Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

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Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by RocEter »

Foerde's Fate
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Escaping his bonds, Foerde works up a plan to draw the guards in. Grabbing the pee bucket he smacks against the ground. While it does draw the attention of the guards, the only tell him to quiet down. He makes his way slowly to the doors and presses his back flat against the wall hiding from the door. He hurls the pee bucket across the room, it hits the far wall with a clang and clatters is it hits and rolls on the ground.

Foerde waits...

A slot on the door opens and the Elf guard peeps inside. In Elvish the guard says "I do not see the prisoner. Go fetch ten more warriors and we will enter cell in force. He may have broken his chains."

Foerde's plan isn't working as well as he hoped. Apparently he has a smart guard. Thinking on his feet, Foerde begins chanting, at the end of his chant a bolt of frozen lightning appears in the palm of his hand. It extends four feet out from the palm and is thick as sword. Foerde strikes blows with the Lightning blade, but the heavy door holds firm.
It must be enchanted, for the Lightning does little more than scuff the hardboard panel. Pulling the crackling power into a fist sized ball, Foerde unleashes the full force of the magic against the stubborn portal.
Boom!
The door cracks open amid a spray of burning splinters.

Foerde sees two elf guards in the hall just beyond his dungeon cell.
They stand with their hair literally on end, long locks waving up from under the rims of their bronze helmets. Saint Elmo's fire dances on their unsheathed swords.
Both elves stare at Foerde, mouth hanging open.

Taking advantage of their shock, Foerde engages his enemies in melee combat with nothing but his fists and tattered vestments on his back. The melee goes on for a few minutes with Foerde coming out victorious but wounded.

The chase is on, Foerde is pursued by another group of guards. Eventually the catch up to him and is almost kicked senseless. He gets back up and fights off his attackers like a feral cat until an opening for escape appears and he takes it. Finding a small window he squeezes through...

Foerde climbs round the tower, moving away from all windows.

He passes under an bronze cage chained to stone post that sticks out from the wall. Looking up, he sees what look like a human skeleton in the cage.

Moving around further, he reaches a high extension of the great thorn vine. It is as thick as his arm, and thicker still further down.

Testing the vine, he finds it will bear his weight, barely. (Reduced now that he is no longer at full growth).
It sways and creaks as he shimmers down it. Thorns catch his skin and what remains of his clothes.
His fingers and toes go numb from the cold.
He slides a few feet, catching himself on a thorn as big as a spearhead, dangles with his feet in midair for a few precarious seconds before he drags himself inside the tangle of briar.

Pushing himself deeper into the cold jungle of thorn, Foerde descends more slowly but with less risk of falling. The plants provide some protection from the wind, but not much, as the breeze seeps through the gaps and pulls away his body heat.

Agony overtakes him and he moves on by pure animal instinct.The wounded cat seeks a hole to hide in and lick its wounds.

When his mind returns to full human level, he looks about and sees that he is tucked into the hollow under a stone arch. The arch appears seamless but rough. With the light so poor just twinkling a of stars through breaks in the thorns above him, he must feel the arch to discover the truth: no mason made this. It is the root of a gigantic tree, turned to stone by long ages before the elves built the tower. Probably long before men even came to Cerilia, unless some strange elfin magic sped the tree's petrification.

He has little time to contemplate the mysteries of nature or history, though. Cold. Killing cold.
His fingers and toes have blistered. When he stops shivering, he will die soon afterward. His thin coat of fur, which in the past has earned him derision and stares among normal humans, may have kept with from freezing to death for now.

Exhausted but knowing that to stay still too long means a frosty death in the briar, Foerde pushes further down.

He touches down on earth at last.

The animal part of his brain takes over again. From someplace far away, he sees his body digging in the soil and dead leaves under the tangle of briars...

... Foerde wakes in a shallow grave; cold, stiff, but alive.
His whole body aches.
A layer of dirt and decayed plant matter three inches deep covers him from chin to toes. Hazy light shines through the thick growth of blackthorn that surrounds him.

Foerde has just finished his prayers when he hears the briar cracking and shaking. The light increases. Elves appear in a widening gap near him, their thin faces contorted with bloodlust. He counts six, but the briar not yet cut away may hide more. Long knives glitter in their fists. The sky over their heads and shoulders glows pink with dawn.
One of the fair folk screams at him in Elvish,
"Out, abomination, or we will burn you alive!"

