ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/crawl/crawl.2

Internet Message Format | 1991-03-08 | 7KB

From [e-mail] Mon Dec  3 15:20:46 1990
From: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp
Subject: STORY : Dungeon Crawl (Part 2)
Summary: continuation, chapter 2, long
Date: 2 Dec 90 18:39:08 GMT
Reply-To: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Distribution: rec.games.frp
Organization: University of Pennsylvania

Comments are appreciated. I would especially like to know if the "real-game"
interlude in this chapter adds or detracts from the story.


CHAPTER 2 : Maganwood and Denizens

   Yorl tread cautiously through the forest, brushing away branches irritably,
silently cursing the damp gloom of the thick vegetation. It had taken him
years to master the art of moving silently; his natural tread was heavy and
ill-suited to sneaking about. Behind him, Furball was bouncing along,
muttering cheerful imprecations about burrs in his fur. In front of the
half-orc and fuzzy were Drek and Jarvik, making enough noise for an entire
company of soldiers, the warrior clattering in his scale mail, his sword
banging against his thighs, the mage tripping over his long robes,
stumbling into branches, and getting his feet tangled in vines.
   Yorl had never been so far into Maganwood before; it wasn't a place that
invited solo exploration. The cries of stirges echoed dimly through the
forest; the rumble and rustle of a treant occasionally shook the woods.
The half-orc fancied he heard the sweet song of woodland faeries and the
happy squeaking of sprites, but he brushed away the thought.
   "We're nearly there," Jarvik said. "Trevor has all the equipment we'll
need stashed in the hollow oak less than a quarter-mile away."
   "Then we fight," Drek grinned. "Like fight. Trevor always has good fight."
The warrior thumped his sword. "Meatcleaver have good time too."
   "Meatcleaver's his sword," Jarvik told Yorl. "It was given to him by a
spirit in a dream. Yes, it's not exactly a heroic name - Dragoncleaver or
Avenger or something like that would be much more suitable, but his people
are simple-minded and Meatcleaver is about the limit of their imagination."
   "Is it enchanted?" Yorl asked, curious.
   "The tribal shaman performed some mumbo-jumbo over it, so I suppose you
could say it was enchanted," Jarvik answered.
   "Shaman cast great enchantment!" proclaimed Drek. "Not some mumbo-jumbo,
not like your smoke clouds, little wizard. Spirit of great hero visit Drek,
tell him he will be great warrior, give him sword of ancestors. Shaman do
ritual to enhance magic of ancestors. He know more than you." Having said
that, the warrior proceeded to sulk.
   "It does radiate a faint magic," Jarvik admitted, tripping over a tree
root. "As far as I can tell, though, it has no specific powers."
   "What's that smell?" Yorl asked suddenly, stopping. There was indeed an
awful odor in the air. He couldn't place it...
   The ground quivered faintly with the heavy step of some large animal,
the odor grew more pronounced, Yorl caught a flash of white...
   "Giant skunk!" yelled Furball. "Run!" The fuzzy took off, sprinting
on its short legs, then curled up into a ball and rolled away as rapidly
as he could rotate.
   "Fight!" Drek said happily. "Like fight!"  Meatcleaver came free of its
scabbard with a steely hiss. "Come here, skunk! Nice skunk, come to Drek!"
   "Don't fight the skunk!" yelled Yorl, backing away rapidly. He wasn't
too near the skunk, and intended to stay out of the range of the foul
animal's spray.
   Giant skunks are one of the unfortunate results of a high concentration
of magic in a forest area. This particular magical mutant was nearly six feet
high, and huge. Its tail looked capable of knocking over an apple cart in one
casual swipe, but the danger lay not in that, but in the powerful scent glands
beneath it.
   Jarvik whirled, arms extended, a bit of sulfur and bat guano in his
fingers. "Drek! Get away!" he shouted. He began to chant, tossing the sulfur
into the air.
   Yorl realized the mage's intent. "Jarvik! No! Not Fireball! This is a
FOREST, you idiot!"
[Interjection: at the real game:
  DM (to Yorl): Jarvik is casting his fireball. You've got one segment to
    stop him. If you try, you'll be in both the skunk's range of fire and
    within the sphere of the fireball.
  Yorl (to Jarvik): Look, you stupid twit. This is a 20' radius sphere of
    fire you're about to hurl into one hundred acres of flammable material.
    I'm not about to risk my butt stopping you. Drek's within your burst
    radius, though.
  Drek (to Jarvik): My character may be stupid enough to charge a skunk, but
    you're supposed to have a 16 intelligence!
  Jarvik (shrugs helplessly): Sorry, guys, too late. I already started casting
  Furball: Boy, am I glad I ran away.
End of interjection]
   Yorl backed away quickly, getting as far from the range of the impending
explosion as possible. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. He
flipped his leather cape over his head, trying to shield himself from the
worst of the heat.
   The skunk raised its tail to spray; Yorl pinched his nose tightly shut,
closed his eyes, and waited for the worst.
   He wasn't disappointed. With a deafening BOOM, the fireball exploded;
the wave of heat hit him with powerful force. Almost simultaneous, the
skunk sprayed its malodorous secretions. The half-orc heard Drek scream;
he wasn't sure if it was from the pain of the fire or the stench of the
skunk. Not surprisingly, the nearby vegetation caught fire.
   Drek roared in pain and anger. He had caught the full blast of both
spray and fire; only willpower and the constitution of an ox kept him alive.
The skunk was down, its tail twitching feebly. Drek swung his sword two-handed
in a mighty blow that nearly clove the creature in two. His clothing was
rotted through, scorched by fire, he was covered with soot and burns of
varying severity. "Take that!" snarled Drek, hacking again at the skunk.
   "Let's get out of here!" Yorl shouted at a stunned Jarvik. The mage was
obviously impressed by the power of his own spell; he was watching the
burning trees with a sort of stunned awe. The half-orc charged across the
forest floor. "The forest is going to come down around our heads!"
   "Drek!" the mage called, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Let's go.
We'll find you a new fight!"
   The warrior looked up from dismembering the carcass of the skunk. "New
fight? Drek coming."  The warrior half-ran, half-stumbled towards the
other two.
   Yorl nearly gagged at the smell. He wondered how the warrior could
stand it. Jarvik turned green and quickly clamped his nose and mouth
shut. The mage led the other two onward into the forest, running desperately
to keep ahead of the rapidly spreading fire.
   "Water! Find water!" Yorl called, sprinting ahead of the mage. "We'll
never outrun the fire."
   "Search ahead!" the mage ordered, panting from his exertions. Wizards
never get enough exercise. "Go on - we'll catch up."
   The warrior was slowing as the pain of his wounds finally registered
within his sluggish brain. "Yeah, Yorl. We're coming."
   Yorl stopped suddenly. "Where's the fuzzy? Where's Furball?"


--
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Lydia Leong                  |   If there is anyone here that I have not
[e-mail]     |   offended, I deeply apologize. -- J. Brahms
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