Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 1
(8/20/02 6:52 pm)
Shadow Meetings
Prologue:
The man walked down the silent streets of Freeport. Nothing was to be heard except the “thud” of his steel boots on the dusty roads. It was well after midnight. Everyone had gone in except the local alley thugs and beggars. No one intercepted his path as he moved down the dusty road. His reputation as one of the most powerful warriors in Freeport well protected him.
The message his contact had relayed to him was terrifying. It could possibly mean the end of Freeport, his home. His destination this night was the Paladins Guild; he had to pass this message on to them.
The dark sky over his head watched his passing. The buildings stood impassive as the warrior moved through the torch lit streets. His eyes moved back and forth peering down the passing alleys lit only with the occasional moonlight. Cold sweat streaked down his neck. He sped up his pace not wanting to waste any more time. His warrior’s sixth sense, the one that he had learned to rely on in more then one occasion, told him of danger, but he neither saw it nor heard it. He simply rejected it because of his growing anxiety.
The shadows seemed to follow him as he made his passing, as if they monitored his every move in hopes he would not succeed. The torches offered little comfort now as the shadows of the sky seemed to consume them. It was as if a soul of darkness watched the only hope of Freeport move through the streets, following to stop him.
The warrior stopped to stare off into the street; again his warrior’s sense spoke to him, like a dear friend, warning him of the danger. He looked off into the sky, his eyes moving to the tops of the Freeport buildings skimming them, in search of the danger he felt. His gaze settled on the roof of a darker store. His eyes widened in horror as a dark figure fired an arrow down at him; it whistled through the darkness toward him like the hand of death itself.
His honed reflexes saved him as he quickly dodged out of the arrow’s path leaving it vibrating as it hit the dust filled roads. The warrior tore down the street ducking into several alleys in hope he would loose the assassin that was with no doubt pursuing with lethal intentions.
As he moved through an alley, his pursuer dropped from the roof rising slowly into the moonlight several feet ahead of him smile on his face. The figure was of Dark Elven heritage, skin as dark as the shadows that covered this night. His eyes glowed with the sign of ultravision. The white locks of hair, that were the mark of his ebony race, flowed just below his shoulders. It was well kept as not to distract him during battle. In his hands he held two finely crafted dirks. They both gleamed with the enchantment of magic. He wore armor as black as his dark skin, fitting perfectly around his slim but muscular shape.
The warrior drew his mighty swords in a flash, moonlight reflecting off their magnificent steel.
The warrior looked upon the elf that now stood between him and the survival of Freeport. His rage rising with the thought of all the innocents that would be slaughtered without mercy, of the soldiers that would die in battle. His grip tightened on his swords. His heart pounding he charged. The dark form moved with a blur and parried the warrior’s first attack with little effort.
The two jumped in and out testing each other as the night wore on. The ring of steel was becoming a constant sound. Both taking the attack at different times but neither taking the advantage. The fighters danced with swords and death, lethal intent in both minds. Dirk and sword lit up the dark alley. Sparks flew as each moved around the other’s attack, returning their own, only to be intercepted with blades of death. Gashes appeared on both, but individual movements could not be distinguished as the two master swordsmen engaged.
The warrior felt his reflexes slowing. He then knew the daggers were coated with poison as the battled reached its climax giving the dark elf more then a slight advantage. The ring of steel slowed as the warrior missed more and more parries, receiving more and more minor wounds. The elf smiled, he knew he had won. He moved with death as his daggers wove their way past the warriors slowing blades.
The warrior fought on with passion, though all was lost. His heart ached as he knew what would become of his home. He would not be able to pass on his message.
The elf’s dirks penetrated the warrior’s defensive ring of steel, finding their mark as they sank past the human’s ribs into his heart. The warrior slumped to the ground, freeing himself of the cursed blades but not from death. His breathing slowed as he stared up into the face of his slayer.
The elf smiled at him revealing a “L” shaped scar under his lip.
“You bastar…,” the warrior mumbled with his last breath, then slipped into the blur of the after life.
After cleaning his blades on the warrior’s torso the ebony skinned elf sheathed his daggers grinning as he thought of the glory and payment he would receive for this. He moved out of the alley as quiet as he had entered, into the darkness of night. Into the darkness of his soul.
* * * * * * *
Im back (finally, though I doubt any of you remember Dranec Ebonyhart) and improving my story. It will be continued this time, I promise. Give me comments and suggestions (hey, even praise me if you want =P).
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 2
(8/21/02 12:56 pm)
Story continues
Chapter One:
Meetings of Shadow
The man walked through the dark and musty bar in West Freeport with his black cowl pulled low over his eyes, so as not to let anyone see his face. The patrons of the bar were the usual riffraff, spending what money they had on alcohol. The man paid them little heed, though, as he walked across the creaking wooden floors, his cloak barely dragging across the floor behind him. He dressed with the clothes of a simple beggar, but those who watched his walk knew he was something more, something deadly. He came to the barkeeper and whispered in his ear; the fat barkeeper just kept nodding and cleaning a mug absently at the same time. The man in the black cloak turned and walked to the closest empty table.
A serving maid came to ask him if he wanted something to drink, but he simply ignored her. She shrugged and gave up, walking to another table to serve others.
The man sat there for several minutes, not moving, not even lifting his head for others to see his face. Not many paid him any mind though; most everyone else was too busy dealing in their own dishonest businesses to care.
After a while a man in a brilliant white cape strode into the bar. His short pointed ears marked him as half elf. He was obviously a man of some power. He carried a long sword sheathed in a gold scabbard strapped to his belt; he wore chain mail colored gold and silver. He had a single plate mail shoulder guard on his left shoulder, obviously made of the finest metal. His brown hair hung several inches below his shoulder, tied in a pony tail with a silver thong. Neither his clothes nor armor had any type of symbol nor marking on it, which was not uncommon these days.
He stopped in the doorway and searched around the room for a bit. When he spotted the man in black he casually strode over to the table and sat opposite him.
“The good shadows cover your blade, and may Bristlebain bless your silence old friend,” the white capped man leaned and said to the other.
“Not many these days would claim any assassin as friend, and even less would dare speak the name of The Mischievous,” the man in dark replied without missing a beat.
“That is true my friend, but not many have been saved by your skilled blade the countless times I have. It is truly good to see you again Cenard; though, I pray you’ve not come running from any danger. Freeport is not the haven it once was for those who practice the Dark Craft. Keep your eyes keen for those who hide in the light here. Three rogues in the last month have been brutally murdered by mobs led by zealots claiming to follow the will of Tunare.
“But enough of this morbid talk, it is good to see you as I said. It’s been three long years. We’ve many tales to share since we last spoke. Any elf with your spirit is bound to have had plenty of adventure in three years. I want to hear where you’ve been and what you’ve seen!” The white-capped human slapped the table in excitement, and leaned back in his chair to listen.
“Truly I wish I could spare the time to tell you what’s happened since we last parted good Mantar. But I frown to say, I have come from danger, and I fear it still pursues me. I need information, old friend, on a murder that took place two weeks ago near North Freeport. A warrior, well known in Freeport, was found with extremely potent poison found in his veins. His crafted armor was cleanly pierced by what could be non other than a dagger wound. You know the murder I speak of?”
Mantar leaned further back in his chair, his expression troubled.
After a few moments of thought, Mantar replied, “I know of the murder you speak of, though, I don’t understand why you would want to know of such a thing from me. The warrior was well known in Freeport. His name was Zann Gal’Hera. He was a human rumored to have royal blood passed down from kingdoms long since destroyed. Zann oftentimes served as a hired guard for the merchants traveling through the Marr. It was easy for him to find jobs, for he was well known for his exploits during the Sand War. His murder in itself was not strange though, besides the fact that anyone who could best him with blades must be truly deadly indeed. Yes, there was extremely potent poison found in his veins. His crafted armor was punctured, and the wound was definitely from a dagger. But why would you want to know of this murder from me? It was obviously done by a well-trained assassin. Does the Safe House not keep records of assassinations still?”
“That is what troubles me friend. I’ve searched the records the Safe House keeps, and none are found that would name the one who committed the assassination.” He paused to look around and make sure no one was close enough to hear, then spoke softly. “No one in the Society knows who it was either. That means either there is a rogue outside the Society. Make no mistake, to act alone from the rogue society is one thing, but to do it without being recorded marks this one as bloody good. Or if what I fear has come to pass, another society has formed.”
At that last statement, Mantar stiffened. Another rogue society? Preposterous! The last time another society formed outside the Safe House, war broke out across the lands like wildfire. Norrath couldn’t handle another such society. The rogues controlled most all the cities’ politics in one way or another. Oftentimes the society would act on its own accord and change the tides of the bureaucrats’ decisions. When the other rogue society had formed it had brought its own ideas as well. Its politics went against those of the Safe House. As a result, civil war broke out among several different settlements and cities. Thousands had died in the fighting. No, another rogue society could not be tolerated; too much was at risk.
After a moment with those troubling thoughts, Mantar spoke. “What makes you think another has been formed? You remember what happened last time. Surely no fool would try such a thing again!”
