Pretending to be a sneaky cat, you slink off to the nearest farm to steal some milk. Easy as always, you leave some sprigs of rosemary on the milking stool in thanks. Celendur’s invisible spell has nearly wore off, they will soon see you.
You race back, shaking the sealed jar of milk as much as possible. He is laughing behind you, another treat for the dinner feast. You run all the way home, the scent of cooking venison and rare baked breads making your stomach growl.
You proudly set the jar of butter near a hot loaf of bread, admiring the feast set out: brown bread, venison, berries, crisp summer vegetable tossed in a sweet dressing. Mother scowls at your theft, she never approved of your refusal to learn the natural ways, neither druid like her nor ranger like your father. But father is delighted with his birthday gift. You stole the grain and the butter for him, he always loved buttered bread, and we had no cows nor fields of grain. For his sake, Mother says nothing, choosing to enjoy the dinner, though refusing to take of the bread and butter.
Later you make a picnic for you and Celendur with what was left over from the feast. You put flowers in his pockets while he tries to explain how easy it is to wield the Art. You bury the faint sadness you begin to feel, that you and he don’t really match. He keeps trying to change you, just like Mother, and everyone else save Father.
Learning to Dance
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
I open a bottle of clarry, placing it in the center of the five pixies dancing. The first squeals in joy, flying down to sip. The rest follow in turn, without word changing their dance to include nips of the sweet liquor. I join their dance, as they allowed many times before.
A giant interrupts, turning the dance to one of death. The pixies turn as one to casts against him, laughing voices now cursing. I dance with bow on my back, and dutifully shot the intruder. Most striking, however, is the faun leaping down, both short thornblades drawn and stabbing where my arrows do not reach. Blood coats him when he hamstrings the creature, lending a fierce image as he leaps up to slice the neck. His hooves sink into smelly flesh while he rifles through the giant’s few rags in very business-like manner, though not searching for gold or valuables. He holds something in his closed fist, turning to me.
Once amused eyes savage and angry, moonlight shining on his bloody horns, he steps closer with one word, “Encroachment.” I know he did not mean me, but my feet step back. Faint gesture to the giant’s corpse shows a squished pixie near. Dead, defending her home. No matter how we wanted, she would not fly again. The other four collect what they can, disappear and fly away.
“We were just,” I stammer out the obvious, “just dancing.”
Curt nod of his horned head says he watched us. “I've every reason to believe this was a servant of one I know well and you know the poorly, based on this,” he rattles the thing in his hand. It sounds like a gem. The fey witch, he calls her Grandmother, wants my blood. So I ask if it comes from her. “I am unsure if I should like to claim any kinship or familial feeling. This would seem be a Hag's Eye. Only a covey, a trio of such dark intent can create one, and issue such to their servants.”
Standing straighter, though still a head shorter than he, I offer my aid. “What do I do, to make it right?”
“I need the covey sundered.” He holds no joy in what needs to be done. “I would smash this jewel with my swords-pommel right now, but it might be more opportune to crush an eye when it can give more effect.” Grim tasks await, I hear it in his voice.
The faun takes the hideskin from his belt and squirts an impressive amount of warm wine in his mouth. Without a word, he offers to me and I accept. Though better chilled, the sweet heady nectar calms. I give it back, watching him. The savage gleam fades a little, addressing me.
“This thing then,” holding up his still-closed fist, “is something a servant might carry so its mistresses can see what it sees. Though the lore is that hearing and other senses are beyond it.”
“She. They saw us then. And will send more.”
“I should have doubted she'd send minions into the Rystall, if she's a jot of care for the old ways she claims preserve. But I cannot vouch for the temperament of whatever sisters she has acquired.” His burning eyes study me, assessing the value of my words. This day I am sincere, and he knows it. Maybe the wine told him. Or maybe I am only a slim hope. “I cannot leave the Rystall, though know those who would do it harm are beyond the edge of our domain.” Again he studies me, I do not flinch. “You seem to have made a business of walking borders: this forest and that, that city or t'other. I need an emissary, an agent.” Softer, more urgent, “We need one.”
