From alt.pub.dragons-inn Sun Jan 8 01:07:20 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8043 Path: netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!howland.reston.ans.net!darwin.sura.net!maze.dpo.uab.edu!uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu!ZU01986 From: ZU01986@uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [Blood Ties] Prologue: was [Dragons' Inn] Date: Fri, 06 Jan 95 12:02:25 CST Organization: University of Alabama at Birmingham Lines: 571 Message-ID: <1731EA951S86.ZU01986@uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu [DRAGON'S INN] - "The New Adventure..., Blood Ties" ~Date: 12.19.1994 [ADMIN:] This is a effort to collect all of the recent "DRAGON'S INN" Threads into a single coherent and flowing body of work. To the extent of my knowledge, there have been, up to this point in time, some seven separate posts by some four different authors concerning this thread which, by the way, has only just begun. This, hopefully, will fuse them all together in a manner in which it will be easier for the reader(s) not only to follow, but also to join in if so desired. Also, from this point onward the [Dragon's Inn] Thread designation will no longer be used, as it was somewhat confusing to 'newbies' at the Inn, and will be replaced with the [Blood Ties] Thread desgination; this being the prologue of that thread. *Note to potential fellow authors:* If, upon reading this thread, one decides that he/she would like to join this fine troupe of rather oddball adventurers, please feel free to contact one of the present authors, preferably myself, ADMIN-Man (see below). We ask this in the hope that we may continue to have a flowing text that is both highly gripping and compelling to the reader and that is manageable (in the vaguest sense of the word) to the present "administration". You will find the addresses of all authors at the end of the text. Thank you... Declaration of rights and authorship(s): All characters herein are the property of their respective authors, all rights reserved. Any depiction or usage of any other character by any author other than its own occurs strictly under the express consent of that author alone. Permission is granted for the usual distribution of this story among the alt-net channels and for ADMIN archival but all other rights, including repost, are reserved for the respective authors; or one or more author(s) acting under the express consent of other said authors, alone. Presently, the authors concerned with the creation of this story line and its characters are as follows: D'Maris D. Coffman: Halgorn Ereyiel (Copyright 1994, All Rights Reserved). Heinrich Goetz: Ciaran Falon (Copyright 1994, All Rights Reserved). Alex Knepper Ahaliyn (A'in) (Copyright 1994, All Rights Reserved). Brannon Hollingsworth Norg Hammerhelm (Copyright 1994, All Rights Reserved). Finally, I would like to formally thank Carleen Daly for her quick response to my call for aid concerning the missing post of Ciaran Falon of Flotsam. If it were not for her, the introduction for this story line would still be lost somewhere in the ethers of cyberspace. Thank you, Carleen, from all of us... ...And now, on to the story... (Note: Textual breaks do not necessarily designate one author's work from another's.) ================================================================ Prologue The door slowly creaked open, and a breeze of icy wind blew into the Dragon's Inn. Several faces turned towards the newcomer, slightly annoyed by his appearance. In the door a small man stood, cloaked in a light-blue robe, a wanderer's staff in his hand. In the shadows of his cloak, his face remained unseen, but the guests could feel his eyes wandering through the pub. Finally, he entered the warm room, quietly closing the door behind him. "'Twas about time," a burly fighter off to his right grumbled, but the newcomer never cared. He slowly strode through the crowd, curiously peering to his left and right as he approached the bar. Several faces looked back at him, but none in approval, none in recognition. The man leaned himself comfortably against the old, dark wood and snapped his fingers to the barmaid. "A mug o' mead, dearie," he ordered with a broad accent. "Damn wind outside made this old throat too dry." The maid gave him a short nod and hurried into the cellar. Standing silently at the bar, the small man glanced at the crowd, and some glanced back at him. In the light of the candles, his face was now well visible, a face which featured a quite large, beak-like nose, strong lines, and most unusually, a large scar crossing his right eye. Although he did not seem too old, his face showed a lot of experience. Well, one more