Dungeons and Dragons: The First Edition Was a Mistake
Part One: Shameless Exposition Isn't Always Bad
Part Two: Towns Without Crises are Nonentities
Part Three: Thieves Aren't Just There to Die
Part Four: Adept is a Meaningless Term
Part Five: Even Corpses Deserve Respect
Part One: Shameless Exposition Isn't Always Bad
"Can I have a Mountain Dew?" probed Sarah, as she passed a Death Potion to her twin. In true Dungeons and Dragons
fashion, a grateful Rachel placed her left hand on her head, bowed, and firmly grasped the red can, as if fearful that it
would spill liquid death upon her closest kin.
"Yeah, you can have a Mountain Dew," said Jay and Connie simultaneously. "Just go get it." Sarah smiled her thanks and
gave a thumbs up.
"It's in the beer fridge," yelled Jay, with all the volume of a walrus giving birth. "Oh, and Rachel," he added, "why on
earth do you have your hand on your head? We know your hair looks like something out of a Roman fresco; you don't need to
hide OW!" A rather fluffy scorpion had launched itself at his head and was now wreaking havoc on his own blindingly blonde
hair. Connie always said it looked like a highlighter.
"That's better," said Rachel with a smile. "Good for you, Luka."
"I HATE that scorpion," he replied angrily. "He always OW! WHAT WAS THAT FOR?"
"Because you insulted Luka," answered Sarah sadistically, returning and placing a rather dented can of Mountain Dew on
the floor. "And anyone who insults my scorpion insults me."
"It's a toy," came Jay's retort. "It doesn't even have stingers " he began, but stopped short at the look on Sarah's
face, which said quite plainly that she herself would grow stingers if he said another word. He sank into his chair.
"Would you two stop it?" admonished Connie. "We have to start our game now or we'll never finish it. We can only play
for so long even we have limits."
Robbie grinned.
The dusk settled heavily on the barren streets of Gehia, a quintessential and peaceful border town on the edge of the
Sword Coast, when the rolls began. Not even the oldest villagers had experienced anything like to this before: the lightning
smote the countryside asunder, thunderclaps echoed like some symphony of the gods, and amidst all the chaos, an incessant
clicking plagued the ears of young and old alike.
Click. "That was six," mumbled old Bleek. "Six clicks and it stops again. What the planes is going on?" Several
others echoed the sentiment. Soon a small crowd was gathered in front of the Gasping Hiccup, the local inn, counting the
clicks with bated breath.
Click. "It's like a cricket," the old man explained.
"If that's a cricket," argued his daughter's husband's best's friend's second cousin's roommate, "then I'm a hag."
Complete silence followed this statement. She continued, "All right, that was a bad comparison. But any cricket that makes
a noise that loud must be sixteen feet tall wielding a club and wearing nothing but a kilt." Everyone recoiled, each
clinging to a unique and equally terrifying image in their own minds.
"Why a kilt, miss?" asked a young boy no more than three feet tall himself.
"You ever met a dwarf, boy?" she probed.
"No-¦" he answered, rather frightened.
"Let's hope, then, you never have to understand." The throng laughed heartily, until
Click. "There it goes again," said the miller's son, Dettas. "Maybe there's a pattern?"
"Right you are!" exclaimed Bleek. "Where's the scribe when you need him? Oh, right that's me! Someone fetch me some
parchment and ink! We'll get to the bottom of this!"
And sure enough, a full hour later the gaggle of excited citizens were gathered around a mass of tables inside the
Hiccup, looking for some clue to the riddle of the now much abated storm. "Two, five, three, one, one-¦" counted the old
man. "There doesn't seem to be any pattern at all. Seems just as random as if we were throwing dice."
"Wait!" said Dettas. "Look at this row. Those numbers are too high to just be random."
"Dear God, Sarah," Robbie said awkwardly, as his gaping mouth made impossible the use of proper speech. "I've never
seen so many fives and sixes. Are you sure that isn't loaded?"
"Sure I am," she replied. "I've never used this set before. I'm sure it was just beginner's luck."
"But you're not a beginner." She shrugged.
At that moment the sound of footsteps, plainly heard through the rain, stopped all conversation. Bleek looked left and
then right and saw the wide-eyed look of both fear and anticipation on every person's face before he realized that his brow
was covered in sweat. "Who's there?" he demanded, in the most authoritative voice he could summon. The crowd moved closer
to him, towards the bar. The old man himself was grasping the wood so firmly that his knuckles turned a pale white colour,
but no one noticed. All minds were focused solely on the footsteps or their lack. "We're armed!" Dettas cried.
"We're not," came the reply as the door came crashing down. "all we had was one knife, and you can see where that got
us." The child screamed, Dettas almost fainted, and the old hag was finally at a loss for words; nothing could have prepared
them for this strange sight. Framed by a flash of lightning were four figures. Three were standing, one with tears running
down his face; another, with sweat; and the third, blood. The fourth had blood, sweat and tears all mingling into a sickly
pale red hue all over his weakened face, and a large metal spike protruding from his right hand. The tallest and most
intimidating warrior spoke, her coarse hands spread outward in token of peace.
"I managed to break off the hilt," she said, sounding defeated. "But an ogre-slaying knife never leaves the flesh of its
target unless drawn out by the hand that struck. Seeing as they are one and the same, we have a slight problem. Is there
anyone here who can "
"WHY?" screamed the man to her left, cradling the unconscious man's head in his hands. "I have failed! All is lost!
With brave Hotsaiga's death comes the death of my mission! Where will I go? Who will take me? I-¦" He trailed off into
nonsensical babbling, occasionally calling curses down upon himself from every deity in the Realms, though most names went
misunderstood on account of his weeping. Dropping to his knees, he fell into a swoon, and the crowd, thoroughly bewildered
and not knowing what to make of this strange troupe, looked in horror as the comatose thief coughed up a mouthful of blood.
With that, the most unnerving vision of all was revealed as a dark shadow placed its incapacitated friend on the floor and
stepped forward. The crowd jumped back so quickly and violently that several mugs fell to the ground and shattered. The
figure took no notice of this, or of the look of intense suspicion that the entire room seemed to be aiming in its direction.
Instead it spoke, but nothing more than muffled jargon was heard amidst a heavy clinking. The sounds coming from the
shadowy figure grew louder and more abrupt, as if its owner's patience were wearing thin. Slowly it raised its arms, and
more than a few of the villagers squealed as though certain they would be the first victim. The dark stranger's hands
reached the head, and instead of drawing back the hood, pulled.
A clang resounded through the whole inn as a great gilded helmet fell to the floor and rolled away towards the exit. The
figure's face, now revealed in an almost unearthly glow, set itself in a frown. "What are you all looking at me like that
for?" it demanded, in a much sharper voice than anyone had guessed. No one moved. "What are you staring at?" came a further
reprimand as the stranger looked for some explanation of the look of horror that painted every villager's face. Evidently
the visitor's own intimidating physique and attire, not to mention the thief still bleeding to death on the floor, was not
enough to warrant the room's palpable sense of fear.
