Something Shinier

[Kereth]

This is the story thread.

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(Look! I actually linked it right and everything!)

[Kereth]

Part One:


---^v-({@***BEFORE***@})-v^---
-----------------and-----------------
---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---

(ShinyStudios RP Stories Presents. . .)

"My name is Ehnpee," the aged human gruffed, "Ehnpee, the
human, surname of Si, but 'Mr. Si' is all you will be calling me, is
that understood?"
The lights of the Hanged Man were dim, the room bustling with
activity, currently centered around a brawl taking place by one of
the tables in the rear. Wherever the bouncer was, if one truly
existed, he seemed to be ignoring the commotion. Either that, or
he was one of the brawlers himself. Whichever way, such ruckus
was characteristic of the little tavern, and the constant noise made
the joint that much more popular: this was a place, the patrons
knew, where nothing was going to be overheard, a point rather
difficult to guarantee in any other place on Perdow.
Varken Seivent'mal, gargoyle, fallen, and part-time Gifted One,
gruffed right back at the human he was meeting with. "I don't care
about your name, old man" he said, "I came here because you said
you had information for me."
"And I came because you promised to pay me," the old man
replied.
"Which I did," countered Varken.
"Which is why I'm still here," said Mr. Si.
The two stared each other down for a moment, then Mr. Si
leaned back and smiled an easygoing, warmhearted smile at the
gargoyle. It was obviously fake, but Varken was both too dense to
realize that and too impatient to care. "So," Mr. Si asked, "What
was it you wanted to know?"
The fallen snarled, slamming his fist down on the table, and
The Fellblade on his back seemed to lurch under its own power.
"You KNOW what I'm here for!" he snapped, "I have a job to do
and you're going to tell me how to get it done!"
The old human chuckled. The brawl in the corner seemed to be
dying down, and one man was emerging from the crowd, badly
bruised and weakened but obviously victorious. The other patrons
thronged around him eagerly.
"Very well then," Mr. Si said, "Since you seem to be in such a
hurry, I'll be direct. The fact of the matter is that you-

"-just walked out on us, Varken, what's the deal?" Kereth
confronted the wayward gargoyle with an unhappy look. Minion
and Aurinko held to the background, looking uncertain. "You were
supposed to help me keep the fire off the midrowers."
Varken didn't respond. Instead, he withdrew a small, pulsing
green vial from his pouch and poured it across The Fellblade.
Hungry, swamp-yellow flames rippled along the sword.
"Varken? Helloooo?" Kereth asked. His instincts were telling
him something was up, but the nature of the issue eluded him.
Things had been weird ever since his old friend's mysterious
reappearance. Explanations had been unsatisfactory, his whole
attitude seemed off. . . heck, Kereth had never seen a vial of poison
that would do THAT to a fellblade! Still, there couldn't be
anything dangerous wrong. There was no way Varken would-
"Varken? Are you listening to me? I said you-

"-can't." Mr. Si concluded.
"WHAT?!" snapped Varken, lunging to his feet. The dulled tin
plate he wore as armor looked far more menacing here in the dim
light, but the sight of it still left Mr. Si feeling completely
unperturbed. The gargoyle fumed. He had spent so much time,
come so far, if this fool was wasting that time. . . Clawed, grey
fingers began sliding toward the hilt of The Fellblade. Patrons all
around them perked up expectantly. The sight of the fallen in
anger was intriguing. Perhaps there would be another brawl.
"Relax, Mr. Seivent'mal," the old man said, waving the fallen
back into his chair, "You misunderstand me." Sad to say, this was
more than enough to cause Varken to hesitate. It didn't require a
master psionicist to see that misunderstanding things was
something the poor fallen did fairly often. He rolled the preceding
statements over in his mind, searching for whatever meaning had
eluded him.
"What I say is true," Mr. Si went on, as the other patrons rapidly
lost interest. "You cannot kill him as you are. You simply lack the
cabability." Varken's hand began inching back toward his weapon
uncertainly. "but you can defeat him."
The hand hesitated. "How?" Varken asked.

(. . .a Black Rose Production. . .)

