THE CLASSIC MISADVENTURE
In someone's parents garage a game of D&D was going on. Eric plays something like a computer. When he games, he methodically considers each possibility before choosing his preferred option. If given time, he will invariably pick the optimal solution. It has been known to take weeks. He is otherwise, in all respects, a superior gamer. Eric was playing a Neutral Paladin in Ed’s game. He was on some lord’s lands when the following exchange occurred:
ED: You see a well groomed garden. In the middle, on a small hill, you see a gazebo.
ERIC: A gazebo? What color is it?
ED: [pause] It’s white, Eric.
ERIC: How far away is it?
ED: About 50 yards.
ERIC: How big is it?
ED: [pause] It’s about 30 ft across, 15 ft high, with a pointed top.
ERIC: I use my sword to detect good on it.
ED: It’s not good, Eric. It’s a gazebo.
ERIC: [pause] I call out to it.
ED: It won’t answer. It’s a gazebo.
ERIC: [pause] I sheathe my sword and draw my bow and arrows. Does it respond in any way?
ED: No, Eric, it’s a gazebo!
ERIC: I shoot it with my bow. [roll to hit] What happened?
ED: There is now a gazebo with an arrow sticking out of it.
ERIC: [pause] Wasn’t it wounded?
ED: OF COURSE NOT, ERIC! IT’S A GAZEBO!
ERIC: [whimper] But that was a +3 arrow!
ED: It’s a gazebo, Eric, a GAZEBO! If you really want to try to destroy it, you could try to chop it
with an axe, I suppose, or you could try to burn it, but I don’t know why anybody would even try. It’s a @#$%!! gazebo!
ERIC: [long pause. He has no axe or fire spells.] I run away.
ED: [thoroughly frustrated] It’s too late. You’ve awakened the gazebo. It catches you and eats you.
ERIC: [reaching for his dice] Maybe I’ll roll up a fireusing mage so I can avenge my Paladin.
At this point, the increasingly amused fellow party members restored a modicum of order by explaining to Eric what a gazebo is. Thus ends the tale of Eric and the Dread Gazebo. It could have been worse; at least the gazebo wasn’t on a grassy gnoll.
A little vocabulary is a dangerous thing.
Stolen from
Richard Aronson
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
DREAM #5
“Careful concealment of the moon within the folds of the Archbishop’s robes could only be seen from the depths of the dungeon. Dark and harsh repression was the current of torment pressing on all our flesh. This dank hole has contained the desperate and the noble, all suffering at the hands of this religious charlatan. Yet I do have friends here.” It was the first time this prisoner had spoken, other than to maintain some degree of civility and humanity.
“Edmond’s words were hollow. He continues to preach hope and righteousness. He sings the hymns of God and he repeats the lessons from his youth. Every day he preys for those forced to exist in this dungeon, but it is just a lamentation. Never has his God appeared here. If His light reached into this squalor then Edmond’s soul must be judged stronger.”
“George has been here as long as any anybody else, he never preys, but yet he still lives. The dark presses in upon us all. The longer you live, no “live” is very wrong, EXIST, the more the darkness nibbles at your mind. How many have passed beyond the realm of sanity? Countless thousands have suffered at the whim of the Archbishop, few have ever been heard from again. This is where they come. This is the fate of those who stand up against the tyrannical forces.”
“Edmond’s Bible says that the weak are the progenitors of victory over tyranny, but that has never made any sense. That is nothing more than false hope.”
“’False Hope’ The idea that hope is ever true…all hope is false. Nothing can redeem a man’s mind once it has parted ways with his soul. Nothing can save a man’s soul once it has been tainted with evil. Edmond would explain that God, his righteous and good creator, will judge the Archbishop and damn his soul to an eternity of pain. That is too good for that man. Pain for all of time is half what he deserves.”
“Inflicted with the pain of branding irons, you can brace yourself against the fiery pain of red hot iron, even when it is thrust into your eye, but it’s the smell of charred flesh. The offal smell of burned flash is bad enough, but the knowledge that it is is your own body burning is torture beyond measure. When it boiled the water of my eye, I lost my sight. I could feel the water of my eye trickle along my cheek. I smelled the odor of blackened flesh and I felt the pain of my eye being burned from by skull. This was the Archbishops assigned penance for my sins.”
“What have I done you ask? Nothing! I was a faithful servant, coachmen for his Excellency and a poor humble man. My duties were simple and my labors consistent. I was just a man trying to feed his family. I did nothing to deserve the wrath of our villainous clergy.”
