Random Stories and Fragments

Ozziel looked at the remains of the Profane, contemplating what punishment awaited those found guilty of murdering one. "I hate to state the obvious, but we need to get out of town. Something tells me the next Balor won't be quite as easily distracted. Good news is, I've got a plan. All we have to do is reach the docks. I've got a boat waiting. Bad news is..." Vranton finished. "That means we have to go through the Port District."

The Port District was inarguably the worst part of Galveholm. Aside from a larger-than-usual number of smugglers, slavers, cutpurses, cutthroats, and other unsavory characters, Galveholm's Port District boasted a worrying number of soul-hungry succubi, typically posing as prostitutes but not above assaulting their victims, chaos marauders wandering the dark alleys, and mobius witches eager to test their magic on vagrants. To finish off the vile mixture, the most violent of Galveholm's cults made their home here. They'd yet to become part of the Ashen Veil, mostly because they had no fear of or respect for any law but that given by their demonic lords. Asha drew her sword. "There will be bloodshed before this is over," she said.

They had only walked a few blocks in before Asha's prediction came true. Dusk had settled, and the worst of Galveholm's unpleasant residents were starting to become more ambitious. They tried to stay in the Port District's main roads, but this was difficult, and often, what passed for a main road was merely a wider alley. It was not long before a small gang spotted them. A few appeared in front of them. “Gold, and bodies for Mr. Skull.. Get 'em.” Vranton turned, and, not to his surprise, another squad behind them. “Didn't think you'd be getting away that easily?” They were trapped, and Ozziel didn't seem like a warrior. Asha drew her sword, but it seemed unlikely she could protect both sides. One of the gang's more eager men charged... and fell apart. Some dark figure had, moving with inhuman speed, simply sliced him in half, neatly separating his upper and lower body. His brethren stared. “Dare you challenge the mighty Ozziel?” Ozziel bellowed, waving his hands dramatically. “The next man who steps forward will suffer an even more horrific fate!”

Quietly, Vranton asked, “you're bluffing, aren't you?” Ozziel nodded. “Of course. I have no idea what the hell did that.” The eldest of the gang, presumably its leader, laughed. “A mage. This'll be fun!” Fire hurled from the thug's fingers, charging straight at Ozziel... before suddenly hissing out. The mage then exploded violently, covering his brethren in hot blood.

Vranton looked around, trying to identify the true source of the mystical mayhem protecting them. For a brief moment, he spotted a vague figured wrapped in a cloak blacker than the night itself, peering down at him. He could make little out, other than that it was clearly not human. Try though he might, Vranton simply could not bring himself to look upon long without his eyes wandering away.

Ozziel was putting on his best show, and the gang was dispersing. “Get Mr. Skull!” one screamed. Several more were slain in various horrific ways; one's skeleton seemed to take on a life of its own and tore itself out of its owners body before turning on the rest of the gang. Another was frozen into a solid block of ice, lifted up, and then dashed onto the pavement. A third began to simply melt like a candle. But a few escaped. “Yikes,” Ozziel muttered. “Our guardian angel has a sick sense of humor...”

It was not long before they were again stopped. A thin old man, covered in skulls. “You're in Ratbone territory, mage” he said. His accent was Amurite, and suggested noble lineage, although in appearance he was nothing but a bone-obsessed beggar. “You have dared to challenge us, and you shall pay.” The mage pulled out a scroll and began chanting. A series of runes appeared below him. Ozziel stared. “With a name like that I'd assume necromancer... but that looks like... law magic?”

A squad of glowing figures appeared, ancient warriors from times past. “In the name of Law, and of the One, I challenge you to a duel. We may fight, as equals, or my servants will tear you limb from limb.” Ozziel ignored the offer, asking, “how in the Hells did a law mage end up here?” “That is not your concern,” Mr. Skull declared. “Do you accept my challenge?”

And from the rooftops, a voice said, “yes.”

Mr. Skull looked up, and then stared. “I... I... withdraw my request... I... submit.” “Not accepted.” The figure landed catlike in front of Mr. Skull. “ I grant you the first move,” it said politely. Mr. Skull staggered backwards, before attempting a particularly awesome bolt of flame. His opponent was unscathed. The stranger yawned and, with a wave of his hand, lifted Mr. Skull bodily, flipped him so his head pointed towards the ground, and smashed him down with absurd force.

“Who... are you?” “A friend. Fear not, none shall bother you on your way home.” The figure then added something in Balseraph, then vanished. Seeing questioning glances, Ozziel said, “It's hard to translate. A Balseraph saying, of sorts. 'You shall never fear boredom again.' Equally appropriate for earning a beautiful woman or being sent to a horrific dungeon... anything that will change your life, for better or for worse...”

“Really,” Vranton's savior thought to himself. “Do they think all this was an accident?” Of course, things were going perfectly. There was a saying, after all... if you want a Balseraph to open a box, you have to let them steal it first.

