Fiction by J. D. Conrad 2016
Part III (Go to Part II, Go to Part I)
Once out of the city there was little need to appear ordinary, so he quickened his pace. Nusha kept snapping the reins, pushing Takitas faster than he liked to go, which caused the mule to occasionally voice his opinion on the situation. Loudly. Even so, the trip from Iron Tower to Saint Shoku's had never seemed to take so long.
It was still well before midday when the wagon rolled through the gate into the outer courtyard. Sister Pavo was pacing in front of the barn, when she saw him arrive, she excitedly motioned toward the doors, then rushed to open them. She was practically bouncing with impatience as the wagon made its way inside.
As soon as the wagon was inside she pulled the doors closed. Nusha set the brake, and then they both scuttled underneath it. It didn't take too long to get the secret panel loose. The smell from inside was foul. The rank sour and sulfurous air inside the small compartment made him retch. An arm flopped out, grasping desperately for something to pull against. The monks proffered hands and soon a man pulled himself free, dropping to the ground and gasping for air. He mumbled something and pointed back toward the hole. Both monks pushed in their arms and soon pulled out a young girl, then a woman.
Nusha pushed his head into the concealed chamber under the piles of manure to ensure no one else was inside. When the smell hit him he gulped as his bile rose. Pavo was helping the escapees out from under the wagon and into a hay filled stall off to one side. As Nusha resealed the compartment, Pavo brought them a bucket of water and some clean clothes.
Buy the time Takitas was back in his stall and the wagon stowed, the refugees were considerably cleaner. They sat huddled and dazed. Now that they were cleaned up, it was obvious they were a family. Father, mother and a pretty young daughter. The mother looked like she might have some Cathari blood from the shape of her face. Nusha gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile. But he knew that they still had far to go. They would have to be smuggled from Saint Shoku's further East. Then most likely they would be slipped into the dwarven city of Kadin-kar. The dwarves didn't much care for humans, but they hated slavery even more. So they would guide blindfolded slaves into their hidden tunnels, then after some timeless underground trek through the Spine of the World, they would be blindfolded again and taken out of other hidden tunnels. This time in Cathar, well away from the their former masters.
Then they would be free. Freedom, with all its terrors and uncertainty. They no doubt felt that those fears were preferable to watching what would happen to their child. It was likely some overseer, or perhaps even the master of the house, a horned and tailed tiefling noble, had noticed she was blossoming. Nusha hoped that things would work out well for them. He would say a prayer to the dreaming goddess for them every night.
When Pavo got back with some tea and food, Nusha took himself up into the loft. There he sat looking out over the compound that made up the monastery. Within its walls was all the home he'd known since his father and mother, freed slaves, had brought him here ten years ago. As a monastery of the Order of the Blessed Land, life here was simple, but full of hard work.
His gaze lifted, looking out across the rolling farmlands to the North. He could just make out the hazy finger of the Emperor’s tower poking up into the sky. Then he looked East. He couldn't see them, but that way lay the vast snow covered peaks of the Spine of the World. In that moment he decided that he was going with the escaped slaves. He wanted to see the mountains. He wanted to see the world. He too wanted to be free. Not free of slavery, but free of a life proscribed by a mind numbing daily routine. Today he'd felt more alive than he'd ever felt before. If he were a saint, and had written a book, his book would say, “A life without risk isn't worth living.”
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
J. P. is at it again.
Check out JP's most recent posting. He's put up some very nice art, I especially like the image of Fahran.
Earlier this year when running games at Conglomeration people seemed to really enjoy playing that iconic character. Something about an evil cleric as a cooperative (more or less) part of a party seemed to bring out some colorful choices!
Earlier this year when running games at Conglomeration people seemed to really enjoy playing that iconic character. Something about an evil cleric as a cooperative (more or less) part of a party seemed to bring out some colorful choices!
