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From: stiltman@teleport.com (Stilt Man)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: [Kid] Memories and Awakenings
Date: 17 Dec 1995 18:44:37 -0800
Organization: Teleport - Portland's Public Access (503) 220-1016
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[ADMIN:  This was written (except for a bit at the end) by Mrs. Stilt Man,
Harpy, or whatever other wierd alias she feels like taking at the time.
Gwendolar is her addition to the little fracas coming together; I'm still
taking volunteers, by the way, for the thread.  I have a couple of them that
are wanting to join at the moment, bringing us to four total people in it
thus far (though I'm having difficulty reaching the fourth one), but if any
one else wants to join in, lend an email message to me.  This thread is being
posted to my home page at http://www.teleport.com/~stiltman/stories.html, if
anyone wants to read the first one or any of thther threads I've been
involved in.]

[ADMIN2:  Hello?  (Hello?, hello?....)  Anybody here?  (here?...here?)
Echo! (echo!...echo!)]

[ADMIN3:  Roll tape to dream sequence...]


"I know, Gwendolar," he said, his fat face beaming at his cleverness, "I could
fight him for you and then I'd have you for my own."

What!? I could feel my horse cringe underneath me in response to my sudden
tension as we trotted up the grassy slope and quickly forced myself to relax
so I would't spook the finicky chestnut gelding.  How on the world did the
conversation get to this point?  I suppose I should have paid more attention
to what this idiot was saying, even though he bored me.  Supposedly he wanted
me to assist him in fine tuning his horsemanship so Sir Elissan would knight
him instead just making him clean armour for another year.  I'd instructed him
in the finer arts of horsemanship that are necessary for training and handling
a warhorse: collecting and extending his gaits, making him go sideways, and
using your legs to control him while you're holding a weapon, and other such
feats of horsemanship.  To be honest, he didn't show much promise, though of
course I'd never say so.  At first he'd complimented me on my skill with
horses, saying I was "phenomenal for a woman."  Then somehow he got around to
complementing me on my appearance, which I ignored, hoping he would get the
hint. He didn't, so I told him I loved another.  That shut him up for a while,
until this crazy remark.

"That's a bad idea, Aaron," I told him, squeezing my legs and clucking to Roc to
encourage him to canter to avoid listening to his inevitably whining response. 
Fortunately this time Roc didn't buck and eagerly streched his legs at the
invitation to canter on the verdant turf.  Then Aaron did the unexpected.  He
galloped Charger, my palomino, past Roc and steered him straight in our path
to block us in a damnfool move that would have gotten him or Charger kicked if
I hadn't squeezed on the reins and leaned back in the saddle to stop him fast
enough.  Roc laid back his ears in anger.  Charger turned his head to the side
and bit Aaron's foot.

"I will win you!  My love is such that I must prevail!"  His face began to grow
red and he shouted so loud he could be heard for a league. Charger pawed the
ground irritably.  Horses don't like yelling.

"You just did something extremely stupid," I said, keeping my voice steady and
forcing myself to be calm so I wouldn't upset Roc, who startled easily.  "Get
down off my horse immediately."  I whistled at Charger in the signal to kneel,
and he knelt.  He wouldn't go anywhere until that fool got off.

He slowly slid out of the saddle and onto the ground.  "I will challenge your
lover for you!" he shouted, his face getting even more red and blotchy, looking
very unattractive when combined with strawberry blond hair.  Charger stood up
and began eating grass. 

"I really don't want to be fought over," I said, steering Roc towards Charger
so I could grab his reins.

"Then you'll be mine without my fighting for you?" he asked, his small piggy
blue eyes looking pleadingly into mine.  I glared back.  "You know how much I
love you."

Considering I'd only spent much time in his presence while instructing him
after he asked,  I knew how much he "loved" me and it was miniscule at best.
How pathetic.