“Four rogues in the last two months have left without a word of their destination. Though a rogue disappearing is not strange in itself, never this many have left so close together. Also, there have been other such murders as this one. A half elf bard was found in the waters of Highkeep. Two Dark elf warriors were found under piles of stones in Nariek. A wood elf Ranger was found at the base of one of the platforms in Kelethin. There are several other reports of killings without the Safe House having the slightest notion of who the killer was. Every one of these victims was obviously taken by one who knew the Dark Craft. But all the deaths were too close in time to be done by the same person. Also, all these people that were murdered carried information that was relayed from the Loners. You know how those stubborn orc-heads withhold information that has already been passed on to an outsider,” Cenard finished. He then leaned back in his chair waiting for Mantar to digest it.
Again Mantar sat back to think. If the Loners, a group of information collectors and political scientist, relayed information to an outside, it had to be important. All the information did seem to point that another society had been formed. But the notion was almost too horrid for him to accept
“Have you checked the guild relations of those that were murdered? Maybe another major guild war has broken out. Such a thing could still be expected even with the Peace Flame keeping major wars in check. Or, maybe personal feuds between those that were murdered. Or possibly they were once traveling adventurers and brought trouble to the wrong person. Now, that person is seeking revenge,” Mantar said, hoping that maybe Cenard had not checked such things, but he knew the deadly assassin better than that.
Cenard shook his head slowly. “I’ve checked all that and more. Nothing else could be possible other than a rogue acting alone.” He paused for a moment. “Or a whole other society. I hope as much as you do against my theory. Besides another civil war possibly breaking out, I don’t want my rank in the Safe House risked in any way. I have become content.”
Mantar grunted, he understood full and well what Cenard meant. Though Mantar wasn’t a part of the Safe House itself, though, he oftentimes worked alongside its rogues while gathering information. Cenard was a rogue he had often worked with often. But if another society formed, he would most likely have to choose sides. That was something he never did without caution or pleasantries. But, this was far different than choosing sides in a small guild war; this was a bloody rogue society, a damned nest of assassins! If he didn’t carefully choose here, he would likely end up like the warrior near North Freeport; cold on the ground. No one would have any idea of who put him there.
Cenard looked at his friend and understood completely Mantar’s dilemma. Though Mantar was a good friend, about as good a friend as any rogue could ever wish to have, he wasn’t loyal to anyone but himself. Cenard respected that, for in some ways he was the same. Mantar wasn’t trained in the Dark Craft. He was a warrior, though one most would never wish to clash blades with. Amazingly, though, for a warrior, he survived the oftentimes-merciless streets of a city as well as any rogue could ever dream. His secret to that was staying on the right side of things. That simple trick of survival could be jeopardized if another society were formed.
“Well now that you’ve told me all of this, I suppose your looking for ears in Freeport. Well good friend, I’m your man for the job. For a small price of course,” Mantar said to Cenard smiling.
Cenard laughed aloud, though he never lifted his head high enough for anyone to see under his cowl. It was exactly what he had hoped Mantar would say. “Well my friend, I couldn’t ask for a better man to listen in Freeport. I assure you, you will be paid handsomely for this one,” Cenard said back to his friend.
“The good shadows cover your blade, and may Bristlebain bless your silence old friend,” Mantar said again to Cenard.
“Not many these days would claim any assassin as friend, and even less would dare speak the name of The Mischievous,” Cenard replied again without missing a beat. He reached across the table and shook his friend’s hand. Then quietly as he had entered, he stalked out of the bar.
Mantar looked down at the hand he had shaken Cenard’s with; five small rubies sparkled even in the dim light. “Handsome payment indeed,” Mantar said with a grin on his face. He knew Cenard; this was only the tip of a mountain. Edited by: Dran Ebon at: 8/21/02 6:37:18 pm
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 3
(8/22/02 6:46 pm)
Re: Great
Before I continue, I gotta warn you that I am old school EQ for now, pre Kunark stuff. I plan to write the new lands into the story sometime, but I haven't played in so long I am afraid I wouldn't know enough yet. But it will come I promise.
Ayways, thanks for the reply Belph, it is much appreciated. =)
Chapter Two:
The Ebonysoul
Dran slid his dirk across the orc’s throat, creating a smiling bloodline, ear to ear. He did not immediately drop the body though. Instead, he surveyed the small clearing, using the dead orc as cover. Outside the single tent sat two legionnaires tossing dice, grunting every once and a while when they exchanged copper. Four pawns leaned on their spears several feet away from the tent, their eyes drooping from boredom. Though Dran could not see inside the tent; he guessed from experience that it was either an oracle or another legionnaire; neither of which would be much of any trouble for the skilled half elf.
Making up his mind, he dropped the dead orc to the ground, and immediately launched two daggers through the air in rapid succession. His hands moved so fast that even his own mind could barely comprehend the movement. One dagger thudded into the eye of the legionnaire looking Dran’s way. Immediately following the sound of the first, the second projectile sunk into the back of the other legionnaire’s head with a sickening crack, splitting its skull.
The stupid pawns turned to regard their large companions with curiosity, which, soon turned to fear as Dran charged. As he ran through the first two, a dagger in each hand cut nice little slits across their fat green bellies. He emptied their stomachs quicker than any sickness could. The other two, though, were quicker to respond. Both charged Dran, spears leading. As soon as Dran got about a foot from their spears, he did a summersault right over the pawns, landing perfectly behind them. As their slow small brains tried to comprehend where their half elf had gone, Dran wove his daggers in intricate designs across their backs, quickly and quietly compelling them to fall forward and die.
By that time, another orc grunted and jumped out of its tent. It looked around in surprise at the six bodies of its guards lying about, and then screamed in outrage at the half elf waving to him from across the camp. The orc began grunting and grumbling in its own stupid language while waving its arms as it began to cast a spell. Dran charged across the clearing and leapt at the orc hoping to beat the magic. He didn’t, though, and it blasted him back several yards, but didn’t nock him off his feet. He shrugged off the magic attack and charged again. This time too fast for the orc to cast another spell. The orc, seeing it was overmatched, turned to run, but Dran was too fast. He reached the orc and slashed with each dagger several times across its back. When the orc didn’t die, Dran kicked it in the back of its head knocking it unconscious to the ground. He then took his dagger and slid it masterfully into the back of the thing’s head, ending its life abruptly.
Dran yanked his vibrating dagger out from the thing’s skull and turned around. He smiled as he eyed the carnage about him. The trees swayed silently in the breeze while he contemplated his actions. After over seven years of adventure and travel, he was truly home.
* * * *
As fun and tempting as it was, Dran had not returned to Kelethin to slay orcs. He had been invited to an emergency meeting of the Safe House, as was every rogue within a hundred miles. He marched proudly through the streets of Kelethin, knowing that the guards would not bother him this day. The wooden platforms among the high trees in the Greater Faydark seemed all too familiar to Dran. The musty smell of druidic magic filled the air as it always had, giving the forest an even more natural appeal. The bridges and the platforms here too seemed to grow along with the trees, never rotting or needing repair. He could only assume that they were part of the trees; the druids here were believed to be able to do anything with nature. His thoughts shifted from the platforms to the merchants and vendors displaying their wares, though never at fair prices. That was something he no longer had to worry about. He smiled as he remembered the days he had been forced to buy from such people. Now, though, he simply stole what he needed and more. He quickened his step, reminding himself that there would be time to think on such things later. Several eyes followed him as he walked across the platforms in the trees. Several elven maidens turned to stare as he walked past.
Dran was young by any standards, his looks showed he somewhere in his twenties, though, he himself wasn’t completely sure. He was of average height nearing five and a half feet by estimation. His hair was sandy blond with a cowlick curl on the brow. He kept it trimmed at his shoulders, always tying it into a small ponytail. His eyes were stunningly bright turquoise blue and flared with the youthful fire of adventure. Young though he seemed, his magnificent equipment spoke of much experience. He wore chain mail that was black as night and seemed to fit over him like his own skin. On the neck of his armor, a dagger in a circle was etched, marking him as an active member of the Safe House. He wore a black cloak about him, but even its cloth was not as dark as his armor. On his waist he wore a finely woven black sash. It was rumored that this was one such sash that was made in the depths of Guk and magickally increased his speed. On each side of his sash he carried a sheathed dirk. Even in the sheath each seemed to hum with magical enchantment.
As well fitted as he was, Dran was nothing more than one of the crowd today. At least a dozen rogues walked about him towards the Scouts of Tunare guild house. They obviously had been invited as well. Some wore nothing but simple banded chain mail, marking them as young and inexperienced. Others, though, wore armor that was simply beautiful. Blackish gray metal plate and mail that could only be the famed Woven Shadow, made under the eye of Innothule in his own home. Others wore reddish gray plate, marking it as the rare and majestic Mykrolars Armor from the lost continent of Kunark. Others wore decorated chain mail, silver on some, brown on others that was assuredly the Rygor armor from distant Velious. Others wore armor that was unnamable yet obviously powerful. A bulk of the crowd wore black armor much like Dran’s, though, showing that the Raven’s Scale was truly a rogue’s dress.