Kereth's words rolled off the gargoyle's skull like rain on a
Perdowian mountainside. This was not unusual, as the skull in
question was quite difficult to penetrate, but regardless, it was still
a point for some concern. The gargoyle's world, however, was his
own, and he was considering the situation carefully. Over and
over he wondered, "How?" How to begin? How to begin?
An explosion shook the alchemist colony, sounding somewhere
in the distance. So typical was the sound that none of the Gifted
Ones gathered on the otherwise empty street paid the distant noise
any notice. Kereth's mouth was still moving. Varken considered
him.
A decapitation attempt would be useless. Something about the
arakun neck just wasn't built for it. They were too thick. He'd
sooner be chopping the whole creature in half. A cold wave? No,
too widespread. He needed something precise. He didn't have to
do damage to everyone, just get the leader moving. Yeah, there
was no help for it. . .
"Varken? Hello? Snap out of it, man. Are you-"
"Oculus Malum."

"Simple, really," Mr. Si explained, "The main power wielded by
the Imam is not that of physical strength, nor of prowess in
combat. It comes from the influence he holds over others. Even if
he were to die, his power would still be felt widely. He could still
fight against you with everything he had while dead, even setting
aside his status as a Gifted One. His own body, his own existance,
they are a meaningless sidenote in the power that could be wielded
by the Imam against you."

The souls of the damned tore through the air with mortifying
speed, streaking directly for the chest of Kereth Midknight. Time
seemed to slow as they streaked closer, closer, until-
Kereth vanished.
In a blink, the Imam reappeared, now several feet to the left, his
fingers interwoven in an obscure ninja handsign. "Alright," Kereth
said, "Let's do this the hard way."
Varken grinned toothily at him. ". . . okay!" he said and
charged.

Varken nodded slowly, a look of deep contemplation across his
face as he watched Mr. Si talk, looking for all the world like he
was taking in every word of the conversation. It only became
apparent that he wasn't when Mr. Si finished talking, and the
nodding gargoyle carried on with his nodding, unphased. A few
moments passed, and Mr. Si gave a sigh.

The fellblade whirled through the air with astonishing speed.
Speed that is astonishing that is, to anyone who hasn't seen a fully
trained fallen swing a fellblade properly. Taken by that standard, it
was a bit slow and clumsy, but the blows were threatening
nonetheless. Kereth hopped backward out of the way of the
oncoming blade, then flew back into the fray, trailing close behind
the retreating edge, and let his own weapons rake across gaps in
the gargoyle's shoddy, low-budget armor.

"Okay?" Varken asked, still evidently waiting for the rest of it.
He had glazed over all that had been said before and, failing to find
the detail he was looking for, discarded it. "So how do I kill him?"
he asked.
Mr. Si shook his head. "If you want to beat the Imam," he said,
"you do it not by attacking him directly. . ."

Varken shrugged off the hits, continuing his assault, and Kereth
bounced backward out of the way, moving back farther and
farther. . . and then finally too far.
Varken had the opening he'd been waiting for, and he took it,
lunging forward. The Fellblade closed with its target. Somebody
screamed, and Varken could feel the metal strike home, shuddering
deeply into delicious arakun flesh.

". . . but by striking for those who stand behind him."

-SOMETHING SHINIER

"AURINKO!"

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***LONG***@})-v^---
---^v-({@**BEFORE**@})-v^---

