As much as I do like the three word game from time to time, it gets a bit, well, silly. Three words are simply not enough to express anything more than basic direction, which can be of course completely skewed in a way you did not expect with the next post (which is of course part of the fun). So why not a three sentance game?
The ground rules for this being as follows:
* Each post must be 3 sentances long. No more, no less.
* Only one post per person per day.
* Viewpoint may be changed as needed. (i.e. "GM viewpoint" - description of scene, NPCs reacting to PCs; "player viewpoint" - character X does Y)
* Refrain from the silly or inappropriate.
So, without further ado, here's the first 3 sentances:
"The guard looks up in your direction and squints, his pale green eyes becoming thin slits underneath huge, gray, bushy eyebrows. "Pray tell, sir," he rumbles in a slow drawl, "what business brings you to these gates at this hour?" His tone is neither unfriendly nor trusting, and his left hand rests lightly on the grip of his truncheon."
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Raising his eyebrows, the traveler sizes up the guard, putting his left hand on the hilt of his huge battle axe.
"Haven't we enough trouble with those pesky humanoids, that we have to suspect other humans of something illegal?", he asked the guardman.
"Anyway, my name doesn't matter, and my business is not for you to know!", he said in a calm, friendly voice.
"Ah, one of those, then thou shall not not pass this gate for it tis my duty to survey all strangers and glean there intent and purpose within these walls. There do seem to be a chill in the air and perhaps a storm brewing in the distance, if there be coinage to share, perhaps you might be a weary traveler looking to gain entrance for a tavern and local chatter of goings on in these parts." Face impassive, the guard rubs the fingers of his free hand suggestively while still watching the stranger intently.
" Out of my way, it is far to early in the day for killing gaurdsmen." says the traveler drawing his battle-axe.
Drawing his weapon the gaurdsman replies, " Time for a bit of the 'ole hows your father, eh?"
He takes a step towards the traveler and the battle is joined.
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The guardsman's arming sword whistled a windsong as it left sheath, arcing and ringing on the interposed axe. Old, true metal was that axe, garbed blade to haft in the high runes of the durinfolk, runes that pulsed an ancient fury, rancorous and fray enraged by the sparks of metal fang on fang. Aye, for it was an old axe, old and cunning in ancient ways and tutored by a thousand feuds, for it was beat by swarthy dwarves in that the crater left by the stargifted meteor from which it was formed, in a millenium when men were gibbering wide-eyed apes, who knapped rocks for axes and feared nought else more than the engulfing shadow beyond their sputtering campfires.
Hidden in the foliage of a nearby tree, a half-elven druid scoffed at the sight of the beginning battle.
"Those brutes truly possess no class at all, don't they?" she whispered to herself before quietly shifting to the form of a golden hawk.
The journey to this town had been long and hard, and she had no time to waste on sentinels.
Following her from behind the tree, one roguish Halfling thanks his abilities (and his stature) over the need to squish his body from one form to another...
He muses, "Right bit disconcerting, I think", as he dons his cloak of Elvenkind - kindly 'donated' from one of his Druidic friends' relative's homes, if he remembers correctly - and quietly shuffles (not even a need to try and be silent) along the gatehouse walls, past the whirling blades of the two hot-heads that tangle in front of him.
A glance upwards to check on the Druid - she silently glides over the wall... A few steps more, and he is also past the gate and inside; "So much for surveying strangers and gleaning intent", he thinks..."At least, if he wins, he'll earn a day's meal if not a day's pay."
M
"Alright, I give up, " the traveler huffed with false exhaustion, raising his hands. The guard quickly seized the axe and threw it into the dirt of the gatehouse entryway behind him. "Are you daft, man?" the guard asked, seizing the traveler's arms and throwing him to the ground.
The traveller smiled as he turned to face the guard, wiping the dust from his face.
"Perhaps... but let's hope that you're neither daft nor strongly attached to your job." The traveller stood and motioned to his companions, "We're in need of a strong sword arm in our party, and you seem trustworthy... would you like to join us on an errand?"
"What, and leave my duty to some young snot-nosed guard who's still wet behind his ears?" the guard says in an affronted tone. "You're a bigger fool than I thought, with all of your brains in your muscles."
The traveler hid a smile, knowing who the true fool was.
"Can I have my axe back?" the traveler asked, pointing at the the dust covered axe several feet behind the guard.
"Pick it up, pay your silver and next time you come through here, keep your damn mouth shut" the guard replied tersely, stepping aside and palming the silver coin the traveler handed him.
