ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/crawl/crawl.3

Internet Message Format | 1991-03-08 | 14KB

From [e-mail] Mon Dec  3 21:55:06 1990
From: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp
Subject: STORY: Dungeon Crawl (Part 3)
Summary: Chapter 3, long
Date: 3 Dec 90 22:35:17 GMT
Reply-To: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Organization: University of Pennsylvania

Thanks to everyone who sent me comments on the previous two installments.
You've been very encouraging. Keep 'em coming!


The story so far: Drek, a warrior, and Furball, a fuzzy of dubious occupation,
  have rescued the half-orc acolyte Yorl from impending death in a tavern
  brawl. The three have joined an apprentice wizard, Jarvik, and were on their
  way to meet the last member of their company in Maganwood, near the fortress
  of a (presumably) dead madman. Unfortunately, as a result of an encounter
  with a giant skunk, the forest is now on fire, Drek is in bad shape, and
  Furball is missing...

CHAPTER 3: The Great and Esteemed Party Leader

   Yorl ran through the woods, heedlessly ignoring the branches that snapped
at his face. He knew of no nearby source of water, but he unless he found
one soon, the party would be roasted by the rapidly spreading forest fire.
Fortunately it had rained recently, and everything was damp, but still,
slowly, the edge of the fire was gaining on him.
   He looked back to see if the mage and warrior were keeping up and slammed
into some creature, sending both himself and the creature sprawling.
   "Tree killer!" snapped the other creature, leaping to his feet gracefully.
The man - slightly taller than Yorl's five and a half feet, of far trimmer
build, dressed in drab browns and greens - glared down at Yorl. A booted
foot slammed down on the half-orc's chest; the holy symbol of Antyrra pressed
into Yorl's chest, the metal becoming uncomfortably warm.
   "Orcish scum," the man added, drawing his sword. He pressed the tip just
above Yorl's jugular; the half-orc barely dared to breath. The metal of the
holy symbol was quite hot now; a detached portion of Yorl's mind wondered
why the symbol only warned of danger when that danger was already more than
obvious.
   "Iggh," Yorl protested feebly.
   "You started that fire, no?" the man demanded, waving his other arm
dramatically.
   "Urk," Yorl croaked, trying to sound negative.
   Without removing his boot from the half-orc's chest, the man shielded
his sword in one easy movement and began a complicated series of hand
gestures. "As if I don't have more important things to do than put out
forest fires," he muttered. "But no! Another stupid clumsy orc comes
barrelling into what USED to be a perfectly calm forest, starts a fire, and
makes me waste a perfectly good rainstorm spell."  He waved his hands in
two gestures of finality and pronounced an arcane syllable. Almost
immediately, the few rays of light that filtered through the dense
vegetation vanished as the sun was obscured by dark stormclouds. Thunder
rumbled in the distance, and with a roar, a heavy downpour began.
   Yorl dared to move slightly, now that the man had put away his sword.
"I didn't start the fire," he protested cautiously. "A mage did. He was
trying to stop a giant skunk."
   "A likely story," the man snorted. "You orcs will say anything to
save your precious hides. Well, Ranger Trevor doesn't waste his time on
orcish lies. I have a lady to save, something one of your race would
never understand."
   "Trevor!" Jarvik called. Yorl breathed a sigh of relief at the timely
rescue, even as he cringed inwardly at the thought of adventuring with this
man. "Trevor," Jarvik repeated, "Good to see you! Is the rainstorm your doing?"
   "Was the firestorm your doing?" Trevor replied darkly. He threw back his
hood. He appeared almost completely human, with longish, thick brown hair and
long, carefully trimmed mustaches and a jawline beard. Only a slight almond
shape to his eyes and very slightly pointed ears betrayed his elven
heritage. (That, and his snooty attitude, Yorl added privately).
   "It was in defense of Drek," Jarvik admitted.
   "Uh, can I stand up now?" Yorl inquired.
   "Let him up, Trevor," Jarvik said. "He's one of us."
   "May Valarian strike me down the day I call a orc-breed one of my own,"
Trevor swore fervently. "Tree-killers, stone-lovers, lovers of darkness,
all of them."  But the ranger took away his boot.
   Yorl got up with as much dignity as he could muster, straightening his
tunic and brushing leaves out of his coarse black hair. "I am sworn in
Antyrra's service," he said quietly, "and may she take me now, as I stand
