TC . Fiction Contest - Rules, Discussion and Entry Pooling

[Thantos]

The Vote will be up on the 27th Entries will be pooled here in this thread, so people can start reading through if they wish, before the vote.
This is so that there is not a massive wall of text to read in one go, when voting pops up.

No votes will be cast until the 27th

[Thantos]

Entry A:

As always, it wasn't the cobwebbed rooms or the fading light from a dying torch that got under Clemire's nose. It was the dwarfs attitude. Too long had the mage listened to the dwarf moaning about the poor structure of the dungeon walls or the incessant clicking of rat claws on the cold stone flaggon. He always had something to say about anything, often ill informed and lacking any real focus. Something had to change. And it wasn't the mage's tolerance levels.

For what seemed a whole lot longer than the 8 hours, these two had fought their way down to the abyssal necromancers tomb. All manner of undead had fallen beneath the intricate woven magic of Clemire and the brash, arrogant swings of the dwarf's barbaric axe. He even had the gaul to name the blasted thing. Biter! Even thinking about it made Clemire's nose turn up.

They now stood outside then final entrance to Karodash's infamous tomb. The light cast eerie ghostly shadows and the delicate cobwebbed curtains danced to the tune of some distant wind. The constant dripping of some stagnant water echoed around the ageless chamber.

Clemire eyed the ancient doorway carefully, as he always did. Runes covered the outer archway of it - no doubt telling some ancient deeds of the once living Karodash. Each one carved with intricate beauty. Each one a cryptic message that seemed beyond the mage's understanding . . . for now. The mage's eyes adjusted to the poor light and the ever shifting shadow of the dwarf and carefully tried to examine them from a short distance. What was the meaning of these? What tale were they trying to tell?

"Ain't not trapped me finks," snorted the dwarf, his eyes not even aware of the runes. It was exactly these kinds of statements that irritated to mage.

Clemire tutted. As always subtlety wasn't the dwarfs strong point. He watched as the dwarf took a step closer to the door way and smirked.

"Oh really? And what makes you think that?" retorted Clemire.

"Just a feeling.'Tis all," responded the dwarf.

"Oh well, given your clear expertise in such matters as arcane runes and the inner workings of a necromancers mind, be my guest and enter his tomb. The very tomb that has been so heavily guarded that it must contain something of immeasurable power. The very tomb that no other souls have entered in over 400 years. The very tomb that . . ."

Clemire hadn't even finished his "lecture" before the dwarf stepped passed the mage and crossed over the threshold. His foot no sooner had placed onto the other side than there was an audible "click" sound". The dwarf looked down at his foot, and as his small brain began to process that he had indeed hit a trap. He was oblivious to the fact that a spear shot out from the ground, behind him, and pierced the mage through his leg and exited out of his shoulder.

As Clemire's life blood fell in rivers of crimson death, his last memory was hearing the dwarf saying to himself:

"Phew. Looks like it does nothing. Lucky me."

Today was a good day to die.

[Goblin-King]

Why is the dwarf always the xxxhole of the group?
Who rushes ahead and opens all the doors?
Who abandons his friends to search for treasure?

It's always the dwarf!

[chaoticprime]

The torch flickered, and Wirt's eyes grew-wide in surprise. A louder sound might have frightened him to death just then. The others had gone through the passage before him a long time ago. He had listened to them until he no longer could hear anything other than his torch. He sat down on his fat satchel and reached between his legs to fish out something to eat. His fingers touched upon something that crumbled like bread, but before he could procure it he heard a tiny sound from deep down the passage.

What had he been told? If he heard something, and he wasn't clear it was them, douse the torch and hide. He held the torch up above his head and started to pick at the sticky cloth. He pulled it unwound and slung it to the floor, where he stomped on it a few times. In anticipation of this, he had already used the others' belongings to construct a small cover. He hopped behind it holding his bag, and then sat down facing the entryway. As far as nothing searched too intently, he would appear to be just another part of the pile.

He heard the sound again, and this time he was sure it came from footsteps. Slow ones, like somebody trying to navigate around in the dark. Maybe he'd call out and see if that were the case. He heard the scuff of spurs on stone, a sound he knew well, and almost shouted out the name of his master. He almost did, but he just sat there instead. The sound of steps drew nearer, but Wirt couldn't decide on whether to be relieved or afraid. Nothing actually lived in this kind of place. Especially nothing that could truly harm a knight and his companions. But, if that were true, why had they left him there with their supplies and instructions for when and how to hide?