Varken Seivent'mal's head hurt. His stomach hurt too, when
you come to that, as did most of the rest of his body. His every
limb and joint was sore, and he felt inexpressably tired. The
overall feel of it was somehow familiar to him. He had been like
this before. When had that been?
Oh, right, that would be the last time he'd been woken up, not to
mention the time before that and the time before that. The reasons
for his waking had varied. Maybe it was an insect, maybe it was a
nightmare, maybe it was the distant rumble of Crypt's inner
mechanics slipping ever-so-slightly out of sync with his
dreamscape. Whatever it was, he hated it outright. Being awake
was just a reminder of the ever-increasing unpleasantness he was
smothered in- a reminder that he'd much sooner have avoided.
It must be a record, he thought: nobody had ever been this
badly hungover. Still, there was nothing to do but sleep it off.
That was, mind you, what he had tried every time he'd awoken so
far, and with little success, but he just didn't have the energy to try
anything else.
Sleep, he thought, and the oblivion began again to overtake
him.
And there was that nudging again. Wait, again? Oh, right, that
was what woke him up in the first place. Ordinarily, he'd just kill
the perpetrator and be done with it, but he couldn't seem to work
up the gusto to even be properly furious right now. Maybe it
would stop soon, and he could just get back to sleep.
He waited. It didn't stop. To make matters worse, it grew
steadily in intensity until whatever or whomever was responsible
must be shaking him by the shoulder. Ridiculous, but there was no
help for it. He'd simply have to open his eyes and find out what
was bothering him.
He did so, reluctantly, his eyes being met by the painful, red
glare that was, at this moment, the far-too-bright underworld of
crypt. He started to groan, but he soon found the effort to be far
too painful and abandoned it forthwith. His eyes adjusted. There
was a vulpin.
If only he had the energy to kill the cursed lupin, he would most
assuredly have done so, but such was only a wishful fantasy now.
The creature was shaking him all the more vigorously, in what was
an obvious effort to rouse him. Varken hissed at it feebly.
"Stop. . ." he muttered, ". . . sleeping. . ."
"I'm quite aware of that," the vulpin snapped at him, thankfully
ending the shaking as he did so, "I was just wondering why you
were doing it, much less here and for such a very long time."
The vulpin was expecting a response from this statement, but
the gargoyle's tired brain only registered two things. Firstly, the
shaking had ceased, and secondly, the speaking had ceased also.
He closed his eyes gratefully.
The shaking resumed.
"I said. . . stop it. . ." the gargoyle whined.
"Just answer my questions and you can go back to sleep," the
vulpin said, "I'm fighting two years of built up curiosity here, and I
really must know more about you."
One of the gargoyle's eyes cracked open a slit, measuring up the
insolent creature. "If I answer. . . you leave?" he asked, becoming
gradually and painfully more coherent with every second that his
rest was denied him.
"Yes," the vulpin answered.
Varken had doubts, but a few more bouts of attempted sleep and
violent shakings convinced him that he lacked other options. He
consented to the interrogation, more just stopped resisting, really,
and after a few, delirious, half-sleeping minutes, the vulpin was
gone again, replaced by blissful oblivion. Whether the pest had
finally gotten its information, the gargoyle neither knew nor cared.
The episode was over, and the world was deluded in rest.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---


Sickly, piss-yellow flames gushed from the quivering blade,
slamming into the wound like an overcharged magic missile. The
transition was brief, leaving a strange, runic pattern engraved upon
the retinas of all who looked on it, and the energies vanished.
The fellblade withdrew from the flesh, echoing an unpleasant, if
short lived, squelching and a scarcely-surpressed whimper from
the victim. Varken stepped back to admire his handywork.
Lucky for the gargoyle, Kereth seemed to have forgotten the
battle entirely.
Kereth was at his wife's side instantaneously, cradling the
wounded arakun in his arms and inspecting her wounds. Nothing
serious, in terms of the physical damages, but his wife was clearly
suffering from some sort of poison, and it was having more of an
effect on her system than the gradual decay that most poisons were
responsible for. Her eyesight was clouding, mostly hallucination,
but there might be some blindness associated with it too. The pain
was paralyzing her also. Looked like the paralysis could be sitting
with her for several minutes.
Kereth knew he didn't have the skills to treat poisoning in
others. In himself, sure, but in his wife? Had they brought theriac,
he'd turn things over to Minion, but they hadn't brought any. He
needed assistance, and quickly. His mind began scanning for other
presences. . .
Varken was admiring the scene, adjusting the small, gray
monocle he wore to allow him a better view. It was perfect. Just
like the old man had said, too. He just the one in back and the
fuzzball was helpless. Well, there would be time for gloating later.
He'd better finish this before somebody called a sentinel.
He raised his fellblade high.

Crack!
Crack-crack!

