Well, my month of Hel has ended and spring shines it’s welcoming, cheery light upon my workstation yet again. With a pile of work cleared from the timetable, I am now able to return to the blog and provided new, exciting content. To celebrate this occasion, I have decided to post an old short story from elsewhere.

It’s at least new to here!

This is another little short to further develop my character in Derek’s D&D campaign. Little did I realize that 5th edition includes a reward mechanic for this narrative nonsense I perform pretty regularly in my role-play groups. Every one of these little stories nets me an Inspiration Point. I don’t really know what the value of them is but I intended to collect as many as I can! As a quick reminder and overview, this is my ex-Cultist character Kaliban who was born and raised in the most generic fantasy world conceived by mankind. He, however, was lifted from that world and thrown into the most bizarre setting conceived by mankind as Derek loves running Planescape stories. It seems, poor Kaliban, has found some solace in the strange and overwhelming metaphysical planes by developing a rather questionable addiction to alcohol. Thus, whenever he gets a little too drunk, some unfortunate member of the adventuring party receives his unwanted affections. In this case, it is our royal half-genie Barou Nariah who, from my nearest estimations, is essentially a female Johnny Storm (the Human Torch) from Marvel’s comics. Also, she’s a princess. Or a duchess. Or maybe she’s just a snob. It’s sometimes hard to tell.

***

“You can say what you will about dwarven hospitality but there is one front upon which they will never disappoint.”

Lady Nariah stirred. The dark corners of the Ironridge tavern were considerably less so with the stouthearted genasi illuming them. The gentle wick of the faintest twisted threads along her scalp gave birth to flicking tongues of hungry flame which spat jittering shades upon the walls. The wood was painted in the soft gold and orange of her cast-off illuminance, making it somehow richer than it was in the empty spaces where she was not.

Her eyes were like twin rubies fed with an unquenchable inner flame as they focused on the tattooed man that slumped within the chair opposite her. He had but two flagons in either knuckle, the sticky sweet contents rolling off the too full rims in frothing rivulets along their stone sides.

She watched without response as both vessels clattered upon the table and one was pushed her way.

Her guest did not wait for her to join as he raised his flagon into the air, gulping greedily the contents with an unquenchable throat. He was not a large man but his thirst appeared insatiable as he finally lowered the tankard with but the shallowest amount left to slosh along the bottom.

“It wasn’t the most uncomfortable night I’ve ever had but it’s a far cry from the most pleasant. Makes you almost yearn for those echoing halls of the Nursery, doesn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Quite the metaphysical query,” he said, swaying upon his seat. The eyes amongst the dark pits of the inked skull were blood-shot and bleary. They had difficulty focusing on Lady Nariah, seeming to flitter about the shadows which writhed and prostrated themselves before her presence. He seemed almost distracted by the empty corners of the private alcove, as though he stared through Nariah into a place far from this small wedge of the Outlands.

“I suppose I am here because some being willed it so. What is our mortal lives but the discarded intentions of titans too absentminded to notice our existence? We’re the shuddering, shivering crumbs of meals the giants forgot they ate, collected in the cracks and crevices of the world shadowed by their majesty.”

“No,” Lady Nariah said, with a shake of her head. “What are you doing here?”

Her finger rapped upon the table for emphasis. The tattooed man merely squinted at her as though he expected duplicity in her question. Comprehension was lethargic but eventually his eyes widened with his mouth.

“Ohhh, sorry Lady Duchess. Didn’t catch your meaning.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“But it’s your name!” he hiccoughed.

“Truly, it is not.”

“There’s no shame in it,” he levelled a shaky finger as he paused to finish the contents of his flagon. “We make no choice of our beginnings and there’s no reason for us to hold it against another. When we came mewling into this world, it is not by our design which hands hold us close. It doesn’t make you any less of a person. Your deeds define you—not whoever borne your birth.”

“Call me Nariah.”

“Ok, Lady Duchess Nariah.”

“No. Just Nariah.”

He shrugged. “Very well, Just Nariah.”

Kaliban’s head dipped and it took a moment for Nariah to recognize it as a reverent bow. In the meanwhile, Kaliban attempted to drink down the liquor long vacated his grasp before turning single-minded eyes towards the second tankard he’d brought.

Nariah’s fingers were around its sides, pulling it close before the drunk could finish transporting himself into his desired stupor.

“How did you get these anyway?” Nariah asked, too aware of how thirsty his eyes appeared as she lifted the drink to her warm lips. “I was under the impression Thia kept tight your spending allowance in these establishments.”

A rakish smile broke his mouth. The zombie raised a finger and thumb, darkened by the black shadows of the bones contained within the pale skin. It was as though he were inverted, with nought but his innards worn as a macabre dress to masque the individual lurking beneath. With a twist of those gory digits, a thick coin appeared.

Nariah could not help but gape. Surely, she had seen some of the tricks this strange little man could perform. But such manipulations were surely of a magical means.

“That can’t be possible!” she exclaimed. “Illusions do not work on the Outlands.”