There were more sounds, and then he could suddenly sense another presence nearby. It was noisy like a man in armor. If it was master, why hadn't he called out? Wirt started to whisper his master's name, but bit his lip instead. He waited until the sounds grew silent. Or maybe he just thought what he heard was silence, having already grown accustomed to the soft noise of a man standing listless and in arms. Had it gone? He figured not, though maybe it was now resting. Nothing bad needed to rest. He heard the clink of mail and let it out, his master's name, before he knew it. He heard the armored figure turn a few feet away. A moment later, suddenly there was no bag in his hands, and he was looking up into total blackness at the thing that took it.

He felt paralyzed. He was in a bad dream. This was a joke. This was a game. This was not real. He felt the flow of air against his head and he felt exposed. He wasn't hidden any longer, and if he hung around even an instant longer, he would find out why. In one quick motion he pushed through the pile to his right and stood as he ran away. He could not see what pursued him as he ran, but it did not move so much as it crashed. It was a straight shot to the exit--down the hall and up the stairs. The stairs! Oh, so many stairs. He tripped into the bottom stair as he thought this, and then started scrambling up the moldy stonework. Less than an instant after he'd begun his ascent, the ground where he'd been was filled up by some kind of violence. He didn't look back, he just went upright and kept going.

He was being chased uphill by an avalanche. It was close after him. He was breathing hard. He realized then though, that it wasn't. That didn't matter. Far off in the dark he could see a tiny portal of light--the exit. He had been stumbling up the stairs in the dark, though so had his pursuer. He hadn't, however, fallen down. When he could finally see the steps ahead of him he nearly dove headfirst into the light over them. A frenzy took him, and he kept grinding up the stairs--not so much getting closer to the door as it seemed the bright white door was growing larger. He was swimming to the surface from the depths of a dark lake--he felt like he was suffocating. He merged into the world of brightness and was a dozen paces into it when he finally stopped and turned around. The mouth was full of darkness, and there was nothing to be seen.

He chose the best horse for himself, his master's war horse, but left the others' horses alone. The sun had already begun to set.

[Tott]

Entry removed.

[Thantos]

