The Pooka's Gift

[mcian]

Things had definitely gone his way and Kerridan, the former Grand Inquistor, was certain they would for a long time. He had effectively neutralized his main nemesis, Itannar, and recovered his precious mace. It had served him well. It was empowered with the ability to bend wills to him, and to draw out images and confessions at the slightest touch, though not without cost in pain and suffering upon the victim thereof.

In addition, his traitor brother was still imprisoned and slowly being starved to death. He could not torture him; it was something from which even he recoiled. Besides, his brother had saved his life many times, and he did not want to have all that on his depraved conscience.

Trinsic was about to get a good taste of fire and death. He had already paid goblins and other riff-raff to deliver his vengeance. That would continue unabated.

The council meeting in Cove was a shocking disappointment. He was there, but incognito. He had spent considerable sums on having his skin color changed, tattoos inscribed, and donned the dress of the Papuans, changing his name to Sardo Numspa. As thus, he sat in on the meeting and listened as the church's regulations were discarded one by one. He gritted his teeth but showed no outward emotion, leaving early due to his disgust. Perhaps some of those present, especially that James creature, need a lesson!

There was the issue of making sure the changeover from his brother's leadership at the keep and his were explanable. One of those under his brother's charge, a young Papuan named Jace, through whom he got information about Papua, and about the real Sardo Numspa, whom he replaced, permanently, was asking too many questions. Kerridan was considering what to do about him, to silence him might be easier and on that prospect he ruminated.

Best of all, he had his mace, his scepter! He had yet to activate its power... and suddenly, it did occur to him to do that.

Was it possible Itannar tricked him? How could he know?

He hurried to the prison below and picked out a necromancer who was awaiting sentencing. The man was weak from hunger and lying on his bed, barely breathing. The dying man's eyes widened and he tried to form the word, "No" and "Please" but received not a dram of sympathy in return. The Inquisitor edged towards him, his mace-wielding hand outstretched. He invoked the magic word and touched the man's head with it.

Jace was sitting on his bed on the second floor, sharpening his kryss. The curving blade made it a tedious process; it took time. His work was interrupted by a sudden blast from below. "By the gods!!" He dropped the weapon and hurried to the portal to the dungeon.

[mcian]

Jace was not the only one running for the dungeon portal. Several of his cohorts and two officers ran ahead of him, entering it first.

Arriving far below, his senses were assaulted by acrid, billowing, smoke filling the wide chamber. He heard the sound of combat and to his amazement, saw his guardian, Preceptor Kerrigan, fighting against three others at once, and holding his own. "He's supposed to be dead!" Jace muttered out loud, enough that two of those with him glared at him and launched their own attack, him being their target. Having not sheathed his kryss, he was more than ready, quickly felling one who lunged at him with a sword and severely wounding the other, who staggered backward clutching the hole in his chest, as he slumped down slowly.

"Help me!" Kerrigan yelled when he saw him. "These are my brother's henchmen! They mean to kill us both!"

Accepting the advice of his only known friend and mentor, Jace propelled into battle. Either most of the guards were drunk, or just sloppy in execution, but all of them went down one by one, wounded or dead from their wounds. In moments only he and the Preceptor stood, surveying the carnage.

Kerrigan, panting and wounded himself, patted him on the shoulder. Jace began tending his wounds. "What is going on, sire?"

The Preceptor sat down. He pointed to his cell. The wall separating his cell from an adjacent one had been breached allowing him to escape through that cell's open door. He shook his head. "I heard my brother talking to a prisoner in the cell adjoining mine and then there was a terrific explosion. The concussion collapsed the wall and I took the chance of getting to him..."

Jace looked around. None of the bodies were that of Kerridan, the Grand Inquisitor. "Where is he? Did he escape? I never saw him."

Kerrigan shook his head. "No... he wasn't there! Nor was the prisoner he was talking to! The bed was smashed and the wall crumbled but they were both gone! I ran out, grabbed a weapon and... well... you know the rest."

Jace shook his head. "I was told by the Inquisitor that you had died and he bequeathed the place to you. I thought it quite odd that at the funeral they did not open the coffin, telling us your body was unrecognizable. I also noted that the attitude of my fellow trainees had taken a turn for the worse. They all shunned me and talked ill of me behind my back. I got the impression they wanted me out of here."

Kerrigan nodded. "They were my brother's hirelings... scum, trash, ruffians to do his vile bidding. I was going to have him arrested, but he found out about it and imprisoned me. They would have taken you out sooner or later too. My brother is a wanted man; he committed heinous crimes in Yew and tried to usurp me here. He almost succeeded… but I have no idea where he went."

"We need to get you to a healer. I can only do so much for you," Jace remarked. "I will also send word to my father about this. He is a member of Emerald Fist, and they can take care of any left-over business in rooting out these miscreants. Not all of them were here; some were on patrol or other business."

“Aye, likely my brother's. We must get help and return to clear this place out, but I am in no shape to do that right now. We need to get out of here and return as soon as we are able.”

Kerrigan allowed Jace to help him out of the dungeon to find one who might be able to restore his health and then report this to the Governor of Yew.

[mcian]

Kerridan had been dreaming about a snake wrapped around his neck, choking the life out of him slowly. He opened his eyes in total darkness and reached for the object in his dream, only to find out it was no serpent at all, but thin, human, hands closed about his throat. It was the necromancer he had tested his mace upon moments before something had gone horribly wrong. There was a flash and a concussive blast that momentarily rendered him dazed. Apparently the necromancer was less so and was taking the opportunity to finish off his tormentor. “Die! Die, you pathetic worm! I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do!!” he raved.