[Kereth]

---^v-({@****LONG*****@})-v^---
---^v-({@****BEFORE***@})-v^---

-but why couldn't they understand? He had lost his fellblade,
alright? Surely it wasn't the first time it had happened to
someone. Over and over he pleaded with them, but they just
stared at him harshly, refusing to help him find it. Why couldn't
they bring it back to him already? Why all this staring? This cold,
harshness of- of- WHY wouldn't they stop shaking him? Couldn't
they see he was busy? He needed his fellblade back and- and-
and- Uh- AH, F-
The pain had registered again. Fortunately, the swearing that
went along with such a realization was completely internalized and
need not be included in this manuscript. Varken was awake, much
to his own annoyance, and he was still so, so very tired. . .
The shaking continued unrelenting, a last vestage of his dream
that slowly transfered itself over to reality. Varken would have
preferred something else had carried over instead. At least he
could sleep through . . . whatever else there was. The memory of
his dreams was already eluding him.
"Ssstop it," he hissed. The shaking did not stop. He could feel a
tiny set of paws on his shoulder, moving it back and forth.
He cracked an eyelid to look at the culprit.
It was a vulpin, a new one though- the last one had been shorter.
Perhaps this one hadn't heard him properly. "I said, 'sstop it,'" he
hissed a little louder. Still, the creature did not stop.
"If I stopped shaking you," it replied, "you'll just go back to
sleep."
Varken was about to respond, but- well, what could he say? His
instinct was to deny it, but it was quite obviously true. . . his brain
didn't seem to be working well enough to come up with a retort,
and he stalled for what must have been several minutes, trying to
come up with any manner of response.
"My cousin woke you up here some time ago," the vulpin
chimed in at last, filling the silence, "I apologize if he bothered
you. He's quite a persistant fellow when he sets his mind to
something." This assessment struck Varken as ironic somehow,
but he couldn't place the reason. "I heard all about you from him,
though, and I think I need your help with something. I've come up
with a proposition that could benefit both of us greatly."
Varken snarled inwardly. He was far from the mood to be
hearing any sorts of propositions. "Can't this wait until after I
sleep?" he whined, "I'm a bit hung over and I-"
"You're not hung over," the vulpin corrected him, "You're dying
of starvation. I understand it affects Gifted Ones quite differently
than it does the rest of us."
"I'm what now?" Varken asked.
"You're dying of starvation," the vulpin repeated, "But because
you're Gifted, it just ends up draining your stamina without doing
anything to hurt you directly. Try moving, you'll see."
Varken glared at the vulpin as best he could manage, something
that was made difficult both by the unwillingness of his facial
muscles to cooperate, as well as by the fact that the incessant
shaking was throwing off his aim. Reluctantly, he decided to try
what the furball had recommended.
Varken moved and promptly fell over dead.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---


Varken recoiled as the whips bit deep into his flesh. Cracks
sounded in quick succession, and the gargoyle whirled on his new
opponent. Minion Midknight stood before him, staring down his
foe with a demon braid in each hand, flicking the whips at
alternate instances to create an almost unbroken barrage of savage
bites. Varken stepped back out of range, and Minion advanced
slowly, forcing the wayward Fallen farther and farther out of reach
of his parents.
The little runt, Varken thought, continuing to be backed away
from his target. It wasn't that he was afraid of being whipped, but
those things stung! Still, they were only whips, and that was just a
sentinel wielding them. No fallen was supposed to be afraid of
sentinels, was he?
Varken glanced over the sentinel's shoulder. Kereth was still
crouched next to Aurinko. Aurinko was trembling, while Kereth
was tending her wounds and, at the same time, concentrating
deeply on. . . something. The old lady had assured Varken that
there was nothing anyone could do about the poison, but there was
no sense leaning on that unless he could be sure she was right.
There was no help for it, he needed to hurry before anyone else
interfered.
Steeling himself, Varken threw himself into the midst of the
crackling braids.
"Varken Seivent'mal," Minion began, "you are under- ah-
AGH!"
With one foul swipe, Varken swept aside the crashing whips
and closed with the resisting arakun. His blade rained down on the
little sylvan with a demonic fury. Blood splattered the empty
street, and Minion's body was tossed carelessly aside.
Once again, Varken closed with his objective.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@****LONG*****@})-v^---
---^v-({@****BEFORE***@})-v^---