traveller in the lands out there. Maybe one more story to be told. The barmaid returned, carrying a big mug of fresh mead the man gladly accepted. "Thank you, lass," he smiled at her and handed her several coins of gold. The befuddled look on the young maid's face showed that the money included a large tip, and she quickly stored the coins in her purse. "You seem to have traveled a fair way," she shyly whispered, and the man smiled and took a small sip from his mug. "Is it that obvious?" he asked, and when the barmaid nodded, he smiled even broader. "Indeed," he continued after a short while, "I have traveled far, and I have seen many things, lass. Would you like to hear about my journey?" The girl nodded, this time more confident and settled more comfortably at the bar. The man sipped once more at his mug and started to explain. "My name is Ciaran Falon of Flotsam. I have just finished a long quest which has kept me travelling all of my lifetime. I have tried to map the whole world, and now I have returned to where I once started, my maps completed, my quest finished. Lots of things I have seen, lots of people I have met, and lots of dangers I have passed. My story is a long one, and it's a sad one. I hope you do not mind listening to a sad tale?" The barmaid smiled and shook her head. She had already heard a lot of sad tales standing behind the bar, and she knew she could stand them. Ciaran Falon nodded gently. "Well, then I will begin. Let me tell you about the encounter I once had in the suburbs of Palanthas..." * * * * * * Halgorn Ereyiel dismounted his horse, quickly offering the reins to the waiting hands of a stable boy. A single gold coin punctuated his intent that his stallion be better treated than even the most distinguished guest in the inn. His was a stunning animal, by all standards. The only blemish on the light warhorse's coat was a single black star on the right hindquarter. 'A brand?' wondered Derik Innovan, the beneficiary of the newcomer's generosity. Upon closer examination, he concluded otherwise. Still, there was something different about his horse. The creature knew its own business, and more or less led Derik to his stables. His master's arrival here was likewise not without purpose. Halgorn's soft supple leather boots offered barely a sound, as he leapt up the steps. Several seconds later, he had crossed the threshold. Throwing back his cloak, Halgorn exposed the profile of his face. The keen hazel eyes surveyed the crowd, as his expression remained unchanged. Spying the battle hardened dwarven fighter at the bar, he made his way through the mass of bodies. Standing patiently for a few moments, he found a gap in the conversation, and interjected his request to be heard, "Sir, you must be Ciaran Falon of Flotsam. I have searched for you near and far. Do you recognize me?" The dwarf turned, evidencing a dour and disapproving look, "Why would I recognize you, Squire?" he asked. "And why do you search for me?" Halgorn Ereyiel's eyes darkened a little, with a flicker of light, hope perhaps, lingering in their depths. "Not I. My twin brother. If I look familiar to you, then perhaps you've seen him. I know there is no love lost between dwarven folk and those of us with faerie blood in our veins, however dilute, but you are a world traveler, I hear. I ask you again, Sir, have you seen the one who looks as I do?" Ciaran Falon studied the man before him. The stranger was a good deal more elven than he was implying. The stern visage, tapered ears, sculpted features and mercurial eyes were just the beginning. Whoever he was, he was elder than his visible years, and his apparent openness was likely a ruse to guard a secret close to his heart. * * * * * * With a loud, painful-sounding "WHUMP" he abruptly hit the ground, as usual, face-first and hard. A resounding crash issued around him as the majority of his equipment also landed, most of it upon his thick-skulled head and his wide, stocky shoulders. 'Well, at least I still have my gear,' he thought sourly. He coughed and sputtered as he desperately tried to draw breath through the sod that his face was compacted into. With a loud grunt and several severe-sounding pops and cracks, he managed to shift the majority of the scattered equipment off of him and lift his head. Spitting sod and muttering to himself about "damned mages" and "crazy elfs", the dwarf finally managed to raise himself to his full four foot height and clean the grass from his coal-black eyes, just catching sight of a diminutive figure in a hooded grey cloak disappearing around a copse of trees about twenty yards north-east of him. He didn't think that the figure, whatever it was, had seen him but assumed that with