[Mkguild] New member, new story intro

[Chris]

Very cool story! And how ironic an ending! And I LOVE the Monty Python
reference at the start!

   Chris
   The Lurking Fox



-----Original Message-----
From: mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org
[mailto:mkguild-bounces at lists.integral.org] On Behalf Of Michael Bard
Sent: Friday, January 04, 2008 2:31 AM
To: mkguild at lists.integral.org
Subject: [Mkguild] New member, new story intro

Not much else to say, other than I haven't checked everything for
"MK-AUTHENTRICITY".  Comments, as always, welcome.

Michael Bard

Steal a few silver across this line
------------------------

UNTITLED

"It's Metamor Keep!"

"Metamor Keep!"

"Metamor Keep!"

Sarpadon shook his head as he watched the family in the wagon in front
of
the one he was on pointing and exclaiming about their new home which
they
could see in the distance.

"At least it's not the model," he heard somebody mutter from further
back.
The comment would have made no sense if the caravan hadn't been carrying
an
architectural model of the keep somebody had paid too many tonnes of
gold
for.

Sarpadon had no /clue/ what was being referred to. He knew some wierdos
came
here to settle, knowing of the /curse/, hoping it would make their lives
better, or heal the sick, or whatever.  He expected the family in the
wagon
in front, loading with all their worldly possessions, to last about
three
days before the lutins got them.

He turned away and sharpened his dagger.  Sarpadon didn't care what
happened
to them.  He was here for one purpose, and one purpose alone.  His
current
boss had hired him because it was /possible/ that the lost /Sword of
Songs/
was forgotten in the basement of the Bronze Unicorn Tavern.  Sarpadon
was
being /well/ paid to take a caravan in, grab it if he could, and get out
of
there on the next caravan before the damn curse got him too.

In and out and enough gold to keep him in whore-filled luxury for the
rest
of his days.  Even if the sword wasn't there, once a truthspell
confirmed
it, he's till get enough payment to make this worthwhile.

The wagon bounced, the knife went schuckschuck on the whetstone, and
Sarpadon dreamed of his life of sexual pleasure.

***

They had to make one more stop before arriving at the keep proper the
next
day.  Sarpadon ignored it -- keeps had few entrances, lots of guards,
and
many powerful people who had a strong lack of respect for a thief.  But,
like every keep that charged gate tolls, a town had grown up outside
where
those who couldn't, or didn't want to pay, set up shop.  That town was
his
goal.

As he walked down the street towards the bad side of town, away from the
keep that had far too many stories whispered about it, he kept in
practice
by slipping his hand into pouches and across rings.  He didn't take
anything, no sense risking it, and the take was /far/ to small, but it
kept
him amused.  As to why he was here, he was tracking down someone, and
all he
had was a rumour that somebody had seen him at the Bronze Unicorn.
Reason
to be annoyed, reason to be there, and reason to be in and out fast when
nobody recognized him.  And it gave him the reason to look around, ask
questions, stay off, and check out the basement and storage over night.

It took him half the watch to hunt down the tavern, going from one to
another to another.  Stinking animal people, little children that still
used
canes but obviously didn't need them, men who dressed like women and
women
who dressed like men.  They were the safe ones.  It was the ones he saw
watching him, measuring him, that he kept a subtle eye on.  They were
predators, and he was a predator, and as they came to realize it, they
gave
him the benefit of respect and some room to operate.

He arrived at the Bronze Unicorn as the bells for the suppers rang, and
his
stomach grumbled at the thick stench of fatty greasy stew oozing out
from
the door.  Setting his worn pack over one shoulder, he pushed the door
open
so that it clunked against the far wall.

The first thing he noticed was that the place did stink.  Probably
hadn't
seen any liquid other than alcohol in a decade.  Even the bubbling stew
had
the malingering odour of worn dirt.  Everybody looking at him would
probably
have water scream and flee gurgling away if it was brought anywhere
downwind.  His worn boots and worn clothes fit in perfectly as he pushed
his
way over to the barkeep.

The barkeep, a big fat pig of a woman, literally, looked at him, and
spit on
the floor.

Sarpadon let his pack thump to the floor.  "I'm looking for someone."

"And why should we care," the barkeep grunted.

Sarpadon reached into one of the side pouches and pulled out a dirty and
rolled piece of velum and slapped it onto the counter.  With quick
movements
he unrolled it, revealing a bad ink sketch of some King who'd died half
a
millennium ago.  Somebody unlikely to actually have been at Metamor.
"Guys
wanted in Caralore.  I got some information that he'd fled here, so I'm
here
after him."

Somebody from the behind him spoke up and Sarpadon saw that he was still
human.  "He won't be here then.  Either you'll never recognize him, or
he
fled whilst he could.  The curse, ya know."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"I know about your damn curse," Sarpadon spit out, "and I don't aim to
stay
here long enough for it to bother me.  It's not far out of my way, and I
ain't got no more leads."  He picked up the vellum, walked over, and
shoved
it in the talkative stranger's face.  "You seen this guy in the last six
months?"

Instinctively the person backed away, blinking in the light.  "And why
should I tell you?"

"Copper for your info.  True or false.  True is better though -- I have
a
/long/ memory."

"As though we're scared of you."

Sarpandon grabbed him by his neck.  "Well, you better be.  I don't
forget a
face, and one day, when I'm bored, I might just come back this way and
look
you up.  Is the risk of that worth a copper I'll give anyway for the
truth?"

The man snorted.  "I ain't seen him.  How do you know you're in the
right
place?"

