Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Path: netcom.com!csus.edu!wupost!uunet!mnemosyne.cs.du.edu!nyx!cmeadows From: cmeadows@nyx.cs.du.edu (Chris Meadows) Subject: [AU] [Storm] [HouseStorming] Adventures in Real Estate Message-ID: <1993Apr7.175948.16900@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu> Sender: usenet@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu (netnews admin account) Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix @ U. of Denver Math/CS dept. Date: Wed, 7 Apr 93 17:59:48 GMT Lines: 394 ADMIN: This introduces the [HouseStorming] thread, called such for reasons which you will see very shortly. This installment takes place the day after the events described in the [Storm] thread. The storm is gone, and the rebuilding has begun. I am continuing to use the [Storm] identifier, because this post is also concerned with some of the storm's aftermath (and suggest that everyone do the same with similar posts). However, by no means should anyone who enjoys the storm take this to mean that they should wrap it up. I'm posting this now because I have to go home for the rest of the week, and so that people will have time to see it and respond. Oh, and whoever is keeping the Dragon's Inn bulletin board up to date, there is a bulletin board posting contained within. If you respond to the bulletin board posting, please email me a copy of the message you leave; I might miss it by accident. Okay, that's it! On with the show! Andrea sat in the Dragon's Inn common room sipping grapefruit juice and working on a Danish. She was watching Sheryl playing with Carson out of the corner of her eye. Carson would run up to her, bat at her leg with his paws, then scamper off again before Sheryl could get him back. As she watched this game of tag, Andrea also saw the busy activity going on in the street outside. Through the open doors, she was able to catch a glimpse of piles of lumber being carried down the street by busy workers. It seemed that the rebuilding process had already begun. One of the workers came in and ordered an ale, and Andrea asked him what was happening. "It's the Temple of Aditi's doin', 'at's wot it is," he said. "Them an' all the others. But they's the ones wot I'm working' fer." "Doing what?" Andrea asked. "Cartin' this 'ere wood, 'at's wot." He jerked a thumb out at the pile of wood sitting outside the door. "Them Buffers, 'ey're rebuildin' 'eir 'ouses, 'ey are. And 'ey let the Temple of Aditi pay for 'eir wood." He looked around and lowered his voice, as though about to reveal a secret. "And I 'eard tell 'at it took a lot to even get 'em to let the temple buy the wood for 'em. You know the Buffers, 'ey don't take charity from anyone." Andrea nodded. "Hey, Rowan--" She tossed him a silver coin. "This man's next drink is on me." She turned to him. "Now, why don't you tell me where the local Temple of Aditi is...?" Fifteen minutes later, Andrea and Sheryl walked down the Arcade of Unforgotten Heroes, toward the Temple of Aditi. Andrea was carrying Carson, who didn't seem to mind. It was a nice sunny day, blue sky, fleecy white clouds overhead--an ironic counterpoint to the previous day's weather. In fact, if not for the debris and rubble strewn everywhere, Andrea would have had a hard time believing that the storm had actually happened. As Andrea walked down the street, avoiding puddles and the remains of various buildings, she thought about what had happened over the last couple of days. It seemed that her life had finally been coming together--she'd made new friends, found someone who could remove Sheryl's curse (though not reverse it), and discovered new opportunities for self-enrichment. It had to be a sign. "I like this place," Andrea decided, and then said it out loud. Sheryl looked at her curiously. "Do you like Generica, Sheryl?" Sheryl tossed her head and whinnied vigorously. "Good," Andrea said. "Y'know, we're going to be living here for awhile, what with getting that curse removed from you and all. I think I might not mind settling down here. You?" Sheryl looked incredulously at Andrea, who got the feeling that if Sheryl could have spoke she'd have said something like, "Are you sure you're feeling all right?!" But after about a second, she tossed her head and whinnied even more vigorously. "Good. Then after we're done at the temple, we'll go on up to Glorshanned Keep and see what the real estate office has to offer. If they don't have anything, I'll check at that furniture store, whatever it's called. I think I can afford a decent home, don't you?" About five minutes later, Andrea and Sheryl were standing in front of the Temple of Aditi, Lady of Hurtful Love. As with the few temples devoted to Aditi that she had seen in other towns, this one was pretty plain, and it had Aditi's symbol, a silken whip, hanging above the door. Andrea sighed, and shuddered. Aditi's doctrine was that all love was hurtful, and thus it seemed that her priestesses went out of their way to hurt themselves through love. They had to give themselves to any man who wanted them, for instance. What a morbid cult. Andrea was truly glad that she'd had the help of two great men, Father Phylum of the faith of Issek and Guildmaster Robinson of the Selactican Thieves' Guild, to keep her from falling victim to her own sadness and coming to feel the same way as those who worshiped Aditi. But Andrea didn't really have anything against the church--they had done many good works in all the towns she'd been in. Even if they were, as some people charged, little more than prostitutes, then at least they were responsible ones--more than could be said for the red light districts in most places she'd been. Andrea knocked on the door, and it was opened by a woman who wore a miniature silken whip as a pendant about her neck. "Ah," Andrea said. "You must be Delmara. May we enter?" Delmara looked from Andrea to Carson to Sheryl, and her eyes widened. "A unicorn," she said. "That's a sight we don't often see around here." Andrea nodded, smiling. "I know." "Oh, yes, of course, come on in," Delmara said. "I mustn't forget my manners." "Thank you." They walked in, Sheryl acting subdued as she always did in a place of worship of any kind, Carson looking around and meowing confusedly. As Delmara and Andrea walked up the aisle, a young, thin girl in the dress of an acolyte came running up the aisle. "Mara, I finished--" Then she caught sight of Sheryl and stopped mid-sentence. "A--a unicorn!" she breathed. "Oh, it's so beautiful." She walked up, slowly, never taking her eyes off of Sheryl. "Oooh, can I touch her?" she asked. Delmara looked at Andrea, who grinned and said, "Sure, why not? Her name's Sheryl." The girl looked just a little older than Sheryl herself had been when the curse had come upon her. Andrea turned to Delmara, still grinning. "Sheryl loves kids, and kids love her. Let's leave them here...this way we can talk in private." "If you say so." Andrea and Delmara walked on up the aisle, leaving the girl kneeling next to the unicorn. "Hi. My name's Aitreni..." she was saying. When Andrea and Delmara were alone, Andrea reached into her backpack and brought out a bag that jingled. She handed it to Delmara, who nearly dropped it--it was heavy! "There's 200 gold coins in there," Andrea said. "I want you to use it to pay for the lumber you bought for the Buffers, and for any other storm reparations that you can do for the Low Towners." Delmara gasped. 