Bleek jumped as a sudden exclamation rent the silence like a knife. The figure, bereft of helm but still clad in heavy
armour, cast aside its cloak and laughed. "Of course, anyone would be terrified of that!" they cried, and spun around. A
flash of blood-red hair, reaching to the shoulders, told the townsfolk that this was no man, as they had supposed. They
found it strange that the most intimidating members of this group were both female. "Look at the tangles!" she cried.
"Blood all through my hair no one can even tell it's my natural hair colour. Can you tell?" she asked a terrified
youngster. The child ran behind the bar and she was left with a sea of faces looking at her with complete bewilderment.
"Why the downcast faces?" she asked. Following the eyes of the crowd, her gaze fell on Hotsaiga the thief, whose
condition was continuing to deteriorate. "Oh, don't worry about that," she said, in what she must have thought was a
reassuring tone. "It happens all the time. I don't think we've had a journey yet where he hasn't been at least knocked
out."
Dettas gathered up his courage and strode forward, too obviously hoping to impress the woman. "How long have you been
traveling?" he inquired.
"About three years," she answered. "What's your name?"
"Dettas," he said weakly. Heartened by the newcomer's cheery personality and willingness to engage in pointless chatter,
a half dozen other boys about Dettas' age strode forward. They stepped over the body of the near-dead Hotsaiga, whose steady
bleeding had resumed its vigour, and introduced themselves, all smitten by the woman, now revealed to be quite stunning.
"Who are you?" one of them asked.
"Targwathwen the elf am I, and this is my comrade-in-arms, Braelynn the injury sponge" a sharp kick from Braelynn
stopped this comment short "ahem, the warrior. Our brethren are indisposed at the moment, as you can see, but you have
already been introduced to our shoe" another kick "ahem, our thief, Hotsaiga, and falling into his usual pastime over there
is Lacky, the healing dart board." No kick came from this comment. Braelynn shrugged.
"That's ALAKKHELEK," the still bawling figure admonished, and promptly resumed his steady wailing.
Dettas remarked, "don't you think it's a bit strange that he bursts into tears all the time? I mean, it's not like your
thief's recurring deaths are something out of the ordinary."
"Ah, you have a point there," Braelynn said, speaking for the first time since her abrupt entrance. "However, you put
too much store in the mind of our traveling temple here."
"Yeah," Targwathwen agreed with a grin. "He still hasn't figured out that we can resurrect anyone as often as we need
to. Or if he has, he takes it as a personal insult whenever Hotsaiga falls." A retch from the floor drew the speakers'
attention to the thief, who had now begun convulsing on the ground.
Braelynn sighed. "Is it that time already?" her friend asked.
"Almost," came the reply. "Any more than twenty minutes and the temple will charge extra." She turned towards Bleek,
and repeated her initial request in its entirety. "Is there anyone here who can heal him?"
"Of course," the old man answered. "The temple is just across the road you passed it on your way here. But what about
your cleric? Couldn't he be of some use?"
Targwathwen laughed. "Of course he could. And he was. You should have seen what Hotsaiga looked like before. Where do
you think all this blood" she waved her hair around and several of the young men went weak in the knees "came from?
Braelynn did what she could to take out the knife, so I had to carry him."
Braelynn looked impatient. "Could we please get moving?" she asked. "Last time the extra charge came out of my
pocket."
"All right, all right-¦" Targwathwen said, turning her back on the crowd. As Braelynn picked up her fallen ally and
roused Lacky with a well-placed kick, her companion gave a parting wave and smiled. "Thank you for your hospitality! We
will meet again. This is not the last you have seen of Targwathwen the Great!"
"And her band of lesser mortals," Braelynn added, rolling her eyes and following.
The door slammed shut behind them, and a howling was heard as the footsteps stopped a moment later. Bleek stood
motionless for a moment, and then slowly turned to speak to the silent crowd. "It would seem," he began, "our prayers have
not gone unanswered. These adventurers will be our deliverance."
"Are you out of your mind?" the old hag gawked. "You saw them. It's a wonder they aren't already dead."
Part Two: Towns Without Crises are Nonentities
The temple was a familiar place. As the four adventurers entered, Braelynn commented, "One would think that unique gods
would have unique temples. Would it really be too much to ask to change the architecture a bit? Every time I walk into one
of these places, it's like we haven't moved."
"It's quite simple, really," explained Targwathwen, slowly, as if Braelynn were incompetent and the answer were obvious.
"Temples have always been made this way. Suppose you're a new god on the scene, and you want to do things your own way.
Suddenly there's two dozen other gods and goddesses wondering why your temples are different. You just imagine Lloth asking
if you think you're better than she is. Do you really want spiders in your hair?"
"I wouldn't care," came the reply. "It's just hair. And if I couldn't stand up for myself, I shouldn't be a goddess,
should I?"
The elf wore a look of both disgust and fear. "Did you just say JUST HAIR?" she nearly screamed, before lowering her
voice to a whisper. "You do realize that you very nearly offended every power in the Realms with that comment, don't you?"
she said.
Lacky stopped crying for a moment, having listened intently to the discussion. "Why would that be?" he wondered out
loud. "Helm doesn't even have hair. Besides, even if he did, he'd have helmet-head all the time, and no one would see it.
Why would he care about his hair?"
"Sometimes," Targwathwen said, "I wonder how they ever took you into the priesthood. I wasn't talking about hair. She
nearly called every god and goddess with a temple a coward for using the standard temple floor plan. We already have your
own native stupidity to deal with we don't need Lloth, Helm, and gods know who else after us too." The cleric's eyes
brimmed with tears and within seconds his pale face was again soaking wet. Targwathwen showed only a slight sign of guilt at
this; it might have been pity. She offered a handkerchief to the now completely dissolved Lacky, but stopped as Braelynn
shook her head.
"What's the point?" she said. "It's not like he's going to stop anytime soon. Waste of a perfectly good handkerchief."
She nodded her agreement and withdrew the cloth, placing it back within the folds of her cloak. As the priestess of the
temple finally came forward, however, Lacky motioned to be given the tissue. He wiped his face and emerged with a look of
surprise and recognition of the woman.
"Welcome, travelers," she began weakly, "to the home of Lathander. What can the Dawnbringer do for "
"Sister Dymin!" Lacky interrupted.
The woman looked puzzled for a moment, then changed her expression to one of amazement, and then of mingled fear and
pity. "Tulen?" she choked. "Is that you, Tulen? We" she paused, as if struggling for words "feared you were dead!"
"No, Dymin," Lacky said. "You know that I left three years ago on my quest to prove my worth to the Morninglord. Why
would I be dead?"
"Err," she struggled again, "well, we simply had not heard from you," she muttered. "We assumed the worst-¦"
"And threw a party," Targwathwen whispered to Braelynn. Yet another kick.
The priestess continued, this time addressing the entire party. "What brings you to such a backwater village? As you
can see, I am sure, there is nothing here for you to do." Her eyes shifted a little.
"We were just passing through," Braelynn began.
Targwathwen added, "Even four great adventurers such as ourselves must stop at a temple from time to time." Braelynn
wondered to herself what Targwathwen's definition of "from time to time" was.