“As you wish,” I promise myself to this task. He tells me where to look for the covey. I listen, committing to memory all I can. In the end, I ask only one question, “Death is necessary?” I do not fear to kill, but I am not really built to go running in, sword drawn and slashing.
“I need only know the sisterhood is sundered, whether it's the trio turned against each other, one removed from her colleagues or sent to whatever judgment awaits them, I am unfussed. These are harsh creatures, friendless by nature, perhaps some trick might turn the one 'gainst the next. Playing against vanities, misdeeds of servant creatures, who knows what will drive them batty.”
This I can do, if there is time. Again I promise myself, “I will do all I can.” He almost looks sad, or concerned, but too fleeting behind his gleaming eyes before his resolve returns. He gives the Hag’s Eye, with advice to keep it covered. I mention an ettin not far north, in case it, too, is a minion of the hags.
He nods, “Then it is I to that duty, then to share counsel and grief with my People.”
“And to the Haunt I go.”
“I entreat you,” he stops my leaving, his words softer, “partake of the wood's beauty as you can, but prepare for the duty you have taken on. The one might replenish you for the other.” I pat my bow in answer, not quite understanding his meaning. “Trickster's own luck to you then.”
He fades from sight, not a bit of dance to his hooves this time. “To us both,” I answer, turning to the east.
I take a night to try and rest in Dagger Falls. I am scared again, urgency constricting my chest and shaking my hands. Early morning I leave the sleeping city without a sound, walking south. Again, the road is clear of danger, even the hills sleep. Swiftly I begin my duty, scouting the Spiderhaunt for not just a nasty stretch of bog, but a particularly nasty stretch. I would laugh if I were not scared. They use giants for minions!
The first bog is right on the road, still called the Tethyamarside Trail. Fey witches care not for the life lines of Not People, but neither would they care, I think, for the constant interruption such a road would bring. I find another, the ambient noises chill my skin more than my cold cloak ever did. Slurping, squishing, ugly noises. This might count, but that it is not big enough. There are no giants, either.
I find a quiet corner of the wood to rest, and start again. Giant spiders, the size of small houses walk the land, but no giants themselves. The blighted twigs, too, I see. I find an odd road, leading away from the Tethyamarside Trail, into a place that sounds haunted. As I give up, I see an ogre, walking the road. Not a giant, but kin to them. Still I did not find the particular swamp, but it might help. I slip the Hag’s Eye into a small strawberry pie, and leave it for the ogre. Perhaps, if he bites the gem, the scream of the blinded hag would lead me. Perhaps not.
It eats the pie and walks the road. I hear nothing different from the ambient forest, so I follow. Keeping to the trees, I stop long enough to drink the last of my stoneskin and, there still being sunlight falling through the dense leaves, a potion for hiding. Should the one ogre find me, I can defend myself. I slink from tree to tree after the heavy footfalls. We head into a large bog that qualifies as particularly nasty. I try not to think about the muck on my boots, or the fetid stench, instead concentrating on managing a soft step. Though louder than I care for, my footfalls blend in with the ambient sounds of muck, rot, and larger footfalls.
Ogre steps meet giant steps at the base of a huge, surprisingly well maintained edifice atop a hill. Such a clean place is at odds with the surrounding area, perhaps the third hag prized cleanliness? When the sun fades, my cold cloak settles about my shoulders, helping me sneak round to find other windows or doors I can climb through. None.
I creep around to throw something Brano called a Dazzler into the swamp, and sneak back to the opposite side of the door. Light and noise, as the merchant claimed. The giant looks terribly stupid, but I cannot rely upon that. It leaves to find the noise, and I almost try the lock before a wire glints in the low light. Trapped! Of course. The giant returns and I hide, and he does something I did not expect: he opens the massive door. How considerate!