"Wont be the first time I've been burned." Foerde says defiantly.

He begins chanting, at the end of his his holy symbol turns into a metal rod. At the top of the rod a spectral chain forms with a spectral spiked ball attached to the end of the chain.

The elves retreat from the gap, but Foerde can still hear them moving about just on the other side of the dense, tree-thick briars vines.

Foerde moves out of briars and into the open, attacking the nearest Elf with his Holy Flail...
History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle and forgets the blood. What ever history remembers of me if it remembers me at all, it shall only be the fraction of the truth.
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by ewancummins »

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One elf falls. But the others attack with long knives.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by RocEter »

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Leaping out of the brair Foerde swings his Holy Flail, immediately taking down an Elf! The other elves try and attack him with their long knives but Foerde's magical protection holds true. Again he swings his flail at another elf but the spectral head doesn't even come close to reaching his foe. The Elves withdraw to bow range and fire a volley at Foerde. Giving chase Foerde, forces the elves into a melee again. Swinging his Holy Flail, he takes yet another elf down.

Using well practiced tactics the elves circle Foerde, weaving in and out switching between slashing and stabbing at the Cat. Foerde is struck once from head on and manages to avoid being tripped! Foerde returns the favor, and strikes his captor! The force of strike sends the elf in a spinning collapse to the ground. Continuing with the same tactic the elves continue press their advantage, he is struck twice. From behind another elf attempts to trip the crazed cat, but Foerde manages to leap into the air and grab a low hanging branch. Pulling himself Foerde attacks a random elf from above, he strikes his enemy square in the head with a blow so hard that half of the elf's skull concave inward. Part of the elf's face and brain splatter on thick trunk of the tree, Foerde is in...

A bit shaken but undeterred, the elves with draw to bow range and fire another volley at the seemingly possessed Cat, missing. Leaping out the tree, Foerde rolls on the ground and dashes to the closest elf and swings his Holy Flail. Strikes his foe right in the chest, the elf drops to the ground like a sack of bricks.

Beaten, bruised, feeling a bit exhausted, cut and stabbed, Foerde looks towards the last standing elf. Thick overgrowth, tree rocks and rocks will make a challenge for him to get to his enemy but Foerde is fueled by the GLORY of battle and charges forward! The Elf watches in amazement and wonders if the last he is going to see is this Cat deftly navigating the dense and difficult terrain, much like an elf would, is the last he is going to see...

It was.
History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle and forgets the blood. What ever history remembers of me if it remembers me at all, it shall only be the fraction of the truth.
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

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Foerde hears footfalls coming through the trees, from the direction of the Tower. Hounds baying, too.

He grabs a long knife from one of the fallen enemies and runs towards the ice blue lake beyond the tree line to his north.

The thin ice cracks under his feet. He hurries on as arrows skitter across the shelf behind him.
A quick backward glance shows dozens of hostile elves swarming on the forested shore. Huge, red mouthed dogs howl and race along the edge of the lake.

And then the ice gives way under his feet.
He sinks feet first into the frigid water, dropping like a plumb line.

But his blessing of endurance protects him from the chill. He bobs up, sucking in air. Arrows strike the ice less than twenty feet to his left.
He runs the long knife through his ripped clothes, snagging it in place, and then submerges again before the elves can sight him and launch another volley.
Swimming under the ice, he moves further from the savage enemy...
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

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Under the ice, Foerde slows his swimming speed, saving energy.
He paddles along, coming up for air as needed and poking holes in the thin ice with his stolen elvish blade.

Long into the swim, something snags his foot. A tree branch, part of a larger mass of dead trees in the water. He kicks loose. The water overhead isn't ice packed , so he does not even need to break through a crust to rise for air.
When he does, he finds himself staring into two big brown eyes set on a furry head as big as a bear's but equipped with rodent teeth. The large creature sniffs at him. It slaps the water with its big flat tail.
It makes no hostile moves, but watches Foerde.

Looking past the animal, Foerde sees a big, wide dam of trees mounded with dead leaves and mud. It looks a big as a barn, and may be larger under the waterline. Maybe much larger. The gnawed ends of many of the logs look white and fresh, and some sections seem incomplete. Arrows stick out of some of the timber.
Beyond that, stumps among the uncut trees reaching up the lakeshore.
This looks like the opposite side of the lake. If he looks back over his shoulder, he sees the Tower rising above the mists across the water.

