “Tell me more.”
<!--[endif]-->
Adso leaned close. “The Olthoi-infested valley north of here, on the other side of the mountains. Being a local, I’d assume you were familiar with that land. Am I correct?”
Girion nodded. “Yes. Great training ground. Always some excitement to be found in the Olthoi lands, especially lately.”
Adso grinned conspiratorially. “Excellent. We have reason to believe that the Olthoi of that region are building up to something. We believe it’s being caused by the same force that is agitating other creature populations in Dereth. I’d like you to go up there and investigate a certain hive. And in exchange for your help…” He reached into the pack at his side and drew out an oblong cloth-covered bundle.
Before he could unwrap it, Girion held up his hand. “If that’s a runed mace like the last one you gave me, please give it to me after I’ve come back,” he said. “I don’t want to lose this one too.”
Adso laughed. “As you will. Maybe you should be known as Girion the Wise.”
* * * * * * * *
Girion stood over the corpse of an Olthoi Warrior, the last of a group of three that he’d killed. Viscous green gore dripped from the spiked head of his mace and his shield was scraped and scratched and acid-scorched from the vicious attacks of the giant insects.
He’d been in the Olthoi-infested valley for almost half a day. So far, so good. He’d advanced pretty deeply into the tunnels that Adso had asked him to investigate. So far he’d encountered nothing too worrisome. He, like anyone else who called Arwic home, was an old hand at doing battle with the fearsome creatures that had once enslaved all the humans living in Dereth. He was well practiced in the principles of fighting Olthoi: keep the wall to your back, keep your shield up, and pummel their joints until they go down. He knew that, as long as he wasn’t surprised, he’d be able to survive even against multiple foes.
Feeling very pleased with himself and already thinking of the beautiful and powerful weapon that Adso had promised him, he didn’t think too much of it when a single Olthoi stepped into the passageway in front of him, a stone’s throw away.
He readied his shield and brandished his mace, advancing slowly. From its shape and size, he judged it to be another Warrior. The beast became aware of his presence and it charged, chittering furiously.
Girion waited for it to come to him. Just before it got to him, he lowered his shoulder and charged, using his shield as a battering ram to knock the Olthoi off balance and get in a good uppercut swing. The funniest thing happened when he collided with the Olthoi, however. There was a shriek of tortured metal, and he felt a hot burst of pain in his left shoulder. The unexpected pain robbed some of his strength, and he wasn’t able to put all his power into that first swing of his mace. The mace made a good solid thwacking noise as it hit the chitinous armor, but it didn’t seem to do much damage. He wobbled for a second but managed to keep on his feet.
His momentum, at least, knocked the Olthoi back and bought him a second’s pause to check out his wound. A gaping wound had appeared in his upper arm, matched to a hole in his shield… Somehow this Olthoi had punched through his shield and the armor plate of his pauldrons…
Suddenly terrified, he noticed the strange glow coming from the Olthoi’s sharpened attack limbs. Even as he noticed this, the creature attacked again. Reacting quickly despite his surprise, Girion angled his shield to deflect the blow. Again there was an explosion of pain, this time in his forearm, and he saw another hole in his shield and another grievous wound behind it. He growled in rage and came ahead, swinging his mace like a man possessed. He abandoned all attempts at defense and tried to pummel the Olthoi to death before it could finish him off.
A few wild seconds later, he stood over another dead Olthoi Warrior. The corpse glowed faintly, still displaying signs of the enchantment that allowed it to punch through his shield so easily. Girion took a deep breath, eyes almost tearing up from the pain emanating from half a dozen points on his arms and chest and one acid-burned strip of flesh on his thigh. Barely able to lift his shield and mace, he set the mace down and hurriedly took a gulp from a flask at his side. It helped, but not enough. If there were more of these devilishly enchanted Olthoi about, he knew he wouldn’t last long.
A few moments later, Girion saw another Olthoi in the corridor. This one was smaller than the other. It looked like an Eviscerator. Knowing what to look for now, he could spot the telltale glow of enchantment from its spearlike limbs. He sighed. The Eviscerator noticed him and chittered a challenge. Before moving forward to attack him, it let spew a gout of flame from its mandibles. The flare of fire lit up the cavern and made him squint his eyes.
Girion almost dropped his mace when he saw this Olthoi breathing fire. “That’s just not right,” he sighed, as he advanced to do battle with this exotically lethal breed of Olthoi.
* * * * * * * *
Girion materialized in front of the Arwic lifestone. He was battered, bleeding from a dozen different wounds, and scorched all over. As soon as the disorientation of his recent death faded, his eyes came to focus on a dripping cold mug in front of him, and he smelled the sharp, heady aroma of a high quality beer. He almost thought he’d found the way out of Dereth and into a proper afterlife, before he noticed that it was Adso holding the frosty mug in front of him. The assassin looked similarly abused, with his leather armor hanging in pieces from him, slashed and blasted all over.
Girion accepted the mug wordlessly from Adso and took a long gulp, quickly draining half the pint. He sat for a few moments, gathering his composure, then looked towards his employer.
“Bad?” Adso asked him.
“Very bad.” He showed off his perforated shield.
“That’s bad,” Adso agreed.
“And some of them breathe fire now,” Girion elaborated.
“Very bad,” Adso nodded.
“What happened to you?” Girion asked.
Adso grinned ruefully. “I was just trying to help a little girl find her lost toys.”