"That's not what I said.  I have no wish to be yours."  I caught hold of
Charger's reins and steered the horses down the grassy slope to my home.
The columbines and wild mallows were blooming and the sun shone warmly.  It
was looking to be a beautiful day and I hoped Aaron wouldn't try to follow me
and ruin it.

"Then I must fight him for you!  Once I prevail, honor will force him to give
you to me!" he shouted, struggling to keep up with the horses' swift walk.
They laid their ears back and twitched their tails, disgusted with all the
noise.  Charger swiped Aaron across the hand with his long silver tail, making
him wince.

Obviously, it was time to teach this fool a lesson.  "Very well, oh noble
suitor, you may fight for me at this time tomorrow.  I hope you can convince
Sir Elissan to lend you a horse, after you let his grey warsteed run away and
I had to catch him for you," I added spitefully.  The horses, sensing my
excitement, broke into a prancing trot.  I slowed them down as we approached
the small brook that meandered by my cottage.  Soon we reached my unruly
gardens and were home.  I took the horses to their stable and they whickered
eagerly for their dinner as I fed them.

One may wonder why I did not inform Thelaster of this tourney, but I had my
own plans for it and didn't want him deciding to be "noble" and fighting on my
behalf.  There was a much better way than that to humiliate Aaron.  Besides,
everyone needs to have a few secrets from their lover.

As night fell, I began my preparations.  I lit a candle and rummaged through
an old oak chest till I found a mail shirt from my years as a warrior, before
I became a duke's warhorse trainer.  It was completely rust-covered.  I hadn't
realized I had lived quite so long, but then I was a Spellsinger of the
Traveling Folk, at least on my mother's side.  I took out the chainmail and
laid it on a roughly carved oak table.  I then removed my spruce and maple
lap harp from its case and sang to it to tune it.  I then sat down by the
table and sang of the glory of old battles and the joy of being a young
warrior.

Soon the rust was gone and the mail sparkled.   I would need to grow taller
to make myself believable as a man, so I played my harp again and sang of
growth.  Soon I was the necessary height.  I braided my long blond hair to
conceal it under my helm and changed my facial features to those of Thelaster
before retiring for the evening.

The next morning, I fed the horses and groomed them, braiding Roc's mane and
tail for the tourney.  Charger was disappointed, but he was older and I
wouldn't risk injuring him in this farce.  They seemed surprised by my changes
in height and features, but they still recognised me.  I walked through the
brown, wood paneled barn to the tackroom, where I cleaned Roc's ornate war
gear for the upcoming battle.  His saddle was made of blue dyed leather with
a high pommel and cantle for jousting, with swirled designs tooled on it was
well as on the matching breastplate, crupper, and girth.  They, as well as the
horses, were a gift from the duke I served for saving his son from a rampaging
wild stallion by singing a spell of charming to it.  I normally don't like 
to cheat and use spells while training horses, since all Traveling Folk are
proud of their skill with horses, but there are always exceptions.

I put Charger out in the rock-walled pasture and he called anxiously to Roc
as I saddled and bridled him.  Then I put on my mail and covered it with a
linen tabard to hide obvious feminine attributes and covered my braided hair
with my helm.  I mounted Roc and trotted briskly to Sir Elissan's keep, casting
a spell to lower my voice along the way.

Soon I reached the small, stone walled tower surrounded by fields.  Aaron and
Sir Elissan were waiting out front.   Sir Elissan wore a blue tabard with a
black eagle claw over gleaming mail.  Aaron looked uncomfortable in a borrowed
mail shirt of Sir Elissan's, shifting around in the saddle.  Elissan's grey
warsteed fidgeted nervously beneath Aaron, sensing his rider's tension.  "Hail
Thelaster," said Sir Elissan.  "Where is the Lady Gwendolar?"

"Today's tourney has left her most distraught and she is unable to attend,"
I lied.  "She is still in her home and cannot be disturbed.  You know how
emotional women are."  Sir Elissan looked puzzled.  I was not exactly known
for getting the vapors.  I winked at him and he smiled, his grey eyes crinkling
at the corners under thick black brows.  

