Fantasy Friday
I play Dungeons and
Dragons every Friday. That is to say I run a 4th Edition Dungeons & Dragons
campaign every Friday set in the country of Beniro. As such I've decided to
chronicle the hero's adventures from the perspective of different characters my
friends play. Each week and each short chapter I will rotate the perspective so you
can get a feel for all the characters. I will try my best to capture my
friend's characters and the adventures they go on. I might change some elements
but know I do it for the story.
A lot of the art I will be
using is not credited, so if you know the artist, tell me and I'll label it
appropriately.
THE ACTION SOCIETY
BOOK 1
RISE OF THE WHITE SPIDER
CHAPTER 4
LUCIUS
It was not in
Lucius’s nature to be early. Punctuality was as out of fashion in the upper echelons
of Beniro society as incest and badminton. The current fashion pleased Lucius
because he hated the sight of inbred royalty and the implications of the word “shuttlecock.”
Yet, a whole hour early he had arrived, and a whole hour later he leaned
against a pillar waiting to enter King Duhknin’s Great Hall. He had not arrived
early out of courtesy to Doktham’s ruler. He had arrived early in order to
complete his business with the old king. Lucius hated prolonging the wait to
discuss his debt with King Duhnkin so he could take his leave and return to
Tiefl.
It was also not
in Lucius’s nature to owe favors or debts to Dwarven kings or anyone else for
that matter. Lucius had been born with a silver fork in his mouth and, as the
heir to a Tiefling trading empire, would probably die with a silver fork in his
mouth. It had been his Uncle’s plan to pay for his education in wizardry. He
reckoned having a wizard in the family, much more a wizard as the leader of the
family business, would be a worthwhile investment. It was not as if he forced
an unwanted education on his nephew. Lucius was born prematurely and his body
was too weak to learn the way of the sword. Furthermore, he loved reading,
spending almost all of his time in his Uncle’s library and pouring over ancient
tomes of forgotten lore. Lucius was sent to apprentice under the prestigious
wizard, Knilerm. But something went wrong between beginning of his education
and his fall into the dark arts. His Uncle had cut him off until he could prove
himself a good man. Yet, the fall had cost Lucius much more precious things
than his family fortune.
At least it was
not without its amusements. He was bored but he was not dying of boredom. He
was not very bored because, despite being somewhat alone, he was not completely
alone in waiting on the King. Sitting on the marble bench near the door was an elven
maiden in green robes. She had a gorgeous face with skin like snow and emerald
eyes that were like deep pools of time. He took advantage of the way that her
eyes searched the floor for any grain of soil to pick at her every feature he
could with precision. Her aureate hair, like a field of dark yellow on a dry
winter’s day, probably smelt like rain. An earthy green cloak and a thick skirt
made it difficult to judge that body but he was positive she was the athletic
type. Thin but muscular, strong but flexible, and soft but enduring; hers was a
countenance he would love to admire more closely behind closed doors (or
anywhere really). He might have made a move on the flaxen lass but, alas,
standing to her right like an unintentional chaperone was a knight.
The chivalrous
kind, but even more intimidating, was his shape. A good foot taller than Lucius
and, despite being suited in a mix of plate mail and scale, he could the dumb
muscle from across the room. He had to be more careful to make a judgment of
such an intimidating figure. Clad in bronze and copper green steel from neck to
toe, a great golden fist holding a lightning bolt painted on the front, running
down as if faded from time, and a green cape attached to the great paldrons
that adorned his shoulders; it was all a little too dashing for such an ugly
creature. He took special care to first look at his hands, in fact more like
great scaled claws, one brick read and the other as pale as the sheen of his
plate mail. The unavoidable was the knight’s face. Not quite reptilian, or crocodilian, the paladin had the head of a dragon but more to the shape of a
human. He was a dragonborn. His eyes like fine golden beads set under a prominent
frilled brow, seemed to dart around with impatience. Every now and then he
would hear a gruff murmur from the paladin directed toward the elven maiden,
who would politely smile and nod, or if the dragonborn was luckier, a chortle.
On one hand, he was a little nervous at the sight of a dragonborn paladin, not
only a symbol for justice, but a member of the very same race that had
destroyed Lucius’s peoples Reziek Empire generations ago.
The last fellow
in the hall was sitting, leaned against the wall next to the door leading into
the Great Hall and lacked even the little patience that Lucius had.
Occasionally, the young man’s eye would dart to the door as if expecting it to
open any minute. He would rise at the sound of any approaching footsteps, which
Lucius could not hear but only imagine from where he stood, before returning to
his place on the floor. That solitary eye stood out brightly, black but bright
as a marble, as it seemed to pick out every detail in the room. Lucius had to
be extra careful to avoid meeting that cold gaze but was sure the other had
noticed his observation. That fellow intimidated him even more than the dragonborn
but was a head shorter than even Lucius. There was a relaxed fury in the
posture of the eye-patch wearing young man with his green velvet hood and
longbow. He looked out of place in the dark halls of Doktham.