Entry C
Dunhama tapped the stone wedge. “Dwarves are born with two skills.” He glanced up at Sabaetha who was frowning. “Two skills that adventurers often neglect.”
Sabaetha gestured at the corridor. Piles of stone formed two rough, but sturdy arches. Thick wooden braces, made taut by a tangle of ropes and pulleys, held the bulging walls at bay. “It took two weeks to clear this mess and another four days to shore it all up.”
“Then a few moments more will do no harm.” Dunhama smiled. “Excavation work is an unappreciated skill. How many adventurers before us were thwarted by a collapsed corridor?”
Sabaetha uncoiled the fine gold chain from her waist and spun it about her forearm. One end had a weight in the shape of a teardrop, the other a hook like a clawed hand. Under her breath, she grumbled, “Look after the details…”
“…and they will look after you.” One more precise tap and Dunhama stood back to admire his work “Shall we find our fortune?”
Arm in arm, they approached the door. Though scarred by the collapse and faded by time, the motif was clear - two monstrous hands forming a mouth at the apex of a triangle.
Sabaetha blew a pinch of ochre dust at the door. The dust scintillated as Sabaetha sang in a tongue older than humanity. “There is no magic here.”
Dunhama ran his fingers over the stone. “And no obvious trap triggers.”
With surprising ease, the door moved inwards. Cold, foetid air flowed over them and the lantern flickered. Dunhama eased the globe lantern into the darkness.
The tomb was triangular, with the door at its base and a dimly seen font at its apex. The flame of the lantern was reflected by the faintest hint of gold.
They laughed in unison. “The Diaphony amulet.”
Sabaetha took the lantern from Dunhama and held it higher. The floor was covered in random clusters of mummified hands clenched into fists, surrounded by a layer of crushed bones and rat skulls.
Kneeling, Sabaetha unscrewed the globe lantern from the rod and then opened her fingers allowing the lantern roll into the room.
The globe wobbled, and brushed a knuckle. With a crackle of dry tendons, the hand lashed out, knocking the lantern toward another. Dead fingers closed around the glass, which cracked and shattered, plunging them into darkness.
Sabaetha sang and a white flame appeared near her shoulder. It grew brighter, flowing into the room. The hands were still.
The thief stood on the tips of her toes and stretched until fingers touched the top of the door. “Those dancing lessons are about to come in handy.”
“Are you certain you can make it?” He hefted his hammer. “It would be safer to clear them one by one.”
She pointed at the walls of the room.
Dunhama peered cautiously around the door. Now he could see the hands carved into the walls each pair framing a dark maw. “Another trap but I see no trigger.”
Sabetha glided into the room on the tips of her toes using her chain as a counterbalance. She pirouetted occasionally and, once, leaped across a thick cluster of hands, her toes barely clearing their snapping fingers. Dunhama’s lungs ached and he willed himself to breathe. Three steps, two, she was almost there.
Now the Diaphony amulet shone brightly, a halo of lesser gems surrounding a perfect diamond as large as an egg.
The water of the font was dark and still. Slightly off-balance, Sabaetha grabbed the edge. Her long hair swayed forward, brushing the surface of the water, sending subtle ripples into the darkness.
Dunhama took a step into the room as a tremor shook the ground. “Sabaetha…”
“Stay there.” The amulet dangled from a column at the centre of the font, just beyond her reach. She flexed her fingers and stretched but the treasure eluded her.
A susurrus filled the room, gentle as a whisper at first, but growing rapidly louder. Sabaetha shied back from the font as water seethed and slopped over the rim.
The walls spewed an avalanche of flesh. Every maw squirmed with shadows, crackling and chittering, surging toward the light - a hundred, a thousand undying rats. Water surged from the font as hundreds more emerged from the pool. The nearest leapt at Sabaetha’s face.
Sabaetha spun and her chain hummed as she knocked the rat aside and leapt for the door.
Dunhama took a step towards her and deathless fingers closed around his foot with a grip like a manacle.
From every side the rats surged. The ballet of Sabetha’s approach to the font was forgotten as she ducked and weaved.
Dunhama slammed his mallet into mummified hand. Grey skin peeled back, bones cracked and tendons snapped. Looking up, he saw a tsunami of rats converging on Sabaetha’s heels.
Her hand closed on his collar and he used her momentum to twist free. Dunhama could barely hear himself think but he slowed down as they reached the end of the corridor.
“What are you doing?”
“Using my second great dwarven skill.” With great precision, he struck the wedge of stone with his hammer.
Stone cracked and ropes moaned, and then snapped. Pullies exploded, scattering splinters. A single spume of dust fell from the roof. Then the roof caved in.
Outside, as the dust of the tomb settled, Dunhama lay on his back patting his limbs as if to reassure himself they were intact. Sabaetha’s face was caked with dust. She plucked a rat tail from her hair, still squirming.
Yet she was grinning. That is your other skill? Demolition?”
“I was going to say ‘stamina between the sheets’ but ‘demolition’ will do.” He scowled. “A lively pauper is better than a rich corpse, I suppose.”
Sabaetha’s grin turned mischievous as she held out her hand. “Why, my dear Dunhama, if you look after the details…” Her chain unfurled, and tangled in the claw end, was the Diaphony amulet.
“…they will look after you.”


Entry D:

Phaerine stepped over a skull in the darkened corridor. She was uneasy, even though her tiny companion - a blonde, green-eyed brownie wizardess named Elusive - skilfully led them through the shadowy passages of the Necromancer’s Lair.
It wasn't the many tombs, sarcophagi, skeletons and mummies they came across that bothered her. They were expected in ancient ruins, as Phaerine, a tall, silver-haired Fair Elf, well knew from years of adventuring. But everything they came across remained just tombs, sarcophagi, skeletons and mummies, quietly mouldering away.
She shared her misgivings with Elusive.
"I know,” Elusive whispered back. “Nothing is animating the dead – yet. We’re nearing the Necromancer’s Throne Room though. He probably didn't care if folk wandered around for his minions to play with, but he'd care about strangers fondling his treasure. That always upsets people with treasure, ‘cos it means someone plans to re-home it. The real danger will be near the treasure."

