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diff --git a/out/dnd/spell-gauntlet.html b/out/dnd/spell-gauntlet.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f81bb3d --- /dev/null +++ b/out/dnd/spell-gauntlet.html @@ -0,0 +1,211 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <title>Spell Gauntlet: Practical Spellcasting — AndrewDM</title> + <link rel="stylesheet" href="/main.css"> + <link rel="alternate" type="application/atom+xml" href="/index.atom" /> + + </head> + <body class="dnd"> + <header> + <h1 class=breadcrumbs><a href="../">AndrewDM</a> » <a href="./">Dungeons & Dragons</a> » <a href="">Spell Gauntlet: Practical Spellcasting</a></h1> + <nav> + <ul> + <li><a href="/">Projects</a> + <li><a href="/changelog.html"><abbr title="Blog">Blahg</abbr></a> + <li><a href="/about.html">Andrew</a> + <li> + <form method="GET" action="/search.html"> + <input type=search name="s" placeholder="Search" /><input type=submit value="🔍" /> + </form> + </ul> + </nav> + </header> + <article> + <p>Tags: <a class="tag FF" href="/tags/FF.html">Flash Fiction</a><a class="tag SS" href="/tags/SS.html">Short Story</a><a class="tag WP" href="/tags/WP.html">WIP</a></p> + <h1 class=title>Spell Gauntlet: Practical Spellcasting</h1> +<h1 id="teleport">Teleport</h1> +<h2 id="wizard---ft.-ula-mindis">Wizard - ft. Ula Mindis</h2> +<p>The young Wizard Ula Mindis awoke to the smell of steeping tea.</p> +<p>She sighed, opened her sleep-encrusted eyes, and yawned. Another day. Another attempt. She rolled out of bed and drifted over to the window. It was cracked open, but she threw it wide to welcome the morning air and golden sunrise into her bedroom, or study rather. She'd recently moved her most used bookcases in here for easy access. Her spellbook sat open at its usual spot, turned to the page she'd most recently been studying. This particular spell she'd attempted half a dozen times to no avail, but this morning felt somehow auspicious for it.</p> +<p>Ula looked over the first line. The elven letters were written in her own hand. She had copied the carefully penned italic espruar letters from an old scroll recovered from a captured pirate ship no more than a tenday ago and had tried to cast the spell immediately. When she failed, she had rechecked the writing a dozen times against every source she could find, so she was sure that the letters weren't the problem, she was.</p> +<p>The tea arrived, cup wobbling in midair, held by a construct of pure magical force, whom she thanked politely. The morning breeze caught the bay spray and filled the room with the smell of salt and sorcery.</p> +<p>Perhaps she could not cast the spell, Ula mused, because she was perfectly happy exactly where she was.</p> +<p>Emboldened by the tea, she shook away the thought and dove again into the spell. Just imagine what was possible! No longer would she have to send away for expensive spell components. She could just say the words and pick them up herself. She could visit her family back in Mulmaster or take a vacation on the shores of some exotic beach island.</p> +<p>She finished the first line, an anchoring, and began on the second. While the first had been filled with words of permanence and stability, the second was quite the opposite, using words of whimsy and transcendence. She had gone over this before, even looking up words and pronunciation from the deepest parts of her library.</p> +<p>This time though, the spell began to make sense. Like a distant blur on the horizon solidifying into a ship, but that didn't mean that she could sail upon it. No, the spell would likely take another tenday to work through at this rate.</p> +<p>She moved to the next line, back to permanence, repetition, solidity, before turning again to shifting sand and billowing wind. The salty sea-spray began to blow against her spellbook, almost flipping the page mid-sentence. She nearly cursed, but a mage learns to be careful with errant words early in her education, and she remained silent. She reached for her tea, but it had grown cold. She absent-mindedly heated it with a cantrip and brought the near-boiling mug to her lips.</p> +<p>Ow!</p> +<p>She set it down again and sent her unseen servant for an ice-block for the tea.</p> +<p>She thought about ice, about water, then again about the spell.</p> +<p>Permanence. Transience. Solidity. Liquidity.</p> +<p>That was it!</p> +<p>By the time the ice-cube arrived the tea was long forgotten.</p> +<p>"Of course! The key isn't thinking about location at all, it's about matter! I'm solid right now. I need to be liquid! A solid cannot move, but a liquid flows, through time, through space, it doesn't matter!"