Yet, it was not in his nature to
begrudge someone for looking so different, as the dragonborn or dangerous, as
the ranger. He too suffered great scrutiny for his own appearance and he too
did not belong. The most curious thing that he noted about the people in the
room, including himself, is that they did not belong. They were all from the
surface world and all looked uncomfortable. They were all waiting to go into
the room and that made him a little nervous. When the door at the end of the
hall opened, the young man with the eye-patch quickly followed a drow guard
into the Great Hall. He hung back, as the dragonborn and elf were ushered in as
well. The drow guard looked across the hall at him and judged him for more than
moment. He could just see the other’s thoughts in those white eyes. Lucius was
sure that he saw:
What’s a Tiefling doing in the King’s foyer? Why is
he looking at me like that? Do they all have to be so ugly? Its skin looks just
like the red hot fire of the Nine Hells with eyes like great golden blobs of
magma pooling out of his jagged skull and leering at me. The worst part is
those horns. Coming right out of his brow and shooting straight up ahead of his
hairline, those devil’s horns, like a fiendish goat. Why won’t it go away?
But rather being
ignored, the stern looking drow cleared his throat and gestured for Lucius to
come in, “The King is ready to speak with you, Sir. Please do not keeping him
waiting long. He has very little patience in these trying times.” His voice was
dry and monotone, dressed all in black leather, and wearing a blue cloak. His
shock white hair pulled back and down to his shoulders showing off that he had lost
one of his pointed ears in what was surely a dark and violent life. This was no
ordinary drow guard. Lucius quickly stepped out of the shadow he had been
lurking in and entered the Great Hall.
It was a marble
cavern, carved by craftsman in time before there was a Reziek empire, and the
figures he had seen in the foyer were making their way down a blue and white
strip of carpet that led to a great black throne at the end of the hall. The drow
guard closed the door to the hall and ushered Lucius forward. Confused about
the manner of the meeting, Lucius turned to the drow, “I don’t mean to be rude
but I have been waiting rather long for a meeting with the King. I hope it
would not be too much to request an explanation for why the meeting is anything
but private? The King and I were to discuss private matters.”
The drow didn’t
look at him, instead focusing his eyes on the throne before saying, “The King
has his reasons. I would walk faster if I were you.” He added with a tone of
utter impatience not only for Lucius’s question but anything that he had not
already planned that morning. Such people made Lucius consider his words and
actions carefully, and so, rather than cause an incident with the guard, he
doubled his speed before finally reaching the end of the carpet. He stood at
the right of the other three and watched as the drow guard moved to stand
beside the throne.
Sitting on the
throne was King Duhnkin Startooth. Tall, for a dwarf, Lucius was always impressed
by the dwarf’s stature. Bald but with a dark grey beard that ran from his fast
to his waist, where he had it tucked neatly into his belt, he looked his age,
212. Rather stout, his body forcing the black and blue chainmail he wore to
bulge, he still looked strong as iron. Perhaps most impressive was toothy
smile, living much up to the name of his clan, shining like white pearls. Yet,
the King did not look the same as he had last seen him. There was weariness in
the king’s face that sunk the wrinkles made from centuries of guffawing
laughter. He soon caught the reason as he looked down and noticed the other’s
arm hanging in a sling. Perhaps the king was growing and had suffered a fall
after one too many drinks or perhaps, even more grave, he was wrought with an
infirmity of the mind making his body seize and shake when he felt stressed. It
was not in Lucius’s nature but he was concerned. He was about to ask the King a
good many questions when his eyes caught another sight he fancied.
Standing on the
other side of the throne, was another drow, but not so dower. A young
dark-skinned lady, in the same black leather and blue cloak, was surely a guard
and perhaps the daughter of the older drow guard. He hoped not. She was a
beauty of a different kind than the fair elven maid whose beauty shone like the
sun, while her own was best in shadow. Furthermore, it was dressed in a more
easy to admire form, tight black leather that, while sensible, was easier to
conjure into less than armor with the proper imagination. His eyes lingered on
her body a bit too long, so he quickly moved to admire her pursed lips, her
eyes filled with a rose glint, and teasing him with unfocused gazes from behind
a few stray tresses of hair. Yet, her eyes were not on the floor or his fellow
guests. Her eyes rested, with some sunken sadness on the king’s arm, and this
quickly sobered his observations. He was about to ask the king about his arm
when the king interrupted him, “Salutations, my fine young friends. I am most
pleased to see you all are in good health. To those I have met before, thank
you for returning to my Great Hall with such speed. To those I have not met, thank
you for responding to my request so swiftly. To all of ye, welcome.”
Lucius did a
gracious half-bow and glance to the side at the others. The dragoborn knight
knelt on one knee, the elf made a clumsy attempt at a curtsy and, the ranger
just nodded. The King grinned, “I am sorry that I could not explain the exact
manner of request or purpose of our meeting in the letter I sent to you all
respectively. My most loyal advisor, Chezz,” He paused to wave a hand at the
older drow guard, who nodded in appreciation.
“It is my
greatest honor, my lord.” Chezz said, but Lucius had trouble believing it. King
Duhnkin, on the other hand, seemed more than satisfied but also seemed to sense
the constant undertone of irony in everything the drow said.