"I see," came the reply. "I had thought, since it has been so long since Tulen began his sojourn, that he might have
fulfilled his quest as protector and returned to us, ready to be named a true priest of Lathander. I assume that one of
these companions is your charge, Tulen? They both look healthy. It would seem you have proven yourself!" Lacky gave a
uncomfortable squirm, and Dymin raised her eyebrows. Turning to Targwathwen, she added, "Did you say there were four of
you?" Her gaze fell on Braelynn and noticed for the first time Hotsaiga, now degenerated to little more than a bleeding
mass. The priestess immediately covered her face with her hands, though whether this was out of disgust, mercy, or to hide a
fit of laughter none of the three conscious travelers could tell.
She regained her composure a moment later, and motioned for them to follow. Braelynn placed the thief on a table in the
center of the room. The warrior and elf stepped back to let Dymin work, but Lacky stood closer, evidently concerned that his
charge had been unconscious for too long to be healed. Both of his companions also noticed that he carried a piece of
parchment and a quill, and looked to be taking notes when the priestess was not looking. This proved to be an easy task, for
she seemed to be ignoring his presence completely, keeping her eyes focused on Hotsaiga, who had now grown so weak that he no
longer groaned. Braelynn thought to herself that this disregard likely had nothing to do with devotion or duty, but rather
with either disgust at Lacky's abysmal job as protector or fear that she would break into laughter and demoralize the
cleric.
The room grew tense as signs of life began to show. The pale colour of death faded slightly from the thief's limbs, and
the stench of decay began to lift. Soon a slow and steady breathing was heard, though laboured; Hotsaiga was evidently still
in great pain. Dymin did not look up. "Now is the most dangerous and difficult part of the healing," she said gravely. "I
must maintain his vigour while one of you remove the knife blade from his palm."
Braelynn looked unhopeful. "I tried that already," she said. "It would not come out, even when Lacky used a healing
incantation. Could it be cursed?"
"It may be," the priestess answered. "No doubt seasoned adventurers such as yourselves would not fall after being pierced
by such a small weapon as this." Targwathwen snickered, while her two companions gave evasive looks. Dymin gave no notice,
as her eyes were still focused solely on Hotsaiga. Her face was twisted in thought. "No matter," she said finally. "It
seems that the hand has been wounded quite severely more than I expected. Many of the sinews have been torn since the
original injury. You should have no problem removing the blade now, even if you lacked the strength of a warrior."
Dymin motioned to Braelynn to move forward, and began reciting the words of a prayer to keep Hotsaiga safe, her eyes
closed in communion with Lathander. The warrior moved closer, beside Lacky. She extended her hand carefully to the thief's
outstretched one, and prepared to remove the metal spike. Suddenly a third hand darted forward and removed the knife in one
quick motion, and a scream from Hotsaiga caused the silence to come crashing down. Dymin showed great control as she
continued to meditate, and within moments the hand was restored, life coursing through all of Hotsaiga's veins. He still was
sweating slightly, and his hand still jerked in pain occasionally, but his health was a complete reversal of what it was upon
entry into the temple. Dymin was a skilled priestess.
However, her skills were looking to be in demand far too soon, for Lacky was beginning to bruise rapidly on account of
the beating he was currently suffering from Braelynn. "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?" she screamed, showing a rare outburst of
emotion, as she struck him on the side. "I was perfectly capable of removing it myself! You took that blade out faster than
it went in!"
"I was trying to help him," Lacky calmly asserted. "I'm his protector, after all. If you hadn't interfered "
"HELP HIM?" she yelled. "IF YOU WERE OF ANY HELP HE WOULDN'T HAVE IMPALED HIMSELF ON HIS OWN KNIFE IN THE FIRST
PLACE!"
"She has a point," Targwathwen pointed out. "If you're his protector, shouldn't you have kept him from getting a knife
in his hand, instead of having to take it out?" She looked pleased with herself. "Targwathwen, one.
Braelynn, one. Lacky, zero." She seemed to be penning the results of a contest of wits on some spare parchment.
Lacky looked heartbroken. Turning to Dymin with a plea for sympathy and finding nothing but a priest angry with his
apparent incompetence, he instead addressed the ceiling. "Is there anyone here who is not against me?" he cried.
As if in answer, Hotsaiga stirred and slowly and laboriously sat up. "Hi," he said. "Back to the old standby, are
we?"
Dymin looked furious. It had angered her enough that Lacky had failed to protect his charge, but the idea that the thief
would treat his own death with the same seriousness as the weather was incredulous. With a great deal of effort and
suppressed emotion, she said to Hotsaiga, "your friends have proven faithful" here she motioned to Braelynn and Targwathwen
"and you are healed." She waited expectantly, evidently waiting for payment.
"What is the price?" Lacky inquired.
"One thousand gold," came the reply. All four adventurers felt their jaws drop.
"One THOUSAND?" Targwathwen choked. "We could practically hire our own cleric for that!" Lacky hung his head in
shame.
"You speak the truth," Dymin admitted. "Yet we have had to double our price."
"Why the planes did you have to do that?" shrieked the elf. "And how are we going to pay you for your services? We have
four hundred gold, and no more."
"The answer to both your questions is the same," she said. "though it will require an explanation of sorts."
"Seems we have no choice," chimed in Braelynn.
"Perhaps you noticed that there were no guards at the entrance to our little town. We are defenseless due to a great
evil that began to grow in power months ago. The Rodemus family was prominent in this region, and their mansion still stands
on a great hill to the west. We had not heard from them in months, and feared they might be dead. Now we know."
"By the gods, could you be any more melodramatic?" Hotsaiga interrupted. "I feel like I'm in a Tolkien narration. Would
you get on with it?"
"What's Tolkien?" the elf asked, losing her balance and nearly falling over.
"Never mind that, it's not important," the thief dismissed. A sudden spasm of pain shot up his right arm, and his palm
throbbed. He looked at the others with a puzzled expression. They shrugged.
Dymin continued. "We sent some guards to the Keep some weeks ago, and they never returned. Some said that the sounds of
shuffling feet and the words of a harsh tongue could be heard in the night, but no one was willing to investigate any
further. Finally a group of eight adventurers, not unlike yourselves, decided to find out the truth once and for all. One
escaped no more than three days ago, telling us the tale of a horde of goblins inside. There can be no doubt, I am afraid:
the Rodemus family is long since dead."
Hotsaiga looked to be getting more and more impatient. "Would you please stop?" he said. "Dark castles, murdered
nobility, goblins you must be the only person in the Realms who could take an adventure like that and make it as interesting
as an infestation of yellow mould."
Lacky was impressed by the priestess' restraint. She simply smiled and went on, though the other three travelers were
also beginning to find her exposition tiring. "I remember them well," she reminisced sadly. "Screams can be heard from the
Keep at night; they may be alive, subjected to some horrible fate."
Targwathwen was the first to voice the pointlessness of this story. "You said this was the answer to both of our
questions," she reminded. "One would think that listening to your endless babble would be payment enough."
Dymin smiled again. "Very well. One of the captured is my master, a priest of no small power, and without his help the
strain on the temple has been doubled. As for payment-¦" she trailed off.
