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From: [e-mail] (Jeff Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: Story:  The Outlander  Chapter 5
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 19 Sep 1995 13:18:29 -0400
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***************************************************
A mysterious outlander calling himself Jake Shade
has come to Generica, bringing with him an even
more mysterious unholy artifact.  He has befriended
a graduate student at the Academy, a young mage by
the name of Tadmaster. A young female thief - who's
connection with these two remains unclear - has
accidentally come into possession of a talisman
which is desired by some very nasty people.
***************************************************





     Chapter 5:  Fortune's Hand




     Business was slow that day.  Rather than enjoying
the relaxed pace, the wizened old seer known as Futuria
Crystalshard had been feeling something akin dread all
day.  It was a sensation like storm clouds looming on
the horizon, invisible but threatening all the same.

    Futuria knew what that sensation signified.  A
warning of great importance would be coming to someone
through him before the night was over.  He was consider-
ing whether or not to close up early in an attempt to
avoid that fate when the bell over his door tinkled.

     Futuria looked up to see a young woman of perhaps
twenty push her way into the shop.  The woman had hair
of the darkest black and eyes of the brightest blue.
Her body, although undernourished, held the potential
to one day drive men wild with desire.

     Futuria had lived long enough to know much about
this young woman even without being a seer. Just looking
at her was enough to learn her story. . . if you had the
eyes to see.  It was not a happy story.  Nor was it an
uncommon one.

"What can I do for you, Yvette Anastel?" he asked the
young woman.

Yvette brushed her raven-black hair back from her
forehead.

"How did you know my name?" she asked somewhat fearfully.

"If you came here believing that I can read the future
for you, my knowledge of your name should seem a thing of
comparatively little wonder."

"That makes sense,"  Yvette conceded.  "Can you read my
future, Mister Crystalshard?"

"Most assuredly, child.  The question is, do you want me
to do it?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I didn't."  Yvette pointed
out with a smile.

"That is true, child.  Perhaps I should have asked if you
will still feel the same way when I am done?"

"I'm not afraid of what the future holds," Yvette said
quietly. "It can't be any worse than the past."

"That is something only someone very young would say."
Futuria waited to see if his warning would discourage
this young woman. It did not. He had not expected it
to.

"Very well then.  Please take a seat." he said indicating
a small table with two chairs.

     The table was covered by a cloth as black as night.
The seer placed an ornate cask of dark wood on the table,
removing a small velvet bundle from inside.  Yvette leaned
forward to see what he was doing.

     Futuria was amused by the young woman's curiosity.
He opened up the velvet cloth to reveal a large deck of
Tarot cards. The seer passed them over to Yvette.

"Hold on to these cards for a moment. They must be attuned
to your aura before I can use them to scry the future for
you.  And you must cross my palm with silver before I can
begin.  It is tradition."

Yvette passed over a coin of silver without protest.  She
had known about that part.  "How long will it take for the
cards to attune to my aura?" she asked, unable to restrain
her curiosity.

"It is already done," Futuria replied, taking the cards
back.  Yvette was surprised to feel a sense of reluctance
about giving them up.

     He began to spread them in the traditional pattern,
the way he had so many times before.  When he finished,
he put the remaining cards to the side, and began turning
over the ones he had placed.

Yvette inhaled sharply.  "They're beautiful."

Futuria glanced again at the young woman across from him.
The cards were indeed beautiful.  Few people had the eyes
to see that.  The seer wondered if there was something to
this girl that he had not yet seen.

"First we start with your past." Futuria told her, looking
at the cards.

"I know my past," Yvette protested, "I don't need to be
reminded of it.  I need to know what to do -"

"Hush, child," Futuria cut her off.  "These things must be
done a certain way."

     Futuria already knew more about Yvette's past than the
young woman could possibly guess.  It was futile for her to
try to conceal anything from a seer.

The first card was the Knight of Swords, reversed.  Futuria
raised his eyebrow.  "This is behind you.  A man of violence
and discord.  He marks the end of innocence."  Futuria
flipped another card.

"Although this man is in your past, he still reaches forward
to affect your present. . . ."






          *******************************





     The woman's scream seemed to hang in the air forever.
Disgusted, Falchion continued to watch the sky as Grace
finished up. The Watch Lieutenant emerged from the shadows,
buckling his breeches as he walked.  The tall swordsman
ignored the low moans and sobs that continued behind him.
Although he was a hard man, Falchion could not be so
selective in his own hearing.

"If you ever treat one of my girls like that, you won't
live to regret it," he informed the Lieutenant grimly.

