The tavern of Infinity...

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The dwarf, realising his entrance was not descriptive enough, tries again. The door swings open. Grumbling sourly to himself a dwarf stomps into the tavern. His face is all but obscured by his bristling, iron grey beard and the tinted visor on his helmet. Warily, his eyes dart around the tavern as if he is expecting an attack from any corner. In his hands he nervously cradles a loaded crossbow, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He pulls himself up a stool, the tools on his wide utility belt jingling as he moves. He calls for a dwarven ale, and proffers a grubby, dog-eared business card to a likely looking adventurer. It reads "Ratchett Ironbeard, freelance engineer (security a specialty)"

 

*i got my opld name back! Whoo!*

A tall, lean man with dark, wet hair bursts through the door, dressed in leather pants, atripped to the waste with oiled pecs. he minces up to the bar whilst winking at all the other males in this tavern of infinity. In a high pitched voice he asks the barmaid to make sure his shandy comes in a clean glass. he slaps the arse of the bloke standing next to him, and with all his crotch-bulging might asks to 'check out his specifications'

The bloke beats him up and throws him out.

 

After drinking a few drinks the young man decides to retire to his room. He walks in and is surprised to see a sword laying on the floor. He looks up to see a dirty man weilding a knife staring at him dumbstruck.

The man looks around, screams a battlecry and charges towards the young man. The young man doesn't flinch but mutters afew words and points at the man. A red light emitts from his hands and pierces the berserking mans body. The beserker slumps to the ground dead.

The young man laughs, bends down and searches the corpes and smiles when he pulls out a small pouch. Upon inspection of the pouch he laughs as he pulls out 3 gold pieces. He slips these into his own pouch and procedes to rumage through the mans belongings which are dumped behind the door.

The only item of interest is a black cloak in which the young man takes and puts in his own backpack. He then closes the door and mutters a few more words and a blue shield is emitted surrounding his body. He then procedes to go to the unused bed and settles himself for the night...

 

Shura wakes with a great headache. His right hand hurts but is otherwise intact. It seems somebody has tried to cripple him. Sighing with frustration, he brushes down his scruffy garments and pulls his white hair out of his face.
"I'll have to be more alert next time.." he growls. As he walks out of his room, his Ring of Regeneration winks in the soft candlelight, the only magical artifact he has.

 

Like a shadow in a cloudy night the old sorcerer slips into Snipers chamber. Wasting no look on the blurry outlines on the bed he scours the bag. Murmuring "This is a way to big for you, foolish wannabe wizard", he carefully takes the black cloak and hides it under his own robe. Waveing strange forms in the air he casts a dimension portal and vanishes with a low plop.

[This message has been edited by BogiTheWaverer (edited March 21, 2001).]

 

Ever vigilant, Sapiryl keeps his eye to his keyhole and watches the Kara-Turan's door. More than certain that the devil swordsman would try to take revenge on the man. He watches the devil walk into the man's chamber, and moments later, walks out. Still watching, quietly, Sapiryl wonders if he should take advantage of the situation. He begins to open the door, but hearing a creak from the other end of the hall, he softly pushes the door shut, and watches. The Kara-Turan stumbles out of his room, rights himself, and grabs his hand. Something sparkles, and the Kara-Turan smiles secretly. Sapiryl can only guess.

After a few moments, Sapiryl wanders back down stairs and waves at the dice keeper. A sour grimace is his only return. Noticing that the dwarf is still sipping an ale in the corner, Sapiryl approaches him. The dwarf sips again, but Sapiryl knows that it is but a rouse to get him off his guard.

"You seem a sturdy fellow!" Sapiryl exclaims, "I have a proposition for you..."

 

Focus! The last words of a dying master. Moeken knew why he was here and fleeting vengeance would not escape this time.

Memories flashed in his mind as if they had occured only yesterday. The scent of crackling elderwood began to overpower the sour stench of ale soaked tables. The screams of his family as dark figures swarmed the village, forever etched into his mind. He could feel himself struggling once again under the weight of his dead mother, her dying efforts to save an infant son. The familiar smell of her hand-woven dress could not protect his senses from the stench of evil and death that surrounded him. Ears filled with the sound of his own sobbing and his last conscious sensation was the feel of powerful hands pulling him from the ashes.
'Can I get you anything M' Lord?', the thankful words of the injured barmaid brought the present cascading back. 'Sweet rolls, and a mug of wine for my friend,' Moeken pressed a small silver coin into her palm and motioned towards the far table. The flinch of the barmaid was testimony to his days of rigorous training. He had long since learned to ignore the gaping stares at his calloused, scar covered hands. Time and again his master had come at him with all manner of blade and flail. Failure meant days of healing and constant pain. Eventually the pain became and old friend and not even the sharpest edge could seperate his unarmed defense.
In one fluid motion Moeken approached the plate clad warrior of lightning, 'Belisarius, it has been too long, I believe our paths cross not without reason.' With an outstretched hand, Moeken carefully glanced towards the young woman sitting next to the window....