"I see," sighed the elf. "The life of Hotsaiga for the life of your precious priest and his seven friends? It seems no
fair trade."
Braelynn whispered to her, "are you sure about that? We'll be lucky if he only dies seven times."
Targwathwen replied, "you have a point." Her voice resumed its usual volume and said, "I have a proposition for you. We
will save your town's greatest warriors and rid it of goblin influence. In return, you will not charge for Hotsaiga's
resurrection, and will provide that service as often as necessary until our quest is complete."
The priestess looked deep in thought, weighing the matter in her mind. Finally she agreed. "I accept your offer," she
said soberly, "and look forward to the return of our town's finest." The four adventurers, emboldened with the prospect of a
quest to complete, strode out of the temple ready to take on anything.
As they left, Dymin gave a piece of parchment to Targwathwen. "Therein are written the names of our missed comrades.
You will find the last at the inn, for he escaped. Good luck, and may the Morninglord shine his face upon your quest!" She
motioned to Hotsaiga, and gave him a small case with a half dozen potions inside. "You may need these," she said. "Goodness
knows they will be your only protection." Closing the door to the temple, the thief joined the rest of his comrades.
Left alone the four looked at each other searchingly, and grinned. "That poor girl," Braelynn laughed, "doesn't know how
foolish that agreement was. Do you know how much money we're going to save not having to pay to heal Hotsaiga?"
"Yeah, I think I do," Lacky chimed in. "Maybe now we can actually have weapons."
Part Three: Thieves Aren't Just There to Die
Though the darkness was still nearly complete outside the temple, a small and barely visible glow pervaded the eastern
sky. A slight tinge there hinted at a bright day to come, though all four adventurers knew that they would not see the light
of day for long. The Rodemus Keep, a darker shadow set against the backdrop of a still thundering night, loomed to the west,
its high parapet and towers leering threateningly over the surrounding countryside. With large and purposeful strides, the
now fully conscious party walked towards it, ending a very short march near the far end of the town. A sign, hanging at the
entrance to a large and comfortable-looking building, was lit by the fire in one of the windows.
"Here we are, the Badger's Burrow," announced Braelynn.
"That's odd," Targwathwen noted. "The sign has a prancing pony on it."
Lacky and Hotsaiga shrugged. "Makes for a nice bit of trivia, though," the cleric commented, as the heavy door swung
aside at a thrust from the warrior. The party entered a nearly empty common room: no more than six or seven patrons
huddled around a single table, and a shabby-looking halfling was bending over with a tray of filled mugs offered to his
guests. He worked his way around slowly, and it was a full minute before he leaned past an overlarge desk to address
them.
"Hello," he said pathetically, staring at his stubby feet. "We have plenty of room for travelers, as I am sure you can
see. The food is hot and the company is merry you may find a story worth listening to here, if you fancy a laugh." He
barely managed to restrain himself from collapsing completely, tears welling up in his eyes. Apparently the thought of
laughter was unbearable to the innkeeper.
Lacky, whether because of his merciful profession or of an ability to empathize with any who wailed ceaselessly, was
moved by pity. "We do not need a room, my friend," he reassured. "But we could do with something to fill our stomachs.
Come, eat with us. Perhaps we can learn the reason for your discontent. We may be able to provide a solution." Without so
much as a glance at them, he nodded and motioned for them to sit at a large table in a far corner by the hearth. Moments
later the halfling returned with a tray covered in several kinds of meat and vegetables, and five pints of ale.
He was apologetic. "The lettuce may be salty," he said, taking out a cloth and wiping his eyes.
"No matter," Braelynn said. "Now tell us your tale, for it may be bound up in our errand. But be quick also. The
prisoners may be suffering even as we speak."
He nearly dropped his cup of ale. "Thank the gods!" he cried, and the other table stopped its chattering to listen.
"You must hurry to the Keep! You may be able to find him before he is taken captive!"
"Come now, my halfling friend," said Targwathwen. "Your speech far outmatches your size. Who is it that you speak of?
We know nothing of your friend. Speak more plainly!"
"Ah, yes, I was getting ahead of myself again," he admitted. "But I beg you to allow me to indulge in your patience. No
doubt you came here seeking Meriadoc, the only adventurer lucky enough to escape the goblins of that accursed castle?"
A puzzled look passed across the faces of the four. "Yes," Braelynn said, "though we did not know the name until now.
We planned to look at the names of the captives once we found him here. But it would seem that fate has not been that kind
to us, am I right?"
"You are indeed. May I humbly suggest that you peruse that list now." He had regained his composure and looked much the
part of a respectable proprietor: it was obvious that his success in managing such a large establishment was no fluke.
The elf withdrew the parchment from her pack, and laid the list on the table. She read the names aloud: "Brego,
Cormallen, Denethor, Elendil, Helm, Brother Lucan Meriadoc is crossed out Orbelain, and Meriadoc again. I would guess that
Dymin crossed out the last and penned it in again to help us in our search." Braelynn looked tense and uptight, but upon
seeing that Lacky had noticed her anxiety, resumed her usual calm and collected stature. Her eyes, though, still darted from
side to side more often than was usual.
"Alas," the innkeeper sighed, "she was right in adding him to the list, for he is gone. He left no more than an hour ago
for that dark fortress. I had no means to help him, and could offer nothing but my tears. And so you found me."
Targwathwen seemed cautious. "Can you tell us anything about the place?" she probed. "How to get in? The defenses?
Will we be walking into a trap?"
The reply came with another sigh. "I am naught but an innkeeper," he said, "but the obvious answer to your question
would be to enter through the front doors. They face north. Being built on a hill, Rodemus Keep has no moat or drawbridge.
If that plan fails, one could always try the gatehouses on the west and east. Goblins are said to be cunning with machinery
and with delving into the earth, however I would be surprised if you found them unprepared. They will not "
"All right!" interrupted Lacky, as if he needed to hear nothing more. "We'll storm the gates and kill any goblin who
gets in our way!" The halfling looked at him with surprise, and both the elf and thief barely contained their laughter.
Braelynn, however, seemed to be in a fey mood, and sided with the cleric. "Yes, let's go!" she said determinedly,
standing up and motioning for the others to do the same.
"Don't you think we should " began Hotsaiga, speaking for the first time since walking into the building. Evidently the
thought of a myriad of traps was not a pleasant one, and he was looking for all the help that could be found. His prudence
fell on deaf ears; the warrior had already pushed the door open.
He gave a sigh of resignation. "Here we go again."
Despite her abrupt change of behaviour, Braelynn was not so foolish as her priestly friend. Lacky was already sprinting
past the city gate towards the imposing castle when Braelynn called for him to come back. "I think some equipment might be
in order, after our little deal with the priestess."
The others nodded their agreement. "Does everyone have their gold?" asked the elf.
Braelynn and Lacky rummaged in their cloaks and the telltale clink of metal showed that they did.
Hotsaiga, who had no cloak, but only a small pouch attached to his belt, rummaged in it. "I think you have mine, Targy,"
he said. "I'll never understand why you take my gold every time I fall, if you're just going to resurrect me."