</p> +<p>Ula poured herself into the spell and the teacup clattered to the floor as she used her full concentration on the spell at hand. She focused on the market down below her. Fish-mongers barked their catches to the passersby and coin flowed freely.</p> +<p>The words came one after another perfectly, Ula could almost predict them. Permanence. Transience. Solidity. Liquidity.</p> +<p>And suddenly she was in the marketplace.</p> +<p>The surprised merchants around her started then blushed as she cheered "I did it! I did it!" and jumped up and down.</p> +<p>Only after nearly a minute of excited and likely bewildering explanation to the surprised fellows did Ula realize she had not changed from her slip and nightgown yet.</p> +<p>Oh well. She needn't be that embarrassed. She could always move; now the world was at her fingertips.</p> +<h2 id="sorcerer---ft.-saffron-daylasaar">Sorcerer - ft. Saffron Dayl'asaar</h2> +<p>Saffron looked at the picture of the remote village.</p> +<p>"You've got to be kidding me." she stated in deadpan.</p> +<p>"No, I assure you that is the location of the disturbance!" said the thin old actuary. He stooped over the table with a lens held to one eye peering at her as if he expected her to pop out of existence at any second.</p> +<p>Which, admittedly, she was likely to do, assuming of course that she could locate the stlarned place to disappear to.</p> +<p>"No, I mean, this is the best information you have?"</p> +<p>"Oh yes. Absolutely positively the best. The mine is just right by the village you see. That is where Betrice, our informant that is, recovered the clues. It's just luck that she thought the mine pretty and drew it for us in such exquisite detail."</p> +<p><em>Exquisite detail my arse.</em> thought Saffron.</p> +<p>The eldest child of the now-esteemed Dayl'asaar family of Aglarond, Saffron had always been the adventurous one, even more so than her trio of older brothers. So when the Institute came knocking three years ago, Saffron was the one to take up the call, not her father, not her brothers, but little Saffron spell-touched. Plus, she was the only one of them capable of the kind of magics that the Institute really lacked, even though the spells didn't always go off exactly as she planned.</p> +<p>"Okay. It will have to do." She snatched up the paper and her traveling gear and concentrated on the picture and on her breathing.</p> +<p>The mine was rather typical, but the old actuary, the elder one of the Minster Brothers who ran the Institute for the Recovery of Rare and Dangerous Artifacts, had supplied her with an atlas of remarkable detail and enough stories to feel as if she knew the place intimately. Or perhaps at least enough to try to translocate to it.</p> +<p>Saffron felt her breath go out into the world and spread out impossibly far. The world shift beneath her. She felt connected to the strands of the Weave around her, following them like a cart along a track, but moving impossibly fast. Her mind raced across the land, across the sea, to where the atlas had shown her. She hesitated above the island for a moment gauging the possibilities. Then suddenly she was plummeting into the jungles. This was no divination, so she could not actually see any details, only what she imagined the jungles to look like based on the dark greens and browns of the atlas. Suddenly a mine was in front of her. There was no saying if it was the right one, or if it really was a mine or not, but Saffron was tired of waiting. She drew up the power within her and stepped through the world itself.</p> +<p>She stepped through the Weave and out into a monsoon. She snagged a strand of loose magic on the way out and an explosion of cold air burst forth from where she was standing, instantly freezing raindrops into mini-hailstones which pounded her mercilessly.</p> +<p>"Ugh, Mystra you're working with Talos now to make my life violent and unpredictable? Is it too much to ask for--I don't know--a normal casting every once in a while?"</p> +<p>Her curses as she trudged through the rain would have made her ancestors, the Day'lasaar pirates of the Sea of Fallen Stars, proud.</p> +<h2 id="bard---ft.-orryn-raulnor">Bard - ft. Orryn Raulnor</h2> +<p>"You mean you're the third Raulnor with that name?!" the sellsword asked incredulously.</p> +<p>"No, no. Where I'm from that means that I'm the third oldest son." a gnome in gilded leathers replied.