Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: lzurawsk@ux4.cso.uiuc.edu (Hal Jordan) Subject: Twas a Dead & Dreary Knight [New Character] Message-ID: Date: Sat, 3 Oct 1992 09:08:21 GMT The door of the pub blew open, a cool breeze wafting through the air. A tall man stood in the doorway, his tattered cape fluttering in the chill draft, folding over torn tabbard and armor forged of iron links frosted by the cold. Strangely enough, it was pretty warm out. Few of the seasoned adventurers took notice of the grey-skinned war- rior standing in a winter of his own generation, and those that did were careful not to advertise their attentions. They weren't scared mind you, they just didn't want to get involved. As long as he kept his blade where they could see it, and his purse where they couldn't, there was little here, they felt, to interest them. They had been wrong before. This time, however, they were right on the money. The man in the doorway surveyed the room with odd yellow eyes, burn- ing dully like dying candles in the shadowy recesses of his brow. He spotted an open table and seated himself, walking with a stride that appeared almost mechanical to those who knew what the word "mechanic- al" meant. He set his sheild, emblazoned with the death's head emblom by which he was recognized, down on the table, and waited for service. "Oy there," came a voice from his rear, as gutteral as a belch, but less articulate, "wha' de 'ell're you s'posed ta be? Some kinda zombie?" The shout was followed by a long series of what might have passed for laughs in a much sicker and drunker universe. "Maybe." the stranger replied, in a whisper like the night wind blowing the leaves off a grave in a really spooky part of the cemetary. This was all the provocation the new antagonist needed (in his current state he didn't need much), and he spun the stranger's chair around, brandishing what appeared to be an oak tree in his free hand. The stranger's hand shot to the cattle-skull hilt of his sword, and pulled its stygian length from its scabbard. With one motion he split the club the thug (now revealed to him as a large and especially ugly ogre) wielded and followed through with the blow, opening the creature's chest and spilling its blood over the floor. With a single kick, backed by praeternatural strength he sent the behemoth toppling across a table. "I'll pay for the mess." he breathed, whiping the sticky liquid from his blade, and returning his chair to its original position. Greysdale Ravenstone had been dead a long time, but he still knew how to fight.