The huge rodent sniffs him again. It slaps its tail again, several times.

Snouts poke out of three openings in the great wooden dam lodge.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by ewancummins »

While Foerde considers how to deal with the animals, the one just in front of him draws closer until its nose almost touches Foerde's head.
It sniffs again.
The animal chatters and squeaks at him, making some sounds Foerde recognizes.
Words! It speaks the common tongue of Anuire, though in a debased sort of pidgin mixed with animal noises.
"Not elf. Not us. You friend? You foe?"
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by RocEter »

ewancummins wrote:While Foerde considers how to deal with the animals, the one just in front of him draws closer until its nose almost touches Foerde's head.
It sniffs again.
The animal chatters and squeaks at him, making some sounds Foerde recognizes.
Words! It speaks the common tongue of Anuire, though in a debased sort of pidgin mixed with animal noises.
"Not elf. Not us. You friend? You foe?"

Foerde's grow wide when the animal speaks the common tongue. He blinks several times before regaining what compuser a soaking wet cat treading water can.

"Very much a friend." He says. "Elves give chase, a place to hide and rest would be good."

Foerde continues to tread water calmly while waiting for the beavers response.
History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle and forgets the blood. What ever history remembers of me if it remembers me at all, it shall only be the fraction of the truth.
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by ewancummins »

The creature chatters and slaps its flat tail on the water.
The three snouts poking through the openings in the lodge wall pull back and wooden covers like crude shutters slide across the openings, sealing the structure.

The talking animal says "You come." And then it dives.
Swimming after it, Foerde follows it down toward a submerged opening in the dam.He loses sight of his guide's webbed back feet and wide tail, and then of everything as he goes into the tunnel.

Swimming blind, he feels his way up the wooden passage.
He comes up in a circle of water that opens in the floor of a dim lit space. Things move in the shadows very near to him. As his eyes adjust, he sees the crouching forms of four large animals gathered round the edges of the big chamber. Looking up for a moment, he sees that the weak light streams from vents cut in the wooden ceiling.
The air smells of wood chips and wet fur.
Apart from the soft breathing of the big rodents and his own body sounds, the only noise he hears is water dripping from the coat of his guide.

Then the guide says, "You eat?"

A slightly smaller (but still bigger than Foerde) rodent ambles over with something clutched in its forepaws. It sets the object, a wide and shallow wooden bowl, down on the floor near Foerde. The vessel contains twigs and roots.

Both the rodent guide and this second rodent push in close.
Behind them to either side , two rodents about Foerde's size peek around the bigger creatures.

The one that brought the bowl says,
" Eat?"
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by RocEter »

Not wanting to be ungrateful, Foerde accepts their offering of food and attempts to eat it.
History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle and forgets the blood. What ever history remembers of me if it remembers me at all, it shall only be the fraction of the truth.
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by ewancummins »

RocEter wrote:Not wanting to be ungrateful, Foerde accepts their offering of food and attempts to eat it.
He can't really eat all the bark and cambium without making himself sick, but some of the roots prove edible with sufficient chewing. They taste like dirty turnips. And the small twigs make very handy teeth cleaners, leaving a fresh and sharp taste in his mouth.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Re: Birthright: The Worm's Supper, Foerde's Fate

Post by ewancummins »

Later...


Foerde squats in the blind of stones and deadwood at the edge of the clearing, eating the last of his packet of raw fish.

The cold meat gives him a little extra strength. He grips his crudely fashioned spear. It did for a large fish, but will it suffice for an elf?

The beastman hears a soft crackling in the brush and snow nearby. The chink of metal on metal.
He peeks over a stone.
Elves.
Just two that he can see, both armored in coats of mail that glitter like first in the noon sun. Swords swing at their hips, bows and quivers jostle against their shoulders as the pair step lightly over the dead weeds and patches of snow. They leave no footprints.

Passing though the little open space among the encircling firs and pines, the elves do not so much as cast a glance Foerde's direction.

One laughs.

If they do not stop or slow down, in another moment they will have passed from sight.

If what the Beavers told him proves true, then this pair may be headed for the mine entrance or cavern nearby.
Perhaps.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.

-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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