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Cornton's Shucked!; Tale of the Necromancer, part I
Topic Started: Mon Dec 16, 2013 7:00 pm (280 Views)
The Bard
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We’ll start this tale as all such tales do
From the eyes of me! A wond’ring Fool.
Like shipping lanes in a great Grass Sea
On dust-cov’red roads and trails I flee,
Belly full of pure yellow terror
And looking for a big town to succor...

Bah! Let’s stop this first-person rubbish!
Instead I’ll spin my yarn less puckish.
Now let me start this fresh tale anew
And tell it like the best tellers do.
(And when I slip back to using “I,”
Parentheses, I’ll use them, I’ll try!)

The air in Debony was hot that day,
Stifling and stale and heavy that way,
When the winds of Fate have brung right in
A foreboding sense from terr’ble sins.
Like air’s been leeched ripe by a fire,
‘Twas hard to breath, sky pregnant with ire.

Along one road trotted one who knew,
(That’s me!) Or least had an inkling true,
Of what this foul wind carried aloft.
Stories he shared for that was his craft,
Dressed head to toe in all red and black
And motley’d tights stretched there and back.

The town he found first, called fair Wheaton,
Name not so creative, but still a beacon
For venture-types and taverns a-many
To gather fortune-seekers a-plenty.
For ‘twas the last villa in the West
‘Fore heroes done up and left the nest.

The very last stretch of Civ’lization
Between great Mountain’s teeth. A nation
Filled with smithees and tanners and rogues
(And maybe even a dusty old morgue!)
As good of place as any he s’pposed
To seek help and fine heroes all told.

He lurched ‘top a wagon filled to its brim
With barrels and crates and an old man grim.
The Fool raised his voice to any who’d hear
For tell he a warning, a calling, of fear.
“Listen close to me now! O brave Wheaties!
For have I a question, a begging, I plead!”


Old farmer Brown whose cart’d been hijacked
Din’t take too kindly to getting sidetracked.
“Git off my wagon, you colorful Fool!
‘Fore I take my scythe and run you quite through!”
He shook his old fist, hard as cracked stone
And spat nigh and cursed and glared and groaned.

“Forgive me grandfather, rarely I’m so bold...”
(No offense meant, for that bloke was quite old!)
“But dark news I bear straight from the North,
From whence I just traveled, I bring report:
The town of Cornton’s been properly shucked!
Any left there are really quite... screwed!


“I saw the ruins with mine own two eyes
The town’s a real graveyard, a real surprise!
Bodies line the streets, clean picked over!
Poor mams and babes! I lost my composure!
But that ain’t the worst of what I seen,
That’s hardly the part’ll give me dread dreams!


“Out from one husk’d, burnt out somewheres,
Leapt a man rightly plucked straight from nightmare!
His face was gaunt and rotting and vile
And lips, quite gone! My mouth filled with bile!
His bony fist clenched a scarlet sword,
And at me he stared, my honest word!


“That’s when the slain folk began to stir
They jiggled and twitched ‘spite their murder.
And one by one they began to creep forth,
On cursed dead feet, they rose from the earth!
Though killed, they’d been, but moments before,
Now un-dead they stood! Un-live they now were!


“’Twas then I knew how ol’ Cornton fell,
Not from a live man, this you I tell!
‘Twas black magic that rose those foul specters
And sent them forth like burning pyres!
I’m here to warn and beg and plead!
Won’t someone daring stand up to this deed?”


Scanned he gathered crowd, eyes wide and needing,
Praying those who heard his desp’rate heeding
Would take up sword or bow or spell!
Crush those shades, black beasts quite fel!
And if not, he’d have to move on post-haste
And find others. There was no time to waste!
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Trezzahn
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The names of the many small villages throughout the Debon Plains were well-known to the wandering monk, for he had been to most of them - Northhold, Southhold, Stonevale, Kellen, Debonshire, Riverton, Stormcreek, Cornton, Cornhole, Bridgegate, Westbridge, Wheaton, Hedge Hill, and a number of others. In each town, he had labored to make the lives of the townsfolk a little better (or at least a little easier) in return for a place in which to eat, drink, rest, and meditate. He required little gold, for he could sustain himself on nature’s bounty. Towns and villages were merely luxuries. Such was the truth not just for monks but for rangers, druids, and creatures and beings that were close to nature as well.

On this particular day, there had been no plume of smoke in the distant sky. There had been no shouts or screams of a people displaced from their homes. Yet there was a herald, and that herald was rather…poetic in his nature. He was obviously more a bard than a herald. This did not open the eyes of the monk as he sat upon the balcony, his legs crossed and his hands upon his knees, meditating. Meditation was an odd thing: it was not merely to gather one’s thoughts, although that was certainly the greatest immediate benefit (and was an ironically slow process), but also to focus one’s mind and senses and to realign one’s body. Oh, there was no physical change that could be seen, of course. But it was a tool for rest and recuperation.

What opened the monk’s eyes was the mention of the undead. At first, he didn’t quite understand what the man meant. But as the back of his mind mulled it over, it suddenly hit the fore of his mind as though it were a hammer and his head were the nail. That got his attention. He was no ranger, and he was certainly no druid, but he was somewhat close to nature. The undead were just about the foulest things to walk the surface of Chaon (or any other part of it, for that matter). His face hardened as he realized the gravity of the situation, and he finished his meditation.

Moments later, he was on his feet. He gazed upon the man below him, shouting from the top of a cart. Should he go? Of course he should. But what could a lone monk do? Nevertheless, it was his duty to do what he could to rid the world of this evil.

“You shall find no heroes here,” he called out, “merely those that shall do their part to end the reign of whatever undead menace now plagues Chaon once more. Point me the way when I am in the street, and I shall go.”

With that, he walked back inside to get ready for his journey. It would not take very long.
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Atzolek
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Atzolek was in a tavern in Debon enjoying a meal and a drink. He was considering where he wanted to go. He was new to this land called Imythess, so he didn't know the area very well yet. However, he'd managed to get a hold of a map. It wasn't particularly detailed, but it gave him a general idea of the layout of the continent.

While he ate, he heard a bard start to sing. He didn't often pay attention to bards, but this one got his attention, especially when he said that a town had been 'shucked'. From the description, he was pretty sure that the bard meant that it had been destroyed. What was more, the dead inhabitants weren't staying dead but were reanimated as undead.

Near the end of the tale was a call for heroes to remove this undead threat. Atz was no hero, having only just arrived. However, when only one other person stepped forward, he decided to offer his services.

He heard the previous person say that he wasn't a hero but just wanted to do what he could against the undead threat. Shortly afterward, Atzolek said, "I'm no hero, but I have a blade, and I will use it to help stop these undead."

Atz had all the essentials on him to leave right away, but he followed the other man's example and went inside and to his room to grab a few things, including his map. He also purchased some provisions for the journey.
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