# A Prime's Guide to the Planes (Or: An Epic-Level Love-Story) (Updated 9-13-07)



## The Great Hippo (Sep 5, 2007)

_Updated once a week, maybe more if I'm feeling crazy. I'll put up the Rogue's Gallery of the characters (and monsters, and so on) up later on.

I'm making a lot of stylistic touches. This campaign is a conglomeration of moments I've experienced, PCs I've met, characters I've made, other campaigns I've run (and played), and everything I love about D&D (and over-the-top writing).

It's both the collective detritus of over a decade spent wasting my time on stories and games as well as an absurd labor of love.

I apologize in advance if it seems pretentious. I am opening my head and allowing the contents to leak out. This is the result. Consider it a writing experiment--or merely an effort to excise a menagerie of writing demons from my skull.

Read at your own risk._


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 5, 2007)

*~*~​*

*"Time is an illusion. Nothing exists but the beginning and the end."*

_A red-headed woman in blood-splattered studded leather stands. Her body is a tapestry of scars; her eyes blaze with a scalding heat that can scorch flesh from bone. Though battered and bruised, she holds her stance and wields a single silver-etched sword. Her current look can be best described as 'murderously murdering murder'._

*"In the beginning, there was nothing. Then came the Equation--Existence--the Multiverse."*

_A pale-skinned fair-haired elven boy stares forward with piercing blue eyes. Every inch of him below the neck is encased in gleaming high-collared gunmetal blue armor wreathed with a tattered indigo cloak. In either hand, he wields an ornately decorated six-shooter pistol; the barrels smolder with pungent smoke, freshly spent rounds clattering to his feet as he unloads the chambers with a quick snap of the wrists. His stare is determined, but thoughtful._

*"In an instant, the Equation is solved. Its completion marks the end."*

_Swarmed from head to toe in filthy gray wraps of every size, a living heap of soiled fabric spins about, both gloved hands clutching battered and chipped katana. It is clear that he has no idea how to wield these weapons, yet hacks with such sincere intensity that it scarcely matters. Not a stitch of his skin can be seen--only his eyes, glowing a bright inquisitive yellow beneath his feathered hood's plume, with a broken dandelion flower-pot sitting atop his head. Around his neck is a crude sign that reads--"ASASIN: WIL WERK 4 CHEEP"._

*"Everything that happens in between--all your pain, all your suffering, all your joy, all your grief--everything--is contained in the span of that single instant. And none of it matters."*

_A handsome young man dressed in lavish black and gold holds out his hand, peering intently at an intricate pocketwatch. To his back stands an ancient white-haired wizard, dressed in fading grays, staring into his own hand at an identical pocketwatch. The old man's gaze is weary and sad, as if remembering some long forgotten sin._

*"Everything you know. Everything you are. Everything you love--will be washed away. For there is only the beginning and the end."*

_A black-skinned dark-elf stares, sinking low into a stance. His white hair has been hacked short, and his torso is exposed--strips and pieces of his cloak still cling the broad breadth of his shoulders. A dozen or more slashes gleam wetly along the length of him, with a wickedly curved long-sword forged of shimmering crystal clutched in both hands. At his feet are the shattered remains of another sword--his stare is at once a combination of wretched malevolence and calm acceptance._

*"And nothing lies between."*


*~*~​*

Tread carefully, for you walk on hallowed ground.

You will not find this place marked upon any planar map or book of lore. No one speaks of it--it is sacred in all respects that something _can_ be.

This where dead heroes lie.

There--fifteen gravestones west and three gravestones north of the center. Do you see it? A marker, just like any other. Perhaps this stone belongs to one of the six brave souls who made a final stand at the caverns of Tiazan against the Tanar'ri hordes. Or perhaps it belongs to a penitent priest who spent her life praying for the lost souls of the Waste. Or perhaps by a lowly flower-girl who committed one unselfish act before her death.

You cannot know. Here, everyone is the same. There are no words writ upon the countless markers that line the grassy field. No names, no epitaphs, no flowers. Nothing distinguishes one marker from the next.

Nothing but memory.