The judgement fields are not a terribly pleasant place to be.
This is not through any fault of their own, but it is more a result of
the means by which men and women are transported there and,
more especially, the status of their existance while they remain.
It is bad enough that one must recieve mortal injuries just to
cross over to the fields. Were this the only problem, it would still
be a place best avoided, but every second spent on the judgement
fields is spent in a ongoing state of total exhaustion, both mental
and physical, with the feeling of being gravely wounded and
eternally at the point of death.
To Varken Seivent'mal, however, this sensation came as an
extroadinary relief. He stretched his spirit body, content to reside
within the newbie fields, rather than wandering off to find the pit.
He sent out his mind, seeking assistance.


Hp: 1/784 Sp: 1/299 Ep: 1/306 Gold: 0 Exp: -12427 >
Varken [retro]: any culties about?
Ilta [retro]: need ress?
Varken [retro]: starved to death on crypt. bring rocks.




-SOMETHINGSHINIER-

[Kereth]

---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---

Whether Kereth just had an impeccable sense of timing, or
whether, given the stress of the situation, his mental processes
stalled, and he completely failed to react, it is difficult to say at
first glance. What is clear, however, is that as Varken threw
himself, blade first, at his diminuative opponent, the arakun did not
even flinch. In fact, he did absolutely nothing at all, just stared
into the tip of the oncoming blade, until. . .
Crash!
Varken fell. The fellblade veered sideways, widely missing its
target, and its bearer stumbled face first into the ground only
inches short of his mark. For several seconds the gargoyle lay that
way, stunned, unable to fathom why exactly he had fallen. Had he
tripped over something? Had he been struck? No and no. He had
felt no impact, either against his foot or any other part of his body.
Perhaps Kereth had cast that one spell that. . . but no, the arakun
was still watching him blankly, and he hadn't formed any unusual
handsigns.
What had it been? What had it been?
A dim recollection passed through the fallen's mind as he pulled
himself to his feet. Just before he had gone down, another
gargoyle had appeared, this one glowing, and bounced, light as an
atomy, off the top of the fallen's head. Could that have-? Well, it
was a shot in the dark, Varken thought, but maybe that gargoyle
had something to do with it.
Varken reoriented himself, turning to face the newcomer.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***BEFORE***@})-v^---



"Welcome back, Varken. Where have you been?" Ilta's voice
chimed, rather oddly, through the stale air of Crypt. Varken sat
upright, immediately helping himself to the decently-sized pile of
rocks that had been provided for him.
He was back! He was alive! The gargoyle savored every
sensation, from the increasing fullness of his belly to the steady
weight of The Fellblade across his shoulders. The smell of the
sulphur pools somewhere distant and the incessant buzzing of an
obnoxious bug served only to reinforce his feelings of vitality.
He scarfed down the rocks, revelling in visions of how things
would be again. He had so many opportunities before him, so
many open roads just waiting to be explored! How much had
things changed while he was away? What new joys would await
him, and what avenues had opened that he might venture down,
rejoicing as always in his power, while slaughtering any fools who
had the nerve to try to stand in his way?
"Hello? Don't eat so fast, or you'll give yourself a stomach
ache."
But where could he possibly begin? He wondered, shoving the
last few stones into his maw and chewing them vigorously. Should
he stop in on old friends? Should he report in to his guild? Should
he check the latest news from the wizards to see how things had
progressed in his absence?
Oh, no, Varken had it. He knew exactly what he was going to
do first, the one, best way he could possibly find to celebrate his
return to the retroverse: he was gonna' go kill some kids in Utopia!
Giddy with excitement, blade in hand, the gargoyle set off to
find a truly awesome adventure.