</p> +<p>"I see. Still too long for my tastes, I'm not for knowing what yer parents was for thinking, but nobody needs a name that damn long. And what about that 'sonoviches' part?"</p> +<p>"Well, that's a bit complicated: it roughly translates to something somewhere between 'indefatigable one who spits on witches' and 'largely punctual' ... it's a family name."</p> +<p>The table erupted in laughter.</p> +<p>Soon thereafter, the group seated around the table parted company and the gnome made his way into the street.</p> +<p>He wasn't nearly as drunk as his companions had been, but he only barely noticed the shapes in the alley before he'd walked into them.</p> +<p>Orryn licked his lips and looked over at the subtle shapes of his soon-to-be assailants.</p> +<p>There were perhaps eight of them now, arrayed in a semicircle around him in the darkness. He should have known better than to flaunt his gold around the tavern as he'd done. But them again, it wasn't all bad. It had been far too long since he had a chance to live a good story instead of simply tell one.</p> +<p>"Excuse me gentlesirs, how can I help you this fine night?" the gnomish bard, twirling a strand of his green beard around his finger in a gesture of mock-nervousness, asked the group of local toughs.</p> +<p>One of the larger of the group stepped forward into the alleyway and quickly botched whatever ready line he'd been prepared to say. They evidently hadn't realized the gnome has seen them before he'd spoken.</p> +<p>"Halt there, uh, sirrah. It looks like you've, uh, forgot to pay the toll."</p> +<p>"Hmm, I hadn't taken ye to be trolls, but now in the light I do see the resemblance."</p> +<p>The group was not particularly disciplined, most likely coming together recently at the smell of gold and lacking for a real leader. About half of them were silent and nearly shaking with anticipation. The other half were blustering fools.</p> +<p>"Did'ja he just call Cratch t'be a troll?" one asked.</p> +<p>"He is a troll!" another joked.</p> +<p>"Your mother's a troll." Cratch replied. "Now little one, hand over your money or you'll wish I's a troll."</p> +<p>"All right, all right. No need to be hasty. I'm sure you're all upstanding gents and just want to use the money to pay off your debts and buy your mothers veiled carriages. Here, take the money."</p> +<p>Orryn pulled at a pouch on his waist, snapping the straps, and tossed it on the ground in front of Cratch and the others. It fell open and several dozen large gold coins rolled from the sack.</p> +<p>The octet dived for the spilled coins and struggled with one another to snatch them up.</p> +<p>"Of course, this sum is just a trifle compared to what I keep at home."</p> +<p>The novitiate robbers looked up with various states of doubt, incomprehension, and greed. This had been the plan, but somehow it was far too easy. The smart thing to do would be to grab the gold and flee. But these were not particularly smart men, less so when blinded by the fortunes of gold held in their hands.</p> +<p>"Take us there."</p> +<p>"As you wish..." The rest of Orryn's sing-song sentence danced in the wind to distant places and forgotten ages. The eight bullies found their thoughts taken far away as the strange music lifted them up and carried them upon a journey. The true names of places are powerful things, most strange and unpronounceable, most lost to time immortal. But the bard's magic remembered them. His words were not an incantation as much as a call-and-response. His voice echoed through the world, and the world responded.</p> +<p>Orryn and the eight were suddenly elsewhere. A very far away elsewhere. Snow billowed through the air and covered the icy ground in heaps.</p> +<p>Orryn's captives reeled and screamed in terror.</p> +<p>"Where are we?? Curse you wizard!"</p> +<p>"Fear not. Everything is under control. We are in the middle of a northern glacier, where a small expedition settlement once existed. I hadn't planned on the blizzard, but I suppose you're familiar with the adage 'we take what we are given.'"</p> +<p>Cratch lunged at the diminutive bard, but Orryn was already in the midst of another spell. He spoke words that felt like rushing air and drifted lazily into the sky, just out of reach of the huddled mob. He extended his arms, recited the lightly tingly words that covered his body with bright red faerie fire, and then spoke with a voice that boomed through the icy plain.</p> +<p>"Hear me well, I am Orryn Maye Sylvester Miles Felix Hectacre Notin Jiles Bulron Sysil-Sisler Klif-Wistler Anasto'tofande Sonoviches Overton Sennison Johnnyson Raulnor the Third, Bard of Faerun, Walker of Worlds, Smiter of Evildoers and Annoying Backwater Pricks, and I. AM. NOT. A. WIZARD."