The Faithful and the Fickle

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Rumple C
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The Faithful and the Fickle

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Last edited by Rumple C on Mon Mar 12, 2018 5:04 am, edited 1 time in total.
12.August.2015: Never forget.
Rumple C
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by Rumple C »

1367. Year of the Shield.
Zhentil Keep.

He was naked, and not at all comfortable. He was pressed into a fleshy huddle of men and women who has just been pressganged and stripped. As a group they were herded into what looked to have been a converted stable by a mix of bored and grinning militia. It was dark inside, the only light coming from smokey torches, and a hideously glowing brazier in the corner of the room. He cursed the gods and then his luck, and not for the first time.

He counted heads, a dozen naked prisioners, and a half dozen militia sporting lashes and clubs. Yes, he was well and truly screwed. He shuffled back through the huddled mass til he was at the rear of them, and up against the rough rail behind him. It scratched his skin red, though he did not notice.

A taller man carrying a scroll strode in, robed in the manner of a slaver. As one there was a combined groan of fear from the soon to be slaves. The tall man grinned, though it quickly faded as his manner turned business like. “Let get started then shall we?”. It was less of a suggestion than a command. Two of the militia men headed around the stall in which the prisioners were huddled. To the gate. Which he had backed up to trying to hide futiley behind the others.

He tried to push his way back to the new rear of the prisioners, but they closed as a mass, and fearfuly shoved him back to the smirking militia, who had just opened the gate. "No point in hiding, sunshine, we´d get to ya eventually anyhow”. Lycus took a deep breath and stepped forward, willing his knees to keep from betraying him and collapsing.

The militia men each took an arm, and marched him in front of the slaver. Lycus braced his knees, and tried to look the slaver in the eye, though his gaze soon dropped. The slaver took stock of the young man before him. He seemed healthy enough, no obvious deformities, chondathan stock from the look of him. “Name?” the slaver demanded.



1358. Year of Shadows.
Tantras

“Lycus!” his mothers shout rang out. He waved to her up the hill before running towards their home. AS he huffed his way up the hill, his mother waved him on from the doorway. “Hurry up! Your uncle is almost here!”. She shooed him though the door and to the kitched where she cleaned this face and hands with a wet rag. He pulled a face as she got rough with a particularly stubborn smudge. “Ow!”. She ignored him. “Now, go upstairs and get changed, into your good clothes, mind you”.

As fast as he had run up the hill, he took to the stairs, thumping his way up and enjoying the noise. He jumped extra hard on the last step before finding his room and dragging his good clothes out the trunk. He dressed quickly. Then played with small wooden dolls, painted silver. His knights of Torm, a gift from his uncle. He crashed the knights into each other imagining a great battle where they fought for duty and loyalty and other words he didn´t quite understand.

The great battle was abandoned as his mother called out that dinner was ready. The soldiers were tossed aside by their child god as he stomped his way back down the stairs with the mighty thumps of a titan. Straight into the arms of his silver haired uncle Dunn. He was picked up and spun in a circle before being hugged and set back down. Lycus laughed with joy, before brushing himelf down and asking formally. “How are you, uncle?”. His uncle grinned down at him from a great height.”Very good Lycus, how are you?” came the reply.

Lycus simply smiled and shrugged. “Have you been keeping up your prayers to Torm?” his uncle asked, looking up to his father who nodded and answered for him. “Every night, and morn”.

“And before meals!” Lycus corrected before shifting past them all to the table where a small feast awaited. His uncle laughed, and took a place at the head of the table. As one they said their prayers to Torm, and began to eat. Lycus declared he could eat a horse, but since none was present, he would settle for what was here. The adults laughed again, and spoke of adult matters, mostly about the temple and Torm. That was all they ever talked about these days.

Eventually Lycus started paying more attention to the conversation as his belly filled. He even told his uncle about the boys he was playing with who pretended they were Tempus while play fighting. His uncle asked a few questions about where they lived and seemed pleased with the information.

Lycus basked in the warmth of the room, and the glow of his families love.



1367. Year of the Shield.
Zhentil Keep.

“Lycus”, Lycus said.

“God?”

“Cyric, the one and all”, Lycus answered quickly, being no fool. The slaver nodded, looking a little bored, expecting that answer.

"Militia, or labourer?”

“Militia” Lycus just as quickly, knowing which side of the lash he would rather be on. The slaver flicked his eyes to one of the militia men, who nodded.

“Very well, Lycus, you´re now in the service of Zhentil Keep, and Cyric, the one and all, may all fear his name”. Lycus breathed a sigh of relief. He did note that the miltia either side of him did not release him. The slaver flicked a finger towards another one of the miltia men who walked to the brazier, and pickup a rod which has been resting in it.

