A good ridiculously-early-morning to you fine sirs and ladies. This here Dungeons and Dragons short took way longer to write than I expected. So you'd better enjoy it *narrows tired, bloodshot eyes at you*
Celerean had just complained for the
sixth time that she had muck on her new shoes when they rounded a corner in the
sewer and came face to face with two very strangely dressed people. There was a
man and a woman who were clad in very similar black outfits. The planeswalkers
and the strangers stopped and stared at each other in alarm for a few seconds.
The strange woman was the first to recover, whipping out a small, grey and
black object and pointing it at the planeswalkers. They knew not what the
device was, but as warriors, they recognised it as some form of weapon and drew
their own. Faced with a dazzling display of glinting arrows, tight bowstrings,
a huge warhammer and a dithering man in a bathrobe and a pointed hat, the man’s
hands were shaking as he drew his own silver-black weapon.
The fight was incredibly confusing and
extremely loud. The stranger’s weapons emitted cracks like lightning bolts, and
tiny, impossibly fast darts ricocheted off the walls around the Planeswalkers.
The two enemies were blasted back with a wave from Wolfenight. More deafening
cracks resounded in the closed space as Targar leapt forwards to finish off the
man. An arrow through the heart from Lereahl dispatched the woman. Targar was a
little too enthusiastic and continued to hit the bodies after they were dead.
The others approached, but before they could get a good look at the strange
weapons the man and woman had been using, Eol had picked them up and thrown
them into the murky sewer channel. Celerean glared at the elf. What they were sure of though, was the fact that
none of them had ever seen weapons like them before.
They found more oddly dressed men in a
room behind a heavy metal door. These men were equally surprised to see them,
although they were dressed in white coats. Their weapons were elongated and
sprayed chattering rounds of shrapnel. Wolfenight shrieked as the hail of metal
fell on the Planeswalkers and he seemed to react instinctively.
“Friend!” he squeaked covering his head
with his arms.
A blue ball of light rocketed wildly
around the room and then hit one of the white coated men in the chest, knocking
him on his ass. He sat up, looked around a little stunned and put down his
weapon. Wolfenight peeked out from between his elbows.
“Friend!” he said happily, seeing the now
pacified man.
“Get his – uh – the banging stick-thing!”
yelled Eol. Celerean skipped happily forwards to collect the man’s weapon. Targar
rushed in next as the second man was struggling with his weapon, appearing to
swap out some sort of box. Targar grabbed the man by the shoulders and tried to
wrestle him to the ground. Unfortunately, the dwarf tripped and crashed to the
ground himself. This sudden attack on his comrade seemed to wake the charmed
man up. He got to his feet, angry, and lunged for the weapon in Celerean’s
hands.
“No! Bad friend!” said Wolfenight,
frowning, and a blast of white magic knocked the man over again. He lay on the
ground, shocked and dead.
“Oh no! Friend! I’m sorry!” shouted
Wolfenight. The remaining man had managed to get the black box into his weapon
and turned it on Targar, who was still cursing on the ground. Celerean had to
think fast. She’d seen the men using these weapons and they seemed eerily
familiar to her flintlock pistol. She grasped the gun properly, and pulled the
smooth, matte black trigger. The gun spat bullets and recoiled wildly, but the
remaining man was sufficiently distracted. Lereahl darted into the fray with a
misjudged tumble, leaping up right into the man’s line of fire. Two bullets
flew through the tall half-elf’s shoulder before he loosed an arrow into the
man’s neck, silencing the gunfire.
The room beyond appeared to be a
barracks of some kind. There was a military feel to the neat cots and uniform
colours, although an alien one. There were more of the artificial grey stone walls
here and the feeling that the travellers were very out of place. Targar’s eyes
were sharp enough to spot the only other thing out of place. Behind one of the
cots was a brick that was slightly askew. When removed, a little drawstring bag
of jewels fell out, followed by a small, incredibly lifelike painting. The
painting was of a young girl and man. The girl was sitting on the man’s
shoulders and they were both smiling happily. Lereahl grew sad when he
recognised the man in the picture as the one he had just shot through the neck.
Targar pocketed the picture and the bag of jewels with an unhappy look.
The companions stopped before the end of
the next corridor, not sure what kind of enemies might lie beyond. Wolfenight
was talking to himself. Or was he talking to thin air? Lereahl leaned forwards,
his keen ears catching the whisperings of what sounded like another voice.
“Just tell us how many are in there,” murmured
Wolfenight, his gaze fixed on something no one else could see. There was a
faint hiss and Wolfenight flinched a little.
“Sorry! Sorry! I meant, could you please tell us how many are in there?”
he said hurriedly. Lereahl looked on in puzzlement as Wolfenight stood quietly
for a moment, and then turned back to the group.