“The Archbishops personal guard had awoken me. It was sometime after moonrise, but the clouds cloaked the earth in shadow. When I was roused, I was told the Archbishop was going to have to make an urgent trip to Prague and we needed to leave within the hour. I sent the guard to rouse the stable staff and prepare the carriage as I hurried to gather my things and then joined the effort to ready the horses.”
“The carriage was made ready as the archbishop arrived. He was accompanied by two men in monk’s robes and his personal bodyguard. I directed my assistant, Pavel, to attend to the Archbishop and guests as I helped the guardsmen to the rear of the carriage. We set off for Prague just as a small storm settled in.”
“The storm was an omen, and ill omen! It followed us for the whole of the voyage. The roads were turned to rivers and the grim skies frowned upon our intentions to travel. We arrived in Prague before five bells the next day and I took the archbishop and his comrades to Strahov Monastery. Pavel and I took room and board with the initiates. It was more than three days before the Archbishop had need of us. We were to depart the monastery that night after 11 bells and we were going to the countryside. We were destine for Neratovice. I was instructed to pack for several days on the road; and even odder I was told to take the monastery wagon, not the archbishop’s carriage.”
“I made the preparations and we set off, but when we arrived at Neratovice we turned east and tripped to the Fenstal Forest and Prova Hill [Cemetery Hill]. I set up camp and the archbishop and his traveling friends went to the see the hill’s stones. As the sun began to rise, I became concerned. The three men had not returned and had not eaten, so I set off up the hill to find them.”
“Huge ancient oak trees stand as ever-vigilant sentinels to protect the rest of the dead. These great and venerable trees conceal Prova [Cemetery] Hill from the nearby village of Neratovice and even conceal it from the road that accesses it. The cemetery itself is a clearing atop Prova Hill. The soil of the hill cradles the long abandon flesh of the villagers and simple stones offer remembrance to the dead. Many of the markers have disappeared within growths of grass and weeds. Finding yourself walking in Prova you may suddenly be atop the only memory of a soul’s existence on Earth. At the center of the graveyard is a large flat stone that the clergy use to speak to the mourners.”
“The archbishop was standing at the center of the clearing, the morning sunlight shinning off his brilliant blue robes. His eyes fixed upon me and he stretched out his hand. He was covered in blood and blood stained his face. I was paralyzed; the cold of the graves anchored my feet. He commanded the monks; they jumped at me with speed beyond belief.”
“I am now here. My story is my only shield. I know not what that soulless archbishop thing wants with me, nor do I know the actions that brought blood to his lips, but know that I tell you the truth and I shall continue to tell my tale.”
With that, Archabold, bastard son of Miriam Spooner, lay back against the bars of the cell and let out a long sigh. “For whatever it’s worth…”
“Edmond’s words were hollow. He continues to preach hope and righteousness. He sings the hymns of God and he repeats the lessons from his youth. Every day he preys for those forced to exist in this dungeon, but it is just a lamentation. Never has his God appeared here. If His light reached into this squalor then Edmond’s soul must be judged stronger.”
“George has been here as long as any anybody else, he never preys, but yet he still lives. The dark presses in upon us all. The longer you live, no “live” is very wrong, EXIST, the more the darkness nibbles at your mind. How many have passed beyond the realm of sanity? Countless thousands have suffered at the whim of the Archbishop, few have ever been heard from again. This is where they come. This is the fate of those who stand up against the tyrannical forces.”
“Edmond’s Bible says that the weak are the progenitors of victory over tyranny, but that has never made any sense. That is nothing more than false hope.”
“’False Hope’ The idea that hope is ever true…all hope is false. Nothing can redeem a man’s mind once it has parted ways with his soul. Nothing can save a man’s soul once it has been tainted with evil. Edmond would explain that God, his righteous and good creator, will judge the Archbishop and damn his soul to an eternity of pain. That is too good for that man. Pain for all of time is half what he deserves.”
“Inflicted with the pain of branding irons, you can brace yourself against the fiery pain of red hot iron, even when it is thrust into your eye, but it’s the smell of charred flesh. The offal smell of burned flash is bad enough, but the knowledge that it is is your own body burning is torture beyond measure. When it boiled the water of my eye, I lost my sight. I could feel the water of my eye trickle along my cheek. I smelled the odor of blackened flesh and I felt the pain of my eye being burned from by skull. This was the Archbishops assigned penance for my sins.”
“What have I done you ask? Nothing! I was a faithful servant, coachmen for his Excellency and a poor humble man. My duties were simple and my labors consistent. I was just a man trying to feed his family. I did nothing to deserve the wrath of our villainous clergy.”
