The Beast in the Deep.

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The Beast in the Deep.

Postby Caleal » Fri Nov 03, 2006 11:44 am

Cursing as the fingers on his right hand stretched to find a nook in the rock, Caleal wondered, not for the first or last time, what the hell he'd gotten himself into. It had seemed such a good idea at the time. A map some yellow-toothed old fool had wanted to get shot of, a tale of treasure hidden deep within the mountainside and all that was needed was some brave soul to go and get it.

He cursed again as his hand slipped and he half scrabbled, half fell a foot before his boots found an outcrop and his fingernails somehow found some purchase. He let out a deep breath of relief and a silent promise to leave some coin at the very next temple he stumbled across. On the condition of course that he could find a way back out of this place.

He looked down over his shoulder, slowly, careful of his precarious position, hoping for a second that he might see his torch somewhere below, but no flame met his gaze. Only pitch black. Like everything else around him. "Damnit. Mark my words old man, if you don't choke on your next meal, I'll help you on your way. Bastard. 'It'll all be so easy for a young man like you' 'Nothing to it'"

Come on. Keep your head straight Cal. You got down here, you can get back up again.

He took a deep breath and held it as he reached up with his left hand and groped about until he felt a tiny crevice in the stone, then teased his fingers into it and tensed them, testing the hold against his weight. "Okay so far so good," he said as he let his breath out again. The muscles in his left arm flexed as he pulled himself up a little, his right foot reaching out tentatively to find it's own place.

Little by little he found it was working, bit by bit he made his way up the rock face until, finally, his fingers reached up and over finding the ledge he had come down from. He was just getting his elbows up onto the ledge when a light ignited so seemingly bright in the gloom that he almost fell from the shock of it and he was forced to shut his eyes tight.

"Hello boy. Didn't expect to see me here, I wager."

The voice was unmistakable, only one man he'd met had such a squeaky tone. The old man.

Slowly he managed to open his eyes and looked up at the figure towering over him. "What's the meaning of this? You did not warn me this place would be so dangerous."

"My boy." The old man smiled, his yellow toothed grin wide and sharp. "You have no idea how dangerous. You would think to take advantage of what you must have thought was a great opportunity. An old fool throwing away a treasure map without a thought. For a few measely silver coins? Hah!"

Caleal took a moment to appraise the old 'fool'. Before he had been so eager to snap up the map and shoot away that he handled really examined his benefactor. The seemingly old worn robes now had a quality to them, like blue-dyed silk, the patches intricate tiny symbol-patterns of gold thread. As their eyes met, Caleal also saw something else there that frightened him. A glimmer of age beyond age, a keen intelligence and malice. Malice brushed with evil.

He realised that the hairs on the back of his neck were on end and he felt gooseflesh tingling up his arms.

Somehow, without really knowing why, one clear thought resounded in his mind. This is where I die.

"Give my regards to Kalim. He hasn't had a fresh kill in months."

"You bas-" What he had been about to say was cut off as the old man's boot connected with his nose. There was a crunch mingled with pain, then his hands slipped.

Then sound of wind mingled with his own scream, then just darkness. Then nothing.
Caleal
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Postby Caleal » Sun Nov 05, 2006 6:19 pm

Now he wasn't a stranger to pain. More like a distant cousin that really didn't like associating with that side of the family. But Gods. He hurt. But pain wasn't such a bad thing. It did have one major upside. It meant he wasn't dead. Not yet anyways and that made it look like this day wasn't going to be so bad afterall. Perhaps he'd just hit the very bottom, literally and figuratively, and now things could only get better.

It was definately suprising what you could live through. He'd landed on his back, but somehow it hadn't been broken. He could still feel everything, but he didn't yet chance trying to move. No a few moments glorying in survival was good for the soul. A few silent prayers of thanks. Then one by one he tested his limbs.

One left leg. Check.
One right leg. Check.
Two arms. Double check.

And it was safe to assume that his head was still in one piece. He tried his fingers then and his toes, wriggling away, trying to locate even the smallest break. But nothing. Oh he was bruised from head to toe and likely cut in a few places, if the wetness he felt in his clothing was anything to go by, though there could be other explanations for that, at least around his groin. But otherwise he was unscathed. Which only left the question: how?.