And he cocked his head to the side as if to dare her an explanation for the conjuration. He raised the coin to Nariah’s brilliant hair as though testing her eyes for the indistinct outlines of a beguiling enchantment. However, it wasn’t until he brought the object down upon the table’s edge, the hard ring of solid contact refuting Nariah’s better judgement.

His grin widened and he sent the single shard of silver spinning along the wood. The lilting echo of its revolutions were near as thunder to Nariah’s incredulous ears. Her hands abandoned their post as she fetched up the whirling disk. She could feel the cold singe of actual silver as well as the hard sides of an honest coin.

If this were a trick, it was a damn good one.

But the coin held up under even intense scrutiny. For all her wits, it was real.

It was then that Nariah caught Kaliban lifting a full mug to his lips. She turned to her elbow and found his prior empty tankard by her side.

“Of course. I should have suspected legerdemain.”

“It’s warmed,” the zombie said, blowing softly upon his reclaimed drink. “As to your query, I am here because you are.”

“That is hardly an answer,” Just Nariah said, leaning back in her chair.

“And I am hardly one to provide,” he returned. “I am a nobody. I am nothing. I bear less worth than that silver piece in your possession.”

“That’s not true,” Just Nariah said.

“But it is. Look upon our glorious companions. There’s valorous Bill, a folk hero in his own right. Thia the brave whose courage defies her humble starts. Dire Araven has performed deeds which send shudders down the spines of those far from knowing her. Then is a marvellous survivor, wrapped as he is in personal enigmas and curiosities. Wise Halbeck has seen more than most us combine.

“And then there is you, glorious Nariah. You are but a goddess amongst us lowly worms—a being so radiant that she is a sun unto herself. Who am I amongst these heroes? Who am I amongst such majesty?”

“You are too hard on yourself.”

“So common an affliction. But look upon the truth.”

His fingers twisted again and within them now was the darkened shard of his sensing stone. Its vermillion skin was lifeless and dark as the eye which Kaliban held to it.

“I am but one of many to have held this rock. I am but a brief glimmer in the eye of its experience. Many have come before me. Many will follow after. In the annuls of its life I am worth not even a margin for the purpose I serve. My existence is of no concern to it for it shall far outlast whatever meagre accomplishment I may feign performing. Those who peer into its eyes will not desire my name. They will whisper Bill. They may search for Then. They will long for Just Nariah. But none will desire Kaliban.”

“You cannot know that.”

“There is little I know,” he whispered. “But of this, I am certain.”

Nariah shifted in her chair as the tattooed man stared into the crystal. She said nothing, however, before he spoke again.

“It seems unfair that I bear a name—a pretence of importance—when it does not.”

“Then why not name it?”

He stirred from the drunken melancholy, looking towards Nariah. The sensing stone chimed as it was placed upon the table.

“How could I?”

“Well, what do you think it should be called?”

Kaliban shrugged.

“If I knew that then I wouldn’t need to find a name.”

“It’s not like you’re naming a child,” Nariah said. But the look in Kaliban’s eyes was deathly serious. “I don’t know. Name it something pretty.”

“Nariah?”

She frowned.

“No, don’t name it that.”

“How about Lady Duchess?”

“No.”

“Lady Duchess the Just?”

“Why not name it after someone in your life. Someone from your life before the Young God’s Club,” she added with a hurry.

The zombie gave thought.

“Who?”

Nariah shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone important.”

“Important?” The question seemed genuinely puzzling to Kaliban. “What did you name yours?”

“I did not name mine.”

“I see.”

“But if I had,” Nariah said before he could slump into more mournful silence, “it would be after someone that meant a lot to me. Someone that had a lasting impact on my life.”

“Louhi.”

“That’s a… wonderful name. Who is that?”

“The first person I’ve ever killed.”

He stared at the stone and Nariah could sense no hint of irony in the statement.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“They say your first is always the most important. It is the one you remember. The rest, they sort of blur together, right? I don’t know. I wouldn’t know. I do remember her though. She was a devotee of St. Cuthbert. A Chapeaux, as it were. Nothing really extraordinary. Hardly a few months inducted into the fold. I still can’t puzzle out why she was targeted. But she was. Perhaps the ease of getting to her was a safe way to test my skills.”

And his eyes were lost again amongst the shadows that danced around Nariah. She could not see the images that haunted his eyes. She could not see the visions that gripped his mind.
But they were all too real for him. Fuelled, as they were, by the divine hands of a dead dwarven brewer, those memories welled up like bile from a mind all too ready to purge the sickening weight from its gullet.

He stood in the rain before the small chapel. It’s golden edges had lost their majesty beneath the oppressive weight of the smothering black clouds. Upon the stained glass of the centre window in its solitary tower was the image of a crumpled, simple hat. The glow of a candle behind its panes was meant to represent the undying flame to beckon the faithful to the comfort of the halls. Now, that dying flame was laughable in its resistance to the drowning storm.