</p> +<p>The group cowered and shivered before a spectacle of magical prowess unlike any they had ever seen or were ever likely to see again.</p> +<p>"And if you would give me back my coin, I would appreciate it."</p> +<p>A few hours later, the eight would-be robbers staggered into a tavern, each holding a single gold piece and a story.</p> +<p>None of them would ever rob again.</p> +<h1 id="prestidigitation">Prestidigitation</h1> +<h2 id="magic-initiate-feat---wizard---ft.-harvey-hoban-harpell">Magic Initiate Feat - Wizard - ft. Harvey Hoban Harpell</h2> +<p>"Whadd'ya mean cutof?"</p> +<p>"I mean, cut off. You, Mr. Harpell, are cut off. No more drinks tonight. Sit, enjoy the fire, rest. Do nothing to rouse the ire of my other patrons. Especially none of that odoriferous weed of yours!"</p> +<p>"Whadd'ya mean rows the ira!" Here, turning to a hooded man nursing a half-pint of dark liquor beside him. "Do I rows ya ira?!" The man turned to face him, grim faced, and in a motion dumped the glass' contents over the young man's dirty matted head of hair and set the empty glass upon the counter before the frowning bartender.</p> +<p>"That's a waste of good liquor, Malcom."</p> +<p>"Just wanted to give'im one last drink is all. I'll pay."</p> +<p>The bartender sighed and reluctantly poured the man another glass.</p> +<p>"How come 'e gets some!?"</p> +<p>"Go. Sit... Now."</p> +<p>The dripping cleric, robes which had successfully avoided the downpour now dripping with a darker rain, wobbled over to the fire and landed upon a cushion with some measure of practiced grace, or luck.</p> +<p>"Oh, Mal-com gets another drink. Sure." He looked to give the man an evil-eye but noticed for the first time that he was not alone. "Oh, ladies, my apprologries." He attempted to stand but finding extracting himself from his seat more difficult than anticipated, simply half-bowed to the pair of dripping maids. Straining for words, he offered, "I see you're wet! I can help you with that!"</p> +<p>As he struggled with gaining control of his faculties to remember the blasted name of that cantrip, the sound of broken glass from across the room cut through the lively atmosphere.</p> +<p>The Selune's Smile was rather crowded with weary travelers looking for rest or for revel. Twin fireplaces bookended the common area, giving a warm glow to the ancient decor. Gristly trophies bequeathed to the tavern adorned the walls: dragon scales, naga fangs, and owlbear heads among them. A few quiet tapestries hang from the rafters, heralding the ancient Lords of Waterdeep who frequented the tavern in times long since past.</p> +<p>It is said that every adventurer of the Sword Coast eventually finds her way to the City of Splendors, but rarely do so many of them come to a particular tavern all at once.</p> +<p>Seated across from the most recent blackfish of the Harpell family, sat a pair of ladies wearing drenched leathers and scowls.</p> +<p>Harvey seemed not to notice the latter as he inventoried his magical repertoire.</p> +<p><em>Prefeguritat?</em></p> +<p><em>Pregnanitato?</em></p> +<p><em>Presdogranado?</em></p> +<p><em>No. That'd jus worse.</em></p> +<p>The room grew instantly silent at the spilling glass and subsequent trading of blows.</p> +<p><em>No, youse keep talkin, gotta thing.</em> he silently berated the floor.</p> +<p><em>Prestangerition?</em></p> +<p>One of the combatants fell to the floor and then laboriously dragged himself back up and slumped into a nearby chair. Harvey thought he heard one of the two women, the shorter one, say something, "Need some... mumble mumble Moose?"</p> +<p><em>Moose?</em></p> +<p><em>His mind joined his liver, slowly churning through the facts of the day.</em></p> +<p>/Animal. Forest. Green. She's kinda greenish. I wonder if she's from a forest? Ew, she's probaly dirty if she came from a forest. Eh, nothin a little Prestidigitation couldn't fix./</p> +<p><em>...</em></p> +<p>"Prestidigitation!" He shouted over the now-returned din. Magic leapt from his fingers, but not exactly with the effect he had originally intended. Reminded of the magical pranks from his childhood, his most common retaliatory strike was that of the "foul wind." This came unbidden to him now, and the magic unleashed the foul smelling breeze from his fingertips.</p> +<h1 id="cure-wounds">Cure Wounds</h1> +<h2 id="bard">Bard</h2> +<h2 id="cleric---ft.