Even with the wonderful display of rare armors, Dran never lost his purpose. The Safe House had called all rogues available within two hundred miles together. This was something that had not happened since the Sand War and the fall of the last rebel society.
As Dran came upon the platform that branched to the Scouts of Tunare building, he was lost in awe. Over fifty rogues sat around outside the meeting house sharpening blades or sharing tales with one another. What he had seen before was nothing compared to this. Every type of armor and weapon a rogue could ever dream of and more was here. Several famed rogues entertained groups of younger ones with stories of intrigue and adventure. Other obviously powerful rogues displayed their mighty rapiers, dirks, and daggers proudly before the others.
“It’s about time ye got here ye lazy orc-lover,” a familiar voice said in rough dwarven accent behind Dran. “I thought ye’d decided not te come te this durned meeting. Of course it’d figure if ye didn’t, ye’ve always been known fer yer lazy arse.”
Dran turned to see a familiar gruffy dwaven face looking up at him. His beard was yellow as the sun’s rays and his eyes were shinning baby blue, a rarity among dwarves. He wore the same Raven’s Scale armor Dran did, though, obviously fitted to his shorter body. On one side of his belt hung a rapier, one that all supposedly redeemed rogues carried, a truly fine weapon indeed. On his other side a serrated dirk was sheathed, marking this dwarf as one skilled enough to fight against the frogloks of Guk.
“It is good to see you too Brontiger,” Dran said smiling. “I haven’t seen you since we fought together in the Solusek dungeons. I can’t remember how many times I pulled you’re yellow-bearded self out of that lava!”
“Why ye durned orc-lovin, goblin-kissin, ugly…” Brontiger mumbled as he turned away from his half elf friend, his face red with anger and embarrassment.
Dran laughed aloud at his friend’s antics. It truly was good to be home and among his friends again. He began to say something to his friend about this meeting, but stopped as everybody began to hush.
He turned towards the guild house as a small wood elf, smaller than most, stood on the roof and waited patiently for everyone to quiet down. He had dark brown hair that hung a few inches below his shoulder. It was finely kept, even though it wasn’t tied in a tail. His eyes seemed too shine yellow even in the shadows of the trees. Though, despite his size, he seemed more deadly than any other rogue here. Just looking at him sent shivers up Dran's spine as he peered across the platform. He wore armor that was unmistakably that of Woven Shadow. The weapons he carried were two unbelievably fine rapiers, each unsheathed and resting casually on his shoulders. He wore a reddish-black cape; it seemed to hum with magic that surely would unsettle the most deadly calm necromancer.
As soon as everyone had quieted down he began. “Welcome good rogues, thieves, scouts, and assassins! The good shadows cover your blade, and may Bristlebain bless your silence old friends. Truly I have never seen such a crowd, a wonderful day this is!” His voice projected perfectly across the platform.
The crowd mumbled among themselves, most complaining about being dragged away from their comfortable lives to listen to an entertainer.
The small elf on the roof waited patiently for the mumbles to stop. After a few moments had passed, silence came again. He began once more. “I suppose you all want the reason you were called together.” Several shouts of yes came. He waited patiently once more. “Then listen to me carefully and I’ll go straight to the point. I’m sure you all have heard the rumors of assassinations happening without the Safe House knowing.” He paused again as the murmurs came. Even before the crowd went silent he started, “I too have heard of such things. And yes it is true; the Safe House has not been able to record over seven assassinations in the last eight months.”
Seven! Dran thought to himself. That is impossible! No one can slip beyond the records of the Safe House. He must be lying. Dran had heard the rumors as well, but he hadn’t truly considered them having a possibility of being factual.
“And I have to come today to say, the Safe House is falling apart. I dare speak, it is time for another society!”
Everyone in the crowd began shouting at once. More than one weapon was drawn with the intent on piercing the small elf’s heart.
“Another rogue society! Your mad!”
“You’re a traitor to Bristlebain!”
Several other shouts came up, several rogues calling the elf mad. Some called him a traitor; some simply screamed for his death. Dran had never seen so many rogues loose their calm. Of course Dran had heard the old stories of the last rebel society, though, he hadn’t been alive at the time. He had heard nothing but pointless death and war. No, Dran decided, he did not want another rogue society either.
“Silence brother rogues!” the small elf shouted from atop the roof, speaking quickly so no one could interrupt him this time. “Here me once, and once only! The time has come for you to choose. Now, time has run out! The way of the Raven is dead! I offer you a new life without the constant eye of the Safe House! Either live and join with the new society, or worms will eat your bones!”
A unanimous cry came from the crowd; “Long live the Raven! Death to the traitor!”
With that the crowd rushed forward, every rogue with a weapon in hand. Several knives and shurikens flew through the air at the small elf. But he was a blur, slapping aside the projectiles with his rapiers and dodging quickly out of the way. As the several rogues climbed to the roof he charged, rapiers leading. Nothing in Dran’s life could compare with what he saw; the small elf was death incarnate. As the first two reached him, he spun, his rapiers slashing through the air up and down. Both rogues who had neared the elf went on the defense immediately, their own daggers barely keeping those beautiful rapiers at bay. But, the small elf was too fast for even the mind to react. He moved forward and had slid one rapier into each of the others’ belly before anyone had even noticed. The rapiers slid in as if cutting through butter, the magical blades splitting spinal cords and ending lives.
He dropped the first two lifeless rogues back onto the crowd, knocking several other rogues back from the roof. He then sheathed both his rapiers quicker than the blink of an eye. He reached into his belt and pulled out a small black tube with a wooden cork in the top. He smiled for an instant before he pulled the cork off; he then threw the black tube into the middle of the crowd.
Most eyes drifted from the small elf to the blue and yellow smoke drifting from the tube. For an instant time seemed to stop, then those closest to the tube began to scream in pure agony. Rogues close to the tube began to stretch and bend beyond their normal limits. The bodies began to lean stretched out towards the small tube, and then it seemed to suck them into it, their screams following them. The radius of bodies being stretched and sucked into the tube increased, always their screams following them into the tube.
The small elf just stood and laughed as the rogues disappeared into the black tube. More and more bodies stretched then disappeared.
Dran, dirks in hand, first thought to charge the laughing elf, then quickly changed his mind. Brontiger stood at his side, blades in hand and prepared to charge. Dran grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away from the magic tube. At first the dwarf thought to fight against Dran, but he then too saw the stupidity of charging in.
“Off the platform Bront,” Dran shouted above the screams. “It’s our only chance to escape!”
“Ye don’t have te try te convince me!” And with that, the dwarf leapt off the side of the platform, taking his chances with the ground rather than the horrible tube.
As soon as his friend had leapt Dran began to follow, but the tube’s magic suddenly caught up to him. His body seemed to stretch along with his mind. The pain was unbelievable, like fire searing through his veins. Out of no where black demons began to swirl around him howling. Their hands slipped through Dran’s body as if he was not there, ripping at his very soul. They pulled him toward the tube, stretching him beyond thought. But he fought them. He was close to the edge of the platform; he had to make it. He grabbed into the air, as if searching for a hold to pull him out of the horrible magic. He fought and forced his feet to stay on the ground. Just as the magic seemed to grab him, he popped out of it, literally flinging off the side of the platform into the trees.
Kunark? Velious? Luclin?
I dont care about them. Just tell your story. Its really great! I am checking these boards several times a day.
Just dont stop. Ok? =)
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 4
(8/23/02 7:45 pm)
Re: And so a Rogue's story continues.
Hehe, alright I'll keep writing, I don't plan to stop. Thank's again for replying, you're keeping me going.
* * * *
As soon as the crowd of rogues was cleared, the small elf leapt from his perch onto the platform. He smiled as he stepped over the two lifeless rogues he had killed. He came to the small tube, seeming oblivious to its evil magic, and listened as screams still flared from it. He picked it up, looked into it, then grinned. “A pity that you weren’t wise enough to join us, but alas. You will be used in no less useful ways than you could have been.” With that he popped the small cork on it, ending the screams abruptly.
He turned to the ramp as several guards charged up, waving their swords menacingly.
“Halt! Drop thy weapons and come silently,” one guard yelled to the elf holding the cylinder.
“Good guards, my job here is not yet done. But unlike most rogues, I won’t come silently.” Grinning at the guards he pulled out a large oval shaped container with orange liquid inside it. As the guards began their charge again he threw it at their feet. It exploded into blue flames all across the platform, igniting everything into magical flames. Yet, the small elf was already gone before the flames reached him, running through the dark forest after those that had escaped the small tube. Yes, today had been a good day, he thought to himself. It had been much more interesting than usual. He smiled again as he touched the small tube on his belt, holding more skill and power than any rogue could ever dream. Yes indeed, a very good day. He would soon feast well.
* * * *
Brontiger and Dran had not been the only ones who had jumped. Two dwarven rogues, a gnome, and a wood elf ran beside them from the crazed elf. After a half-hour or so of running, the small party slowed to catch their breaths. Both the dwarves were equipped in the Woven Shadow plate and mail, as was the small gnome. The wood elf wore Rygor Chain mail and carried a dirk and a jeweled dagger from Velious.