here, and drop me into the Abyss of Do'arr, if I do not speak the truth.
I serve the Mistress of Balance, and this loyalty comes before all others."
   "Pah!" the ranger spat. "Loyalty - from an orc! But, as the heavens
have not deigned to strike you with a thunderbolt, I'm afraid I must take
the word of this novice adept and accept you in my service."
   I could hardly be more thrilled, Yorl muttered to himself. He noted the
ranger did not offer his hand for the half-orc to grasp, the common gesture
of contract.
   "We go to rescue the fair lady Sabina from the clutches of the foul
brigand leader Shadrak," Trevor declared. "As her hero, it is my avowed duty
to protect her from all dangers. I have failed in my duty, but I shall
redeem myself by venturing into the dark caverns of the villain and emerging
victorious with the object of my affection, accompanied only by the most
insignificant of mundane companions. My deeds will be celebrated in bardsong;
who but a ranger could claim victory accompanied only by an inept mage,
a brainless but brawny warrior, an annoyingly cute fuzzy, and an Antyrran
cleric of dubious origin?"
   "Furball not here," Drek told Trevor. "Little fuzzy run away when big
skunk come to play."
   "Well, we can't very well wait for him here, can we? A treant is apt to
amble over and demand to know why Jarvik set the forest afire. Even I
might not be able to calm it," Trevor said irritably. "Let's go on to the
entrance to the caverns. Furball will find us. Fuzzies gravitate to
places where trouble lurks."
   Without another word, the ranger set off through the wood, his long,
graceful stride rapid; Yorl was forced into a half-jog in order to keep up.
The forest seemed to part before the ranger; no branches slapped his face nor
tangled root trip his feet. Unfortunately, the wood closed up before Yorl
and the half-orc was constantly brushing away errant branches or stumbling
over the uneven undergrowth.
   They came to a small lake, near a narrow cave mouth. Trevor went to a
nearby tree and, making an odd gesture first, lovingly rubbed the wood with
a circular motion. Yorl stared in astonishment as the trunk of the tree
opened to reveal a cache of equipment. Trevor removed three packs; he handed
one to Yorl and one to Drek, keeping the third for himself. He took out
coils of rope, a lantern, some flasks of oil, several pouches, a longbow
and quiver of arrows, a bundle of torches, and several half-full sacks.
Wordlessly, he split up the equipment between the three packs, Drek
receiving the heaviest load. After glancing at Drek and wrinkling his
nose in distaste, the ranger also took out a spare change of clothing
for the big warrior. Then, at another gesture from Trevor, the
trunk closed again, leaving no sign of the ranger's work.
   Trevor handed Drek the clothing. "Strip off those clothes and wash yourself
in the lake. It isn't the purest of water, but it'll get rid of the worst of
the smell. Jarvik - burn the clothes. Strike that command. You're likely
to set the forest blazing again. Bury the clothes instead. You - cleric."
   "My name is Yorl," the half-orc interrupted coldly.
   Trevor ignored him. "Heal the warrior when he's done bathing," he
ordered. "I'll keep watch." The ranger drew his sword and leaned against
a tree, relaxed yet ready for any contingency.
   The party went about their tasks dutifully, Drek shivering in the cold
water of the lake, occasionally yelping from the pain of cold, impure water
in his wounds, Jarvik grumbling about the fates of mages reduced to
manual labor, and Yorl losing himself in meditation. It was probably well
that the half-orc had this time of inner centering and relaxation, or he
might have throttled Trevor at the next opportunity.
   Yorl prayed over the burned Drek, and to the half-orc's satisfaction,
a soft blue light emanted from the holy symbol of Antyrra, surrounding the
warrior with a pale nimbus of healing energy. The warrior was far from
completely healed, but his minor cuts had closed and the burns closed and
healing.
   Trevor said nothing at this demonstration of Yorl's abilities, but merely
straightened and set off for the cave mouth clearly visible across the lake.
It took them some time to walk the perimeter of the lake, but there was
still no sign of Furball. Nonetheless, Trevor led the way into the cave.
   Both elves and orcs have darksight; Yorl and Trevor were both quite
comfortable in the darkness of the cave, but the ranger lit his lantern
for the humans in the party. The light illuminated a rough-hewn, small
cavern. "The bandits don't normally use this entrance," Trevor said.