-harvey-hoban-harpell">Cleric - ft. Harvey Hoban Harpell</h2> +<p>The minor scuffle in the tavern had turned to outright chaos. Harvey struggled to look unassuming beside the fireplace. The two furious women had stomped off for some reason and then suddenly returned, except... one of them had a thick moose pelt thrown up over her arm like a shield and had grappled away a sword from an unfortunate fellow behind her, and...</p> +<p>Oh no, now there were three of them. The wet woman, the moose woman, and a new woman... who could probably lift a moose. And despite his best efforts, his "gusts" had spread to even the outer tables. People were taking notice. Through it all, came the deep contralto of what he could only assume was a giantess, standing now, teeth clenched and nearly trembling with rage.</p> +<p>"What is the meaning of this?"</p> +<p>Even drunk, even stupid, there was no mistaking that tone.</p> +<p>Stumbling with words, with mental images, and especially the literal stumbling involved when attempting to slink backwards from fear of a large angry Goliath woman, at first Harvey could do little more than whimper.</p> +<p>Stopping just short of the fire, it's tongues licking the edges of his trailing sleeves, he composed himself as well as he could in the face of possible crushing death, closed his eyes, and sputtered "Excuse my casting m'lady. My name is Harvey Hoban Harpell, 'eric'a Eldath. I only meant to help." Then peeking carefully from one eye he added, "Please don' crush me."</p> +<p>He was inadvertently saved by another man. The drunken merchant lost his footing as he approached the bar for another bottle of stsass and stumbled into the goliath maid's firm buttocks. He might as well have walked into a wall for all the good it did him. Actually, he most certainly would have preferred to walk into a wall, as walls don't seize you by the collar, hoist you over their heads and fling you at their true sources of rage.</p> +<p>Layers of fat flapped in the wind, terrified by their unnatural acceleration. Equally terrified, the eye Harvey had dared to open flinched shut. He could hear the sounds of the fireplace mantle above him abruptly stopping the man-boulder's flight. And a moment later he could feel the crushing weight of the man-boulder's fall, the hard coolness of the wooden floor against his face, and the uncomfortable warmth and wetness of a terrified unconscious man letting go after a long night of drinking.</p> +<p>In that moment, he felt that the only proper thing to do was to join him.</p> +<p>Minutes passed and Harvey was more than satisfied with resting stupidly beneath his boulderous brother, surrounded by the incontinent smells and the tumultuous clatter of battle... wait. Battle?</p> +<p><em>Oh no. What have I done?</em></p> +<p>Harvey tried to stand, to lift his face from the hard pearwood floorboards, to see what was going on. Red blood splattered down beside his cheek. It was warm and fresh. He managed to lift his shoulders and turn. A bloody maw lolled above him, the jaw obviously broken, tongue bit, nearly severed. Bruising was already beginning to settle in between the voluminous folds of fat around the face and neck -- black and blue and red.</p> +<p>Suddenly what was the proper thing moments ago seemed foolish. This whole night seemed foolish. Eldath, what have I done? This man is hurt because of me. I started a brawl. I'm not worthy of serving you.</p> +<p>In Harvey's frantic heart, beside the furious pounding and self-pity, came a shiver. It raced along his chest, along his limbs, his spine a roadway, his bumbling extremities the destination. A familiar sense of peace, contentment, and quiet perfection, washed over him like a gentle flowing stream. The sensation reached his head, starting from the base of the skull and rushing forward to envelop him, to hold him, to wrap him tightly in a warm stillness. All was silent.</p> +<p>And yet from in that perfect silence, Harvey could almost hear a quiet voice, a whisper of a whisper upon the wind breathe to him.</p> +<p><em>I know...</em></p> +<p>The silence abated and the bustling lights and sounds of the taverns returned.</p> +<p>Thank you, m'Lady. Harvey mouthed deferentially. Then squeezing a hand beneath his torso and the floor and taking up his holy symbol from around his neck, he gently turned his body into a sitting position against the wall, the large man laying across his lap, and allowed the Peace of Eldath to flow through him and into the man.