...
"I really do love that spell. Destroy them."
The stone golems turn on the Gugs and attack.
The Stone golems tear the Gugs apart, their limbs twitching and ripping the rocky constructs asunder as they are dismembered. As they fall, the chains that had blocked the entrance fall away and reform into a humanoid shape.
Lizard? Are you ready to release my beloved?
The borders are secure. Everyone on the alert in case of an attack, the fey captain of the Queen's honour guard reports to her mistress, who is on the palace roof looking out over the trees.
Good, Nirellia turns to her. I have left this too long.
She takes to the air, swelling and spreading across the skies, and departs.
A handful of rocks and the remains of a fire and rodent on a stick hit the palace roof, along with a certain stunned fugitive.
Then the darkness changes shape and swirls down to take a different form.
Any bother in my absence? the Elven Queen asks, patting and checking her hair and adjusting her crown, as nymphs move forward to seize the still stunned Prince.
No your majesty, one replies. Your time away, as you had hoped, was relatively brief.
Excellent, the Elven Queen waves to Prince Azran. Shackle him with dragon-iron manacles, and then convey him to the dungeons to await my pleasure.
She dusts her hands.
And now I have everything in place, and all the pieces which I need.
The Prince, badly concussed, is in no condition to make any effort to resist as the fey lay hands and manacles upon him, and take him away...
Strange how one particular annoyance can suggest a solution to a certain problem, Nirellia considers, glancing out over the heart of her Realm, before making a leisurely descent back into the palace.
And now, frankly, as far as she was concerned, everywhere outside of the Realms of Dream could go to the Eldest.
It would be annoying if it actually did, of course, and at some point they would have to be dislodged as a point of general principle; possibly when that moment came there might even be some sort of resistance or at least passive defiance of them.
It was so long since she had last knowingly had sight of a Daughter of the Morning, that she had forgotten that they tended to collect tea-plantations...
...
"I really do love that spell. Destroy them."
The stone golems turn on the Gugs and attack.
The Stone golems tear the Gugs apart, their limbs twitching and ripping the rocky constructs asunder as they are dismembered. As they fall, the chains that had blocked the entrance fall away and reform into a humanoid shape.
Lizard? Are you ready to release my beloved?
Frost shudders.
"No, I am not. But I cannot defeat you. Had Candle Lighter not fled, I could have. But the coward left."He signals, and the stone golems all line up in front of the chalice. Frost speaks a few wards over them, then sadly gives them their orders. He speaks a word over the chalice, and a hissing can be heard. Then he turns to the entrance.
"A shame I cannot teleport..." He mutters, then charges. He speaks a spell as he flies, and suddenly the cave entrance collapses on the figure. He flies out while she is distracted, and soon the great wyrm is gone.
The stone golems, though, remain, guarding the chalice, as a bit of final resistance.
Rusty chains slither from under the rubble, writhing and reforming into Kytania.
Ahh, that was interesting ..
She steps forward and waves her hand. The golems are pinioned by rusty chains that erupt from every surface of the cave. She strides forward and grasps the chalice.
Come out come out wherever you are ...
The chalice smokes, and a black vapor begins to emerge...
After several years of detention in the palace dungeons, at the petition of an important personage Prince Azran is moved out to join Aritha, under house arrest.
And so the Night Dragon's game advances...
The black vapor reforms into a skiny man in greasepaint and motlry clothes. His hat is festooned with multiple bells that jingle and cry.
My love my sweet!
You've come at last
To set me free
And seal the path
But 'fore we leave here one last trick
For there's still one more lock to pick!
The man capers around the chained creature, cavorting madly and giggling
The chained girl giggles
My love, it is so wonderful to see you free. Shall we depart?
The harlequin bows
My liberator, Kytania sweet
Some friends of mine we go to meet!
Perhaps they'll have the proper key
To aid as as we try to flee!
He opens his mouth and a gout of foul-smelling water comes bursting forth. The water swirls in a circular pattern, hovering in the air. The center opens up to reveal a portal. The Giggler steps through, holding out one bony hand for Kytania. They disappear and the water portal collapses on the ground.
Two figures flash into being on the dock with the boat readied by the Denezins of Leng. One beats out a hornpipe dance on the ancient pilings while singing aloud, the other giggling as her chains beat out a lively tempo to her companion's gyrations.