the tremendous amount of noise that he had just made that "it" had most likely heard him. The dwarf, being in unfamiliar surroundings, immediately expected the worst possible scenario. "Suren it's headin' fer help, or I'm a stumpy hobgoblin," he said in a deep, rumbly voice, spitting the last bits of grassy sod from his mouth. Moving as quickly as his bruised and battered limbs would allow, the dwarf gathered his remaining equipment, thanking the gods that his trusty pack and warhammer were present. He set off in a lope after the figure. As he neared the copse of trees where he had first seen the figure, the dwarf noticed a clear trail where "it" had made its hasty retreat through the underbrush. Apparently, the figure was uncaring (or unknowing) of the path it left in it's wake. The dwarf, using all of his race's natural stealth, began crashing his way through the forest in pursuit. While making his way through the undergrowth, the dwarf tried to clear the fog in his head; attempting to recall just what had befallen him. The last thing that he could remember was the furious battle in which he and his companions had been in...They were within a network of tunnels and rooms below an ancient family graveyard searching for an item...something that he couldn't recall. He could remember that all they found were copious amounts of undead; foul, unliving creatures, the likes of which he utterly loathed. They had entered a long room that was almost totally dark. Torchlight flickered on the decrepit stonework of the walls and illuminated the strained faces of his companions. There was an archer in the far end of the room, shrouded in darkness, and four...no five skeletal knights in plate armor that had erupted from the gloom, one of which held a great, flaming sword. He, of course, had charged into battle, knowing only his white-hot fury and intense hatred for the non-living monstrosities and had found himself nearly alone amongst four of the things; only he and the cleric-warrior, Sol, had entered the fray. Behind him, he heard their elvish archer, El'darian, cry out in pain and then several things happened simultaneously: the far end of the room was suddenly lit with a piercing light and he saw the silhouette of a huge warrior with a fiery blade, then he felt a burning arc of pain in his right shoulder, and it seemed that he heard their mage, Veldrin, mumbling in the black void behind him. It was in the following chaos of mental images that total recollection eluded the dwarf's mind; he received only sections of memory: that of Sol praying over him, his fear for the exposed and vulnerable cleric, a heavy, sticky substance covering his neck and face, and finally a horrific cry from Veldrin that intensified and escalated into a shattering explosion. Then there was only a faint recollection of greyness and then he was here, wherever "here" was, picking grass from his teeth. He had no idea of what had happened, but he was sure that he would not be caught again at unawares. He was also certain that he needed to find his companions, no matter what... The trees ended ahead, and the dwarf had unconsciously slipped from his reverie, his battle-honed senses telling him that possible danger lay in the clearing. His sharp eyes picked up movement off to his right, and he noticed the grey-clad figure cautiously moving towards the open gate of a large, walled city. The cloaked figure had reached the gate by the time the dwarf had cleared the forest and before he could start after it, the figure disappeared into the city. The grey shade had slipped away from him into the crowd much like his memories, slipping away into the hazy, frenzied present. It was now that curiosity overcame the brusque dwarf's sense of danger, for he could not remember any cities of this magnitude near where he and his companions had been. Nor could they have 'simply missed' a city such as this, reflected the dwarf, his coal- black eyes wide with surprise. "Suren I'm not where I was," the dwarf mumbled to himself as he entered the high gates of the city. The dwarf, almost in a daze, wandered about the city for some time, passing street after street, wandering in and out of crowds of various races (some of which he had never seen before) with only the presence of mind to keep a heavy hand upon his purse. Thieving was as universal as its cousin, greed, and the pragmatic dwarf was not taking any chances with what little silver he had left. The dwarf had nearly forgotten the grey-cloaked figure who he followed into the city when he caught a glimpse of "it" out of the corner of his eye, to his left. He quickly snapped out of the meandering stupor and began following the figure, close on its