The traveler sauntered through the gatehouse, gazing at a paradise of opportunity sprawling at his feet beyond, his companions-the ones who hadn't yet cleared the wall without notice, a few steps behind.
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Meanwhile, far below the city, in a place darker than the night, a young acolyte hurries to his master, his face a mask of terror.
The sound of his boots, running through the damp caverns, which had been undisurbed for centuries, echoes through the corridors.
"Oh my god, no, no, no, it stirs...", he gasps while running.
He stops momentarily at a fork in the path and regards a small scrap of parchment under the light of phosphorescent fungus.
"I hope I get to Master Renouard in time..." he mutters feverishly, then dashes down the left fork.
A faint light begins to glow down the undisturbed passageway left behind by the apprentice...
Hakiem - the old, funny smelling, rotund, foreign storyteller, who was of course, the delight of kids everywhere even though he smelled of stale distilled spirits stopped and scratched a bit while slowly surverying the crowd of kids (whom he knew had shiny round tokens from their parents) and his ragged empty hat there on the ground before him. "Well, no more story without some compensation says me the master storyteller to one and all, and this is good one too as it is full of high adventure and intrique. Your smiles, though quite lovely, do not fill an old mans belly nor wet his parched throat - so what will it be, continue or no?
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"Pleath, uncle Hakiem, till us more sth-tooooreh,"said one lispy towhead urchin.
"Nay, ye've ad your 2 cent worth and all too what 2 cent will gityeh," was his response.
"Ramble on then, tell as much as THIS will purchase," came a request from a cowled figure, proferring a goodly mintage in outstretched hand.
The old bard smiled as he took the offered money from the Traveler.
"As those that walk the path always say, 'life travels in circles,'" said the Traveler, with a knowing smile.
The bard nodded his understanding, "Ah yes... but this old man wonders which circle he is on, and which arc is about to dominate his coming days."
Hakiem ducked into his favorite watering hole to spend his fortune on vinegary wine and bad company, but was taken aback when he noticed the gaping hole that had appeared where the tavern's chimney used to be.
"What, by Vashanka's balls, happened?" he gasped in horror, yet still grabbing a wine bottle from behind the counter of the bar while the barkeeper was distracted by the crowd that had gathered around the hole.
The crowd gazed downward into the darkness, amazed at the sight of a finely crafted stone stairway spiraling ever downward.
The barkeep glanced back at Hakiem, but failed to notice the bottle now tucked away inside the beggar's shirt.
"Some young nob tucked in here, quick as ye like, fiddled with the mantle a bit, and then popped down this hole what appeared without so much as a 'thank you, sir!'" he drolled, seemingly unfazed by the major change to the layout of The Crooked Tavern.
Hakiem took a quick draw from the bottle when the barkeep's back was turned again, then scooted forward to see what the fuss was all about.
---
The smirking axe bearer, his weapon now firmly peacebonded, glanced up into the morning light as he walked toward the closest watering hole, then extended his arm.
The eagle fluttered down and landed on his scratched and torn thick leather glove, then jostled over and bit him lightly on the ear.
"Hey, what was that for?!" the young man cried, clamping his free hand to his face in defense.
"Of course I do," she replied in a very matter-of-fact tone, slightly surprised that he had even asked the question.
She continued talking as her gaze turned from the little inn down the street, carefully noting the reactions of each person between them and the inn, eventually looking the Traveler square in the eyes.
"It seems that the doorway down has opened much sooner than even you had expected... we must find the others quickly."
The traveler pulled the horn out from under his tunic and sounded a mournful note into the smoke-thickened city air.
"They will be here in a few minutes," he said.
"As always when you play that awful thing," said his beautiful companion, searching her small waistpack to make sure her dungeoneering gear was still all there.
"Faeli, did you notice?" the young man asked, looking back at the bespectacled bard walking slowly behind the duo, scribbling wildly on a scrap of paper.
"Um..." muttered the lutist, "notice what now?"
"Why, that guard's sword, of course," the fighter responded, gasping in exasperation.
"A blade of the Sacred of Quorat, yes, those are quite rare in these parts" the old bard muttered matter of factly. "It pleases me you're starting to take note of such things. But surely young warrior, that wasn't the only thing peculiar about that man, was it?"
"He still allowed the traveler and his group into the City, even after they engaged in combat," the warrior replied.
"Exactly, I believe the guard and the traveler are of the same order of fighters and they engaged in an age-old ritual greeting of their kind," the bard replied, smiling.
"Oh, what does it mean?" the warrior looked at the sky, slowing his step to make sure he didn't lose sight of the shuffling bard.
"Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, and there is no greater meaning my mighty friend." Faeli supposed.