The passage abruptly opened into a huge, shadowy hall.
A massive throne carved of obsidian dominated the far end of the Throne Room.
The two adventurers crept down a long aisle along the side of the hall for a better view.
The throne was hideous. Skeletons, mummies, writhing zombies and leering angels of death were so well carved all over it that they seemed to be moving, constantly jostling for a higher position.
"That's not a clever artistic illusion: they are moving," whispered Phaerine grimly.
The black-glass figures struggled slowly for advantage, thrusting others aside, clawing at empty eye-sockets, trampling those who slipped back.
"Just like any court," observed Elusive, “but the Necromancer really encouraged competition - if your followers are fighting each other, then they're too busy to scheme against you. Don’t attract attention - it’ll be ugly if they notice us."
The two adventurers slipped furtively through the shadows. Behind the throne they found a heavy iron door.
"Personal chambers," whispered Phaerine. "An unlocking spell?"
"I’ll try picking first," Elusive replied. "Any new spell might draw attention."
She bent to the lock. Phaerine warily stood guard.
"I can open it...." Elusive murmured.
"But...?"
"It's a spelled lock. Get ready to move fast."
She chanted a short spell….

…and all hell broke loose…
The door opened with a shriek.
The throne disintegrated into glistening black shapes that slithered and lurched toward them.
The passage behind the door burst into flames.
Shrouded shapes, screeching noisily, fell out of the darkness.
Phaerine grimly faced the oncoming terrors.
“C’mon!" Elusive tugged her toward the passage.
"We can't go into that fire!"
"It'll only harm you if you think it will."
"I think it will!"
“Trust me! We can walk through safely.”
“Those flames are real! Feel the heat!”
"Oh. Then sorry about this." The brownie sized Phaerine up, ran, jumped high and hit the elf hard on the temple with her staff.
oo0oo
“Drink this. It’ll help.”
Phaerine obediently sipped from the flask at her lips before memory returned. She sat up indignantly. “You hit me!”
“I said ‘sorry’ first.”
The elf looked around. They were in an ornate crypt, the passage they’d come through – now flameless – to her left, a huge sarcophagus standing upright to her right. The open lid showed a reassuringly empty interior. A faint green glow emanated around the edges of a heavy door in front of her.
There was a distant hammering and murmuring.
She stood up. Her headache had gone.
“You hit me didn’t you? I remember you did.”
“It was an emergency,” Elusive assured her hurriedly.
“Thanks, I think. Don’t get into the habit though. What’s that noise?”
“Just a fearsome horde of dark minions and undead. Ignore ‘em. The Necromancer made the door and passage to keep them out.”
“But we’re trapped here.”
Elusive shrugged. “Mages always have escape-ways. Treasure vaults are good for escape tunnels. You can pick up travelling expenses on the way out. That’s my plan too.”
“So, it’s just a final, fearsome guardian?”
“Yep,” Elusive agreed cheerfully. “Ready?”
As the brownie turned, Phaerine saw the left sleeve of Elusive’s tunic was shredded and blood-stained. She caught the brownie’s arm and gently turned her.
“One dark angel was faster’n the others – caught me as I pulled the door shut. S’ok. I’ve had all-healing potion.”
“This isn’t healing,” said Phaerine grimly, “sit down.”
Over Elusive’s protests, the elf cut the sleeve away and cleaned the wound.
“There are obsidian shards in the wound. The dark angel shattered?”
“Ah, yep. There were just a few little splinters.”
Phaerine held up a jagged shard, two inches long.
“Small like this?”
“Where’d you get that?!”
“Your arm. The splinters are growing.” She threw the shard across the room. “The obsidian has a dark enchantment on it. I have to get it all out.”
The surgery took nearly an hour. Eight shards, the longest nearly four inches long, lay on the floor, there was blood everywhere and Elusive was exhausted.
“That’s all.” Phaerine gave Elusive a generous measure of all-healing potion, and then made a bed of their cloaks.
“Sleep. I’ll stand watch.”
“You must be tired too,” Elusive protested.
“Elves need little sleep. Now rest.”
The pounding of the Necromancer’s minions on the passage door bothered Elusive, as did an oppressive sense of the bulk of the mountain pressing down on the chamber. Nevertheless, she soon fell asleep.
oo0oo
She awoke muzzily into the eerie green glow.
Phaerine touched her reassuringly. The hammering and murmuring had ceased.
Elusive sat up, imagining the elf’s vigil as she sat alone, listening to their pursuers trying to break in, and wondering what might emerge at any moment from the side chamber. She shivered.
She touched the wound on her arm, and feeling nothing strange, flexed it. “Feels fine.”
Phaerine laid out a quick meal for the two of them. Elusive was ravenous.
“If you’re ready,” Phaerine said after Elusive finished, “shall we see if it’s been worth it?”
“Yes,” Elusive said determinedly as she prepared her spells. “On to the treasure vault!”