I slip in, hiding behind the doorframe. The interior is lovely, well appointed, fit to be a castle, except for the two ogres guarding the large doors opposite the entrance. They remain still as the door snicks closed. Slowly I look about, making sure no swift movement on my part alerts the ogres. Even if I could kill the two, there is a giant and one or more of his mistresses behind the doors. Four other doors lead out, two with steps down and two with steps up. Surely there is another way into the large room. Hiding behind a pillar, the giant leaves, one of the ogres putting a huge bar across the door after. I creep to the right side of the foyer, ever so slowly pulling out the collapsed box that holds a pink trap. I set it out and slip away slowly, heart beating in my ears. I get to the left side doors when one of the ogre guards notices the box. Pressing half behind a pillar, I watch the pink spray. Pink looks ridiculous on ogres, too.
I slowly test the latch as the ogre opens the great doors again. I hear only the harsh screech, “Ward this room well enough, and ensure those outside do their all.” I turn to see the plain ogre shrug to the pink one, who opens the front doors enough to bark something, then close all up again. Back to the lock, I hold my breath to steady my hands. It gives. I leave the door to roll a few marbles towards the downstairs on the far side of the foyer. I return to the door I unlocked. No one below notices it open the smallest bit, I pray no one above notices either and slip through.
Thank the Chameleon, no one greets me. I close the door behind me and sneak through the hall. It, too, seems well appointed, but the stairs going further up suggest personal quarters. Or not, I will certainly find out. I walk down the hall some, yet another ogre sentry. Backing up, I set two traps in the hall, ignore the closed doors and sneak further up.
I almost dance on a trap, distracted by the different very foul odor and gory worktables. Almost does not count, I grin to myself, pulling free the wire cutters to collect it. Several traps in this room, and embalming fluids, and bodies. A zombie factory. I reset the trap, trying to make it look as it was before. I set another before trying the lock to the nearest door. Something discarded by a far table rises while I fiddle with the lock, shambling around the room. It is well made, I need my gloves and special picks. A burst of cold shatters the legs of the shambling creature and leaves me in peace. I retry the lock and succeed, the door opening to another hall.
The size of this strange castle hardly registers, this time I peek into closets. They turn out to be bedrooms, perfectly clean and seemingly unused. I mess up the blankets on the second, bored by the time I see the third. These are hardly the bedrooms I seek, probably kept clean by the zombie minions. Or, no. That is not right. Something is odd about this castle. No, a lot of things are odd about it, but I do not have time to think on that.
I move through the hall, finding a whopping great banquet hall, with three throne-like chairs before me. One seat held a smaller seat beside it. Odd. I did not bring anything bright, so the sage green dye would have to do. Sow discord, pick out the odd one of the three and pour messy dye all over it. Is there time to watch my work? How will I know when the covey is sundered?
No time for that, there is a giant on the other end of the room. His club is bigger than me. I hide behind the throne as he walks through the hall, patrolling I suppose. I leave my other pink trap in the center seat. Whoever fancies herself the head of the three will be cackled at. I hope, anyway. Another set of stairs go up, but it seems only an attic. I slink back down the hall past the simple bedrooms. A heavy lock I cannot open seems to guard some small barracks, perhaps one of the big bedrooms. I do not know, and think no more on it. There is a library ahead with the same giant that was in the banquet hall, I think. Maybe it is a second giant. I look at the books, they seem nongenuine, nonsense collections of letters along the spine in random orders. A skimpy illusion. Glamour! Of course.
I move through the fake library to the opposite hall. There is a lord’s court of sorts, with a nongiant female form sitting at the desk, but no subjects. Maybe one of the three. Maybe not. I set a noise trap outside the door to this odd court and move on. Another large room with a beautiful pool, likened to a royal bath lies at the end of this hall. As I turn, I hear the trap go off. More horrible is the screech that followed it. Pressing into the doorway I hear angry steps pass the room. I move back to the room with court, leaving a fire egg in her chair. I set another trap in her room and backtrack through the fake library.
