A story (otherwise known as: Because Boh be Bored)

[Boh]

It was a dark and foggy night, a pale white ooze hung in the air as I looked outside my window. I could barely make out the silent sheen of the lamps on the damp cobblestones two stories below.

My ear was warned of her entrance by the sound of the door creeking behind my back. I turned slowly and put out my cigar in the small glass bowl before seeing just what had walked into my office.

She was sleek, and from her posture tough as nails, wearin a full length coat without sleeves, her dark fur outlined a perfect female canine form.

She had eyes that burned with inner fire, I could tell right away that she was a firecracker waiting fer me to make a mistake so she could blow up.

I nodded as I took off my hat and spun it round my finger casually while I listened to her story to keep my mind focused.

It seems she was the captian of a boat bringing in a large amount of loot. She had nearly made it to the docks when some scallywags with pistols and knives attacked and off'd her crew.

She got away with few things intact, and her boat was sittin on the bottom of the bay. I could tell revenge was on her mind. Bad enough ta not call the cops, but she'd come instead ta me.

I could feel her eyes burning into my fur as I thought about what ta do. It was a hard choice, I knew the gang she was talking about. They wern't easy to attack, but they had alot of enemies. If I got lucky I might be able to pick em off one at a time in secret.

I told her eventually that I'd look into it. I flashed her the best smile I could muster and lit her thin pipe. We spent a few moments talking about it, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it. She just wanted the job done, so she could get on with her life, such as it was.

There was a sorrow there, more than just loosing the boat. something deep, dark and disturbing. I didn't want to unearth it, but I felt somehow drawn to this dame. Curiosity was always a downfall fer me.

The last thing I remember was watching her hips sway just so as she sauntered from the room. The smell of her perfume drifted on the air. I turned and replaced my fedora and reached fer my own coat.

I smelled the shot befer I felt it, and the echo came quickly behind the bullet. Beyond that was the blackness, and all I could think of, was how I never got her name...

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[killmequick]

Wow... :eek: I like that... It's so cool! ^^

[TonyD]

The figure swore and leant against a wall, the large rain droplets dripping from the thatch and running along his hood.
Sorenson wrapped his suede coat around himself, knowing the water would permanantly mark it. With a flick of his wrist and a muttered incantation, he produced a cigar from the air and, lighting it with a flame conjured from his fingertip, he inhaled deeply.

This rain was intolerable, and sheltering against a barn was more intolerable. He. Sorenson. A capable sorcerer and elementalist, was reduced to hiding against a shelter designed for drays!

To make matters worse, the rain reminded him of home. The swamps where his people came from, the skunk raiders known as the Feocullan, was permanantly damp. Not the cool refreshing damp of an evening rainfall, but the cloying damp that crawled under your fur. Or the drenching torrential rain, accompanied by a biting wind, that cuts through your fur.

For the third time, Sorenson attempted to create a fire large enough to warm him. For the third time the rain doused it, leaving Sorenson colder than before, his body drained of the heat expended for the spell.

Sorenson stared down at his dainty hands. Did he have what it took? Sure, he could throw fireballs, he commanded arcane knowledge, but what did that count for? All his magical studies were nothing more than compensation for the fact that he was small of stature, fine featured, and perhaps better suited to doing womens jobs than the male profession of fighting and banditry.

His kinsmen, mighty vicious raiders, could have nothing but contempt for one such as he. In his swamps, the first response to a stranger would be to take their belongings and hope they return. If that didn't appear to be profitable, a knife across their throat would do the trick. Some shows of savegery would stop the next stranger invading their swampy territory.

But here was dainty Sorenson, out in the world, trying to prove to himself that he was worth something. He'd been relying on his magical talents to give him value to the Feocullan, but in his heart he knew they sneered at him, thought that magic was nothing but a crutch. Here he was, in the world. A fresh start, nobody knew him, a chance to prove to himself that he is every bit as strong as any other kinsman of his. Dainty hands or none!

The Bisclavret, a new house of nobility, one who did NOT recognize the Feocullan as nobles, they would make a good target. Someone he can prove his strength against. Easily recognized, they are wolves, loud, vicious. Strong.

But this new, large city is new territory. Large enough to get lost in, but filled with people. He would have to be subtle, keep a smile on his face while he holds a dagger in his hands. Keep his head down, discover the lay of the land before becoming known.

Yes. Perhaps the rain was an omen, a link to his swamp, to the strength of his people.

Smiling to himself, Sorenson gripped his dagger. Triskellion it was, then if all goes well, perhaps he would make his way on to Harrowgate, the stronghold of the Bisclavret.

[Oink]

He staggered through the door of the tavern, almost toppling over the weight of his own boots. He'd drank too much tonight, perhaps, but he had good reason. He thought so, anyway.

What was it about these blasted pirates, and he knew that's what the bastards were, that made his House favor them so? He was a warrior bred, vicious and decisive, and it did not sit well with him to have to suffer insults from a cocky band of filthy sailors. Back home his pack would have torn them limb from limb for less.

It was raining, the falling drops that pelted his dark-gray fur were as cold and unrelenting as his barely-drowned anger. He pulled his hood over his head and loosened his sword in its scabbard. He was sober enough to know that he was too drunk to put up much of a fight, but he was also aware that in these streets you don't always have a choice.

