Tag: Fiction

Guinevere’s Story

DnD

I’m having fun at XOXO Festival tonight, so here’s a short vignette I wrote as backstory for my D&D game. Hopefully this makes sense out of context. Enjoy.

24th of Bluesky, 502nd year Post-Cataclysm

Anelyan, my once-lost love. I did not expect you back in my life.  

As I write this, I’m riding in a cart next to your very dead body.. I’m still processing all this, and more determined than ever to do whatever the gods require to bring your soul out of the Deadlands and back to the land of mortal life. My whole world has turned from six to noon, as the old Imperial saying goes, in less than a day.

Maybe more than that. Two days ago, while casing a warehouse that had been occupied by a squad of squatters, I got a message from Enewen that said these two newcomers to town, a half-elf named Olmak and a halfling named Milo, wanted to talk to me, and implied heavily that Milo was a former member of the Shadow Family guild in Kopno’domas, which put him and I on the same side by the traditional calculation of “enemy of my enemy” and all that. 

Still didn’t mean I trusted them, though, and by the time I got the message, I still had a day or two to scout out the lay of the land, so that’s what I’ve been doing the past day or two. They were babysitting some Blackfeathers and took them north along the peninsula, twice, and came back in poor shape both times; at least two of the four were injured to the point of death each time. Did they find the tomb of Ser Borin, last champion of the Duskmaven? Hard to say, but their bags were heavy the second time; maybe they’d found something.

The half-elf wearing rough leather clothes and who talks to ravens is hard to hide from, but I’d managed it, just barely, on their wilderness excursions. In town, though, this morning, was more demanding. I’d used a glamour to hide my appearance — not just for them, of course, there are other folks looking for me — and since casting this illusion is a new trick for me, I was a bit clumsy. I got made when they stopped for breakfast at Rhoban’s. But I was able to fade into the crowd around the plaza, and they seemed to have other business.

They joined one of the friars who was carting pony kegs up to the old fort, Friar Willy, a friendly drunk who had gotten up to some adventures a few years ago with Warjos and Ilbahn but who was laying low recently. The burglar (Milo) and woodsman (Olmak) appeared to be using Willy to get into the castle. Was that their con? I followed them up the stairs at a distance but got denied entry to the castle, so I took the path around to see if they came out the other side and continued toward the lighthouse. A calculated gamble but it did eventually pay off. 

Still keeping my distance (damn Olmak’s eyes! he’s hard to avoid notice) I loitered near the ocean side of the bluff, watching the Elven warships at anchor past the Breaker Bar, and admiring the griffon riders’ maneuvers. After shooing off some wretched-looking black birds (definitely not ravens, not anymore,) my marks chatted up the lighthouse caretaker, an old gent named… Henri? Henri Redstream? Not sure, I don’t spend much time at tourist traps like this, especially if they have cranky old wizards in them. There are easier targets to loot. But I got made, again (curse Olmak’s eagle eyes) and it looked like they were going to go inside, so I decided to get it over with and speak to them. And, long story cut short, that’s when I found out you had died but somehow your ghost remained. Unfinished business, with me.

Normally I love being right. I was right to tell you that adventuring was too dangerous. I was right to tell you to go back to your farm, tend your crops, and find a nice simple farmwife to settle down with. I’ve gotten out of too many close scrapes to want to see you exposed to that same danger. All our arguments beside the firepit flashed before my eyes. But something did not add up. We were both devoted to Our Lady of Ravens, and She hated the undead. Why were you a ghost? Were the gods toying with us? I had to find out more.

I tried talking these three, Olmak, Milo, and Friar Willy, out of coming with me, but they seemed sincere in helping me. If this was a trap, their bringing one of Rhoban’s priests with them, was an almost impossible level of cover. Willy was known around town, a native son, jovial and lusty and always drunk, but not a liar or cheat. His reputation eased some of my suspicions. Plus they had a cart back at their camp. 

We stopped by their camp to attend to their Blackfeather babies. Even though they and I both give honor to the Raven Queen, I consider them wannabes and charlatans. But meeting Alquorin I saw a hint of steel behind the silk. I am almost certain that he managed to survive making a pact with the Matron of Ravens. Only time will tell if he and his girlfriend, Marjolane, can harness that power. Am I sad I missed that opportunity? Perhaps, but maybe there will be future chances. As far as I know, it’s possible for Patrons to have more than one Champion at a time. I know the Pig-Lord of the Undead does.

We rode the hour or so to the safe house. Olmak and Milo debated stopping to see where they found Anelyan’s body but instead we pushed on to the house. Milo snuck up to a window and reported that the body and the spirit were both inside, so we advanced. But the ghost apparated out of the wall too swiftly to counter, and briefly possessed Olmak before the friar was able to compel the ghost to leave. It flew fast as it could and once it was 100′ or so from the house it dissipated.