Lycus groaned in fear, for the end of the rod had been worked into the shape of a starburst and glowed cherry red. The militia men braced Lycus. The glowing cherry brand advanced ahead of the grimly grinning man who bade him to hold still. The brand was pressed just over his heart. It did not hurt at first, though he heard the sizzle as it burnt him. Then the pain registered. He coiled against firm hands. The brand was held for what seemed a lifetime, though was perhaps only a few seconds. He slumped in the arms of the men. “Hurts, don´ it?” one of them chuckled, then wrinkled his nose at the smell.

“Still, yer half way done”.

Half way?

He looked up agan, to see another brand coming at his chest, aiming at the sunburst that had just been seared, this brand a grinning skull.

He struggled against his fate.

Futilely.
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Rumple C
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by Rumple C »

1367. Year of the Shield.
Zhentil Keep.

Lycus rubbed his chest, just above his heart. The brand was still hurting, weeks later. At least it wasn´t infected, unlike some he had seen. Perhaps it was the excessive amount of salt they had rubbed into it after “Just to make sure it comes up all pretty, har har”. Those bastards. He was in a city full of them. Zhentil keep had become drawn into an awful climate of fear and intimidation where in order to survive you had to prove devotion to Cyric through excess. Excess in ruthlessness, in crazed fanaticism, in cruelty. Carrying out the whims of a mad god, and his mad priests, and mad city rulers.

Even now they were rounding up scribes. Why? Cyric only knows. But they were scavenging high and low, the city having already been largely picked clean of them. Handed over to the priesthood, then never heard from again. Lycus suppressed a shudder. Would that he could get out of this foul place. But the way out was barred to those without coin and connections. Presumably to stop folk like he. Those without the stomach for the stench of Cyric and his mad city.

He shifted his weight from leg to leg. Long had he been crouched here, waiting to see if any will flee the back door. They were (once again) rounding up another scribe. This one a merchants book keeper. Any moment now… and there it was. The savage barking, and scared voices. The back door crashed open, and a young man fled past his hiding place, not noticing him… Lycus waited… and there he was.

The fat book keeper fell out his back door. At his leg was the militia dog, savaging him. From the house behind him came cruel laughter. The book keeper struggled, Lycus could see no respite coming any time soon from he others. Sadistic bastards that they were. Time to play hero then. He took to his feet, and grabbed the dog by the collar.

...

1358. Year of Shadows.
Tantras

“Never grab a dog when it has its rage up! Like it as not, ye´ll likely lose a finger, or worse”. Such was the words of the kennel master. Lycus nodded, looking with anticipation towards the hounds. “If ye have to, if there is absoblutely no other choice, grab the base of its tail, and the scruff of its neck, or collar, and lift it like so”. The kennel master demonstrated on a crude wooden dog. No one was surprised when it did not protest. “Now mind ye, ye´ll probably find its head it at yer cock height, so keep its head well away from anywhere it can bite, i´ll not be repsonsible for ye cryin´about being unmanned” a few of the boys grinned. Lycus shifted his legs closer together, having always had a good imagination. The kennel master did not smile. He seemed very serious.

“Now, with my dogs mind, all ye need to do is bark at them, command them like this”. The keenels master pointed at a large retriever who has been sitting patiently. It looked up as the Kennels master pointed at it. “Heel!”. The dog quickly ran over and stood a step behind and left of the keenels master. The boys looked on impressed.

“But if it aints one of my dogs, that is to say, if it is badly trained, or not trained at all, then yer gonna have to get rough, grab like I showed ya, lift and drive it down, sorry bess” The kennels master grabbed Bess by the scruff and collar, before lifting her from her feet, and then driving her down into the turf head first, planting her chin on the dirt, then driving her haunch down with his knee. Bess took it with good grace, clearly having been on the end of this treatment before.

“When their head is down, it means they’re more likely to submit to you, got it?”

Lycus nodded.

...

1367. Year of the Shield.
Zhentil Keep.

Lycus lifted the dog, then drove it crashing down into the filthy puddled pavement, levering his knee against its back. He shouted his way through a list of commands, hoping to find the one that would cease its struggles. “Cease!, Stop! Down! Heel!, Back off!” To either side came noises of discontent. The book keeper was holding his leg, and sobbing in shock. The two who had gone in the front door were shouting at him to get off the dog.

“AVAUNT!” came a shout from behind him. The dog ceased its struggles, though it maintained a growl that Lycus felt sure was directed at him. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see a capable looking man standing with his fists on his hips, looking furious. Lycus slowly took the weight off the dogs haunch, then scruff, before standing.