[Thantos]

Entry E:
We were all going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
The ship was caught on a reef and being beaten apart between the rocks and the storm. Dolar the priest was leading a service on the main deck while I knew others had broken into the stores and were getting as drunk as possible as quickly as possible on cheap wine. The mate and a few others were trying to launch the boat but it was futile, it would not survive the reef.

Even above the howl of the wind I could hear shouting coming from the great cabin and then flashes of light and a bang. The door was closed but not locked though I was worked up sufficiently for that not to have mattered. Primus, the wizards apprentice, was crying, so worked up on rage and frustration he could barely speak but the wand was steady in his hand as he turned to face me. “Where is Zolfin?” I demanded and he calmed enough to speak. “The bastard used a scroll and teleported out.” This was not good, Zolfin was a bastard certainly but he alone might have been able to do something to get us out of this mess.

The great cabin was a mess, Zolfin had evidently grabbed as much as he could carry from his own belongings. The ship was firmly stuck on the reef so the debris was not rolling about the deck but instead had rolled to one side of the tilted deck like that amphora of good wine he had kept for himself. That amphora, it sparked a childhood memory of playing on the beach as a child, ostensibly gathering driftwood, after a storm and finding debris washed ashore from a shipwreck including an amphora. Perhaps we had a chance after all.

Down the ladder to the hold, water already swirling round my ankles with debris enough to cause a potentially fatal stumble. Amphorae were too brittle but barrels were stronger. I found the chippy’s workplace. Most of the barrels that had been emptied had already been broken down but there were a few left. I grabbed one of the smaller ones, still almost larger than I could manage and carried it up to the main deck. The situation there had worsened in the few minutes I had been below. The mate and most of the crew were gone, reduced to heads floating amidst the wreckage of the boat. Dolar stood alone, looking calm, even content, despite the chaos around him but he reacted quickly when he saw me cut some line and start trying it around the barrel. He had been raised in a fishing village and his hands remembered, making quick work of the knots I stumbled with, I had been paying attention to what the sailors would laughingly try to teach me on the long voyage but he knew what he was doing. Leaving him to the work I went below again and brought up all the barrels I could, each time the water was growing appreciably higher.

I went into the great cabin again, Primus was still there, looking calmer now and resolute his mouth set in a thin line. He was searching the cabin, Zolfin’s luggage in particular, and making a pile on the table, scrolls and sealed vials and bottles and tightly tied, strangely lumpy bags. “We have to go” I told him, he looked as if he was going to argue but then stopped, nodded and straightened up with a final box in his hand. I left him throwing the trappings of his trade into sacks and went below, not to the hold but to the tiny cupboard of a cabin I had been allocated. The water was much deeper here, surging back and forth with the waves I could beating on the thin hull of the dying ship. The door such as it was jammed but a few quick blows and it shattered and I was in; fumbling in the once familiar, now alien darkness for my bag and sword. The mail I left, I was sorry to leave it but it would have been madness to try and bring it, I can buy new mail but a new life is harder to come by.

Back on deck and Dolar was helping Primus crowd the last bag into a barrel and sealing it as best they could. They both helped me with the last barrel and then we carried them to the leeward edge of the deck, spay sweeping over us as we looked to the land, looking impossibly distant in the first faint light of dawn. The ship lurched again, her frames giving way and ready or not we were pitched into the sea.

[Thantos]

Entry F:

A Warrior's Oath
=============

"I swore an oath to the duchess. That's really all there is to it". Rowand surveyed the carnage they had wrought during the latest skirmish. He continued: "That oath mentions things like serving to the best of my abilities and if necessary laying down my life in the course of my service".