“We’ve no chance te escape that one, not unless a few o’ us stey behind te distract em while the others run,” one of the Woven Shadow clad dwarves remarked to Dran as they caught their breath. “Ye’re te young te stay and fight, so are ye yellow beard, and ye too wood elf. Me brother and the gnome ‘ave decided te stay behind. We’re older and m’re experienced. I’ll ‘ave no arguments from any of ye!”
The dwarf waited until Dran slowly nodded his head, as did Brontiger and the wood elf. “Ye’ve got te make it te one who calls himself the Raven’s Eye. He’s the leader o’ the Loners and a friend to all rogues. He’s rumored to live somewhere near the city of Freeport. Tell ‘em the time has come fer ‘em te find the Ivorysoul. Ye’ve got te make it young half elf, the lands o’ Norrath are depending on yerself.” With that he pulled off a necklace that had a silver Raven in a circle on it. He handed to Dran and spoke again. “Give this te him and he’ll know that ye be coming from meself. Now go ye three, we’ll keep that durned daemon elf at bey fer a time.” With that he drew his fine rapier and dirk. The other dwarf and gnome likewise drew their own weapons.
The looked at the three younger rogues then to each other, then walked off into the shadows of the forest. They knew all to well; they would not be returning.
Dran turned and looked at the other two and spoke. “We’ve got to make it. We’ll head for the Butcher Block mountains to the city of Kaladim. There we will pick up supplies and hopefully find a boat to ride.”
The other two nodded after he finished, then turned and started jogging through the forest again. Dran looked back to where the three older rogues had disappeared silently into the shade, then sighed. He quickly slid the necklace he had been given over his head, then started off after the other three.
* * * * * *
The two dwarves and the gnome stopped suddenly, sensing something was moving in the trees. The dwarf, who had spoken to Dran, stalked forward slowly; leaning on a great tree he peered through the dark Faydark, seeing nothing. He turned back to the others, intending to motion them on, but suddenly an explosion ripped through his chest. His eyes widened in disbelief as he looked down, a rapier blade protruded through each lung. He slowly sank to the ground as darkness covered his eyes.
The small elf let the dwarf slide off the rapiers slowly, then walked to where the others could see him, grinning evilly the whole time. The other two rogues charged the elf, their anger overriding good sense. He stood there calmly as they neared, waiting until the last instant to lift his rapiers. He smiled happily as the two rogues danced about him, their daggers masterfully weaving through the air searching for his flesh. His twin rapiers moved to each parry without a mistake, each hand perfectly complimenting the other. He laughed aloud as the dwarf jumped behind him, hoping to stick his blade through the elf’s spinal cord. The elf jumped suddenly, nearing ten feet in the air, flipping backwards over the dwarf. He landed without a sound behind the dwarf. The dwarf turned to protect his back, though, he was to late as a rapier slid through his kidney and a foot smashed the back of his head, knocking him to the ground. The gnome stood alone against the elf now, his two daggers held in front.
“You’re a daemon!” the gnome accused the elf, fear in his eyes.
The elf smiled at the tiny rogue. “You’re right my stubby friend; a daemon I be.”
The elf’s eyes suddenly sparked into a mixture of swirling colors, weaving in and out of each other, mixing and creating the purest chaos. His skin suddenly shone with the brightest light, as if a magical illusion was being torn apart. It shone brighter and brighter white, making the shades of the forest disappear. Then as white as his skin became it went twice that in blackness, seemingly growing shadows. His skin became twice as black as the darkest midnight, a black that would put any dark elf to shame. Still the elf’s eyes swirled an alloy of colors, still weaving in and out of each other, a myriad of pure chaos. The elf’s armor seemed to fade into solid shadows, dark as his skin, darker than the Raven’s Scale. It seeped deeper and deeper into blackness, but shinning as brightly as it was the sun. His magnificent rapiers seemed to spark black fire around them, and suddenly the fire sank into the blades, coloring them as black as the elf’s skin. A scream erupted from the elf’s lips as he arched his back. The gnome sensed it was of pleasure and not pain. Black, large, leathery wings, much like those of a bat, grew slowly from the elf’s back. His hair seemed to come to life and thicken, seeping into the deepest black, swaying as if a mighty breeze blew it. The elf looked down upon the gnome and smiled, then shut his eyes for a second.
The small rogue stepped back unconsciously with fear. His attention went to the elf’s eyes that now opened. For as with the rest of the bright-blackened elf, they were as black as the night, but seemed to shine none the less. The gnome’s daggers lowered forgotten to his sides as the black light blinded his eyes. The elf saw the gnome close his eyes, he smiled. Suddenly the darkness seemed to dull, so much that the gnome could look upon him without harming his eyes. As soon as the shadows had dulled enough, the gnome looked back at the elf, though, this time with more anger than fear.
“Come dance with a daemon, little one,” the black-eyed elf spoke mockingly. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, the gnome charged, screaming at the top of his lungs.
The beautiful black rapiers met the gnome’s daggers as the small rogue fought with vengeance. The gnome worked his small daggers with perfection, executing each attack without a mistake. Yet never did he slip past the winged elf’s defenses, always meeting a devilishly black rapier and an evil laugh. The elf toyed with the gnome for several minutes, drawing him in then slapping aside the daggers at the last moment, laughing with every parry. The gnome knew he was over matched, knew his death was soon at hand. But, he also knew what this one was. He knew what would happen if the young half elf did not reach the Raven’s Eye. He doubled his attack, putting every bit of speed and strength he could muster into each movement. Yet the shadowed elf only laughed, his mighty rapiers always moving to parry perfectly, always mocking the small rogue.
Then it happened as fast as it had began. The gnome stabbed forward with his left dagger; it was slapped away as always, but harder than he could have ever expected. The rapier smashed into the dagger with such force that it spun the gnome around backwards. The little rogue knew he was dead then, as pain erupted from the back of his neck and a thin black blade slid out the front.
The elf stood there for several moments letting the gnome feel true pain. He then leaned forward and whispered quietly into the gnome’s ear, “I am a shadow, darker and more evil than any could ever wish to be. Some call me the Ebonysoul. Fear my minions in the afterlife as you fear me in this life weak rogue.”
The gnome’s eyes widened with fear as he hung from the black blade. The Ebonysoul laughed delightfully as the gnome slid from his rapier, falling to the earth and dying.
Re: And so a Rogue's story continues.
This story is great, who cares about the other continents you are doing great so far, just keep them coming please.
Bolep Registered User
Posts: 676
(8/24/02 12:03 pm)
Re: And so a Rogue's story continues.
Wow yeah I like em
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 5
(8/24/02 12:23 pm)
Re: And so a Rogue's story continues.
Crap, I skipped a whole chapter I had written, sorry about this. I'm an idiot.
Chapter 3: Evengar Derkfenger
The tavern in East Freeport smelled of whiskey and beer mixed with the herbs many men found pleasing. Dust and wispy smoke flooded the air, creating a lazy haze. The noise of creaking boards and drunk laughter sounded without stop. Low voices murmured dark secrets to darker listeners. Broken windows, from the many and often scuffles, lined the room, allowing in little light. Serving maids moved around the room, dodging rough hands and improper remarks. Cheap bards strummed their old mandolins to the beat created by the bongos. The singer sang out of pitch and key, adding to the general cheap affect of the bar. The tavern keeper, a short, rotund man, eyed the bar through mice-like eyes; absently scrubbing a dirty mug. The bouncers, three tall unshaven barbarians, fingered daggers and clubs, glaring at the patrons constantly.
The place was perfect for the many thieves and rogues of the city. The place was perfect for Evengar Derkfenger.
Evengar absently rubbed his finger up and down along his “L” shaped scar below his lip. His dark eyes moved constantly, searching for his leader. He sipped his ale every now and then, just passing the time. He sat in the darkest corner of the room away from the windows. His hair was silvery white, well-kept in pony-tail. His skin was ebony, marking his heritage as dark elven. His eyes were deep glaring red, reflecting their ability to see heat instead of light. He wore a simple gray travelers cloak, tattered and torn after years of use. Beneath the cloak, midnight black armor peeked through the opening in the front. Its small connected scales seemed to be a second skin. On the collar of the armor, underneath his clean shaven chin, was a circle with a dagger in it. It had been scratched in an attempt to be rid of it. On his waist, strapped to a fine black silk sash, were two daggers, finely crafted and humming with magic.
He shifted, from leaning forward to reclining in his chair, as the tavern door creaked open. A short wood elf with bright yellow eyes and brown hair stepped through. Evengar shivered, as he always did when his gaze fell upon that elf, as chills coursed down his spine. The small elf took a quick glance around the hazy bar. Then, spotting Evengar, made a bee-line to his dark corner.
“I pray your business in Kelethin went well,” Evengar remarked as the small elf sat down across from him.
“It was…interesting to say in the least,” the yellow-eyed elf replied. Evengar could have sworn a shadow floated across those yellow eyes. “But that is none of your concern. I need to know how your recruiting is going. I pray our ranks have been swelling.” He leaned forward, expecting an answer.
Evengar paused to think of how to put the news, then spoke. “Not many these days agree with another political rogue society, especially after the last disaster. And even less agree with a society led by rogues but allowing any person to join. But…” Evengar grinned, “with a few…examples…we now number over fifty, all rogues. And we’ll not have to worry about those damn Loners. I made sure they understood what happened to those who attempted to stop us.”
