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"The Mournful Flame"
May. 30th, 2022 07:17 pm"The Mournful Flame"
10/1213DR
I.
"Even for a dive like the TWO-HEADED EEL, the riff-raff are a most unsavory lot tonight," grumbled Varlay the Lynx. He had squeezed in behind a round table in one of the darker corners of that tavern, with a candle stub on a copper plate flickering uncertainly between his cupped hands. As always, he had his back to a wall where he could watch the open doorway beyond which midnight loomed. Not enough fresh air came in to displace the reek of spilled ale and old vomit, of unwashed clothing and unmopped floors.
Pulling out a stool to plop down unceremoniously facing the Lynx, Lankur grinned at his smaller companion. A Khebiran, Lankur had the smooth dark brown skin and sharp features of those natives of the desert realm. Even for his race, though, he was unusually large and stood closer to seven feet tall than six, with rounded muscles hard as boulders straining his linen tunic. That garment was the brightest crimson possible, and as if he did not already present enough of a flamboyant figure, the giant also wore a gold bicep band and a hoop earring on his right side. Lankur kept his head shaved, emphasizing the square jawline and deepset brown eyes. "And we are among the more disreputable of said dregs," he chuckled without trying to lower his deep baritone. "I see three of the Night Gorillas from Danarak. Sailors from distant Chujir in their silk blouses. That scar-faced glowering rascal at the bar itself must a slayer of the Assassins' League. Here we sit as their peers... the two best thieves in Mordain we may be, but wealthy we are not."
Lankur had unbuckled the leather baldric which held his sheathed two-handed greatsword and propped it up against the wall by his side. The small throwing hatchet remained in his belt. "Even so," he continued, "See here. I have two silver coins and five coppers left. Enough to drink till dawn, Lynx. Perhaps a barmaid or two will join us."
"Hah, then we will leave without even a single copper." Placing his own pouch on the table, Varlay nudged it unhappily. Not much more than five feet in height, reaching only to Lankur's chest when they stood side by side, the Lynx was a slightly built man with limp corn-yellow hair and light blue eyes in a pale oval face. He kept that face half-concealed in the shadows of his cowl. Varlay dressed like the monk he had once been, wrapped in a tightly-sashed robe of coarse brown burlap with loose sleeves in which his hands remained concealed. In contrast to his flamboyant companion, the Lynx was a creature of shadows and obscurity. His own sword was a narrower dueling weapon meant for precise thrusts rather than hacking, and he kept its scabbard against his leg.
"I think we should stay thirsty until we see what offer this Necromancer has for us," Varlay said at last. "I do not recognize the name Churustan at all, is it familiar to you, Lankur?"
"Not in the slightest. I am not even certain what land would produce such an ungainly appellation. No matter." Catching the eye of a tavern wench, he bellowed out "Two bottles of Sour-Stomach Wine, my dear!" in a tone that could have been heard clearly outside the tavern.
As the bottles were brought and he handed the robust peasant girl some appropriate coins, Lankur rubbed his wide jaw thoughtfully. "Suppose I were to let my beard grow, Lynx. Do you think it would make me even more handsome? Winsome lasses would follow me down the street."
"A beard? With your dome still shaven clean as a baby's rump?" retorted his partner. "From a distance, you would seem to have your head on upside down!"
Lankur gulped down half the wine, thumped himself in the chest and produced a prodigious belch. "Ah, thus confusing my opponent in a duel, eh?"
Both men gave a violent start, Varley dropping his barely-touched bottle to the filthy floor with a clatter and Lankur seized the dirk in his belt. A tall gaunt figure shrouded in a dark cloak had moved slightly, revealing he had been in fact standing right next to them without being seen.
"Draldros dig my grave, I'm on my way!" cursed Lankur with genuine heat. "Where did YOU come from?"
"Forgive me," came the answer in a low, silky tone. "I did not wish to be noticed. Allow me to offer my name, I am that same Churustan who asked to meet you here". Under the deep cowl which shadowed his head, the stranger further concealed his features with a gauzy scarf bounded over his lower face. Only a pair of deepset dark eyes regarded the two adventurers with sardonic amusement. "Lankur the Mighty, of Khebir? Varlay the Lynx, son of Skandor?"