"I know that." Hatyr chuckled. "I was there, remember?". The wizard walked over to the table and put his satchel on it. Rowand noticed that Hatyr, ever the orderly person, unconsciously straightened the table cloth.

"What I'm getting at," Hatyr went on while he rummaged in through his scrolls and potions, "you come from a race of warriors in the north. I had some dealings with your kind before, and I know they set great store by their prowess in battle. Women are regarded as entertainment and child-bearers."

Rowand looked over at Heon, who was methodically searching the walls for secret doors. While the dwarf reached up to pull at a torch, Rowand noticed that Heon was favouring his right leg even more than before. The scuffle with the Orcs must have given him another injury. Rowand's thoughts went back to the fight with a group of goblins in the torture chamber. Their party and goblins had performed a dance around rack, pillory and gibbet that had been almost comical. All traces of humour had disappeared, though, when a hidden goblin had come crashing out of the iron maiden. Heon had only barely managed to step out of the line of attack, and the blow that would have bashed in his head had only grazed his right hip.

"Rowan, you still with me?" Hatyr asked. Rowand pulled his thoughts back to the present, and answered Hatyr's previous question: "the oath is actually sworn to the *Dux*, and it doesn't make a difference whether they be a duke or a duchess." "You're splitting hairs," Essil chimed in. The elf stopped in the act of making sure of the slain Orcs by slitting their throats. When Rowand frowned at him, Essil went on: "You're a big, fearsome warrior - and yet you swore an oath to a woman. Why?"

"I can see that you people are not going to let this rest until you hear the full story", Rowan sighed. He flopped down on a rustical-looking chair, and pulled one of the beer tankards to himself. "Trust orcs not to leave any beer for visitors" he muttered sourly when he found the tankard empty. "Hatyr, why don't you grab something out of that satchel of yours and see what you can do about Heon's leg?" he suggested. "What do you think I was looking for in my bag?" the wizard retorted.

"Several years ago", Rowand began, "I arrived at the gates of the castle. It was the proverbial dark and stormy night, and it was cold to boot. For some reason I vividly remember the braziers and candelabras - they gave me warmth for the first time in days."

"I thought you warriors were supposed to be immune to cold," Heon quipped while Hatyr busied himself over the dwarf's leg with a poultice. Rowand gave him a flat stare, then continued: "Anyway, my sword arm was mangled from a fight I'd barely escaped from with my life, I was famished and felt all-round miserable. I was brought to the assembly hall to present myself before the duchess - the old duchess that is, when she was still alive." "May she rest in peace", Essil interjected.

"They were all sitting around that big round table, poring over books and maps", Rowand went on. "The young duchess - who obviously wasn't the duchess yet at the time - came over to me and gave me a goblet with hot, spiced wine. I managed to drink it with my left hand without spilling half of it over either of us." They all chuckled as they pictured a spilling scene and the ensuing embarrasments.

"Maybe she shouldn't have given me that wine, though. It took a very long time for my sword arm to heal, and I fell to brooding and drinking. After all, without my sword arm I was just a useless side of beef walking upright. The young duchess spent a lot of time talking to me and plainly kicking my ass to get my spirits up again."

"Maybe his spirit wasn't the only thing that got up", Heon muttered to the others. Essil, who was leafing through some books he'd found in a cupboard, sniggered. "I heard that", Rowand called. "Over time, the young duchess and I forged a strong bond. When my sword arm was finally back to its former strength and suppleness, I decided to stay at the castle for a while longer."

"I bet the duchess's consort had something to say about that." "Will you stop that, Heon?" Rowand demanded in mock anger. "If you must know: he didn't say anything about it. In fact, he used the smithy with its bellows and anvil to forge a new sword for me. I still marvel at it some days: a nobleman who can do blacksmithing. To forestall further funny remarks: I love the duchess like the kind of sister I wish I'd had in my youth. So when the old duchess died and the young duchess came into her own, there was not a shred of doubt in me that I'd swear fealty to her."

Nodding to Hatyr, Rowand concluded: "And that's why I'm here in the orc lair with you. Each of you has ancient ties to the duchess's house, and your families have long suffered under this orc tribe's depredations. I haven't, but when those filthy beasts abducted the duchess's son, I volunteered to go after them. I am a warrior, after all".