 

"A mind divided cleaves the body in two." Gar'shrekt ad' Lamag was wont to heed the words of the legendary Zerthimon whom he held in high esteem, but his soul was weak that he did not heed that last teaching of his idol.

In battle a will of iron and an obedient sword made sure he prevailed, but when there were no more enemies his mind and his desires were as chaotic as the plane of Limbo itself.

It would be a story in itself to know what made the man Gar'shrekt today, but in the end as he walks towards the tavern right now he has become sick of all the battles he had fought and of all the fights that will come in the future. Though his heart wants to retire, his will draws him to this next conflict, hopefully his last. Another proof that his heart is a weak one.

Gar'shrekt had spent the last day trekking through a cross-planar wasteland before finally chancing upon a conduit that lead near here. He thought he was a goner for sure, doomed to starvation and thirst if not madness, but perhaps Zerthimon himself smiled upon him and lead him to an astral conduit whose chances of being there were approximately one in a googolplex. One can never know.

All the signs showed that his latest nemesis had come to this same tavern before him, but when he knew not. Another sign of providence. Coincidence or divine intervention? Perhaps Zerthimon was encouraging Gar'shrekt to take care of unfinished business before calling it quits.

Regardless, Gar'shrekt knew what he must do. It was his own fault that his nemesis - a terrible abomination - was let loose upon the multiverse, and it is his responsibility alone to stop it. Sometimes not knowing the self can be a terrible thing indeed.

Gar'shrekt enters the tavern door at last. He scans what lies before him the same way he scanned the periphery of the tavern. There are many trace psionic auras, but most come from what he is not looking for. He walks slowly and methodically, his head moving only from left to right and yet he manages to scan behind himself intermittenly as well.

A latent psion here, a low level talent there. No traces of what he is tracking. Gar'shrekt goes to the bar and orders a soft drink. Can't have anything clouding his mental faculties just yet. He takes a seat with his back to the wall and continues his scan, this time albeit more discreetly. After several minutes, he gives up at last.

How did he even know his nemesis had come here? He did not, in fact never knew for sure, only suspected. He had been chasing a red herring of his own making all this while. His enemy would be halfway across the multiverse by now - metaphorically speaking - and it goes further away and Gar'shrekt has no more hope to stop whatever plan it has. Gar'shrekt falls into a deep melancholy.

He remembers the blade he carries with him, no other than the Equalizer itself. Given to him not to preserve the balance, but rather so that he may do what he will with it. When he accepted the sword such a long time ago, he thought he was one step closer to the freedom he had always sought, but now he realized that instead of that he had accepted a destiny others had thrust upon him and had complied with. Of his own will and yet not. Insidious. In the end, what was the use? He had accomplished little that would last. Where others had used their strengths to leave legacies, Gar'shrekt had followed pursuits that in the end brought him little.

It is in this melancholy that Gar'shrekt did not notice the latest patron that enters the bar. This latest patron is not of the type that frequents such places. It prefers wilderness and the fringes of civilization where it might feed on unsuspecting prey. So what brought this creature here? Like Gar'shrekt it too had trekked across a cross-planar wasteland in search of something, and now it stands at the doors of the tavern perhaps in conclusion of its pursuit.

It's journey had driven it closer to the insanity that tears at its sentience. Proximity to potential prey has given it some lucidity, but not much. It would slaughter all in the tavern and feed upon them to satiate its hunger oblivious to the danger to itself. Spiny bristles like hoarfrost rise from it's body and it unsheathed its long claws from its forearm. Few notice the abomination, but those who are supposed to and those who do anyway are immediately alarmed even as they see it open a gaping maw filled with long stiletto like "teeth".

A deadly cry is stopped right in its throat as a soft *PING* registers in its head. A bigger prize is near. It scans the tavern and immediately finds its target. Not what it had been searching for but just as good. Those watching the abomination are now a little more pleased because the creature seems to have relaxed just when it seemed on the verge of berserking, but their hands do not leave their weapons yet. The creature oddly seemed relaxed and idylly concentrating on something.....