"You might forget," she replied. "You think it's easy keeping this hair in prime condition? I need a lot of
potions."
"I'm a THIEF," he admonished. "I'm not going to forget gold. Can I have it back now?"
Passing a hundred gold coins to him sulkily, she said, "Where's the armory, I wonder?"
The creak of a door from the other side of the street, and the sudden lack of Braelynn's presence, gave them their
answer. The remaining three adventurers followed suit and found themselves in a small but well-kept shop. The smith seemed
shocked to find customers in his shop before dawn, but he smiled at them nonetheless.
"Hello," he greeted them. "Welcome to Hafaad's Armory. What can I do for you?"
"Greetings," the warrior said. "Do you have any swords?" With a grin, he took her aside to a table with a half dozen
shining blades. Soon each of the travelers was immersed in examining various tools for journeying. The warrior, elf and
cleric in particular were excited at the prospect of wielding a weapon, while Hotsaiga was searching desperately for some
kind of protective wear.
Half an hour later, they found themselves watching the sunrise on the street, armour and swords glistening in the
daylight. Braelynn looked impressive indeed, with heavy plate mail armour and a four and a half foot longsword hanging at
her side. The elf needed no new armour, but also had a sword, although presently she was drawing her bow, a quiver full of
arrows slung over her back. Being a cleric, Lacky was wearing armour of a slightly lower grade. A black-handled war hammer
with a glistening silver head was raised above his own, held with both his hands. Hotsaiga, however, looked completely
unchanged, except for a new pack that he carried, and a silver knife in each hand.
"What's in the bag?" questioned Lacky.
"Just the basics," the thief replied. He kneeled and opened it, and his three comrades all gasped. The inside of the
container was nearly covered in at least fifty iron spikes, all jutting upwards. With a great deal of skill he moved them
aside with not so much as a prick on his finger. "Got to be careful with those," he said calmly, and the others noticed a
half dozen other tools of his trade rope, a tinderbox, and an array of lock picking instruments were in immediate sight.
Hotsaiga smiled, took up his bag again, and stood up. A heavy clinking from his pockets made his partners turn around a
second time.
"You still have gold left?" choked Targwathwen. "I spent all of mine, and I couldn't even get a helmet. Not that I'd
want one." She shook her hair.
"Of course I still have some," the thief said, insulted. "Two hundred gold is more than enough for now." The elf gaped
at him. "Yes, two hundred. I swiped some from the lady at the temple."
Braelynn was furious. "Do you have any shame at all?" she lectured. "She raised you from the dead! Why did you take
the money?"
Hotsaiga shrugged. "So she resurrected me. It's not like she was the only one. If I left my profession at the front
door of every temple you dragged me into, you would be wearing nothing but leather. Where do you think all your gold comes
from?" Targwathwen gave him a look of approval, but Braelynn simply became more mutinous. "Besides," the thief said, "I
didn't have any gold at all! Isn't that what temples are there for? To help the poor?"
The warrior's hand was no more than six inches from his face when she thought better of it. "I don't feel like another
visit to the temple before we've even left town," she announced. She began to walk through the arch that signaled the exit
to the village. A slight breeze brushed her face, and she looked up towards the Rodemus Keep, now revealed in the daylight
to be a decaying ruin. It seemed to be sagging slightly: some windows on the second level had sunk so that they were only
half visible. She was undaunted, however, and had already begun to climb the hill on which the castle stood. The rest
followed, first Lacky, driven by some new purpose, then indifferent Targwathwen, and in the rear Hotsaiga, trudging along
slowly, reluctant to step into a den of traps.
Robbie awoke as Sarah slapped him violently across the face. "Can we start now that he's finally woken up?" she
asked.
"Yeah," Connie affirmed. "What were you doing, Robbie?"
"Nothing," came the reply. "Just daydreaming, that's all."
"I don't think I even want to know," chimed in Rachel. "Who knows what goes on in there."
"Probably a wise choice," agreed Connie. "But we'd better get started. This game is going to take a long time I'm just
glad we just started the adventure without doing any background work. That could have taken forever."
A few moments later the four stood at the head of the hill, and a great sense of foreboding pervaded their minds. All
eyes were on Hotsaiga and there was unspoken agreement that he should lead them into the ruins. The thief was downcast, but
upon viewing the Keep his eyes lit up with a fierce and intense fire. Thoughts of great wealth, and images of running gold
and silver through his hands, made any traps unimportant in his mind. He strode forward, heedless of danger. It was at this
moment that he staggered and fell face forward into a ten foot wide pit, just barely catching the ledge.
"Well, that could have been embarrassing," he said, pulling himself up and facing his companions. "Traps can be very
cunningly hidden sometimes."
"Aren't those the main doors?" Lacky asked. "Just behind the pit?" No reply came from the thief; he simply avoided the
cleric's eyes and surveyed the surrounding area. He looked left, right, and then left again, finally pointing towards the
west. The rest followed, trusting what could only be Hotsaiga's intuition.
Within a few moments the west gate loomed above them, identical to the main doors but smaller and without a chasm at its
feet. Warily the thief approached it and pulled.
"It's stuck," he said. "I can almost move it. If I was just a little bit stronger-¦"
"Let me try," Braelynn offered. "I'm a warrior. I have brute strength."
"Let me try," Lacky added. "I'm a cleric. I have a hammer."
"Let me try," Targwathwen exclaimed. "I'm an elf." She strode forward, but at that moment Hotsaiga cursed at a spasm of
pain. His right hand was throbbing, cradled by the other arm.
Lacky went forward and examined his charge with a grave expression on his face. He ran his fingers down the thief's arm
and upon touching the palm went red in the face.
"What is it?" asked Braelynn anxiously. "Do you know what happened?" The cleric blushed and withdrew, standing beside
Targwathwen. The warrior had an idea and pressed firmly on Hotsaiga's hand. A whimper escaped the thief's mouth, but she
rebuked, "not even you're that frail." A moment later she too went red in the face, but out of anger. Lacky had never seen
her so furious and instinctively wished he had bought a shield.
"There's something in there," she said with barely contained rage. "Does anyone" here she glared at Lacky so that he
dearly longed for a helmet with a visor "have any idea what that might be?" The cleric gulped. Braelynn added in a
mockingly sweet voice, "Could we please see the dagger blade, my great priestly friend?"
Frozen in fear, Lacky could only yield as the much larger warrior came over and rummaged in his pack. Carefully she
withdrew the remnant of the weapon. Targwathwen noted that it was now incomplete on both ends: the hilt was still in
Braelynn's possession, but the metal abruptly ended on the jabbing side of the knife as well, leaving no more than a stump of
enchanted steel.
"I wonder," said Braelynn, "where the rest of the blade could have gone. We have a thief who has something jammed inside
his hand, and a dagger with the end of the blade missing. We also know that until recently the dagger was inside of that
same hand. Educated guesses, anyone?"
Complete silence followed this statement. Targwathwen, however, decided to look on the bright side of things. "It's a"
she paused, not knowing quite what to call the metal in their companion's hand "shard of ogre slaying, isn't it? Wasn't the
knife created for those of great strength?"
