The Un-Chronicled
Tales Of Magical Mishap
and
Death-Not-Defying Misadventures
of
Dark Justice
DDO Short Story I:
In Which We Get Our Butts Handed to Us By Mephits, A Dragon Named Velah Laughs at Our Failure, and A Half-Orc Cusses in Orcish
The cursed air mephits!
It was all their fault. If the darned creatures would just stop respawing! With even four people on second base, Grishnaak, Mirande, Morek, and Takethra, they still were challenged by the pests. And it didn’t help that those on third base kept dying as well – was it Val and Magicking? Takethra didn’t care anymore. She could have shoved all of her guildies off of the airship and not give it a second thought… Not that she did, anyway…
The plane of death was in all gray tones. The only thing good about her situation of being on the plane of bodiless spirits was the fact she could not see the overly bright, hideous shade of acid green that made up the colors of her ugly, if very helpful dress, fabric darkening or lightening randomly around the sleeves and the lace and the bodice. She sighed. Dead again.
She could hear Velah the dragon’s cruel laughter. Light didn’t carry in the dead plane, so the dragon’s form was imperceptible, but sound certainly carried in the stale air. “Shut up,” She muttered, overly loud, so that the dragon might hear. It wouldn’t be able to touch her on this different plane. It did not have the right to laugh, anyway, for it was its minions that killed them, not itself.
The ethereal, hairy fists of a certain frustrated half-orc clenched and unclenched, the massive frame of her companion Grishnaak a few paces away, next to a pillar he had been so readily smashing before their demise came. The sixth attempt at dragon slaying failed. It felt more like the hundredth time – indeed Takethra would not have been able to keep track if her more cool-headed drow sister Valera-Tharashk Garai, or Val, had not clarified. The half-orc was cursing in orcish more than likely, his aggravation being the most likely thing he was voicing in the guttural gibberish.
“Okay, so who isn’t dead?” Mirande’s specter panted, so the whole party spread across the so-called ‘baseball diamond’ could hear. Their down-cast voices told them that only Kale, Kariad, and Tangwen (as usual) were the last ones standing, next to the dragon and her minions of course, the latter of which were giving the three a hard time.
Kariad’s form materialized from the darkness, followed by a giant fireball, courtesy of Velah, not far behind, missing the yet-living cleric by a matter of feet. She was gathering the Soul Stones of the dead. The bluish glow of each rock muffled as she shoved them into her rucksack. Just as quickly, she, Tangwen, and Kale disappeared.
In a flash of white and gray miasma, all of them, dead included, were back in the Hammersmith Inn. The spirit-binder resurrected the ones trapped in the grayscale plane, and the colors of life blinded Takethra. Her light-sensitive drow eyes were tender as it was. It was good to be alive again though, as her spirit was once again sheltered in her beautiful slate-gray body. The party of ten sat around a large table, dim tavern lighting creating a golden haze as the dusty, yet cozy atmosphere was illuminated.
Takethra slouched, her few years of being an uncivilized drider winning over her decades of royal civility and posture. Kariad spoke up, giving a voice to what everyone was probably thinking. “I won’t be able to stand another failure.” She shoved a golden lock of disheveled hair behind a round ear. The piercings on her brow were the only things that contradicted her clerical appearance.
“So we aren’t going to try again?” Valera asked. She was a drow like Takethra was, only her dress was a nicer shade of green – prettier in general, and it had gold accents.
“Ah, let the lowbies handle it. And if they’re killed we can at least split that little copper’s hoard.” Takethra growled, a little more than a little insensitive in referring to their lower leveled guildies and the young dragon that had joined the guild a while ago. She ran her fingers fretfully through her pale bangs which were greatly contrasted against her dark skin.
Morek, shooting her a sidelong glance, affirmed in his level-headed way, “Only two of us get to have Velah’s treasure, anyway, so I think we should just let it go.” The elf’s brown hair was a frizzy mess and singed on one side, which was no surprise. His emerald eyes flicked around to survey the faces around the table.
