ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/crawl/crawl.6

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

From [e-mail] Fri Dec 14 23:00:07 1990
From: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp
Subject: Dungeon Crawl - Part VI
Summary: Chapter 5 finished (long)
Keywords: no combat this time - just Yorl and lots of dialogue
Date: 15 Dec 90 02:08:45 GMT
Reply-To: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Organization: University of Pennsylvania

This is either the last or second last installment of this story until
Jan. 14 or so (I don't have net access during college breaks).
If you want earlier installments, feel free to mail me at
[e-mail]. Demand for the first three installments has been
very high - if there are more requests, I will repost these next month.

Comments, as always, are appreciated. Also, you seem to be split on the
subject of the [Real Game] interludes. Tell me whether or not you want
these. Also, if there's enough interest, I'll post statistics for the
characters and monsters.

Now, on to the story!


When we last saw the party, they had just plummeted far below the surface
of the earth. They were knocked unconscious by the impact, and Yorl was
already unconscious, evidently due to the assault of the Black Flail
two installments previous.
A younger Yorl is about to be assaulted by a wraith creature, due to his
failure to return a full basket of mushrooms to the wraith's sorcerous
master...

The characters:
  Trevor: ranger who'd probably be a much nicer person if he spent
    less time talking to trees and other plants
  Jarvik: apprentice mage suffering from delusions of competency
  Drek: barbarian hero, wielder of the magic sword Meatcleaver
  Furball: a fuzzy - cute and cuddly
  Yorl: half-orc thief turned cleric, still has major personality and
    emotional problems, among other things

CHAPTER 5: Below the Surface ----- CONTINUATION

Part II: Dreams ---- continued

   Yorl flinched at the icy touch of the Zo'lyeck but did not cry out. He
bit nearly through his lip in the process, but he managed a defiant stare.
   Though Yorl could see only blackness beneath the hood of the Zo'lyeck, he
somehow got the impression of a chill smile crossing the wraith's face.
"Brave boy," the wraith hissed. "Brave enough that I will tell you the
purpose of those mushrooms that you have brought to the Magister each night,
for I believe you should know this before you yourself become food for my
hunger."
   Yorl said nothing - the wraith's hand was still clamped on his shoulder, and
the pain was incredibly intense.
   "There is a cambion, a son of Do'Arr himself, who enjoys cataloguing forms
of life," the wraith said. "His current interest is mushrooms. Each night,
Magister Ganzelis gives him mushrooms, and in return the cambion leaves a
single letter of the True Name of the fiend mortals know Azash, guardian of
the Gates of Hell. The cambion has produced quite an impressive catalogue of
mushrooms, but there's always a chance you might discover some new variety
in your daily hunting. Also, Cerberus is reputed to love mushroom soup. So,
you see, boy, that your little failure has far-reaching implications, for
if the cambion doesn't receive his mushrooms, the Magister doesn't receive
his letter, Cerberus doesn't get fed, and some poor soul will get bitten by
that three-headed dog on his way into Hell. Truly you've erred this day, boy."
The wraith tightened his grip on the half-orc boy, bringing him closer...
Icy lips touched Yorl's forehead and he screamed...
And screamed...