“The Archbishops personal guard had awoken me. It was sometime after moonrise, but the clouds cloaked the earth in shadow. When I was roused, I was told the Archbishop was going to have to make an urgent trip to Prague and we needed to leave within the hour. I sent the guard to rouse the stable staff and prepare the carriage as I hurried to gather my things and then joined the effort to ready the horses.”
“The carriage was made ready as the archbishop arrived. He was accompanied by two men in monk’s robes and his personal bodyguard. I directed my assistant, Pavel, to attend to the Archbishop and guests as I helped the guardsmen to the rear of the carriage. We set off for Prague just as a small storm settled in.”
“The storm was an omen, and ill omen! It followed us for the whole of the voyage. The roads were turned to rivers and the grim skies frowned upon our intentions to travel. We arrived in Prague before five bells the next day and I took the archbishop and his comrades to Strahov Monastery. Pavel and I took room and board with the initiates. It was more than three days before the Archbishop had need of us. We were to depart the monastery that night after 11 bells and we were going to the countryside. We were destine for Neratovice. I was instructed to pack for several days on the road; and even odder I was told to take the monastery wagon, not the archbishop’s carriage.”
“I made the preparations and we set off, but when we arrived at Neratovice we turned east and tripped to the Fenstal Forest and Prova Hill [Cemetery Hill]. I set up camp and the archbishop and his traveling friends went to the see the hill’s stones. As the sun began to rise, I became concerned. The three men had not returned and had not eaten, so I set off up the hill to find them.”
“Huge ancient oak trees stand as ever-vigilant sentinels to protect the rest of the dead. These great and venerable trees conceal Prova [Cemetery] Hill from the nearby village of Neratovice and even conceal it from the road that accesses it. The cemetery itself is a clearing atop Prova Hill. The soil of the hill cradles the long abandon flesh of the villagers and simple stones offer remembrance to the dead. Many of the markers have disappeared within growths of grass and weeds. Finding yourself walking in Prova you may suddenly be atop the only memory of a soul’s existence on Earth. At the center of the graveyard is a large flat stone that the clergy use to speak to the mourners.”
“The archbishop was standing at the center of the clearing, the morning sunlight shinning off his brilliant blue robes. His eyes fixed upon me and he stretched out his hand. He was covered in blood and blood stained his face. I was paralyzed; the cold of the graves anchored my feet. He commanded the monks; they jumped at me with speed beyond belief.”
“I am now here. My story is my only shield. I know not what that soulless archbishop thing wants with me, nor do I know the actions that brought blood to his lips, but know that I tell you the truth and I shall continue to tell my tale.”
With that, Archabold, bastard son of Miriam Spooner, lay back against the bars of the cell and let out a long sigh. “For whatever it’s worth…”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
DREAM #4
The body of smoke and death is perfect. It was born of the hate harvested from ten thousand condemned souls. Something so dreadful is not an easy thing to birth. Armies of spawn sought out the souls of evil. Lucifer’s minions collected the vilest of the condemned, and gathered together those who rain flame upon man. These souls were forced into the pit and burned upon an altar of spikes and swords. Finally, the brain of an ordained man, cut live from him during an act of sinful lust, was cast to the smoke and ash. This is the way of the death smoke and the telling of its birth. None have come before it, and empty are the plains of Hades to be unfruitful.
This falls to the greatest of efforts in creation and so, in perfect symmetry, it must be as troublesome to raze.
This falls to the greatest of efforts in creation and so, in perfect symmetry, it must be as troublesome to raze.
DREAM #3
The two monks were large men with arms strengthened to steel by years of labor and perhaps more insidious causes. She struggled hopelessly against their grip, pined to the cold flat stone. By the size of her belly, this girl would soon be a mother. These men had deprived her of any modesty as her simple peasant garments were carelessly discarded. A small girl, likely no more than 16, with curly hair the color of straw, she could have been pretty. Her eyes were red from tears and stark with terror. A thick leather strap was gagging her and her lungs labored with the effort of this ordeal.
The priest wore the long flowing blue robes of an archbishop. He had a narrow pitched nose that ended in a sharp point and his hair was black like pitch. His eyes were all together too close together and slightly tapered. Long fingers with well manicured nails curled around the hilt of a kris dagger.
The priest carefully drew back his sleeve away from the dagger, exposing his rather thin frail forearm. As the flesh was struck by the light of day, as hideous scar appeared, almost as if the light burned him. The nasty, puffed, and bloated mark took the form of a nude woman with a narrow waist, long hair, gripping the severed head of some animal.