There had been tales before of course, people falling from great heights, only to miraculously dust themselves off and walk away. But he'd thought they'd just been the ramblings of drunks in taverns trying to earn a drink for a good yarn. Now here he was, living proof. Though he would not be attempting a second test anytime soon.

He took a deep breathe, let it out slowly, then steeled himself and sat up. He probed his ribs, each touch eliciting a whince, but was satisfied finally that they too were fine. Then he awkwardly made his way up to a crouch in the darkness. He sniffed at the air and hocked and spat out the resulting glob of half dried blood that had been pulled up through his nostrils from his mashed nose. Only his nose was broken. And that he knew how to fix as he'd broken it before.

He took the cartilage in both hands and twisted it about, cursed at the lightning bolt of pain, and felt the click as it went back into place. "Done." He muttered, wiping his bloodied hands on his breeches.

Now for his surroundings. A little light would do it, then he could find the wall and make his climb back up. Then he'd kill that old man. No. No he'd throw the old man down here. That'd teach him. He was still wearing his backpack, so he pulled it off, unfastened the catch, and dug inside until he felt his flint and steel. A further rummage found a small torch-wood doused in oil.

And a few moments later there was light. Caleal had kept his eyes shut against the flame and then slowly opened them as his eyes adjusted. Holding the torch high he looked up to see if he could find where he'd fallen from. The light illuminated enough for him to tell that what he had been climbing down must have been some kind of passage opening up into a large cavern whose edges were beyond his sight.

"Great, guess I'll have to find some other way out."

Standing he was about to start walking, sure that his day couldn't get any worse, when his eyes alighted on the ground all around him. Bones and bones.. oh.. and more bones. Some with little scraps of flesh still hanging off them. Oh and plenty of blood too.

The name Kalim came to him, in a squeaky voice from the back of his mind.

"Ah Fuck."

Caleal's adventure, it seemed, had only just begun.
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Postby Caleal » Tue Nov 21, 2006 11:55 am

He'd taken a sword that had lain, still sheathed in a light blue scabbard, from beside a particularly gruesome looking corpse. Whatever had been chowing down on this poor human had apparently not been too hungry. Instead it had taken to doing something his mother had always told him not to do when he was a child. It had played with its food.

He wasn't really sure whether there was any point to taking the thing, it wasn't as if it had done its last owner any good, but perhaps there were other lesser evils in this place that wouldn't like three feet of steel up their rear ends. And after the day he'd had so far, a little protection was better than none at all.

After securing the sword about his waist he set off, cautiously, across the cavern, after first deciding that left was a lot better than right. There were no deep rumblings coming from the left. He told himself rumblings, but in truth they sounded very much like snores. Too much like snores in fact. He had an image then of an engorged old man, asleep on a couch after having a particularly large lunch. Only an old man with big teeth, leathery skin, claws and wings.

After telling his imagination, in no uncertain terms, to stop running away with itself, he focused his attention on the path before him. He'd gone perhaps thirty steps from where he'd awoken and the walls were no beginning to narrow in about him, perhaps four or five feet to each side and he could now see the roof, though it was still too high even to jump to.

He followed the tunnel until finally the light from his torch illuminated a door with no handle, only a large gothic knocker and a small barred 'window' at eye level. Through it he could see a white bearded, wrinkled old fellow wearing, what looked like blue and white striped pyjamas with a matching sleeping cap. His eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth in a chair before a large oaken desk piled with books, snore-whistling.

"Hello? Excuse me, hello?" He said in a low voice, unwilling to raise it any higher in case something else heard him. "Can you open this door please?"

White-beard grumbled something in his sleep a little to quiet to be heard, but then said a little louder. "Use the knocker."

"What? Don't be daft! Just open this door!" He found himself getting angry, obviously this aged fellow was having fun at his expense.

"No Knocker.. no service. It's the rules." White-Beard replied, with a sniff, his eyes still shut fast.

"Fine." Cal replied after a few moments between gritted teeth. Bloody typical, he thought as he put his hand on the knocker and gently lifted it a little. "I'll play your game." Just a little tap, it wouldn't have to be too loud. So thinking he let the knocker go and was not at all prepared for the resulting boom of noise. It was as if he'd taken a hammer to the door.

Cal stood for a moment in stunned silence. Waiting for a tell-tale noise behind him of the creature. But there was nothing. He allowed himself to release the breath he'd been holding.