Waves of force envelop Gar'shrekt's mind and crushes it. A soft cry barely escapes his throat as he feels his consciousness collapse in on itself. Yet he is not undone yet. He rises from his chair and staggers from the pain, still oblivious to its source. In fact, Gar'shrekt was becoming even more and more oblivious to his surroundings.

"No....not like this…..not like this...!" Gar'shrekt thought feebly for he knew what was happening to him.

Perhaps by sheer providence or divine intervention something made gar'shrekt look at the tavern door, and there it was: a bluish grey humanoid with hoarfrost-like porcupine bristles all OVER its body and three feet long multiple serrated claws on each arm. It was looking right at him. Why weren't the tavern guards doing anything? Why weren't they attacking the abomination?!

"Stop...stop it!" Gar'shrekt barely manages to whisper a plea to unhearing guards. "G-get out uff thuh way..." he slurs.

He draws his weapon. The golem activates combat mode and moves towards Gar'shrekt. The abomination sustaines its mental strangehold, unafraid. Guards notice Gar'shrekt and their attention is divided between him and the newcomer. Most others remain oblivious.

Near unconsciousness Gar'shrekt manages to draw a vial from his pouch and drink its contents.

And he disappears from view.

The abomination blinks in surprise, as do some of the guards. The golem stops in its tracks.

For Gar'shrekt, the mental onslaught is temporarily broken and he wastes no time moving to a new position and uncorking another potion at the same time. His mind's escape from its stranglehold feels like fresh water to a thirsty man, and yet his will is now in tatters. The potion of Insight he imbibes should help a little.

Rejuvenated and still invisible, Gar'shrekt makes a move on his attacker. He has little time. More guards have mobilized and one of them has started a spell.

The abomination is in a rage. It utters a terrible scream and waves of force emanate in a cone strafing the patrons nearest to it. The tavern is in uproar as several patrons keel over stunned and others stagger away from the entrance and the ravening creature.

As it rushes into the middle of the tavern with claws slashing Gar'shrekt's invisibility is purged and he manifests his powers, leaping tables and zigzagging across the tavern in an unbelievable burst of speed. A nimbus of light washes over him as his weapon is charged with psychokinetic energy and he is now mere moments to striking range.

The golem acts too, bulldozing its way past helpless customers and slower guards towards the duo, its arms bunched together to deliver a devastating overhand strike that neither Gar'shrekt nor the abomination expects......


(P.S Continue the story! Tell us how you would react!)


[This message has been edited by Rakanishu (edited March 21, 2001).]

 

Blast it! Atrocius. Sorry, folks, I will continue editing my post as needed. In the meantime please forgive my spelling and grammatical mistakes.

 

Hey Rak, chill-out. I know we are all perfectionists here, but we'll let a few mistakes pass

Good story by the way.

 

As Bowie walks by the window of the tavern he catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Almost without thinking his bow is in his hands with an arrow notched. The arrow emits a light blue glow from it's tip.

He sizes up the situation. One golem vs. a man and serveral guards. This could only mean one thing to Bowie; none of his business. Almost as quickly as it was in his hands the bow is gone. He turns away from the fight and the tavern and mutters, "Bah. There's got to be a good cave to loot around here."

He pauses for a moment, looks right and left, and after chosing his path disappears into the woods.

 

Lord Moeken wakes up. It is morning, but in the small, dry room, he feels...another precense.

He notices another form in his bed and smiles, remebering the young lady he had met the night before, just before he had consumed vast amounts of ale.

He sharply draws back the covers.

Lying there, grinning, is a oung man with wet black hair and oiled pecs. "Hiya sailor! I said I wouldn't be too rough didn't i?" the young man beemed. The smile vanished from the Lord's face.

Lord moeken beat him up and threw him out.

 

Heh, hooligan_inc - such vivid recall of past experiences, this is supposed to be a fantasy thread.

 

The sour dwarf looks up from his ale to speak to Sapiryl. "Aye, if the price be right I'll hear ye out ..." he begins. Suddenly he notices the combat break out between the abomination, the golem, and the Gith. With his left hand he overturns the table he is sitting at to form a crude barricade, his right hand flies to his crossbow. Unable to determine who is the greatest threat he waves his crossbow vaguely in the direction of all three combatnts, before realising how ineffective his puny weapon would be. Cowering behind the table, the thought comes to him that all three combatants have more on their minds than killing a lowly dwarf. "Aw, naw" he moans, "Ah've gone an' spilt me ale fer nothing."