Olmak was sure that it would return, though, so I went in and gathered up your body and we high-tailed it back to town. And… I feel I owe it to you to give you another chance at life. I know that the high priestess of Rhoban can bring people back from the dead; she’s done it before (for instance, Ilbahn’s son from that unpleasantness a few years back), and that requires an offering of a diamond of great worth, more expensive the longer the soul has been gone. And I know where I might get one; the sorcerer in that warehouse down by the docks has been collecting gems.

I could (probably) have faced your vengeful spirit alone, but I think I’ll need some help with these bandits if it all goes tits up. Luckily, Willy, Milo, and Olmak are down to help out. I’m sure they can get something of value out of this; I just need one shiny rock.

The Night-Captain’s Report

DnD

Another story I wrote as a sort of recap for the players in my D&D game. They had broken in to a warehouse. This is the Night-Captain’s viewpoint cleaning up after the fact. Enjoy!

Second bell past midnight

27th of Bluesky 502 AC

Warjos Dos Docks District

Guard-Commander Tullia de Cueto was still pulling on her gloves, awkwardly holding a paper-wrapped sweet nut pastry in one hand, as she walked up to the warehouse in the dead of night. She pardoned her wide-shouldered body past the small crowd of bystanders, some of whom recognized her and bid her a friendly greeting. Tullia walked around the front to the left, to where her night-captain, Savastian Traius stood, taking notes in a small journal.

“Sorry to send for you, Captain,” Savastian said, his blue eyes sincere as he pushed his hair back behind his ears. “This seemed big enough to need your attention.” Oil light spilled out of the building he stood next to, putting his face in sharp contrast, the left side of his face in darkness.

Tullia sighed and hefted the half-eaten sugary treat she held in her leather-gloved hand. “Gidden came over last night. He brought some fresh salmon and we broiled it. Not sure what he used to season it, but it was amazing. And he had these cranberry-nut things for dessert. It was a lovely evening and a lovely morning. Until I saw your face, Sav.” She took a bite, then tucked it into a pouch. “What do I need to know?” She pointed to the metal bindings of a door, hanging from the hinges, with shards of burned wood still smoldering, leaving the entrance fully open. “What happened here?”

“That’s not even the most–” Savastian started to say. He was interrupted by shouts from further inside the warehouse and a wet, raspy growl, accompanied by the sounds of heavy things being knocked over. “Friar Willy found an undead bear here.”

Tullia pinched the bridge of her nose, her wide-cheeked face and forehead blushing with a rush of frustration. “OK, start at the beginning.”

“Near as I can tell,” Sav said, “the Friar and his friends – an elf-blooded nature mage and a couple of light-armor fighters, human woman and halfling man, we didn’t get names – broke in here because they thought there was some necromancy going on.” The sounds of the zombie beast inside the warehouse continued, along with the shouts of people trying to corral it. “He was right.”

“Whose warehouse is this? Do we know? I didn’t see any signage out front.” Tullia stepped over the ashy remains of the door into the lobby. A well-worn carpet was thrashed about and pierced with many small holes; she noted the open single doors to her left and right, and open double doors straight ahead. The room was lit with oil lanterns, which made flickering shadows in the rafters overhead. 

“A merchant guild called Better Burrows, headed up by Ser Harmonio Whisperbridge out of Kopno’domas. Deals mostly in fine furniture and woodworking and textiles, typical halfling creature comforts.”

Tullia tsk’ed. “Keep the stereotypes under control, Sav. Lots of folk like nice things. Like that salmon dinner I had last night…” She peered into the door to her left and saw a pair of bunk beds and a desk, and a firepit that appeared to have burned out of control, centered in a black ring of ash and soot. She looked up and saw a flimsy metal chimney that had also been exploded, probably from above. “What happened to the workers here?”

“Uh, bad news, Captain. Some of the former workers seem to have been, well, zombified, also.”

“Torm’s stormy dick!” Tullia cursed. “We’ll have to get names and notify next of kin. Probably this Ser Whisperbridge will know. OK, zombie bear, zombie workers. We got anyone else involved?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention the undead wolf running around…” Sav put up both hands defensively to fend of his superior’s anger. “We’ve had reports of it for at least four or five days now, just haven’t had the time to track it down. Been scaring kids and threatening pets nightly. Once we finish up here I’ll round up a posse and go hunting. But, actually, we do have someone in custody. Guy named Maso. Willy turned him over to us. Guy’s still freaked out, babbling about vines and fire, but once he calms down we’ll get more info from him. He’s chilling out in the cell back at the guardpost.” Sav consulted his notes. “Maso claimed to work for a Grenjolm, been using the warehouse for the last week or two. Guard Selko has confirmed that a ship, the Her Folly, has been in dock recently, run by a Lord Captain Grenjolm de Astorga, also known as Lucon Astorga, Garlless Lucon, Grenjolm the Wild… got a long list of aliases, but Grenjolm is the most common one. Wild sorcerer.” 