It is difficult to tell the red-headed girl's age. She could be young and lovely if it were not for all the scars. They gather in covetous streaks along her bronzed arms, hungrily gorging themselves upon the sleek length of razor-sharp sinew. Though she is hard in all the places she should be soft, she possesses a ferocious magnetism about her--like the attraction of a tigress ready to pounce.

She drops low now, kneeling to touch the stone. A slithering serpent with viridian scales and smoldering eyes is tattooed to her arm, emerging from her sleeve as if roused from a slumber. Its fangs ending at her index and ring finger. When she brings the fingers to touch the marker, it briefly burns.

"You know I ain't too sharp with speeches, so I'll keep this short."

Her voice is quick and deft, and as sharp as a sword. It has the trembling ring of a singer and the quiet lurking strength of a killer.

"I'm leaving--you know the drill. 'Verse in trouble. Fiends on the move. Loths plottin'. Same old, same old."

A slow wind stirs distant reeds from their lethargy, drawing from them the rich scent of morning.

"They'll keep you well, here. Place is a gods-damn--uh, 'scuse me. Devils-damned museum. Had to rattle me sword just t'get through. Heh."

She smiles, but it is brief and forced.

"Truth is, I can't stand this place. Everyone here's got a whole tree-trunk stuck up their arse. Pardon me tongue, dear, but it's the damn truth."

At last, she moves to stand. Where her fingers had laid, two soot marks now stain the rock. She knows that it will be noticed--she knows that it will be fixed. But for now, it will do.

"But I'll come back. Every year. I won't forget. You know that--"

An uncharacteristic flush stains her cheeks into dark apples. For a moment, she appears as young as she is.

"You know how I felt about you. I _hope_ you did. I--uh. I've got to go," she murmurs.

Feeling immensely silly, she turns. 

And as she leaves to face her many enemies, she thinks to herself:

_Will I do the right thing?_


*~*~​*

And here, in a room nestled away in some mudball Prime-World, a boy prepares a delicious dish of fried liver and onions.

If that doesn't sound appetizing, it's only because you've never had _his_ fried liver and onions. If anything, his ability to make the dish even tolerable is a testament to his exceptional skills as a chef.

And as he prepares the meal, he considers his decision, as well as the question he plans to ask. And as he carries the food out to his father and friends, he thinks to himself:

_Am I doing the right thing?_


*~*~​*

And here, lurking in an enclosed planar prison of ice and shadow, an old man ponders Fate.

Around him, ancient glaciers crack and crumble in an intolerable yawning blackness; the plane itself is nothing but shattered fragments of ice forever suspended in an infinite void.

He himself is old--implausibly, impossibly, _ridiculously_ old--the sort of old that makes universes look like impertinent young whippersnappers and would make Ao go '_gods-damn boy, you're *old*_'. He is also powerful, but only in certain ways--for instance, he cannot leave this place.

His role in this story is already complete, but that is because his role is very _complex_. This is often the case when you are traveling backwards through time.

And as he travels from the end to the beginning, forever alone, he thinks to himself:

_Have I done the right thing?_


*~*~​*


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## Bryon_Soulweaver (Sep 6, 2007)

I like this. Very interesting.


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 6, 2007)

Bryon_Soulweaver said:
			
		

> I like this. Very interesting.




Thanks. Of course, now I've _changed everything written here_ after you said that, so--I'll take it with a grain of salt. 

Sorry about that; the beginning really irked me. The beginning is all ready plotted out, I just have to think of a way to scribe it into a format I really like. Will post it soon.


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## Fimmtiu (Sep 7, 2007)

Hey, this is good stuff! I'm keeping an eye out for more.


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 11, 2007)

*"Everything happens for a reason. Everything has a cause."

"Follow this thread of causality backwards and you will find the chain of events that lead you here and forced you to make these choices. The whole of reality is stored within you--all of existence leading to this singular moment, this so-called instant--the weight of history baring down upon you until you make the choice you have been destined to make."

"But in the end, the choice is illusionary. In the end, you never had any choice at all."*


*~*~​*_Because an elf found a book._​

Imagine a festhall filled with dwarves.

But not just any dwarves. These are the biggest, stinkiest, burliest, beardiest, meat-eatingest dwarves you have ever seen. Dwarves so manly that even their beards have beards. These are dwarven dwarves, okay?