"I had a reliable source.  He may even be able to walk again."

A low grunting laughter circulated around the room.

"Now, you seen this joker or not?"  Sarpandon held up the vellum.

"No I ain't."

"Then here's your pay for the truth," and Sarpandon tossed a copper.

"Let me see that!" somebody called out.

And Sarpandon began walking around, not expecting any answer, but asking
anyway.  It was late by the time he'd finished and the place was almost
empty.  "Figured it was a bum clue, but one's gotta try.  Barkeep, you
got a
place I can sack out tonight?"

"Don't have rooms."

"Oh come on!  I hadn't realized how late it was, and I don't aim to
sleep in
the mud."

"Told you, don't have no rooms."

"A silver to sleep on the floor.  I'll leave at dawn."

Her eyes squinted, making her even more of a pig.  He could almost hear
the
whisper of avarice in her mind.  It was why he'd paid a copper to
anybody
who answered.  If he didn't have to break in, it would be money well
spent.
"Five."

"Five!  That's robbery!  I could nap under a lupin hide for half that.
Two."

"Three.  And you ain't gone at dawn, I'll call the watch."

Sarpandon growled.  "Three then you robber, you."

Her eyes glinted as he handed over the silver and watched her shoo out
the
last of the customers.

***

Sarpandon work up sometime after fourth watch in the blackness of the
common
room.  With long practiced silence he pulled out a witchstone and cupped
it
in his hands and whispered the phrase that would make it glow just
enough.
With that, and his memorization of the tables -- which was another
reason to
spend so much time questioning people -- he made his way to the bar.  It
took seconds for him to trip the latch on the door and make his way into
the
back hallway.  The barkeep lived overhead, so he stayed near the walls.
The
design wasn't unusual, and the trapdoor down into the basement was will
worn
and obvious.  Holding the witchstone in his mouth, he climbed down the
ladder into the hole hewn out of the mud.

As he'd been told, it was a mess, a pile of forgotten debris shoved into
the
corner.  The barkeep was old, and she didn't want to climb down on her
hooves, so she had just been tossing crap into the basement for years.
It
made his task easy in one sense, but impossible for another.

Except for the other thing his employer had given him.  Another stone,
this
one covered in runes.  According to his instructions, it would detect
the
/Sword of Songs/ but only from a distance of a few feet.  That's why he
had
to get in first.

He began rummaging through the junk, wondering once again who the hell
the
thing had gotten here in the first place, and if it even /was/ here, how
the
/hell/ his employer had known.  Yet again, he cursed her.  Never showing
her
face, never telling him how she'd found him, or how she was willing to
pay
so much.

It was so much like a trap, but there was so much money.  And, he had
given
his word.  To him, anyway, that still meant something.

And, to his amazement the damn runes began to glow just like she'd said.
He
started rooting through the abandoned debris of half a century and saw
the
gleaming silver of a sword.

"By Klepnos--"

For a moment he just stared.  Damn thing was bigger than he'd been
informed,
but there was a sheath in his bag upstairs.  He'd probably have to saw
off
the bottom, but at least the damn thing wasn't a two-hander.

He pulled a half rotten piece of leather off its glistening hilt, the
cloth
wrapping on its hilt looking as clean and new as when the cursed thing
had
been forged.  Reaching down he grabbed it--

Light pulsed along its length, eye searing to in the blackness, and the
tone
of a bell rose up, swirling higher and higher.

/Not perfect/, he heard a voice, /but he will do/.

Like a living being the light pulsed upward and sparkled against
Sarpandon.
He didn't even have time to scream before he slumped into the dirt, not
dead
but asleep.  The light snuck up the ladder, and grabbed Sarpandon's pack
and
dragged it across the floor and down into the basement with a loud
/thump/,
pulling the trap door closed behind it.

Then all was dark, Sarpandon's hand still wrapped around the hilt of the
sword which softly, faintly glowed.

The next morning when the barkeep got downstairs to the empty common
room,
she grinned, and counted her silver, glad she hadn't been called on her
threat to call the guard.

***

Days passed, a week, two--  The sword glowed, and its glow crept up
along
Sarpandon as he changed.  Changed by the curse, changed the sword.
Changed
as he slept.  Changed all unknowing of his fate.

***

It was night when Sarpandon awoke.  The basement was black, the only
light
being the glow of the witchstone that had fallen from his grasp.  The
/Sword
of Songs/ was still in his grasp as he blinked his eyes opened.

/His/ eyes, or so was thought as Sarpandon work up.  Looking around,
blinking, seeing only the dim glow of the witchstone.  Hand fumbled for
it,
but before they could get ahold, the basement filled with a warm glow.

Sarpandon stared, for the glow was coming from between Sarpandon's eyes.
>From a horn on the forehead.  Along the muzzle of something no longer
human.

It illuminated the fur of an animal, the breasts of a girl, and the
ivory
hooves of a dream.

Above all a thief learns /silence/.  Silence is the first and the most
important rule, the one rule that is never broken.  Sarpandon almost,
/almost/ screamed, when /she/ realized that /he/ was no longer
applicable.
Nor was the word human.

Instead, shaking, she looked at herself.  At her clean white pristine
body,
at her ivory hooves and ivory nailed four fingered hands, at the softly
glowing ivory of her horn, the golden white of her mane that hung over
one
eye, and at the silver white tuft at the tip of her tail.

At the tail of a myth.  A /unicorn/.

"Damn you!" he whispered.  "Damn you to the nine hells!"

It had been a trap after all.

***


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