Free at last!
Free at last!
My durance vile,
Shall now be past!
For now the Harlequin is finally free!
To sail the foaming Interthereal Sea!
The clown cavorts, the chained girl giggles and the boards creak and maunder.
Bummer dude, I hate it when I can't post. Hey, want some shrooms to pass the time....?
The reunion of Prince Azran and Aritha is a little awkward, since there are some things which need explaining on Aritha's side. Up to a certain point Prince Azran is able to be understanding, but the situation is still socially awkward for a while.
He needs time and assistance to adjust to the changed situation, and some interesting philosophical discussions, to reach a new understanding with Aritha.
The Elven Queen of course makes things difficult for them, too, with intervention required by Eiboria.
Something unlooked for occurs in the Elven Queen's designs - a flash of something resembling guilt - and she reluctantly dispatches Sorsha on an errand.
Eiboria hums and gardens under the light of one of the Wildwood's moons, getting her hands dirty and enjoying herself.
Occasionally she straightens up and eases her aching back.
Once Sorsha has returned to the Wildwood, the last gates to Dream abruptly close, and the only entrance or exit from the Realms is visits by casual dreamers.
It is possible that the dragons Candle Lighter and Frost are amongst the last to make their way out, perhaps via the gate controlled by the Eighth Runelord, whilst Yames Boornd and Tangessa are visiting from outside of the Realms of Dream, reporting.
- narrative of the spirit walk of Joren Hammerstryke, son of Bjorn, blacksmythe of the Ch’ack Clan. (aka Jack Hammer of the Angry Jack Cult)
Mist. All I can see is mist. I am not sure if it is day or night. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, but I cannot even see them. The mist is cool. I can tell as I breathe it in, but cannot sense it upon my metal skin. Skin. Isn’t that a word best used to describe the outer covering of a living being? Am I truly alive? Or, is my life some cruel accident of fate? Or, a blessing? I no longer know or care. I am ready to die.
I stumble forward, unsure as to why I bother. I hear my feet scuff the earth as I do, but that is the only noise I can hear in the forsaken place. There is a taste to this mist. It is salty, like the ocean. I continue walking. Hours? Days? I cannot tell, as my body shows no need for sustenance, and the light of this world doesn’t change one bit. I can feel the mist thinning. I quicken my step. It clears. Thank the gods! Heh. As if they care about my thanks.
I find myself standing in front of a still pool of water, surrounded by trees I didn’t sense until now. Not totally surrounded by trees; one side is blocked by the face of a cliff that rises into the mist above me. Can’t I even escape this cursed mist for one minute? Bending to drink from the lake I pause. Is it safe? Is it freshwater? My body proceeds, as my mind dwells on these things. I drink deeply. Fresh! And cool! I drink more, and more yet. The silence of this land is broken by the sound of me quenching my thirst. After I take my fill I ask the skies, “Where am I?” Silence. “Where am I?” A voice echoes from the cliff face. My voice? Yes, my voice but the language is not one I know. Or do I? It is familiar, and pulls at something within me. The language is strange, the sound of it is strange too, the words harsh on the tongue. Yet it feels natural. The sound of gravel sliding and stone shifting causes me to jump, instinctively reaching for my hammer. It isn’t there. I clench my fists and prepare myself.
”Why are you here, Son of the Forge?” The voice is gravelly, and deafening in this land of silence.
”I…I don’t know. Am I dead?” My voice is confused, but not panicked. ”Why do you call me ‘Son of the Forge’?”
”You have summoned this place. It is for you to decide if you are alive or dead.”
”What is this place then?”
”What do you need it to be?”
The sound of sliding rock draws my gaze. A face forms in the stone of the cliff face. I glare at the face in my impotent rage. The stone face shows no reaction.
”Again I ask, why did call me ‘Son of the Forge’?”
”That is who you are. Who you were. And whom you shall be.”
I pause, and try to understand this answer. ”Literally?”
The stone face changes. It smiles. The booming voice is tinged with humor. ”No, Son of the Forge. Son of the North.”
”I know not of which you speak”
”Of course not. That is why you are empty.”