Fiction: Chance of a Lifetime - Part II
Fiction by J. D. Conrad - 2016
Go to Part I
As Nusha padded out of the chapel on sandal clad feet several under priests and priestesses in their green cassocks began to file past him into the chapel for morning prayers. When he exited into the hallway he found himself standing in front of the prior and abbess. They were adjusting each other's burgundy cassocks. Nusha made a quick bow and slid past them to hurry on down the hallway. The prior gave him a reproving look, no doubt feeling that he should be headed into the chapel, not out of it. But the senior priest said nothing, so the layman hurried on.
In short order he was in the monastery's outer courtyard. He saw his wagon and mule standing ready and quickly moved to it. Climbing onto the seat, he took the reins in one hand and made a soothing sound to his mule, Takitas. Slapping the leads across the mule's back sent him rolling out into the street. It was nearly empty, only a couple of beggars were in sight. They were no doubt waiting for the monastery's soup kitchen to open.
As one would expect, Saint Hestar's, providing both a free clinic and soup kitchen, was not in wealthy neighborhood. But the shortest route from Saint Hester's in the slums of Iron Tower, to Saint Shoku's which lay miles outside the city, was through the very heart of the royal quarter. So it was not long before his wagon was rattling down the fine stone street that made up one side of the city's Imperial Square.
He turned to look back over his shoulder at the facade of the Basilica. Despite the aesthetically pleasing soaring columns and graceful arches he shivered in loathing. He'd been inside once. Jewel encrusted art and vaulted ceilings did not come close to compensating for the vile and callous nature of the priestly order that called the temple home.
When he turned to face ahead, before him was the hulking structure that sat opposite it across the square. Sheer stone walls and the great tower of rusting black iron that gave the city its name held no beauty. Instead these structure spoke of arrogance and the naked lust for power that drove the nobility. Most of them were marked by horns, tails and other deformities caused by the blood of devils that ran in their veins.
In the middle of the wide expanse of geometrically perfect stones that made up the square, were obvious signs of the nature of those that ruled this place. There were stocks, gibbets and racks all arranged on low platforms so that the cruelties of the aristocrats could be displayed to the masses. Around the instruments of torture were rows of iron spikes. Here and there a rotting corpse was still impaled on one. On others stacks of up to a dozen human skulls had been spitted like some macabre version of shish kabob.
It was hard not to urge his mule to a faster pace. But to do so might draw unwanted attention from the many soldiers standing watch around the palace. So he carried on slowly, just like any other peasant about his lowly business. Even at such a slow speed, it did not take long to reach the city walls. There Nusha found himself sitting in a queue of wagons and carts waiting to file out of the gate.
Now that the most dangerous moment was upon him, the young layman was wishing the trip from the monastery had taken longer. Steeling himself with prayer, he sought to look a bit bored and impatient. That was how he would normally feel as he waited to exit the gate. He had done many times as he ferried cargoes between the two monasteries. But this was the first time he'd ever tried to slip something past the guards. The problem was, he would have no idea how well he was succeeding at concealing his nervousness, until it was too late to matter.
Finally, he pulled his wagon forward. Four ghilman slave soldiers in their plain mustard yellow uniforms barred his way with their long pikes. Nearby, looking bored, an Imperial guardsman who must be their overseer was leaning against the city wall and sipping from a cup. From the side a fifth slave soldier stepped forward, his red scarf marking him as senior to the pikemen blocking the way.
He looked up at Nusha and said, “You look familiar. What are you hauling today monk?”
Nusha shrugged, “I come this way often sir. I'm from Saint Shoku's.”
The soldier rubbed his chin, “Then why are you leaving the city at dawn, not arriving from there at midmorning?”
“I was busy last night sir.” Nusha twisted and waved his hand at the bed of his wagon. “I am bringing a load of horse manure to the monastery. Collected from the streets. It's good fertilizer for the fields. And free for the taking. Sir.”
Nusha was laying it on a bit thick perhaps. But he'd found the slave soldiers liked to be addressed respectfully by the free. They might be the highest class of slaves, but they were still slaves and never forgot it.