"Why Falchion, old pal.  That sounded remarkably like a
threat." Grace had a twisted smile on his face as he spoke.
He stepped close to Falchion, his fingers brushing the
hilt of his sword as he crowded the straw-haired crime
lord.

     The Lieutenant still hadn't learned that the Radj^o
Man himself couldn't intimidate Falchion.  Falchion locked
his pale blue eyes on Grace's steely gray ones.  He stepped
in closer himself, until less than a foot of space remained
between the two of them.

"You can take it anyway you'd like, 'old pal'. You can
even take it as a joke. Just don't forget what I said."

"Don't worry Falchion.  I won't forget." Grace promised.
He turned and exited the alley.

A snarl distorted Falchion's face before he regained
control of himself.  He followed the Lieutenant out of
the alley, adjusting his stride to match the taller man's
pace.

"If you're finished putting business before pleasure,
there is a message that I want you to take to Malfaedor."

"It's about time," Grace told him.  "The old wizard is
starting to think that you're avoiding him."

Falchion was silent for a moment.  "Tell Malfaedor that
the talisman is still in the possession of the pair that
stole it.  Tell him that we've narrowed their probable
location to within a few square blocks.  We should have
it back by tomorrow night, possibly the next."

"I wouldn't take too long, Falchion," Grace warned.
"Malfaedor's beginning to lose patience.  I daresay he's
even entertained the possibility that you might have sold
him out." Grace smiled.  It was obvious to Falchion which
scenario the Lieutenant was promoting with Malfaedor.

"I never break a contract," Falchion pointed out coldly.

"So you say.  I've assured Malfaedor that you don't have
the guts to sell him out. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't
always listen to me.  I have the feeling he's about to
turn this matter over to his own agents."

The tall Lieutenant grinned as Falchion blanched.  It
wasn't often that Grace managed to get under the Crime
Lord's skin.

"Tell him I need two more days."  Falchion repeated as
they emerged onto one of the main streets.

Grace smoothed his long black hair into place, then
checked his uniform for blood.  Satisfied that his appear-
ance was immaculate, he responded.

"I'll tell him what you said, Falchion.  I hope for your
sake he believes it."  Grace adjusted the fold of his
cloak, then turned to look his companion in the eye.

"On another note. . . one hears a lot of things back
at the Command Post. Just last night I heard something
that might interest you, Falchion."

"And what was that?" Falchion asked reluctantly.

"I heard that your old pal Jacobius Bunggarelli tried to
strong-arm an outlander the other day. The WRONG outlander.
Whatever that outlander did to Bungg, it scared him so
badly that his mind snapped.  I hear he's over at Saint
Cuthbert's, laid out like a vegetable in the charity ward."

    Grace paused to savor the effect his words were having.
"You'd best be careful, Falchion. If word gets out that you
can't keep your best friend protected, people might start
to think you've gotten soft.  And we all know what happens
to soft Bosses."

     Grace smiled at his companion, then stepped out onto
the street.  He strolled in the direction of the Seawall,
continuing his tour of the Watchposts. Falchion's pale
blue eyes followed him for a long time.  There was ice in
them.




          ****************************





     Yvette sat back in her chair. She gnawed at her lip,
hugging herself protectively.  Her blue eyes had gone dark
and unreadable.  Futuria sighed.  He had known that this
was going to be a grim reading.

"This card covers you now." he said, flipping over another
card.  "It represents your present."

    He frowned at the card momentarily.  The card depicted
the image of a youthful man with an arm full of flowers.
He was gazing dreamily up at the sky while before him an
abyss yawned, waiting to swallow him up. It was the Tarot
commonly known as the Fool.

"I see another man. This one is young, or immature. He is
prone to make rash decisions that could bring great sadness
to you." Futuria turned over another card, laying it over
the Fool.

"You must influence his decisions or his decisions will
influence you. . . ."




          ******************************




"I don't see why you gotta do this now." Kilborn com-
plained as he finished wrapping Winder's wrists.  The wiry
teenager he spoke to made no reply, his mind occupied with
what was to come.  Kilborn sighed, and tied off the strips
of leather carefully.

"The 'crawler's a big one this time, Winder. Thunder didn't
go easy on you, that s for sure."

Winder turned his head and spat.  "I don't want that Cha-
head to do me any favors anyways."

Kilborn lightly smacked the smaller teenager on the side of
his head, "Watch what you say Winder. If you're going to be
a Baron, you don't criticize the Leader."

     Winder glare at his older friend, eyes blazing hot.
Kilborn met Winder's glare evenly, not dropping his eyes.
After a moment, Winder nodded in acknowledgement.