 

hey Lordy, I'd like YOU to beat me up

j/k, don't worry about it

 

herf the forgotten quickly sizes up the situation, a huge beast lunging for a zerth's ward, the ward too frightened to move, and a golem butting in for no aparent reaosn, The Master Of the Blade knows what to do.

herf quickly leaps forma sitting position and lands in front of the charging golem with weapon drawn, the blade of the sword is milky white and bears no markings. herf quickly slashes in an upwards motion and smiles as the golems head topples from its body, the blade now has markings...

the abomination, that herf believes to be a cornugon, is now right behind herf, herf quickly turns and slashes directly behind his back right where the abishai should be...

 

"Nevertheless my small friend, we should be cautious of our position," Sapiryl admonished as he kneels next to the dwarf and draws his short sword.

"You doubtless remember the strange fellow in black, the one who killed the barmaid? Yes, I thought so. He is not to be trifled with, but I feel that he should be...dealt with. Granted, this is normally work for paladins and knights, but I feel that we shall profit and gain immunity from the Order. Quite a prize for professionals such as we. Hold on!"

The fight has spread, and Sapiryl pulls a cork from his belt pouch. He handles it carefully, and uses only his gloved right hand to touch it. Then he runs it down the short sword's blade and returns it to its place.

"I fear that your ale must be avenged. Join me at the Silver Monkey in Liriam's Point if you will!"

Rushing towards the closest wall, Sapiryl nearly collides with the same silver clad paladin as he saw before.

"Pardon," he says and makes a quick bow before grabbing his pack and quiver and rushing towards the melee at the door. His bow would seem to have been stolen during his talk with the dwarf. Pity, it was quite a masterpiece, formed by the hands of Ferule the High Ranger of Tyrin's Way, and blessed by the clergy of Talos. Sapiryl supposed that he'd have to steal it back...

 

The young woman, hidden by the darkening shadows beside the window, now forced to abandon her vigil, crouches down as the background shouts suddenly errupt into what appears to be a minor battle between a truly hideous creature....and some kind of abomination...Looking around she spies a stout looking fellow staring fornlornly into a near empty tankard having taken refuge behind an upturned table, the interesting man that had been admiring the magnificent curves of her...cloak had reappeared and was whispering something to the dwarf. Kneeling on all fours and moving toward them she here's the words "silver monkey" uttered, whilst his back is turned she lays her slender hand upon the mans hard, smooth bow and undetected she makes for the stairs to collect her things from the rented room. On her way a blundering and headless golem trips over her. She makes a silent oath never to trust the recommendations of a certain mage named Volo again.

 

"Is that so? Belisarius grasps the man's hand in return, marvelling at the strength of the other man's grip, as if he was wearing mailed gauntlets as well. "Well met, Lord Moeken!" booms the warrior. "It seems these folk are in need of our assistance...I must delay this conversation a moment!"

Belisarius grins as he draws his blade from it's scabbard. "For honor and glory!" he shouts, as his blade glows with a pale blue light. Grabbing his shield, he joins the fray. Looking back at Moeken, he calls to him, "the last to strike the beast buys the next round!"

 

"Far too long...", chuckles Moeken to himself.
In an act of gravity defiance his seemingly light frame is next to the towering paladin. Evil coldness that burns the very soul surrounds the two warriors like dark waves crashing over a helpless sloop. With lightning precision Moeken's hands and feet lash out in unbridled fury, only to cleave the air in front of him. Never before had Moeken witnessed such speed and agility from a creature so immense. Moeken's feet are swept from under him, but in an incredible display of speed and power the unstoppable monk arches his supple torso to regain his balance.
Moeken steals a glance at the young woman retreating up the stairs, the distraction enough to give the beast an advantage. The hiss of claws whistle through the air and in morbid fascination Moeken realizes that he can't react in time. Time seems to slow as the life ending blow falls upon his helpless body. With clenched eyes, Moeken can almost feel the razor claws tearing his flesh, sucking the life force from him. Suddenly the whistle of the creature's attack is drowned by the high pitched scream of metal slicing thru air. A hair's breadth from his throat the coolness of the pale blue blade materializes to intercept the creatures final enslaught.
"What took you so long?", Moeken gasps with feigned irritation.
With grim determination his thoughts become clear, 'I'll owe him more than a round I suppose'...


[This message has been edited by Lord Moeken (edited March 22, 2001).]