200 gold coins was a larger donation than any the church had received in...in...well, in too long a time. Delmara did some quick calculations in her head. This would enable her to pay for all that lumber, plus perhaps enough new shingles to cover half the roofs in the Low City...Then reality caught up with her, and she looked evenly at Andrea. "Why?" she asked. "Let's just say that I'm doing an act of kindness and expect no repayment for it." At Delmara's startled expression, she grinned. "That's it, and I want to hear no more about it." Delmara shrugged. "If that is what you say." She thought it was more likely that Andrea was salving a guilty conscience, but she said nothing. With the matter thus closed, Andrea walked back up to where Aitreni was petting Sheryl. To Andrea's amusement, Sheryl's mane was now completely braided, her tail mostly so. Andrea giggled, causing Aitreni to look up with a start. "Oh, I didn't see you coming, ma'am." "Call me Andrea," Andrea said. She smiled. "What is it about unicorns and young girls, that whenever a young girl sees a unicorn, she has an irresistable compulsion to braid its mane and tail?" "I'm sorry," Aitreni began, "I just--" "No, no, no need to apologize," Andrea said. "I wasn't complaining, just making an observation. As a matter of fact, I kind of like it." Sheryl rolled her eyes in an expression that clearly said, "Oh, puh-LEEEZE," but Andrea ignored her. "Oh." Aitreni went back to her task. Delmarra, who had come to watch, felt her heart lift at seeing the girl actually half-smile. When she was finished, she stood back to admire her handiwork. Sheryl dutifully looked like she enjoyed the whole rigamarole. A few minutes later, they were on their way back up the street (after promising Aitreni that yes, they would come back soon). Sheryl nudged Andrea. It was obvious that she wanted Andrea to undo the braids. "Oh, come on, give me a break," Andrea replied. "I've got this cat to take care of. Besides, I think you look kind of cute that way." Sheryl snorted. After making similar donations at other temples, Andrea and Sheryl walked on up the street toward Glorshanned Keep. It took them a good hour to make the walk (especially with Sheryl stopping every so often to sniff at everything she saw). They walked back up to the arcade of fountains, where they found an unusual spectacle. Dozens of people were lining up at the fountains for water. Apparently their own sources had been wiped out by the hurricane. As she came up closer to the fountains, she saw how brown and muddy the water was. But these people were taking it just the same, because it was apparently all that there was. "Hey, what's going on here?" Andrea asked. One of the people carrying buckets answered her. "We need water...But all that's left is this." "Well, that we can fix," Andrea said. "Here, let Sheryl through." The people parted, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and then a great deal of chattering started as they noticed the horn sticking out from the braids on Sheryl's head. Sheryl advanced to the fountain, inclined her head, and plunged her horn in. There was a sparkling, shimmering disturbance that spread outward along the pool, and then all the mud was mysteriously gone. There was complete and utter silence in that line for the next thirty seconds. Then everyone else started yelling, "Hey, come over here!" "Do this pool next!" "Here! Here!" "Take it easy, there's enough of her to go around..." Andrea said. Fifteen minutes later, all the pools had been purified, and a very grateful crowd now filled their containers with fresh water. Andrea and Sheryl continued on up the street. The Mages' Guild had not been hit too hard by the storm, Andrea noticed. Or if it had, it certainly didn't show it. Across the street from the 'Guild, Andrea noticed, the library had undergone some unforeseen structural alterations. Namely, a large portion of the roof had fallen off. However, there were some people over there, most wearing voluminous, flowing robes, standing around the fallen roof part, raising their arms, and chanting. One man standing on top of the roof waved his arms as if supervising. The piece of the library's roof slowly rose into the air, oriented itself, and slid into place. Andrea could have stayed around to watch the reconstruction for another hour or more, but she knew she had a job to do. She continued on up the hill, toward Glorshanned Keep. When they finally reached the Keep, it took a little doing to find the Office of Public Real Estate--the reception secretary seemed never to have heard of it. But once Andrea flashed some gold around, the secretary suddenly remembered that there was an office that had something to do with real estate on the second floor. The Office of Public Real Estate was a cramped and crowded little place, with scrolls lying everywhere and a little bespectacled man sitting behind the desk with a quill pen. "What can I do for you, madam?" he asked as she entered. He didn't look up at her or Sheryl, he just continued scratching away with that pen. "I would like to look at your houses for sale." At this the man did look up. He noticed Sheryl, and peered over the rims of his spectacles at her. "A horse? We don't allow animals in here, young lady. I'm afraid you'll have to--" "She's no horse," Andrea said. "And if you want to get your hands on any of this..." She dumped a few scrolls of the man's desk and dropped a fistful of gold coins onto it "then she stays." The man blinked twice at the money on his desk. "Very well, I'll make an exception. What can I do for you?" "I want to buy a house." The clerk pawed through all the scrolls on top of his desk, came up with one in particular, and passed it over. Andrea sat down and started to read, while Carson batted at a loose scroll on the floor and Sheryl sniffed curiously at the rug. The minimum price for all the houses seemed to be about 5,000 gold