“Three large men up ahead armed with
big, uh...” he waved vaguely at Cerelean’s new weapon, “Bang sticks. Now, I’ll
create a diversion with my Ghost Sounds spell.”
They crept towards the end of the hall. The
room beyond was filled with tables and strange chairs with one leg that ended
in six spokes. On the tables were boxes and flat squares that glowed with
strange lights. Wolfenight peeked out, muttered a few more words and then
ducked back behind cover. They heard some strange shuffling and banging noises
from the door across the room. The three men looked quizzically towards the
sounds.
“Go check it out. I’ll stay here,” said
the biggest of the three. The others nodded and went to investigate. Once they
were in the room and the last man’s back was turned, Wolfenight gestured furiously
to Lereahl. Lereahl eventually got the hint and crept silently into the room.
He nocked an arrow, drew a bead on the man and fired. The large guard slumped
quietly to the ground. The rest of the Planeswalkers hurried quietly into the
room. With a quick levitation spell, Wolfenight moved a table in front of the
door. The men on the other side tried to open the door, but found themselves
stuck because of the table. There was muffled shouting and thumping on the
door. Then there was a tiny moment of silence. Realising that the men were
about to try to ram the door open, Wolfenight whisked the table out of the way.
The men came crashing through the door, tumbled and fell over one other. Wolfenight
waved his hands again and sent several blast of white magic at the man who had
made it through the door first. He spun, twisting and flailing as something
else electrocuted him as well. The second man got Lereahl’s arrow through his
arm, and Celerean’s through his shin. He fell, screaming to the ground. Targar
walked up to him, warhammer raised.
“Drop your weapon,” the dwarf growled.
The man whimpered and his gun clattered to the floor. Targar reached into his
pack for a rope and tied the man up. Lereahl knelt down next to the dwarf and
helped with the knots.
“Now,” said Targar turning back to the
man.
“TELL US EVERYTHING!” shouted Eol
leaping forwards and shoving the decapitated head of one of the other men into
the trussed guard’s face. The bound man cried out in shock and screwed up his
eyes.
“Get out of here you idiot!” snapped
Lereahl, shoving the elf away. Eol stumbled backwards, only to be smacked on
the head with a staff by a disapproving Wolfenight.
“Sorry about him,” said Lereahl to the
guard. He slowly opened his eyes again.
“What’s your name?” asked Targar.
“S-Stuart,” mumbled the guard.
“Nice to meet you Stuart. Now, what
exactly is going on here?” asked Targar.
“I don’t know anything! I’m just a
guard!” the man whimpered.
“Okay then. Who does know what’s going
on?”
“The scientists? Maybe?”
“Science-ists?” asked Wolfenight.
“Yeah. The scientists. Guys in white
coats. Doing experiments and tests and other freaky crap.”
“There are people here dedicated to doing science?” Wolfenight seemed
baffled. It was unheard of for anyone in Planeswalker City or any other plane
he’d visited to study science. Everybody was quite happy with thaumatology and
magic.
“Okay. Now, do you know this girl?”
Targar asked Stuart, pulling out the tiny painting they had found.
“T-that’s Sierra Rose. And that’s her
father, Joel. I knew him. Why do you want to know?”
“Never mind that. Just tell us where we
can find her,” said Targar looking grim.
“Not far from here. You can look up
their address on the computer over there,” Stuart said, nodding towards one of
the tables.
“A compa-what?” asked Targar, looking
confused.
“The computer. You know. Google,” the
man said. He was met with more blank looks.
“Shall I, uh, do it for you?” asked
Stuart.
Targar looked at the others who only
shrugged in confusion.
“Sure. Why not?” said Targar. He let the
man up. His hands were still bound tightly, but Targar kept a hold of the rope
just in case he tried anything. Stuart led them over to one of the strange
glowing boxes atop a table. Everyone was quite alarmed when Stuart began
tapping on buttons and the flat square lit up with pictures and light.
“Yes, here it is. That’s their address.
I knew it wasn’t too far from here,” said Stuart, pointing to some odd runes
that had just magically appeared on the lit square.
“Well, lead the way then,” said Targar,
tugging on the lead rope. The group followed as Stuart led them out of the
room. Lereahl paused one last time to admire the strange picture machine.
Wolfenight paused to lick it.
Little did they know, but the group now
looked even stranger. Stuart had suggested that the Planeswalkers might want to
trade some of their otherworldly armour for clothes of this civilian
realm. Eol was now wearing long pants of
some rough blue material, a strange cap thing with a stiff brim at the front
and a short, white tunic with odd colourings on the front. Targar was wearing
the only thing that fit him, a medium length tunic coloured pink with flowers
printed on it. Stuart had advised him against it, but the Dwarf had ignored
him. Wolfenight seemed appalled at the thought of giving up his robe and hat.
“How will people know I’m a wizard
without my wizard’s hat and robe?” he’d said.
