Looking forward to this. Will be checking back.

Oh snap, Hackhampster. Eloquently written! Im glad to have the gang back together again! You write it so much better than I DM it, lol.

"We barred the window and settled in for the oaf to return with news.  I had my studies to continue, and my companions were sufficiently daunted by rumor and innuendo to while the time away with boasting and crude jests. Mother certainly did not approve.  The fire mage held himself slightly apart, and made little yellow flames dance across his fingers.   I made sure he didn't see me watching.  After a short while, we heard a dog barking, and some yelling, then more dog barking, and more yelling. Quick on the heels of that, a scratching at the shuttered window, and a muttered "um, guys?"

Upon opening the window our barbarian is revealed, looking slightly chewed and bloodied. With a sheepish grin he says, "Uh, we just got kicked out of the inn."  It turns out on his route to the rooftop, he tried the private stairwell up to the landlords apartment, where they turned their hounds on him.  He killed one, and subdued the other, and then tried to apologize to their owner.  Some gold and dignity later, he was evicted and so were we!  The landlord did give us until morning, but the barbarian had to sleep in the gutter." - Bytorr the Necromancer, Saturn' s Luck Inn, Xambaala

"Eventually, with much aimless meandering, we finally arrive at the caravansary, where after negotiations remarkable for a lack of subtlety on our part, we hire a room for a sum much too dear, only exacerbated by the weeks stay in advance abandoned at our previous lodgings, not an inconsiderable sum. Our new host, one Aramis, seemed pleasant enough, but his look as he gathered our gold in his palm was pure avarice. However, our chamber is indeed better than our last, with a door and beds seemingly free of vermin, and all the rest, but I was not learning dread secrets with my head lying on a pillow no matter how fine, despite Mother's evident approval of the linen’s thread-count and the embroidered curtains on the windows.

Some conversation regarding rations commenced, considering we had just spent the majority of our remaining funds. Assuming a mood of frugality, I suggested purchasing a pig and contracting with the kitchen to dress, salt and smoke it, whereupon I would reluctantly animate its now toughened corpse as an undead minion. Given a sufficiently large animal, maybe a week or more of preserved meat would be available. What bounty! Perhaps we could even lash saddlebags to it, if it were of a size! My mooncalf companions waxed enthusiastic about the rashers of bacon that would soon be theirs to consume at their leisure. In jest I suggested one of them could ride it into battle, ha ha! but their sense of the absurd seemed not to extend to riding their food. The joke would indeed be on them, for I wonder if my companions had considered what eating undead flesh would be like as it squirmed between their teeth, writhed in their uneasy stomachs, and quivered in their bowels. Would it convey nutriment? Would it even be digestible? We would find out together!

Procuring the animal did not prove difficult, as livestock were in a pen adjacent to the inn, but as usual with us, our plans quickly went awry. It was suggested that before it’s ultimate transformation, we use the animal as a sacrifice at the ludicrously oversize temple of Helios that dominated the town. I noted that a sacrifice is usually left at the scene of the sacrifice, and not taken away, but as usual my logical objections and protestations were in vain. To the temple we went, our snorting and squealing offering seemingly gaining holy afflatus by the second. After we joined the line of supplicants, we moved forward towards the altar in shuffle. The pig grunted in evident pleasure and wagged its little curly tail, simply happy to be there. When we finally arrived at the head of the line, the priests were certainly impressed by our show of piety, and the quick slash of the bronze knife splashed red on the altar, surprising us and the pig with its volume. Visions of lazy afternoons lolling with pork filled bellies and greasy chins no doubt occupied the plump priests' imaginations. This divine culinary daydream and their favorable impression of us was quickly shattered as our berserker gave a curt thanks and threw the lolling carcass over his shoulder and headed to the door. Behind us there was much grumbling as their cloven-hoofed buffet disappeared forever. This scene I think did us no credit on the ecclesiastical front, and came back to haunt us in the end."  - Bytorr the Necromancer, Xambaala

Last edited by Hackhamster (3/14/2019 7:01 pm)

"I have heard it stated that Skeletons and Zombies are the least of all undead perils. This may be true, but this person has obviously never faced the dubious prospect of their entrails being torn from their abdomen and consumed in front of them by these paragons of mindless hunger. Others observe that zombies kill people. To them I make the rejoinder: zombies are simply tools: a necromancer kills people. I must say thoughts like these focused our minds to a needle point as we were confronted by a dusty shambling horde. Quickly we strung our rope between a two sarcophagi as a makeshift barrier, and spread a pool of oil on the floor before it. When the dead came upon the rope, they piled into one another, and then we ignited the oil. Silent screams shewed on the ruined faces before us as the flames purified their flesh. Judicious arrows and stones did for the rest. I for one desired more time to observe and take notes on their construction, but the zombies alas were not as durable as one could have wished. These zombies seemed to be a product of some ad-hoc animation of little sophistication. I considered if I were to create a zombie, I should for one first armor it, and then ensure it was soaked in water to prevent flammability and keep it limber.