Empty. Yes, I am empty. It’s strange hearing it from another. Despite the confusion I can hear the truth of the words echoing in my heart. If I even have a heart. The words pull me. Just as the sound of the harsh language, unknown to me until such a short time ago, it seems natural.
”How do I fill the emptiness?”, I dare.
”Step into the pool."
I step forward. The water is clings to my metal skin. It ‘feels’ cool. I walk in further, until the water is at my waist. The water warms. Suddenly, my arms are flung wide and my body becomes rigid. Fear grips me, warrior of countless battles, as my bronze skin is ripped from my body in one brutal stroke. Pain wracks my body as I release a silent scream from my paralyzed body. The silence is broken as a primal scream pierces the misty air, echoing off the stone cliff, the trees, the skies. It is my scream. I look down. Is that skin? Was there skin beneath the bronze? It burns, exposed to the elements for the first time. It is still burning as I fall face first into the water and die.
- narrative of the spirit walk of Joren Hammerstryke, son of Bjorn, blacksmythe of the Ch’ack Clan. (aka Jack Hammer of the Angry Jack Cult) - Part 2
Floating. I’m floating. Not for a great distance. Something is keeping me from floating away. Something flexible, but strong. I’m warm. I’m safe. What is that muffled sound? It’s so loud. I can feel its rhythm course through my own body. After a time it becomes a part of my world, a familiar sound. A heartbeat? It’s so much slower than my own, but it brings me comfort.
New sounds, some sharp that make me jump. Light? Is that what light is? I shy away. The boundaries of my home keep me trapped, but keep me safe. A loud noise. I jump again. A gentle pressure glides along my body, soothing me. Other sounds. Louder, softer, rhythmic. Music? I’m bouncing. I dance alone. The noise stops, the rhythms calm, and I fall asleep.
Days pass by. At some point I notice the walls of my home are closing in around me. Until...that day. Terror. My heart and its companion race. Light, brighter than anything I have ever sensed before. Something is pushing me from my home. I don’t want to go! The pain increases. The light is too bright! I can’t breathe! I can’t hear the other heartbeat! I’m alone!
Another sharp pain as something hits my skin for the first time, and I gasp. Crying out in pain and shock, I breathe air. But how? My lungs hurt from the change and I cry some more. My body shivers. The warmth of my home is replaced by cold. I’ve never been cold before. My crying continues. I feel myself moving through the air. I am placed against something warm. I hear, feel, the heartbeat I have known my whole life. It calms me. I am not alone!
Sounds, no longer muffled by my mother’s womb, assail my ears. Shouts of glee reward me as my mother takes me in her arms. I feel kisses for the first time. They tickle.
- narrative of the spirit walk of Jorgen Hammerstryke, son of Bjorn, blacksmythe of the Ch’ack Clan. (aka Jack Hammer of the Angry Jack Cult) Part 3 – Discovery
Days pass into years, as I am shaped by the strains of survival. We are the Ch’ack, strongest of the Northern Tribes. Our name strikes fear into lesser tribes, but it is only because they are fearful of life itself. While they hide amongst the stones, grubbing in the dirt, we live on the surface, living and dying in the struggle to survive another day. The gods bless us with what we need. We only need to be bold enough to wrest it from them. Knowing from whence our bounty flows, we give thanks to our gods. We celebrate them. We celebrate living for another day. Our strength comes from within, but also from each other. Family. Clan. They are both part of who we are. To fail is to die. But better to die than to bring shame to the clan. Even in death we Ch’acks live on. The clan makes sure of that.
But I get ahead of myself.
We are all shaped by the Forge of Life. Especially me, since my father is the clan blacksmythe. On the day I was born my father thanked the gods. The clan celebrated with him, and thanked the gods along with him. Blacksmythes are important parts of a village. Now, my father would have an apprentice that shared his bloodline, his affinity for metalwork. He gifted me with a toy rattle in the shape of a hammer, so that my hands and arms would grow used to having a hammer in them. The hammer became a natural extension of myself. As soon as I was old enough, I begged to help him in the forge. I remember the long hours, the strain of the work, the smell of the fire and the caress of its heat. Other children learned the spear, the bow, the sword. The hammer became my center. What else could have?