Lereahl had also declined to change his
attire, turning up his nose at the odd garments he’d been offered. None of them
matched his style. Celerean was of a similar mindset.
So like this they walked through the
streets, Stuart still tied up, the end of his rope held by Targar like a dog. The
buildings were grey and in bad repair. They looked war-torn. The people looked
the same; dull, battered and weary.
Before they reached the address they
were looking for, they came across a small grassy park full of children and
metal equipment upon which they climbed and played. Among them was the small
girl from the picture.
“Sierra!” called Stuart. The little girl
looked up and walked cautiously over to them. She looked from one Planeswalker
to the next, her young face slowly growing more puzzled.
“You’re Daddy’s friend,” she said,
pointing to Stuart. Stuart nodded.
“But you’re strangers,” she said,
pointing at Targar.
“Sierra, we have something for you from
your father,” said Targar softly. He didn’t have to kneel – he was already at
eye level with the child, but he did so anyway. He held out the small bag of
gems and the photograph of Sierra and her father. The girl took the items. She
looked at the picture, then back to Targar’s sad face.
“Where’s my Daddy?” she asked, her eyes
wide.
“I’m sorry,” said Targar.
Sierra’s small chin began to quiver.
Suddenly, there was an arrow protruding from her forehead. She keeled over
backwards with a soft thump. Everyone turned in shock. Eol was looking
disgustedly at the dead girl. He suddenly felt everyone’s gazes.
“What?” His tone was indignant. “She was
gonna cry. I hate crying children. Especially human infants. Ugh.” He shuddered and crinkled his nose.
Targar’s face slowly turned redder than
his hair. His knuckles cracked as his fingers tightened on his warhammer. Lady
Celerean’s new gun clicked as she loaded it and aimed at the elf in anger. She
got off several shots; two to Eol’s chest and one, ironically, to his head
before Targar stormed up and caved his skull in, finishing him off. Angry that
she didn’t get the last shot in, Celerean turned on Targar and cocked her gun
again. Before the dwarf could react, Wolfenight stepped in. He fluttered his
fingers at the bard. For a second, nothing happened. Then Celerean paused,
confused as a small piece of parchment fluttered down in front of her. She bent
to pick it up. One side was blank. She turned it over to read aloud a single
word: Pity. As soon as the syllables had passed her lips, the runes on the
paper ignited and blew with the force of a small bomb.
When the smoke cleared, Celerean lay
dead and charred in the pool of dark blood seeping from the holes in Eol’s body.
Lereahl could only stand and stare in shock. Targar snorted with satisfaction
at the sight, but then turned sadly back to Sierra’s body. Gently, he closed
her eyes, removed the arrow from her head and wiped away the blood. Then he
began to dig.
Targar patted down the soft earth. The
playground was silent now. The children had all run away in terror. They had
buried Sierra with the photo of her father and the tiny bag of gems in her
hands. Targar stood and dusted the earth from his knees. He looked sadly at the
plain mound, obviously wanting something more. Wolfenight stepped forwards and cleared
his throat softly. He cupped his hands and a look of concentration came over
his face. Coloured lights spilled from his hands and flowed onto the fresh
dirt. They took shape, forming into the ghostly figure of Targar kneeling
before Sierra. Targar turned away gruffly, wiping furiously at his wet face.
Stuart had unfortunately been hit in the
scuffle and as such, the three remaining Planeswalkers had to find their own
way back to the compound they had arrived in. Upon reaching the door, they
realised that none of them had a key to get back in. There appeared to be no
lock to pick either.
“I have an idea!” said Wolfenight. “Hold
onto me tight.”
Lereahl looked at Targar, puzzled for
the umpteenth time that day. Targar shrugged and grasped the Wizard’s skinny
shoulders. Lereahl hugged Wolfenight around the middle with a concealed grin.
Wolfenight squeezed his eyes shut.
“Let’s just hope we don’t end up in a
wall,” he said, much to the alarm of the other two.
Suddenly, they were inside. Targar and
Lereahl let go, feeling a little nauseous.
“Any dizziness or nausea is to be
expected,” Wofenight said casually. “Dimensional doors are hard to get used to.”
Lereahl was bent nearly double trying to
get his breath back.
“You don’t say,” he wheezed.
They found their way back to the room
with the ‘computers’. Wolfenight was tempted to stay and investigate them a
little more, but Targar was able to drag him away. They found themselves in a
corridor with a dead end, a very heavy-duty, locked metal door and a metal
cupboard. Lereahl couldn’t figure out how to unlock this door either, but the
cupboard was quite easy. Inside they found lots of short, brass coloured metal
tubes, the likes of which they had seen Celerean fitting into her new weapon.
There were also stacks of small papers with strange green marks all over them
and a palm sized rectangle of some strange flexible material. Wolfenight took
it, interested in its hard but pliable properties.