pieces, and the average size about 1500 square feet. Obviously overpriced for undersize. Andrea had read over the entire list twice, and still she almost missed it. But then she noticed the last entry on the list, in small print. It was a 150,000 square foot home, for only 5,000 gold! "Hey." She called the clerk's attention to the last entry on the list. "What's this?" He took one look and said, "Oh, you don't want THAT...it's been unoccupied for several years and is starting to show its age." "It can be fixed. But that still wouldn't make it this cheap. By all rights this ought to be at least a hundred times this much. What's the catch?" Andrea asked, fixing him with her steady gaze. "It...er, well, it's a Jonah." "A Jonah?" Andrea was familiar with the term, it came from the holy book of some obscure religion. "Why?" "Well, er, the house was built about, um..." He opened a drawer and pulled out an officious-looking scroll. "...twenty years ago, by Shalovere Darian, a, man of, ahem, less-than-savory means..." Andrea resisted the temptation to grab the clerk by the neck and shake the facts out of him. "Give it to me straight. Was he a thief, or was he not?" "Uh, ahem, yes he was..." "Ah...this is getting good." Andrea sat down, and now Sheryl was paying attention too. "Pray continue." "He, ahem, designed certain, um, safeguards into the building--" "Traps," Andrea corrected him. "This gets better and better." "Er, um, traps, yes," the harried clerk went on, "and retreated into it. From what I understand, he had tired of, um, the, how-you-say--" "Guild politics?" Andrea suggested. "Yes, that's it," the clerk says. "He, uh, ahem, wanted to get away from it all. To return to the subject at hand, once it was built he destroyed the blueprints and um, made sure the architects and contractors were, ahem, indisposed." Andrea nodded. That was the problem she would have had with building her own house; she couldn't kill innocent people yet she didn't want the plans or know-how to break into it remaining around either. "Good, good. Go on." "The house had, ahem, magical and nonmagical defenses. The only people who knew how to, ah, work them were Shalovere Darian and his manservant, Jarl. And, er, ever since Darian was killed by an assassin, and Jarl soon after, um eh, heh heh--" "Nobody's been able to get into the house," Andrea finished. "This is GREAT!" she said to herself. "I hadn't expected to find a deal this good. With my first five grand I can buy the house, and with the rest I can hire some people to help me clean it out. This is GREAT!" "Ah, ma'am, I would not recommend that you buy this house. It has killed close to twenty people who tried to take possession of it already..." "I'll be the judge of that," Andrea said. "And I'm sure I'm better at finding traps than they were. Hand over the papers." She began counting out platinum coins--more coins than should actually have fit into that small a satchel! "I'll sign them right here and now." The clerk seemed to be developing a nervous tic in the right side of his face. "I really don't think that's wise--this house by all rights shouldn't even be on the list any more. It--" "The papers, you obsequious toady," Andrea said, her patience almost at an end. "Here's your 5000 gold." The man sighed. "I tried to warn you. All right. In addition to the title form, I'll need you to sign these two disclaimers." "And what are they?" Andrea asked, looking them over. The man pointed. "This one is a statement that you cannot get your money back--this sale is final. This other one absolves our firm of all liabilities resulting from accidental deaths involved with this house." Andrea smirked. "Typical." She paused just long enough to read the fine print, then signed. Fifteen minutes later she and Sheryl walked out of there, with the deed firmly in hand. The clerk watched them go, then scribbled a brief note to his supervisor. It went, "Sold the Jonah again. Expect it back within a week or so." They'd made more money off that one house so far... Andrea checked the position of the sun. By that, she and Sheryl had just enough time to rent a horse and cart to go out to the house and see what they could see. It might be foolish, but then, it was now her house, she felt she at least ought to be able to inspect it. The house had the proportions of a mansion. It was situated atop Merchant's Hill, but in a location far removed from most of the other houses. Andrea took the time to appreciate the irony of a thief's home on Merchant's Hill, took a good look. It was a rather large home. Definitely large enough to live in comfort in, perhaps large enough for two or three or even four. It did look to be a bit out of repair, especially since the previous day's hurricane had torn off a lot of shingles and a few shutters, but that could easily be fixed. Even the gate hung on one hinge. It creaked when she pushed it open. Sheryl, mane and tail still in braids, walked up beside Andrea and looked inside. She glanced back at Andrea worriedly. "Don't worry, Sher," Andrea said. "I'm not THAT big a fool. I just wanted to take a good look at--" WHIZZZZZ--THONK!!! Andrea froze, as did Sheryl. Slowly, she looked around. And saw that a rather nasty-looking dart had embedded itself in the gatepost, about six inches away from where she was standing. Andrea stepped back, pausing only to slip on a thick glove and remove the dart for closer inspection. It was about four inches long, and the tip was a steel spike coated with some sticky-looking substance. Andrea was NOT about to touch it. Instead, she wrapped a handkerchief around it several times and stuck it inside a spare glove. She looked back at the house, its hanging door and broken windows seeming to stare back at her with the unsettling gaze of a bleached skull. "The dart gun must have been set in the door or a window, or something, and set to shoot people in the gate. But it's become a bit unsteady with age, so its aim is off. Hmm, that could mean that a lot of the traps might not work, which chould make our job a whole lot easier..." She turned, and walked back to the carraige. "Come on, Sheryl, let's go back to the Inn. I have an advert to post." An hour or so later, the following message appeared on the bulletin board at the Dragon's Inn: --------------------------------------------- ATTENTION ONE AND ALL!!! ANNOUNCING A HOUSE-STORMING PARTY!!! I have just purchased a house which is riddled with booby-traps, magical and mundane, and mysteries and secrets untold! I need brave adventurers who can help me unriddle its secrets and make it into a fit place to live! As payment, I can offer some gold pieces and a share of whatever treasures may lie within! After my house is rendered safe to live in, I shall then be ready to move in. I hope to host some sort of a party at that time. Please contact me at the Dragon's Inn if you are interested! --Andrea-- --------------------------------------------- -- Chris Meadows | Robotech/RIFTS/Palladium fanfic author/editor CHM173S@SMSVMA | They Might Be Giants about Star Trek aliens: CHM173S@VMA.SMSU.EDU | "Everybody wants prosthetic foreheads CMEADOWS@NYX.CS.DU.EDU | on their real heads!" Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!sdd.hp.com!usc!news.service.uci.edu!unogate!mvb.saic .com!zippy.telcom.arizona.edu!arizona.edu!noao!amethyst!organpipe.uug.arizona.e du!helium!corleyj Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Pitzar] The Office Message-ID: <1993Apr7.223347.2324@organpipe.uug.arizona.edu> From: corleyj@helium.gas.uug.arizona.edu (Jason D Corley ) Date: 7 Apr 93 22:33:47 GMT Sender: news@organpipe.uug.arizona.edu Organization: University of Arizona, Tucson Lines: 60 We wrote and printed all night. The few news imps that turned up the next morning got doubly-thick wads of paper shoved in their hands and slaps on their rump. The sun over Generica blazed out like a sudden torch in a dark room. I hadn't seen the sun in a while. But we had done it. That morning the Examiner hit the streets with a dozen stories of the damage of the storm. We wrote the stories during the storm, and had no way of knowing what had really happened, but there was no way for us to know that it _didn't_ happen the way we told it. Not much sense in printing "Storm Hits, We Stay Inside All Night and get Shaken To Hell By Wind And Thunder." Sometimes the truth gets in the way of the story. But sometimes the story just grabs truth by the collar and shoves it right in your face. That's what it did that morning. Papers were scattered everywhere. Some of the back issues had been ruined when a window in the archives had been ripped open and rain had slashed in like a kid with an inkwell. We had to toss them, a total loss. The notes, the books, the maps, everyone's desks were thrown across the rooms like a child's toys. It would be days before we were fully cleaned up. I just tipped my desk back upright, and pulled the bottle of Dragon's Red out of the bottom drawer. Broken. I threw it out. At least the wind that had blown through the building had cleared the dust away. Even as it was, the papers were yellowed and cracked from sitting in the sun for so long. I rested my head on the cool wall and closed my eyes just for a minute, inhaling the dank, moldy smell of Generica after a storm. I heard footsteps and opened my eyes. There, in the empty doorframe, was Dawn. She stood in the frame very stiffly, her eyes a total blank. Dawn was one of two female reporters for the _Examiner_. Some people talked, but never around her. She was tough, and anyone who thought any different was in for a nasty surprise. I thought different, once. And for a while, she thought I was right. But she had looked out the small grimy window one morning, and turned to me with a look that said more than a hundred articles, words skittering out of the quill. And there she was, standing in my doorway as if someone had planted her, watered her and let her take root. I thought, suddenly, for no reason, that I had seen her before. Of course I had, but somehow I again felt that I was home. Even though I knew I wasn't. I finally spoke. "Dawn." She looked at me. "You're all right, then..." she said, reflectively, almost to herself. Then she added, "You're all right, Jake? Helluva storm." I nodded. "Helluva storm." She swallowed hard. "Yeah." She pushed her hair back out of her face, and for a moment the sunlight glittered on the soft gold ring on her third finger. Plain gold. "Well, I'll see you around." Her footsteps clattered away even as my lips opened and no words came out. -- "Meetings are an addictive, highly self-indulgent activity that corporations and other organizations habitually engage in only because they cannot actually masturbate."-----------------------------------Dave Barry Jason "corleyj@gas.uug.arizona.edu" Corley is Wanted for Impersonating a Student Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!uunet!newsflash.concordia.ca!sifon!VM1.MCGILL.CA From: B7P7 Subject: [Storm][Jiri][AU]: A Song in the Storm. Message-ID: <10APR93.22983324.0092@VM1.MCGILL.CA> Lines: 161 Sender: usenet@MUSICB.MCGILL.CA Nntp-Posting-Host: vm1.mcgill.ca Organization: McGill University Date: Sun, 11 Apr 1993 02:16:51 GMT [Admin]: When last we left Andrea, Sheryl, Carson and Jiriku, they were waiting in the Dragons Inn for the casualties to come in. Jiri had suggested joining Listener downstairs for an elven song about the Wind and Rain to ease the tensions. Meanwhile, Kyhra had been helping at the Seawall. He'd made a heroic leap to save one of his fellow Sandbaggers form being swept over the wall, but found that he had not the strength nor the time to pull the man to safety, for the Wave was coming back to claim its' victim. Thus did Kyhra stare into the eyes of Death upon the Sea, and knew that She would take him unto her dark domain under the waves... Humming a cheerful tune the Wolfmage led the Unicorn, the cat and the Thief into the cellars below, where most of the patrons of the Inn were holed up. The tension in the air was so thick that it almost seemed difficult to see across the cellar. After a moment of searching, Jiriku spotted the other elf accross the room softly strumming his lute. He made his way over as quickly as he could, for the room was indeed packed fairly tight. "Hail and well met friend," Jiriku began. "I am Jiriku Goldeies of the Sylvanwood. I noted earlier that you are one who practises the musical arts with great skill, and I thought maybe that I could add my humble voice to thine in a Song of Rain and Winds." The Sylvan smiled his peculiar smile and attempted a bow in the cramped quarters. The other smiled a return grin. "I am known as Listener. I would be happy to join you in a song, friend. It would be good for all of these worried hearts." The Wolfmage nodded. "Yes, that's what I was thinking. In the Sylvanwood we have many songs to raise the spirit, but I think the best one of all is the Stormsong. It is a Song of Wind and Rain, and many is the time that it has heartened the souls caught in a great storm. Know you it?" At the shake of the other elf's head, Jiriku smiled. "All the better. It is not diffilcult for one of your skill, and always have my people said that a Tale or Song is strengthened by adding the magic of others to it." Jiriku took a seat on top of a barrell beside the other elf and began to quietly strum his silver