« Reply #12 on: September 20, 2020, 04:57:51 AM »
I
RIVER MAP
In the slumbering hours of a ceremonial cycle, beams of storm fire arced fiercely above the steeples of Guallidurth. What sacrilegious swine would make war upon a sacred night?
Effigies of jasper crumbled in the wake of the belligerents, and so too did hawkers and common-folk melt back into the hollowed stalagmites to hide, scattered like dropped coins by the advancing horde. House Thestuul, little more than a cabal of hedonists and charlatans, was under assault from agents of House Belthresk. The latter, known for their skill in the sorcerous arts, sent a cacophony of wracking blasts down upon the manor, shattering icons and windows. Tremors shot up through the bedrock, and the sands of Calimshan may well have shuddered as the battle raged in their belly.
Had it been any other house, the melee would have ceded with little more than a whimper to mark its end. But House Belthresk liked to put on a show. Thestuul's priestesses, drunk from blood-wine and fornication, were outmatched.
In the pastures, the slave herdsmen and their ogre masters paused to watch the brilliant display of might. The ferocity of the battle increased in the distance, and the ogres began to usher the shackled ones back towards their hovels. A bolt of fire careened stray, down towards the fungal field, and blasted shards of shale in all directions. The rothe lowed in panic, and began to bolt.
A lone half-drow decided to seize upon the opportunity. As slight as his full-blooded cousins, he was able to move unnoticed among the rout by bending to a skulking stance. The muscular cattle tossed and battered him about, but he was determined, shoving and tugging his way through tufts of matted hair towards the fence. When he came to the perimeter of the pasture, he took a shard of slate from the ground, and nicked the gutstring that fastened the jagged bone picket together, weakening the section. The herd surged violently, and the air was thick with the stench of sulfur and squalid fur.
Plying his way between the passel of beasts, the man latched to the flank of the largest he could spot, and held fast, climbing down to hold to its underbelly and hide himself among its shaggy hair. With a clatter of osteon, the fence fell apart, and the herd stampeded through into the open. The ogres noticed too late as their charge spread out into the open. Some of the stock forgot their fright straight away, wandering aimlessly. Others crashed deeper into the tunnels to be lost: food for scavengers. The half-drow felt his bearer slowing, and in a rare act of cruelty, he slashed its teat with the stone shard. The creature bawled, running wild. The sound of rushing water came closer and closer, and all the sudden, he was soaked through and pulled under by the tide of rapids and the weight of the flailing she-cow. His head dashed against stone and his elbows and knees were scraped raw as he made a relentless descent through the waters. His breath clotted in his throat, ragged and phlegmatic. At some point, he was able to straddle the drowned beast, clinging to its fur for dear life and driving his head upward. Water poured from his lips and nostrils, and all around him, he saw the winking lights that marked the cusp of consciousness.
Minutes seemed like hours, when finally the waters slowed and the pair were lapped towards a gravelly embankment. Luminescent fungus twinkled on the ceiling above, and bats winked back and forth between hanging perches. The survivor hauled himself up onto his knees and surveilled his surroundings. This stone cathedral was not vast, but the damp air gave rise to all manner of mushrooms; the grey realm's answer to a verdant meadow. Among the corded and bulbous growths, there was movement that the half-drow could not make sense of. Broad caps were moving about on sickly-white appendages in the distance, though it would not seem he had been noticed yet. He wondered what bestial race he shared this haven with as he crawled along the jagged stones. They bit into his raw knees, but he swallowed the pain, ascending the embankment with daubs of blood left in his wake. His hands found a patch of damp Kelpie, and there he settled, stripping away his sodden rags and draping them over a rock to dry. The cavern chittered and sloshed and hummed all around, oblivious to the intruder whose skin was as grey as stone. Pursuers were unlikely. He was naught but a drudge, and held no knowledge that may be deemed delicate by his masters. If they had even noted his absence. And so, here he was, copper in his mouth, iron about his wrists, and wisps in his heart. He could scarcely believe what he had just done, and he did not know what to do with it. It was likely he would die here in the vast, but at least he would know the wonders of carving his own path, if only for a fleeting moment.
« Last Edit: September 20, 2020, 07:48:57 AM by Homebrew Hokum »
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It is not an ending, but an ebbing.