Our lives were not all work. I spent many an hour listening to the tales of the Pah-ma, the village storyteller. Other hours were spent in games. Games to grow our strength, challenge our intellect, bond us children with each other as no school could do. As I grew older, the games changed. The bow, the spear, and the axe became a part of many contests. I preferred the hammer. I could throw a hammer as well as any boy could throw an axe. Our games became more than contests of martial prowess. They took on personal meaning, as we vied for the attentions of members of the opposite sex. Mind you, our games had never been limited to one sex. Girls and boys both competed, but as the years sped by we found ourselves separated more and more. Some girls chose to follow the way of the Ch’l, a warrior subsect of our clan. These girls were well prized for their strength, their intelligence, and sometimes their beauty. One such model of perfection was Liselle, with eyes of deep blue and hair the color of the setting sun, and I set my eye upon her. At every opportunity I tried to impress her, oftentimes making a fool of myself in the process. When I received my first earthbreaker, I tried to impress Liselle and let my earthbreaker fly as I would a two-handed throwing hammer. It broke down the door to the mead hall. I spent two weeks replacing that door. My father made sure that I made it perfect in every way. My mother smiled through the whole ordeal.
As the years passed and I became a man, Liselle agreed to become my mate. The clan toasted our future with kegs of honey mead, so many kegs, and life seemed as new once more. My parents granted me ownership of the forge, and its outbuilding as our first home.
My father died the next year. We toasted his life, and his funeral pyre was heaped with treasures to help him in the afterlife. He never got to hold his granddaughter, my angel, Aiselle. When she is older we will tell her of him.
- narrative of the spirit walk of Jorgen Hammerstryke, son of Bjorn, blacksmythe of the Ch’ack Clan. (aka Jack Hammer of the Angry Jack Cult) Part 4 – Anger and Blood
the pages in the Book of Life turn...
In the late summer of Aiselle’s, my shining star’s, fifth year, reports of raids just outside of the borders of our lands began trickling in. Many arguments were had in the mead hall as to whether they posed a threat to our home or not, and no calls for our aid were made from our neighbors. Our chieftain, Kellish Strongjaw, sitting at the head of the table, flanked by his two pure-white wardogs, heard all sides as the hours passed. The lands surrounding our homes were either bound by treaties or inhabited by the cave-dwellers. We increased the numbers of our hunting parties to watch for signs of these troubles in our land. Weeks went by, but the attacks never approached more than a days' march to our land. One day that changed. A small settlement of my cousins on our southern border was attacked. Like thieves in the night, the attackers stole their lives. Women, children, warriors, and even the animals were killed in the most brutal manner possible by a large force. It was strange to us that the attackers sought not to raid, but to destroy. Crops, so close to the harvest, were put to the torch and the settlement burned to the ground. Our clan's blood boiled over with the news.
Kellish called a war council. It was decided that thirty warriors would track down these cowards and gift them with slow, lingering deaths. In my mind I pictured my cousin's face, and those of her two small sons, and fire burned within my heart. My hammer was the first weapon raised. Kellish himself was to lead our band, along with my friends Malik and his cousin Hanjel of the Ch'l sect, a fierce woman warrior with no peer. Thirty of our best would don our bronze Death Masks, and avenge our kin. Once we left our village, we would not remove our masks until our return, so that any aspiring to challenge us would know our hearts and be in fear. Legends live through the ages of the Ch’acks of Bronze, warning would-be kings of their doom should they dare grow too ambitious. These legends hold true, for as the village blacksmythe I make the masks for the new warriors and repair the others. I know the magic that each holds. The warnings are well-founded.
This night though, we would toast our slain kin and be with our families, for once we don the bronze faces we become something else; single-minded, deadly, and focused on our task. This night though, we remained human. The Pah-ma chanted the stories of our ancestors, and gave honor to our fallen kin. After we had our fill of honey mead, we took to our homes.
My wife and I played with our Aiselle until she fell asleep in my arms. I gazed long upon her beautiful face and her smile as she lay dreaming. Her laughter would ring in my mind and be the magic to pull me back from the abyss we berserkers cradle when we don the masks of death. My wife and I made love until the early hours of the morning. The touch of her embrace, the feel of her kisses, the scent of her perfume would draw me back home, lest I lose myself in the rage and wander the mountains until my death. Liselle would be my compass.
At dawn, our band gathered at the village gate. With one short glance at our homes and families we donned the Death Masks and took off at a run to find the trail of the Stealers of Life.