Then suddenly a roar, like a lion's but louder and with a slight hiss to its edges, resounded all about him, bouncing off the walls and making his skin go cold. Then the sound of something approaching. Something big.

Almost hysterically, Cal began banging on the door. "Let me in! Let me in! For the love of God!"

But the old man still seemed fast a sleep. The thing was closer now, it had entered the tunnel. Cal turned about and his hand touched the hilt of the sword he was wearing. But he couldn't draw it. Raw fear surged through him, paralysing his muscles. Sweat was dripping down him in gallons and he was gibbering to himself.

Then it happened. The crowning glory to his day so far.

He soiled himself. Then fainted.
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Postby Caleal » Wed Nov 22, 2006 3:10 pm

The smell of acrid smoke woke him from his second slumber of the day. He was lying on his back on a futon against a wall. And he was apparently still alive. Hooray for the little victories.

His pack was gone, and so, he realised, was his sword. He didn't have to look far for either. The sword lay, still sheathed, in white-beard's lap, the pack open upon the desk in a space between the towers of books, its contents sprawled about.

Sitting up, he thought it best to think carefully on what he next said. His luck so far had been pretty awful, and as much as he wanted to give this coot a piece of his mind , he decided it was probably better to wait until he got his sword back, preferably sheathed in its scabbard, and not in him.

White-beard didn't seem to have noticed his movement, his blue eyes, behind gold-rimmed spectacles, were busy examining the hilt on the weapon. Caleal took the chance to examine his surroundings. The place had all the look of a study, bookshelves brimming with literary goodness, a second desk with ink and parchment and a large globe of the world, though seemingly the latter's creator had little experience of the world itself. The only markings upon it were a large x in an otherwise empty expanse of green and the words "You are here" in bold letters.

After seeing that, Cal stood quietly and walked over to one of the shelves and examined the bindings on the books a little more closely. Every shelf had books called 'Sheldan's Complete Knowledge" numbered from one to thirty-five. Curious he withdrew one at random and opened it up, only to find two blank pages. Suprised he flicked back and forth, but could find not one page with even a smudge of ink.

He had a bad feeling about all this.

"Interesting aren't they?" White-Beard's somber voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Wrote them all myself you know. Back when I had the time of course, before I was called to do my service." The last was said with an unmistakable tinge of pride.

Of course you did, thought Cal. But he said "So you'd be Sheldan then?", after returning the book and turning about to face the man.

"Yes." Those eyes were now fully upon him. Sheldan paused to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Percival Sheldan. At your service, and his, of course."

"His?"

"Yes. God's. Called me to it himself." There was more of that pride, it almost seemed to drip from Percival.

Alarm bells were going off. Cal glanced at the heavy iron door, and was more alarmed to see that there was no handle this side either. How it opened was a mystery. He was just trying decide whether he would have been better off on the otherside when Sheldan spoke again.

"Your sword. Lovely piece."

"uh... thankyou.... "

"Sword of Awesome And Deadly Death, if I'm not much mistaken."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Sheldan frowned for a moment. Then he spoke in a tone and manner Cal had only heard used to speak with the village idot, if you could be bothered to speak to the village idot of course. Most people just threw tomatoes or poked him with sticks. He didn't mind, it was his job, he was paid to take the abuse. It was very hard though to find a good village idot. "You see... Sword means this thing here." He said lifting the weapon. "And of..."

"Yes yes... I get it. But deadly death? I didn't realise there were degrees of death."

Sheldan smiled at this, then chuckled. "My dear boy, of course there are degrees of death. There's natural death for one. Accidental death for another..."

"Okay.. I guess."

"Then there's totally stupid pointless death."

"What?"

"Pulling a tigers tale for example or going out in a thunderstorm wearing field plate and carrying a lance."

"Ah..." Cal nodded in understanding.

"Then there's the usual kinds of death not covered by the above, wars, murders and such. These I label Standard Death."

"Right. But Deadly Death?"

"Oh yes." Sheldan chuckled again and answered in an offhand fashion. "That's the kind where there's nothing recognisable left to send back to your relatives."

"Yikes." Now, if it was possible, Cal was even less comfortable being in the same room with this fellow. There was definately something just not right about him, even without the empty books and the pointless globe and the casual way the man discussed death with labels. But the sword, if he could get it back, might just get him passed the beast and out of this place. "And this sword can do that?"