"Admitted," said the smaller blonde thief. Varlay dug with the toe of one boot under the table in an unsuccessful attempt to locate his wine. "Forgive me for boldness, but your accent is not immediately familiar to my ears. Could it be that you grew up within the shadow of the Burning Pyramid?"
The stranger raised a gloved finger to his own lips in a hushing gesture. "Nay, I am no Dartha. My Race is not well-loved, for good reason. Best that the patrons of this deplorable hovel know not that a Necromancer walks among them, eh?"
"Deals with those of your Art seldom end happily, it is said." Lankur drew himself up straighter, scowling with no attempt at tact. "Too many tales are told of mortal Men who regret ever making an agreement with sorcerers. Sudden and unpleasant deaths after accepting your coins, a slow wasting away from taking your artifacts, lovely women who turn into serpents..."
"Silver is pure," came the answer. Opening the front of his tunic, the stranger held up a soft leather bag tied at its mouth with cords. "You may each examine this if you like. You must know that silver is the one substance that of my Art cannot ensorcell. None of our curses will take hold on the moon's own metal, and there is enough silver dust here to buy you each a mansion of your own."
"It would be only prudent to examine that pouch where we cannot be watched by nosy neighbors," Varlay said. "I assume that we would earn it by stealing something guarded by either a hundred armed Melgarin or by a winged Kushelan demon or perhaps a cave full of venomous spiders big as dogs?"
"Nothing so easily dismissed as that," the sorcerer smirked. "True, I do wish to retain your services to bring me a sample of the Mournful Flame, that rare violet fire which burns cold and cannot be extinguished. The real challenge you will face is that another mercenary is on his way to claim it first."
"What, only one man?" scoffed Lankur, waving a broad hand in dismissal. "Feh. I thought there would be real peril in store. He is as good as slain, the poor fool."
Churustan leaned in closer, lowering his mellow tones. "This warrior is an abomination like no other. Have you never heard of Romal the Mongrel?"
( the rest of the story )
10/1213DR
I.
"Even for a dive like the TWO-HEADED EEL, the riff-raff are a most unsavory lot tonight," grumbled Varlay the Lynx. He had squeezed in behind a round table in one of the darker corners of that tavern, with a candle stub on a copper plate flickering uncertainly between his cupped hands. As always, he had his back to a wall where he could watch the open doorway beyond which midnight loomed. Not enough fresh air came in to displace the reek of spilled ale and old vomit, of unwashed clothing and unmopped floors.
Pulling out a stool to plop down unceremoniously facing the Lynx, Lankur grinned at his smaller companion. A Khebiran, Lankur had the smooth dark brown skin and sharp features of those natives of the desert realm. Even for his race, though, he was unusually large and stood closer to seven feet tall than six, with rounded muscles hard as boulders straining his linen tunic. That garment was the brightest crimson possible, and as if he did not already present enough of a flamboyant figure, the giant also wore a gold bicep band and a hoop earring on his right side. Lankur kept his head shaved, emphasizing the square jawline and deepset brown eyes. "And we are among the more disreputable of said dregs," he chuckled without trying to lower his deep baritone. "I see three of the Night Gorillas from Danarak. Sailors from distant Chujir in their silk blouses. That scar-faced glowering rascal at the bar itself must a slayer of the Assassins' League. Here we sit as their peers... the two best thieves in Mordain we may be, but wealthy we are not."
Lankur had unbuckled the leather baldric which held his sheathed two-handed greatsword and propped it up against the wall by his side. The small throwing hatchet remained in his belt. "Even so," he continued, "See here. I have two silver coins and five coppers left. Enough to drink till dawn, Lynx. Perhaps a barmaid or two will join us."