And what do a bunch of manly dwarves eat? Some fine cheese with a white wine? A light parfait for dessert, perhaps?

_Hell no!_

They're eating heaping plates of liver and onions, and washing it down with shots of cheap booze! Anything else would be downright undwarven.

And now, imagine that--amidst all this sloppy meat-chomping, throat-grunting masculinity--the well-respected chef of this meal (and the only son of the dwarf who's currently paying the tab) slips on up to the front of the table and, ah, gingerly clears his throat.

Ahem.

"Dad?"

"Mmm. (schlorp, schlorp, chomp, chew) Yes, son? Pass the salt, Harry!"

"I've been meaning to ask you something for some time, now."

"Oh? Have you (chomp, chew, schlormp, chew, spit) now? No, no, the _salt_, you bleeding fool! Pass me the salt before I bury an axe in your daft skull!"

"Yes. I've been doing a bit of research in the library, and thinking about it a lot, and--well..."

"Out with it, son! (chomp, chew, chomp, slicesliceslice--chomp, chomp) Speak yer peace or saddle up in a chair and help yourself to a portion!"

"It's just--I wanted to ask. Dad, am I adopted?"

Dead. Silence.

Every big, stinky, burly, beardy, meat-eating dwarf in the room looks up at once and stares. They all _stare_ at the tall, sweet-smelling, scrawny, beardless, vegetable-chomping elf-boy.

"Son, I think it's about time we had a talk."


*~*~​*

*"Do you see? There is no chance. What you see as random is merely your inability to see the Equation in its entirety."

"Chaos is blindness to cause. Everything has a cause. Our inability to see the Why does not exclude the Why from existing."

"Everything that has ever happened to you--every single event, no matter how insignificant or random--was significant. In its whole and entirety, it is responsible for who you are now. And when you are dead, the 'choices' you made will determine the 'choices' of others."

"At once, you are both unnecessary to the Equation, yet integral to its success. Everyone is. Everything is."

"Do you understand?"*


*~*~​*_Because a dwarf won a watch._​

Boric poured himself a drink. A big one.

"Truth is, son, we kind of--uh, won you," he admitted.

"Won me? Like--a raffle prize, or something?"

"Er, more like a wager," Boric said, drinking the dwarven equivalent of a highball (minus the non-alcoholic part).

"You--won me in a card-game?!" Gane sounded incredulous.

"And what a hand it was, too," Boric said wistfully, glancing off and away. "Hands like that don't just come every day, you know."

"So I _am_ an elf."

"Well--"

"You said elves are flower-eating, tree-loving, poetry-reading pansies," Gane stated rather flatly.

"Well," Boric said, squirming uncomfortably. "You turned out pretty okay."

Gane slumped exhaustedly into a nearby chair. Boric frowned, fiddled with his drink, then sat down next to him.

"Well, it's not like you turned out to be a bad dwarf," Boric shrugged.

"Mmmnf."

"I mean, no beard--sure--and what sort of lad doesn't have a healthy bouquet of chest-hair? But you know the value of an honest day's work, and I ain't ever heard you spouting any flower poetry."

"Maybe I should start," Gane mused.

Boric grew pale and started mumbling. "I--uh, I mean, if you really think you need to, I guess we can, uh, maybe organize some sort of, uh, recital in the hall or--"

"I was just kidding, Dad. I'm not going to start reciting poetry."

Boric sighed with relief. "Oh, thank the _Gods_."

Gane tried not to smile, but he was failing. "You hate poetry that much, huh?"

"It's like nails on a chalkboard. Worse than wasting booze."

Gane laughed a little and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Boric finished his drink, watching the young elf closely.

"So, what now, son? You going to try and find your real parents?"

"You _are_ my real parents," Gane said. "If the ones who lost me in a game of poker--they really bet me in a game of poker?--if those ones ever want to find me, they can look me up on their own."

"That actually reminds me," Boric said, suddenly turning around to fish in the stone drawers behind him. "When I beat the guy, I won something else off him, too. Always meant to fork it over to you one day, and, well--" Boric snatched something up, handing it over to Gane. "Behold, son! Your inheritance."

Gane eyed the plain gold pocketwatch with a glimmering shred of curiousity. "It looks broken."