The other two militia men eased their way out the doorway to look at the new comer. He strode over to the dog, hauling it to its feet by the collar before examining it for wounds. He glared at them all. “Who commanded this dog to attack?”. The militia men, bullies and cowards that they were remained silent, clearly guilty. Lycus however, was under only to happy to finger them as guilty. He knew what he risked by doing so.

The newcomer glared at them. “Fall in!”. The dog took its place behind the man. “You as well” he said pointing to Lycus. Though he wanted to, he did not look back as they left.
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Rumple C
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by Rumple C »

1368. Year of the Banner.
Zhentil Keep

Working in the kennels of Zhentil Keep had its advantages. For one, even in what was sometimes a starvation economy there was always meat available. Not only that, but Lycus was not bothered overly much by anyone when he had snarling dogs with him. Even the orcs gave him a wide berth, though they had been seen less and less in the city proper recently, the edict of Cyric discriminating mightily against non humans. It was not a pleasant life, but it was life nonetheless.

A shame there was an army coming to raze the city.

Damn Cyric.

A great army of giants, goblinoids, gnolls, and dragons was upon the way. And the gates leaving had been barred shut to all but the most important (or wealthy) of personages. Lycus was neither. Which meant he was once again, screwed. Of course he had a city full of company to be screwed with, but it was little comfort, since by and large, he loathed the lot of them. Life is a funny thing, sometimes.

There was a way out however. Apparently Fzoul Chembryl was to read a plea to Cyric himself or something similar that would save them all. Lycus was here to see it for himself. If it had less than obvious success he was fully prepared to escape the city right after. Lycus was huddled into the back of Cyrics main temple. High Priest Xeno had just finished his sermon... and here came the mustached one now. Fzoul took to the pulpit with no ceremony or greeting to Xeno, it was a poorly kept secret that the men loathed each other. Lycus along with hundreds of other “faithful” stood on their tip toes to better see what was going on.

A magically augmented voice rang out through the temple, and echoed from the city beyond. “I bring you a reading from the Cyrinshad...”

The what now? Lycus wondered. The others around him began jostling for a view. Lycus slunk backwards through the crowd.

“In this, the year of the Banner, the people of Zhentil Keep lost their true beliefs, and an army of monsters arose out of the wastes to punish them. Little did they suspect that their god had gathered this army together for the sole purpose of terrifying the Zhentish into slavery.”

There was a great thudding noise after this, and around Fzouls pulpit rose a great glowing crimson dome. What was this?

“Heresy!” shrieked Xeno.

Oh no... some kind of power struggle between the muckity mucks... Lycus pushed his way through the crowd which was full of confusion and anger. One thing was clear, this was going to end in blood. Lycus gained the outside of the temple, only to see Fzouls face over the city. More magic, and from the size of it, all within the Keep would be able to see and hear what he was saying. Fzoul spoke on, detailing a plan whereby Cyric would raze the Keep to the ground for his own twisted machinations. Lycus darted for the kennels. All around him were angry shouts, directed at the priesthood.

Fzouls face over the city vanished... and far overhead lithe white forms flew... the dragons!

Here and there people were touched briefly by a blue nimbus, and vanished, small silver medallions falling in their place. He stopped to scoop one up. It was marked with a sheath of grain. Chauntea? And there was another, this one marked with a set of scales. What was this?

The gods were taking their own?

...

1358. Year of Shadows.
Tantras

Lycus stood hand in hand with his mother and father. They were deep within a crowd of the faithful, gathered by the clergy to hear from Torm himself, even as an army from Zhentil Keep sailed upon them. Before the crowd stood Torm himself, nine feet tall with the head of a lion imploring. Only moment ago he had stood as a man and plunged his hands into his own chest, pulling forth a heart. A swirling glow had enveloped his avatar and suddenly it had become nine feet tall with the head of lion.

“Your duty calls you” Torm roared from the snarling lips of his new avatar. “There will be no pain. I would not bring suffering to my faithful. You need only accept your destiny, and you will pass quietly”.

Almost at once a dozen voices cried out “Take us, Lord Torm”. Immediately their bodies dropped like rag dolls, their life essence whirling out in a blue mist towards Torm he grew larger with each soul he absorbed. Lycus gripped his parents hands hard. He looked to his father for guidance. His father however only had eyes for Torm.

“Take m....” his fathers did not finish the words before he fell forwards, his face smashing on the cobbles. “And me”... spoke his mother, her legs collapsing under her, her hand slipping from his.