</p> +<p>He spoke words, though he knew them not, and the symbol of the rushing waterfall and the still pool gleamed with a quiet silver and blue light. The unconscious man's wounds were bathed in the light, and his clotting blood staunched, his bruises soothed, his avulsed tongue knit together, and jaw gently returned to place. He opened his eyes, wonderstruck, then promptly grimaced at the smell in the air and in his trousers.</p> +<p>"Oh, right!" Harvey waved away the effect of the cantrip and helped the man to his feet.</p> +<h2 id="druid">Druid</h2> +<h2 id="paladin---ft.">Paladin - ft.</h2> +<h2 id="ranger">Ranger</h2> +<h1 id="power-word-kill">Power Word Kill</h1> +<h2 id="wizard">Wizard</h2> +<h2 id="warlock">Warlock</h2> +<h1 id="the-fugue">The Fugue</h1> +<p>The orcs pulled you down.</p> +<p>They beat you. You could feel the blood in your mouth, and leaking beneath your skin. You could feel their clubs break you. You felt your spine snap, one, two, three places. Frantic, try to focus on the spells your patron left you. But you know there is nothing there. So you flex the fingers on your right hand, where your brand is--the deep, red burn which you know will never heal. You feel the bitter the connection to Nine Hells, in some ways it feels like a fishing line pulling you back there, and in other it just feels like a part of your body, like a gland. Pulling on the connection feels like crying, but tears of sulfur and of smoke. Soon hot, sticky, bruised-looking energy responds to your call and leaks from the brand like pus. An orc stands over you, a battleaxe held high above his head, and you fling it at him with a roar of defiance. He takes it full in the face and his brain explodes out the back of his head.</p> +<p>But he wasn't the only orc, and the hits keep coming, You know that you are going to die.</p> +<p>Soon the blows stop hurting. The world stops spinning and everything is very very quiet.</p> +<p>...</p> +<p>You don't open your eyes. There's no moment of focusing, blurred vision, bright light. You just see. You just are.</p> +<p>You're standing on a desolate plain. The sky is a dull shade of dark gray, the same color as the thick dirt which covers the ground like dusty snow. You can see ahead for hundreds of miles, but it doesn't seem to strike you as odd.</p> +<p>You aren't alone.</p> +<p>Others, mostly humans, but a half-orc here, a half-elf there, move through the dirt, knocking up clouds of dust in their wakes. They move so slowly.</p> +<p>You are standing.</p> +<p>You look down at your hand, there is no brand. You flex the fingers, but there is no burning sensation. In fact, there's barely any sensation at all. It doesn't seem to strike you as odd.</p> +<p>As you turn the hand over to put it back at your side, you notice that where the brand was, on the back is a small red patch of dried ink. Perhaps some rune or letter? It doesn't seem important.</p> +<p>You drop the arm to your side, slowly, quietly, and begin to walk.</p> +<p>Nearby is a small hill. Several men and women are gathered on it. They seem to be singing.</p> +<p>A light opens above them and a creature with wings of fire and a shield emblazoned with the symbol of an upright gauntlet appears. With a circular motion of his arm and a smile, the light becomes a whirlwind and the faithful are lifted up into the shining gateway and disappear in an anti-climactic non-flash of light. For as suddenly as the herald appeared, he is gone and the plain is returned to stoic grayness. You notice that even the hill is gone. But it doesn't seem important.</p> +<p>You spot a woman along your path, old, wrinkled, dirty, as grey as the dust and sky. She is sobbing softly, clutching at her knees. She wears the low-cut rags of a Luskan whore. Her eyes grow wide with fear as you approach. But you hear a voice call out "do not be afraid." Your eyes follow the voice, to a woman standing nearby. She radiates beauty. Calling her beautiful is like calling the sky overcast. It is like calling the air stale or the dirt dirty. She reaches out a hand to the woman, her long red hair flowing in a wind that isn't there. The old woman bounds to her feet. She falls, but stands and tries again, every step growing stronger until she grasps the hand of her goddess and is clothed in the beauty and vitality of her youth. She cries with joy, collapsing into the breast of the goddess, and the pair step through the planes together leaving behind the scent of strawberries and freshly cut grass.</p> +<p>The scent dissipates quickly and you continue walking.</p> +<p>You see others wandering aimlessly like yourself.</p> +<p>You all seem to be walking in the same direction.