At any rate, this first foray was enough to quicken the blood and ignite captious avarice in my companions eyes as we found scattered simple treasures about the room. Enough to pay for our outrageous lodgings at any rate. In the last coffin, we found a twisted black staff, one which gave off chill crepuscular emanations and froze the bones to gaze upon to closely. The others backed away from it as if were some lodestone of evil. When I casually made an offhand reference to the item perhaps providing the least interest in my studies, there was no objection made, indeed they seemed eager for me to have it. Ha! It was mine! My half-witted companions had given up a relic of undoubted tenebrous puissance as if it were a mere trifle. Such secrets I would learn with it in my grasp. At the time, I indeed knew not of its use or history, nor its method of activation, but I could feel the dark thrill of power that ran up my arm when I first laid my hand upon it.  With my fate clutched closely to me, we returned to the inn in triumph." - Bytorr the Necromancer, Xambaala

Last edited by Hackhamster (4/01/2019 9:30 pm)

"A scullery maid begged my pardon and informed me the swine had been prepared as directed, and was hanging in the smoke room. With eagerness I repaired thither and directed the servants to carry the pig to my room. Alone, I spoke the dread syllables and once again thrust my intellect against the shimmering curtains of reality. My mind’s eye burned with visions of necrotic landscapes inhabited by wailing spirits writhing in torment. Selecting a likely candidate from the least of them, I wrested it from its doleful matrix and embedded it's unholy essence in the savory sweet carcass of the pig, now toughened with the kitchen’s culinary preparations. With a surge of pride I surveyed my handiwork as the beast clambered to its feet to do my bidding.

I had animated some 10 stone of preserved and salted pork. It would not go bad, as many such preserved victuals do. It could not be lost or easily stolen. It would not have to be carried, as it would carry itself. Its baleful gaze would discourage the curious. Items that we wished to conceal could be stuffed into the body cavity. As a last resort, it could be loaded with fire oil and sent into an enemy formation to be set ablaze, causing consternation to our foes. The benefits were too numerous to count. I’m sure that some of the more squeamish of my compatriots would balk at a strip of salted pork writhing on their palate, but they were more than welcome to eat their own provisions.Thus I spent the rest of the morning. I considered how best to fit the beast with saddlebags, and measured it with a knotted string. I made a note to consult with a leather worker of strong constitution to fit it with a harness. I read my book, lamenting its lack of pertinent information. I gazed lustfully at my staff. I polished Mother’s jar. I had the unPig trot across the floor at my command. I peeled off a small strip of flesh from its hollowed out rib cage, and popped it in my mouth. Salty, sweet and smoky all at once, accompanied by a slight frisson from beyond the grave. Delicious!

Still, even the contemplation of my triumphs palls after a time, and I went searching for my absent companions. The innkeep had not seen them, and neither had the barmaid nor the trull at the hatch to the kitchen. I left the inn and made my way to the bazaar, and what did my dumbfounded gaze perceive but my two companions in chains being marched under guard into some large building adjacent to the arena! I asked one of the ubiquitous urchins that frequent the area, our relationship mediated my reluctant parting with our hard-earned largess.Biting the copper coin to check its provenance, the soiled little creature allowed that my two acquaintances had been seen incoherently begging for work, to no avail. They had then partaken of wine to excess.  Then they had a nap in the shade, paying a small boy to wave away the flies. After waking, and still in an inebriated state, they went to the temple and insolently accosted some priests. Thereupon they were arrested for their temerity, but miraculously were imprisoned instead of immediately slung onto the altar and their lifesblood let out with a quick stroke of obsidian.

My look of astonishment was met with the boy’s sullen silence. I loosed his tongue with another coin, whereupon he related that before they went to the temple, a woman of the slave caste had accosted them, and in their addled state they joined her for a series of fumbling erotic conjunctions under an old tarp in the alley behind the tannery. While I would put nothing in the way of coarse and immoral transgressions past them, I would not have expected the barbarian and warrior to just exit the inn under the pretense of seeking employment, and finding none seek the bottom of a wine skin and and then go a-whoring. The boy was undoubtedly embroidering his tale with fanciful flourishes in the hopes of relieving me of more coin, so in response to his latest confabulation I fixed him with a baleful gaze and demanded to know the whereabouts of the grimy slattern they had consorted with. Again his memory was prodded by a coin, and he stated he’d lead me to her if I was feeling a certain urge. I replied the only urge I was feeling was the need to see the color of his entrails if he did not expedite my search. At this and the production of another coin, the unnamed creature led me to a hovel not far from the sandy borders of the town."  - Bytorr the Necromancer, Xambaala  

Last edited by Hackhamster (4/03/2019 9:08 pm)

At the door to the arena, the nerve of the boy broke and he ran. He wanted no business here. At the portal, sealed with two brazen doors carved in heroic style, I gave a silver to the guard, who gave an obsequious nod of his head and pulled the door open. I entered into bedlam. 