The only other place I can mess with is the necromancy room, so I return. Two bottles of something I dump down the drain and replace with mead. Bread is a ward against some, and it seemed a long hope, but I try anyway, stuffing a loaf into one of the corpses, creating a vile breadbox. Two more traps, and I wait behind a table in the corner. This room sees traffic. Not much, but maybe enough.
Soon the doors open, an ogre limps up the stairs. He steps on one of their original traps. His angry howling hurt my ears, but I stay in place. He smashes the bottles on the desk, mead included. I allow myself a second of mourning for wasted mead. The ogre leaves down the stairs and I follow. Another ugly voice scolds it, I think. I sneak back to my spot behind the table. The ogre and hag return. She notes the zombie on the ground, and stares at the floor. She points to the floor and barks, then leaves.
The ogre remains, his eyes unfocused more than focused, the blood underfoot might be his. Slowly I pull my bow and an arrow, stalking closer. One arrow and he falls. I run to pull it out, hastily stuffing the arrow in the same body that I violated with bread. They know someone is here, but no point in making it easy on them.
Footsteps warn me of the hag’s return, so I move back to the hall door. Only, I forgot I locked it, so I press into the corner watching the hag. It is a different one, green and gross, and surprised at the ogre corpse on the floor. Not Grandmother.
“Come out, whoever's in here!” her screech most vile yet. As if I would answer, I watch her step on her own cold trap. Yelping and cursing follow, glad I was I could not understand the words. Her eyes fell to the zombie, and she slows, examining the floor. Her head turns to me, and I cannot run.
She hits me while I still draw a rapier, I have no time to think on which one it was. Her first blow sickens my stomach, I want to retch. I should have taken more potions, dancing, treeskins, speediness. Instead I fight with all my heart, too scared to pray for help. I shake when she crumples to the floor, grabbing the wrong vial and drinking. Invisible, yes I want to be, but my intestines are spilling out. The other one, the healing one, last of the powerful healing potions I acquired so long ago. Thank the Trickster!
My eyes focus again as I heal, the walls no longer look so clean and well kept, but mossy and horrid. The glamour fades, proving that this one was one of the three. I barely keep from running out, giants and ogres still patrol the place. I drink another invisible potion, prying the bar off the door to get out, relying on the ogre sentries to be too stupid to figure it out until I can flee.
Once outside, the castle is no longer castle, only ruins. And I hear wailing from within. I sneak out as fast as I can, through the bog, through the haunt where spiders hardly frighten me anymore. To rest. I did it. Duty to the Dance
A giant interrupts, turning the dance to one of death. The pixies turn as one to casts against him, laughing voices now cursing. I dance with bow on my back, and dutifully shot the intruder. Most striking, however, is the faun leaping down, both short thornblades drawn and stabbing where my arrows do not reach. Blood coats him when he hamstrings the creature, lending a fierce image as he leaps up to slice the neck. His hooves sink into smelly flesh while he rifles through the giant’s few rags in very business-like manner, though not searching for gold or valuables. He holds something in his closed fist, turning to me.
Once amused eyes savage and angry, moonlight shining on his bloody horns, he steps closer with one word, “Encroachment.” I know he did not mean me, but my feet step back. Faint gesture to the giant’s corpse shows a squished pixie near. Dead, defending her home. No matter how we wanted, she would not fly again. The other four collect what they can, disappear and fly away.
“We were just,” I stammer out the obvious, “just dancing.”
Curt nod of his horned head says he watched us. “I've every reason to believe this was a servant of one I know well and you know the poorly, based on this,” he rattles the thing in his hand. It sounds like a gem. The fey witch, he calls her Grandmother, wants my blood. So I ask if it comes from her. “I am unsure if I should like to claim any kinship or familial feeling. This would seem be a Hag's Eye. Only a covey, a trio of such dark intent can create one, and issue such to their servants.”
