From alt.pub.dragons-inn Sun Apr 17 18:14:58 1994 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:7208 Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Path: netcom.com!csus.edu!csulb.edu!nic-nac.CSU.net!usc!howland.reston.ans.net!newsserver.jvnc.net!cyanamid!ptag2.pt.cyanamid.com!fogelincc From: fogelincc@ptag2.pt.cyanamid.com (Carl C. Fogelin -- SACA, Discovery) Subject: [ERROL]Cruel Destiny Message-ID: <1994Apr16.173357.1@ptag2.pt.cyanamid.com> Lines: 139 Sender: news@cyanamid.uucp Reply-To: fogelinc@pt.cyanamid.com Organization: AMERICAN CYANAMID AGRICULTURAL RESEACH CENTER Date: Sat, 16 Apr 1994 22:33:57 GMT ADMIN: This post takes place the next day after the [LH] party, some 20 hours after the meteor strike in Low Town. All char- acters are owned by me except Delalle, who's a dead NPC from the [MG] thread. I extend my thanks to the MG group for helping me edit this story. Copyright 1994. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Erin looked out the back bay window towards the garden where she could barely see Errol, sitting on a stone bench, looking at his roses. He'd been there all morning, not moving, deep in thought. He'd even missed his elevenses, something he never did. Sighing heavily, Erin turned away from the window and walked back towards the drawing room. She'd managed to quell her feelings of helplessness and dread at last night's party, but now it hung like a millstone about her neck. 'A simple task, part of her training.' That's all the exercise was meant to be. Instead, the vision they had seen foretold the death of her mentor and friend. Plopping heavily on the settee she sneered, "Destiny"--as if the future couldn't be changed. "Our actions are of our own choosing. Circumstances dictate our options, but we decide which path we travel." That's what Errol had taught her. Why didn't he see that now? And yet Erin was still distressed--some of the vision had already come true. Her meeting Spark at the party. A small smile crept to her face as she remembered the dancing. And then the meteor strike in Low town. But this was all recent. The vision of Errol lying on that altar seemed somehow distant. Erin spied her wooden lyre on a nearby table and began to reach for it. She stopped when she saw the scroll case lying near it. She'd forgotten about that. Someone was going to regret playing THAT cruel joke on her. She'd discovered the scroll case this morning resting unobtrusively on her music stand. A dark wooden tube, probably ebony or mahogany, with an intricate silver filigree--truly a distinguished piece. The document it contained, on the other hand, was horrible: a proclamation that verified her attainment of Mage status with the Generican Mage Guild, even though her advisor had died prior to formal certification. Her visit to the Hall of Records for an explanation confirmed that someone had to be playing a morbid joke on her. After all, it was signed by Delalle six weeks hence and he was dead. **** Errol sighed, took a deep breath, and stretched. Looking around, he realized it was sometime in the afternoon. Getting up, he straightened his kilt and slowly walked back towards the manse. The only conclusion that he'd come to in his long meditation was that the future was the future and what was to come was influenced by what he did now. If he sought a dark future, it would probably come to pass. He would just go back to his normal routine--and if his destiny was to die in the near future, so be it. Worrying accomplished nothing but to deter him from enjoying his life. Looking down at his mussed party outfit, he decided a shower, change of clothes and some food were just what he needed. He entered through the old servants' entrance, and then passed the disused quarters and out into the main entrance way. He could hear faint wisps of haunting music, snaking its way through the empty mansion. He smiled--it seemed Erin was brooding again. He started to climb the stairway up towards his suite, but stopped to listen, leaning against the balustrade. Smiling, he once again thanked fate for bringing her to him. **** Opening the sliding black walnut door, Errol entered the drawing room and smiled at Erin. She was surprised to see him dressed in his normal daily attire: tan pants and waistcoat, a paisley maroon cummerbund and spats. She stopped playing and stared at him; his mood change was so drastic. "Don't stop on my account, my dear." Errol crossed the room and kissed her forehead gently. "I do not remember the last time you played so well. I've asked Consuela to make something light: kippers, broiled mushrooms in butter, and eggs Benedict. Hope you do not mind?" She put her lyre down and replied, "You seem to be in a good mood. Kippers mid-week? Eggs Benedict? Fried tomatoes too, right?" "Of course, my dear." Taking his proffered hand, she smiled and stood up, placing her arm over his very formally. All concerns seemed to cease as she took up his banter. "And the wine?" "I feel a nice Blanc de Blanc would go well." She smiled at him. "Elistrae, 11427?" "Hmm, good choice. And after dinner, let's go for a walk on to the Imperial Way." She grabbed his upper arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. He was back to his old self. Everything would be fine. Together they headed towards the main dining hall when suddenly Errol stopped short. Caught off guard, Erin almost fell. Recovering fairly gracefully, she quickly turned towards Errol. "What did you do that for?" she demanded. The anguished look on his face suddenly made her worried. The silence that followed was only interrupted by Errol whispering "When?" Confused, Erin looked around to see what was causing Errol's conster- nation. Then she saw he was looking at the ornate scroll case. "Oh, that, it's a sick joke." Grabbing his arm, she tried to lead him away. "Someone's having fun at my expense, but I'll find out whom. And when I do..." There was a dire look in her eyes. Errol heard nothing. He stood motionless, staring at the tube, knowing that his death was coming soon. His actions did not matter one bit, for there was concrete proof that his time was short. Very quietly, Errol whispered "d a t e ?" "... Mmm, those kippers smell good. Come on, lets sit down before... What?" She was confused. "Date?" she repeated. Then noticing he was still looking at the scroll tube, she said, "Ohh, six weeks hence. But..." Errol moaned, turned around and walked back to the settee. Sitting down, he put his head between his hands, lost in thought. Erin stopped. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. "What is it, Errol? Speak to me. What does it mean?" Looking up between his fingers, Errol said "So it is true--with so little time left. I need to sort my thoughts, I need to think!" --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Carl Fogelin (fogelinc@pt.cyanamid.com) "All opinions are strictly mine" Up the long ladder and down the short rope, To Hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope. -- traditional