". . .And nice to see you again too?" Ilta pouted, offering up the
contract to her patron.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---


The new gargoyle flexed his bulging muscles with great effort,
then sidled over to a nearby building so he could lean against its
wall and attempt to look cool for the arakuns.
Varken stared for a moment, then shrugged and turned back on
Kereth. As strange as this sudden appearance was, if the
newcomer wasn't going to actively interfere with his attack, then
Varken could pretty much ignore him. He raised The Fellblade
high.
No sooner had he done so, then the new gargoyle was in the air,
flipping around and aiming a kick directly for Varken Seivent'mal's
head. Varken had no time to react. The foot glowed powerfully,
and the poor fallen watched it sail through the air and connect. . .
barely?
The blow was light, almost nonexistant, but Varken staggered to
remain upright regardless. He turned his attention on his new
attacker, swinging The Fellblade hard, but the gargoyle tumbled
right through his attack, striking Varken with yet another glowing
foot!
The fallen went tumbling backward, and once again, the attacker
looked about for a position where he could attempt to strike a cool
pose. Varken got up, reluctantly, only to find the gargoyle
focusing on him all over again.
He knew when he was outclassed. Varken bolted down the
main road of the alchemist colony, with the monk in close pursuit.
The other gargoyle was quick, and he'd gain in moments, but
Varken didn't need to stay out of range for long. He started
concentrating on his spell.
The pursuing gargoyle closed with his enemy, drawing closer,
closer. . . but not close enough. At the last possible second,
Varken's blade lashed out ahead of him, cutting a rift in the air.
The monk knicked him with one last shot as Varken went tumbling
through, then the rift closed, and the world was quiet.
Arictor Midknight, gargoyle monk and master of the Lee Kwan
Choo martial arts form, looked about himself, then wandered back
over to the arakun party, making sure to look as awesome as he
could manage in the process.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***BEFORE***@})-v^---



Energy flowed into the blade as the child's body disintegrated.
It was a good feeling. Varken had been too long denied this
pleasure. He bent down, deftly scooping up the small pile of gold
the child's vanishing body had left behind.
He scanned the little dwelling, making sure there were no
others here, cowering behind the dinner table or what-have-you. It
was a useless gesture. There were never any more than the ones he
could see outright in this town. So naive and innocent was their
way of life that it never even occurred to them to hide.
The room was quaint, the table piled high with food. Blood
splattered the walls. One of the chairs was broken where the
gargoyle had overcorrected with the Fellblade. Varken turned to
leave.
Just then, a vulpin came strolling in through the door. "Ah,
hello again," the vulpin smiled, obviously pleased to see the fallen.
Just like every other mob around here, Varken thought, and
lashed out with his blade.
The vulpin had obviously not expected this greeting and was
wholly unprepared for the strike. The blade connected solidly with
the side of its ribs, slitting flesh and cracking the fragile bones with
a liquidy "splatch!" The vulpin gave a yelp of surprise and was
sent tumbling across the floor, trailing fresh, frothy blood across
the already ruined carpet.
"What the @#$% do you think you're DOING?!" the vulpin
cried, but Varken ignored him, raising his blade again for the
followup strike. Mobs always shouted the weirdest things when
you tried to kill them.
The gargoyle's aim with the oversized blade was bad, and it got
caught in thatch ceiling as he came around for an overhead strike.
The vulpin staggered to his feet, backing around the other side of
the table, hopefully out of the aggressive fallen's reach.
Two more swings cleared the table's contents, further ruining
the once-spotless decor of the tiny house, while still failing to
connect with the vulpin.
"Cut it out, will you?" he shouted, "I'm just here about that
proposition I mentioned earlier! Will you- GAH!" The vulpin
tumbled under the table to avoid the next swing. Two more chops
and the table was in half, and fallen and prey scampered out into
the street.
"I don't want to have to do this!" the vulpin warned, as the
neatly-kept houses of East Promise Street flashed by on either side.
Still, Varken did not heed his call. They rounded an alleyway, and
the vulpin saw a dead end leering up ahead of him.
"I'll give you to the count of three!" he warned, "One, two. . .
blast it!" They came up against the wall, and Varken drew back his
blade for a finishing strike.
'BBBRRRZZZZZKKKKKKLLLLLNNNNGGGGG!!!!!!.'

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***FURTHER***@})-v^---
---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---


This situation wasn't normal.
If it had been normal, it would have been resolved by now.
It had not been resolved, therefore, it was not normal.