Standing straighter, though still a head shorter than he, I offer my aid. “What do I do, to make it right?”
“I need the covey sundered.” He holds no joy in what needs to be done. “I would smash this jewel with my swords-pommel right now, but it might be more opportune to crush an eye when it can give more effect.” Grim tasks await, I hear it in his voice.
The faun takes the hideskin from his belt and squirts an impressive amount of warm wine in his mouth. Without a word, he offers to me and I accept. Though better chilled, the sweet heady nectar calms. I give it back, watching him. The savage gleam fades a little, addressing me.
“This thing then,” holding up his still-closed fist, “is something a servant might carry so its mistresses can see what it sees. Though the lore is that hearing and other senses are beyond it.”
“She. They saw us then. And will send more.”
“I should have doubted she'd send minions into the Rystall, if she's a jot of care for the old ways she claims preserve. But I cannot vouch for the temperament of whatever sisters she has acquired.” His burning eyes study me, assessing the value of my words. This day I am sincere, and he knows it. Maybe the wine told him. Or maybe I am only a slim hope. “I cannot leave the Rystall, though know those who would do it harm are beyond the edge of our domain.” Again he studies me, I do not flinch. “You seem to have made a business of walking borders: this forest and that, that city or t'other. I need an emissary, an agent.” Softer, more urgent, “We need one.”
“As you wish,” I promise myself to this task. He tells me where to look for the covey. I listen, committing to memory all I can. In the end, I ask only one question, “Death is necessary?” I do not fear to kill, but I am not really built to go running in, sword drawn and slashing.
“I need only know the sisterhood is sundered, whether it's the trio turned against each other, one removed from her colleagues or sent to whatever judgment awaits them, I am unfussed. These are harsh creatures, friendless by nature, perhaps some trick might turn the one 'gainst the next. Playing against vanities, misdeeds of servant creatures, who knows what will drive them batty.”
This I can do, if there is time. Again I promise myself, “I will do all I can.” He almost looks sad, or concerned, but too fleeting behind his gleaming eyes before his resolve returns. He gives the Hag’s Eye, with advice to keep it covered. I mention an ettin not far north, in case it, too, is a minion of the hags.
He nods, “Then it is I to that duty, then to share counsel and grief with my People.”
“And to the Haunt I go.”
“I entreat you,” he stops my leaving, his words softer, “partake of the wood's beauty as you can, but prepare for the duty you have taken on. The one might replenish you for the other.” I pat my bow in answer, not quite understanding his meaning. “Trickster's own luck to you then.”
He fades from sight, not a bit of dance to his hooves this time. “To us both,” I answer, turning to the east.
I take a night to try and rest in Dagger Falls. I am scared again, urgency constricting my chest and shaking my hands. Early morning I leave the sleeping city without a sound, walking south. Again, the road is clear of danger, even the hills sleep. Swiftly I begin my duty, scouting the Spiderhaunt for not just a nasty stretch of bog, but a particularly nasty stretch. I would laugh if I were not scared. They use giants for minions!
The first bog is right on the road, still called the Tethyamarside Trail. Fey witches care not for the life lines of Not People, but neither would they care, I think, for the constant interruption such a road would bring. I find another, the ambient noises chill my skin more than my cold cloak ever did. Slurping, squishing, ugly noises. This might count, but that it is not big enough. There are no giants, either.
I find a quiet corner of the wood to rest, and start again. Giant spiders, the size of small houses walk the land, but no giants themselves. The blighted twigs, too, I see. I find an odd road, leading away from the Tethyamarside Trail, into a place that sounds haunted. As I give up, I see an ogre, walking the road. Not a giant, but kin to them. Still I did not find the particular swamp, but it might help. I slip the Hag’s Eye into a small strawberry pie, and leave it for the ogre. Perhaps, if he bites the gem, the scream of the blinded hag would lead me. Perhaps not.
