Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: Greysdale goes to the Inn
Message-ID: <Bw75w0.Mt9@news.cso.uiuc.edu>
From: lzurawsk@ux4.cso.uiuc.edu (Hal Jordan)
Date: Fri, 16 Oct 1992 04:31:11 GMT

As Greysdale wandered the streets of Generica searching for the Dragon's Inn,
his mind wandered the streets of his past. Actually, he got himself into quite
a stupor, and, in fact, passed the Inn (which wasn't that hard to find in the
first place) three times and had gotten into an especially low part of Lowtown
before a cry from a side alley snapped him back to reality (such as it was).

His black-gloved hand slid to black leather bound about the silver handle of 
his blade, the pommel skull peering with its rictus grin above his grip. Slowly
he advanced to the mouth of the alley. Looking into its depths, he saw a cloak-
ed figure being accosted by a quintet of kobolds. Lurking in the shadows behind
invisible to eyes that required light to see, was a taller figure, elven by the
looks of her, most assuredly the bait by which the stranger was drawn to his 
fate.
"Hold" he bellowed, but it came as more of a fowl hiss, accompanied by the 
softer hiss of his blade pulling free from its sheath. He really couldn't think
of anything to add, so he waited to see if they would hold.

The kobolds turned and spotted him, spent about thirty seconds in deep thought,
determined that they still outnumbered their foes, and pressed the attack, two
dealing with the necessary task of jumping on their prone victim, and three de-
taching to slay the dead man.
Greysdale sighed the sigh of the dead and stepped into the shadows. The kobolds
faltered as their prey faded from sight. There was a faint image in the poor 
light, but their infravision, which they depended on in the dark, reported no
heat in the area. As they started to back off, a disturbance in the air signaled
that a blade had passed nearby, and, on cue two of them dropped, felled by the
same stroke. If the third had been paying attention and had been in a situtationmore conducive to analytical thought, he might have noticed that his companions'
wounds did not pump copious amounts of blood, as gaping throat wounds are apt to
do, but rather crystalized and froze, the kobolds' diminuative bodies being un-
able to produce sufficient heat or blood pressure to resist the effects of the
Iceblade. As it was, he didn't notice, which was just as well since he died on 
the backswing.
The two remaining kobolds, oblivious to their companions' fate, continued to   
jump on their grunting victim. 
The one remaining kobold, realizing that his partner was sailing through the air
destined to land several alleys away and never return, drew his blade.
Pulling the final kobold off of his sword, Greysdale turned his attention to
the woman in the shadows, who was in the process of completing a spell.
"DIE" she shrieked.
Greysdale blinked and did a quick extremity search. All there.
"*#@$*ing undead!" she swore. Greysdale was quite impressed with her knowledge
of orcish profanity, but recognized her attempt at a killing word, and decided
to act before she tried something that worked.
A cone of cold.
"Strike two" Greysdale muttered, charging her, the freezing gale passing harm-
lessly over him. 
The elf noticed now that he radiated no heat, and prepared a spell guaranteed
to work.
Greysdale closed.
20 ft.
10 ft.
 5, The elf's hands flared with energy, magic words pouring from her mouth. As
 she felt the destructive energies welliing within her, the terrible force 
 flowing into her hands, she noticed three tiny balls of energy flare over her
 assailant's shoulder slamming into her. Pain shot through her body, jarring 
 her concentration. She fell in a heap to the ground. Two heaps actually.
   
Greysdale wiped his blade. 
"Fastest spell in the book, that." he heard from behind.
"Thanks" he muttered, turning to face the man behind him. "Man," of course, in
only the broadest technical sense. It was, in fact (or at least appearance) 
male.
"I should be thanking you, friend." it oozed, extending what was, technically,
its hand in greeting, "By the way, I'm Motley."
"Yes," Greysdale observed, eying the mongrelman mage, "you are."

                                            So began the deep friendship (?)
					    between Greysdale Ravenstone and
					    Motley Shatterblood.

					    lzurawsk@ux4.cso.uiuc.edu

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