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From: [e-mail] (Jeff Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: STORY:  The Outlander
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 19 Sep 1995 13:16:17 -0400
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         Prologue:  An Ill Wind....



   There is a windswept plain to the south of Generica,
a desolate place where nothing grows, and where no
living creature ever ventures.  In the middle of that
plain stands an ancient ruin; a temple built of rough
stones.  Whichever god the temple was raised to has
forsaken this place; so long ago that in another decade,
time's caress will erase any sign that this place was
formed by man at all.

   Tonight - like every other night for the past
thousand years - a mournful wind howls through the
empty  halls.  It gives voice to the ghosts that walk
between the crumbling pillars.  It tosses the bones of
nameless martyrs across cracked floors as if they were
the toys of some mischievous child.  Yet on this night,
unlike countless nights past, something is different.
  There is the promise of something in the air tonight.
The promise of . . . a happening.  Something is coming.
Something that makes even these long dead and long un-
caring phantoms look up from their mindless games and
take note.
   Over the altar, there is a glow.  A glow so small
and so faint that it may have been there all along . . .
but now it is growing brighter.  It grows brighter and
brighter until it takes on the aspect of an open door.
Through that door comes a white radiance before which
no darkness can stand.  A radiance so bright that the
ghosts cry out in fear of something they cannot name
and cringe behind the shelter of the ancient pillars.


   Then the doorway is gone.  Vanished perhaps, or just
faded back into imperceptibility.  Yet where it once
shone so brightly, there now stands a man.  A man with
scars on his hands and thousand-year old eyes.  For a
long moment he stands there, while around him the wind
keens like an army of the damned.  Then he begins
walking.  He walks toward the north, leaving the temple
to the wind and its ghosts.







            Chapter 1:  Outlander






     Rollo wondered which tankard he was on.  It was a
thought which came to him now and again as he stood at the
bar cleaning tankard after tankard.  Sometimes it came to
him every night for a week.  Sometimes a month would pass
before that question would buzz in his brain again: 'In all
the years that I've tended bar, how many of these tankards
have I washed?' It was a game he played with himself, a
perverse way of marking time in a career where one night
was much like any other.

     Wipe and polish, wipe and polish, over and over until
each one was spotless.  On a night when business was good,
Rollo might have over four hundred tankards to clean.  On
a night when business was bad, he was lucky to get twenty.
Over the ten year span of his career as a mixologist,Rollo
figured he had cleaned over half a million tankards. It was
a depressing thought.

     Tonight his reverie was interrupted as the door opened
and a blast of cold air swirled across the room.  Some of
the lamps sputtered and went out and more than one patron
turned to curse the new arrival.  Rollo was astonished to
see his normally acerbic patrons turn back to their drinks
without uttering a word.

     The newcomer had an air of weariness to him, almost as
if he had just circumvented the globe on foot.  He carried
an ornately hilted greatsword across his back, and short-
swords in fast-draw rigs on either hip.  Beneath his
tattered cloak, his armor was like nothing Rollo had seen
before, some hybrid of chainmail, steel plate and hardened
leather.  An outlander, Rollo guessed.

    The bartender watched as the new arrival turned towards
one of the corner tables.  It was occupied.  He turned in
the direction of another; it was likewise occupied.  For a
long moment  the man stood motionless,surveying the inn's
interior.  Then, with what looked like a shrug, he walked
over to the bar. Rollo and the man exchanged glances, each
sizing the other up.  Rollo understood why his patrons had
clammed up,the outlander looked formidable.

     The man was not tall, only 5'10" or so.  But he was
big.  His chest,arms and shoulders had the thickness that
only swordsmen and blacksmiths have. He was ruggedly good-
looking, with medium brown hair that had a streak of pure
white running through it.  He might have been as young as
thirty, or as old as forty. It was the eyes that made it
hard to tell.  They were bright green. Rollo didn't like
those eyes.   They were eyes that had witnessed a great
deal of the world's wickedness.  They were scary eyes.
They watched him intently as the man slid onto the stool
opposite him.

"Lot of corners in this bar," the man stated conversation-
ally.

"Yep," Rollo said by way of reply, studiously watching the
tankard he was polishing.

"They're all occupied," the man continued.

"Yep."

"Everybody seems to be wearing a dark hooded cloak."

"Yep."  Rollo refused to look into those eyes again unless
it became absolutely necessary.

"Bartender, you are a goddamned conversational genius, did
you know that?" the man asked with a grin.

"I get paid to pour drinks." Rollo explained, hiding a small
grin of his own.

"And a quick man to arrive at the point, I see," the man
said, fishing into one of his pouches.  "Does this have
any value here?"

     A coin rang as it struck the surface of the bar.  Rollo
picked up the coin.  It was gold.  Heavy.  Foreign.  "It's
worth plenty. . . but maybe not as much as you're used to."
Rollo liked to head off points of future contention before
they could develop.

"Bartender, I am too goddamned thirsty to argue about your
exchange rate."

"I like a man who's flexible." Rollo grunted.

     He began pouring the man a cool one, waiting for the
foam to settle before adding a little more.  When he fin-
ished layering the ale, he slid it over to the newcomer.
The man picked it up with a powerful looking hand.  It
bore a number of nasty looking scars, faded by time.  The
newcomer noticed Rollo looking at them.

"I used to be in a rough trade," he said by way of explan-
ation.

     Rollo dropped his eyes in embarrassment.  It was none
of his business.  The newcomer let him squirm for a moment,
then stretched his hand over the bar.  "My name is Jake.
Jake Shade."