"I suppose," she agreed, fearful of what might be said next.
"Perhaps having the weapon inside of him will toughen him," she said. "Make him stronger."
"Or kill him," the warrior retorted. "Speaking of which, maybe we should help." She turned around and was amazed: the
door was open and the gleam of silver caught a beam of light passing into the depths of the Keep.
Targwathwen shrugged. "I guess the shard did the trick," she stated.
A sound of excitement from the chamber within, followed by a scream and then a loud thud, brought an end to the
discussion. Hurrying through the gate, the elf smiled at her companion. "I guess there are some things that even a shard of
ogre slaying can't fix."
Part Four: Adept is a Meaningless Term
As their eyes adjusted to the dim light, Braelynn and Targwathwen were greeted by a strange sight, and they laughed. The
still slightly red hand of Hotsaiga was the only visible part of his body, as he was covered by two very large orange-spotted
blue masses. One of them gave a sound like a mingled shriek and growl as Lacky's silver-headed hammer hit it on what
appeared to be its tail, and turned to face its attacker.
Braelynn recognized it immediately. "That's a gecko," she said, "though I've never seen ones this large before. They
usually live on the ceilings of caves and drop on their prey," She pointed up. "See the blue?"
"I wonder where it came from?" Targwathwen wondered. "They don't like the sunlight very much. How did it get here?"
"Could you two stop playing encyclopedia and help?" screamed Lacky, barely dodging a charge from the larger gecko. "If
you like, you can study them after we hack them to pieces."
Both of the new additions to the battle unsheathed their swords and struck the unmoved creature violently on its back.
Heavily injured, it slowly moved towards them, leaving the still conscious thief free to move. Both elf and warrior were
eager to strike the death blow, but a cry of pain from the other side of the room attracted Braelynn's attention.
Lacky grimaced at the large burn on his left arm, still sizzling beneath a sticky orange liquid, and removed himself to
the doorway he had entered moments before as Braelynn gutted the creature with a long and heavy stroke. It did not get up
again. On the other side of the room, the original position of things seemed to have been switched, as Hotsaiga had now
collapsed on top of the other gecko. It appeared he had raised himself and then fell again with daggers raised: one gleam of
silver was visible just below the monster's neck, and the other contrasted nicely with dark of the Keep floor.
Targwathwen offered her hand to the thief and pulled him up. He then stooped over the fallen gecko and pulled on both
weapons simultaneously. The one that had struck its intended target was removed with no difficulty, but the other was not
quite so easily removed. The elf noticed that her companion pulled on the dagger with his left hand, but was certain he had
originally used it in his right.
"Maybe if you used the other hand?" The weapon came free.
"That's strange," Hotsaiga commented. "I've always been ambidextrous." Targwathwen smirked at Braelynn.
Lacky let out a small yelp of pain from the far end of the room, and when his companions turned they saw their healer
still nursing his shield arm, trying in vain to remove the orange substance still causing renewed burning. The fingers on
his right hand were a deep red.
"What are you doing?" shrieked Braelynn, running forward and withdrawing a large cloth from her pocket. She wiped the
orange from the cleric's arm and threw the material at his face, leaving him to tend to his own bruised fingers.
"Very clever," snapped Lacky, tossing it aside. "Just wipe it away and everything is back to normal, is it? Now you'll
see why I'm the injury expert."
"In more ways than one," Targwathwen muttered.
Lacky turned from the door and approached his charge. The thief looked terrified for a moment as his protector spread
his hands in a ludicrously overdramatic gesture, closing his eyes. A deep and booming voice echoed from the cleric and a
pale blue light washed over Hotsaiga. When it had faded, he looked in the bloom of health.
"Well, that's that then," Braelynn said, apparently unable to find anything to criticize. "And what about yourself?"
Lacky looked apprehensive. "Oh, I'm fine," he said, waving his hand as if his injury were nothing. His eyes darted from
side to side; it was evident that he was hiding something.
The warrior snorted. "Have it your way," she said, striding to the door to the next room and opening it. She had
already taken a step inside when Hotsaiga called after them.
"Aren't we forgetting something?" he said. The others turned and saw him fiddling with the chest in the middle of the
room, gone unnoticed during the battle. His companions watched with interest as he expertly picked the lock, tossing it
aside a moment later.
He stood up with a frown, his hands in his pockets. "Empty. What a waste of time."
Braelynn's leadership instincts kicked in at once. "Let's go," she said, heading towards the only obvious way to
continue.
Hotsaiga stalled them. "Wait a minute. Take a look at the south wall. See the outline on it? There might be a
passageway behind."
"No," came the choral response from his three companions.
Braelynn decided to elaborate. "So far, you've nearly fallen into a ten foot wide pit in broad daylight, needed to be
rescued from two geckoes because you didn't look up, and then the treasure chest was empty anyway. I think we'll pass on
your latest intuition." She opened the door and walked through.
"Have it your way," the thief muttered, glancing at the corridor ahead and smiling.
A puzzling scene met the warrior's eyes. A checkered floor, black and white, lay between them and the exit twenty feet
away. She spoke. "Reminds me of a chessboard. Since Lacky is our dart board, he would seem to be an expert on parlour
games. After you, my friend."
Startled but determined, the cleric stepped forward. "White goes first," he said. "Pawn goes forward two spaces-¦" he
trailed off, his brow furrowed in thought. "Yes, that would be to white." He stepped forward, and nothing happened.
"Right bishop moves right two to a black space." Again he moved ahead, this time more confidently. Two darts promptly
flew at his chest from openings in the side of the corridor. Fortunately, his armour was sufficient to ward off any wounds
he might have suffered. The projectiles remained stuck between the rings of his chain mail. He promptly walked forward, and
reached the door without further mishap.
When the entire group was assembled on the further end of the door moments later, they saw what appeared to be a ruined
kitchen. The ceiling was in some places sagged, as if carrying a great weight, and in others there was simply no roof at
all. For the moment, though, the adventurers were sharing their thoughts on the corridor.
Hotsaiga was breathless and looked slightly pale. He looked doubtfully back at the corridor and gave a sigh of relief.
"I would warned you about the trap, Braelynn," he said scathingly, "but apparently my expertise isn't needed."
She shrugged. "Nobody was hurt. Not a scratch."
Lacky was indignant. "Except on my armour! Why didn't you listen to Hotsaiga?"
"I have to agree with Lacky on this one," chimed in Targwathwen. "There's no real reason to have our cleric chock full
of darts." She paused, looking at him, and began to laugh. "Well, at least you were right about one thing, Braelynn."
"And what is that?" she replied angrily, incensed that the elf had taken the other side.
"He really is a healing dart board."
Lacky plucked one of the darts from the center of his chest. "Bulls-eye."
"Not quite," the warrior snarled. "The armour got in the way." She stalked off into the center of the room and let out
a gasp, nearly walking into a large grey creature. It took no notice.
"Rust monster," Targwathwen said. "It eats metal. Any ideas?"