Aaron looked concerned about my "distress."  "Once she is mine, you churl, I
will spare her all this woe you have caused her!  What gives you the right to
possess such a beautiful thing that I don't have?  All know that you are only
a scholar, but I will be a great warrior!"

Sir Elissan looked coldly at Aaron, his long black hair rippling in the breeze.
"Your pardon, Sirrah Aaron," he began, in a manner which left it clear that
he cared little whether that pardon was actually granted, "but Gwendolar is a
person, not a thing.  As for who is worthy of her, that is what you two will
soon decide in combat.  It is not wise, Aaron, to boast about your prowess
before it has been achieved.  Many have been proven fools by such boastful
actions."  His brows were lowered and he scowled.  At this rate, Aaron would
never be knighted.  I felt no remorse at the thought.

We trotted our horses to the jousting arena, Sir Elissan walking behind us
with long, swinging strides.  Roc moved eagerly, his head down and his neck
arched as he snorted.  The grey steed's neck was streched out and his head was
up, trying to avoid Aaron's insensitive hands on the reins.  Obviously, he
needed more teaching than the few days I gave him before he decided to fight
for me.

I leaned down from the saddle and selected a lance from the pile Elissan kept
by the arena.  Aaron slowly leaned over and got one as well, looking like he
was afraid that he'd slide out of the saddle.  I smiled encouragingly at him.
"You just need to practice.  You'll get the hang of it."   He glared at me and
began to turn red.

Sir Elissan reached the wooden fence of the arena and glanced at both of us.
"Are you two champions resolved to fight this day?"

"We are, Sir Elissan.  Gwendolar will be mine or I will die in the attempt!"
Aaron scowled at me and struck the ground with his lance.  "Certainly I am
more worthy of her than you!"

What exactly gave him the right to decide who was worthy of me, I'd like to
know.  "She had chosen me by her own heart.  She has not chosen you.  I accept
your challenge, Aaron."  I guess I could get used to making "noble" speeches
after all. (choke)  I had a hard time keeping from laughing.  Roc sensed my
amusement and looked around to nuzzle my foot.

"You may now enter the arena and commence jousting."  Sir Elissan patted the
nose of is grey warsteed, looking concerned, as we trotted into the arena.

"Good luck Aaron, and may the best person win."  I smiled and patted Roc's
neck.  He pricked up his ears, anticipating the battle.  I squeezed my legs
slightly and lowered my lance.  I could feel Roc bunching up his muscles
underneath me as he cantered.  Grinning fiercely, I let out a whoop.

Aaron kicked the ribs of the warsteed, who laid back his ears at the
unnecessary roughness.  He began to canter towards me, bouncing clumsily
in the saddle.  He grimaced and scowled at me, seemingly too angry to
concentrate on his horsemanship.

I really didn't want to kill the fool, so I aimed my lance straight for his
shield.  I could feel the rush of air as he rode towards me.  Aaron fumbled
awkwardly with the lance, and overbalanced and began sliding off the side of
the saddle.  "Drop the lance and hang onto the horse's neck so you don't fall
off!" I shouted.  I hadn't got a chance to even hit him yet, after all.
Besides, it did no credit to my instruction if my pupil fell off so soon.
Unfortunately, my advice only made him angrier.  He hurled his lance towards
me like a javelin before toppling to the earth.  I quickly sidestepped Roc out
of its clumsy path and snarled.  I considered riding him into the ground, but
noticed that he was hanging from one stirrup and being dragged along by the
excited warsteed.  I rode towards him and caught his reins to stop him, and
looked down at Aaron.  "See, I told you you would get the hang of it with
practice,"  I said, smiling wickedly.

Aaron slowly pulled his foot out of the stirrup and sat up, glaring at me,
his face red and blotchy and his eyes getting puffy.  "Damn you, Thelaster!"
he swore.  "She was meant to be mine!"

