Quoth Musashi:

" ... the new serious plot-thread. OK, the title is a bit cheesy, but the rest of the story will (hopefully) not be. :)

Since I'm the one starting this thread, I'd like to ask a few things:

1) As mentioned, this is a serious plot thread.

2) Human chars, and no superhuman powers. In AD&D terms, nothing higher than level 9 kind of power.

3) Ideally, new chars for this. I'm going to be using my current D&D char -- well, as a basis, at least.

4) This isn't in Britannia, nor any related world. A new place that isn't a fanfic / rip-off of any existing fantasy work.

5) Err... ok, it's cheesy, but... have fun? :)

6) OK, I've finished writing it. I may have gone a bit overboard on the anti-silliness of it, but what's a bit of dark fiction between friends? :)"

You peer uneasily at one another in the dark room. Outside, the storm rages on. One of your members is late for the meeting, and it is very unlike him to be late.

As thunder booms overhead, the door is thrown back. Thideral, your absent comrade, stands in the doorway. His grey eyes contain some emotion you have never seen before from him -- indeed, he normally avoids emotion entirely. He is holding some large bundle on his back, but it is concealed by the wall.

He surveys the room in grim silence. One of you uneasily opens your mouth to speak, but he interrupts you.

"I met him on my way here. And he wanted to know."

A lance of fear passes through you. One of you says "What did you...?"

"I told him, of course". Thideral shakes his head and sighs. "It should have been done much sooner -- and not by me."

One of you bursts in angrily: "Well why did you --"

"What else could I have done, my friend?" Thideral responds softly.

"You know what I value: the pursuit of knowledge. If somebody -- anybody -- asks me a question, especially one as important as that, I will not lie."

There is a mood of grim acceptance. You all know how Thideral is, and knew the risk that it presented. But that risk was better than the alternative... "so what happened?"

Thideral steps fully into the room and dumps his bundle. The body slumps to the ground, and the crown tumbles from its head and tinkles noisily across the floor. Blood seems downwards from the dagger in the body's heart.

"He found out that which we sought to conceal, and as expected took his own life. So what do we do now?"

A figure has not previously spoken mutters "Damn fool," as he gazes on the young King's body.

You turn and look askance at the Outlander who has spoken so harshly. Meeting your gazes with bespectacled brown eyes, Paulon grimaces.

"So what else can you call him?" he asks. "No heir, and he's just abandoned his responsibilities to his people at a time when any little bit might make a difference. You might have a chance to stop what's coming with all the resources of this land behind you to help find a way, but with a realm in chaos due to power struggles, the odds are a lot less. This twit just might have damned his people for eternity."

"I would not say a fool; just somebody in a position that they were not suited for. Can you blame him for wanting to know about her? He was much too nice, much too caring, to be a king. He would have been a perfect village craftsman -- or perhaps somebody who works with horses. But not a king."

Thideral smiles ironically. "Not much of an eulogy, but I've never cared for such things. Dead is dead, and that hunk of meat has no ears -- functioning ones, I mean.

"Nay, his death and the chaos that is sure to follow was a matter of time. And there was little chance of a heir, given her..."

"A foolish tragedy, to be sure. But I expect the pieces can be picked up by willing hands."

Those who are standing nearby to regard the owner of the voice, a large, barrel-chested man in a carefully kept outfit, with a blade peacebonded on his belt. He nudges the dead body with the tip of a metal-shod boot.

"So, how long before word gets out to the people?"

From the dark recesses of the room speaks another voice, this time softer and more melodic in tune.

"I doubt that they would know yet - unless there are more concealed eyes than we. Thideral?"

Thideral smiles at the speaker. "We met outside, and the storm and night ensured both that nobody could witness us from indoors and that few would be outdoors. As soon as we met I checked for magical scrying and continued my vigilance, but none occurred. It is *possible* that someone could have scryed without my knowledge, but not likely -- divination is my specialty. The most likely source of observation would be a child playing in the woods at night in this storm -- and this is not too likely. Even if I was observed after the meeting, I doubt that they would discover what I was carrying."

She - obvious from the voice - steps, nay, glides out of the shadows. Her deep purple, nearly black cloak hides any more refining details.

"Perhaps," she muses, "the public doesn't need to know."