Frank whistled tunelessly to himself as he plowed his fields. It would be a good year for wheat, Old Lady Maybelle had reckoned, and Old Lady Maybelle was always reliable. His was a small farm, enough to support his wife and daughter. She was becoming a woman, and a few of the village lads had started to notice this. He knew most of them, and had threatened to murder several. They'd sworn their intents were innocent, but he remembered his own intents at that age. He knew every trick the boys did, and invented a good few of them.

He spotted a nervous, overdressed lad approaching him. “You here to see my daughter?” he asked. “Erm, no. In the, erm,” he fumbled about with a piece of paper, and read from it. “In the name of our esteemed King Cardith Lorda, in the name of Amathon, and in the name of the Golden Dragon, I have been sent to inform you that this land is now property of the King...” Frank was mildly curious. He didn't believe the kid for a second, despite his ludicrous garments. But he knew he was about to witness a wonderfully overblown attempt to get to his daughter, and saw no reason not to go with it. “Alright,” he said, “what for?” “The Mages Guild requires the, er, the mana vein which is, er, well, apparently its somewhere around here...” “And what do I get? A friendly pat on the back?” Frank asked. “Er, there is farmland, at the, well, there's farms somewhere, west,” the young man proceeded to motion vaguely east, “and, y'know, you can work there, and its, well, its good land, and its not right in Orc territory, not really, I mean, from what I've heard...” Frank had to admit, the lad was creative. But Frank knew better. “The message, please?” he said. He took it triumphantly, and briefly read over it. He glanced down at the bottom, and proudly began to declare, “this seal is...”

Then Frank examined the seal.. Frank was the only person for miles around who could read, and was often asked to read off royal proclamations. The lad was really smart, he had to admit. He could write as well, and it was really official looking. Had some lordling's son taken to his dear Lucy? Frank wouldn't mind that. He read it over again, checking for the usual mistakes and misspellings of peasantry. None. He studied the seal. A perfect forgery, or, perhaps even genuine. If what this kid was saying was true... Frank decided to play along. “Tell them I will start leaving at the soonest possible time,” he said. Not that he was about to. “Lad,” he added. “Your name?” “Alexander,” the boy said.

A week later, Alexander returned. “Umm... you don't look like you're packing... you're sort of... not packing...” “Yeah, I said I'd start leaving at the soonest possible time.” What game was this boy playing? Frank was not about to actually leave his farm! If the lordling's son couldn't understand the importance of the daily labors of farming, he certainly didn't want him as a son-in-law, money be damned! Frank continued, playing nice. “And the soonest possible time will be after the harvest.” “The harvest?” “Before winter.” “But... you have to leave, soon... the Mage's Guild won't wait...” “Tell the Mage's Guild that my livelihood depends on this harvest. They can wait.”

That was the last Frank saw of Alexander, until after the harvest. Then he returned, flanked by a pair of centaurs. That concerned him, although centaurs were overrated and underarmored. Nonetheless, Frank made sure he was near his pitchfork. “Now what?” “Well, you said you'd start moving after the harvest...” Damn, that boy was stubborn. “Yes. I will do as Cardith Lorda wills. But I'm really tired of this. What are you really here for?” “Like I said...” A centaur interrupted. “We come in the name of Cardith Lorda to convert this land into a mana node. You will be given twice as much land in the West to make up for it. Any questions?” The kid had nerve. A lot of nerve. Hiring mercenaries to pretend to be guards... he was really starting to hate this whelp. “Forget it. My daughter is already betrothed.” It was true; she was to marry the blacksmith's son. But they were relentless. “Then she can find a new husband in the West.” The centaur motioned, and the boy pulled out a bunch of papers. “Can you read?” “Yeah. Give 'em.” More official looking documents, promising land and gold. Did they take him for a greedy fool? As if the land promised existed. “Excellent forgeries,” he said.

In a more lawless land, Frank knew, those words would have cost him his life. The centaurs would have skewered him and ran off with his daughter, doing unspeakable things to her before giving her to that damnable lordling. But here, there were rules. “We will meet again,” the centaur said.

The very next day, the centaurs brought the city guard. “I knew you were corrupt,” Frank said bluntly. “The only way I'm moving is if Eurabatres herself descends from the sky.” Frank grabbed his pitchfork. They weren't taking him alive. He'd eliminate as many of them as possible. “What,” demanded Alexander, “will it take to convince you that we come sent by Cardith Lorda, and not some well-connected swindlers?” Frank laughed. “Exactly what I said. I'll move without complaint if Eurabatres herself descends from the sky!” They looked at each other. “How badly do we need this mana node?” one of the centaurs asked. “Very, very badly,” responded Alexander. “I wish we could just boot this fool off his land... but after what happened last time..” Alexander trailed off. “Good thing she's not doing anything important.”