"I've learned that it leads into the former owner's demesne, which is filled
with all sorts of nasty things. The bandits have another entrance, but it's
heavily guarded; we'd never get within twenty feet of the entrance before
their archers shot us."
   Drek looked around. "Don't see door," he commented.
   "Look down," Trevor said. He walked to the center of the room and knelt.
His fingers traced the outline of an unusually square stone. "Now, all Jarvik
has to do is to levitate it, and you, my strong friend, can move it aside."
   Jarvik cast the spell, and with a grind, the stone came loose. "It's heavy,"
grunted the mage. "Hurry up, Drek! Grab it and move it away!"
   "Okay, Jarvik," the warrior replied. He lumbered over and shoved the stone
slab aside. "Go down?" he queried, peering down the hole.
   Trevor shone the lamp down the opening. "It's not far down - a short drop.
Drek, you go first. You can help the rest of us get down."
   Drek lowered himself down the hole, dropping onto the ground with a
solid thump. The others followed, the big warrior catching each of the them
and setting them on the ground below. They were in a small square chamber
with no exits save the trap door they had just come through. The only
notable object in the room was a foot-high pedestal.
   Jarvik read the inscription on the pedestal aloud. "Read this and weep,
all ye who desire to enter unto here, for know that I am the last of my
race, and great is my sorrow." The mage frowned. "This writing is Ancient
Erdu, Trevor, from the First Age. Just how old is this place?"
   Trevor shrugged. "I don't know. Can you find any doors? There must be
a way out of this room other than the trap door."
[Interlude: the real game:
   Trevor (to DM): All of us are pushing, pulling, twisting, turning, doing
     whatever we can to find secret doors.
   Jarvik: Except me. I'm examining the pedestal for hidden triggers.
   DM (tossing dice): You don't find anything, although Yorl, you *think*
     that there's something slightly odd about the north wall.
   Trevor: C'mon guys, there's got to be a door SOMEPLACE.
   Jarvik: Yorl, push on the north wall while I read the inscription on the
    pedestal out loud, in Ancient Erdu.
   DM: Nothing happens.
   (Players proceed to swear and continue to prod about frantically for doors)
   Furball: Hey, DM, what about me?
   DM: Okay - this is what happens to you.
End of interlude]
   Trevor, standing in the center of the room, was nearly knocked sprawling
by a giant ball of fur leaping down the hole. "Hi guys! Miss me?" Furball
asked. His fur was singed and matted, but the fuzzy looked perfectly
healthy. "Good thing I ran away when I did, huh? Some dummy started a forest
fire. Boy, that was fun, even though the fire had almost got me when this
real big storm began. I found you by the smell of skunk. You still stink,
Drek," the fuzzy finished, without pausing for breath once during the
entire speech. "Hey, whatcha doing now? Where's the door outta here?"
   Trevor drew a deep breath. "We're trying to find a secret door. Perhaps
you could cut the chatter and find one."
   "Oh, neat! A pedestal! With writing on it!" the fuzzy said happily,
ignoring the ranger completely. "What's it say, Jarvik."
   The mage dutifully read the inscription.
   "Wow. Depressing," Furball said, momentarily subdued. "So," he added,
brightening almost immediately, "have you started crying yet?"
   "What?" Trevor rounded on the fuzzy. "What are you talking about?"
   "Read this and weep," the fuzzy said patiently. "You've read it. How
come you haven't started weeping yet?"
[Interlude: screams of anguish from the PCs - "That was too obvious! Aaagh!!" ]
   Jarvik moaned. "All this pushing and prodding, and all we had to do was
cry. Of course, it hasn't worked yet, but..."  The mage knelt down by the
pedestal and tried to think of something depressing.
   "I can't do it," he announced after a minute. "I can't cry on cue."
   "Aw, gee," Furball said, coming over to Jarvik. "Can I help? Oh, wait!
I've got it!"  The fuzzy stomped on Jarvik's toes, hard.
   "Ow!" yelped Jarvik, tears coming to his eyes.
   "You're crying!" the fuzzy said happily. "See? I told you I'd help."
   Yorl heard a faint click as Jarvik's tears dripped onto the slab. Quickly,
the half-orc threw his full weight against the north wall, and was rewarded
with a grinding noise as a portion of the wall swung out.
   Long, tentacled arms reached out from the newly-created opening and
grabbed the half-orc...

--
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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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