Rowand got up, and made a grand sweep to the giant, intricately carved bronze door at the end of the room. "The orc chieftain is almost certainly behind that door. Shall we proceed?"

[Thantos]

Entry G:

Sathora pressed her soft, blood splattered face against Gargadaz’s massive heaving chest. She listened as his last breath escaped, it’s sound echoing a lifetime of memories. She raised her ear to his heart and heard it’s beat begin to slow. She removed her white serpent skin gloves and placed her hands upon his dying body. An eruption of yellow, orange, and green swirled from her core, circling down her arms, through her hands, and into his body. The many torches that surrounded the deep hall began to flicker and change color. Yellow to red, to green, to blackness. The only light source left was the glow of Sathora and her fallen companion. His once limp body began to shake as a surge of energy ignited his muscular frame, bending his body up like an arch of an old stone portcullis. She removed her hands as his body fell back to the mossy stone floor. The whites of Sathora’s great green eyes sprouted wide. A candelabra that adorned the sorcerer’s table nearby reflected in her gaze as tears began to gloss her vision. Her mouth began to quiver; her once steady hands to shake. The shimmering pools in her eyes burst forth and streaks ran down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and in a moment of time imagined every one of their shared adventures. Gargadaz was gone.
There was a crackle of lightning and she looked up at the newly formed portal in front of her. She had almost forgotten. With the speed of a god Sathora grabbed her white oak staff and jumped to her feet. She remembered where she was and what had happened. There was still time to join her brethren who had gone ahead through the enchanted gate; there was still time to finish what they had come here to do. She bolted for the purple maelstrom that filled the ancient stone portal, jumping over dead goblins as the magic door began to flicker, it’s time running out. Just as she hurdled the last of her fallen foe, there was a loud roar from behind and the room lit up as if on fire. She stopped as if every part of her body agreed to cease at once. She stood there, frozen in disbelief, staring at the portal. A smile found it’s way across her dark red lips. She turned around as slow as she could, not wanting her instincts to let her down. Standing there, gripping his giant axe, was Gargadaz, a rare smile now across his own face. He nodded at Sathora as smoke billowed from his dragon-like face. The gate behind her started to flicker, as lighting branched out, gripping the runes around it’s circular face.
“Go,” he shouted, as he dropped forward and began to run towards the gate. Sathora’s smile turned to a grimace as her body burst into motion. A few steps and she was swallowed by the portal. A goblin began to stir as the dragon man lunged towards the gate. Not breaking stride, his giant axe swung down and removed the goblin’s head before it knew it wasn't still dead. The portal edges collapsing in, Gargadaz lept through the last bit of purple aether, his axe leading the way. A pinpoint of a flash and the portal was dormant, the hall quiet again save for a single rolling goblin head.
Slowly, the head wobbled it’s way to edge of the ornate sorcerer’s table, which was adorned with a plethora of potions. A slight bump against the table’s leg, and the head came to a rest. The candelabra above began to sway, the table of liquids sloshing in unison, accelerating the pendulum of motion that began to rock the table. One of the wax candles reached its breaking point, collapsing at the middle and falling like a meteor towards the sprue of alchemical wonders below. The table ignited before the flame even touched it, almost as if it wanted to. An explosion of powders here, a mixing of potions there, and within moments the entire table was a bubbling mess of colors, and flames, and voices, and time, and space, and thoughts. Across the hall the portal came alive again and from the edge of the table a burning and stirring recipe dripped from the wooded edge, landing in the eye of the dead goblin. The eye came alive, growing enormous in size and sprouting legs of vein-like tentacles. It’s single vision saw only one course: the portal.

