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 3
RYJAC
A piece of wood fell from above and landed with a click clack as it rolled down
the side of the roof. Ryjac followed its path from the darkness above to where
it landed and slid down the top of the Temple of Kord. She knew it was a torch
dropped by some weary traveler and was pleased it wasn’t a weary traveler that
hit the black and white tile roof of the massive temple. It would have ruined
her morning, and the morning was her favorite times.
The city was all but dark and all but silent. Even the most ribald revelers had
either stumbled off to bed or found one in the streets below. She always took
the early morning shift, not because she was lazy or cowardly, but because she
loved the city when it slept under her feet. She would sit on the rooftop and
let her uncle’s Hands spy and scout for any signs of trouble. They allowed her
most private of pleasures. The pleasure to just simply sit, alone, in the dark
and watch the city as it slept.
During this time, the city no longer belonged to even the hardiest of dwarf,
even though the Hands served the King and his kin. In the dark, the city
belonged to her kind. Where the eyes of men, and dwarf alike, failed, they eyes
of drow captured every detail. Where the eyes of men would fail to see, their
eyes saw the city at night as it was during day. At night, it merely took on a
different hue. The night belonged to the drow.
The drow of Doktham were all refugees from fallen drow kingdoms. The King of
the city welcomed the dark elves and their talents with welcome arms. Few
positions were more appropriate the military minded drows as the city guard.
Before she was old enough to speak, her uncle had already decided what she
would become. And so, Ryjac had become a member of the elite drow night guards
her uncle led, the Black Hands.
Yet, despite her uncle being the head of the Black Hands, and being considered
one of the best rangers the Black Hands had ever trained, Ryjac did not seek
out the most dangerous jobs or compete for titles with the other guards. She
could have been like Sherzat and become the city’s top spy in the City of
Screams. She could have sought favor with the King and become one of the Honor
Guard like Jerzaherazod. She could have taken the duty of seeking out new
strains of precious metals for the dwarves to mine for the wealth and
prosperity of Doktham like Gnaarmeus. Instead, she took the morning shift, and
sat on roof top of the Temple of the Platinum Dragon. It was her duty to watch
the city as it slept, to protect the people at their most defenseless and to
watch as light turned to dark and then light again. Yet, not all was at peace
and she was unable to enjoy the simple pleasures of her duty.
She had broken up a fight at the
Dirty Rag not even an hour before with the help of two other Hands. It had been
a while since there was a brawl that sunk to bloodshed. She burst into the
front door without pulling her blades from the midnight leather sheaths on her
belt. Instead, she opted for a more diplomatic approach. Her eyes searched the
room until she came upon the biggest brute still standing. A bugbear? The beastly creature was swinging a gnarly
club at the heads of any who got close enough. She ducked past the club, leapt
between his arms, over his head and behind the hairy cretin. Then she simple
grabbed an arrow from its quiver and set the head into his shoulder blade so as
to just break the skin of his thick hide. She let out a violent hiss in
Commontongue, “Drop it.” The club hit the ground with a thud and the beasty was
just smart enough to put his hands up. By this point, the other two Hands had
either knocked out several of the bar folk or restrained them with bolos. A few
minutes of sobering up the patrons with harsh threats of time in the dungeons
or banishment, and everything was under control. She left the other two guards
to deal with the rest and left for her time in the Temple District. She had to
step over the covered bodies of the unfortunate victims of the bar brawl as she
made her way toward a ladder.
A couple of hours later, she squeezed
her knees but it was not the axed half-orc or choked hobgoblin that worried
her. It was the city. To say nothing was happening in the streets below would
be a lie. There had been a drop in recent crimes committed by citizens but not in
crimes committed by the gods. The city was not silent and the chorus of breath
in the town was interrupted by hacking coughs and wheezing.
Ryjac leapt down through the air in a haphazard tumble but landed on her feet,
as gently as a cat, in the alley below. She stood up straight and irritably
pushed her long crimson bangs out of her face, tucking them behind her ebony
ears and pulling her black hood over her head. Her scarlet eyes caught the
light of some unfortunate figures sitting by a makeshift campfire in the
street. They coughed and hacked, shivering, but one of them sat still as stone.
Her eyes itched with heartache and she turned her gaze back to the street and
made her way to the Great Hall of the King.
