AN IRONDUNE PLOT THREAD

A plot thread started by Irondune Dragon on the 12 of July 2000, this thread has been continued by Hourglass, Tailrace, and Paulon. The most recent post was on the 11th of August.

 

"...and so it comes to pass that fire and ice shall rein(reign? rain?) together amongzt the filds (files? fields?) of Flotzen, and the sekers shall now (now? Know?)the hasten of his powerz. And he shall raiz (Raize? Raise?) the temple of his glorie, and all shal fal (Fail? Fall?) before him, if the Eyz of Phrfcy opnnot..."

-The Papers of Avnotar the Weak, Page 579

Translated by Scribe Jasper K. Malfern

 

"...and so it comes down to you." the old man was saying.

The two men sat in the corner, drinking mulled cider.

"I don't understa-" began the younger one.

"You will." The old man pulled out a parcel and set it down before the younger one. "Fate will pull together the Children. It is up to you to lead them."

"I've been a failure all my life!" hissed the younger man. "Failing at wizardry, failing at knighthood, what else is there left for me to fail at?"

"You are a formidable warrior."

"Formidable? Laughable, you mean."

"The tale of your destruction of the goblin camp still is told in all taverns of the North."

"That was using my brain, not my sword."

"Then use that as your weapon."

"How will fate bring these 'Children' of whom you speak together?"

The old man paused. His nose now peeked out beneath his hood, revealing a pock-ridden and ancient face.

"Time runs short."

"I want an answer!"

"When I leave, I want you to promise me that you will leave from the back. Not from the main door."

"Why in the lower hells-"

"Swear it!" hissed the ancient man, leaning on a gnarled staff that was now in his hand.

"Fine, fine. I swear it."

"Good. Now, prepare yourself. And don't open the Parcel unless you need help in deciphering the remains of the Prophecy."

"Where are you going now?"

"To send you on your way..." said the old man. He turned and left. As he exited the tavern, a chill wind blew through. Winter approached the small city of Ambershine, and many huddled deeper into their cloaks.

A short man with a strange hat on entered the tavern. He looked up and in a sibilant voice, whispered:

"The Trade routes have been sealed. So has your doom."

And he erupted in a ball of flame.

Gasping, the young man attempted to rise to his feet, but tripped. He could see clearly a burning creature fighting with the patrons of the bar, and felt a hand on his shoulder, hoisting him up...

 

The hooded figure pulled up the boy much as he would have lifted a light blanket from his bed and then abruptly pushed him aside. Clutching an ornate staff with his left hand, he approached the burning being, beginning to slowly swing his weapon in broad, elaborate arcs; just as the flaming creature noticed him, he stopped his steps, continuing to move the staff in an hypnotizing pattern. The fire thing, not much impressed, grinned and moved just as to leap onto the man: quickly crouching, the hooded man simply straightened up his weapon, striking the fiend in mid-chest. In the exact moment the staff touched the flames, the sizzling noise of electricity exploded from the tip of the weapon. The creature dropped to the floor with a loud 'THUD', groaning in agony as its flames began to quiver.

The man turned to look intently at the youngling...

 

"What is it? Did you kill it?" asked a man nearby.

"I hope he hasn't, " replied another as he pushed through the crowd of tavern workers and patrons, wielding a large fork menacingly.

"Why?" asked someone, wondering if a fork was really the best weapon to finish it off.

"Because I prefer toasted bread," said the man. So saying, he stuck a slice of bread onto the fork and held it over the monster. While he was doing this, he turned to the man with the staff (obviously considering him to be a fellow who knows what he's doing) and asked him if he knew what the thing was. "Daemon? Fire mage? Elemental? Or just a bad case of heartburn? I've certainly never seen anything like it before, and I'm in the sort of business where encounters with various nasties are all in a days work."

He turned back to the thing upon noticing that its flames seemed to be flickering. "Now don't expire just yet, you runaway bonfire, you. My toast isn't ready yet." He turned the piece of bread in order to heat the other side.

 

The hooded man's lips curled in a barely visible smile as he turned to the fork-wielding guy. "You would call it 'fire minion'. Lesser spawn of Fire elementals. Annoying sort of scum, if I must say so" spat out the hooded figure, as he checked his cloak for burned spots. In doing so, he exposed for a few seconds his left wrist, which bore a tattoo in the form of a sword with a crescent-shaped hilt: the mark of the War Mages of Lunian...

 

The fire minion twitched a few times. Its flames finally went out with

a "phut". The man with the fork sighed, then started crunching away at

his toast. After swallowing a mouthful he turned to the mage.

 

"A fire minion, you say. Fascinating. Now that you mention it, I have

heard of the little rotters, but I would never have thought that they

could impersonate humans like that. I shall have to remember that. I

shall also remember that you are not the sort of person to get into an

argument with. Or should that be, 'with whom to get into an

argument'?" he added to himself. "Whatever, I congratulate you on your

skill."

 

Another person in the tavern, a man whose clothes suggested a mercantile occupation, asked aloud at this point," But what did that, er, fire minion, or whatever you called it, mean about the trade routes being blocked? I mean, winter has barely begun - the roads can't be snowed in yet. Certainly not the lower-level routes."

"Apart from the cold, the weather's been fine," somebody else piped in. "Although it's not unknown for it to change very quickly in these parts."

The merchant grunted and stepped over to the door. As he opened it, another blast of cold wind swirled around the room, causing the candles to flicker like the dying fire minion. "Well, the sky seems clear on this side," he said, before stepping out and turning round to examine the sky behind the tavern.

He had to walk back a few steps to see past the building and as those within watched him move the wind dropped for a second. Curiously, the door slammed shut at the same moment. The wooden bang was a followed by a dreadful scream.

As those few patrons who had returned to their seats sprang up, and about everyone else jumped about three feet into the air, the scream stopped suddenly, amidst a sickening sound of tearing and snapping. Something hit the door with a wet thump.

"Of course," the man with the fork said into the ensuing frightened silence, "the trade routes may be blocked by something a bit more horrid than a few snowdrifts."

 

"That's precisely what has happened" stated dryly the War Mage, pulling the hood of his cloak to reveal his face. Of indefinable age, not young, nor certainly old, the man had a regular face, not marked by any wrinkle, and his hair, crow-feather black for the most, bore tiny gray-silver strands near the forehead; yet, the most uncommon thing about him was his eyes: deep silver, so metallic that the irises seemed to be intertwined with blue sparks as he moved his head and light changed its angle of impact on them.

"I don't like this. I NEVER like it when I don't know what I'm sent into" he shrugged. "So" he turned again to the boy "would you mind enlightening me just a bit on WHY my superiors threw me into this hellhole, mumbling about a prophecy?".

 

The attention of everyone in the room is diverted back to the main door as it swings open. Within the snow blown by the rising wind a figure is dimly visible. The bar's patrons draw back as it steps into the room.

Despite the recent events surrounding the use of that portal, the figure does nothing but shake snow off itself and walk over to the bar. Despite the light of the fire and the lanterns above, the individual seems indistinct, as if the eye of the beholder refuses to fasten onto him.

As the figure speaks to the barman, a drinker, either braver or more foolish than the rest makes for the door. The drinker stops though, as the bar falls down, locking the main door.

"I wouldn't go out that way if I were you," the newcomer states as he turns away from the bar, a glass of wine in his hand. The voice is of a man, deep but of indeterminate age. "The thing out there's not going to let anyone walk out and live." The man's voice is clearly amused as he continues. "It's pretty stupid though. It's only guarding against people walking out the main door. If you must go out on a night like this, climb out the window, or use the back way. They're clear. For now." The figure turns back to the bar to drink.