"Yes," Hotsaiga said. "I finally have weapons, and I don't have any desire to lose them so quickly. I wouldn't want to
have to steal from the weapon shop. Let's go around."
"HAVE TO STEAL?" shrieked Braelynn, whose impatient mood was making her irritable. The thief stared at her matter-of-
factly. There was a pause, after which she concluded with a sigh, "I don't even know why I try."
"Still, he's right," said Targwathwen. "Let's go around." Stealthily the group moved past the monster, but Hotsaiga, at
the back, stumbled over its tail. It turned its head and looked at the thief long and steadily, then promptly resumed
searching for its dinner. Hotsaiga clutched his precious daggers tightly and protectively.
Walking through the further door, the party came to a large banquet hall. It looked ancient: a thick layer of dust
covered the long table, and many of the chairs surrounding it were missing legs or had toppled over completely. The carpet
yielded a cloud of yet more dust as the heavy boots of the warrior and cleric set foot upon it. The elf's footfalls left
barely a trace of a footprint, and thieves always tread lightly in their leather shoes. A ruined chandelier hovered
dangerously close to their heads, and faint hissing sound could be heard from the further end, near the door, the only
obvious exit.
"I hate snakes," said Hotsaiga.
"Let's see what kind it is," said Braelynn eagerly. She unsheathed her sword. Walking forward, she laid her eyes on a
rather dangerous looking cobra. It had a slender red and black body, with sinister yellow eyes aimed in the warrior's
direction. Braelynn hesitated for a moment, then strode towards the creature, blade pointed at its head.
Suddenly a voice from far behind warned, "watch out!" and an arrow skimmed past Braelynn's blade, piercing the snake
through the throat. It collapsed on the floor, venom dripping into a pool by its mouth. Sheathing her sword, the warrior
turned around and saw Targwathwen calmly slinging her bow on her back. She walked forward and retrieved the unbroken arrow
from the dead cobra, placing it in her quiver. She then opened the now unguarded door, tossing the creature aside, and stood
waiting expectantly for her comrades to follow.
"That was disturbing," Braelynn said in an undertone to the elf as she passed. "You were on the other side of the hall.
How did you manage to avoid hitting the table and chairs, not to mention your three companions, and kill the snake with a
single arrow?"
"You forgot the chandelier. And the dust in the air."
"I suppose I did. Well? How did you do it?"
"I'm an elf. What did you expect?"
The group passed into a narrow hallway, no more than four feet wide, without adornment but for a simple red carpet,
trimmed with gold. As Lacky laid a hand on the further door handle, he looked behind and said, "where's Hotsaiga?" The
three turned and saw the shoes of the thief passing through a door that had lay hidden on their left. Braelynn dashed
forward, and grabbed him by the neck, throwing him aside, before giving a gasp of surprise.
In front of her was what could only be an armoury, and one that had been surprisingly left unplundered. From what she could
see, there were at least a half dozen swords, several shields, a pile of sling stones, and more than a dozen arrows hanging
in a quiver on the wall. The largest of the swords was laid across the lap of an impressive-looking gargoyle statue, and was
obviously meant to be wielded with two hands. A blue jewel glinted in the hilt. It caught Braelynn's eye and she strode
forward. Lacky looked at the sling stones with relish, following, and Targwathwen headed for the arrows, noticing that they
glowed faintly with a white light. Hotsaiga, however, stayed behind, seeing nothing that could be of use to him. He looked
up and grinned, watching the backs of his companions.
Braelynn greedily reached for the blade, but before she could grasp it, a sound as if of stones falling echoed around
the room. Quickly the sounds grew more frequent and loud, and within seconds the entire ceiling had collapsed. All that
could be seen of the elf, warrior, and cleric were a war hammer, several locks of blood-red hair, and an unadorned two-handed
sword, broken in two.
Hotsaiga walked over the rubble and pulled Targwathwen by the hair. Braelynn and Lacky came up by themselves a moment
later. Massaging his neck, he looked at the warrior and commented, "Let's add things up, shall we? You ignored me about the
secret passage, by which we could have avoided the checkered corridor. Then you refused to listen to me about the corridor
itself, which promptly made Lacky's nickname truer than anyone would have imagined. Now, I find another passage, proving my
worth, and you don't stop to ask me for my opinion. The result? I'm the only one in the room that isn't heavily injured,
and you, my friend, are now without a weapon." He motioned to the blade laying on the ground in two very dusty pieces.
Braelynn thought hard for a moment, obviously looking for a hole in the thief's argument. She glanced around the room
and smiled, stepping towards the gargoyle statue and taking the sword from the pedestal. Raising it high in the air, she let
it fall with a strong arm, the weapon pointed towards Hotsaiga. He stepped backward. "No harm done," she said. "And now I
have a reason to take this wonderful blade." The thief opened his mouth, presumably to wonder what Braelynn's definition of
harm was, but decided he would rather not have to find out first-hand.
Unfortunately, the sling stones had been completely buried by the ceiling's collapse. The arrows on the wall, however,
seemed untouched, even by the dust in the air. Targwathwen took the new quiver and replaced it with the old one, now having
a full supply of projectiles. "What's this?" she said, examining the statue in more detail. "There's something written
across it's wings!"
"What does it say?" Lacky asked.
"I don't know. I can't read it. I think it's elvish."
Braelynn stepped forward. "Out of the way," she said. Tracing the words with an outstretched arm, she read aloud.
"'Though shrieker's flesh be no delight, it will restore the blind to sight.' I wonder what that means?"
"It means," Hotsaiga said, "that we need some of this shrieker's flesh now."
"Why do you say that?" Lacky asked. "Who here is blind?"
"Our keen-eyed elf," came the response. "The inscription was elvish." Targwathwen fingered her bow, leering
threateningly at the thief.
Without another word, the group left the room, Hotsaiga leading. "I wonder what these shriekers are," Braelynn said.
"They might be ghouls."
"I'd say some kind of bird," Targwathwen suggested.
"I'll vote for banshees," Lacky chimed in. "What do you think, Hotsaiga?"
"I already know what they are," he said calmly. His companions looked at him with astonishment. Before they could ask
him for an explanation, he went on. "It's elves, clerics, and warriors, who don't know the difference between a whisper and
a yell. Can't you tell I'm trying to find out what's in the next room?" He held up a hand, motioning them to be still.
Stooping and peering through the keyhole, he let out a barely audible gasp. He walked back several paces, and whispered,
"There's a fire beetle in there." Braelynn unloosened her sword in its sheath.
"Not so fast," Targwathwen warned. "Those things can be dangerous. How big is it?"
"It's a huge one," Hotsaiga answered. "I'd say at least two feet long."
"Did you see any doors?" Lacky asked.
"You mean aside from the one I was looking through?" the thief said. "No. But I couldn't see the whole room. There
might have been " He stopped talking, and his companions stared at him with puzzled looks on their faces.
"What is it?" Braelynn probed. "Do you hear something?"
His face had gone slightly pale. "I can hear metal clinking. It's coming from behind us. The goblins must have heard
the ceiling falling in."
"Are you sure it's goblins?" Lacky said, fingering the small holes made in his armour by the darts, which still remained
tightly lodged within the chain rings. He promptly removed them. "Sure hope they don't get another bulls-eye."