“You have a wagon full of shit?”
“Yes sir.”
The NCO snorted and waved to one of the other soldiers. The indicated fellow was tall thick and very young looking. He lay aside his pike and came toward the wagon. Nusha could see that his jaw was undershot and that his dark skin had a green tint to it. No doubt he had a bit of orc blood in him, many of the ghilman did. Using a wheel spoke as a step the soldier pulled himself up and looked down into the cargo area of the wagon. He made a sound of disgust and dropped back to the street. When he spoke, his oversized lower canine teeth gave his speech a sort of rubbery accent. “Nuttin in der but shit, sur.”
The red scarfed soldier nodded and waved his underling back into place. Then he looked over at the guardsman leaning against the wall. That worthy took a slow sip from his cup, obviously making everyone wait. Then, once he felt that his authority had been affirmed, the bored looking officer tossed his head toward the gate.
“Right. Move along then. But remind me not to buy any of your crop come market day, the gods only know how foul food raised from the shit that litters this city's streets would taste.”
Nusha gave the soldier a sickly smile and flicked the reins. Takitas' hoof beats were nearly drowned out the sound of the slave legionnaires laughing at their leader's quip.
Go to Part III
Go to Part I
As Nusha padded out of the chapel on sandal clad feet several under priests and priestesses in their green cassocks began to file past him into the chapel for morning prayers. When he exited into the hallway he found himself standing in front of the prior and abbess. They were adjusting each other's burgundy cassocks. Nusha made a quick bow and slid past them to hurry on down the hallway. The prior gave him a reproving look, no doubt feeling that he should be headed into the chapel, not out of it. But the senior priest said nothing, so the layman hurried on.
In short order he was in the monastery's outer courtyard. He saw his wagon and mule standing ready and quickly moved to it. Climbing onto the seat, he took the reins in one hand and made a soothing sound to his mule, Takitas. Slapping the leads across the mule's back sent him rolling out into the street. It was nearly empty, only a couple of beggars were in sight. They were no doubt waiting for the monastery's soup kitchen to open.
As one would expect, Saint Hestar's, providing both a free clinic and soup kitchen, was not in wealthy neighborhood. But the shortest route from Saint Hester's in the slums of Iron Tower, to Saint Shoku's which lay miles outside the city, was through the very heart of the royal quarter. So it was not long before his wagon was rattling down the fine stone street that made up one side of the city's Imperial Square.
He turned to look back over his shoulder at the facade of the Basilica. Despite the aesthetically pleasing soaring columns and graceful arches he shivered in loathing. He'd been inside once. Jewel encrusted art and vaulted ceilings did not come close to compensating for the vile and callous nature of the priestly order that called the temple home.
When he turned to face ahead, before him was the hulking structure that sat opposite it across the square. Sheer stone walls and the great tower of rusting black iron that gave the city its name held no beauty. Instead these structure spoke of arrogance and the naked lust for power that drove the nobility. Most of them were marked by horns, tails and other deformities caused by the blood of devils that ran in their veins.
In the middle of the wide expanse of geometrically perfect stones that made up the square, were obvious signs of the nature of those that ruled this place. There were stocks, gibbets and racks all arranged on low platforms so that the cruelties of the aristocrats could be displayed to the masses. Around the instruments of torture were rows of iron spikes. Here and there a rotting corpse was still impaled on one. On others stacks of up to a dozen human skulls had been spitted like some macabre version of shish kabob.
It was hard not to urge his mule to a faster pace. But to do so might draw unwanted attention from the many soldiers standing watch around the palace. So he carried on slowly, just like any other peasant about his lowly business. Even at such a slow speed, it did not take long to reach the city walls. There Nusha found himself sitting in a queue of wagons and carts waiting to file out of the gate.
Now that the most dangerous moment was upon him, the young layman was wishing the trip from the monastery had taken longer. Steeling himself with prayer, he sought to look a bit bored and impatient. That was how he would normally feel as he waited to exit the gate. He had done many times as he ferried cargoes between the two monasteries. But this was the first time he'd ever tried to slip something past the guards. The problem was, he would have no idea how well he was succeeding at concealing his nervousness, until it was too late to matter.