"This is indeed worthy of consideration..." Thideral replies. "Especially since we may face a number of unpleasant questions concerning this matter."

An expression of displeasure passes briefly, like the shadow of a fast moving cloud across the features of the large, well accoutered man with the bound sword. "Do you honestly think you can keep up a charade; for surely that is what this will be; for any length of time? And what will happen when it is revealed? To be sure, those responsible will no more be trusted; indeed, they would become the first targets of suspicion for the speculators to cry that the king was murdered - to be replaced."

Thideral strokes his beard for a moment. "No, of course the charade could not last for any great length of time. And its discovery would undoubtedly cause disfavour to those responsible -- if they are discovered. However, we must logically consider all options based on whatever principals we hold dear. Could we benefit from maintaining a charade? Would that help the kingdom? Once it was discovered, could we frame somebody else? Could we deliberately expose the charade in some manner?

"Suppose, without too much of a suppose, that the King's disappearance would cause much suspicion, at a time when the kingdom can least afford it. Let us also suppose that we could create a mock murder -- perhaps we could fake an attack by some Winged Ones, which 'happens' to kill the King. This would allow the King's death to become known without endangering the kingdom -- and ourselves -- more than it will be anyway...

"However we probably do not wish to pursue such an option -- much too risky, and I can see no immediate benefit. My point is merely that all suggestions ought to be given rational thought and discourse..."

The large man ignores Thideral, and leans close to the dead body, fingers slipping under a thin golden chain around the neck of the corpse. A quick, hard pull and the chain snaps, coming free with his hand. As the others voices protest at his action, he looks up to them.

"I take back what was mine. If you want to quarrel over my right to it, you can do so later. I can smell what comes in the wind, and although I may wish to have no part in it, I know that cannot be, so I am going to see to the well being of the people whose care is my duty to attend to. Send a messenger bird if you need to reach me."

And with that, he turned to walk off into the darkness and the night ...

"And to think he actually offered the 'Regency' to me just last week..." says yet another voice.

The figure comes forward revealing a 20+ year old male; dressed in a red robe, a tunic, & a pair of tan leather trousers.

"I was to be..." The figure started to continue, but...

"He may have offered you the throne, but he couldn't have given it away without the approval of the High Council and his prime minister. And since he couldn't even choose his own prime minister, let alone influence what happened to her," the speaker gestures outside, in the direction of the 'house of fools', "I doubt he could have appointed his successor."

The speaker is a gruff person in his early 30s, dressed and worn like any ordinary craftsman, but obviously with a bit more insight in political matters. Most of you know him as Odlas, and are surprised at his relatively good temper today.

Ten feet away in the darkness, the dull thud of fists on an old oaken door make for a start. A muted, but persistent voice calls forth from the other side of the dry commons.

"Damnation! This is the commons." The speaker beats on the door. "You can't lock it out - I've a right to sleep here!"

From the slit in the door's lock, you can just make out the form of a man, his beaten leathers now dripping wet, his backpack sinking in mud. A carved staff is propped up against a roughly hewn column. The man begins to beat the door more insistently.

It is a night of many surprises.

Back inside the room, a bedraggled cat has made its way through a broken glass window. He leaves tiny paw-prints on his way to the increasingly animated door.

Paulon grabs the royal corpse, and with the assistance of the red-robed man drags it over to a chair in the corner.

As the door vibrates more to the impacts of the traveler's fist, you hear Paulon mutter a word in a strange tongue, "Amscray," as he gestures at the body. There is a flicker of silvery light, then the body seems to shimmer before vanishing. Only the faint depression in the padding of the chair reveals what sits there.

Thideral grabs the crown, concealing it within his garb just as the door slams open, sending the cat jumping away from it, and revealing the irate traveler standing framed in the doorway.

"Cheap lock," Paulon says as he turns towards the door.

"True," says the figure at the door, "but I would have opened it anyway."

The body of a man can be see lying on the ground.

"He looked through the keyhole", the figure explains. "For the moment he sleeps - we will have to decide what to do with him when he wakes."

The figure pulls back the hood of her cloak and surveys the room. Her eyes linger on the chair and then pass on before coming to rest on Thideral.

"Don't blame yourself Thideral, the king sought you out specifically. That's why he was abroad in this storm without his guards."