It eats the pie and walks the road. I hear nothing different from the ambient forest, so I follow. Keeping to the trees, I stop long enough to drink the last of my stoneskin and, there still being sunlight falling through the dense leaves, a potion for hiding. Should the one ogre find me, I can defend myself. I slink from tree to tree after the heavy footfalls. We head into a large bog that qualifies as particularly nasty. I try not to think about the muck on my boots, or the fetid stench, instead concentrating on managing a soft step. Though louder than I care for, my footfalls blend in with the ambient sounds of muck, rot, and larger footfalls.
Ogre steps meet giant steps at the base of a huge, surprisingly well maintained edifice atop a hill. Such a clean place is at odds with the surrounding area, perhaps the third hag prized cleanliness? When the sun fades, my cold cloak settles about my shoulders, helping me sneak round to find other windows or doors I can climb through. None.
I creep around to throw something Brano called a Dazzler into the swamp, and sneak back to the opposite side of the door. Light and noise, as the merchant claimed. The giant looks terribly stupid, but I cannot rely upon that. It leaves to find the noise, and I almost try the lock before a wire glints in the low light. Trapped! Of course. The giant returns and I hide, and he does something I did not expect: he opens the massive door. How considerate!
I slip in, hiding behind the doorframe. The interior is lovely, well appointed, fit to be a castle, except for the two ogres guarding the large doors opposite the entrance. They remain still as the door snicks closed. Slowly I look about, making sure no swift movement on my part alerts the ogres. Even if I could kill the two, there is a giant and one or more of his mistresses behind the doors. Four other doors lead out, two with steps down and two with steps up. Surely there is another way into the large room. Hiding behind a pillar, the giant leaves, one of the ogres putting a huge bar across the door after. I creep to the right side of the foyer, ever so slowly pulling out the collapsed box that holds a pink trap. I set it out and slip away slowly, heart beating in my ears. I get to the left side doors when one of the ogre guards notices the box. Pressing half behind a pillar, I watch the pink spray. Pink looks ridiculous on ogres, too.
I slowly test the latch as the ogre opens the great doors again. I hear only the harsh screech, “Ward this room well enough, and ensure those outside do their all.” I turn to see the plain ogre shrug to the pink one, who opens the front doors enough to bark something, then close all up again. Back to the lock, I hold my breath to steady my hands. It gives. I leave the door to roll a few marbles towards the downstairs on the far side of the foyer. I return to the door I unlocked. No one below notices it open the smallest bit, I pray no one above notices either and slip through.
Thank the Chameleon, no one greets me. I close the door behind me and sneak through the hall. It, too, seems well appointed, but the stairs going further up suggest personal quarters. Or not, I will certainly find out. I walk down the hall some, yet another ogre sentry. Backing up, I set two traps in the hall, ignore the closed doors and sneak further up.
I almost dance on a trap, distracted by the different very foul odor and gory worktables. Almost does not count, I grin to myself, pulling free the wire cutters to collect it. Several traps in this room, and embalming fluids, and bodies. A zombie factory. I reset the trap, trying to make it look as it was before. I set another before trying the lock to the nearest door. Something discarded by a far table rises while I fiddle with the lock, shambling around the room. It is well made, I need my gloves and special picks. A burst of cold shatters the legs of the shambling creature and leaves me in peace. I retry the lock and succeed, the door opening to another hall.
The size of this strange castle hardly registers, this time I peek into closets. They turn out to be bedrooms, perfectly clean and seemingly unused. I mess up the blankets on the second, bored by the time I see the third. These are hardly the bedrooms I seek, probably kept clean by the zombie minions. Or, no. That is not right. Something is odd about this castle. No, a lot of things are odd about it, but I do not have time to think on that.