"But sometimes there is poison on those lips." said the warrior in turn.
"We could just go ask them." Faeli replied turning to walk in the guards direction.
The fighter wondered at the bard's uncanny ability to recall long lost, seemingly random bits of lore, "it's as random as a toss of the bones," he'd often say, and his lack of ability to remain focused on the here and now.
"The answer doesn't lie with the guard behind, but the traveler ahead," he said as he placed a guiding hand on Faeli's shoulder. "Just then, as he put a horn to his lips, I heard no sound, but I'm certain that he beckoned to somone... let's wait and see."
As he watched from the shadows, the halfling pondered his choices while watching his companions dither about without seeming direction. "What to do, what to do" he muttered. "It seems they have forgotton our quest, perhaps they need reminding."
Finally deciding he did not need his friends, at least not for exploring this small town, the halfing decided to moveon.
"Sometimes I wonder how we get anything done?" he muttered under his breath."I should at least look and see if what we seek is here."
The traveler watched the halfling make his way towards the inn, and spied around for any sign of response to his call. "It's never taken so long for the others to gather... perhaps we're all that's left," he said.
"Perhaps not," replied the druid, who had been watching the crowd, much like an eagle searches for prey, as her gaze fell steadily on the approaching gate guard.
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The guardsman approached the pair, weariness in his eyes;"sound that huntshorn again, or sound it not; irregardless, I'm all that will here and come."
"If that is the case," said the traveler, "then it is a sad day indeed. Irregardless, whether there are two or two hundred of the brethren, the foe will lament crossing claw or blade with us."
"Of our prey," said the druid "has there been any word that what we seek is indeed here, or do we chase leaves on the wind?"
The traveler pondered a few moments as if wondering how much information he should give, but he said thus: "I expect my contact here to send word soon; afterwards, we shall verify the truth of it. I suggest we find some strong place for succor as we are likely to get pleanty bloody on this one and should have a place to hold up if needed."
"I told you the guard was equally capable of providing us with an answer to your query." Faeli said with a tad bit of pretense, as was the bards way."But of course you always assume I wander off course...which I will grant you I do at times."
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The traveler, the druid, and their erstwhile former guard ally turned and headed up the road, the axman in the lead.
"Where are we going," inquired the druid.
"Public lodging is a little too dangerous for what we have in mind, but I have an old acquaintance, that, if still alive, owes me a thousand favors."
"And what of these two?" asked the guard, casually pointing a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bard and the fighter.
The two groups stopped and for the first time surveyed each other face to face.
The traveler spoke first, saying "I cannot promise you answers that you will most certainly ask of our purpose, our origins, or our destinies, but if you wish to walk the Circle for a while with us, first join us as we seek my contact in this city."
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"Oh, we'll join you, if but there is a song in all of this," stated the Bard.
The axebearing traveler stared at him for a minute, then, smiling a devilish grin, "I think I can promise thee an epic ballad, crimsoned in the blood of the foes of 10,000 brethrens' spectres."
"That's all well," stated the bard, "but in the future I implore you to promise me to leave the pentameters and versings and musings to those who have talents for it."
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"What of our pilferous hairfoot friend, "asked the druid, "should we not tag along to keep him out of trouble?"
"He's a big boy," replied the axeman, "he can take care of himself, and anyway, if he were here he'd probably tell us 'clubfooted bigfolk' that we're just going to 'cramp his style'. He has his 're-coh-noytering' he wants to do."
* * * * *
The apprentice burst into the house proper, quickly slamming the cellar door behind him, momentarily wincing at the forthcoming rebuke that would most certainly come from his master, locked the door with one hand while retrieving a handful of gold dust from a pouch with the other.
He focused his thoughts on the texts he studied earlier in the day, and spoke the powerful words that he knew would make the door all but unopenable as he tossed the gold dust towards the door, using a counter-clockwise motion to trace the door's outline.
Satisfied with his work, the apprentice turned and saw the smoking, hollow corpse of his master, still clutching the ancient amulet that he had discovered, and intended to show to his close friend... a Traveler.
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Horror overwhelmed the apprentice, for his was a new introduction to death and its ofttimes gory visage; retching and discharging the contents of his stomach, all he could think of was how irritated his master would be at the mess he had just made.
From the shelf, to the right, came a snickering, and mouslike scratching, and a small reptilian, monkey like creature appeared from behind a coptic jar on the second shelf; a creature he recognized from his former master's Manual of Monstres Diabolik and Abysmall as a quasit.
It snickered and gibbered and jesticulated at the apprentice who stood white faced in shock, and it leveled a wand at his head, a wand that seemed like an oak beam in its tiny hands, and it began a wicked rasping chant.