"Hasn't worked for ages. Not since I won it. And it's got a funny face," Boric said. "I never really did anything with it. Just threw it in a drawer and forgot about it, until now."

Gane scrutinized the watch. Instead of 12 hours, the face had 13.

"Wow. So my entire legacy is a broken, deformed pocketwatch?" He asked, curiously exploring its crevices with his long, clever fingers. He found something--was that a groove near the back? With a tiny twist, he felt something fall out into his palm. A delicate winding key?

"Could be worse," his father mused, watching Gane toy with the watch.

"How's that?" Gane asked, inspecting the hidden winding key closely, before curiously pressing it into the side slot of the watch.

"He could have left you elf-poetry."

"Hee. I guess--" Gane twisted the key, winding the watch. There was a sudden flash and a dull, thrumming sound. Then nothing at all.

Boric stared at the empty chair where his son had been sitting only a moment ago. He just sat there for some time, not moving.

After ten minutes had passed, he worked out of his shock far enough to fix himself another drink.

"Maybe elf-poetry _wouldn't_ have been so bad."


*~*~​*

*"I have told you this a thousand times before, and will tell you it a thousand times again. And now I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to kill your friends."

"Because--the Equation's solution is always the same."

"Because--you wound a watch."

"Because--I have done it countless times before."

"Because--you kissed a girl."

"Because--I will do it countless times again."

"Because--all that you love will be washed away."

"Because--this is the way that your story ends."

*


*~*~​*_Because a boy met a girl._




*A Prime's Guide to the Multiverse**
(Or: An Epic-Level Love-Story)*​


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 11, 2007)

*Episode 1:*_ Lost_​


Imagine
















































a desert​














































as far as you can see.​














































And in this desert, there is















































an elf. He is​














































sitting​














































on a rock.















































Sometimes, he will​














































wind a watch. But usually​














































he just sits















































on the rock.​














































He is waiting​














































for something















































(to die?)​














































to happen.​














































But nothing​














































ever happens















































here. Nothing at--​













































"Hey, kid."

"H-huh?! Is someone there?! Hello?"​
"I'm the rock."

"Are you t-talking to me? I'm trying to get back home--"​
"Actually, I'm just a hallucination. You're suffering from dehydration."

"...oh."​
"Anyway, so long."

"Okay."​






















And so he waits















































on his rock​














































and nothing happens. He waits​














































just a little longer















































and then--​













































Wait. Do you see that?​













































Right there. It's--














































--far away, just a speck, but maybe--​













































--running to it, stumbling over sand--​













































--closer and closer, the speck growing--














































--could be a person, maybe a house, or maybe--​













































--it could be--​













































Another rock.














































The elf sits on the rock.​













































And plays with the watch.​













































And waits













































(to die?)​













































for something to happen.​












































Maybe he'll die.














































Maybe--​













































Something happens.


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 12, 2007)

"Hey."

Horrible, horrible dreams. Of deserts, and talking rocks, and more rocks, and pocketwatches.

"Hey. Elf."

Terrible dreams. Dreams where he isn't a dwarf, where he's just sitting on a rock, where clocks have 13 hours instead of 12.

"Hey. Elf. Wake up."

Horrible, terrible, stupid, terrifying dreams where--

Was that--was that water?

Gane's body jerked, his lips convulsing around the neck of the bottle. Greedily, he took several deep, exquisitely ecstatic gulps. Nothing had ever tasted better than this in his whole life. It was absolutely divine. It was--

He opened his eyes. Above him, a blurry silhouette stared down from beneath a blazing sky.

He was still in the desert.

"Where am I?" He spluttered, coughing and sitting up.

The girl drew the canteen away. She was--she was strange, Gane thought. He'd never seen someone with red hair, before. Or with that many scars, either. Or...

Slowly, Gane stood up, reaching to pat the girl on the head. She blinked and stared at him, bristling.

"What the blazes are y'doin'?!"

"You're--you're just as tall as I am," Gane announced, filled with awe. "You're--are you an elf?!"

"What? No! I'm not a bleeding--augh. That's great. Wonderful! I find some addle-cove wandering in the desert and he turns out to be a barmy. I should have figured--"

"Barmy? What's that?"

"Oh, a _clueless_ barmy. That's just fantastic!"