I move through the hall, finding a whopping great banquet hall, with three throne-like chairs before me. One seat held a smaller seat beside it. Odd. I did not bring anything bright, so the sage green dye would have to do. Sow discord, pick out the odd one of the three and pour messy dye all over it. Is there time to watch my work? How will I know when the covey is sundered?
No time for that, there is a giant on the other end of the room. His club is bigger than me. I hide behind the throne as he walks through the hall, patrolling I suppose. I leave my other pink trap in the center seat. Whoever fancies herself the head of the three will be cackled at. I hope, anyway. Another set of stairs go up, but it seems only an attic. I slink back down the hall past the simple bedrooms. A heavy lock I cannot open seems to guard some small barracks, perhaps one of the big bedrooms. I do not know, and think no more on it. There is a library ahead with the same giant that was in the banquet hall, I think. Maybe it is a second giant. I look at the books, they seem nongenuine, nonsense collections of letters along the spine in random orders. A skimpy illusion. Glamour! Of course.
I move through the fake library to the opposite hall. There is a lord’s court of sorts, with a nongiant female form sitting at the desk, but no subjects. Maybe one of the three. Maybe not. I set a noise trap outside the door to this odd court and move on. Another large room with a beautiful pool, likened to a royal bath lies at the end of this hall. As I turn, I hear the trap go off. More horrible is the screech that followed it. Pressing into the doorway I hear angry steps pass the room. I move back to the room with court, leaving a fire egg in her chair. I set another trap in her room and backtrack through the fake library.
The only other place I can mess with is the necromancy room, so I return. Two bottles of something I dump down the drain and replace with mead. Bread is a ward against some, and it seemed a long hope, but I try anyway, stuffing a loaf into one of the corpses, creating a vile breadbox. Two more traps, and I wait behind a table in the corner. This room sees traffic. Not much, but maybe enough.
Soon the doors open, an ogre limps up the stairs. He steps on one of their original traps. His angry howling hurt my ears, but I stay in place. He smashes the bottles on the desk, mead included. I allow myself a second of mourning for wasted mead. The ogre leaves down the stairs and I follow. Another ugly voice scolds it, I think. I sneak back to my spot behind the table. The ogre and hag return. She notes the zombie on the ground, and stares at the floor. She points to the floor and barks, then leaves.
The ogre remains, his eyes unfocused more than focused, the blood underfoot might be his. Slowly I pull my bow and an arrow, stalking closer. One arrow and he falls. I run to pull it out, hastily stuffing the arrow in the same body that I violated with bread. They know someone is here, but no point in making it easy on them.
Footsteps warn me of the hag’s return, so I move back to the hall door. Only, I forgot I locked it, so I press into the corner watching the hag. It is a different one, green and gross, and surprised at the ogre corpse on the floor. Not Grandmother.
“Come out, whoever's in here!” her screech most vile yet. As if I would answer, I watch her step on her own cold trap. Yelping and cursing follow, glad I was I could not understand the words. Her eyes fell to the zombie, and she slows, examining the floor. Her head turns to me, and I cannot run.
She hits me while I still draw a rapier, I have no time to think on which one it was. Her first blow sickens my stomach, I want to retch. I should have taken more potions, dancing, treeskins, speediness. Instead I fight with all my heart, too scared to pray for help. I shake when she crumples to the floor, grabbing the wrong vial and drinking. Invisible, yes I want to be, but my intestines are spilling out. The other one, the healing one, last of the powerful healing potions I acquired so long ago. Thank the Trickster!
My eyes focus again as I heal, the walls no longer look so clean and well kept, but mossy and horrid. The glamour fades, proving that this one was one of the three. I barely keep from running out, giants and ogres still patrol the place. I drink another invisible potion, prying the bar off the door to get out, relying on the ogre sentries to be too stupid to figure it out until I can flee.
Once outside, the castle is no longer castle, only ruins. And I hear wailing from within. I sneak out as fast as I can, through the bog, through the haunt where spiders hardly frighten me anymore. To rest. I did it. Duty to the Dance
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.