Tullia, leading Sav, stepped into the warehouse. To her left were the large barn doors, still barred and locked from the inside. In front of her was a crane and under it an open shipping container, conveniently bear-sized. On the other side, three people, two of them wearing the yellow and red tabards of city watch, the other in rough street clothes, were lassoing and pinning down a rotting, angry, brown bear. The people were trying to tie off the rope to leash it in place. Beyond them, four animated corpses were chained in a line underneath a wooden catwalk, agitated and mouthing incoherent groans. Tullia shook her head, disgusted. 

“Good work, all,” she said to the people holding the ropes. “So this Maso was shipping the bear somewhere?” She poked a finger at the shipping label. “Lady Marcella Bimalchio in Barangdorn. Another message to send. Why aren’t we killing the bear? You must have a good reason.”

“We can’t afford reparations to Lady Bimalchio. Coffers can’t cover what it looks like she paid for this thing.” Sav pointed at a metal grate on the floor of the warehouse. “Maso’s gang all escaped down there, into the sewers. Probably long gone by now, but I’ll put up posters on the bounty board once we get names from Maso. Oh, and there’s a cell down there with three more workers chained up.” 

A woman wearing the red-and-yellow tabard over her studded leather armor approached from the lobby. “Found the keys. They were in the office.” She dangled the keychain and pointed her thumb behind her. “Also, the safe is open and empty. The gang likely grabbed it before they escaped.”

“Thanks, Millicent. Good work.” Sav said. “Head down and see if you can let those workers out.”

Tullia sighed. She counted off on her fingers as she spoke. “OK, we’ve got Maso for squatting, for looting, and fraudulent sales. He’s an accomplice to necromancy. Endangerment by way of uncontrolled monstrosities. Accomplice to theft. We’ve got the Rhobanite priest as a witness, along with his friends. The halfling merchant prince will press charges, along with the next-of-kin for the workers and the still-living workers. See if we can get any more information from the neighborhood; someone must have seen or heard something.”

“Yes, ma’am. And Friar Willy promised to come by the guard post tomorrow to fill us in. Probably afternoon. You know,” and Sav pantomimed taking a long drink from a large mug. 

“Sounds like you’ve got it all under control, then, Sav.” Tullia said, stepping back through the lobby and out into the street. “What did you need me for?” 

The blonde man furrowed his brow and pointed to the people still wrestling and pulling the bear toward the crate. “Well, we, uh, we could use some help with the bear!” But his captain was gone, her back fading out in the dark of the summer night. Tucking his notepad into a pouch on his belt, he cracked his knuckles and went back inside.

The Zenith and The Nadir

DnD

I was going to cheat tonight and post something that I used ChatGPT to generate. But even if I clearly labeled it as AI generated, I could not use it to meet my 500 word goal post for the day. I have to write something out myself. Here I go.

The scenes I was going to post were fictional in-universe speeches, an outnumbered princep rallying their troops to make a final stand against a vast demonic army, the Battle of the Monontonos Plains.

I can picture the scene in my head; the Princep, a skinny and young person, pale, dressed in fancy but not very functional robes and armor, helm too big for their narrow head flopping down over their eyes as they raise their thin, reedy voice above the clamor of the thundering rainstorm that soaks them, and their soldiers.

The small squad, maybe a score of them, beaten, weary, armor dented from the running battle of their retreat, their weapons blunted against the defenses of their inhuman foes, faces caked with blood and mud, squinting up to the naive young royal who’s misfortune lead them here.

Above them, only black clouds and falling rain, split by constant sounds of cracking thunder and flashes of white-hot lightning. They stand on top of a rise that could barely qualify as a hill, a desperate palisade crafted of stunted saplings pointed outward at the base of the mound.

No other cover gives them a moment’s rest against the rain and the hail of bolts, arrows, and fire from the encircling armies. No supplies of food or medicine, no stocks of ammunition or tools to sharpen their meagre swords and spears and clubs.

And all around them, in every direction, countless horrors and demons and devils. Every enemy’s eyes shine blood-red, piercing the darkness. Every form a mockery of human shape. Every hand holds a massive weapon of war, every body clad in black iron plates the approximate thickness of a castle wall. Tiny and fast ferrocious needle-fanged swarms swirl around person-sized gangly armed swordsmen and archers. On giant booted feet ogres and giants loom above the hordes, grunting in mountainous hoots of flesh-hunger.

Enemies abound in every direction from the tiny Imperial squad. Yellow tear-filled eyes stare across a blasted barren plain of mud and grass to thousands of hungry hellish eyes.

How did it come to this, though? The speech that ChatGPT wrote for me is in the vein of inspiring but doomed speeches but surely this final stand does not bear scrutiny from a tactical standpoint. No general would allow themself and their crew to become so intensely in the worst position? Had they no fortress from which to fight? No reinforcement to shore up their defense? No higher ground from which to rain down destruction on those who would oppose them?

This is a legend, a tale told to scare leaders who would squander the loyalty given to them. Leaders should not rush to battle because lives are precious and should be spent only for righteous causes. Defense of the weak and oppressed. Attack against intolerance and ignorance and fear. Those are only the true fights, and in those battles every good general is overmatched, but can surely count victory in their grasp.

Surely, they can?