Kereth slumped along the dark, Perdow landscape. Ragnarok
cast the snowy world in its usual dull crimson shade, peering out in
its first quarter between the clouds. Kereth had missed a
snowstorm, come to late, which was a pity, but it would not bother
him today. There would be more storms. There always were.
That snow had fallen on Perdow was unsurprising. The surprising
thing would have been for it to fall without a storm. On Perdow,
even the precipitation was violent.
That was why Kereth liked it here.
Kereth was late returning home. This did not really matter, the
way he figured things. There had been nothing he could have done
on the road in the alchemist colony, and now that his wife had been
taken back to the fort, there was likely nothing he could do for her
there. She was being attended to, and that would have to suffice
for the moment.
Kereth turned his steps aside, as his slow plodding carried him
unceasingly onward, moving up from the pimple-like hills into the
craggy peaks of Scarrowfell's mountains. He ought to move faster.
He knew that. Even if he could do nothing, Aurinko might
appreciate his company. Still he delayed, moving steadily,
plodding.
Kereth needed to be alone right now. Being alone meant he
could be angry and brood. This was something he refused to do
around other people. When strangers were around, he'd put on the
cheerful, happy face of the ditzy, shiny-seeking arakun they all
loved. When he was in his guild, a more serious, guild leader's
guise: the visage of a wise and prudent Imam. When he was with
Aurinko. . . well, he could never be angry around her for long, no
matter how much he might wish it.
When he was alone though. . . that was when he could just be
Kereth.
His paces progressed, moving him ever onward. Alone.

When he finally arrived at his castle, he found a behemoth
trying to give its fellblade a leg up through the window.

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***BEFORE***@})-v^---



One more cultist ressurection and another snubbed selkie later,
and Varken found himself more willing to discuss matters with his
new, vulpin partner. Now that he no longer regarded the vulpin as
another non-gifted fellblade warmer, he was much more anxious to
hear his propositions, particularly where they regarded the
obtainment of wealth and/ or power. His business partner, on the
other hand, was still feeling a bit put off by how easy the fallen
had been to incapacitate.
The porter on the skyship made a last call, then the passengers
felt a slight lurch, and the ship set sail for Nimbus. In the aft
portion of the ship, the vulpin was voicing his concerns.
"So. . . were you -injured- already or something?" he asked,
"Because if that's really all it takes to bring you down, I'm not
really sure if we can work together. . ."
"Yeah, sure," Varken said, waving away the doubts, "Injured or
something. Tell me about the money."
The vulpin was not convinced. "What injured you in Utopia?"
Varken thought fast. "Uh. . ." or, at least, he tried, "I got injured
before I got there," he said, "old wound. So. . . the money?"
"What injured you earlier?" the vulpin asked, not to be
sidetracked.
Varken leaned on his fellblade and scratched his head, trying to
look as if he were remembering and not just making this up as he
went. "A. . . dinosaur," he said, remembering one of them had
injured him quite badly some time or other, years previously.
"There are no dinosaurs on crypt." the vulpin replied, feeling
annoyed.
"Well, it was on Sosel, obviously," Varken said, "I had just. . .
uh. . . gone through a pod, before coming to Utopia."
That was plausible enough, but- "What kind of dinosaur?"
"A. . . big one!" Varken said, "The biggest!" Had Varken
stopped there, he probably would not have been believed. His
story was sketchy, and he delivered it poorly. Worse, the man he
was telling it to obviously had some bardic training, so he -knew-
what bad storytelling sounded like.
Varken, however, did not stop there. Already up to his waist in
boiling water, Varken decided to go ahead and plunge himself the
rest of the way in. He added lamely, "It. . . uh. . . bit my leg off?"