heels. After following the figure for some time, they came upon a small, squat structure that seemed to be made of stone and yet gave the faint impression of being the color and texture of wood. The building, despite its strange construction, radiated a definite aura of age, but not one of neglect or dilapidation. The grey- cloaked figure entered the structure without pausing, for a brief second throwing the scent of spicy food and warm bodies out into the street, and then closed the door quickly behind it. The dwarf stopped and regarded the ancient-looking sign that hung above the door. The largest portion of the sign was taken up by a detailed carving of a drinking dragon, the paint long since faded away, that held a large key in one claw; below "The Dragon's Inn", was written...not a tavern that he had ever heard mentioned, the dwarf thought grimly. "Well, as me father's father used to say, 'Ye'll never get a blade if ye don't first fire th' ore", the dwarf said, placing one gnarled hand on his double-headed warhammer as he opened the door. The room within was much larger than the structure appeared to allow from the outside and the dwarf had difficulty seeing into the farthest corners of the room. It seemed to the dwarf that the corners were not structurally where they should have been and oddly, there seemed to be far to many corners present in the room. The hairs on the back of the dwarf's neck (and his back, and his shoulders) rose in a familiar tingle. "Magick...", the dwarf mumbled quietly to himself, a slight sneer of disgust springing to his bearded lips. He quickly scanned the room, catching a glimpse of the grey-cloaked figure, who was now behind the bar and had placing her covering on a large, wooden rack that supported strange antlers of some sort. The dwarf moved up to the bar, and seeing no dwarven-sized seats, promptly boosted himself up into one of the first rough, wooden stools, keeping his back as near to the wall as possible. The dwarf then noticed the human female that he had followed approaching him with a coy smile on her face. She stood not much taller than the four foot dwarf and had grey eyes and long auburn hair worn pulled back into a ponytail. "You look like you could use a stiff drink, my friend," said the barmaid slyly, a faint smile playing about her lips and visiting her eyes. "Aye, lass, that I could." said the dwarf, some of his nervousness and apprehension disappearing while in the presence of this lady. He secretly hoped that she had not sensed him following her, or that his visage had not told her more than he desired; for some reason he did not want to offend this fair woman. "And who might ye be?" he called as she moved to procure his drink, smiling his characteristic half-smile. "The name you may call me is Serene, Serene Uhtsong, my good dwarf. I am one of the proprietors here at the goodly Dragon's Inn." said the auburn haired lady as she turned, handing a large, foaming mug to the dwarf. The dwarf, taking a long, refreshing drink from the mug, felt some of the worries of his predicament wash away in the flow. "Rightly named ye are, m'lady. I am honored." said the dwarf, tipping his head and raising his mug in a typical dwarven salute of thanks and greeting. "The name's Norg Hammerhelm, and I am at yer service...If ye don't mind me askin', though, where in the 'Hells might I be?" * * * * * * Ciaran Falon looked suspiciously at the stranger before him who waited eagerly for his reply. Then he slowly nodded. "You seem familiar, indeed." The traveller took a long sip from his mug. "But I must say," he continued, "that the face I remember brings back some unpleasant memories...and I mean unpleasant." "So you have actually seen my brother?" the half-elf nervously asked, sitting down, across from the dwarf. "Where? And when? And what happened?" They had moved to a small, oakwood table, away from the bar in order to speak more privately. He sat in one of the rough chairs, his eyes resting on the face of the scarred dwarf in front of him. Snorting silently, Ciaran sighed and turned towards him. "It doesn't make any difference now," he muttered. "I met a man whose face bears many of your lines several months before when I was crossing the Blood Sea aboard the 'Valiant'. He was one of the officer's servants, I recall him as a scribe - though I may be wrong about this. Anyway, he brought us all some serious trouble." "Trouble?" the face of the stranger hardened. "What kind of trouble? Beware your words, dwarf!" He slowly rose from his chair, but Ciaran never reacted. "Remain seated," he politely requested, "I shall continue..." * * * * * * Upon hearing the word 'dwarf' uttered loudly behind him, Norg reflexively