Gane smacked his dry lips together. "Um. Could I have some more water?"

The girl threw the canteen to him. He took a careful practice sip, then looked to see if she was throwing him dirty looks. Once he saw that she wasn't, he started gulping it down greedily. Oddly, the canteen never seemed to lose any weight--and the water kept flowing endlessly. It was crisp, clean, and even cool.

Once Gane was finished, the girl snatched the canteen back from him and hooked it back on her belt. It was then that he noticed she was wearing what looked like a patchwork jigsaw puzzle of studded leather, stitched together from every manner of armor conceivable. And at her side was a really big, really nasty, really sharp looking sword.

At once, she started walking. Gane hesitated a moment, then started to follow.

"Where are we going?" He hesitantly asked.

"We? _We_?" The girl responded, voice dripping with incredulous wonder. "_We_ aren't going anywhere. _I'm_ going somewhere. You're just following me."

"Well," Gane started, thinking about that. "I really don't have anywhere else to go. I'd like to go home, though, if you don't mind."

The girl sighed, but didn't slow her march. "Fine. Where's your home?"

"Uh, Blackspear Mountain, actually--"

"Oh, for Blood's sakes. You don't even know the plane, do you?"

"Plain? What's this got to do with plains?"

"Plane of existence. This is the quasi-elemental plane of Sand, bordering the plane of Dust, which borders the Negative Material plane, which is part of--"

"Wait, wait. Wait. What? Wait. What? WHAT."

The girl stopped. For a moment, a brief shimmer of rage flared through her--uncoiling like a slithering snake, making her tremble. Then, slowly, she turned around and faced Gane, putting on her best 'I'm-Not-Going-to-Kill-You' smile.

"This is a plane. A plane of existence. This, here. What we're standing on," she said, stomping her foot in the sand for emphasis. "It's an entire universe that's separate from your own. I don't know what universe you came from, so I can't point you in the right direction."

"Well, it's--it's whichever one has the Blackspear Mountains!"

"What's your world _called_?"

"Called? What do you mean, 'called'? It's THE world! We don't call it anything but that! The world!"

"Gods, I hate clueless," she muttered, turning away and marching through the sand. Gane quickly followed.

"Well, listen--can you at least take me somewhere less--um, um--"

"Sandy?" She offered.

"Yes," Gane said. "Less sandy. Much less."

"Sure. After I'm done here."

"Done here? What are you doing here?"

"This," she said, stepping up to the rock they had been moving towards and dropping down into a crouch to grasp it steadily in both hands.

"Oh, that," Gane said, waving a hand. "I was sitting on that earlier. There's nothing there."

The rock groaned in her hands and slid up with a click. The sand stirred and began to swirl like water down a drain, forming a widening circle that enclosed them both. Gane stumbled and struggled to stay afloat, quickly jogging back and away from the rising pillar of stone that began to emerge from the sandy whirlpool.

The girl stepped back. Before her was a slab of rising stone with an opening that lead into a yawning blackness, dribbling with sand and dust. A fleet of narrow steps lead down beneath the desert itself, into the heart of the dunes.

"Nothing there but a really big staircase," Gane quickly amended. "Yeah, it would have been nice if I had noticed that."

The girl looked over her shoulder, peering at him with a gaze that could skewer stone. Now when she spoke, her voice was sharp and rough--with enough strength to split iron. 

"You can either come with me or stay out here and rot in the desert sun."

"I think I'll come with you," Gane muttered nervously. "Sounds like fun."

"Mmhmm. Just. Don't. Touch. _Anything_."


*~*~​*

The girl's torch (drawn from a small pouch at her side that defied the laws of space and requiring no flame to shed light) spluttered its glow brightly along the hollowed, cramped hallway, causing the falling rivulets of sand to sparkle and flicker like powdered diamond. She creeped step by step down the sand-choked floor, eyes always set ahead.

"So, uh, what's your name?"

"Hound," she said without looking back.

"Mine's Gane."

"Fascinating." Some people's words dripped with sarcasm. Hound's caused a tsunami. People _drowned_.

"So, uh, Hound. I have some questions."

"I'm sure you do."

"Like--if this is another dimension, then--how do we know each other's language?"

Briefly, Hound paused and looked back. "What?"

