ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/crawl/crawl.5

Internet Message Format | 1991-03-08 | 9KB

From [e-mail] Thu Dec 13 21:39:51 1990
From: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp
Subject: STORY: Dungeon Crawl - Part V
Summary: Chapter 5 - first section
Date: 8 Dec 90 03:36:31 GMT
Reply-To: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Organization: University of Pennsylvania

The characters:
  Trevor: party leader, half-elven ranger
  Jarvik: apprentice mage, recent graduate of the Universitas Magica
  Drek: big, dumb warrior, wielder of the magic sword Meatcleaver
  Furball: a fuzzy
  Yorl: a half-orc thief turned cleric of Antyrra, Mistress of Balance

When we last saw our heroes, they had found the secret entrance into the
fortress and had just defeated a tentacled horror when the secret door swung
shut and the room dropped.

[If you missed the previous four installments and want them, please feel
 free to mail me. Comments are welcome, also.]

CHAPTER 5: Below the Surface

Part I: Descent

   "Hey, Jarvik, we're falling!" Drek exclaimed as the room plunged rapidly
downward. The acceleration was not so great that the party members were
unable to keep their balance, but the sensation of rapid descent was
extremely discomforting, especially in view of the fact that the Black
Flail's tentacles were still twitching, seemingly slowly gathering the
strength for one last assault.
   "I know we're falling!" Jarvik snapped, plunging his ointment-coated
dagger repeatedly into the stalk of the Flail. "Since I can't levitate
an entire room, there's not much we can do about it, is there?"
   "My people tell the tale of warrior who fell all the way down to the
three hundred and thirty-third level of Abyss of Do'Arr," Drek said
solemnly. "He slew fifty demons before he died. My people think him great
warrior. Do you think we could fall past the three hundred and thirty-third
level, Jarvik? Drek would be even greater hero than Tok Demonslayer if
we did."
   "May the all gods forfend," swore Trevor fervently, severing a particularly
energetic tentacle with his longsword.
   "I'm glad we're all so contented with falling," Yorl said groggily from
where he lay on the cold stone floor. "For a bunch of wounded idiots who
are plunging down into some god-forsaken area, we're doing a remarkable job
of not panicking."
   "It's Fuzzy Power!" Furball declared happily. "With a fuzzy around, how
could you not be happy? Joy must fill your life at every moment, when you
know a warm, cuddly being is near. Besides, the Abyss isn't god-forsaken;
Do'Arr the Horned One roams its nine hundred and sixty-nine planes."
   "Thank you for that reminder," Yorl mumbled from the floor. He was
semi-conscious; the world swam in a red-tinted foggy haze before him, and
there was an unaccountable weakness in his muscles. A blackness threatened
to overwhelm his consciousness; valiantly the half-orc fought the urge
to surrender to blessed sleep.
   The tentacles of the Flail gave one final twitch as Jarvik completely
severed the stalk. For good measure, the mage smeared the pale blue
Ormick's Unguent liberally on both severed ends, ensuring that the thing
couldn't grow back together. "You're the cleric," Jarvik told the prone
form of the half-orc. "Why don't you pray us out of here?"
   Yorl's violet eyes rolled back in his head and he went completely limp.
   "Yorl?" Furball queried. The rate of descent was slowing now; Furball
bounced easily over to the half-orc. The fuzzy shook the cleric. "Yorl!
Wake up!"  There was no response. "Yorl? Wake up! I'm going to tickle you..."
Giggling, the fuzzy batted the half-orc's chin with a soft, furry hand.
When the half-orc failed to react, Furball looked up at Trevor with a
worried expression. "Trevor? Yorl won't wake up. Can I try my Fuzzy
Power?"
   Furball never heard the ranger's answer, for at that moment the room
came to a jarring halt, slamming the party into the stone floor. The
secret door swung open and a green gas poured into the room...