"Yes, I can hear them now. They sound disordered. We might be able to catch them by surprise."
"You're right," said Braelynn, agreeing with the thief for the first time in recent memory. "They'll be looking for us
in the armoury, and they'll see us as soon as they come into this hallway. We'll have to risk the beetle. Hotsaiga, follow
me in. We need somewhere to hide."
She opened the door, ran in, closely followed by her companions, unsheathing her sword as she did so. Raising the new
sword high above her head, she let it fall with great strength. The aim was true, but there was no evidence of a wound. The
blade wobbled in the warrior's hands, who looked astonished. The creature turned around with surprising speed and launched
itself at her leg, using its many appendages to support itself. A scorching sound and the stench of burnt flesh pervaded the
room. With a low scream, Braelynn shook her leg with great force, throwing the beetle across the room. It simply dropped to
the ground and continued to advance.
"Behind that tapestry!" Hotsaiga said, dashing across the room. As he passed, he slashed the monster's eyes and its
tough hide. It began to convulse on the ground, blind and severely weakened. Lacky reached the other side first, and ran
headlong into the tapestry. He fell to the ground, unconscious. "Not that one," muttered the thief. The thief dashed
through a tapestry on the north side of the room. His companions followed, elf dragging cleric, finding themselves in a
faintly lit passage leading east, back to the entrance of the ruins. Only seconds later, the sound of heavy feet entered the
room behind. The four breathed sighs of relief.
"Well, I'm glad that's over," whispered a voice. "Watching you fight is more punishment than being chained up by
goblins."
Part Five: Even Corpses Deserve Respect
Braelynn's hand slowly moved toward the hilt of her sword. Targwathwen's arm began a quick movement to the quiver over
her shoulder. Hotsaiga made a barely imperceptible move for his daggers, and Lacky moaned in pain.
"I wouldn't bother, if I were you," said the stranger. "After the beating you were just given by a beetle, I don't think
that you could even touch me, let alone fight me. Or that you would want to."
The warrior's sarcasm returned in full force. "Of course not. Why would we want to attack a nameless stranger in a
dark, secret, abandoned corridor in the middle of the ruins of an ominous mansion?"
"I see your point. I may as well shed some light on this situation."
Targwathwen scoffed. "What a terrible pun," she muttered. "With jokes like that, can the stranger even be worth
meeting?"
"I echo the sentiment, my overzealous friend," the voice droned. "Still, we cannot stay in this corridor forever.
Fortunately I have a tinderbox with me. Be warned, for the intensity of the light may be a small shock." The three
conscious adventurers braced themselves.
The light was indeed bright, for despite their preparations, with the tinderbox lit in such a small place, they were
still blinded for several seconds. Its brightness was so great that Lacky awoke with a start, and, with surprising
adroitness, withdrew his hammer and smashed it directly towards the source of the light. The tinderbox splintered into
dozens of tiny pieces and sparks flew in all directions.
"Ha!" Lacky exclaimed. "No mage attacks brave Hotsaiga and lives!" He communed for a moment, and once again bright
light flooded the corridor, this time without the accompaniment of lethal embers. Hotsaiga lay there on the floor,
unconscious, those same embers glowing all over his body. "Alas, I was too late!" the cleric cried.
"Actually, you were right on time," Braelynn added cynically, "so long as mages routinely transform into tinderboxes.
You must have hit him so hard that he exploded and showered burning death over your charge here."
Lacky looked confused. After a moment, with great exercise of control, he said, "right. That settles that, then. But
then who is that?" He pointed to the figure of a nimble-looking halfling lying propped against the wall, a rather sizable
bump protruding from his forehead.
"Well, after that misadventure, we seem to be in need of some of your powers," Targwathwen noted. "Now you can pay some
of your debt to our friend here. Could you heal him?"
Lacky shrugged. "I suppose." He moved towards Hotsaiga. A moment later the thief looked only a little worse for the
wear.
Thanks, Lacky," Hotsaiga said gratefully. "Did we find out who" - his eyes fell on the halfling- "oh."
Braelynn looked ready to hit the cleric. "You were supposed to heal the other unconscious person lying on the floor
because of you, the cleric." Lacky turned a deep shade of red.
"Would you two stop bickering?" Hotsaiga admonished. "I just happen to have a healing potion here." He withdrew a vial
from his pack and poured a blue liquid into the halfling's mouth, who quickly began to show signs of life.
"What is it, Braelynn?" Lacky asked. "No continued beatings? Not even a witty rebuke?"
"Give me a minute," she replied. "You did something right. I'm still trying to get over the shock."
"If the two of you would pay attention, maybe we could get out of this corridor," said the halfling, struggling to his
feet. The five walked out, eyes downcast to avoid the shock of the change of lighting. Slowly they raised their eyes, first
to the fire beetle still twitching feebly nearby, then to Braelynn's sword, abandoned during the battle, and finally to the
horns on the helmet of a large goblin, followed by four only slightly less imposing ones.
"Oops," said the stranger. At the same time, both Braelynn and the lead goblin dove for the jeweled sword on the ground.
The warrior reached it a fraction of a second sooner, but as she withdrew, the goblin's own blade struck her helmet, making
a large dent in it. She fled back towards the secret corridor, still brimming with light, slowly recovering from the daze
that the blow had caused.
Lacky rushed the lead goblin, his hammer held high, but nearly dropped it as a hot circular object flew past him and
crashed into the creature's arm, causing him to drop his weapon. The cleric did not hesitate, but instead took advantage of
his foe's weakness and knocked him to the ground. The sound of a sword being unsheathed came from behind him, and he turned
to see Targwathwen run to the fallen goblin and kill it with a single sword thrust.
The leader's death cry roused Braelynn to action. Still partly dazed, she rushed a lone goblin armed with only a sling
and shield. She raised her sword, the point aimed directly at the monster's heart, and charged. Despite her shakiness, the
aim was true. Instead of celebrating, however, she fell to the ground. The shield had turned the blade, which had left no
more than a barely visible nick in it. The blade was notched. Exultantly, the goblin aimed a stone for the warrior's skull,
but at the last moment, Targwathwen's armour blocked it as she came to the rescue of her fallen comrade. A moment later all
that remained of the creature was a bloody mass.
"No time for thanks," the elf reassured. "Now it's time to finish off these pesky stragglers." She turned and gasped;
the other three goblins lay face down on the floor, a blade protruding from the back of each.
Hotsaiga and the stranger came out of the shadows and grinned. "Never underestimate the power of a backstab," one said,
reclaiming the daggers from the backs of their fallen enemies.
"And never overestimate the power of a huge bejeweled sword," chuckled the other, motioning towards Braelynn. The blade
still looked sharp.
The stranger walked towards the warrior's blade and offered his right hand to her in token of peace. "I think there
might be something wrong with that blade," he said. "I could take a look at it, if you-"
Braelynn cut him short. "And risk losing it? You're obviously a thief. Are you sure you're not trying to take what I
rightfully pilfered?"
He looked hurt. "I was only trying to-" |