They then turned to the door. There
appeared to be a similar locking mechanism to the outside door here, and again
they could not figure it out. Targar was quick to offer to try and break the
door down with brute strength, but Wolfenight shook his head with a wild grin.
He began collecting the brass tubes from the cupboard, popping them open and
pouring the powder inside onto a pile on the floor at the door. Lereahl
sniffed. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the narrow corridor. He understood
now what the Wizard was up to.
When Wolfenight had created a
sufficiently large pile of black powder, he looked around for some sort of
fuse. There was none to be found.
“How about this paper?” asked Targar,
holding up one of the neat sheafs of green.
“Sure, that’ll light it on fire, but you’ll
be much too close. You’ll go up with it,” said Wolfenight. He put a finger to
his chin, thinking. His eyes strayed to Lereahl. The half-elf was inspecting
the nick in one of his arrowheads with a frown on his pointed face. Wolfenight
grinned.
The wad of green paper took the flame
merrily on the end of Lereahl’s arrow. The others stood behind him as he aimed
from around the corner of the far end of the corridor. He fired. The explosion
was deafening and blew the metal door completely off its frame. The companions
hurried towards the room beyond. In it, a man in a fine, but now powder coated,
military uniform was coughing and spluttering and looking enraged. Wolfenight
squeaked in alarm, pointed at the man and shouted,
“Sleep!”
The man went cross-eyed for a moment,
froze, and then crumpled to the ground, snoring.
The charm spell Wolfenight used this
time was much stronger, so when the man woke up, he was quite amicable about
the blast patterns on the floor and the bent metal door.
“Commander Gerald,” he said in a hoarse,
well-used voice, shaking each of the Planeswalkers’ hands as they introduced
themselves too. He explained to them that he didn’t usually take well to
strangers like them. Wolfenight carefully avoided the commander’s eye at these
words. But Gerald went on to explain why. There was something wrong with their
world. One day, hundreds upon thousands of demon-like creatures had come
pouring through some kind of invisible door. These creatures pillaged and
burned and destroyed whatever they came into contact. Commander Gerald was the
leader of the force organised to stop this slaughter and turn back the tide of
rampaging monsters. The mountain of rotting, ochre skinned creatures in the
sewers now made sense.
“So, this door, where is it?” asked
Wolfenight.
“What does it matter to you?” asked the
commander, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“Well, I sensed a disturbance in the thaumatical
flow of this plane the moment we stepped into it. I was just wondering if we
might be able to help with your problem,” he said.
Commander Gerald looked at him,
confused.
“I don’t know how you’re going to help.
My best scientists can’t even tell me exactly what the damned thing is,” he
said.
“Just try us,” said Lereahl, putting a
hand on the man’s shoulder. Gerald sighed.
“It’s right there,” he said, pointing to
the far end of the room. They all looked.
At the end of the room, there was a
small, raised platform of more of the cold, grey, artificial stone. There were
yellow and black markings all around the edges. The area on the platform looked
normal enough at first glance, but when one looked harder, the air seemed to
warp slightly, like a heat haze. Wolfenight approached the platform, looking
curiously at the phenomenon.
“Hm...” he said ponderously and reached
out a hand. The bent air seemed to move out of the way of his hand.
“It appears to be only one way,” he
mumbled.
“Yeah. That we know,” growled Gerald. “We’ve
tried throwing the creatures back through it, but it just moves around them.”
Wolfenight reached into a pocket and pulled
out what appeared to be an old crab leg. Lereahl looked on in disgust as the Wizard
tossed the leg through the heat haze. The warped air moved around the
crustacean limb and it clattered to the floor, confirming the commander’s words.
Wolfenight walked around the platform and retrieved the leg. He tapped it
thoughtfully on his nose. The next second, the wizard had vanished. Lereahl
started forwards, alarmed. Wolfenight suddenly appeared on the top of the
platform. The rippling air around him seemed to quiver, shrink and disappear.
Wolfenight smiled.
“All fixed,” he said. Commander Gerald
stared at him, gobsmacked.
“Wh-what? H-how? How did you do that?”
he stammered, rubbing his eyes again.
“Oh. Simple really. What you had there
was a spatial-temporal rift in the planar fabric, caused by wayward magical emissions,”
replied Wolfenight, stepping off the platform.
“A-a what?”
“A door. A door between dimensions. I
have a spell that lets me open such doors. I opened one, walked through it, and
closed both behind me.” Wolfenight shrugged.
Gerald looked as if he could kiss
Wolfenight. He settled instead on furiously pumping his hand and then offering
them stacks and stacks of the green paper they had seen earlier.
“Paper? Why would we want this?” asked Wolfenight,
staggering as Gerald shoved it into his arms.
“Paper? This is money!”
“Oh...”