The small elf smiled evilly. Over fifty joining their cause was no small feat. He hadn’t expected Evengar, his second, to find so many. He had done well in selecting this brutal dark elf; he congratulated himself silently. The rogue was a master manipulator and a cunning battle strategist. Yes, Evengar truly deserved to serve in this noble cause.
Coming from his thoughts, the small elf reminded himself why he had called Evengar here. “Enough of this talk. You have done well, even better than expected, but there are more important matters at hand.” He paused, letting his second give his full attention. “While in Kelethin, a small group of rogues escaped me. I believe that number to have been six. Three died by my rapier. The other three, two young elves and a blonde bearded dwarf, are young and inexperienced. I deemed them unworthy of a death by my blade so I let them be. I want you to send a small group after them. I want them all dead before they can stir any major trouble against us.”
Evengar nodded his calmly, his eyes filled with the eagerness to kill. The yellow eyed elf rose to leave, but stopped as Evengar spoke. “There is one small problem that slipped my mind.” He paused as his companion sank back down into his chair. “In the city, there is a half-elven informant named Mantar Monchio. He is a warrior and the finest political schemer outside the rogue guild. I believe he has gotten wind of our little society.”
“Recruit him then,” the small elf said.
“I would, but, I believe that his ties would remain with the Safe-House, even if they were kept secret. Long has the society rewarded him, and finely, for his information. I believe he may cause trouble,” the dark elf finished.
“Kill him then if you believe him to be a potential threat. Is there anything else you want before I take my leave?”
Evengar lowered his eyes to the wooden table, then spoke quietly. “You once told me, that if I ever gained your favor, I would learn your name. I ask you again, who or what are you called?”
The yellow-eyed elf smiled. He stood from his chair and looked down at his friend. After a moment of consideration he said, “Maybe one day I will reveal my true identity. But, for now, my name is Shacaraz.” With that, he turned and left.
Evengar sat there for a few more moments, contemplating what he had learned. Shacaraz? In the Elder tongue of all elves, it literally meant “Shadowed Soul.” What could destroy a person so that he would change his name to that? Shaking his head he rose from where he sat.
Tossing a few coins at the bartender he left. He couldn’t sit around all day. He had a job to do. He had a deaths to deliver.
* * * * * *
Mantar pondered the disturbing news as he hung his armor on the rack. Two weeks ago, the rogue society’s meeting place in Kelethin had been destroyed. On top of that, over sixty rogues had disappeared in an explosion of magical blue fire. Their bodies had not been found. Not only that, but three rogues had been found dead in the woods. There was just too much agreeing with Cenard’s theory.
He slipped on a fine white V-necked shirt and a tan pair of pants. He grabbed his sheathed sword and tossed it across the small room onto his bed. He threw a white silk cloth over his armor. He then took a quick glance around his square room.
Many paintings and ancient artifacts hung on his brown wooden walls. His bed was made of feathers, dressed in white sheets. Next to his bed was a single window, shutters closed, blocking out the moonlight. Directly across from his bed was a door leading down to the tavern. It was closed, blocking most of the sound. On the other side of his bed was a nightstand with a single candle burning. The night stand had one drawer.
He walked across the room and sat on his bed. He sighed. There was too much going on for him to like. He wouldn’t meet with Cenard for another four days. Until then, he had to sit and ponder the news.
Mantar rubbed his eyes and yawned. When he opened them, he spotted the nightstand drawer. Pulling it open, he rummaged through the many candles and holders until he came to a slim wooden box.
He pulled the box out and closed the drawer. Setting the box on his lap, he studied the top of it. Engraved on the lid was the figure of a cat sitting. It was simple but beautiful. Mantar ran his fingers along the edge until he found the small clips that held it closed. Flipping them up, the box slowly opened.
Inside, sitting on red velvet, was the most beautiful dirk Mantar had ever seen. Its hilt was black with thin silver spirals running up it. Engraved on the bottom of the blade itself, in the center, was the same sitting cat that was on the box.
As Mantar stared at the dirk, it seemed to call out to him to pick it up. His hand began to move toward it, but stopped as he realized what he was doing. He snapped the lid shut before it could tempt him further.
He breathed, realizing that he had been holding his breath. He knew the dirk was sentient. He also knew it wanted him to wield it. It had been his mother’s weapon. Sapphire, his wood elven side and his mother, had been a master assassin. She had gone out one night and had left the wooden box open and empty at home. The next morning Mantar had found the dirk inside it. His mother never came home. Mantar had been twelve at the time. He had never forgiven her for leaving him. He had left for Queynos to join his human father, whom had left his mother, the very next morning. To spite his mother, he had become a warrior like his father instead of a rogue.
But now, as he looked back, he knew she had been right. Mantar’s every instinct was that of a rogue. He fought like a rogue, walked like a rogue, and lived like one. Even his job as informant was usually reserved for a rogue. The only difference between in and a real rogue was…he just wasn’t one. He had trained for years at the warriors guild, and even still did at times. He had become prominent, nearing the rank of master. But he knew he should have been a rogue. Damn, she had been right.
He lifted the box to set it back into its drawer. Pure instinct saved him as he saw a silver flash out of the corner of his eye. Dropping the box, Mantar grabbed his sheathed sword, which had been on the bed, and rolled off the other side.
As he began his roll a dagger thudded into the wood of the bed followed consecutively by two more. He risked a peek over the top of his bed. Standing in the doorway were three black robbed figures. Two stood holding thin rapiers at the ready. The third, standing behind the first two, stood without any weapons.
How had they gotten in without a noise? Mantar thought to himself. That bloody dirk must have distracted me too much.
The first two rogues then charged across the room, silent as death. Mantar drew his sword and leaped on the bed to meet their charge. Holding his sword in his right hand and his gold sheath in the left hand, Mantar used the advantage of height to slow their momentum. He wove his weapons in a defensive swirl, sheath and sword knocking away four deadly rapiers. The rogue on the right then attempted a risky attack, sliding both rapiers horizontally at the warrior, catching Mantar’s attention. The other leaped to the left and immediately pivoted onto the bed behind Mantar. Seeing the movement, Mantar dropped to one knee and slashed his sword across the front, knocking both rapiers aside. He brought his sheath over his head and down his back. He whipped it to the left, slapping aside a rapier aimed for his spinal cord. Immediately following the parry, Mantar leaped forward, sword leading, into the rogue. The rogue, having had both rapiers slapped away, had no defense. He tried to jump back, but the half-elf warrior was to fast. Mantar’s sword sank to the hilt in the rogue’s chest, bursting his heart.
Having downed one rogue, Mantar yanked his sword out and spun around, just in time to catch twin rapiers diving toward him. He parried the blades perfectly.
The third rogue, seeing the warrior and the other rogue squared off, walked across the room. Paying no attention to the two combatants, he walked to the bed. As he stopped next to the bed, he spotted the small box that the human had been inspecting. Unable to resist his curiosity, he reached down and picked it up. He felt around the edges until he found the clips. Flipping them open the box opened in his hand. His eyes widened as he spotted the magnificent dirk.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered to himself.
He reverently reached his hand towards the weapon. As his fingers touched the hilt, the room exploded in a white light. He screamed as he felt his hand explode, spraying blood across his face and the room.
Mantar and the other rogue were thrown across the room by the explosion. The rogue, that Mantar had been fighting, smacked into the wall head first. He fell unconscious to the ground. Mantar attempted to twist in the air, but only managed to keep his head from being hit. He rammed into the wall back first, knocking his breath and senses out of him.
The rogue, who had picked up the dirk, lay sprawled, half on and half off the bed. His blood was flowing from the stub that had once been his hand.
Mantar regained his senses and stood up on wobbly legs. He sheathed his sword. The dirk that had caused the explosion lay several feet away from him on the floor. He began to go retrieve it but stopped, as it slowly dissipated into black smoke. Mantar watched curiously as the smoke disappeared. Nothing was left where the dagger had once been.
He started to leave but noticed the slim box. It was laying wide open. The beautiful weapon sat inside it. Mantar bent down and picked up the box. With a quick glance to make sure it was the same weapon, he snapped the lid closed.
Mantar then went to retrieve his armor. As he pulled the white cloth off he jumped back with a yelp. Parts of his armor were slowly disappearing into black smoke. The smoke spread all over the armor, devouring it. Mantar yelped again as he felt his sword grow lighter. He drew it and saw that it too was being eaten by the black smoke. He looked around the room and found that the rogues had black smoke coming from their weapons and under their cloaks.
He dropped his sword and sheath. He began to walk out the door but stopped, as he heard militia guards charging up the stairs. Mantar quickly headed for the single window in his room. He only glanced at the handless rogue on the floor. The dark elf’s “L” shaped scar seemed to shine, even through all the black smoke that drifted from his body.
Mantar kicked open the shutters and leaped out. He fell the two story drop almost as well as any rogue would. Almost. He grimaced as he ran down the dusty road on numb legs.
Mantar ran out of Freeport with the cloth on his back and the box in his hand.