Part II: Dreams

   "You. Yes, you. Come here." The voice of the Zo'lyeck grated harshly on
the half-orc's nerves, even as the instant obedience it commanded forced
Yorl forward towards the tall, hooded figure.
   Yorl fought every step, but slowly he approached the wraith, every
muscle in his body taut with the effort of resisting the command. The
Zo'lyeck always wanted only one thing, and Yorl was well-aware that the
experience was painful, knowledge gleaned from whispered, hurried conversations
at night, and the occasional agonized screams erupting from the center
of the camp.
   "You are strong," the Zo'lyeck hissed. "You will serve." The wraith's
arm shot out and grasped Yorl by the shoulder, propelling him forward. The
half-orc gasped; the Zo'lyeck's touch was cold fire.
   The other boys watched the half-orc and wraith with a mixture of fear,
hatred, and awe. Yorl had not been part of the camp for long; Magister
Ganzelis had only recently stolen the boy from the poorhouse run by
Cyrus' monks. The God of Good had evidently not chosen to aid the boy, for
the abduction went smoothly and Yorl had woken to find himself unable to
move yet unbound, the ruggedly handsome, mustachioed face of the Magister
hovering above his. The Magister carried out the ritual for Yorl as he
did all the others who came to Zorak-Ebelith, tracing a sigil on the forehead
of the boy, murmuring arcane words, the magic lighting the sigil with
burning green fire, yet leaving no visible mark.
   From that moment on, Yorl became one of the pages who served the Magister,
catering to the sorceror's wishes, aiding him in his experiments and whatever
else he might require; serving the Magister was far preferable to serving
the Zo'lyeck. The lesser boys served the wraith; such duty was commonly given
to those who failed the tasks the Magister assigned them.
   Yorl's duty was seemingly petty; all he had to do was scour the nearby
woods for mushrooms, mushrooms of any variety, any size, anywhere. It would
have been a far better life than he had led at the poorhouse, the despised
bastard son of a human mother and orcish father, save that he had little
control over his own actions. The Magister needed no spells to entrap his
"proteges"; the sorceror's power, quiet confidence, and look of steel in
his dark eyes was all that was needed to inspire obedience. The Zo'lyeck,
on the other hand, could and did freely employ magical compulsion; between
the commands of the sorceror and compulsions of the wraith, Yorl was left
with almost no volition of his own. Something prevented him from going
past certain points in the forest; something forced him to treat the
Magister with polite respect and the Zo'lyeck with fear and awe.
   Each morning, just before dawn, another boy would rouse Yorl and hand
him a basket. Every night, when he returned at dusk, the basket must have been
filled, or he would be beaten by the giant hand that always hovered silently
in the Magister's study. Each day, Yorl worked alone, only occasionally
catching glimpses of the other boys; each night the boys slept huddled close
together for warmth, sometimes whispering valuable bits of information and
exchanging names and pasts. In this manner, the half-orc grew to know the
names of the other eleven "proteges" of the Magister; in this way too he
learned that the Magister was a sorceror, pledged to the discipline of
Energy, no Universitas graduate but rather the former student of a cambion.
The Zo'lyeck, whose True Name none save Magister Ganzelis himself knew, was
a wraith of the Nether Plane, summoned to the service of the sorceror.
   The eve that Yorl had failed to return with a full basket of mushrooms
was a far from auspicious night. The sorceror had evidently failed in
whatever magical experiment he had undertaken that day, and consequently was
in a foul mood. Therefore, the failure of the boy to bring back the musrooms
was not met with kindly understanding, if indeed the Magister was capable
of such. The sorceror had not said anything, but merely waved a hand,
summoning the giant hand, which hit Yorl on the head, putting the boy
out cold. When Yorl awoke, it was midnight, and the six "proteges" serving
the wraith were reporting for their duties.
   The six formed a loose semi-circle from the wraith, and the Zo'lyeck
issued the command for Yorl to step forward.

[Continued in installment #6... coming soon!]

--
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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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