Part III: Waking Up

   Jarvik awoke with an incredible headache. He was lying on the floor of
the same room where the party had encountered the Black Flail. The thing's
tentacles lay sprawled across the floor, but not one twitched in the
direction of the prone bodies of Drek, Trevor, or Yorl. The half-orc's face,
though, was ashen; his breathing was quick and shallow and occasionally
he thrashed about feebly.
   Furball was leaning against a wall, brushing tangles out of his fuzz.
"I woke up a few minutes ago, Jarvik," the fuzzy told the mage, his
high-pitched, relentlessly cheerful voice piercing Jarvik's aching head like
a javelin. "Hey, Yorl looks really pale, doesn't he? Shouldn't you do
something about that, huh?"
   "I'm a wizard, not a cleric," Jarvik snapped, massaging his face in a
futile attempt to deaden the pain in his head. "Yorl's the cleric, remember?"
   "You're not really a wizard," Furball pointed out. "You're just a newly
graduated apprentice. Anyway, what are you good for besides setting forest
fires? You can't even help Yorl!"  Furball grinned and bounced lightly to
his feet. "But Fuzzy Power can! All you have to do is be happy!" He danced a
light little jig, grinning broadly at the mage.
   Jarvik glared back. "Fuzzy power indeed! A mere superstitious rumor of
a backward, uneducated race of overgrown dust balls - I'd sooner believe that
old folk tale of the hellhound Cerberus being fond of mushroom soup!"
   Furball's bright eyes grew sad. "Cynics," he sniffed unhappily. "It's
because of people like you that the world has nasty slimy things like that
tentacle creature. How's Fuzzy Power supposed to work when no one is happy?"
   Jarvik grabbed a handful of the fuzzy's fur and dragged him close, so they
stared eye to eye. "Listen to me, you little hairball. How by Do'Arr am I
supposed to be happy when I've just been dropped down to Gornfob-knows-where,
while helping a lovesick ranger look for his lady - who probably doesn't
even know he exists - accompanied by a barbarian with a supposedly magic
sword called, of all things, Meatcleaver, a half-orc, and an oversized ball
of fuzz! Now, if you want to dance around and pretend to invoke your
Fuzzy Power, fine - but don't expect me to be happy about it!"
   "You know, Jarvik," Furball said solemnly, "it'd be much more fun to
talk to you when you're this close if you'd consider bathing once in a while."
   Jarvik hurled the fuzzy away from him and stalked away, muttering to
himself, cursing incoherently in a dozen different languages.
   "Humans!" Furball mused. "They just don't know how to have fun."
   Trevor moved slightly. "Falling room..." he groaned groggily.
   "Yes yes yes!" Furball said happily. "You got it right! Behind door A:
a fabulous all-expense paid trip to the ninth plane of the Abyss!"
   "The Abyss!" Trevor sat bolt upright and immediately clutched his head.
"We're in the Abyss?"
   "Maybe," the fuzzy replied solemnly. "We sure fell a long way."
   "Gornfob forbid," Jarvik growled, invoking the god of knowledge, protector
of mages and the magic arts.
   Drek, too, was beginning to come around. "Head hurts," mumbled the big
warrior. "Like big hammer bop Drek real hard."
   Trevor stood cautiously, still hazy from the impact. "What's the matter
with the orc?" he asked.
   Jarvik shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he's sensitive to the mild poison on
the tentacles of the Flail. A few creatures are. It kills goblins on contact,
for example."
   "That's a marvelously sensitive attitude," Furball told him disapprovingly.
   "What do we do with him?" Jarvik asked the ranger.
   "I would simply leave him here," Trevor shrugged. "He hasn't proved to
be a major asset, anyway. One less of these tree-despoilers certainly isn't
going to do the world any harm."
   "I thought you were pledged to protect life," remarked Jarvik drily.
   "I am," answered Trevor. "The lives of helpless trees."
   Drek struggled painfully to his feet. "Drek sort of like little man,"
the warrior said. "He let Drek into good fight. Drek will carry Yorl if
Trevor wants. Yorl heal Drek's ouchies, too. Maybe Drek can help little
Yorl."
   Trevor rolled his eyes heavenward. "If you carry Yorl, you won't be
able to fight," he pointed out.
   "Oh," Drek said. "Drek not think of that. Drek like to fight, but Drek
like little Yorl, too. Hmmm...."  Thoughts raced in his mind - or crawled,
as this is Drek who's doing the thinking.
   "I still think you should be happy, so Fuzzy Power has a chance to work,"
Furball declared. "Joy to the world/ The fuzzy's here/ Let earth  mmmpgghh!"
   Jarvik clapped his hand firmly over the fuzzy's mouth, cutting off the
rather squeaky, out-of-tune singing. "Any number of creatures could have
heard us in here," the mage said. "For all we know, they're just waiting for
us to come out that door." He nodded at the wooden door on the east wall.
   "Wait a minute," Trevor frowned. "Where'd that door come from?"



--
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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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