From alt.pub.dragons-inn Sat Oct 7 11:56:10 1995 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:8767 Path: netcom.com!noc.netcom.net!news.sprintlink.net!connix.com!ajh!ajh From: ajh@connix.com (A. H.) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [FAITH] Chapter 6 - (under construction) Date: Fri, 6 Oct 1995 22:51:07 Organization: Connix - The Connecticut Internet Exchange Lines: 155 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: alain.connix.com X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B] FAITH This is the story of Devious Silverblu, a.k.a. 'The Devious Paladin', and a creature that she encountered in the land of fear. It has been a while, but the story is picking up. Cast Delmara Humphrey Aaron aaron@amisk.cs.ualberta.ca Devious Silverblu Ceredwin clben1@giaeb.cc.monash.edu.au Laroo A. H. ajh@connix.com ----------------------------------------------------------------- - This article may only be copied and distributed freely. - This article may not be distributed by any organization which attempts to recover its' distribution costs and/or make a profit. - All other rights are reserved by the authors. ----------------------------------------------------------------- [FAITH] Chapter 6: (under development) The One Who Reflects The elf that walked along the sunlit streets carried a bag slung over one shoulder. He moved smoothly and easily, his face gentle and weathered. His eyes were covered by a thin film of silk to keep out the dust and sunlight - his colouring showed him to be one of the twilight brethren, those who prefer the dances beneath the moon. He was treading his way through the market, looking first in the stalls of the metalworkers, then at those of the tanners. Gift makers, grocers... He bought a fine silver needle and a length of wire made from gold, as well as a certain amount of powdered pyrite. From the butchers he chose a live black rooster, suitable for roasting. From the grocer, several sweet scented herbs. At last a bunch of roses, the kind given as gifts to lady loves. With the hooded rooster under one arm the elf made his way up and down the streets, as surely as a bloodhound. In the other he juggled a goblet of black iron, studded with false gold. A cockerel. Which was what it had been, at one point. And dire wolf, and foulvern and many other things. It circled around the Dragons Inn again, but the scent there was too sweet and it did not trust its head under such conditions. He had Her scent on him, now, and was so marked for death. But not quite yet. Fear. It liked them to have fear... The elf shifted the befuddled rooster until he could carry it more easily and began to move another way. He smiled at children in the street, and emptied the last of the coinage in his purse into the bowls of beggars. "Mi Lord...thank you!" they called after him, and he smiled back. "Blessin' on yer noble head, Fay." "And thee as well, man," he replied in his soft voice, accented with the sharp clarity of forests and moonlit nights. It found the scent and was confused, for a different woman now wore it. But then, She really was not a woman. More a...ladyhawk? It giggled to itself and doubled back. It could taste two scents now - the priestess-woman and She, and Her smell was on both of them. Emanating from the Brightness. It came up to the edge of the brightness, but the glare was far too intense. It could not cross...yet... The elf viewed the temple in quiet, then walked down the street - into a glade. He looked about, shook himself, and set the hooded rooster on the ground. The bird, thinking it stupidly night, tried to perch on a fallen twig. The elf removed his bundle and glanced around the park. Deserted, so far. There were ways to barricade almost anything, though. Now the slender being stretched, reached up, and tore off the covering over his eyes. The eyes were of normal colouration and shape. They burned. The fire in them was unnatural and cruel and smiling grimly. It seemed to reflect the worst of whatever came into its range. Trees were shown wilted, the ground soiled, the bird in its silly complacency. And the mirror-monster giggled again. Yessss.... To not be disturbed. It had once been a guardian of gateways and knew the lore still. Quickly it called up a confusion about the glade, so that those looking in would see nothing of interest and leave, propelled in part by their own danger instinct. It admired its work and looked at the glade. Too untidy, by far. The creature grabbed at the cockerel and lowered its mask before the area. Leaves curled up and died, the ground smoothed. Plants withered and were no more. Now it was time to start. The cockerel screamed. An elf wound a piece of silken material about his eyes and put an ebony box into his leather bag. He checked the powerful wards on the glade and nodded in satisfaction. It was not for nothing he...*it*...had been a gate keeper. He strode out, turning back once to check that the strong illusion still held. Weave upon weave, weave hiding weave, and at last breezes and air and even dust motes combined to hide the illusion that there was no illusion. Perfect. He whistled softly between his teeth and strode back to the Dragons Inn, pleased that the new sanctuary was so close to the priestess' temple. He hoped the emanations gave her bad dreams. In the glade... If one were to step in, it would give the illusion of stepping into a slick- walled cave made of blood. For the trees and leaves had been bound until airtight in a rough globe, mortared with crimson. The magick had wound in upon itself in strangulation and now gave the feeling of a desperation at having trapped its own being. There were feathers carefully sewn with gold thread to form part of a structure, the cockerel's own feathers. Destroyed and mingled with blood until they were liquid, seemed to be the flight feathers of a hawk or predator bird. This thick red substance was pooled in a bowl made from rose petals sewn again with gold thread. There was room for more liquid. The bare structure of the stiff wing feathers supported the bowl in the centre of the 'cave'. Around the edge, coinciding with the 'walls' was powdered pyrite. And the whole shimmered, moved, was still, was rigidity in motion, like a mirage. The elf knocked on the door of the Dragons Inn and entered. He felt a little foolish having done so - permission was not required. Ignoring the commons room, he nodded to the receptionist "I have a companion to visit upstairs." Oh, yes! He knew the moment he touched the door handle and its lock shifted as he gained entrance, that the one he sought was not here. Pity. No fun. The mirror beast looked around the room, head cocked and air like that of a hound after a fox. Damn. Magick residue filled the air, but his task was making illusions and he found it hard to see through others'. He noted the room was neat and knelt in the centre of the floor. The ebony box was taken out and opened. Inside was the goblet. He placed it carefully down. An irresistible scent wafted into the air. Like honeywine. Pyrite sparkled on cockerel blood, powdered rose petals, and ground hawk's feathers. A little upset that he would not be around to see the results, he left. As he walked into the street, he shook a somewhat crumpled feather cloak out of his leather bag, slapped it briskly to remove dust, and wound it snugly around himself. The golden-brown cloak was missing quite a few feathers now. Which was good... What a headache She must have! The creature laughed and danced down the street. ------- end of work so far --