"Why don't you let her be the judge of that?" I said.

"Bring her here and I will do so!"

"Very well," I replied, smiling and changing back to myself.  The expression
on his face was a priceless portrait of humiliated exasperation.

I patted Roc to sooth him after all of Aaron's yelling and began leading the
warsteed towards Sir Ellisan.  "I told you I didn't want to be yours and I
didn't want to be fought over."  Sir Elissan smiled briefly at me, trying hard
not to laugh, and helped Aaron rise.

Then I looked towards the edge of the arena, and noticed that Thelaster was
staring at me.  He was tall and slim, dressed in an embroidered red tunic and
cream linen trousers.  So I'll remember him, the last time I saw him. . .

"Why did you do that?" he asked, looking hurt.  

"He needed to be taught a lesson, learn that I was yours, and none of his
foolishness would change that,"  I said softly, feeling sick in the stomach
that I'd hurt him and might lose him.  

"You disguised yourself as me."  He looked puzzled.

"Yes, Thelaster.  He wanted to fight you for me, and I didn't want to be fought
over." Roc nuzzled my foot and the warsteed butted me with his head.

"You know that I love you, and would fight for you even though I am a mage.
Gwendolar, I do not like your being ashamed of me and fighting my battles for
me.  I must fight my own battles, even as you do as a warrior and spellsinger."
He turned abruptly and strode away, his brown hair fluttering in the breeze,
and then softly spoke a few words and vanished.

"That's what I was trying to do," I said softly.  "I love you," I said, and
sang the spell that would let the wind carry my words to him, but whether he
heeded them or not, I'll never know.

Fortunately, Aaron was still too stunned to notice what had happened.  Sir
Elissan slowly walked up and took his horse's reins.  He looked sad, and
patted my shoulder, but was wise enough not to say anything.

I slowly rode back to my stone cottage with the thatched roof.  I bid farewell
to my wild gardens and plucked what fruits and herbs I would need for my
journey.  I then went inside and packed some tunics and trousers, wrapping
them carefully around my lap harp in my leather journeybag.  I packed my
mailshirt and some dried fruit, cheese, and bread, and fastened my sword at
my belt.

I carried my packs to the barn and placed the packsaddle on Roc so he wouldn't
have to carry me again that day.  I called Charger in from the pasture and he
galloped eagerly, his silver mane and tail streaming behind him.  It had been
a long time since we had been on the road, as Traveling Folk should.  I saddled
Charger and packed the horse's grooming implements and food, and we walked
swiftly into the wildflower dotted hills.  I began to sing a song of journeys
and the wild, and the horses walked in rhythm with my singing.

			=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Gwendolar woke abruptly.

The wooden ceiling of the room at the inn came into focus, leaving her
muttering as she thought of the memory.  It was painful enough without the
dreams to remind her of it.

She sat up, reaching back to scratch an itch on her back beneath the wool
shirt, and put on her breeches.  She did not want to go back to sleep,
no matter how drowsy she might have felt, for fear that the dream would
be waiting for her again.

"At least the roof keeps the rain out," she muttered, noting the sound of
raindrops outside.

A bit of shouting sounded from down the hall, sounding like violence was
about to erupt.  "Maybe I should have stayed at the Dragon's Inn," she
said to herself.  "They say that no one ever fights there."

But it was none of her concern, as the shouting decayed from real dispute
to defiant denial of holding malice to some kid or another.  She shook her
head, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

That was when the sound of a wooden door breaking reached her ears.  She
frowned; they were apparently not stopping at breaking the inn down.  However,
she supposed she might as well peek out and see if anyone needed help.

She pulled her long sword out of its sheath, and pushed her door ajar with it
to peer down the hall.