Whips cracked, men shouted and sobbed, animals roared and grunted, and all was enveloped in an unholy fug of torch smoke, ripe sweat, damp, rust and blood. Weapons clashed and rang and dull thuds boomed as shields were struck. In the dimness, a man behind a tall desk bade me come near. He was chewing a horrible stub of brown leaves in his cheek, and brown dribble coated his chin. He made inquiry into my business there and I replied I was looking for a slave. At this he laughed. He said slaves were for the taking in this town, but here there were fighters, and fighters were expensive. A fighter was what I needed, I told him, one that wouldn’t run and would be loyal. We haggled for a bit, and with a wily chuckle, he finally sent a runner to fetch a likely one from the pen below. What returned was the most evil aspected individual I had ever seen. His eyes were shining black beads under a squinting swarthy brow and they peered out from behind skeins of lank hair reeking of rancid fat. His lips and cheeks were cut and slashed, and primitive tattoos of some tentacular creature were writ on his skin. He was short of stature, and wrapped in skin-tight hides, but he moved quickly and with power. On his belt was a knotted whip, which he caressed as if a lover’s thigh. He gave me the most insolent look I had ever received from a human and gave me a smile filled with filed teeth. The overseer grinned, and sold him to me for ten gold, which while seemingly a bargain, somehow I felt cheated as I left with him trailing behind me. 

“What is your name, slave?” I asked. 

“Atanaq” he repied in the sibilant accent of Esquimeaux. “It is Snowdog in your tongue. Heh, you are now my master. Lead me well.” Now I knew why he had come so cheaply: he was the least submissive of slaves.

Using the funds left to me, I had him equipped and armored in a short time. For some reason the merchants haggled less than enthusiastically when my slave gave them his blank obsidian stare, and I received good prices as a result. I considered my options. Of course, I could leave my bumbling companions to their fate. Certainly they were receiving their reward for their ineptitude right this minute, pent in some muculent subterranean chamber receiving the lubricious attentions of a cohort of sweaty gaolers! Perhaps they were even now being taunted and shamed in their nakedness, or even tortured! Such sweet utterances must be issuing from their strained throats! I amused myself for a brief time with visions of their imagined torments until it was with a jolt that I collected my wits and set off for the prison. I had to see what had become of them before I could decide on their destiny.

The pens beneath the arena were guarded by as slovenly and grasping a lot as I had seen, but they seemed to know their business. To their credit, Snowdog was not allowed to accompany me into the depths were the prisoners were kept, so following a guard of leering mongrel visage I went below. Such a bacchanalia of Gehennan excess I beheld: mouths agape in anguish, whips brandished in the gnarled grip of authority and wielded with grunts of exertion, their flicking tips drawing forth sorrowful exclamations and entreaties. Chaos reigned in the flickering light of oil lamps and guttering tallow candles. Toothy beasts scaly and furred roared and hissed. And in their midst, shackled in rusty chains and crouched in fouled rushes were the sorry duo I sought.

They looked none the worse for wear. They were begrimed and doleful looking, yet not overly bruised. Their injuries must be internal. So as to not show undue attention to them, I inquired of the prices for this or that miserable prisoner, telling my procurer I was uninterested in their health, and I only sought a couple men for their… parts. At that, the more abused and decrepit of them sought to appear robust and vital, strutting and posing. I was quoted ten, twenty gold for the least of them. They were a sad lot. I furrowed my brow and pondered my choice. As if by chance, my gaze alit on my companions, who for all this time were surreptitiously trying to catch my gaze.

“Those two look like they will last under the knife quite some time. How much?” I asked. The “For them? Two hundred and feeeeefty, my lord. They will do well in the arena. It will cost much to replace them” The turnkey’s oleaginous smile could have greased a hundred axles.I concealed my dismay as best I could. I had only forty gold or so with me, and the look of this place was forbidding enough that even with my dark arts and stalwart slave there was small chance of liberating them. I declined the offer with a superior sniff and said I might be back.  - Bytorr the Necromancer, Xambaala  

Last edited by Hackhamster (5/08/2019 10:08 pm)

Birgir wrote:

I wish to hear more of the exploits of that Viking berserker!

Getting there!