* * * * * *
As the guards ran in the room, they found two weaponless and armorless forms laying on the floor. One was dead and the other groaned in pain. Blood was splattered across the room. A strange mist seemed to be slowly disappearing.
The guards moved to collect the black robed figures, but stopped as they heard a chuckle from outside the window. As they turned their attention towards it, a peculiar bottle with orange liquid flew in. That was the last thing they ever saw as blue flames exploded through the room, devouring the whole building.
Jais Rassiter Registered User
Posts: 1057
(8/24/02 4:46 pm)
Re: And so a Rogue's story continues.
Loving the story. Doing a good job.
Jais Rassiter Assassin of Rodcet Nife. Ring Warden of Rodcet Nife.
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 8
(8/25/02 5:25 am)
The writer is a moron.
Reread the whole last chapter...because I skipped chapter 3. I took 4 off for now and put in three. Ill put 4+ more tomarrow. Sorry, I'm a retard.
Bolep Registered User
Posts: 691
(8/25/02 10:28 am)
Re: The writer is a moron.
Haha nah its a really good story.
Jais Rassiter Registered User
Posts: 1059
(8/25/02 6:30 pm)
Re: The writer is a moron.
Gonna have to re read it several times now to get it right in my head ) Really enjoying it.
Jais Rassiter Assassin of Rodcet Nife. Ring Warden of Rodcet Nife.
Belph Registered User
Posts: 13
(8/26/02 12:16 am)
Getting better and better
I hope its veeeeery long...
Jais Rassiter Registered User
Posts: 1061
(8/26/02 10:01 am)
Re: Getting better and better
/tap )
Jais Rassiter Assassin of Rodcet Nife. Ring Warden of Rodcet Nife.
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 15
(8/26/02 12:53 pm)
Hey, Here it Comes Again
Lol Jais, don't get your nickers in a wadd, I'm working on it, I have school you know =P
* * * * *
Chapter 4: Arrivals
The sun had gone down hours ago. Dran hadn’t been able to find any sleep; the yellow-eyed elf kept haunting his dreams. He leaned against the ship’s rail, staring out over the sea. The waters in the Ocean of Tears were as black as the sky, reflecting Dran’s thoughts. No moon shone tonight, ominous clouds covered the sky. Sprays of water skipped up into his face every now and then.
He breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of the sea. His hand went to the pendant that the dwarf had given him. As he felt the fine design. He knew there was something magical about the pendant. It gave him peace when the evil elf would not leave his thoughts. He rubbed his fingers over it one more time, then let it go.
Dran stood up straight and stretched. His hair hung free this night; he hadn’t felt like putting it up. His face was unshaven and scraggly. His two fine dirks hung on his magical black sash; they hadn’t been drawn in a little over two weeks.
Has it been that long? He quietly mused. It feels like just yesterday I had returned to Kelethin. I had been so happy to be home. Damn that yellow-eyed elf. I swear I’ll…
A familiar voiced harrumphed behind him. Coming from his thoughts, Dran turned to see his friend Brontiger. The yellow bearded dwarf had sleepy blue eyes. His fine rapier hung across his back. He unconsciously twirled his serrated dirk in his hand. His black armor would have blended in with the night, but Dran could see just fine with his excellent Elven sight. The dwarf walked up next to Dran and leaned on the rail. He looked out over the ocean with an unreadable face.
A few moments of tranquil silence passed. “Can’t sleep eith’r elfie?” he finnally asked in a quiet voice.
“Too much on the mind,” Dran replied as he leaned on the rail next to Brontiger. Water lapped up against the boat; black water tickled their faces.
“Ye to, eh? That bloody elf on yer m’nd as well?”
Dran didn’t answer; he continued stair out over the dark sea. More salty spray splashed into their faces.
Brontiger let it go. He didn’t want to press his friend on this subject. As much as it upset him, he knew it upset Dran more. Kelethin had been his birthplace. The Scouts of Tunare had been like his parents. They had raised him and shaped him into the man he was today. Now, most all of them were dead, with all thanks going to the short elf. Brontiger coughed to break the silence.
“We’ll make it te Freep’rt tomorrow. De ye ‘ave any idea how we’re going te find that bloody Raven’s Eye?” The Dwarf turned to regard his somber friend. How much Dran had changed! He had once been so free spirited; but now...he seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Bront turned back, he couldn’t bear to watch his friend in so much pain.
“We’ll go by the rogue’s guild there. An old friend, and a guild guild master, there should know something. If that doesn’t help, we will head to a few friends I have. If all else fails, we will head to the Safe-House itself, in High Hold Keep.” Dran didn’t even turn to look at his friend. His hand went back to the medallion.
Bront chuckled. Dran turned an angry glare on him then.
“What’s so funny?” Dran asked.
“Ye just sounded like a leader, that’s all. Who’d ‘ave thought Dran the half-elf, most irresponsible thief ever born, would ev’r turn into a leader. Me’be that durned medallion is getting te yer head.”
Dran stumbled over a refute, then realized what he was saying. He smiled, the first time he had since Kelethin. A wisp of salty water gently kissed his face.
“I suppose your right Bront. I’ll keep my ego in check. I’d not want my perfection to make you feel bad.” Dran laughed at his friend’s loud denial of that statement.
“We’ll, I’ll let ye be with yer perrrrfect self. I’d not want me feeling’s hert if ye decided te show me my flaws.” Brontiger grumbled. Dran laughed again.
“All right Bront, all right. Goodnight you ugly dwarf. I’ll wake you when we get to Freeport.” Brontiger didn’t even bother to reply; he just slipped back below to his sleeping bag.
Dran smiled as he watched his friend go. He was lucky to have such a caring companion, even if the companion wouldn’t admit it. His smile faded as his thoughts led to darker things. They would reach Freeport tomarrow, probably a bit before sunrise. The rogue’s guild was close to the docks, so it shouldn’t take too long. If that didn’t work, Dran would head to his old friend Mantar Monchio, an informant he had met long ago on his travels. Mantar had helped him acquire the whereabouts of a certain few assassination targets. If Mantar couldn’t tell him anything, he would find Thorn Hairytoe. Thorn, a chubby little halfling, had hunted orcs with Dran in their younger days. He was rumored to be making a living as a cutpurse and informant in the Freeport streets.
Dran sighed as salty spray licked his face. There was so much to do. He fingered the medallion again. The dwarf who had given him this medallion had chosen Dran as the leader. He wouldn’t fail. The yellow-eyed elf would burn in hell. Something splashed in the dark distance.
I swear I’ll kill him.
Dran didn’t sleep a wink that night.
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 20
(8/26/02 1:59 pm)
Plus more, as I promised.
* * * * * *
They arrived about an hour before dawn in Freeport. Dran, Brontiger, and Rin Devira, the young wood elf, donned brown cloaks to hide their armor and weapons. The docks seemed to be lifeless at this hour. A thin fog lingered over the seaside. The Tavern to the right of the docks was dark as the night; no candles shone through the windows. The three companions walked briskly off the docks and to the left. The Inn that loomed in front of them was dark also, reflecting the Tavern they had left behind.
As they neared the inn they stopped abruptly and turned left down wooden stairs leading to the lower docks. As they came to the bottom of the stairs, they noticed a barbarian snoring with a fishing pole laying next to him. The rogues looked at each other and grinned. Stealing from the poor always made a man feel horrible, unless he was a rogue. Quickly they set to searching and taking anything that wasn’t attached to the barbarian’s body.
After the small splurge of skills, Dran led them into a small hidden woodcn door under the dock. He cracked it open to reveal a dark and musty room. He looked back at Bront and Rin to be sure they were still there, then slipped silently in. Dran led the small group around the many dusty boxes and crates that littered the place. Pushing aside a box that was in front of the wall he smiled and pointed at the wall.
“Watch closely,” he whispered. He leaped into the wall and disappeared. Brontiger and Rin jumped back.
“That little rat, always loving the surprise” Brontiger grumbled. With that Brontiger leaped after Dran. Rin shrugged and followed suit.
Inside was a dark tunnel, lit scarcely by torches hanging on the wall. The walls were made of hard packed dirt, supported by wooden beams. The beams seemed to be a bit rotten; their brown color disfigured by the spots of gray and black mold. Shadows danced and leaped about as the small party moved down the compact tunnel. The wooden beams creaked and let dust fall at uneven intervals, giving quiet the uneasy feeling. Cobwebs, thick as silk rope littered the tunnel. Dran had to wave his hand in front of him several times to clear a path through the white strands. Roaches and other unidentifiable insects constantly scurried underfoot.
Dran led the others through the gloomy tunnel until he came to a small wooden door. He removed his brown cloak and tucked it away into his backpack. He bade his companions to do so as well. Once they had taken off their cloaks, Dran rapped a simple pattern on the door, then repeated it three more times. After the last time, the door opened with a creak. Inside a dirty old man cursed.
“I hate that damn entrance sequence. Can’t we just change it to a simple word?” the old man asked aloud to no one in particular.