lute, speaking of melodies and harmonies to the bard. After a minute, Listener smiled and called for attention. "Friends and Travellers! Jiriku Goldeies and I would sing you a song to put your fears at bay and ease the tension in your hearts. It is a song of hope in the winds and rains, as sung by the people of the Sylvanwood. Please, listen and let your hearts fill with our joy." Quite a few of the other people clapped approval, but there were many still who looked none the cheered by the news. After one last final check of tuning, the two elves leapt into a strange and beautiful melody. For long minutes did they play thus, Jirikus lute seeming to sound the wind, and Listeners' the rain. The song built in power and strength, and it seemed to all that the two elves played the very storm itself- which, in a way they did, though their storm was much gentler. Now every ear in the cellar listened to the song, and all of the talk ceased as Jiriku began to sing, his sweet voice the sound of a forest brook and the gentle spring breeze at the same time. "When come the Wind, when come the Rain, The Storm that promises loss and Pain. When come the Fear that brave hearts taint, Then do we sing this sweet refrain. "When fall the Rain unto the ground, When blows the Wind with fearful sound, Then is the Song of Storming profound, And courage and hope is once again found. "I sing to you this song of Hope, So in the darkness you do not grope, Take from me this silver rope, And climb back up to the heights of Hope. "The Rain falls down to soothe the Mind The Wind blows hard to steel the Heart. Look deep within and you shall find, That the Storm outside is not as dark. Upon the forests and on the Sea, The weather comes to clense and clean. Be strong brave heart and you shall see, Upon the morrow the Sun's bright sheen. "When fall the Rain and blow the wind, Then is the time for souls to be kind. When the storm without is full of sin, Then is the time for us to unwind. "We'll sing and dance and feast all night, While outside the Storm is full of spite. We'll deny the Weather it's terrible right, And raise our hope to it's full height. "We'll laugh and smile and sing a song, And let the Weather do us no wrong. For our hope is high and our hearts are stong, And we are singing the Storming Song." (This time Listener and even some of the others joined the Wolfmage in the chorus.) "The Rain falls down to soothe the Mind, The Wind blows hard to steel the Heart. Look deep within and you shall find, That the Storm outside is not as dark..." Listener took over and made up several new verses, and the song continued for some time. Before it was finished, everybody in the cellar was singing along with a brave and cheerful voice- especially Sheryl, though only Jiriku heard her, who was in absolute heaven listening to the two elves sing and play upon their lutes. A great rousing cheer went up from the crowded cellar, and even the little brownie sleeping in the roof's eaves was awakened by the hopeful sound. Listener began another cheerful jig, and Jiriku happily accompanied him. Some people even did a bit of a dance where there was room to do so. But it was as this second song finished that the golden eyed, silver haired Sylvan suddenly dropped his lute and let forth a cry of utter despair. Everyone in the room looked worried again as Jiriku fell to his knees. "NOOOOOO!! Kyhra!" Even as the cry finished, he was on his feet and rushing for the stairs. Andrea gave Sheryl a worried look and ran after her new companion, even while Littlefair and Listener tried to get the other marrooned patrons into another song. Andrea made it up to the main floor just in time to see Jiriku draw forth a strange amulet and begin to work his magik. Even as he began, there was a pounding on the side door and several gaurdsmen poured in carrying wounded men from the Seawall. Andrea quickly directed them to the back room that the Sylvan mage had earlier prepared to deal with the injured. She tried to the best of her ability to help the men save the wounded ones. Many had had swallowed lungfulls of water and a few of them were bleeding profusely. Andrea cursed Jiriku and worried over Kyhra at the same time. She _needed_ that damn elf in there! Yet she also sent her blessings to the magik that would save the Kalnarian. As she reached to pull tight the bandage she was working on, a delicate hand stilled her arm and deftly tied the cloth around the wound. She looked up, and saw Jiriku standing there, his normally golden eyes misty and dark. Tears streamed down his delicate face, and the raven streak in his hair had grown, so that all that remained of his silver locks was a similar streak running the length of his hair. "I couldn't save him," Jiriku said brokenly. "I couldn't save him Andrea." A shocked look came upon the dark haired thiefs face, and she burst into tears as well as the elf burried his face in her shoulder and cried for the loss of his friend. --Dani Treutler. [note]: I just borrowed this address, as mine is low on funds, so if you want to respond to this, mail me at the one right above. Chris and I will welcome newcomers, so if you want to hook up with our characters, mail one of us. Oh, and if you happen to have a mage down at the 'Wall, a certain feline warrior I know would appreciate any help he can get... (just mail me first.) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!sun-barr!cs.utexas.edu!asuvax!chnews!ornews.intel.co m!ibeam!hutch From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Subject: [Party] [AU] Kadrys: Many Meetings Message-ID: Organization: Intel Corp., Hillsboro, Oregon References: <1993Mar30.001200.11940@atlantis.uucp> Date: Sun, 11 Apr 1993 03:26:22 GMT Lines: 176 aaron@atlantis.uucp (Aaron Humphrey) writes: >ADMIN: Okay, after this the party is over, right? I'm just tying things up, >and I've been putting off writing this post because of Civilization, and my >feed died for a few days...okay, enough apologies. On with the prose. Oh, >and I really >do< need another character. I was running low... No, because there's still some of us at the ends of the earth who have EVEN SLOWER net access than others. So this is posted for Andrea Evans. === As the daylight strengthened, glinting in countless tiny sparks of colour in the carpet of dewdrops on Luthor and Serene's lawn, the last few party guests took their leave. Kadrys slipped away silently, having no desire to trouble his hosts further. Luthor was considerateness itself and Serene was unfailingly cheerful and open, but it had been a very long day and night for them both, and they deserved to be left in peace. He threaded his way on foot through the streets of the