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***FURTHER***@})-v^---
---^v-({@****AFTER****@})-v^---


Kereth strode on into his tower, ignoring the large shape
outside, as it whispered softly to its weapon, "What's going on,
Lucinin? What do you see?"
Kereth sprung halfway up the ladder with a single jump, then
scrambled out into the upper room of the tower, where he found
everyone waiting.
A steady shower of dead leaves rained down over the room,
blending well with the otherwise tasteless motife of crawling vines
and clinging mist that marked the remainder of the environment.
A lone tree trunk stood at the center of the room, reaching up
through a gaping hole in the ceiling, where its branches composed
the remainder of the living space around here.
Kereth wondered what kind of bad hit he was on when he
had originally spoken to the architect.
The raining leaves were fluttering down from the branches of a
aging treant, perched in one corner, next to a round, fluffy basket
bed that looked positively miniscule when placed beside the
massive plant-being. The drifting leaves seemed to have become a
last hopeless gesture after a series of fruitless healing attempts.
Attempts which were made fruitless by the small, darting atomy
biomancer, who kept compulsively casting the healing spells
quicker than the druid could. Beneath them both, a small,
quivering lump of golden-brown fur shimmered and trembled in
the bed. It was Aurinko.
No one had noticed Kereth enter, which was normal enough,
but to her credit, the atomy didn't jump when he addressed them.
The treant did, but just slightly, and there was a very noticeable
delay before it happened. Also normal reaction time, by treant
standards.
"How's she doing?" he asked, "Elthan? Ninth?"
"She. . . is. . ." Elthan began.
"Patient is sustaining no injuries," Ninth cut in, "but she
periodically drops to unconcsiousness as if at the point of death
and has to be revived promptly. No toxins. No diseases, magical
or physical. Her heartbeat is average and she's in perfect health."
"Except. . . that. . . she. . . keeps. . . dying." Elthan clarified.
"Or trying to die, of course." Ninth nodnodded, then added,
almost as a sidenote to the figure in the bed,
"WAAAAAAKEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!"
Kereth nodded uncertainly. If it made no sense to the
biomancer and druid, it was probably well beyond his
consideration for the moment. His next question would have then
been about where his son, Minion, had gone off to, but as these
two were unlikely to know. . .
"So why's Malkais trying to poke a fellblade through my
window?"

[Kereth]

---^v-({@***BEFORE***@})-v^---


"No, no, absolutely not!" the vulpin exclaimed, "You're useless!
Where are we?" He clambered up the ladder and squinted out
through the yellowish rains into the empty Raji air around the sky
ship. "If we haven't passed Nineveh yet, maybe we can jump off
there, and I can make a run for it. Bailing out on a meeting with
the Sultana isn't the brightest thing in the world, but it would be
suicide to-"
"But I can do it!" Varken insisted, finally catching up to the
smaller creature, "I was his roommate just a few years ago! He'll
trust me! Besides, he's not as tough as you say he is. I'm sure I've
beaten him up in Ares' wars loads of times!"
"You know, you're a HORRIBLE liar, Mr. Seivent'mal," the
vulpin snapped, rounding on him, "and you're an even worse
fallen, from what I've seen, but the saddest part of all of it so far is
that it really sounds to me like you believe all that! You were laid
low by a single sonic strike, and you think you're fit to assassinate
the king of assassins himself? I can't believe I didn't realize you
were such a pushover ages ago! To think that I-"
"It's not that! It's. . . a weakness of mine. I don't take fire spells
that well. I. . . uh. . . burn easily and stuff."
The vulpin burried his face in his paws, wandering back toward
the shelter of the hold. "Sonic strike," he said, "Sonic. Strike.
Listen to the name. It's not a fire spell. It's a sonic attack."
"Er. . . that's what I meant," Varken said, "I-"
"No!" the vulpin whirled again, "It's not what you meant.
You're an idiot, and when we get off this boat, I'm finished with
you. The Sultana would have me skinned alive and hung on her
wall if I showed up to our meeting with a loser like you. Better to
take my chances on her annoyance if I just don't show up at all."
He turned back and slipped down the ladder. Varken scrambled
after, racking his brain for some way to still get his hands on all
that money he'd been promised.
He found none. All he could do was sit at the bottom of the
ladder and watch the vulpin pace the hall, muttering to himself
repeatedly, "Please let it be Nineveh next. . . Please let us not be to
Nineveh yet. . . Please let it be Nineveh. . ."
Minutes later, the porter's voice rang out across the decks. . .
"All ashore for Nimbus!"
. . .
"@#$%!"[/b]