Lycus stood in shock, in a crowd of people that were dropping rapidly. And with every death Torm grew in size. “Ta.. ta..” the words caught in his throat. He wanted to be with his parents, he didn’t want to be left alone. Lycus drew a ragged breath. “Take me! Lord Torm, take me!”. Men and women continued to fall. Yet Lycus still stood. He stepped over the body of his father and moved forward, lifting his arm in the air. “Lord Torm! Take me! Take Lycus Tenwealth!”. Torm stood almost forty feet tall now, bathed in a blue nimbus of the souls of his worshipers, including that of his parents. Lycus desperately wanted to join. He did not want to be left behind.

He dropped to his knees and prostrated himself at the feet of Torm. “Lord Torm, take me!”. There was a shift of movement above him, and he saw the feet of Lord Torm, god of Duty, walk away from him.
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Twin Axes
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by Twin Axes »

Interesting!
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Rumple C
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by Rumple C »

Interesting... and retired!

(Blame my notoriously short attention span with pcs)
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by Rumple C »

Unretired.
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

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1398. Year of the Secret.
Hap

Lycus arrived home to the an empty home. The fireplace was full of ashes. The pot over that was cold with porridge growing green. The leaking thatch had left a puddle on the dirt floor which was slowly growing the mud and making it harder to walk around.

Gods he missed his wife.

...

1397. Year of the Quill.
Hap

It would seem, on the balance of probability, that his wife had left him. Lycus reflected on this for a week.

He had put a roof over her head, provided food, and discharged his husbandly bed duty as often as she would let him (which was less and less as the years went on). He had done everything aside from put seed in her belly, and only the gods could be blamed for that.

Perhaps he should have listened more when she said something about how he took her for granted? He hadn't really been paying attention when she had said it.

...

1398. Year of the Secret.
Hap

He'd had enough of this. Had he a convenient fire made, he would have torched the shack. He tried sparking into the wet thatch, but it defeated him. Depression took his motivation even for this, so he simply walked westwards.
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valn99
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

Post by valn99 »

Very cool!
Can't wait for more!! :)
NWN1 PC:
Now (2017): Bran, naive servant of Lathander, currently thinking about opening a potion shop.
circa 2000: JenWa, proud mother duck and half-crazed sorceress of Shadowdale.


NW2 PC: Kasil Trueforger, dwarven scholar of Felbarr.

Garlus Ironbeard: [d] I was sure there was a reason we brought you along.
Kevorn Trueforger: [d] I'm da funny one and ye're da smart one.
Rumple C
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

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1398. Year of the Secret.
Waterdeep

There was supposedly more than a hundred thousand souls in the city. At best guess, he had talked to a hundred of the most desperate today in the Seven Lamps cut. He offered kind words and arm when needed to the sick and hurt who sought the healers who peddled here. Practical as ever, Lycus used quiet moments to watch passersby in the Street of Silks.

Beyond the hundred he spoke to, he guessed he eye balled another three hundred over the course of the day. Four hundred souls. Of a hundred thousand. Which would mean another two hundred and forty nine days to see everyone in the city if there was no repeat people walking past. Which was of course not at all realistic. Lycus sighed and renewed his determination to satisfy both the penance of duty demanded by his fath, and to find a very particular man.

Somewhere in the city walked a man who at times wore dark armor.

Somewhere in city walked a man of bravery who closed portals and fought demons.

Somewhere in the city was a man who was missing a shovel.
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Rumple C
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Re: The Faithful and the Fickle

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1398. Year of the Secret.
Waterdeep

Lycus sat on the edge of his bed, naked. His pale paunch hanging over aging legs. His impotent worm hidden from sight. In his hands, a knife.

This was not meant to be how he was feeling. The relief of the ceremony was gone, replaced only by nausea. With his sin burned away he was meant to be feeling free, the weight of his guilt gone, but instead all he knew was a terrible hollow sensation in his stomach.

With horrible clarity he saw his actions over the last four decades as those of a weak man. One who was not strong enough to find peace within himself with what he had done. Instead he had sought salvation from the gods, hoping they would take away the need for him to truly face the horrific things he had done.

He hadn't truly wanted to be absolved of his sins. What he wanted was to be absolved of the responsibility of having to live with them.

What next then? His painfully clean soul only now reflected his grotesque memories back at him. The knife flat was much duller. How quickly he could cure his life. Would his memories follow him into the afterlife? Again, he was seeking the cowards path! Cursing, he flung the knife away, sending it clattering into the corner of the room.

His whole adult life had been lived in fear, fear of having to live with what he had done. Could he change that now? He had been told he was no nurturer, only a destroyer. But is was destruction which had brought him to this point. There must be another way.

There was no real choice but to find it. Within himself.
12.August.2015: Never forget.
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