Turning to his left he dipped the blade of the kris into a stone bowl filled with disgorged animal eyes floating in a think murky liquid. The agitation of the dagger caused the liquid to swirl about and the eyes appeared to look around. He withdrew the blade and raised it above the swollen belly of his terrorized prisoner. Droplets of the ichor ran down the curved blade and fell onto her stomach. Where they landed they darkened the flesh and caused grievous wounds to open up, like she was being burned by acid. The girl renewed her struggles as she felt the pain of her wounds.
With a practiced hand strengthened by Satan himself, the priest plunged the Moorish kris into the young girl. The tip of the blade entered her body at the base of her sternum and the curved nature of the kris made a wide ghastly wound. The priest then turned the knife 90 degrees and pulled it down through her stomach and out through her sex. His action spilled the girl like so much overturned crockery. The movement caused the body of the girl to nearly split in two as if it had exploded. The fluids from deep within were suddenly forced unnaturally free.
The life-water of the womb ran out of the dying girl. Her fluids flowed along the stone much like soup spilled upon a table. The monks bent low, bring their heads close to the table. They sipped of the ruptured womanhood, lapping at the moist stone with long forked tongues. They were filled with carnal excitement.
The priest cast away the blade and plunged his bare hand into the stomach of the dying girl. Grasping the child within, he quickly yanked the mutilated fetus from the flaps of its womb and cast it to the ground. The lost life did not fight or flail as fully 1/3 of its head was severed by the knife. As the priest returned to the grizzly scene before him, the fetus shivered for a moment and then fell still.
With more precise and cautious movements the priest re-inserted his hand into the girl’s body. Her last movements having left her, his search for the object of his attention resumed. Finding what he was searching for the priest grabbed at her liver, but the slippery organ was difficult to hold. After several failed attempts to clasp the organ, he resigned himself to embracing the gore and placed his other hand within the empty womb. With both hands he lifted the liver from her and drew it to his lips.
His pale narrow lips stretched thin and drew back off his gray teeth in a perverted smile. He opened his mouth and bit deeply into the warm dripping organ, taking in a large piece; the taste of which was reflected in a twinge of disgust on his face, but was quickly overshadowed by the jovial sparkle of emotion centered in dark power.
The monks tossed the lifeless corpse of the blond girl to the earth and returned their attention to the priest. The priest placed the remaining liver onto the flat stone in place of the whole body, then bent a knee to prey. The monks followed suit.
As the rays of full sunlight stretched through the chill morning air they struck the shinny organ, and it began to react. At first it appeared to be nothing more that a rapid drying, but the light soon desiccated the dark flesh into a dry lump. As it continued to beat down, the husk started to degenerate and collapse to dust.
The priest, rising again, withdrew a small crystal vial from his robes. The vial contained a milky white liquid. He removed the narrow glass stopper and dumped the contents onto the dry crumbled husk.
The priest spoke in a powerful projective voice and directed his words to the air, “I speak to the forgotten Sorority of Wyrms. I call to the lost Gods. May my voice resound to the faded temples, so my pleas are carried to the immortals. I am the servant of the Elder Goddess. My life is meaning in her divine will. Ereshkigal Goddess of Irkalla, I give you the life of this bearer, as tribute to your triumph over Ishtar and Tammuz. I willingly offer you my seed to symbolize the devotion of my life and the lives of my progeny, for all time.” He cast aside the vial and again fell to his knees. “Oh, most powerful one, please visit upon me the power to do your will and vanquish my enemies.”
The disgusting pile of dried and crumbled organ meat coated in body fluids then began to smoke. Wisps of blue smoke formed thin plumes and rose into the air, twisting in the chill morning air. The bizarre offering then began to burn. Flames sprouted from the liver and began to consume the fluids. Black smoke began to emanate from the reaction. The plumes of smoke did not rise into the sky and float away on the breeze, like any fire would, but rather the vapors coalesced and gathered. As the liver burned it formed a swirling snake of black smoke.
“I Izabolt Sinister command you. I, the servant of the Goddess of Irkalla, am your authority. You are bound to my will and this vital force is yours to taint, and I am eternal. I bind you to carry my will, spurred by my motives. Ereshkigal’s victory over the vile Ishtar shall be by my hand. We travel into darkness.” At those words the black swirling entity wrapped itself around the priest and vanished.
The priest wore the long flowing blue robes of an archbishop. He had a narrow pitched nose that ended in a sharp point and his hair was black like pitch. His eyes were all together too close together and slightly tapered. Long fingers with well manicured nails curled around the hilt of a kris dagger.
The priest carefully drew back his sleeve away from the dagger, exposing his rather thin frail forearm. As the flesh was struck by the light of day, as hideous scar appeared, almost as if the light burned him. The nasty, puffed, and bloated mark took the form of a nude woman with a narrow waist, long hair, gripping the severed head of some animal.