Both were prostrate, the Inquisitor lying face up on a cold, wet, stone floor, the necromancer sitting on his chest doing his utmost to finish what he had started. Unfortunately for him he was too weak and the Inquisitor pummeled his face with his fist, forcing him back until he could kick him away. The tables turned and the Inquisitor Kerridan located his mace and in one fell strike ended it. “I guess not!” he mocked, panting from the exertion.

It was then a glow lit the narrow chamber from behind him. He whirled to see an unusual but familiar sight – James had appeared suddenly, as cheerful as though he had eaten his way through a field of red, ripe, strawberries. “Hello!” he greeted.

From their following conversation – that which might be termed important at least – Kerridan discovered several bits of information relevant to his future:

-He was in a normal magic-limited chamber, with no doors and deep underground, a virtual tomb. Kerridan tried but failed his Sacred Journey skill to escape it.

-The mace he used was a fake, one that James had infused with some kind of teleportation magic that brought him here, albeit roughly. It pulled in the necromancer prisoner as well as a large quantity of air, depositing both in this oubliette – place of forgetting.

-He had been tricked by Itannar, Jared, and James, and was now quite helpless. He tried every ruse, every trick, every possible source of bribery in seeking release, all to naught. He even tried to pretend the dead necromancer was himself and that he was an innocent accidently dragged along. James refuted this by telling him that he knew his “smell.” This was a personal affront as the Inquisitor prided himself on his hygiene.

For some time the Pooka described various topics dear to him, as if amazed by each of them – of his kindred; his experiments in magic that led to this trick; his understanding of elves and humans, until the Inquisitor finally collapsed into a depressed heap against the wall and silently pled for death.

He knew It was all over. Likely there would be a trial and he would be executed, or worse, imprisoned forever here with the Pooka to visit daily with food and water but also with far-fetched stories and tales; unsolicited and incomprehensible humor; endless, random, philosophical meanderings on a variety of bizarre, abstract, topics – more than enough to drive anyone quite mad and quickly. He shuddered and nearly wept thinking of it.

Please gods, kill me first.

James eventually and cheerfully departed to go and inform both Itannar and Governor Idril of his success, leaving Kerridan awaiting his fate, hoping for a miracle of deliverance that he knew would never come.

*                            *                        *

He slept fitfully, burning the single candle until it, too, played out. It was dark, damp, and cold even with his robes. He awoke to find that something had bitten him on the wrist… rats! How he hated them! But it did occur to him that there were no holes in the walls, floor, or ceiling, only cracks and small ones at that.

Rummaging through his satchel which he always carried, he found his journal. Immediately realizing the danger of it falling into wrong hands, he tried to destroy it by fire using flint he carried. It had just started smoking when James appeared, saw the book, and snatched it away, ignoring his pleas and threats.

All he could do was protest vigorously about the conditions of the place and show James the bite mark on his wrist. James promised to take him away as soon as possible, but not just yet. Resigned to his fate, Kerridan slouched down and pouted, awaiting any kind of deliverance from this nightmare.

[mcian]

One Last Gift

Damian Racsen did not often visit the crypts of Yew. The last time he did was when he brought his minion to Yew as a gift to the former Governor, to keep the peasants in line and force them to depend upon his protection. That kept them fearful, distracted, and too busy to unite against his reign. Yet the Governor never really used nor needed the creature, the zombie slave mage, and so he brought it home. Today he decided he would walk its halls once more to make sure one of his own coffins remained intact and undefiled.

As he proceeded to the lower levels of the crypts, his senses ignoring the pleasant odors of rot and decay, gave him wit that a human was present close by - a living, fresh, source of blood. He searched the halls and chambers carefully as the undead fled from him or gave him no thought, but found nothing. The crypts were deep underground; there was no way the smell of the living could seep down into it; there must be an adventurer present somewhere.

He transformed to mist and continued the search, allowing his sense of smell to guide him, and, finally, he did locate the human, trapped inside an area that he had never discovered.

The human was asleep. It wore armor, a chainmail coif and studded leather including gorget, sleeves, pants and gloves. No matter. Had he mind to it, he could have merely overpowered it, draining it of blood leaving it quite dead. His curiosity got the better of him - who was he, why was he here, how did he get here? He resumed material form and placed his hand on the human's forehead, whispering words of solace and comfort that he might read his thoughts without possible interruption and the knowledge of the sub-creature.

He probed the man's dreaming mind and discovered much about him: he was a prisoner here; he was a cleric of sorts but not a virtuous one - a criminal in fact. He was depressed and despaired of hope. He had no friends, no loved ones, none he could trust nor care for. If Damian had any pity, he felt a twinge of it, but only briefly. Best to put this mortal out of his misery, he mused, but then why? Perhaps he deserved it. Perhaps it would be too lenient a price for his crimes? Maybe he might yet live and serve a greater power - as he had once himself, and had taken sweet revenge on his hated enemies. Damian smiled. Yes, he would let this one live... for a while at least... and watch the progress of his hate and malice thrive and bear fruit for good or ill of all concerned. What else had a vampire like himself to do if not enjoy the view of his own past relived?

Kneeling down and loosening the man's glove he bared his fangs and pierced the flesh below the man's wrist. Only a sip for now. Something that could easily be mistaken for a vermin's bite.

More, much more, to come later.