Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: caz@owlnet.rice.edu (HWRNMNBSOL) Subject: [frogs] A Croak From The Past Message-ID: Date: Sun, 4 Apr 1993 04:38:50 GMT Characters Involved: FrogStar: Female mentalist/prophet Sir Jeremiah Froggington: Cavalier; lord of Froggy Bogs Taddy: His earnest young squire Pere Batroc: Renegade priest of the Inquisition "Leaper": Mysterious swamp barbarian; were-toad Flycatcher: Assassin; dark-skinned native of the Undermarshes **************************************************************************** The Frog's Inn is a mickle strange place: its walls seem to flicker and change shape as one watches; its fire is always well banked and its cellar well stocked; the flow of time gushes and trickles through the sturdy door with little regard for physics, metaphysics, or tradition. But, as all who know the ins and outs of the City of Frogs agree, the most downright peculiar thing about the Frog's Inn is its clientele. In this most disreputable of night-spots for all things batrachanalian, a bizarre admixture of guests, worldly or un-, can be found. See -- in that corner: a pop-eyed, warty specimen of a frog, dressed in direst robes necromantic, fuming over his gurgling brew and affixing his Evil Eye on all those who approach too closely? And there, on the stage: twin maidens of rare, emerald-skinned beauty, twining slender, bewebbed limbs in a captivating dance of allure and ecstasy? Ho, now! do not bump into that brutish-looking huge Visigoth of a croaker; that one is Frog-Hak of the Northern Fens, and his temper is legendary! What's that you say? That one, small, out-of-the-way table in the nine-and- one-halfth bedarkened corner, its occupants muttering and plotting to them- selves as befits only hoppers of a sinister or foreboding stripe? I know them not. But what of it? for they are clearly only a motley (not to mention mottled) collection of riff-raff, of no import to any amphibian of stature or reputation..... but come, Lord! Here is mosquito mead, and the sweet strum of the lute accompanied by froggy voices raised in song! Let us pass them by...... - * - "You FOOL!" Sir Jeremiah Froggington brings his tankard down with a clatter onto the table, making the other vessels jump. "How *could* you have LOST the map?! It was our only key to the tomb of the Leech-King!" He favors the grey-robed priest with his direst, haughtiest glare. Pere Batroc leaps to his feet, his eyeballs almost grazing the beams in his rage. "Carp-fodder! Dry-born! How dare *you* call me a fool?! Was it not *you* who blurted news of our windfall to a member of the Frog's Guild? It is YOUR fault that the map is stolen, not mine!" Froggington draws Storkbiter, its reddish glow barely visible in the torchlight. "I KNEW we couldn't trust this charlatan! He's probably delivered the map back into the hands of the High Ribbit AND sold us out to the agents of the Inquisition! They're probably on their way right now!" Batroc snarls and reaches for his Staff of the Earthworm...... "STOP!" cries FrogStar, rising from her seat. Her blinded eyes send streams of light glaring out across the table, temporarily dazzling the erstwhile combatants. They blink stupidly and turn to listen. "Fighting will get us nowhere," croons the seeress in her melodious alto. "Now is the time when Those Who Hate Must Band Together. So it is written in the _Book_of_Calaveras_." "How can you say that?!" demands Sir Froggington, his bulging eyes welling with tears. "Upstairs, faithful Taddy lies direly wounded from a poisonous sting, likely caused by THIS scoundrel" -- here he favors Batroc with a withering glance -- "and Leaper has disappeared to parts unknown! How can we trust this vermin? And how can the Quest continue without the map?" There is a rush of air, and the sound of metal biting wood. Ten frog-inches in front of Batroc's snout, an arrow quivers in one of the beams. Attached to it is a rolled sheaf of papyrus. Batroc unrolls it and gasps. "Sacre Bleu! It is the Map!" "Indeed...." comes a hiss from across the Inn. The adventurers spin..... "YOU!" shouts Froggington. "Yes....." whispers Flycatcher, his voice a sibiliant sussurrus. Batroc eyes him warily. "But -- you stole the map from us!" Flycatcher adjusts the hem of his robe, that the light from the torches may not irritate his sensitive eyes. "I decided to give it back." "Why?" demands Froggington accusingly. The ebony assassin shrugs. "My reasons are my own. All I ask is that I be allowed to accompany you on this quest." "No!" "NEVER!" "Wait!" FrogStar holds up a sinewy arm for peace. "Flycatcher MUST come along. It is so written in the stars." Froggington's tongue flickers in disgust. "Damn your stars, witch! Never shall I accompany this dark-skinned devil-frog anywhere, lest it be to the gates of the Frog Abyss itself!" The deposed lord turns on one web and stomps from the commons room. Batroc, torn, follows him. Flycatcher smirks wryly to himself and sits down at Froggington's chair, helping himself to the unfinished drinks. Meanwhile, FrogStar's sightless eyes follow the recalcitrant adventurers with a speculative gleam. - * - Outside the Inn, the night is dark and cold. On nights like this, the wise among frogs bolt the doors and fasten the shutters, for beasts roam the streets when the sun goes down. Beasts.......such as the Were-Toad. IT can smell its prey as they scurry from shadow to shadow, hoping to reach safety through stealth. But shadows do not hide smells -- oh no. IT can feel their fear as they note signs of its presence and begin to panic. Is this just jumpy nerves? campfire stories come true? Oh, no, no, no. IT feasts on their screams just as much as their flesh when, at the moment the prey realizes it is cornered, it bursts upon them, claw flailing, fangs gnashing! Oh, I must be dreaming.....a vision.....a nightmare! Oh, NO !!! No nightmare. No vision. The moon appears from behind a cloud, casting a dim, ethereal light on the mazy alleyways of Frog Town. This is where the dregs of frogs go when the dregs have cast them out. This is where Leaper awakens, as from a deep sleep. He sees the blood on the walls. He sees the blood on the ground. He sees the blood on his hands, his clothes, his mouth. He raises his voice to the winds: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooo.............." - * - Batroc and Froggington meet outside the Inn, their heads nearly touching as they whisper quietly to one another. "I do not know what you are, priest, but I'm no puppet." "Nor I. My fate is in the hands of Amphibius (peace be to him), not in some dizzying, incomprehensible constellation." "For once we agree, traitor. I do not like to trust you, Inquisitor, but it's better than trusting that bait-chasing darkling." "The feeling is mutual, highpockets; even if I were still one of the damned theocrats, I would not betray you just to follow a drum-beat I cannot even hear." "I propose a pact. We watch each other's backs, and allow nobody to get the better of us. We trust each other." "For now, that is a bargain I will gladly accept." "For now." "Of course." They shake, and go inside. Soon, the moon sets....... **************************************************************************** ADMIN: Any and all frogs are welcome to join on in. -- HWRNMNBSOL