Elvish quarter, along elegantly meandering avenues whose curves were dictated by the lie of the land and the patterns of growth of the trees, rather than any preference for an imposed geometric street grid. Passing so many elves on his way, the local elvish language rippling in his ears at every turn, Kadrys could not prevent himself from wondering about the elf he had met at the party: such an odd name, just 'sage', and always with that pause in front of it, a pause that had the sound of words unsaid. And this '...sage' was evidently an archmage, no less a person than Mage Guild's chief Librarian. Kadrys had, in sheer self-defence, learned a surprising amount about magic down the ages (though he was no practitioner of the art). He knew very well that running a magical library offered rather more mental and physical hazards than would a stint in Trawm's fighting pit, capped with a game of chess with Finvarra, the lord of Faerie. But it was none of these attributes, remarkable as they were, that drew Kadrys' mind back again and again to their meeting. No, it was the terrible precision with which ...sage's face had revived, in the cruel mirror of youth, the visage of an elf dead countless years, the one true friend Kadrys had ever known as living man. ...sage's eerie resemblance to Elirivar, right down to those blank and blinded eyes, had shocked something deep within Kadrys: in itself no usual event. Again the image of the original rose to the vampire's mind: Elirivar, his foundling, his partner in crime, his tatane'ya (foster father). Kadrys shook his head in impatience. Useless to speculate, for now. Interestingly, ...sage had in turn seemed eager to speak privately with him, and had said that he would get in touch with Kadrys as soon as business permitted. Kadrys resolved with a mental shrug to let matters rest there. --- Absorbed in his own concerns, he had not paid much attention to the fading of the stately avenues of the elvish quarter into Generica's more commonplace streets, the thronging of the ways with ever more traffic, the littering of the cobbles with less picturesque things than dead leaves. But soon the odd restlessness that he had experienced upon rising from his recent "sleep" gradually made itself felt once more. His introspective mood faded, and he found himself taking a keen interest in the jostling activity, in the people that surrounded him on all sides. Yes, it was noisy, crowded and not all that clean. But, unlike the Elvish district, these were streets he understood in the marrow of his gutter-born bones. Human streets. Low streets. Though there was nothing remotely comforting in them to the eye, their familiarity, from the whores in the upper storey windows to the beggars underfoot, made them seem almost homely to Kadrys. A small knot of urchins spilled out of an alley, falling into a brawling knot at his feet. He stepped around the obstruction and moved on, not looking back. When the tiny grubby hand reached for his pocket he grabbed it without breaking stride, compelling the lad to scamper to stay afoot. If the boy had expected help, he was due for a disappointment. At the first sound of his howl of surprise and fear, the others vanished like water on red-hot iron. Though the boy had the wiry strength of hard living, though his body was covered with a thick layer of greasy dirt that had helped him wriggle out of a 'nab' in the past, his struggles were in vain. Beneath his first panic, his flood of venomous swearing, the worrying realisation struck him that the hand was not even gripping hard enough to hurt him. It was just not possible to loosen those fingers by a hair. It was like trying to break the hand of a statue. Kadrys dragged the boy into an empty side street before finally glancing down, studying the urchin's face with mild curiosity. "What is your name?" Kadrys murmured. Nothing in those quiet tones suggested irritation or even surprise at the attempted thievery. His immovable grip on the child's wrist did not tighten, but neither did it loosen. The boy continued his frantic wriggling and kicking and scratching, all of it entirely without effect. Only when he tried to bite the imprisoning hand did the man's other hand clamp itself to his head, push it away. "I said, what is your name?" No change at all in the even tones. The lad ceased his struggle, bracing his bare feet and standing as tall as he could. His pinched, grimy face was full of defiance. Only his rapid breathing, the sound of his pounding heart, the scent of adrenalin and sweat told Kadrys of the boy's terror. The boy drew a deep breath, summoning all his courage, then suddenly spat on the cobbles at Kadrys' feet, the old street gesture meaning 'You aren't even good enough to spit on!' Kadrys nodded as if the gesture confirmed something. "Good. You've learned at least that much. Names are power. Never give yours to strangers." After a pause while he studied the boy's face, he continued. "You've also learned not to make a show of your fear. So. At least you're not _totally_ incompetent." At the word, the hand on the boy's wrist tightened for a moment, just hard enough to make the joints grind without causing real pain. "That was the most sadly bungled attempt at a dip that I've seen in quite a while." Kadrys resumed, his tones oddly reminiscent of a schoolmaster, lecturing an errant pupil. The boy took in the words and the manner, and frowned in bewilderment. 'Th' mark ain't stropped 'bout gett'n dipped? He's frothin' cuz I crutched it up? Mus' be a pick short of a kit. Or else, ohshit he's a Guilder 'n' he's gunna cut me f'r freedippin'...' Kadrys' voice interrupted the boy's thoughts. "Because you've learned to hide your name, and more because you've learned to hide your fear, I'm going to give you a very precious prize. More precious than any purse, to you at least. Your life..." Hearing these words, the boy released his breath in inaudible relief. "_Don't_ relax! Not _ever_!" Kadrys snapped savagely, lunging low and thrusting his face toward the boy's. He watched in satisfaction as the wariness, the guarded terror rushed back. He hissed rapidly, viciously, sparing the boy nothing: "Frankly, I don't think you'll hang onto your useless life more than a year if you don't pick up a clue or ten. So listen, scum. Learn your craft, and you just might live. Fail, and die. Oh, not fast though, not pretty. Choking out your own black tongue on the end of a hangman's rope. Gutted on a guard's sword. Dissected slowly by a mage with an interest in anatomy, or in pain..." Hearing the words, somehow the boy knew, _knew_ in the depths of his being, they were the whole, brutal truth. Street truth. Watch, listen, learn, and live. Laze, skive, bignote, and die. Learn, live. Laze, die. Without warning, Kadrys opened his hands, spun the boy around and shoved him out of the alley into the street. The lad fled in a blur of skinny limbs, running without looking back. Kadrys leaned on the alley wall and watched the boy out of sight. The savagery had vanished from him without trace, and he nodded to himself in sombre satisfaction. 