Turning to his left he dipped the blade of the kris into a stone bowl filled with disgorged animal eyes floating in a think murky liquid. The agitation of the dagger caused the liquid to swirl about and the eyes appeared to look around. He withdrew the blade and raised it above the swollen belly of his terrorized prisoner. Droplets of the ichor ran down the curved blade and fell onto her stomach. Where they landed they darkened the flesh and caused grievous wounds to open up, like she was being burned by acid. The girl renewed her struggles as she felt the pain of her wounds.
With a practiced hand strengthened by Satan himself, the priest plunged the Moorish kris into the young girl. The tip of the blade entered her body at the base of her sternum and the curved nature of the kris made a wide ghastly wound. The priest then turned the knife 90 degrees and pulled it down through her stomach and out through her sex. His action spilled the girl like so much overturned crockery. The movement caused the body of the girl to nearly split in two as if it had exploded. The fluids from deep within were suddenly forced unnaturally free.
The life-water of the womb ran out of the dying girl. Her fluids flowed along the stone much like soup spilled upon a table. The monks bent low, bring their heads close to the table. They sipped of the ruptured womanhood, lapping at the moist stone with long forked tongues. They were filled with carnal excitement.
The priest cast away the blade and plunged his bare hand into the stomach of the dying girl. Grasping the child within, he quickly yanked the mutilated fetus from the flaps of its womb and cast it to the ground. The lost life did not fight or flail as fully 1/3 of its head was severed by the knife. As the priest returned to the grizzly scene before him, the fetus shivered for a moment and then fell still.
With more precise and cautious movements the priest re-inserted his hand into the girl’s body. Her last movements having left her, his search for the object of his attention resumed. Finding what he was searching for the priest grabbed at her liver, but the slippery organ was difficult to hold. After several failed attempts to clasp the organ, he resigned himself to embracing the gore and placed his other hand within the empty womb. With both hands he lifted the liver from her and drew it to his lips.
His pale narrow lips stretched thin and drew back off his gray teeth in a perverted smile. He opened his mouth and bit deeply into the warm dripping organ, taking in a large piece; the taste of which was reflected in a twinge of disgust on his face, but was quickly overshadowed by the jovial sparkle of emotion centered in dark power.
The monks tossed the lifeless corpse of the blond girl to the earth and returned their attention to the priest. The priest placed the remaining liver onto the flat stone in place of the whole body, then bent a knee to prey. The monks followed suit.
As the rays of full sunlight stretched through the chill morning air they struck the shinny organ, and it began to react. At first it appeared to be nothing more that a rapid drying, but the light soon desiccated the dark flesh into a dry lump. As it continued to beat down, the husk started to degenerate and collapse to dust.
The priest, rising again, withdrew a small crystal vial from his robes. The vial contained a milky white liquid. He removed the narrow glass stopper and dumped the contents onto the dry crumbled husk.
The priest spoke in a powerful projective voice and directed his words to the air, “I speak to the forgotten Sorority of Wyrms. I call to the lost Gods. May my voice resound to the faded temples, so my pleas are carried to the immortals. I am the servant of the Elder Goddess. My life is meaning in her divine will. Ereshkigal Goddess of Irkalla, I give you the life of this bearer, as tribute to your triumph over Ishtar and Tammuz. I willingly offer you my seed to symbolize the devotion of my life and the lives of my progeny, for all time.” He cast aside the vial and again fell to his knees. “Oh, most powerful one, please visit upon me the power to do your will and vanquish my enemies.”
The disgusting pile of dried and crumbled organ meat coated in body fluids then began to smoke. Wisps of blue smoke formed thin plumes and rose into the air, twisting in the chill morning air. The bizarre offering then began to burn. Flames sprouted from the liver and began to consume the fluids. Black smoke began to emanate from the reaction. The plumes of smoke did not rise into the sky and float away on the breeze, like any fire would, but rather the vapors coalesced and gathered. As the liver burned it formed a swirling snake of black smoke.
“I Izabolt Sinister command you. I, the servant of the Goddess of Irkalla, am your authority. You are bound to my will and this vital force is yours to taint, and I am eternal. I bind you to carry my will, spurred by my motives. Ereshkigal’s victory over the vile Ishtar shall be by my hand. We travel into darkness.” At those words the black swirling entity wrapped itself around the priest and vanished.
DREAM #2
Acharon was the bravest of the rabbits. He had earned all five of the mantles of battle and the three badges of sorcery. He alone could confront the vile Fox Lord Sheldon. It was his courage that could free his kind from the tyrant Fox Lord. It was his sacred mission to protect them. Acharon stood against the armies of teeth and claws, and battled with warriors of cunning and skill. Sheldon’s mages and priests had united against him, but his faith in Oolong [The God protector of Burrows and the Giver of carrots] had deflected the spells of darkness; faith in Oolong and his magic sword Hyth.