Gane shrugged. "I mean, if we're from different dimensions, shouldn't we speak different languages? I mean, shouldn't you be babbling in some sort of alien dialect I have absolutely no familiarity with?"

Hound looked away, continuing down the corridor. "You read too many fantasy books."

"Oh."

The hallway grew broad, erupting into a massive circular antechamber. Gane briefly looked up, and instantly felt dizzy. They were still underneath the desert floor, and yet there was at least a hundred feet above him--and the ceiling was carved with ornate pictographs that glittered in the torchlight. Around the room were one dozen symmetrical alcoves within which incredibly ancient statues sat--each so worn by the passage of sand and time that they had become nearly nothing more than slabs of stone.

In the center, a massive raised dais had grown thick with choking sand. Hound walked towards it, brushing it off with waves of her arms until at last the stone face beneath had started to become clear. It was circular, with one dozen notches each matching the placement of the alcoves. In the center was a small circular groove.

"What the hell is this?" She asked, scowling at it intently.

"Hm?" Gane asked, looking away from the worn statue he had been peering at. "Oh, that. That's a watch."

"Huh?"

"You know, a watch. For keeping time."

"How in the world can you keep time?" Hound asked, her scowl growing even more fierce.

"Wait, you don't know what a watch is?" Gane said, stepping towards her and fishing in his pocket for the watch his father had given him. "Here, this is what it looks li--HEY! Give that back!"

Hound had snagged the watch the moment she had seen it. Giving it only a passing glance, she instantly rammed it into the circular groove at the center of the dais. At once, it fit with a click--and a low, throbbing rumble stirred throughout the chamber.

"What do you know? Turns out you were useful after all," Hound said.

"Uh. Okay. What happens now?" Gane asked.

"Dunno. Magic, maybe," Hound said.

"What _is_ this place?" The rumble grew a little more distinct. Dust started to fall from above, along with slim channels of spilling sand.

"A temple. For the worship of time. Also, a prison," Hound said.

"A prison for what?"

Hound grinned. "The most terrifying mage ever to exist."

"Oh, okay," Gane said, then gave a start. "Wait, _what_?"

"I said the most terrif--"

There was a flash of light and they were gone.


*~*~​*

"You remember that thing you said about alternate planes?" Gane asked.

"Yeah."

"I think I'm ready to believe you, now."

In all directions was blackness that stretched as far as the eye could see. Nothing lurked beyond; no sky, no moon, no stars. Contained within it were ancient crumbling glaciers, suspended in the void like the shattered detritus of a once vibrant comet. Some of the glaciers pressed against one another, grinding themselves smooth and filling the space with the constant hum of crushing ice.

In front of them was a bridge of carefully carved ice. It spanned the space between the glacier they stood upon and the next, where a man was sitting on a hump of frost and reading a book.

The man was... Old. Very, very old. So old that it seemed impossible that he could still be alive--his face was lined with wrinkles so deep they seem to have been carved there with a knife. He wore a battered black fedora and a slim, smart, handsome suit. When the two began their slow approach, he did not look up.

Hound was the first to speak. With her sword held in hand (the torch, Gane noted, had strangely disappeared), she sprang forward in front of the old man and suddenly announced in a voice that could crack stone:

"Jeremiah Iscarias! I have come here to--"

Without looking up from his book, the old man snapped a finger.

Hound was now a toad.

"Uh," Gane said.

"_Ribbit_," Hound exclaimed, hopping angrily about.

"Okay." Gane said. "Hi."

"Mmm." The old man turned a page in the book, scrutinizing the text intensely.

"So. Would you mind changing her back?"

"Yes, actually," the old man said.

"_Ribbit!_"

"Well, do it anyway."

The old man snapped the book shut. He turned and looked at Gane--who suddenly shrank back, terrified at the notion of spending the rest of eternity as something small and slimy.

"You know, there are going to be times in your future when you'll really wish I hadn't done this," the old man announced. He snapped his fingers.

"_Ribb--STARD!_" Hound roared, transforming in mid-leap and launching herself towards the old man. "I'll cut you into pieces so small they'll need sponges to mop you up!"

"With what, daisies?" He asked.