turned his bushy head, fully expecting a blow from the manner in which the speaker was addressing him. When there was no forthcoming crack to the head, nor a knife in the side, Norg scanned the room quickly, searching for whoever had called out. Across the room, a slender figure rose, the flush on his face accenting his sculpted, almost angular features. Norg, having never seen this individual before, groaned audibly to himself. He had only been here long enough to finish one flagon of mead and already he was being drawn into a fight. Norg didn't actually mind the idea of smashing the heavy, pewter flagon over someone's head, he just hated to do it while the flagon was full. Suddenly, the man, if that was what he actually was, thought Norg, sat down, trying to regain a portion of his composure. His right hand moving upwards, smoothing his brow and drawing some of his long, dark hair behind one of his slightly pointed ears. It was then that Norg saw the intended recipient of the cry, another dwarf, sitting opposite the slender figure. Norg was taken aback not only by the fact that there was another dwarf in the Inn, (there seemed to be very few, if any, when he had entered) but also because of this new dwarf's appearance and actions. The dwarf just sat there, drinking calmly from his mug, as if nothing at all had happened. He was thin for a dwarf, but would probably stand slightly taller than Norg and had a placid, courteous, and cautious air about him. His beard was worn short trimmed and neat, which to Norg, seemed like a self-inflicted insult, not only to the race but to the dwarf himself. "Suren I'm not where I was..." the dwarf reiterated, growling into his flagon as he hefted it for another drink. "Think I'd best get a better look at this one, just to be safe," the dwarf said softly to himself, throwing Serene two silvers and a sly wink as he dropped heavily from the stool. "Don't ye fret lass, I'll be back, suren..." the dwarf called over his shoulder, his coal black eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he moved towards the pair's table, being as inconspicuous as a dwarf in a crowded bar can be. * * * * * * "I was on my was to Skypoint," the soft-spoken dwarf related, "where I wanted to meet a fellow librarian, an aide to Astinus of Palanthas. We has agreed to meet there to share our knowledge, and I was really looking forward to seeing him soon as my maps of Ansalon were almost finished. Aboard the 'Valiant', I had my place as the navigator's aide, and the man you asked about was an officer's scribe. His name was Sildrif, or something like that, if I recall it correctly. The ship's captain was named Strongstabb, and he had personally chosen his crew. I knew him only be his reputation, and I doubt he has ever heard of Ciaran Falon. Anyway, he seemed to be impressed by my maps, and so I was accepted as an aide to the navigator, Gildrick. We had left Westport three days ago, and it looked like we'd have a nice journey. Although I am not quite fond of ships, I started to like the 'Valiant' as it cut through the waves like Kiri-Jolith's sharpest blade, and you barely noticed you were aboard a ship. Then, somewhere around the midday watch, our lookouts reported a sail at the horizon. Captain Strongstabb ordered to inspect it more closely, and the lookouts identified it as a trader from Neraka. This seemed to be what Captain Strongstabb had been waiting for, as he immediately ordered full sails and had set course on the other vessel. I was quite surprised with this maneuver, and so seemed some of the crew. When I asked Gildrick about it, he told me that Strongstabb had found some trouble with a minotaur sailor from Neraka and wanted to see him dead. He planned to attack the trader and ask for the minotaur, and as the 'Valiant' was about twice the size of the trader, there did not seem to be much problem in this. Of course, I did protest, and so did some of the crew, but all in vain. The captain was determined to move on. We needed about half an hour to catch up with the trader, and as soon as we were close enough, Strongstabb signaled to them that they should surrender. The other ship denied this and tried to outrun the 'Valiant', but it was only a question of time until we could reach it. The captain ordered his bowmen to the deck, and everything was prepared for an assault. And then, all of a sudden, our main sail came crashing down. There was quite a mess on the deck, with half the crew buried under the deck and half the crew trying to get them out. Over all of the hullabaloo, the captain was shouting angry orders, never to be followed. Atop our mast, a small figure was sitting and eagerly cutting the tows with a