Hyth was a sword of legend and a blade of power. Rabbit lore tells of the first great hero of the meadow, Bob. Bob was a noble hare who never wished fame or glory. He rejected the call to arms many times before the evil hound Milo enslaved his family. Once forced to take up arms, his willingness to offer his own life for the lives of his compatriots was recognized by The Lord Oolong.
Oolong gave Bob a weapon of power. He commanded the young hare to draw from the ground a carrot. This carrot was then transformed into an enchanted blade of pure silver. With his divine weapon, the hero Bob the Long Eared Hare protected the lands of Meadow and upheld the laws of the Rabbits.
This blade was passed down from noble hero to noble hero; each finding the blade at a time of great needs, each having resisted the temptations of fame and glory, each having demonstrated his willingness to give his life for the lives of other rabbits. So the Meadow was protected.
Acharon held the Blade of Oolong and knew the only action that would free the Meadow from tyranny. He had used the blade and laid waste to hundreds of hounds, foxes, hawks, coyotes, snakes, and even bunnies.
His mission was not to destroy the armies of the tyrant, but the tyrant himself. So, he rested upon the gifts of the gods and worked to execute his charge. He sought out each of the Seedcap family and destroyed them. The whole of a family fell to his hand and yet one task remained. He, Acharon the Brown Fur of the clan Seedcap, must spill his own blood.
Many sages thought that Sheldon, Lord of the Foxes, had grown powerful on the blood of the hares of the meadow. They argued at length the connection he had to the kind populations of rabbits. Many theories were developed and many divinations had been preformed. All were wrong. Through the guidance of Hyth and faith in Oolong, Acharon had discovered the truth behind the powers of the Fox Lord. He knew that Sheldon did not gather his strength from slaves or followers or any other subjugation, but rather he had tapped into the very blood of the hare.
Sheldon lived not off the souls of those he sought to dominate and rule, but rather he live because they lived. His life force was intimately tied to the lives of the hares. Sheldon concealed his very life force in that of the rabbits he now sought to imprison. The Fox Lord could only be defeated by spilling the blood of the very creatures Acharon was trying to protect. A true horror.
Acharon had taken up the mantle of responsibility to destroy this tyrant. He had preformed the holy quest and destroyed his own people. Countless innocent rabbits, some just bunnies, had been destroyed in the name of Oolong. The whole of the bloodline had ended, except one.
The irony of being the last and the perfectly fitted justice was almost more than he could absorb, being only a simple rabbit. He had to die. He was the last. Only by his blood spilled upon the ground would Sheldon’s life be ended, and thus end the tyranny.
The sword tip was so sharp it was strange to feel. Not as much pain as he had anticipated. The smell of blood was nothing any rabbit could ever get used to, but this smell was somehow pleasing. He only wished that he could hear the echoes of The Fox Lord’s screams die away. He strained his ear to the air only to hear the chatter of vultures soon to be fed.
Hyth was a sword of legend and a blade of power. Rabbit lore tells of the first great hero of the meadow, Bob. Bob was a noble hare who never wished fame or glory. He rejected the call to arms many times before the evil hound Milo enslaved his family. Once forced to take up arms, his willingness to offer his own life for the lives of his compatriots was recognized by The Lord Oolong.
Oolong gave Bob a weapon of power. He commanded the young hare to draw from the ground a carrot. This carrot was then transformed into an enchanted blade of pure silver. With his divine weapon, the hero Bob the Long Eared Hare protected the lands of Meadow and upheld the laws of the Rabbits.
This blade was passed down from noble hero to noble hero; each finding the blade at a time of great needs, each having resisted the temptations of fame and glory, each having demonstrated his willingness to give his life for the lives of other rabbits. So the Meadow was protected.
Acharon held the Blade of Oolong and knew the only action that would free the Meadow from tyranny. He had used the blade and laid waste to hundreds of hounds, foxes, hawks, coyotes, snakes, and even bunnies.
His mission was not to destroy the armies of the tyrant, but the tyrant himself. So, he rested upon the gifts of the gods and worked to execute his charge. He sought out each of the Seedcap family and destroyed them. The whole of a family fell to his hand and yet one task remained. He, Acharon the Brown Fur of the clan Seedcap, must spill his own blood.