A month later, as winter took hold, Frank looked out his window to see a monstrous golden leg. “Holy...” Frank grabbed his pitchfork, walked outside, and stared at the mighty dragon towering over him. Her scales shone, making the snow look dirty by comparison. She looked bored, and was sending snow flying with lazy swipes of her tail. Alexander, filled with a new confidence and now unescorted, beamed at him from her shadow. He handed Frank the papers. Frank said, “I give up. I have no idea how you pulled... that... off, but you can have my daughter. Seriously, you could have just asked.” Alexander shrugged. “It's wasn't really a con. There actually is a mana node planned here. I just made sure I was the one sent to take care of it. I figured it would be a perfect excuse to properly meet your lovely daughter.” Frank grinned. “Well, at least that didn't work.” Alexander nodded. “Of course, seeing as I did all this work, could I at least say hello?” Frank laughed. “Might as well. But if you think of trying any funny business...” before Frank could finish, Alexander pointed towards the dragon. “Were you about to threaten me with the pitchfork?” Frank said, “you think I got a death wish? Excuse me, ma'am!” Frank said to the dragon. “Keep an eye on him, and I've got a nice cow for ya.” The dragon yawned, but pointed one of her massive eyes at Alexander. “No funny business,” Frank said one last time.

The crowd went silent, or as silent as a Balseraph crowd can. As the sun dipped below the horizon, torches were lit. Before the show itself, there was always a small, absurd skit. Usually it was ad-libbed, but Perpentach had arranged one especially for this occasion.

An actor, overdressed and managing to look utterly emotionless, stepped onto the stage. “Who shall I smite today?” he asked, scanning over the crowd. “You there, stop picking your nose or I shall cut your hand off!” he said, pointing to one man in the crowd. “You, woman! You dress as though you were a whore!” “I am!” the woman responded, garnering a few chuckles. “You all disgust me,” the actor yelled. “I am the great and mighty Junil, and I should crush you all!”

“That wouldn't be very nice,” said a timid voice from the side. Another actor entered the stage, a pale, slinking figure dressed in brown. “I mean, there's the compact, and...” “Silence!” yelled Junil at the newcomer, who flinched. “Cassiel, you little worm! What will you do to stop me from crushing every last one of these dogs!” “I suppose I could send an adventurer... if I can find one who's still sober... and then ask him nicely to help me...” Cassiel said, slowly backing away. “Or, maybe I could talk to your followers, you know, have a nice, friendly, philosophical discussion. We don't have to get violent...”

Junil pulled out a large, paper sword and began comically thwacking at Cassiel, all the while keeping a stony visage. Making the task harder was Cassiel's begging and pleading, comically overblown. The pleas were ad libbed, and this particular actor was especially brilliant at playing the part of a beaten dog. Eventually, and with one last, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” Cassiel was chased off stage. “Now, who else dares oppose the mighty Junil?”

The real Cassiel watched this from his seat in the VIP box. Perpentach's usual hospitality at work. Perpentach always seemed to invite his fellow leaders over only to annoy them. But it would be an insult not to come, and the Balseraphs were as dangerous as they were insane. With him were Capria and Ethne the White. Falamar had failed to show up, even though Cassiel had seen him in Jubilee. Odd, Cassiel thought as he took another glass of wine. Two powerful, intelligent women, and Falamar wasn't there trying to bed either. Cassiel would have wagered Falamar would have at least gone for Ethne, and probably tried to arrange a night with both of them at once.

Two women walked on stage. One was dressed in cloth of the purest white, although there was very little of it. Just in case it wasn't obvious who she was, a pin with the Elohim symbol somehow held the whole garment together. The other actress was wearing armor that, Cassiel groggily thought, would have left far too many vital organs vulnerable if it were real. Capria silently sipped down a glass of wine, while Ethne just sighed and rolled her eyes. “Y'know,” Cassiel said, “something tells me I got off easy.”

“My most loyal servants,” Junil said to the actresses. “Come now, kneel before your lord,” he said, “and with my Divine Instrument, I shall give each of you the gift of life...” “Ahoy, laddie! I be smellin' plunder, so I'll be a-plunderin' it!” Falamar's turn, Cassiel guessed. And indeed, an actor in an over-the-top Lanun outfit, with a gigantic captain's hat obscuring most of his features, swaggered onto the stage and pulled out a paper sword. “I'll be havin' yet booty, Junil, and I ain't talkin' gold either.” The actor's Lanun accent, although just as absurdly overdone as his outfit, was simultaneously surprisingly accurate.

Junil readied himself. Apparently, the actor playing Falamar had studied actual fencing, and made quite a show of their play fight. Then, without warning, the actor tripped Junil, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. The actresses gaped, seeming confused. Junil got up, losing his cool for several moments and then said, “you have proven yourself worthy. I submit...” with that, Junil walked off stage.

At first, Cassiel wondered what had happened. Was a worse joke in store for Falamar? Or was Perpentach trying to turn the rest of them against him? But then the actor playing Falamar whipped off his hat, and, with a flourish, tossed it into the crowd. “Ladies,” he said, grinning. Ethne picked up the spyglass they'd been given and examined the actor. She then grinned and handed it to Capria. She too smiled. “I guess Perpentach didn't see that coming,” Capria muttered before handing the glass to Cassiel. He fiddled with the thing, before managing to get a good view.

Amazed and bemused, Cassiel watched as Falamar, who had apparently decided to play himself in this little farce, wrapped an arm around each of the actresses' waists and, with a wicked wink in the direction of the VIP box, cheerfully walked off stage.