“I say we kill that @#?%$!& beast!” Grishnaak and Bharsk snarled almost in unison, their fists slamming against the table and rattling everyone’s mugs.
“I guess I wouldn’t mind trying again…” Mirande set down a mug of the chocolate drink Dirty Kobold, wiping the chocolate mustache from her pale, pixie-like Halfling face.
But Takethra agreed with Kariad. Velah was in her prime, and another failure meant imminent death and, if it was possible, yet more dissipointment. Even Takethra had done her share of failing as much of a shock that might have been, the first dragon-slaying attempt had ended before it began. She and Morek had ever so gracefully fallen off the suspended stone walkways that connected the minion-infested bases to each other, into nothingness.
Yup. Their first dragon-slaying attempt. It probably would have succeeded too, if the falling hadn’t occurred, because of the presence of an additional fighter, Kherzon, a skull-masked warforged.
The party was at a standstill. Kariad the cleric, her crutch the hardcore paladin Tangwen, the trap-monkey Kale, along with Takethra the evil-inclined sorceress, and Morek the defender of squishies, versus the decapitating warforged Bharsk, the tough half-orc-half-human (as Tangwen so confidently put it) Grish, and the short warrior Mirande whose skill belied her stature, Val and Magicking being indifferent.
But because the ones who were inclined to stop – okay, give up – were a little more well-stocked in the brains department, and had majority besides, they won over.
Thusly was Takethra’s adventuring group, who reminded her of a lovingly dysfunctional family. There was Kariad the cleric, who babied the team (not in a bad way, of course)! Takethra would say nothing bad about her, mainly because she was in charge of keeping everyone alive and in one piece, especially Takethra herself, who made a habit of dying. The healer was clothed in adequate plate colored in muted shades of violet and olive, which was her only outfit ‘that didn’t make her heinie look big.’ Then to her right there was Kale the trap-monkey, blonde mustache and goatee and all, who Takethra secretly called an edible vegetable, for his namesake, a type of cabbage. He was a humie in studded leather armor. He wasn’t so bad considering he kept the rest of the party from getting gored and/or dismembered by traps: spikes popping out of the ground, blades slicing your legs off, acid spraying in your face, etcetera. Next to him was the warforged who dealt back the decapitating and the slaughter: Bharsk Ironhand, Made of dark metal and girded with spiny iron armor, wielding an enormous vorpal sword (his pride and joy). Next to him was yet another warforged, though he was more mild-mannered. He was a wizard constructed of some sort of wood-like material, with a green carapace, clothed in rough and ready leather armor. His piercing magenta eyes peered from beneath a peculiar round hat on his head which Takethra grudgingly thought was sort of kinda adorable. Then there was Valera, who was really not her sister, but pretty close. Another drow with pastel hair and crimson eyes, a sorceress like Takethra, only her strong suit was ice and fire, whereas she used acid and electricity. Then sat Takethra herself, exhausted and nursing a dainty cup of what was… most likely, hopefully some species of wine (need I remind you of her drider-past?). Next to her was Morek, who had self-image issues, although Takethra didn’t mind him as much as she used to for his being an elf, because his job was to protect her, Val, Magic – the casters in general. By him was Grishnaak, an irrevocably violent fighter Takethra could relate to. He was actually not very unsmart considering his half-orchood – he had is brilliant moments and was street-smart. Mirande came next, the Halfling garbed in golden armor Takethra was jealous of, her glowing sword sheathed, a giant shield on her back. Finally there was Tangwen, defender of Kariad who she was sitting next to. The paladin called Takethra a big-mouthed drow, which she was herself, Takethra thought wryly, for unceasingly greeting her by, “Well, if it isn’t the big-mouthed drow.”
Takethra sighed, world-weary. Their being finished with the dragon’s c-r-a-p meant only one, horrible thing. On to the Demon Queen. Fun.
By Anna Ronda 1/1/11