Many sages thought that Sheldon, Lord of the Foxes, had grown powerful on the blood of the hares of the meadow. They argued at length the connection he had to the kind populations of rabbits. Many theories were developed and many divinations had been preformed. All were wrong. Through the guidance of Hyth and faith in Oolong, Acharon had discovered the truth behind the powers of the Fox Lord. He knew that Sheldon did not gather his strength from slaves or followers or any other subjugation, but rather he had tapped into the very blood of the hare.
Sheldon lived not off the souls of those he sought to dominate and rule, but rather he live because they lived. His life force was intimately tied to the lives of the hares. Sheldon concealed his very life force in that of the rabbits he now sought to imprison. The Fox Lord could only be defeated by spilling the blood of the very creatures Acharon was trying to protect. A true horror.
Acharon had taken up the mantle of responsibility to destroy this tyrant. He had preformed the holy quest and destroyed his own people. Countless innocent rabbits, some just bunnies, had been destroyed in the name of Oolong. The whole of the bloodline had ended, except one.
The irony of being the last and the perfectly fitted justice was almost more than he could absorb, being only a simple rabbit. He had to die. He was the last. Only by his blood spilled upon the ground would Sheldon’s life be ended, and thus end the tyranny.
The sword tip was so sharp it was strange to feel. Not as much pain as he had anticipated. The smell of blood was nothing any rabbit could ever get used to, but this smell was somehow pleasing. He only wished that he could hear the echoes of The Fox Lord’s screams die away. He strained his ear to the air only to hear the chatter of vultures soon to be fed.
DREAM #1
Darkness still blanked the small farmhouse, but Alysica was awake. This was her third trip to the latrine this night, but that was the fate of any woman soon to bear a child. Her husband was still snoring, “good” she thought, best not to wake him, as tomorrow was going to be a long day. She slipped out from under the wool blanket and rose. Wrapped in a thick shall, she thought she would be protected from the damp chill of the night air. She stepped into her shoes and, as quietly as she could, headed for the door.
A nearly full moon was more than enough light to make it to the potty, and as the urgency was significant she didn’t want to waste time lighting a candle. The rain of the last two days had made the fields and the farm wet, too wet to finish the planting and in her current condition she was of little help, so she would have to be careful along the muddy path. Delay and she was going to wet herself; hurry to slip and she might harm her child. “An acceptable risk” she thought.
Alysica was nearly 9 months pregnant. Just a few more weeks and she would be a mother. It was perhaps too long; already simple things like bending over in the fields and carrying the wash were becoming difficult. The worst part had to be the constant need to pee.
She had tripped to the latrine more than seven times today, and that many interruptions made her life more stressful. Oh so many times did she have to halt her labors to trip to the latrine. Today she had over baked the rolls on just such an issue.
The latrine was becoming an old friend. Alysica took her cleansing rag from its drying hook and closed the door. The small building was little more than a bench seat with walls for privacy and a roof for shelter, but it represented the relief she desperately needed. She lifted her nightdress, pushed down her under-things, and was able to answer the depressingly frequent call of nature.
The door to the latrine opened with a jerk and banged against the wall. Alysica was startled at the sudden movement, but not alarmed. She and Derrick lived far enough from town or any other neighbors that she never considered a strange person to be here. It must be Derrick, she just didn’t hear him.
The fact that there were two figures somehow played fowl in her mind. She thought, “A shadow from the full moon, or a trick of the chill night air.” She would not understand the consequences of her mistake until too late.
They were dressed in dark robes. Their hands were impossibly strong and their grip felt like a vice. The flesh of their hands was scaly but dry, similar to the snakes her younger brother was always catching. Their movements made no noise. It was this fact coupled with the jerky unearthly speed of which they tendered their actions that made her flesh crawl.
The men violently pulled her from the latrine. They pinned her forearms to their midsection and dragged her away from her farm. Alysica knew she could not break free, but she still tried. It must be instinct that causes someone to persist when failure is obvious; this drive was why she never attracted the eye of Petrove Oliander, but yet she spent most of her childhood perusing him.
Her bed, her husband, her haven were all growing farther and farther away and yet her actions could not even slow her abductors. It was then she realized she could scream. Motivated by the brutality of the situation, she forced air into the only noise that could convey her terror.
The scream was piercing. She poured her fear and terror into the sound with the desperate hope of rescue. A cry in the night directed at her Derrick, she screamed and screamed. The night air became hot and stale in her chest, but yet she screamed. She would have screamed to the very end, but for the burning of her throat. The volume of emotion inflamed her throat and parched her voice; her sounds became horse as the reverberation of desperation disappeared into the chill night.
As her assailants forced her along, their snakeskin hands pulled at her nightdress. The impossible strength of these things tore her cloths and rended her dress, the force of which abraded her skin and turned it raw.