The wiry teenager hopped off the table, inspecting his
wrappings.  "You did a good job Kilborn.  How much longer
until I'm on?"

Kilborn squeezed his pal's shoulder.  "Not long.  Thunder
wants to make a speech first."

     Thunder's fortress was an apartment complex that took
up half a city block in the worst section of the Low City.
All the doors leading to the streets had been sealed off,
save for one.  The courtyard in the interior of the
complex  had been converted to an informal arena. Here
prisoners of war were brought to be executed. New recruits
wishing to join the Barons were brought here to prove them-
selves.

     The interior of the courtyard was lit tonight by a
number of torches.  Bathed in the flickering light, scores
of feral young men had gathered to hear their leader speak.
They leaned out of second story windows and lounged on
balconies that overlooked the courtyard.  They waited with
a barely concealed excitement.

     Standing on a massive platform at one end of the
courtyard, Thunder looked down upon his kingdom, and saw
that it was good.  Thunder was a young man, barely out of
his teens. He liked to go shirtless, baring his blockily
massive physique to all eyes.  That physique was criss-
crossed with a multitude of white scars, souvenirs of the
many knife-fights he had survived in order to become leader
here.

     He paced the wooden platform like a caged leopard.
Below him, nearly one hundred teenagers and young men
waited for him to speak. They were young men like Thunder.
Angry young men without homes, jobs, or prospects. Men
without fear.

     The members of his gang were united by one thing.
Hatred.  Hatred for the rich, hatred for authority,
hatred of life.  Their hatred banded them together,
made them strong.  Made them an army.  Thunder's army,
the Threadpenney Barons.

"Brothers!"  Thunder' voice carried across the courtyard
effortlessly, heard by every ear.  "We are gathered here
today to watch the testing of one of our newest recruits.
He is young and untried.  Society has no use for him. The
city of Generica has no use for him.  Life has no use for
him."

     Thunder paused, looking out at his brothers with
passionate eyes.  He spread his hands wide above their
upturned faces in a silent benediction.

"The Threadpenney Barons have a use for him.  No one else
has given him a chance, but tonight WE will!  A chance to
prove that he belongs.  A chance to prove that he has what
it takes to become one of us.  One of our family."

     Thunder paused once more, pacing from one side of
the platform to the other, looking at this assembled army.
Thunder knew how to put on a show.  He was pumping them up,
reinforcing a sense of esprit de corps that would bind them
to each other; bind them to him.

"You all know that not everyone can become a Baron; a Lord
of the Streets. We have no place for the weak here.  Those
who are weak weaken US.  They weaken our legs, they dim
our eyes, they slow our sword arms."

"That is why no one may stand among us until they have
passed the test.  For how can we stand against those who
wish us ill, if our brothers cannot stand tall at our
sides?  Those who wish to stand with us must earn that
right!"

     Thunder stopped his pacing and stood, surveying his
army.  They looked back at him with shining eyes, adoring
him.  Thunder breathed in the tension . . . and loved it.
They were ready.

"Bring out the worm!" Thunder commanded.  Below him, three
of the Barons heaved a disheveled teenager out a doorway
and into the courtyard.  It was a member of the Night-
crawlers, a rival gang.  The young man got to his feet
with bared teeth and wild eyes.  At the other end of the
courtyard, a door opened slowly.

"Let him stand forth; he who would be one of us!" Thunder
roared.

In the shadows behind the door, Kilborn turned to Winder.

"You're on, pal."




          *****************************




     Yvette was puzzled, confused by the reading. She
leaned forward, knowing that the future would come next.
The old seer observed her sorrowfully.  His patrons never
knew how to separate what was important from what was
unimportant.  He reached for the next card.

     His hand froze as it came in contact with the Tarot.
Futuria struggled to keep his face expressionless.  The
card was cold to the touch. Ice cold. Something unearthly
was afoot. He turned the card over. It was the Hanged Man.


"This just keeps getting better," Yvette observed darkly.

"You are mistaken child.  This card is not a bad card, as
such." Futuria spoke to Yvette gently, trying to focus her
attention on what was being revealed.

"I see a third man, one that you have not yet met. He is
represented by the Hanged Man. This card represents wisdom,
often learned at a great cost."  Futuria did not mention
that this was the critical part of the reading. For some
reason he was reluctant to go any further.

"Tell me more about this man," Yvette demanded, as Futuria
had feared she would.

"Very well. It requires that I deal five more cards. . . ."






               **************************
    See the rest of Chapter 5



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