Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
From: djb6@ellis.uchicago.edu (Dennis Brennan)
Subject: Re: [Ordeal] Captivity (Part 2)
Message-ID: <1993Oct19.042750.26498@midway.uchicago.edu>
References: <1993Oct16.231031.8555@midway.uchicago.edu>
Date: Tue, 19 Oct 1993 04:27:50 GMT

-The Season-

The onset of autumn is regarded in different ways in different parts of
Nexus.  In Cathay, for example, autumn is seen as part of a sacred cycle
of creation, vigor, decay and death which mirrors the lifetime of man.
The farmers of Vascondy welcome autumn with joyous celebration in
praise of the season which brings the harvest.  Autumn fills the hearts of
the dwarves of Ledoritan with hope, because autumn is the prelude to the
trials of winter.

Generica, like many of the coastal trading cities of the Known Lands, awaits
the coming of autumn with a sense of dread.  Harbors freeze over, caravans
settle down, merchants store their commodities and wait for the return of
more prosperous times.

The end of the mercantile season bodes lean times for all in Generica, from
the outfitters and tavernkeepers to the thieves and blackguards who prey
on visitors.  Autumn is a time for retreat, to suspend generosity and 
brace for the shock of winter.  

-The Aftermath-

St. Lest's feast had come and gone- signifying the beginning of the Penitent
season on the liturgical calendar and the end of the mercantile season
on the secular one.  The feast reminds the faithful of the sacrifices to
be made ahead, and assures one that the frugality exercised during this
season would ensure greater prosperity come springtime.  

The destitutes who gathered at the Temple of Ilmater on the day after
St. Lest's had reason to feel especially deprived during this Penitent
season- the sonorous voice of Father Liamus was nowhere to be heard.  The
lay ministers and other acolytes did their best, as always, to celebrate
the ritual, but the entire process seemed somehow hollow in the absence
of the beloved priest.  One of the despondents punctuated the air of sorrow
with a wail of profound grief.  This mournful call was joined by others, 
even others outside the temple, and the entire Low City shuddered as if in
longing for the stolen cleric.

-The Captive-

...drip...
...drip...

Liamus Dolorus opened one eye, only to blink as a drop of water fell from
the shadows above onto his face.  From the impenetrable darkness on the
other side of the room Artifice bemusedly observed his captive.  He watched
as Father Liamus tried to wipe his face off with his hands, only to learn
that both arms (and legs, for that matter), were securely chained to
opposite walls.  To Artifice's disappointment, Liamus did not appear dejected
with his predicament but merely sat serenely as if daring Artifice to
abuse him further.  

A window, high above on the wall facing Liamus, permitted some feeble rays
of moonlight to illuminate a small rectangular area on the dusty floor.
Artifice stepped into this area, standing over his prisoner.  "Good evening,
father."  He cocked his head condesendingly.  "I've... ah... selected this
place with the greatest attention to your maximum discomfort.  I hope you
like it."  

Father Liamus replied, "I've known worse."  He smiled wryly, making 
Artifice furious.

"Well, you'll never again know another, because I'll most likely kill
you after I'm finished with you."  His metallic eyes flashed.

Liamus slowly bowed his head.  "And what, pray tell, is it that you intend
to do?"

Artifice paused, then turned his back on Father Liamus to face the tiny
window.  "Tell me a little about your little cult, Dolorus.  Do I understand
correctly that you people valorize suffering as some sort of testament to
virtue?"

Father Liamus responded,  "That's an oversimplification.  To more accurately
describe the tenets of our religion, 'humility is strength.'  The man who..."

"On second thought, spare me the theological drivel."  Artifice turned
toward Father Liamus again.  "Purpose.  Everybody's got to have a purpose.
Your ghastly little charities give you a purpose, and I think I've found mine.
And you gave me this purpose, dear Father."

Father Liamus sat up.  "Indeed?"

Artifice squatted.  "Do you, perhaps, recall someone who came to your 
house of healing about six months ago with no recollection of who he was
or how he had come to arrive in Generica?  You somehow restored this person's
memories.  Great and terrible memories were these."  Artifice stood again.
"Guess how old I am."

Father Liamus inspected his captive for a moment.  "Twenty five?  Thirty,
perhaps?"

"One hundred and ninety of your years.  Today I take the form of a human
youth.  As it happened, when I stepped into your temple six months ago I
bore this form."  He rubbed his face with his hands for a moment and his
countenance suddenly reminded Father Liamus of another man he had healed
of amnesia some time ago.

Artifice's hands went to his face again and he assumed a third form, that of
a middle-aged woman.  "One hundred and ninety years ago, correcting for
relativistic fluctuations, I was manufactured at the Antares Cybernetic
Complex on TC-100beta.  I am a Class 4 cybernetic instrument, designation
RT-5c.  I realize this means nothing to you, because this is a primitive
and backward planet with no hope of ever attaining even the bare modicum
of civilization.  Suffice to say, I am artificial, no more alive than a
stone, a throne or the moon above."

Father Liamus pursed his lips, absorbing this narrative.  Raising his eyes
to the window, he replied, "Tradition and lore invested a lot of character
into that moon, friend.  Some might say that it has, in fact, taken on
a kind of life."

Artifice struck Father Liamus in the face three times, causing the venerable
cleric to collapse to the floor.  "That's for interrupting, that's for
the anachronistic folklore, and that's because I like to do things in threes.
Now be silent, or I won't treat you to the rest of my story.

"I was owned by a mining company on another planet.  'RT, make some coffee.
RT, file these procurement forms.  RT, kill the labor agitator.'  It was
a life.  As fate would have it, I was sold or traded to a couple of
prospectors who ventured here, to Nexus, of all places.  Landed in the
area you call Rameshan.  The prospectors traded me to the local chieftain,
a basket-case called the Shaheran, in exchange for some help in rounding 
up labor.  

The Shaheran was tickled by the fact that my appearance was so malleable that
he arranged for me to serve as his personal spy and assassin.  For seventy
years was to stalk and kill people on demand.  Then something happened..."

Artifice began to pace dreamily around the small room.  "I observed
something I had never seen before.  A creature of some kind, artificially
constructed, but endowed with some alien quality of wonder and fancy that
was so foriegn to me.  I was compelled to seek out this entity.
[ADMIN- Yep, it was Hazy Drifter.  [R] thread.]

But this quest was interrupted by human meddlers, who caused my memory
to be erased and for me to be abandoned in Generica.  You reversed 
this memory loss, and reminded me of my fury at losing this one chance
to discover how to be more than I am."

Artifice studied Liamus's reaction.  "You don't believe that, do you?
I did it for love.  Pity, I took such great care in formulating these
justifications.  How about this version- I have a theory about gaining
true life by removing it from others?  Is that more believable?"

"Tell me the truth," said Liamus.

"The truth.  The truth is, I have elected to make it my mission to bring
as much misery, grief and suffering into the world as I can.  Because I
feel like it."

"Do you feel... some sense of accomplishment, of triumph when you perform
these acts?"

Artifice grinned.  "Not yet.  That just means I have to keep on innovating,
keep on finding brand new ways to make people miserable."  He poked playfully
at Liamus's chest.  "I'm the perfect compliment to your religion.  I bring
pain, and you people revel in it."

[More later...]



-- 
Dennis Brennan
djb6@midway.uchicago.edu