His clothes were heavy. That was what he remembered most. He carried nothing else with him but the cotton drank deeply of the pelting rain and it felt as though he carried the weight of all the silent sins of the order. With languished steps, he approached the front.

The iron knocker was cold to the touch though its voice was nearly lost to the growling thunder. He called twice before there was an answer. A click of the latch told him none expected visitors that night. The explanation was quick to his lips before he even saw who opened the door.

“Forgive me but my waggon has broken down along the road. I spotted brigands amongst the hills and with the approaching storm I had little choice but to run. I have nothing to offer but my thanks in exchange for some small reprieve.”

It seemed like fate that it was bright green eyes framed amongst chestnut curls that received him.

She was young. He knew this. She was but an initiate—a nobody to the order. Even if the order knew of the dark attention it drew, none would worry over her fate. But while he had been thoroughly briefed, he had never truly given any thought to the information. Now that he stood before her, he could not ignore that they were of the same age.

Her eyes were immediate about his person, searching for some sign or symbol. He had none and his only response was to draw back his hood and offer the meekest smile.

She blushed. He did not understand at the time. What could he possibly evoke that would warrant her modesty? He appeared so humble. Just a young man, ill-suited for a body not yet properly proportioned for his years. He was but the barest steps from childhood and it showed. While he was tall and gangly—near a head over her—he still carried the soft, rounded contours of the cherubim.

“Yes, of course. All are welcome in the halls of the Common Shepherd.”

That’s all it took. A weak excuse and an awkward smile. The door opened and he was granted entry.

The disciples of St. Cuthbert could not have known that death had knocked on their door.

He waited out the storm. The members of the Chapeaux are known for their kindness towards wayward souls. In the morning, he insisted on repaying their generosity. They, of course, accepted. He expressed interest in the halls and history. He enquired constantly but always politely. He gave furtive glances to the girl and in little time she was appointed his caretaker. They spent long hours attending the garden and the duties about the shrine. They spoke at great lengths: her about the time before the order and him about his travels and trading aspirations.

They were all lies, of course. It was a pretty sort of dance—the kind only suited for the young and awkward. She paid lip service to her calling, goading him towards accepting the tenets. He flavoured his enthusiasm as interest in her rather than the great Bludgeoner. For three days he ingratiated himself amongst their number. In three days, his honeyed words at night began to sway her heart.

They stood beneath the mighty oak lit with the silver touch of a round moon. There, in the darkness, they promised themselves to the other. Their hands were shaky and anxious as he leaned in and rested his lips on hers. They writhed like worms, overtaken by the passions of youth, though neither ever shed their clothes. There would be time for such things. But first, she would have to leave. They would have to leave. It was the only way it could be.

He waited in those old robes as she quietly gathered her worldly possessions. They no longer held the smell of that dank storm. They were no longer stained with the dirt of his trespasses.

She was but a shadow as she flitted beneath the dying eye of the chapel’s candle. He took her pack upon his shoulder and, hand-in-hand, they darted from the road and into the woods. For a time, they listened to the flap of the nocturnal predators hunting amongst the boughs. For a time, he considered the life promised in her hands.

They stopped for a small cave beneath a rocky outcrop. He laid down the pack and then they lay down together. He indulged in that blasphemous flesh again, the taste of her tongue doing strange, profane things to his body. She reached for his robes, pulling fervently at the fabric. What she uncovered gave her pause.

He had his marks and in the twilight of their escape he had put no effort in masking them. The moon shone bright and boldly upon the twisted inked form of the worm amongst the darkened bones of his chest. Did she gasp? He thought she did. He remembered that she did. But a niggling doubt always took root in the back of his mind. As he withdrew the dagger and pulled it across her throat, bathing his hands in the warm ichor of her life, he couldn’t help but think she had said nothing at all.

“Deep within the Welkwood there is a cave, its entrance long overgrown with brambles. Half buried in the soft earth is that skeleton which disappeared one night with a boy. Her flesh fed the plants that would never bear her epitaph. For such a shallow grave will never proclaim, ‘Here lies Louhi.’”

Nariah watched the skull as it rested on weary hands, staring absently at the flicker of her hair.

“You… probably shouldn’t call it Louhi.”

“You’re right,” he sighed. He held up the stone. “She isn’t worthy. It’s all lies, anyway. You remember more than your first. It gets easier, for certain. I wept not a tear for Louhi. If anything, she was noteworthy in how unnoteworthy she really was.”

“Death does not define us.”

And he looked at her, completely unconvinced. “It defines us all.”

He reached for the remainder of his drink. But her fingers were on it first. Their touch was brief, and it seemed that his truly didn’t long for the tankard at all. They squeezed but Nariah’s were spry. She and the flagon were plucked from the table before he could truly relish the moment.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Nariah said. “You’re going to need to be able to walk tomorrow. We have a long road ahead.”

He watched her retreating back until the last glimmer of her orange hair disappeared like a gutted candle. Kaliban then turned to the stone and picked it up.

“Phyte,” he whispered to the stone. “For the first. Truly, I am sorry.”