"Hah, then we will leave without even a single copper." Placing his own pouch on the table, Varlay nudged it unhappily. Not much more than five feet in height, reaching only to Lankur's chest when they stood side by side, the Lynx was a slightly built man with limp corn-yellow hair and light blue eyes in a pale oval face. He kept that face half-concealed in the shadows of his cowl. Varlay dressed like the monk he had once been, wrapped in a tightly-sashed robe of coarse brown burlap with loose sleeves in which his hands remained concealed. In contrast to his flamboyant companion, the Lynx was a creature of shadows and obscurity. His own sword was a narrower dueling weapon meant for precise thrusts rather than hacking, and he kept its scabbard against his leg.
"I think we should stay thirsty until we see what offer this Necromancer has for us," Varlay said at last. "I do not recognize the name Churustan at all, is it familiar to you, Lankur?"
"Not in the slightest. I am not even certain what land would produce such an ungainly appellation. No matter." Catching the eye of a tavern wench, he bellowed out "Two bottles of Sour-Stomach Wine, my dear!" in a tone that could have been heard clearly outside the tavern.
As the bottles were brought and he handed the robust peasant girl some appropriate coins, Lankur rubbed his wide jaw thoughtfully. "Suppose I were to let my beard grow, Lynx. Do you think it would make me even more handsome? Winsome lasses would follow me down the street."
"A beard? With your dome still shaven clean as a baby's rump?" retorted his partner. "From a distance, you would seem to have your head on upside down!"
Lankur gulped down half the wine, thumped himself in the chest and produced a prodigious belch. "Ah, thus confusing my opponent in a duel, eh?"
Both men gave a violent start, Varley dropping his barely-touched bottle to the filthy floor with a clatter and Lankur seized the dirk in his belt. A tall gaunt figure shrouded in a dark cloak had moved slightly, revealing he had been in fact standing right next to them without being seen.
"Draldros dig my grave, I'm on my way!" cursed Lankur with genuine heat. "Where did YOU come from?"
"Forgive me," came the answer in a low, silky tone. "I did not wish to be noticed. Allow me to offer my name, I am that same Churustan who asked to meet you here". Under the deep cowl which shadowed his head, the stranger further concealed his features with a gauzy scarf bounded over his lower face. Only a pair of deepset dark eyes regarded the two adventurers with sardonic amusement. "Lankur the Mighty, of Khebir? Varlay the Lynx, son of Skandor?"
"Admitted," said the smaller blonde thief. Varlay dug with the toe of one boot under the table in an unsuccessful attempt to locate his wine. "Forgive me for boldness, but your accent is not immediately familiar to my ears. Could it be that you grew up within the shadow of the Burning Pyramid?"
The stranger raised a gloved finger to his own lips in a hushing gesture. "Nay, I am no Dartha. My Race is not well-loved, for good reason. Best that the patrons of this deplorable hovel know not that a Necromancer walks among them, eh?"
"Deals with those of your Art seldom end happily, it is said." Lankur drew himself up straighter, scowling with no attempt at tact. "Too many tales are told of mortal Men who regret ever making an agreement with sorcerers. Sudden and unpleasant deaths after accepting your coins, a slow wasting away from taking your artifacts, lovely women who turn into serpents..."
"Silver is pure," came the answer. Opening the front of his tunic, the stranger held up a soft leather bag tied at its mouth with cords. "You may each examine this if you like. You must know that silver is the one substance that of my Art cannot ensorcell. None of our curses will take hold on the moon's own metal, and there is enough silver dust here to buy you each a mansion of your own."
"It would be only prudent to examine that pouch where we cannot be watched by nosy neighbors," Varlay said. "I assume that we would earn it by stealing something guarded by either a hundred armed Melgarin or by a winged Kushelan demon or perhaps a cave full of venomous spiders big as dogs?"
"Nothing so easily dismissed as that," the sorcerer smirked. "True, I do wish to retain your services to bring me a sample of the Mournful Flame, that rare violet fire which burns cold and cannot be extinguished. The real challenge you will face is that another mercenary is on his way to claim it first."
"What, only one man?" scoffed Lankur, waving a broad hand in dismissal. "Feh. I thought there would be real peril in store. He is as good as slain, the poor fool."
Churustan leaned in closer, lowering his mellow tones. "This warrior is an abomination like no other. Have you never heard of Romal the Mongrel?"
( the rest of the story )