     Rollo shook the hand firmly, answering the powerful
grip with one of his own, strengthened from years of wrest-
ling  casks up out of the basement and behind the bar.
"You can call me Rollo."

Jake Shade settled back on his stool with a grin.  "There's
a lot of bartenders named Rollo where I'm from."

"Oh, yeah?  Where's that?"

Shade's grin faded, and he looked down at his drink. "It's
a place called Aurauna.  I doubt you've heard of it."

Over the outlander's shoulder, Rollo noticed a disturbance
as Bungg, the Inn's resident tough guy made his usual noisy
entrance.  Without turning around,Shade undid a clasp on
the sword belt running across his chest, causing the great-
sword to slide down to his hip.

     Warning bells began to chime in Rollo's head.  You
didn't tend bar for ten years without learning to recognize
potential trouble when you saw it.  Luckily Bungg settled
in quickly with a crowd of the rabble, seemingly content
to drink in peace tonight.  Rollo turned his attention back
to the outlander.

"You're right, Jake.  I've never heard of Aurauna.  It must
be a long way from here."

"Not far enough." Shade muttered to himself. Rollo pretended
not to hear.  A nosy bartender wasn't good for business.
Shade finished his ale with relish, setting the tankard down
with a thump.

"Now that was a quality ale!" the outlander exclaimed,
motioning for a refill.  Rollo blushed.  Like any bartender,
Rollo took a lot of pride in his craft.  He decided he liked
this guy despite the weird eyes.  "I brew it myself." Rollo
mentioned in an off-hand manner as he poured another.

Shade looked interested.  "You ever try to brew a lager
instead of an ale?" he inquired.

"What's a lah-ger?" Rollo asked, excited at the prospect of
picking up an outland brewing secret.  Jake smiled and
settled back on his stool. His demeanor changed to that of
an experienced story-teller about to regale the unwashed
with a tale of wonder.

     It was at that exact point that Rollo's night changed
irrevocably from a fairly pleasant one to a night that
would haunt him for the rest of his life.  With an explosive
grunt, Bungg heaved his considerable bulk up onto the stool
next to the outlander.  In the process he struck Shade's
elbow, sloshing a good part of his drink onto the surface
of the bar.  It was not an accident.

     Shade's countenance did not change, nor did he react in
any manner. Yet Rollo, who was directly across from him,
thought that those green eyes began to burn brighter, as if
fueled by an inner fire.  The alarm bells began clanging in
the bartender's head once again.

"They got a shortage of swords where you come from, pal?"
Bungg sneered, showering the outlander with boozy breath.

Shade remained unperturbed.  "Why do you ask?"

"Because you re the only weebo I've ever met that wears
three swords.  One is good enough for everybody else."

"I don't use the big one," the outlander replied quietly.

"Why bother carrying it all, weebo?  It's a pretty big
blade for a short guy like yourself."  Bungg was enjoying
himself immensely.

"Because it's too dangerous for anybody else to have,"
Shade said calmly, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a
child.

Bungg laughed a nasty little laugh.  "Oh yeah?  I guess
we'll see about that!"  The bully lunged forward, snatching
for the hilt of the sword.

     Rollo's view of what happened was partially blocked by
the bar.  Even later, after the day of relentless interviews
he would soon undergo at the hands of the City Guard and the
Mage's Guild, the only thing that he could swear to was that
Shade's hands never left the surface of the bar.  It wasn't
necessary.

     The inn was suddenly filled by a low, evil humming.
Rollo felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to crawl,
as that sound filled him with a sense of horror.  He could
feel the protective spells that surrounded the inn straining
under a mystic assault of major proportions.  They were
beginning to unravel.

     The other patrons of the inn began to shout in fear,
and break for the door.  Bungg remained where he was, one
hand on the hilt of the outlander's sword; which he had
managed to draw an inch or so from its sheath.  His gaze
was locked on the portion of the blade that he had exposed,
his face frozen in a rictus of sheer terror.  Unnoticed, a
strand of drool hung from his gaping mouth.

     With a languor that Rollo could scarcely credit in the
presence of that blade, the outlander finished his drink.
He stood up slowly, and moved the sword's sheath back up so
that it crossed his back once again.  Completely sheathed
once more, the blade quieted.

     As its dirge-like crooning faded, Rollo realized that
he had been holding his breath from the moment Bungg had
grabbed for the sword. Shakily, he let the breath out and
drew in another.  He locked his eyes on Shade's unnaturally
bright ones.  "Don't ever bring that blade in here again,
Jake." he said in a steady voice.

"Sure Rollo.  Whatever you say."  Shade walked to the door,
stopping only to thump the motionless Bungg on the shoulder.

"Some things are better left alone... weebo."

    Rollo watched the outlander open the door and disappear
into the misery outside.  He took a deep breath, and
surveyed the interior ofthe deserted inn.  It would be a
slow night.  With an unsteady hand, he picked up tankard
number five hundred thousand and one.  Methodically he
began to clean it. 'Some things are better left alone.'
the outlander had said.

Rollo looked at Bungg's catatonic form and shook his head
sadly.

"You can say that again, pal.  You can say that again."






**********************************************************
 The character of Jake Shade and the fantasy world of
 Aurauna are copyrights of Jeff A. Simon, 1995.  All
 rights reserved.  The use of this or any other stories
 featuring the Jake Shade character for profit is
 prohibited without the express permission of the author.
**********************************************************

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