"Oh leave off you maggot headed mageling, you know the price of my services." The quasit quickly jumped down and gather up the soul of the dead mage, confident that his spell resistance would protect him from the apprectice, it made one last quip."This fool's soul now goes to my master, if you need my services and seek the road for glory and untold power, you know how to reach me"- and poof, the quasit shifted back to its home plane.
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The wideeyed, shocked, sorely used apprenticed flopped to his bum there on the cobblestones; an exhalation was all that was got from him as a comforting catatonia slipped upon him.
Unmoved by the stench of brimstone from the quasit's porting, by the sight of his master's putrefying form, or by the remnant sting of bile at the back of his throat, the only arcane issuance the neophyte caster could avail himself of was a trickle of drool down one side of his chin.
Just then came five forceful poundings on the outside door of the former abode of the recently deceased Halzamocleites of the 11th Circle of Phamn.
* * * * *
Hakiem stumbled his way over towards the descending staircase, which had quickly became the chief interest, sparking a great deal of commotion and speculation in the normally sleepy pub.
"Wait!" The halfling shouted as he entered the room just as a brave (others were calling foolhardy) young man was about to "just look down the first few steps... that's all."
"It may be..." continued the little rogue as the young man turned to dust the very moment his foot touched the first step down, "...trapped."
* * * *
From the stone arrowports of the guard tower built into the low wall of the city, two dark forms conversed, watching with interest as the head of the guard wound his way through the crowd toward the adventurers.
"It is as I told you lord--best not to appear too eager, to accept the first offer of alliance, lest one be suspected; the art and craft of our kind..." The doppelganger watched with milky eyes as his partner and the adventurers left toward the secrets held within the dark hole hidden within the tavern, almost seeming to smile beneath its sallow mask of silver-gray flesh, "...and now all we need is that horn."
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****
The halfling started down the stairs, scrutinizing each for the telltale signs of gimmicry or eldrich wardings. A tap of his telescoping pole, a sniff, and a fake glass gem held up before him to gaze through (the last two props for his audience's benefit),and down and down another step he would climb. "Now all of you big folk, please, I need your cooperation in providing me with utter silence," he pronounced; thinking he wished they could also provide an utter lack of stench.
His audience held their collective breath in anticipation of the halflings demise as he tested the stairs. Squeak and groan the stairs did go and beyond held dark death below. Men did gasp and one woman fainted as the halfling appeared to slip though one man chuckled from the back, a wink from the halfling he did catch, but in the silence that man let a giant fart to rip.
The halfling took each step with precision, carefully noting each step, each mark on the wall, which became more frequent and more elaborate the further he descended.
The etchings were fascinating to behold, even moreso for the curious little fellow.
Still, he kept his attention on his movement down the stariwell, always careful, but soon came to a stop to take a closer look at a carving that took up not only most of one wall, but the entire passage way... the walls, the ceiling, and the floor as well.
His fingers blackening with charcoal dust the halflings nimble fingers worked deftly as a squirrels jotting down the details of the engravings. There were letters--more pictographs really--enscribed into the center or a large and obscure symbol whose edges could just be made out still after many years of wear by dripping water. He looked to his parchment sheet as the symbol took form, first blowing away the coal dust, but then suddenly rotated the drawing 180 degrees: it was the symbol of the Sacred of Quorat inverted, the perversion of the Sign.
As the halfling sat scribbling in the dark, the first revelations opening up for him like a wound, a ghostly light began to drift its way down the hall below. As its luminence flicked its way up a stair at a time, there were no footsteps, no swaying of the light back and forth with the motion of a torchbearer--it floated with a kind of slow and hungry advance. The halfling knew if he called out to the others that they might figure out how to close the portal in time--that this thing, whatever it was, might not be let out into the world, but being somewhat self-inclined by nature he also knew calling out would mean horrible death for him...perhaps worse, so he hid himself instead, crunched himself flat against the curvature of the stair and went silent as a small lump of rag or perhaps a rough spot in the stone hoping to the gods he scoffed at that the thing would pass him by in favor of larger more pungeant smelling prey.
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From his vantage at the top of the stairs, Hakiem saw the patternings of an eldritch light, and knew that luminescence was not caused directly by the halfling. He knew that his bread and butter were the stories he told, but he knew also that no story was worth his own death, as that would be counterproductive, so he ever so slowly started advancing to the door out of the tavern, just as that flickering thing not of this time or world was advancing up the spiral. From a safer vantage at the window he saw it emerge, hovering, horrible and resplendant in strobing smoking aether.