An armored man was lying on the floor with a woman, taller and slighter than
herself, standing over him.  The man had a gaping hole where his chest should
have been, the flesh and chain mail having been melted where some great burning
blow had ripped him apart.  A greasy black smoke was sifting through the
ceiling; Gwendolar presumed it to be from the wound.  The woman came down
on all fours straddling the man and started writhing in some unholy rapture
over him.  Gwendolar felt a lurch in her stomach, and could sense sorcery
involved.

Aware that she was clad only in breeches and a wool shirt, she sang a song
of armor coming to her as she stepped out into the hall, feeling the familiar
weight of the chain mail materializing around her.  The other woman seemed to
sense the spellsinger, and looked up with an angered look not unlike that of
a hound that has suddenly been denied its dinner.

"Leave that poor man's corpse alone, whatever sort of bitch you may be,"
Gwendolar half-snarled.

The other woman hesitated a moment, appraising Gwendolar with her eyes, before
coming to a crouch on the floor between her and the man.  Gwendolar came to
a ready stance with her sword, as the other woman shifted back and forth along
the floor like a wolf looking for an opening to strike.  Foam flecked the
woman's mouth as she came towards her.

Gwendolar advanced with a slice towards the woman's leg.  The other woman
tried to dart back, but was not fast enough to keep her thigh from being
laid open.  A greenish blood came from the wound, and an inhuman shriek
from the woman's mouth.  Gwendolar followed the first slice with a rising
stroke to the neck, and the woman's head was hurled back over the man's
corpse to the floor.

Gwendolar stepped over the man to examine him, when a boiling steam distracted
her.  The woman's corpse was burning up, it seemed.  Gwendolar reared back,
fearful that the wooden floor might spread the flame, but the fire touched
only the remains of the woman, reducing her to an oily smudge on the ground.

Gwendolar swallowed, but it did not remove the foul taste from her mouth.  She
wondered if the bitch was actually dead, or merely returning home for the
holiday.  She muttered to herself for a moment, before shouting, "Innkeeper!"

A man slightly taller than she was came up the stairs, with a gasp at the
sight of the scene around her.  "What has happened here?"  He looked at the
half-splintered door, the man with the gaping hole in his chest, and the
oily remains of the woman, and turned uncomfortably green.

"I wish I knew.  I heard something breaking through the door down the
hall, saw this guy lying here with some bitch getting her jollies off his
corpse in some form of witchery, and then she lunged at me," Gwendolar said.
She pointed with her sword at the smudges on the ground.  "Those used to
be her."

"A woman came through here, pursued by this man just a short while ago.
Perhaps the man had good cause to be pursuing her, if she was in truck
with something that could do this," said the innkeeper.  He knelt down,
and with effort took a look at the man's wounds.  "People getting killed
in the inn is nothing new to the inns in this part of town, but gods!
Whatever did this melted its way right through his armor and cauterized
the wound before he even fell.  There's not a drop of natural blood
anywhere."  He emphasized the word, "natural."

"She certainly didn't seem to be much of a fighter," Gwendolar said.
"I don't think she did this, or she should have been able to do something
at least halfway similar to me."

"I'd stand clear of this, were I you," said the innkeeper, making the sign
to ward off evil.  "Did I not have a stake in this inn, I'd be far from this
place already."

Gwendolar went into the room with the splintered doorway.  The man's sword
had been dropped here, near the door.  "So what's going to happen about all
this?"

"Well, someone's going to have to report this to the Mage's Guild.  From
there, who knows what will happen?"

"Sounds like fun," said Gwendolar sarcastically.  "Well, thank you for your
time, I just remembered I have to be anywhere else right now.  I'll be
checking out within a turn of the glass."

"Sorry about this, madame," said the innkeeper.  "I hope this will not make
you loath to return to my inn."

"Count on it," Gwendolar said over her shoulder as she went back to her room.

 
+=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+
+               Chronicles of the Kid                     +
+=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+
+       . . . scribed by the Stilt Man,			  +
+               stiltman@teleport.com                     +
+=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+