He turned down an alley that he hoped led in a general direction to the Inn, trudging through the mud and still grumbling at the day's events. His ears twitched at the slight scrape of boot on stone not far behind him, but otherwise his disciplined body gave no sign that he had heard it. His heart pounded at a slightly faster cadence, pumping blood in an attempt to clear the clouds of alcohol from his head.

I smell you, skunk. His lips curled into the tightest of grins, as his fingers prepared themselves to fly to the hilt of his claymore. You'll find no easy mark here, pickpocket.

[Zeiss]

This is a tale of epic adventure, spanning countless years and multiple kingdoms. Its mere telling would take months, and do no justice to the actual events that transpired. For the sake of all who listen to or read this tale, I will edit out all but the essential details. Perhaps then the tale may only take at most an hour to tell.

We begin, as many stories seem to do, on a dreary even, rain falling in torrents from the sky. The weather, however, did naught to affect the Earl Byrd in his grand lovely manse. For, you see, the Earl has just heard a most wondrous story.

“Tell me again,” the Earl asked, with a glint of gold in his eyes, “the part about the massive horde of treasure?”

The harried adventurer to whom the Earl Byrd spoke replied, “Milord Earl, this grand dragon Smauk has, under his mountain keep, a wealth of gems, jewels, gold, silver, platinum, even select items of mythril. He guards them all with the jealous greed of a dragon master.”

The Earl was giddy with excitement, having himself a greed that could well rival that of Smauk the Dragon.

“And you’ve seen this?”

The adventurer nodded. “I and four of my companions, now dead by the dragon’s fire and scales.”

Byrd’s eyes widened at the prospect. “You know how to return to this lair?”
“Milord, I will gladly take you there. I ask only that you allow me vengeance on this lizard for the death of my friends.”

The Earl nodded. “Of course, my good man! Of course! Come now; speak to me the directions that I may plan our expedition.”

The man then proceeded to obediently describe, step by step and in great detail, the means by which to reach Smauk’s liar. As he finished the relaying of directions, he failed to notice the Earl pace behind him. He did not, however, fail to notice the Earl’s dagger as it sunk itself deep into the flesh of his back.

As the Early Byrd cleaned the adventurer’s blood from his dagger, he let forth a maniacal laugh.

“Now I need not share this treasure with any!”



To understand fully the beginning of this story, you must first know that the majority of this tale focuses on the now deceased adventurer. In the full version of the epic adventure, we learn his name (and the names of his four now-deceased fellow adventurers), and follow him as he loves and loses, crosses blades with countless enemies, and eventually meets the dragon Smauk who so ruined his happiness.

What you have just read (or heard) is actually the beginning of part two of the story, in which we follow Earl Byrd as he hunts the Treasures of Smauk (this is actually the title of the third part of the story, not the second). If this were the full version, you would now face chapter after chapter of the Earl’s misadventures across three different kingdoms. In this, the shortened version, we skip instead to his final face-off against the dragon.



“Who dares disturb my resting place, and the resting place of my massive, enviable… treasure?” bellowed the growling voice of Smauk through the cavern.

“I am the asp-assassin, the brick-builder, the chicken-champion, the dryad-destroyer, the elf-equipper, the fae-fighter, the grape-gifter, the heart-hammerer, the imp-inquisitor, the jester-jumper, the kitten-killer, the lemur-lover, the money-maker, the nymph-namer, the oliphant-owner, the peasant-pilferer, the queen-quester, the raffle-reader, the stocking-stuffer, the tea-trampler, the unicorn-uncoverer, the vixen-venerator, the wench-wooer, the… well, that’s all…,” the Earl replied.

You see, in the full version of this tale, he earns each of these titles. He also was emboldened to stand so boldly before Smauk because of two particular items he had obtained in his journeys: the Ring of Unsight, and the Slippers of Soft-Step.

“Your titles are many; surely you are a great warrior. You make not a noise but your words (and your breath) and I cannot see you. Surely I am defeated by your superior preparatory skills. I concede, oh Holder of Innumerable Titles.”

“Oh, I should add that one to my repertoire…,” thought Byrd.

“In my defeat,” continued Smauk, “I am no longer worthy of guarding this treasure. It is yours, take it.”

The Earl could not believe what he heard. After years of travel, that which he sought was finally his! He rushed forward to claim his prize. Lifting the first of his newfound spoils, a chalice of pure gold encrusted with priceless gems, Earl Byrd laughed happily.

And was promptly swallowed by the dragon Smauk, who saw the oddly floating chalice and thus found the Earl Byrd.



At this point we would enter the third part of the epic tale, in which we would follow Smauk as he fights off countless other headstrong fools who would seek to claim his treasure. We would then enter the fourth and final section, in which we would follow the lucky man who slays Smauk and takes the horde of unthinkable wealth. I am, for the sake of time and sanity, opting not to include the rest of the tale in this writing.

This particular section I have chosen for the reason of its two morals. The first being that greed is the downfall of powerful men.

And the second? The wyrm gets the Earl Byrd.