saber. It was the one I knew as Sildrif, the officer's scribe. He was laughing madly at us, swinging himself down the mast on a rope and dashing towards the boats, followed by Jonarth, the First Mate, and some crewmen. One swing with the saber cut the ropes holding our boats, and a lantern thrown into one of them quickly set it on fire, while Sildrif jumped into the other one and rowed away from the 'Valiant'. By the time we had our rigging fixed up and the sails up again, the trader was out of sight again. Strongstabb was in blazing fury and had most of the crew whipped and Jonarth keelhauled for failing to catch Sildrif. The rest of us were glad not to have participated in the fight, and we reached Skypoint two days later than we had planned. I don't know what happened to that Sildrif guy, but I guess he knew what he was doing - the Blood Sea is far and treacherous, and if you know it well, you can easily find a lot of islands and get along quite well for some time. Especially with some 'faerie blood' in your veins." Ciaran took a long sip from his mug, emptying it and called Serene to have it filled up once more. "Well," he said, "that's what I know." That done, Halgorn Ereyiel whistled softly, turning the stem of his wine glass gently with his tapered fingers. "So, you knew him under the name Sildrif?" the ranger asked. "Indeed," grunted Ciaran. "Not his real name," the dwarf grunted, providing both a question and an answer in his laconic reply. "No, it is not. For the moment, that is irrelevant. I must find him, whatever his name. If you will help me, you shall be paid handsomely in gold and gems, as well," Halgorn told him, leaning closer, "the House of Ereyiel shall be in your debt. Not lightly do the high elven make such a promise." The half-elf pulled back the folds of his cloak, displaying an intricately carved platinum brooch, with ivory inlay, set in the center with an emerald. Ciaran of Flotsam was well aware of its value, as jewelry alone. However, as a badge of office, it meant even more. The man before him was indeed royal. Was his brother also? That added a new perspective on the events he had witnessed. This was an offer he'd have to consider carefully. * * * * * * There was another who knew that device, and it's 'value'. Ahaliyn's crystal-blue eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the one called Halgorn speak. A half-breed of the royal house of Ereyiel, he thought, desperately seeking his beloved brother. A cold, bitter smile touched his thin lips. The ties of blood, how they do bind. His goblet was empty. A gesture, and one of the maids hastened to refill it. Her hand trembled. Fear, he thought with clinical detachment, sipping...savoring the bite if the absinthe. It spun a web of frost across the void within him, and flames of emotion danced along the strands. It was his sole indulgence, loosening the tight rein, allowing himself, now and again to 'feel'. Even if it was only rage and pain, it was better than nothing. He was on his feet and several steps on his way before he realized he had stood. And then it was too late. The part-elven lordling had noted his approach and looked up, meeting his gaze with an eyebrow arched in query. Ahaliyn stopped, feeling his cloak swirl forward and curl in around his body, like the black wings that seemed to be beating at his thoughts, distracting and blinding him. The web was drawing tighter, pulling him inward away from his skin. Ereyiel was looking at him strangely. Where his eyes glowing green? They felt like it from this side. "I am... A'in," he heard his voice say. "If you would venture the Blood Sea, then you will need my magics at your side. If you mean to venture it...and live." He was marginally aware that the dwarf was nodding, but his attention was focused on Halgorn, who was studying him intently. 'What do you see, highborn?' he asked silently. Night-black hair, woven through with silver and colored crystal? Pale skin, with features sharp enough to draw blood? A gaunt stranger, clad in furs of hoarfox and sable? What mask am I wearing tonight? Halgorn's gaze wondered from the dwarf, to the emerald-and- ivory bauble, then back to him. "And your price, sorcerer?" "The acknowledged debt of the House of Ereyiel." * * * * * * Well, ladies and gentlemen, therein ends the first part of the beginnings of what will hopefully be a long, fulfilling and satisfying story. I hope everyone has enjoyed so far, and sincerely hope that you will not be disappointed anytime in the near future. Please direct any questions/comments/book offers[:)] to one of the following authors (your choice entirely): D'Maris Coffman: Heinrich Goetz: Alex Knepper: Brannon Hollingsworth: (ADMIN-Man)