ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/crawl/crawl.8

Internet Message Format | 1991-04-10 | 8KB

From [e-mail] Mon Mar 25 14:32:51 1991
From: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp
Subject: Dungeon Crawl #8
Date: 25 Mar 91 16:46:47 GMT
Reply-To: [e-mail] (Lydia Leong)
Organization: University of Pennsylvania
Nntp-Posting-Host: eniac.seas.upenn.edu

Here is Dungeon Crawl Installment #8, the second part of chapter 6. Enjoy!
The first seven installments are available from me through email, or
I will post them if there is enough interest.

When we last saw our heroes, they were in the midst of Candyland, an unusual
pocket dimension. They met the dough golem Iggy, and discovered the only way
out of the dimension was through the ovens in the Honeycomb Tower of the Wicked
Witch. The heroes decided to camp for the night by the chocolate river.
Now, Chapter 6 of Dungeon Crawl continued...

Part II: Good morning...

   Drek sat watch, his sword laid across his knees. The big warrior stared
moodily into the fire. He hadn't fought anything for at least six hours and
he was beginning to feel a little depressed. Wouldn't it be great, he thought,
to be attacked by a monster right now? Not a great big monster, of course.
Just a small monster, with medium-sharp teeth and maybe some claws, just
something to get the circulation going. He glanced around the candy landscape.
Nothing. He sighed regretfully.
   Jarvik tossed uncomfortably in his bedroll, wavering in that nebulous
state between repose and wakefulness. He'd had uneasy dreams all
night which featured giant chocolate skunks melting under the heat of a
fireball and staining all his spellbooks with syrupy goo. With a groan, he
struggled to a half-sitting position, ignoring the protesting twinges of
pain in his joints. He fumbled in his pack for his spellbook. He had some
studying to do; he needed to see if he had any spells that might be useful
against refugees from a bakery gone haywire.
   Trevor slept; even in repose a slight frown was etched on his features.
His hand rested on his sword; his breathing was quick and even.
   Yorl tossed and turned; the expression on his face was one of fear as
he slept a haunted sleep.
   Furball was curled up into a fuzzy little fluffy sphere. His fur was
starting to get tangled and knotted, its former pristine whiteness now
matted a dirty gray in spots, grass-stained, with the occasional brown
splotch where he'd spilled some chocolate.
   Iggy slept the deep sleep of very young children, a dimpled
smile on his pudgy little face as he dreamt of strawberry croissants and
butterscotch pudding.
   Truism: Sleeping adventurers are boring. And everything in the region
that can walk, crawl, or ooze will converge on them and attack.
   In the distance, one dozen cream pies winged their way towards the river.
They were silhoutted against the hazy red glow of the rising sun, a dark
cloud moving rapidly towards the party.
   Drek didn't see them. His attention was caught by three tall humanoids
ambling towards the party. Very slowly, he stood up. The first rays of the
sun flashed off the naked steel of his sword Meatcleaver. A fight was just the
thing he needed to start off the day.
   Jarvik looked up from his spellbook. "What is it?" he hissed.
   "Monsters, maybe," Drek answered. "Drek fight, yes?"
   The mage clambered out of his bedroll. He could see the three figures in the
distance, just barely visible on the horizon. "I can't tell what they are,"
Jarvik said. "Could be friendly. Other men, maybe. They look too big to be
dough golems, if Iggy is any fair representation of the size of those
breadthings. They could be hostile, too. I'd better wake the others."
   Jarvik shook Yorl lightly. "Wake up," he said. "Trouble."
   The half-orc awoke instantly, throwing aside his bedroll and coming to his
feet, short swords in his hands, with amazing speed. Jarvik stumbled back,
hands raised defensively.
   "Hey! Careful!" the mage exclaimed. "We're all friends here, remember?"
   Yorl sheathed his swords ruefully. "Leftover reflexes of an ill-spent
youth," he apologized, slightly embarrassed. "What's wrong?"
   "Look," Jarvik replied, pointing to the three figures in the distance.
"Can you make out what they are?"
   Yorl shook his head. "I don't have the vision of an elf. Whatever they are,
we probably ought to assume they're hostile until proven otherwise. The ratio
of unfriendly to friendly creatures is usually highly imbalanced. Now, if
you'll excuse me, I have the Ritual of Dawn to perform."  He padded away
to a spot some fifty yards away from the camp and knelt to perform his
morning ritual glorifying his Goddess.
   Antyrra's rituals tended to be rather bland. She was the goddess of Balance,
not Poetry, anyway.

              Let there be light.
              Let dark night fade before light.
              Let night return to balance light.
              Praise Antyrra.
              Let there be laughter and tears.
              Let us know joy.
              Let us know sorrow.
              Praise Antyrra.
              Let there be victory and defeat -

   "Hey, watch what you're saying!" Jarvik snapped. "Balance is a wonderful
thing, but let's not carry it too far, huh?"
   Yorl looked up from his ritual. "It's ritual. Rituals to Antyrra must be
completed in order to preserve balance. It's a terrible thing, not to have
balance on your side."
   "Thank you very much, but I'd rather have the odds on my side," Jarvik told
him dryly. "It's not much fun playing poker without an ace or two up your
sleeve."
   Yorl shrugged and went back to his prayers.
   Jarvik awoke Trevor next, carefully prodding the ranger's inert body with
his toe, trying to stay out of weapon range as much as possible. He was
relieved when Trevor awoke quickly but without the violence Yorl had
exhibited.
   "Good morning," grunted Trevor, sitting up, stretching stiff muscles.
   "Not yet," Jarvik said dryly. "There are three humanoids approaching us.
Quite possibly trouble, I think."
   "So what else is new?" muttered Trevor, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He
rose to his feet with instinctive elven grace. "I'll wake Furball. You can
try to wake up that despicably cute lump of animated dough over there,"
indicating with a jerk of his head the peacefully slumbering Iggy.
   "Joy," muttered Jarvik, walking over to Iggy. He prodded the dough golem
none to gently with the toe of his boot, only feeling slightly guilty when
the boot sank very slightly into the golem's floury body.
   Iggy jumped up with an energy that surprised the mage, who stumbled back.
"Good morning! Isn't it a lovely day? I can almost smell cream pies being
baked! Wow, I can hardly wait to go to the Honeycomb Tower with you guys!
Are you ready? Is there breakfast yet?" All this was delivered in a lively,
irrepressibly cheery voice, without a break anywhere for breath.
   "No to everything," growled Jarvik. "Trouble approaching."
   Iggy looked up. Actually, this was sort of natural for him, being smaller
than almost everything and everyone else. "You mean that flock of blood-sucking
cream pies in the distance? Don't worry about them. They usually content
themselves with hot chocolate from the river. Not too many things around
here have blood - most creatures here tend to syrup, chocolate or cherry or - "
   "WHAT blood-sucking cream pies?!" Jarvik nearly shrieked.
   "The ones up there," Iggy said innocently, pointing towards the dark mass
of flying pastry in the sky, which was rapidly bearing down upon the party's
location.

--
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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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