Once stripped of her garments the hands of these things fondled her flesh. The grip on her arms made it impossible for her to be free, but she resisted by kicking her legs and thrashing her head. To thwart this, one of the “men” tore out a handful of her soft yellow hair. The sharp pain quenched her resistance, allowing these things to perform further unsavory acts. Sharp claw-like nails poked her skin, rough cold hands groped at her; fingers explored her body. She bled from the abuse, her intimate areas scraped and torn. She was violated brutally.
Her head drooped, her vision was blurred with tears, and her voice muted by a leather gag they placed in her mouth. They were fully within the clearing before she realized these creatures had dragged her to Prova Hill. A cemetery her husband’s family was buried in. She had been here many times tending the graves of her mother-in-law and father-in-law. Many of the grave markers were hidden within deep grass, but Alysica recognized them and wondered if Derrick would have enough money to purchase a nice stone for her.
A nearly full moon was more than enough light to make it to the potty, and as the urgency was significant she didn’t want to waste time lighting a candle. The rain of the last two days had made the fields and the farm wet, too wet to finish the planting and in her current condition she was of little help, so she would have to be careful along the muddy path. Delay and she was going to wet herself; hurry to slip and she might harm her child. “An acceptable risk” she thought.
Alysica was nearly 9 months pregnant. Just a few more weeks and she would be a mother. It was perhaps too long; already simple things like bending over in the fields and carrying the wash were becoming difficult. The worst part had to be the constant need to pee.
She had tripped to the latrine more than seven times today, and that many interruptions made her life more stressful. Oh so many times did she have to halt her labors to trip to the latrine. Today she had over baked the rolls on just such an issue.
The latrine was becoming an old friend. Alysica took her cleansing rag from its drying hook and closed the door. The small building was little more than a bench seat with walls for privacy and a roof for shelter, but it represented the relief she desperately needed. She lifted her nightdress, pushed down her under-things, and was able to answer the depressingly frequent call of nature.
The door to the latrine opened with a jerk and banged against the wall. Alysica was startled at the sudden movement, but not alarmed. She and Derrick lived far enough from town or any other neighbors that she never considered a strange person to be here. It must be Derrick, she just didn’t hear him.
The fact that there were two figures somehow played fowl in her mind. She thought, “A shadow from the full moon, or a trick of the chill night air.” She would not understand the consequences of her mistake until too late.
They were dressed in dark robes. Their hands were impossibly strong and their grip felt like a vice. The flesh of their hands was scaly but dry, similar to the snakes her younger brother was always catching. Their movements made no noise. It was this fact coupled with the jerky unearthly speed of which they tendered their actions that made her flesh crawl.
The men violently pulled her from the latrine. They pinned her forearms to their midsection and dragged her away from her farm. Alysica knew she could not break free, but she still tried. It must be instinct that causes someone to persist when failure is obvious; this drive was why she never attracted the eye of Petrove Oliander, but yet she spent most of her childhood perusing him.
Her bed, her husband, her haven were all growing farther and farther away and yet her actions could not even slow her abductors. It was then she realized she could scream. Motivated by the brutality of the situation, she forced air into the only noise that could convey her terror.
The scream was piercing. She poured her fear and terror into the sound with the desperate hope of rescue. A cry in the night directed at her Derrick, she screamed and screamed. The night air became hot and stale in her chest, but yet she screamed. She would have screamed to the very end, but for the burning of her throat. The volume of emotion inflamed her throat and parched her voice; her sounds became horse as the reverberation of desperation disappeared into the chill night.
As her assailants forced her along, their snakeskin hands pulled at her nightdress. The impossible strength of these things tore her cloths and rended her dress, the force of which abraded her skin and turned it raw.
Once stripped of her garments the hands of these things fondled her flesh. The grip on her arms made it impossible for her to be free, but she resisted by kicking her legs and thrashing her head. To thwart this, one of the “men” tore out a handful of her soft yellow hair. The sharp pain quenched her resistance, allowing these things to perform further unsavory acts. Sharp claw-like nails poked her skin, rough cold hands groped at her; fingers explored her body. She bled from the abuse, her intimate areas scraped and torn. She was violated brutally.
Her head drooped, her vision was blurred with tears, and her voice muted by a leather gag they placed in her mouth. They were fully within the clearing before she realized these creatures had dragged her to Prova Hill. A cemetery her husband’s family was buried in. She had been here many times tending the graves of her mother-in-law and father-in-law. Many of the grave markers were hidden within deep grass, but Alysica recognized them and wondered if Derrick would have enough money to purchase a nice stone for her.
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