</p> +<p>In the distance is a circle of lights around an impossibly thin silver line disappearing into the sky.</p> +<p>Your approach takes many hours, perhaps days or months or years, but eventually the lights become a city. A huge city. The walls rise over a mile high, and moan softly, though you can't tell how or why.</p> +<p>From a large gate, hooded figures approach the aimless walkers, including yourself. One stops before you and removes her hood with a look of vague, forced, curiosity. She isn't exactly human, she has scales across her face and bright yellow eyes which are difficult to follow.</p> +<p>She speaks, but the words are distant, muffled, "Guarded Faithless or Bargained Soul?"</p> +<p>A deep, resonating, but scratchy voice answers from somewhere behind and above you.</p> +<p>"The first. Perhaps next time... the second."</p> +<p>After a moment of consideration she nods deferentially, raises her hood, and turns towards the city, ushering you forward.</p> +<p>The walls continue to grow as you get closer. They must be ten miles high. This city must house millions. Around you is a crowd, closely packed among each other, though most give you a wide berth. Now devils mingle among the humans, whispering, promising. They lead away many.</p> +<p>As you approach the wall, the whimpering grows louder. The wall has faces. Bodies are stuck together with rotting mortar, which dissolves them like a giant stomach.</p> +<p>Suddenly jagged rifts open beside and before you, along the wall. Creatures with the faces and tusks of pigs, but the bodies of great apes rush through, crushing or tossing aside both wandering Faithless and cloaked guides.</p> +<p>Horns blare clearly through the otherwise muted scene of violence.</p> +<p>The guides throw aside their cloaks and brandish sickles and shields. Devils howl war cries and abandon their bargaining to do battle with their hated foes.</p> +<p>The demons flow through the rifts in a great horde and begin to tear at the wall, dragging huge chunks back through with them into the Abyss. Some moaning souls cry out as many are ripped asunder, torn from a slow non-existence of centuries to one of instants. The rest disappear into the Abyss, their forms already being twisted into those of the demons that abducted them.</p> +<p>A giant six-armed demon with fangs like a viper rushes at you. You raise your hand to call down fire upon it, but you have no power on which to call.</p> +<p>A bony whip-like barbed tail shoots out from behind you, striking the creature and sending it writhing to the ground. A massive bone devil steps over you, it's skeletal spider-like limbs moving to propel it impossibly fast through the slow-motion battlefield. It hefts a greatclub that was probably once the femurs of one of those huge pig-ape-devils and smashes the six-armed serpent into a blackish pulp. The blood splashes up into your face, leaving a line of acidic muck running down your nose, between your eyes.</p> +<p>Then the fighting stops as suddenly as it started. An angel, clad in flames the color of the sky shuts the portals with a pointed word and outstretched finger and surveys the damage to the wall before flying off towards the great spire of Kelemvor, the god of the dead.</p> +<p>The bone devil turns and looks you over. "It is time. The vessel has arrived." He then leaves you and cuts a thin line in the air with his tail. He steps through it and disappears, leaving behind the familiar scent of sulfur and brimstone. You hear the distant sound of a faint chime. It's probably not important.</p> +<p>--</p> +<p>You open your eyes. There's a moment of focusing, blurred vision, and bright light. You take a breath and feel the cold morning air fill your lungs. A horned tiefling with a pitch black bell and a scroll is standing over you. Your whole body burns, but especially your hand and a strip running from your forehead down between your eyes.</p> +<p>Everything is blurry, especially your memory. Standing around you are your adventuring companions. It feels like you just saw them moments ago? Was there a battle? What's going on? You can't remember anything... it's all just indistinct and gray.</p> +<p>Faust and the Fugue Plane -Andrew Murrell</p> + + </article> + <footer> + <p>The content of this page is Copyright © 2017 <a href="mailto:ImFromNASA@gmail.com">Andrew Murrell</a>.</p> +<p>This page is licensed under the <a href="">CC BS-SA-3.0</a> license.</p> + <p>Page source: <a href="spell-gauntlet.org">spell-gauntlet.org</a></p> + <p>Website source: <a href="https://git.andrewdm.me/www.git">www.git</a></p> + </footer> + </body> +</html> |