In the room sat two tables. At one table sat the old man; an empty liquor bottle sat in front of him. Brontiger chuckled as he spotted the bottle. At the other table sat two humans playing cards. One had brown uncombed hair and an eye patch over his left eye. He yawned and scratched it. With a quick glance at the new group that had entered, he picked it up and moved it to the right eye. He wore simple banded mail. In front of, stuck in the table, sat a rusty dagger. His companion was not much different. He had curly blond hair. His eyes darted around nervously all the time, giving a wonderful example of what a nervous rat would look like. He wore the same banded mail as his friend did. He held a pipe in one hand and his cards in his other. Strapped to his waist was what looked to be a rapier.
Dran ignored the people at the old tables. He just walked past them to the end of the small room, where a tarp hung over a passage. He turned back to regard his companions who sat stunned on the other side.
Bront, coming to his senses, took one last look at the old man, who was now rocking back and forth muttering to himself. He followed Dran’s path. Rin, shaking his head in disgust, followed Brontiger. Dran smiled as he saw his friend’s reactions. If only they knew how deadly those dirty guards were.
As they came near him Dran pulled the tarp back and went through it. The other two followed after him. Inside the next room were several round tables. On the walls hung many fine weapons: rapiers, dirks, daggers, spears, and swords. Dran turned to Brontiger and Rin. He bade them to go sit at one of the tables. They did as he asked, moving to an empty table close to the door.
Dran moved quietly across the room. He passed several halflings tossing dice on the floor. A barbarian sat sharpening his dirk at one of the tables. Several dark elves stood talking away from everyone else, their red eyes moving constantly across the dimly lit room. Their distrust and dislike of everyone else was obvious. On the opposite side of the room, a slim figure leaned against one of the walls. As Dran neared, he made out the fine feminine curves and red eyes. Her white hair hung to her waist, perfectly trimmed and full. She wore what looked to be chain mail, but Dran knew it was more. On her hips sat two rapiers. Flanking behind her were two men. One was obviously a human wearing a green cloak with no weapons that were visible. The other, probably a half-elf due to his stubby pointed ears, stood holding out his fine sword. He ran a cleaning cloth over the blade; his hands moved smoothly up and down the sword as his eyes moved constantly around the room. He wore banded mail with another sword strapped across his back.
As Dran neared the beautiful dark elven women, he bowed his head.
“The good shadows cover your blade, and may Bristlebain bless your silence old friend,” Dran spoke in formal greeting.
“Not many these days would claim any assassin as friend, and even less would dare speak the name of The Mischievous,” the beautiful dark elf said back with a wink. “Dran, it has been too long! I have missed your constant jokes and pranks.” With that she wrapped him in a hug, a very rare thing for a dark elf to do. The two men behind her looked curiously.
As she released him, Dran spoke, “It is good to see you too Nishva. I too have missed your constant scolding about my maturity.” He winked back at her and smiled.
Nishva laughed aloud, her beautiful white hair flowed as she shook her head. She pursed her full purplish lips, then looked to Dran smiling. “Well, we must catch up on each other. Come, sit.” With that she grabbed his arm and led him to an empty table.
Once they had settled, Nishva spoke. “What has brought you back to Freeport? Last I had heard was that you were busy leading raids against the giants of Solusek. Did slaying giants bore you? Or did they get the best of you?” She grinned at Dran.
He chuckled. “I was in the Solusek dungeons, and woe to any giants that came against me! While there, I decided I wanted to become a redeemed rogue. So I set out to begin the quest for redemption.”
Nishva looked at him incredulously. She sniffed “You’re lying. You swore you’d never need redemption for anything. You’ve always mocked those who sought such an idea.”
Again Dran chuckled. “You know me too well Nishva. Truly though, I was called out of Solusek on business. I was hired too…dispose of a few troublesome bandits outside Queynos. After that, I decided I wanted to see the wonders of Kunark. I traveled the lands there and found many new foes to fight. I became homesick though, and decided to return to Kelethin. By chance, when I returned, the rogue society there called an emergency meeting.
“But before I get into the rest of my story. How have you been Nishva? You still waste your time down here, guarding Safe-House records?”
She nodded her head, then replied. “I have spent most my time down here. I only go out every now and then, hunting giants for sport. Twice I was hired to investigate riot causes. The riots had murdered two rogues. It turned out to be nothing, though. Other than that, I have been my boring self, living my life as dark elves do, in the dark and underground.” There seemed to be a bit of sadness in her voice.
Dran shook his head. “That’s a shame Nishva. You used to lead raids into the homes of the gods. Why don’t you leave this rat’s hole? You are respected as one of the greatest strategists to ever come out of the Safe-House. You could rule this world with a little ambition.”
The dark elf averted her eyes from Dran’s. “I suppose, I just am looking for something else. Sure, having power is great, but its not all life is about. I mean, look at me. My race is noted for our over ambition mixed with hateful coldness. But I have found that coldness numbs the experience of life, and hate destroys the enjoyment. I have found emotions and joys that most of my people will never find. Ambition is the same way. It eats you up from the inside. If you’re not careful, it will destroy you. I don’t want that. I want room for…well, for…for something more,” she finished.
Dran looked at her curiously. He shook his head as he pondered what she had said.
Nishva looked back into his eyes. “One day you will understand Dran. But until then, please don’t forget my words.”
She looked at him with pleading eyes until he nodded.
“Now, enough about me. Dran, tell me why you have come here. Are you in trouble? I’ll do anything to help you.”
Dran leaned back in his chair, looking at her sadly. He then told his tale, from killing the orcs all the way to getting the medallion. Her eyes widened as he talked. When he told her of the medallion, he pulled it out of concealment and off his neck. He handed it to her. Her mouth fell wide open in amazement.
“D-D-Dran! Do you know what this is!” she said as she looked at the medallion.
Dran looked at her curiously. He shook his head as peeled her eyes away from the medallion to look at him.
“This is a Guardian Medallion!” she exclaimed.
He looked at her, this time even more confused.
“You mean you don’t know? How long has it been since you came by a Safe-House stronghold?”
“I guess about three years,” he said, curiosity still on his face.
“That would explain it. You were probably too young when you last left. Well anyway, this is the symbol of the Guardian. Long ago, when the Safe-House was established, the first Raven’s Eye gave seven of these medallions to the first rogues. They marked them as Guardians. The medallion has some magical qualities to it, though I don’t have any idea what. The Guardians were given access to the Safe-House’s most secret files. To carry a medallion is an honor. If he gave it to you, it must mean he knew he was going to die.”
Before she could continue any more, Dran spoke. “If that makes a person a Guardian, then what do they guard?”
She glared at him for interrupting. “It doesn’t just make a person a guardian, only rogues. And, as to what they guard, only they know that.”
Dran threw up his arms and laughed. “That does us a lot of good, I have a Guardian medallion and I don’t know what to guard.” A sharp glare from her cut his sarcasm short. “Anyway, back to my original question. Can you help me find the Raven’s Eye?”
She handed the medallion back to him. He slipped it over his head. “I have no idea where the Raven’s Eye is, only that he is around here.”
Dran cursed. “Well, I guess I’ll have to find Mantar. Maybe he’ll be able to help me.”
Nishva lowered her eyes. “Dran, I know Mantar was your friend. I’m so sorry, he died in a fire two days ago. I’m so sorry Dran, the whole Safe-House mourns his loss as well.”
A cloaked figure sitting at a table close to the hacked, his black form rocking. Dran looked at Nishva, then stood up and kicked his stool across the room.
“Bloody hell! Does everyone I care for die?” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The medallion swung in the air.
Nishva stood up to calm him down. The whole room had gone quiet. All eyes were on Dran. He realized what he had done, and sat down on another stool embarrassed.
“Look Dran, Thorn is still in the city. Second to Mantar, he is the best person to go to for information. We can go to him today if you’d like.” She looked at Dran. She moved her hand across the table and sat it on his in apology. He nodded his head.
Dran and Nishva walked out of the room. As they passed, Brontiger and Rin followed them out.
* * * * * *
Cenard watched the quartet walk out. He then stood up and slowly wobbled out behind them, doing his best old beggar impression. His black robes covered him so well that no one could see his face.
The young half elf had mentioned wanting to see Mantar. Cenard cursed as the memories came back, the flames that had killed his best friend. He had been there moments too late. He couldn’t forgive himself, but he could get revenge. There was no way in hell that had been an accident. Someone had assassinated Mantar. Cenard was going to find out who, no matter what it cost him.
He hobbled out of the underground tunnel and slowly followed the young half elf and his companions.
******************************************
Ok, I promise I'll become better at writing with females. I just have the strange problem of not understanding them, they are just all way too confusing. Edited by: Dran Ebon at: 8/26/02 4:08:14 pm
It started as a horrible day
Had to go to the office at 5:30 a.m. this morning. Work sucked majorly. All the people going on my nerves. And then... TWO chapters here.
Good story
Great story, hope it makes it to a conclusion.
Methinks Mantar is not as dead as it seems *P
Dran Ebon Registered User
Posts: 28
(8/28/02 12:38 pm)
Re: Good story
Chapter 5:
The Peace Flame
As Nishva led Dran, Brontiger, and Rin from the docks, the sun was just peeking over the horizon. Its golden rays lit up the sleeping city, bringing out many of the local and visiting habitants. Shopkeepers opened their small stores as the group of rogues walked casually down the dirty roads. Merchants and vendors loaded and pulled carts full of wares. Yawning red-marked militia guards walked along the streets, heading to relieve the nighttime watch.