Even the clouds in the sky fled before us.
A plant stirs in the dawn light. Two glowing eyes form, as it begins moving.
"I...am manifest...I...live. I must...not waste this opprotunity. My soul is saved, but not for long. The barriers...I may be unable to project outside Jack Hammer's dream...but I must tell them...I sense a bond...between Lynora and Jack Hammer...I may be able to exploit this..."
The plant weeps.
"I cannot believe this. We were brethren once. Now, she will let me fade back into nonexistance for the sake of her breakdown. I must find another way. I will NOT fade!"
The dance goes round in circles, generation after generation - different players taking the same ages old roles.
Plantjack--no, just Plant now--searches his memories. Finally, he decides on a desperate attempt to reach Lynora's friends, particularly those who have a bond with her. He can only pray it works. For now, though, all he can do is rest, and try to regain his strength. He'll need it.
Plantjack--no, just Plant now--searches his memories. Finally, he decides on a desperate attempt to reach Lynora's friends, particularly those who have a bond with her. He can only pray it works. For now, though, all he can do is rest, and try to regain his strength. He'll need it.
His rest is interrupted by an annoyingly cheerful voice.
"Mom says to tell you that she hasn't forgotten you and to stop being such a drama queen. Oh, and that she's not allowed in the Realms of Dream so you were asking the wrong person for help in the first place."
The person before him keeps changing as he tries to look at her. Sometimes she appears as a small auburn-haired child, sometimes as an older child with blue hair and blueish skin, sometimes as a young woman. The only thing that's constant is her eyes, a brilliant green.
"I've only got a limited time here myself, so no beating around the bush, so to speak." ^.^
Plantjack--no, just Plant now--searches his memories. Finally, he decides on a desperate attempt to reach Lynora's friends, particularly those who have a bond with her. He can only pray it works. For now, though, all he can do is rest, and try to regain his strength. He'll need it.His rest is interrupted by an annoyingly cheerful voice.
"Mom says to tell you that she hasn't forgotten you and to stop being such a drama queen. Oh, and that she's not allowed in the Realms of Dream so you were asking the wrong person for help in the first place."
The person before him keeps changing as he tries to look at her. Sometimes she appears as a small auburn-haired child, sometimes as an older child with blue hair and blueish skin, sometimes as a young woman. The only thing that's constant is her eyes, a brilliant green.
"I've only got a limited time here myself, so no beating around the bush, so to speak." ^.^
Plant looks offended.
"I was not being a 'drama queen'. I needed somebody to communicate through. Who the hell are you? Mom?? Don't tell me Lynora has a daughter!"
Plant looks offended.
"I was not being a 'drama queen'. I needed somebody to communicate through. Who the hell are you? Mom?? Don't tell me Lynora has a daughter!"
"Yep, she does. I'm Arielle. And I think mom is busy with something right now. She's not a telephone service, you know. Anyways, here I am, so if you have something you need to communicate go right ahead."
"Yep, she does. I'm Arielle. And I think mom is busy with something right now. She's not a telephone service, you know. Anyways, here I am, so if you have something you need to communicate go right ahead."Plant looks offended.
"I was not being a 'drama queen'. I needed somebody to communicate through. Who the hell are you? Mom?? Don't tell me Lynora has a daughter!"
"I need help. My soul will fade back into the ether as soon as this dream ends. It came into existence here, as an act of pity by the Boardmother perhaps, but only for a short time. Arielle, I do not want to fade. I want an afterlife. My soul can be saved, but only with the help of Lynora or another who has known the power of a god. Other than your mother, though, I know of no such individual who will help. Do you?"
"I need help. My soul will fade back into the ether as soon as this dream ends. It came into existence here, as an act of pity by the Boardmother perhaps, but only for a short time. Arielle, I do not want to fade. I want an afterlife. My soul can be saved, but only with the help of Lynora or another who has known the power of a god. Other than your mother, though, I know of no such individual who will help. Do you?"
"A few. That will help you? I'm not sure. Most of them are trying so very hard not to be deities you know? But if I tell mom it's urgent she'll help you. What exactly do you need her to do?"