"How do you know me?" demands Thideral.

"I know many of you - although you don't know me. I have helped you to keep your secret for almost as long as I had watched over the king." Her eyes move back to the chair.

"His body should be taken to her... "

The travel-worn warrior standing guard (rather ineffectually, given the present circumstances) at one corner mutters to the gathered companions, "Blast you all, what is this you've involved me in? Dead kings, unannounced visitors, expected or not, a mysterious watcher.... far from the simple duty of bodyguard you hired me for. You had better be right in that this will lead to fulfillment of my own quest, since it is obviously too far to turn back now."

The warrior shakes his head briefly, then loosens the greatsword slung at his back. He watches the scene intently, knowing that it is indeed far too late to turn back now, for this gathering will not let live a man who knows this much. Whether or not this led him to what he sought, he was entrenched in this matter, better or worse.

Muttering to himself, the wiry man picks himself up from the dirty plank floor. Bits of broken pottery crunch quietly under his feet as he stalks theatrically to his pack, which still rests just outside the commons door.

The cloaked lady watches with indifferent interest, gaze following the man as he stalks back across the room towards the permanently-unlocked door.

His speech increases its volume as he grasps the last of his soggy belongings - a dripping leather bag. With his mock whisper, you have no trouble overhearing his sarcastic performance: "Oh, I know Kitty - I wouldn't want anyone to help me with my things either. No, no... Let's just allow my backpack to retain another bucket of water shall we? It's quite all right really - I enjoy being kept in the rain..."

He sighs.

His tired display finished, the road weary traveler drops everything in the corner. After checking the contents of his pack, the slim fellow finally turns to look at the motley bunch gathered near the center of the room.

Looking at the stranger from across the room, the woman scans the traveler with a critical eye, searching out hidden objects, small twitches belying future treacheries...

You expect an introduction, but questions are posed instead: "Isn't there anything to eat? What sort of common inn is this anyway? Is that stew over the fire?"

"Yes it's stew. Go ahead and have some." Odlas says, hoping that the stranger will pay more attention to the food, than to the people - in particular the dead people.

Unconcerned with the gathering, and not waiting for an answer, the man drips water all the way over to the fireplace. There upon the mantle he sits, eating stew with a spoon - directly from the stew pot.

Shaking her head slowly this man's innocent-seeming uncouthness, cloaked woman is the first to open her mouth to speak.

"Please. Enjoy the stew. The outhouse lies beyond the oaks to the west." Sighing softly, she continues. "Please accept our apologies for keeping you outside - rogues are in abundance, as you probably know."

"Come on. I really think we should get our friend here to a better place. We can't just leave him here, hurt like that. He might get robbed or something, in addition to being hurt." Odlas tries, since he still doesn't like the idea of involving strangers in the secret. However, this second attempt is a more lame one.

The lady looks about for a brief moment, then her eyes revert to their original position upon the sopping man. "Please, pardon my curiosity, but would you kindly let us know who you are?"

Generally unnoticed, the cat now sits directly at the man's feet.

The wet man puts his dish down, and turns 'round to warm himself by the blaze.

"I'm Brizban. This is my cat - Sable. We live in the forest some three weeks journey from here. I'm a simple man, with no talent in particular. I've come to see the town - it's much larger than what I'm used to..."

He walks back towards his pack.

"Well, I've come for more than that (rummages through his pack), but you look trustworthy - so I'll tell thee why I'm truly here. You see, I've come to see this man (holds up a picture of the recently deceased king). We have matters left unsettled - but I suppose that I should speak no more of it, being amongst such mixed company..."

The man nods to the congregation.

"Milady. Sirs..." He says, then looks downwards.

"Yes Sable, I know. I'll tell them naught else."

Brizban replaces his picture from whence it came. Out of a side pocket, he grasps a smoothed river rock and begins to rub it against the length of his clothing. The effect is obscured in the dark corner where Brizban rests, but you're fairly sure that his clothes are wet no longer. Someone almost speaks, but an alarming event stops the sound short.

In the dead King's lap sits Sable (that cat seems to end up in the damnedest places). Before you can react, Brizban booms from the corner:

"I don't suppose you know where the King is now?"

Muttering to himself, the hired mercenary keeps a keen eye on Brizban, ready to draw his sword at any sign of trouble. Things were already confusing enough without a potential threat tossed into the mix.