'He'll live now, and prosper, because of that lesson. Fear can be a gift of life, wherever carelessness means death...' He walked out of the alley, grinning whitely as a thought struck him: 'I wonder if he'll ever look back on that gift with the gratitude it deserves? Hah, perhaps I should've called out after him "You'll thank me for that someday..."' Shaking his head and chuckling acerbically, Kadrys walked on, until the streets of the Low City were left behind. --- Kadrys sauntered down the Arcade of Fountains, listening with a grin to the incongruous snatches of conversation that drifted past his ears. ... "So I said to him, 'If your fruit can't stand up to a little squeeze, then it's too ripe to buy anyway!' Made him go more purple than his grapes, _I_ can tell you!" ... "That's the third godsdamned arrow that's splintered on me this month. And it's always the same old excuse: 'You can't get the wood, you know'" ... "Well I up 'n' told 'im straight, 'If you cut that ale any more, Tomtom Thunderbuster, me 'n' my axe'll cut you!'" ... "My dear, you simply _must_ come to Lady Fen-Higshaw's At-home next Fiveday. Yes, I know about your camellias, and lovely they are I'm sure, but you'll just have to trust your gardener with them this once!" ... "Get that animal out of my fount-... oh, uhm... sorry..." That last one made Kadrys turn his head, look back down the street towards a garden behind a high stone wall. Suddenly, a white shape came vaulting effortlessly over the wall, to land with only a light click of hooves on the cobbles. Kadrys blinked in disbelief. A unicorn! Instantly he slipped aside into the shadow cast by a widely-spreading oak near one of the stately homes. Kadrys believed in discretion where unicorns were concerned. They had a distressing tendency to try to impale him on their horns: a danger perhaps even more, well, _grave_ than any wooden stake. Still, as he watched, the wariness ebbed away from his stance. _This_ unicorn was no more than a filly: barely half the size she would be when adult. She was evidently quite unaware of his presence: dancing round on tiny cloven hooves, leaping in and out of fountain after fountain for all the world like a carefree child skipping in rainfilled guttering. As he watched her leaping and prancing in yet another one of the arcade's fountains, the air around her filled with glittering droplets as pristine as diamonds, he found himself actually smiling with shared happiness. Watching her antics, basking in the sheer, simple pleasure in living that poured from her, his own spirits rose in response. Now he remained in hiding, not to protect himself, but to protect her, her joyousness, from the blight of his presence. He stood and watched her as she dwindled into the distance, before continuing on his own way. Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!sun-barr!cs.utexas.edu!asuvax!chnews!ornews.intel.co m!ibeam!hutch From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Subject: v2:[Jiri][Storm]: The Soulstar Sails... Message-ID: Organization: Intel Corp., Hillsboro, Oregon References: <10APR93.22983324.0092@VM1.MCGILL.CA> Date: Sun, 11 Apr 1993 03:29:31 GMT Lines: 181 The sleek dark vessel sliced roughly through equally dark waves as it headed full out for the port of Generica. Over head the sky tossed and turned, insane black clouds billowing and growing. Thunder roared as the clouds screamed in rage, spitting bright forks of lightening down upon the sea. Not good weather for those aboard ships, the captain of the vessel knew. But there was little that he could do, for what man could coerce the weather? For long moments he stood thus, oddly delicate hands for a sailor gripping the rail with an unsuspected strength, steely blue eyes seeming to pierce through to the very heart of the building storm. Finally the captain of the Soulstar turned away from the rail and walked back towards the aft, shouting an order as he walked. "Ho, Taylor!" he called to a large man climbing in the rigging overhead, fastening clamps and tightening sheets. The man nodded as he finished up what he was doing, then barked a few short orders to the other sailors who helped him in his task. Leaving the others to finish up, the first mate climbed down and joined his captain on the aft deck. "Aye, Cap'n. She's almost done. We'll 'ave 'er up ta full in no time. What with the winds a comin', we'll near fly 'cross these thrice cursed wave. What 'n be yer fancy, Cap'n?" "No fancy Taylor, just worry. I know my ship, and I know my crew. No finer could I ask of either, and I know you'll have her running tops. But I also know that we've not a chance of outrunning that." The captain gestured at the black monster that even yet seemed closer then when last he'd looked. "Aye, Cap'n. I share yer thoughts. 'Tis no storm like any e'er seen by m'eyes, I tell yer that for nuthin'. We canna let our fears n' worries inta the men, though. We got no other choice but to try." The big man shuddered as he looked at the approaching storm front one more time, not that it was easy to NOT look at it. "You know what to do Taylor. I'll be in my cabin if you need me. I have a feeling that I'll have no time for rest later. You should probably get a little rest too, when the preparations are done. Make sure all hands are rested and ready. We'll use a clockwise rotation." "Aye Cap'n. Start a three way shift, then?" At the captains nod, Taylor turned and relayed the new orders to the men. Three way shift, clockwise rotation, three hours per shift. At least until the storm hits some of the crew can get some rest, he thought. Himself included. A few minutes later, the blue eyed captain of the Soulstar was sitting in his room, a glass of wine poured and a meal on his table. He ate in silence, his thoughts as dark and gloomy as the sky overhead. When his meal was done, he called his squire to clear the plates and call his two mates to him. He stood and looked out the small window set in the rear wall, watching the unholy weather. After a time, he turned away, crossing over to his closet. He stripped off his jacket and the white shirt underneath, choosing another in his customary black. He chose another jacket too, and then donned his cloak, fastening it by the black stone butterfly clasp that he