Finally, he pulled his wagon forward. Four ghilman slave soldiers in their plain mustard yellow uniforms barred his way with their long pikes. Nearby, looking bored, an Imperial guardsman who must be their overseer was leaning against the city wall and sipping from a cup. From the side a fifth slave soldier stepped forward, his red scarf marking him as senior to the pikemen blocking the way.
He looked up at Nusha and said, “You look familiar. What are you hauling today monk?”
Nusha shrugged, “I come this way often sir. I'm from Saint Shoku's.”
The soldier rubbed his chin, “Then why are you leaving the city at dawn, not arriving from there at midmorning?”
“I was busy last night sir.” Nusha twisted and waved his hand at the bed of his wagon. “I am bringing a load of horse manure to the monastery. Collected from the streets. It's good fertilizer for the fields. And free for the taking. Sir.”
Nusha was laying it on a bit thick perhaps. But he'd found the slave soldiers liked to be addressed respectfully by the free. They might be the highest class of slaves, but they were still slaves and never forgot it.
“You have a wagon full of shit?”
“Yes sir.”
The NCO snorted and waved to one of the other soldiers. The indicated fellow was tall thick and very young looking. He lay aside his pike and came toward the wagon. Nusha could see that his jaw was undershot and that his dark skin had a green tint to it. No doubt he had a bit of orc blood in him, many of the ghilman did. Using a wheel spoke as a step the soldier pulled himself up and looked down into the cargo area of the wagon. He made a sound of disgust and dropped back to the street. When he spoke, his oversized lower canine teeth gave his speech a sort of rubbery accent. “Nuttin in der but shit, sur.”
The red scarfed soldier nodded and waved his underling back into place. Then he looked over at the guardsman leaning against the wall. That worthy took a slow sip from his cup, obviously making everyone wait. Then, once he felt that his authority had been affirmed, the bored looking officer tossed his head toward the gate.
“Right. Move along then. But remind me not to buy any of your crop come market day, the gods only know how foul food raised from the shit that litters this city's streets would taste.”
Nusha gave the soldier a sickly smile and flicked the reins. Takitas' hoof beats were nearly drowned out the sound of the slave legionnaires laughing at their leader's quip.
Go to Part III
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Why the Children's Story?
The Setting Book begins with a full page "Children's Story" of how the peoples of Rhym were created by the gods. Yet as you read further you realize that the Church has a much more sophisticated "story" in their holy books, and that scholars and sages have yet another story. Why three creation stories?
The reason for the different church and scholarly stories is that I wanted some of the tension between the religious and secular authorities that existed beginning with the Renaissance. This creates avenues for intrigue and adventure. The reason for the Children's Story was completely different.
Most well done game worlds are very complex and multi-layered. They have thousands of years of history, lost civilizations, etc. etc. It takes a long time for a new player to assimilate all of that. But the sooner a player gets their head around what makes a Dorian different from a Tarani, or something similar, the better.
This is the reason for the simple apocryphal story that begins the book. It presents the basics of the religion and all the nations of the world in one simple, easy to comprehend and hopefully entertaining story that the DM can share with the players before things get rolling.
The reason for the different church and scholarly stories is that I wanted some of the tension between the religious and secular authorities that existed beginning with the Renaissance. This creates avenues for intrigue and adventure. The reason for the Children's Story was completely different.
Most well done game worlds are very complex and multi-layered. They have thousands of years of history, lost civilizations, etc. etc. It takes a long time for a new player to assimilate all of that. But the sooner a player gets their head around what makes a Dorian different from a Tarani, or something similar, the better.
This is the reason for the simple apocryphal story that begins the book. It presents the basics of the religion and all the nations of the world in one simple, easy to comprehend and hopefully entertaining story that the DM can share with the players before things get rolling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)