"I've only got a limited time here myself, so no beating around the bush, so to speak." ^.^
- narrative of the spirit walk of Jorgen Hammerstryke, son of Bjorn, blacksmythe of the Ch’ack Clan. (aka Jack Hammer of the Angry Jack Cult) Part 5 – Vengeance
For three days we tracked our foe. It was easy. Their numbers made it impossible to hide their trail. We found them camping beside a large stream as dusk settled in. They outnumbered us by more than two to one. We looked at each other and smiled behind our masks.
Applying the woad only took a few minutes. Then we divided ourselves into 3 groups, so that the enemy could not escape. Kellish and his war dogs led the center, I took the left flank, and Hanjel took the right. My earthbreaker felt alive in my hands as I recalled the last time my daughter played with her second cousins. By the set of my companions’ jaws I was not alone in my thoughts. We wrapped ourselves in our anger.
The fools hadn't even set sentries, secure as they were in their numbers. Strange though that they had not a single banner to declare their allegiance. We had no hint as to their identity. Such is life. Without warning our missiles flew; arrow, spear, and axe, our bodies following close behind. We rolled down the hills like an avalanche, blood in our eyes and screaming like devils. A few of the invaders recognized our death masks and knew what that foretold. They fled, but the water blessed us by slowing them down. Like howling death our warriors crashed into their forces. My earthbreaker sent broken bodies flying with each pass. Malik fought like a man possessed, hacking his way through their forces. The screams of dying men told me that Kellish’s and Hanjel’s squads enjoyed similar success. The war dogs of the Ch’ack Clan savaged the enemy almost as fiercely as we did. So few of the enemy made the fight worthwhile. How they managed to overcome our settlement so completely was a mystery left unanswered for now. The battle was over in minutes. I take no pleasure in its memory. Only a few of us were wounded badly enough to magical healing. The salves we carry took care of that.
Ours was like butcher's work. When angry, Ch'acks make very good butchers. We grabbed the nearest missile weapons we could find to slow the escape of the smarter ones who fled when we first approached. Those few smart ones, if they can even be called that, were chased down and rounded up like stray cattle. The time for answers was at hand. These fools would carry the fear of the Ch’ack Clan with them into the next life. But not for a while yet.
At first they were defiant, these few prisoners. Spouting praises to some Great Serpent and curses at us. They tried to make us believe that their god had unified several of the cave clans into a large host, and that the Ch’acks were targeted for destruction. Eventually they broke down, and began telling us many stories and begging for release or a quick death. We gave them neither, and the stream flowed red for a long time. For a full day we ignored their pleas, to be sure that in the afterlife they would not forget us. With vengeance exacted, we turned for home.
My cousins would rest in peace.
Two hours out from our village we saw smoke on the horizon. Without delay we began a forced run north. As we approached, our hearts sank in our chests and our minds panicked. A black crowd of crows circled above our home, and thick tendrils of smoke curled into the sky from dozens of fires. No sound reached us but the crackling of the flames and the calls of those thrice-damned birds. We sprinted. The devastation was like the small settlement but tenfold in its severity. Bodies lay everywhere. Our brothers, our sisters, and...”Oh, No!” I raced to my home. The forge had resisted the flames eagerly seeking out new fuel, but its doors looked as if some large child had simply ripped them open and let them fall where they would. My breath seized in my chest and I raced in. ”Mother!”, I called to my mother’s lifeless body. She was pinned to the wall by metal rods from my own ovens, a pair of tongs still clenched in her fist. Her eyes were strangely empty, and pure white. This sight left a cold knot in my stomach. It was unnatural. Numerous punctures and slashes raced across her body and face, and her dried blood laid congealed on the ground beneath her feet. The damage in the area gave silent testament to the fight she had put up. All this my mind registered in a quick moment, but one that seemed to last a lifetime. ”Liselle! Aiselle!” I raced to our home. Kicking in the door, I ignored the smell and heat of the still smoldering flames as I searched for them.
Destruction I found. Signs of looting I found. Signs of battle and of blood.
But no bodies.
Dare I hope that they escaped? I raced out of the house calling their names.
My companions were doing the same thing. We searched but found no survivors. Not a one of our clan was left simply wounded. We did, however, find signs that our enemy had taken captives this time.
In our haste, our grief, and our rage, not a one of us removed our Death Masks. How appropriate. For if ever a Jack ever exuded Death, it was now.