had used for countless years. In memory... Just as he pulled on a pair of well used black leather gloves, there came the expected knock at the door. "Enter," he said in a strong but soft voice. The door swung soundlessly open, and Taylor entered, followed by another, much smaller, brown haired man. "Ah, Taylor, Magarth," he nodded to each, "I've been expecting you. We must go over some things." "Things, Cap'n?" Taylor raised an eyebrow. "What're you gettin' up ta, sir?" "You'll hear soon enough my friend. Please, sit down." He indicated two chairs in front of his table which his two mates gratefully took. He waited for them to sit, then went once more to his closet, taking forth a small black iron bound chest, which he placed on the table. He took a key from his jacket and unlocked the casket. Slowly he opened it, being very careful not to set off the trap contained in the lock. He found the secret catch and smiled as the dart slid slowly from its' slot, the spring behind it still unreleased. His mates didn't seem surprised at all, for they had often watched their captain open his chest, though neither would have dared to try and do it themselves, especially without his permission. As small and harmless as the dart looked, it was coated with an invisible and very effective poison. He laid the dart aside, being careful to wrap it in a cloth first, then reached inside pulling out a smaller black box which seemed to be made of shiny black stone, though it could have easily been a foreign metal or hardwood. Now Taylor and Magarth both raised their eyebrows, for this box neither had been privvy to before. The black clad man set it on the table top as carefully as he had set the dart. He pulled a thong from around his neck and held up a key, which seemed to be made of the same material as the box. "Now, gentlemen, comes the part I called you here for. I do hope that you still wear the pendants a gave you?" Both men nodded and pulled forth the gold chains they wore around their necks. Their captain took them, removing the odd shaped pendants from the chains are pulling forth a similar one from his own neck. He fit the three strange shapes together, and they clicked place like pieces of a puzzle. The first and second mate of the Soulstar both gasped in surprise, for they beheld a clever key. The captain pushed the three part key into a slot on the other side of the black box. He waited for a count of three, then placed the first key, the one that matched to box, into another slot in the middle of the lid, one that had appeared as the first key was turned. He waited a count of five this time, ere pulling the lid straight up in a quick and practised motion. A green mist floated up from the box, and the man in black waved it aside. "An explosive and very flammable gas," he explained, noticing the question on his first mates face. "If the box isn't opened in the right way, and at the right time intervals, it is ignited, destroying the contents, and likely the clumsy openner as well." He pulled from the box two scrolls and three matching keys, these ones carved from a strange white stone. He handed a scroll to each of his mates, along with one key each. The third key he placed around his own neck. "You doubtless have seen that storm, and what it portends. Lives will be lost, possibly our own. If the ship survives," he said with a pained voice, "and I do not, she is yours, to be split equally between you two." He held up a hand to stall the protests that Taylor and Magarth both began. "No arguing with me gentlemen. If I die in this storm, you two shall take over command and ownership of the Soulstar. You can deal with the cargo as you see fit, though I suspect that our current plan would still be the most profitable. On the other hand," he continued, his voice once more tight, "if the ship does not survive, and you do, follow the instructions on the scrolls I have given you. They will tell you where to go and what to do. The keys I have provided will allow access to a certain place where I have, ah, stored some goods that might be of use. You will notice that I also carry a key, and if we all live through this storm, we shall go together. The scroll does not give directions. You will have to speak to a certain man indicated to find out more. He will know what has happened when you show up. Show him the key and speak the words that I first said unto you when I made you my mates. I trust you did not forget them?" "Of course not, Cap'n. You said..." Taylor was cut off by a sharp wave and look from his superior. His face turned red as he realised his near fumble. Words that were spoken once and never repeated aloud were done so for a reason, and saying them would only hurt their purpose if others overheard. After a moment of silence, he looked his friend in the eye and saw again the troubled look that had set in since the storm was first sighted. "Why do ye speak of yer death so?" Taylor asked, concern in his voice. "What was it that you saw? E'er since you first set eyes upon that black weather ye have been as dark and gloomy as it has." The other turned away to look out the window again and it was long before he answered. "I know not what troubles me Taylor. I only know that when I saw that storm I had a deep foreboding and knew that death was coming. She rides the waves upon white frothy horses, and She will reap the fields of men with her cursed scythe. The feeling of doom has not left me- it's only grown steadily as the storm came closer." The captain shuddered, then turned to address his mates once more. "Please, leave me and go about your duties. I would be alone, and we have not much time ere the storm o'ertakes us. You know what to do." He turned back to the window and waited for Taylor and Magarth to leave. Taylor started towards his friend, wanting to speak some more, but Magarth layed a restraining hand upon his arm and whispered, "Come on Taylor. Leave him be." The large sailor reluctantly turned and left with the second mate. When the door shut behind them, the captain sighed and touched the butterfly shaped cloak clasp at his shoulder. Even then the rain began to fall outside. Thus did Cain of Kilrahh stand, looking out at the angry sea and waiting for Lady Death to come riding upon the crest of the Storm. -Dani Treutler. [admin]: Please do not use Cain and the Soulstar without emailing me first. If you would like to help me write the Flight From the Storm, I welcome you- just mail me first and we'll talk. Thanks to Hutch for posting this for me, and for the excellent insight regarding the nature of this storm. [You're welcome] ======================================================================== 1973