Adventurers and would-be adventurers marched down the streets, as many solo as in groups. Warriors and Paladins strutted in their heavy armor; many looking distastefully at the rogues. Monks, wearing simple cloth clothes or unadorned robes, stretched in small groups along the roadways. Magic users, most walking by themselves, walked pompo
usly down the roads, lifting their noses to anyone they passed.
Nishva led them through the waking city in a westward direction. As they came near the western boundary of the city, they were met by a large crowd of people circling around Freeport’s city gate.
As they neared, they found it was impossible to pass. Nishva decided to find what was going on.
Tapping a nearby peasant on the shoulder, she spoke. “What’s going on here good sir? This crowd certainly makes it hard for me and my companions to pass.”
The peasant glared at the dark elf. “You’re kind can rot in hell,” he spat.
Dran, growing impatient of the whole scene, decided to ask the fellow himself. He walked past Nishva and tapped the rude man on the shoulder. The man turned around with a curse, expecting to see the dark elf again. His nose was bet by Dran’s fist instead, splattering blood across his face and knocking him to the ground. Dran leaped on the man as he hit the ground. He slipped his dagger out of its sheath and held the tip to the man’s throat.
“She asked you nicely,” Dran said in a calm voice. “Now I’m gonna have to ask you nicely as well. What is going on here, or would you rather to see more of your blood spilt?”
The man coughed up blood then spoke. “It’s a Peace Flame demonstration. They’ve caught peace breakers and are going to punish them.”
Dran got off the man without another word. He turned to Nishva and told her the news.
Nishva spat. “Damned hypocrites. They probably abducted random victims, so as to demonstrate their ‘power and authority’,” she said in an angry tone.
Rin looked curiously at her. “I thought the Peace Flame fought for the good of all Norrath?” he asked her.
Nishva continued to stare out over the crowd as she spoke to Rin, her red eyes glowing with obvious hate. “Those bastards seek not the good of Norrath, they seek only the good of themselves. They abduct any who try to spread the truth of their justice. They torture to death any who are caught.
“My brother was one such execution. He discovered a plot to slaughter a farming village in the Karanas and blame it on the nearby Ogre city. Renwarb, my brother, thwarted their plans and saved the poor farmers. He was no rogue though, and did not have our ability to survive. The Flame caught and executed him. Before he died, he gave his lover, who was a great assassin, a letter to give to me. His letter told me what had happened. At that time I still lived in the city of Nariek. After I read the letter, my whole life changed. I abandoned my dark path and decided to follow the path my brother chose. I decided to become a creature worth breathing.”
She paused, letting the memories pass. “I never forgave the Flame for what they did. One day I will have my revenge.”
Brontiger and Rin looked to each other, surprised that a dark elf could hold so much emotion. Dran though, had heard the story before. He showed no other reaction than looking out over the crowd.
Suddenly all noise ceased. The crowd watched quietly as four human paladins on horseback rode to the center of the gathering. Their bright silver and white armor gleamed beautifully as the crowd parted respectively before them. Following closely behind the riders, was a pair of horses pulling a wooden wagon. The driver of the wagon wore a robe of black. Scars, white as snow, covered his entire face. Across his back was strapped a large crescent axe.
Sitting next to the scared man was a high elf. The elf’s hair was silver and slicked back behind his ears. His face was straight but handsome. He wore bright silver robes with a shoulder sash stretching across his chest. Sewn into the sash was the emblem of a small ball of flame, the symbol of the Peace Flame.
On the back of the wagon, tied by chains to large poles sticking up from the wagon, were three prisoners. Two where human men wearing tattered remnants of clothing. The third was a half-elf female. Her skirt and torn to the point of revealing much skin. Weariness gripped all the prisoner’s faces.
As the crowd closed behind the wagon, the high elf stood up. He casually dusted his fine robes off. He then turned to regard the silent crowd. His gaze swept across the many eyes watching him.
The elf then spoke, his voice projecting as if enhanced by magic. “Fellow Norrathians, I, Reave Syndil, High Magistrate of the Flame, have come in the name of Peace. Today, the Flame brings justice to the guilty and joy to the innocent. Today, you shall see what becomes of those who disrupt the Peace!”
He quickly turned and stepped into the back of the wagon. He glared at the three prisoners. Then with a quick grin of superiority, he turned back to the crowd.
“These three, “ his voice boomed over the crowd, “ have dared to challenge the authority of the Flame and attempt to disrupt the tranquility we protect and stand for. They, in choosing to remain loyal to their lawless guild, have betrayed all creatures of Norrath. These, these traitors, are assassins of the Safe-House. Their guild, haven of all rogues, is the bane of all goodness. The Flame will punish any who support this heretic guild!”
Reave then turned to the three prisoners. “If you damn the Safe-House and denounce the Way of the Raven, “ he said loudly, “then you will live.”
He walked to the first man. The elf grabbed the man’s chin and lifted his face to make eye contact as he spoke. “What say you rogue? Will you join those who wish to save Norrath, or stay with thy villain’s heart?”
The rogue glared at the pompous wizard. “Damn yourself you bastard,” the rogue cursed. He spat in the wizard’s face.
The wizard stepped back from the volatile prisoner. Anger burned red in his face as he whipped the spit off.
“You choose your own fate, fool,” the wizard spoke in a coarse whisper.
Reave lifted his hand, palm facing towards the prisoner’s face. The air around him seemed to tingle, sparks of light danced around his hand. A tiny flame leaped to life in his palm. It grew and grew, becoming a hissing ball of fire.
The wizard muttered an arcane word and the fireball flew forward. The rogue screamed in contempt an instant before the flames engulfed his face, burning his very life to cinders.
Reave stepped back from the burning man. His beautiful elven face glistened with sweat. Both his hands quivered with pure excitement. The air around him still seemed to fizz with magic. He ran his hand through his fine silver hair, smoothing it back once more. He chuckled as he turned to the next man tied in chains.
“Will you, “ Reave said in a calm voice, “ choose the path that leads to Peace? Or, will you follow your heretic comrade, whose soul burns in the deepest depths of hell for his sins?”
The prisoner did not even flinch. He raised his chin and glared at the pompous executioner. “The will of Bristlebain will live on regardless of who you kill,” the doomed man said coldly.
Reave did not even bother to reply. He lifted his hand again, igniting the magical ball of flame. The fire shot fourth into the rogue’s face. The brave rogue’s expression did not change as he stared calmly as death slammed into his life and destroyed it.
The wizard walked to the woman, leaving the other two burning corpses behind. He stopped several feet in front of her. He slowly looked her body up and down, destroying her pride as he stared.
Tears dripped from her cheeks as she looked up to him. Her lips quivered as she stared the evil elf in the eyes. “You can burn in hell wizard; you and the rest of the Flame,” she said quietly.
Reave screamed in rage. He grabbed her breast and ignited his deadly magic. Flames erupted and exploded her lungs. In rage he brought his hand to her face and shot forth fire into it as well. He leaped off the wagon, landing several yards away. The crowd moved quickly back as the wizard turned to face the wagon once more. The three bodies still burned in flames.
“This is the beginning of the end for the Safe-House!” he screamed. “All who destroy the Peace shall be damned!”
With that he began waving his hands in practiced movements, bringing the magic under his control. His lips moved in unknown languages; silently calling the magic. His fists began to emit a bright white light. Suddenly, as his movements reached a climax, he slung his hands forward. A small transparent white globe shot out and soared quietly beneath the wagon.
A few seconds passed. Reave turned his back to the wagon.
Facing the crowd, his chest heaving, he quietly said, “may their souls rot in hell.” He snapped his finger.
Bright with flames exploded beneath the wagon, igniting the horses and the scarred man in fire. The white flames soared higher into the sky, reaching above many buildings. Many in the crowd were caught by the magical fire, burning their lives away as well. The crowd moved farther back, giving the flames their respectful distance.
The four riders then rode to the wizard. One lifted Reave onto the back of his horse. They then took off through the crowd and ran out of Freeport, leaving the burning pyre behind.
Nishva, Dran, Brontiger, and Rin stared wide-eyed at the spectacle of the burning wagon. All four stuck dumb with disbelief.
“This cannot be,” Nishva said softly. “The Flame has openly declared war on the Safe-House; on nearly every rogue in all Norrath. Those damned fools, those poor damned fools.”
Dran didn’t say anything at all. His heart sunk as he stared at the funeral pyre of his comrades. He had a feeling something big was about to happen…and he was going be part of it.
*******************************
Sorry I took so long to post, have a lot of homework most nights now. Anyways, I tell me who your fav char is from now on hehe =) I wanna know.
Re: Good story
I like what you did in chapter 5 to boost Nishva's character, but to tell you the truth my favorite characters are our hero Dran and Cenard. I am still enjoying your story for it is very well written.
Edited by: SubbunFuzzyfeet246 at: 8/29/02 7:56:34 pm
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