“As it should
be,” Duhkin cleared his throat and continued, “And it is my honor to welcome
you young folk into my kingdom. Doktham is the first and last great city of the
Underwold but,” His words grew heavy, “all is not well.”
The King moved
uncomfortably and the dragonborn asked, “My lord, please tell us what we may
do?”
“First, tell us
what is not well and what you expect us to do about it, sir?” The ranger showed
little respect in his tone but Duhnkin seemed little bothered. He nodded,
“Nadarr,” The
King looked to the dragonborn, “Aramil,” then the ranger, “Lora Faine,” then
the elf, and then finally, “Lucius, I have not sent for you for your courtly
affection, although I am sure you are well-mannered. Let us drop this façade.”
The King spat on the floor as if releasing all unnecessary levity in his words,
“Doktham is dying. I sent for your help to fix it because you are all obligated
to help me. Yet, this is not for me but for the people. The city’s lifeblood is
its people and my people are dying.”
The king let out
a violent coughing fit and Chezz took over, placing a hand on Duhnkin’s
uninjured arm, “What my King is trying to explain is that the people are
suffering from a plague. The Stoneskin Disease. A rather nasty thing that is affecting
the dwarves of Doktham, the disease turns its victims to stone and the effects
are, as of this moment, permanent.” He explained with the hollow emotionless
drone of his voice.
Lora Faine spoke
up, “My lord, what need have you of us? I am a healer, yes, but unless you show
me a case I cannot cure it.”
Chezz seemed to
grimace as the king moved to rise, squeezing his shoulder and trying to stop
him, “My lord, please.”
Duhkin ignored
him, threw off the sling and revealed his arm’s true plight. His hand and wrist
looked as if they were never flesh but rather crude grey stone. I couldn’t help
but hear Lora Faine gasp and the feel the collective internal wince of the
room.
“Does it hurt,
your highness?” The drow maiden, from beside the throne, stepped forward just
enough to see it.
The king seemed
to take some shame at this, lowering his arm and shaking his head, “I’m sorry, little
Ryjac, but I feel no pain in the arm. I feel nothing. Just a weight at the end
of my arm, creeping up and stiffening everything.” Lucius could not imagine the
pain the king was feeling, not in his arm, but in his pride. The king had been
a great hero once and to lose control of his arm, his body, was surely agony.
Ryjac had moved to help the king place his arm back in the sling and sit back
in his throne as Chezz stepped forward.
Chezz explained,
“As you can see this plague is a most terrible curse and, if not handled
quickly could result in panic and worse, the total collapse of our kingdom. I
have already taken it upon myself to place a careful quarantine upon all
entrances and exits to our city as of now but we need a cure and quickly. The
king is not well enough to travel and I am needed here. We needed young
talented people and so, I took it upon myself to send for each of you, either
through recommendation by your orders or from other such advice. You are all
capable adventurers and I believe you can handle the task.”
“What task?”
Aramil asked.
Chezz stared
right into Aramil, “A task that, if completed, may save us all. The king knew a
witch, Shebaba, who is said, can cure almost any ailment. She has cured great
epidemics in the past but in recent years has become…difficult to reach. The
king needs you to find her and to make a formal plea for her assistance.”
Aramil
glared at Chezz and looked at the other three would-be adventurers, “And who
among us would know their way through darkness of the Underwold? I assume not a
single one of us has ever taken a step into those miles of crisscrossing
tunnels that form an endless maze that has driven experienced trackers to
madness? Without a guide we might as well be blind and, while we are at it,
dead, before going on such a fool’s errand.”
Chezz
did not seem impressed, “Do you not think I considered that, half-elf?” His
voice was a little throatier. Lucius could tell he was offended by Aramil’s impudence,
which unlike Chezz, Lucius found refreshingly honest, “I have the perfect guide
for you. I will send one of my Black Hands to guide your through the blindness.
The Hand is the best trained ranger in the city and has read every map known to
our people. I hope that is sufficient?”
Aramil
nodded but looked about, “Where is this sufficient
guide?”
Chezz’s
thin lips formed a smile and he looked back besides the throne, at Ryjac who
was watching him from where she crouched by the throne, “There. I would hope my
niece is more than sufficient enough
for this task.”
****
But the thing about John Smith was that his story does not begin in Jamestown. It begins with a humble British farmboy that filled with a desire in his loins to see the world. James was a mere 16 years old when he left home, probably pockmarked and punk rockin'. He soon became a mercenary and his record was rather impressive. 
With only a half dozen men, he made his way upriver, and searched for the natives. He believed the natives would have food and that he could trade for it. He soon saw some natives on the shore and asked if they were willing to trade some food for supplies. The settlers were obviously quite unhealthy, because the Native Americans could see just how gaunt they were, and mocked them with paltry offerings. Basically, they would hold up a kernel of corn and offer it in exchange for Smith's breastplate. Unfortunately, they did not know John Smith. John Smith don't care. John Smith don't give a ****! He "let his musket fly" and began shooting at the natives. Smith and his crew soon forced the natives to submit and begrudgingly befriend him.