Aloud, he risks saying, "As you probably can guess, he would be the invisible man your cat is in the lap of."

He then clasps his hands behind his neck, where they are in easy reach of the swordhilt at his shoulder, and awaits what is to come next.

After a long pause, Thideral sighs. "However, I do not believe that your business with him can be resolved at this point. He recently made a decision which had rather drastic effects..."

"... though, based on the alternative, I think he may have made the right one." Thideral shudders. "Few minds can return from that kind of abyss..."

  "Few minds can go anywhere, Thideral," chuckles a voice, seemingly from everywhere, "Especially to that which even few 'live' persons dare to tread."

Everyone looks for the source of that voice, except for Brizban & Sable... They don't even investigate, but just sit where they are, & watch the frantic search for the mysterious speaker.

<< Elsewhere >>

The barrel-chested man who had left, rode hard to return to his lands. There had been too much riding on the dead man not choosing as he had, and now, all the others did was try to hide the fact. Well, he would not. His people would know. And they would be prepared when the time came. The part of the circle he was responsible for would not be broken.

  As he and his horse began to emerge from underneath the glowering clouds and into the clear night air, thronged with scent from the fields all around them, the man perceived a figure ahead, lying sprawled in the road.

Drawing near to the hooded figure, the barrel-chested man drew his horse to, leaning heavily on the reins to shy his steed in time. Rewarding his horse with a reassuring caress, he eased himself off of his mount and stepped down into the lane, surveying the figure with a wary concern.

The figure lying before him shifted slightly, and the barrel-chested man hastily recoiled instinctively.

"Oldest trick in the book,", he thought to himself.

Slowly, the prone figure raised itself from the road, and, as it raised its head, the heavy cloth hood slipped to its shoulders.

Blinking in the unnaturally bright moonlight, the thin face of a young man was revealed. And so, too, were his wounds.

His eyes were swollen, red, and weeping. A cut on his cheek was just beginning to heal. His lips were smeared with a thin, foul-looking cast of blood and soil.

The monk peered nervously at the barrel-chested man, his expression etched with fear.

His high forehead was surmounted by the closely-cropped hair of a man of the cloth, shining silvery-black in the moonlight.

The two stared at each other for a very long time.

Attempting cautiously to rise to his feet, the monk's legs gave way under him, and he toppled sideways, groaning in agony as he smashed into the loose stones of the road.

"Help me," he groaned, his frail voice tattering on the still air.

"Please..."

<< The Inn >>

"Thideral, it's pretty clear that someone knows just what's going on here." Paulon remarks as the fruitless search for the unknown speaker winds down to a close, both in the physical and the magical planes, despite the skills of the powerful diviner.

Seated beside the fire Brizban and Sable doze, apparently not interested in current events, despite the tension in the air from the others gathered.

"We can't just sit back and let things fall to pieces in the Kingdom while we concentrate on the parts of the danger we can see. About the only person in the Kingdom who _might_ be able to pick up the pieces is the Prime Minister. Your gods alone know what she'll do, but I doubt we have a choice. Someone, or something else knows about this, and if they're our foe, then the sooner we neutralize the value of the information they have, the better.

  "She already knows!" says the voice as it forms in the center of the room, "I sent Brizben and Sable to make sure that all was well here before I came."

The figure was clothed in a dark blue robe, so the features could not be easily seen.

"Thideral, you of all people should've known that the king was planning to put his daughter on the Forbidden Isle."

"The king only wanted to be sure that his helper was here to keep you all from putting his daughter on the throne."

Thideral growls. "My studies here have been continually disrupted. First there was the matter of the King's daughter, which we dared not make public, and now this. Fortunately, I managed to get enough research done in between those two events -- I no longer need to be in this backwards country.

"I see that dawn in breaking. Soon the court will be awake, and I shall address them. I will tell them of my meeting with the King, but not the news of his daughter. Though many will think this suspicious, anyone powerful enough to be a bother will know that my order cannot directly lie.

"After that is done, I shall return to my own lands through L-space. I have much more important things to do rather than attempt to save the lives of the entire population of a kingdom."

And so it was done. Thideral told the court of his meeting, refused all further questions, and teleported to his homeland through Library-Space.

The End.