[Thantos]

Entry H:
Point of View
*****
Then we sneaked up to this imposing door. We could feel evil radiate through it. Redric, our scout, listened carefully and after a minute or so, he turned towards us, pale as a ghost. He whispered of a hellish growl on the other side of the door. This was it. The final show-down! We readied weapons and spells, and Big Yusuf kicked the door in.
Our hearts froze when we saw the mighty vampire, readied for battle. By his side a beast from your nightmares. Straight from the hells, black as the night, deformed, with utterly evil eyes and fangs that could rip your throat out with one bite.
We had finally reached the goal of our quest. The evil overlord. The final encounter!
The vampire let out a roar that must have been heard all over the dungeon and charged us. At the same time the monstrous beast readied for a leap into our midst! I was prepared, and summoned a mighty incantation that knocked it off its feet. I pumped spell after spell into the infernal beast, but it seemed impervious to most magic. Horrible beast it was. Horrible!
Sindrelle, our archer, pumped arrow after arrow into the unhallowed flesh of the beast. But they didn’t seem to do any harm. It was immune to normal weapons!
At the same time Big Yusuf was battling the vampire and even though he is a powerful barbarian, he was having a hard time against his battle hardened, ruthless, foe. Redric tried to sneak behind the deadly undead, but was smashed with by a single, powerful, blow. He crashed into the wall, and laid still. We feared he was dead, but thankfully he was not. But we didn’t know that then.
Father Burdon beseeched his god to support us in our quest against evil, and we felt the divine presence amongst us. For a god to so openly intervene in the affairs of mortals is rare, indeed. It just shows how vital a quest we were on. Strengthened by the godly attention, Father Burdon broke the evil aura around the infernal beast and with a mighty blow of his silver mace; he smashed the head of the monstrosity.
The vampire must have been horror-struck when he saw we had the power to vanquish the hell-spawn. With a roar it grabbed Yusuf and threw him over twenty feet. The strength of that monster!
It ran away, mortally wounded. I followed it, spells at the ready. I heard a crash before me, and when I rounded a corner, there he lay. Or rather, the remains of him. It was just dust… He must have perished and turned into ashes immediately. Father Burdon soaked it all with holy water, to destroy the blood-sucker once and for all.
After that we looted the vampire’s lair, we got every single coin, and exited the same way we had infiltrated the catacombs. Through the sewers. We were in a hurry to escape the blood-crazed minions we felt were gathering.
Oh, you’re closing now. In that case, another round of your finest! Another round for everyone!
*****
It is obvious where they came through. There’s slime and muck and worse all over the place. Who could have thought anyone would crawl through there?
Anyway, there I sat. Playing with my coins, and petting Shadow…. sob… and they just barged in. I stood up and I guess I screamed. This black-clad bloke jumped me with his daggers, but he stumbled over my overturned chair. It’s unbelievable, but he fell on his head and was knocked out. Just like that.
Well, this giant guy rushes me. He’s got fur armor… slimy and dripping… the stench nearly floored me. Oh, and a big fricking axe.. Sorry, no swear words… I’ll remember that, Master. Okay, he started swinging and I tried to get away.
At the same time this other bloke, with a strange pointed hat, started casting spells at poor Shadow. Spell after spell. And that horrible woman with pointy ears shot arrows into him. She missed, though, even though Shadow just lay there. He must have died of a heart-attack when the first spell streaked past him. And a fat guy brandished a holy symbol and hollered. He had a madman’s eyes. Then he gripped his mace and just pulped the remains of poor Shadow.
To think that anyone could do something like that to your prize poodle…It’s unbelievable! Yes, they must have been escaped maniacs.
The big guy had hit the table and his axe had stuck, so I pushed by him and just ran. I barged right into the bucket with all the ashes I had raked from the fireplaces, so ash spilled all over the corridor, but I ran on.
They came screaming after me, and then stopped by the ashes. I just don’t understand that. And why would they pour water over it, and smear it all over the place? Insane vandals!
Now they are gone. I followed their smelly tracks back to the privy, and they went out the same way they came in. What kind of people were they?
Yes, Master, I understand. I’ll clean the place up… Sigh
Oh, and do you know, they took my coins! Every single one. Why? They’re heavy…
*****
Well, they came in early in the evening. They smelled like *lemony goodness*, but they behaved like a typical newly rich adventuring party. Telling tales to everyone who would listen. Killing fiends and all that. Oh, and free rounds for everyone. Not the cheap swill. Oh, no! Dwarven mead, elven Moonwine, gnomish whisky. Expensive stuff, all.
When they would finally pay, they tried these cheap fakes on me. Every single coin they had was fake. Every one! It was so obviously gold-painted lead.
They’ll have to work for a year in the pigsty before we’re even. But they had better wash first!