"Oh ho.." Another chuckle. "This sword can do much more than that. Take a seat my boy and I'll tell you a story about it. A story about this place, the sword and the Beast in the Deep."

And so reluctantly, with no other option, Cal sat in the seat opposite Percival, and listened to a story. A story that was not wholly unfamiliar.
Caleal
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Postby Caleal » Wed Nov 29, 2006 5:35 pm

"Abdomen the Stout, so called because he was exceptionally thin and wiry, was the first weilder of this sword almost ten years ago. He'd won it in a particularly rowdy game of Last Man's Round."

Cal remembered the game. He'd seen it in taverns all across the country. The idea was to be one of the first to pass out thus leaving whoever still stood to catch the tab. No cheating was allowed and one man, usually the designated wagon-driver, was armed with a stout piece of wood to prod or even whack contestants to ensure fair play. It was not unheard of, in tournaments, for such extreme measures to be used as setting fire to a player so as to be sure of his comatose state.

It was not a game Cal had ever played himself. But he had to admit it had been quite entertaining to watch. It beat listening to the local bard anyways. He also recalled that to keep things interesting, side bets were placed on things ranging from the obvious, which person would pass out and when, to the less obvious, would contestant number seven end up urinating on the bar after drink thirteen.

"He was astounded by the workmanship on the hilt, thought it to be worth a fortune. He wore it everywhere and it was more than capable of keeping the jealous at bay. Only one day, it wasn't so helpful.."

"Go on.."

"Well... four men had come for the weapon, and witnesses at the bar said that Abdomen was more than eager to stand up and fight them. He told them to wait outside until he'd finished his drink, and he did so in quick order, knocking down the thick black dwarven stout in one enormous gulp. And then he opened the door, stepped outside.. and was slaughtered."

"What?" Cal frowned. "I thought you said the sword was.."

"Powerful yes." Percival finished with a whimsical smile. "But on leaving the tavern, Abdomen, half-inebriated, missed the doorstep, tripped over the sword and fell flat on his face."

((Work in progress, will get back to this when I have more time.))
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Postby Caleal » Tue Feb 06, 2007 1:31 pm

"Oh there were more such unfortunate incidents...." continued Percival after seeing the look of derision on Cal's face. "Each of the four men desired the weapon equally, perhaps for quite different reasons. To one it was a treasure simply worth its weight in platinum. To another, power unequalled. Suffice to say that when the next wielder of the weapon came along, one Aston Veritar, a knight of the Order of the Pink Garter, came across them they were locked in an eternal death struggle with each other."

Well, thought Caleal, perhaps that was to be the end of it. Surely a good Knight would have had no trouble with such a weapon.

Percival Sheldan seemed to read that thought in his expression. "Aston held this blade for the longest of its possessors, nearly five years in all, but he never drew it. Truth be told, this particular Knight was, shall we say, a little unorthodox. A pillar of knighthood he was, where virtue and honour were required.. but a warrior he was not. He had never even fought a battle or drawn any weapon in anger. Or at all really..."

Caleal was again struck by the thought that perhaps he'd knocked himself a bit harder than he'd thought earlier. The world seemed to be turning swiftly on it's head. But hey.. what the hell, he thought and said in a tired tone "Go on.."

"Well.. it seemed Aston believed that the Order's uniform should more fully reflect its title. The Pink Garter itself was not enough, he reasoned. He was of a mind to incorporate pink hose, a pink skirt and a matching pink bodice.. as well as a nice accompanying floral bonnet."

Caleal said nothing.

"It was no suprise that he kept these thoughts to himself.. and the burden, plus his continuing discomfort at post-meeting shower-room towel antics pushed him to a rather final solution. He commited suicide, falling onto the sword in the fashion of those eastern knights you might have read about above these very passages.. in fact I'm guessing that's where you found him. Very sad", the white-bearded man shook his head at the last and took a moment to remove and clean his glasses as he let his words sink into the young Caleal's mind.

"But wait..." Caleal said with a sudden thought. "If you knew the blade was there, then why didn't you take it for yourself?"

The old man laughed. "I did try.. but the beast came after me and I was forced to retreat to this very complex, an astonishing little study that was built long before I arrived, with only my books and scrolls and ink for company to stave off the madness... oh.. and Lillian."

"Lillian..?"

"Yes.. that's what I said my boy.." Percival replaced his glasses "Lillian is a bard... you should meet her..."
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