Hound stopped, blinking. She stared at her sword--which wasn't a sword at all, but a bundle of freshly plucked daisies. She then stared at the old man with a gaze so powerful it could kill goblins at fifty paces.

"Mmm. You're here to ask me questions. So, sit down. Ask," the old man said. Suddenly, spectral chairs swooped in behind Hound and Gane, slamming into their backs and sending them tumbling into the comfort of well-cushioned leather. At once, they both were drawn forward in front of the wizard, who turned to face them both.

"Here are the rules. I will answer three questions, and only three questions. And no, you don't get three questions for _each_ of you, or anything like that. You get three questions total, and that's that. No exchanges, no refunds. Understand?"

"What the hell is going on?!" Gane yelled.

"You're a Prime-World elf raised by dwarves who has, through use of a magical artifact, been drawn into the planes. You've fallen into cahoots with an immensely powerful warrior who's on a quest to avenge her slain mentor. After some considerable misunderstandings, wacky hijinks, necessary drama, and other ridiculous absurdities, you will both fall madly in love and be forced to make a tragic choice," the old man explained in a deadpan drawl. "Next question."

"Wait, wh--_THAT DOESN'T COUNT!_" Hound roared, slapping her hand over Gane's mouth. After a moment of perplexed staring, she quickly added: "Wait--fall in love? Are you kidding me?!"

"No. Third and last question."

"That doesn't count! You're not playing fair!"

"Mmphmmphfphm," Gane said.

"Some day," the old man answered. "And--that's it. Thanks for playing."

"No! I have to ask you--I have to ask you an important question!" Hound leapt up from her seat, brandishing the daisies at the old man's throat as if they were a sword. "You will not deny me my vengeance! My honor _demands_--"

"On a personal note, it's been a pleasure." The old man's calm voice sliced through Hound's hot temper like steel through mud. "I will miss you both."

Gane, freed from Hound's grip, blanched. "Miss us? But you've never even met us before--"

"Actually, this is the third time we've met. From my perspective, at least. From yours--well, that's a little complicated," the old man said, grinning. "So--from your perspective--we'll meet again."

"What in the world do you--"

"OLD MAN, I WILL NOT BE IGNORED! YOU WILL LISTEN TO MY--"

"See you soon."

There was a flash of light and they were gone.

Jeremiah peered at the pocketwatch that he had plucked from the dais, inspecting the strange configuration of numbers--most notably, the extra 13th hour.

"Mm. Such nice kids," he muttered. "I hope they don't die ignobly."

"Not this time, anyway."


*~*~​*

"GODS-DAMN YOU OLD MAN!"

Hound roared with such ferocity that Gane was sure that the desert itself would be sundered. She drove her sword down into the blank patch of sand where the entrance had once been, sinking it to the hilt. She snarled and spat forth such heated vitriol that the sand itself could have melted to glass. And at last, exhausted, she slumped over her sword, breath heaving.

"Bastard," she whispered with every gasp. "You ugly, bloody, mutcher. You skin-filching addle-cove. You _bastard_," she cursed.

"Um." Gane stood far away. At first, he started to reach out to her with a hand, but at the sight of her rage, he thought better of it. For some time, he kept his distance.

At last, she rose up to her feet, drawing her sword free. She stared at Gane with a look that seemed to seize him by the throat and heft him in the air.

"You."

"Yes. Uh. I'm--uh, very sorry. About--about everything, I mean. And--_pleaseohpleasedon'tcutmeup_," Gane squeaked.

"I'm not going to cut you up."

"Oh. Okay. Um--"

"Let's go," she said, turning and marching off in the distance. Reluctantly at first, but eventually gaining a little momentum, Gane cautiously followed.

"Where--where are we going?" He asked.

"Somewhere less sandy," she answered.


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## Tal Rasha (Sep 12, 2007)

Very nicely written so far. Hope to see more soon.

Might I suggest one minor correction? In the last paragraph of the second post, I believe it should say "His role in this story is *already* complete, but that is because his role is very complex."

Regards.


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 13, 2007)

Thank you; I fixed the error.

Should have the next episode up sometime tonight or tomorrow morning.


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## Shieldhaven (Sep 13, 2007)

You've definitely got my attention so far. =)

Haven


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## Zelda Themelin (Sep 13, 2007)

I really like your story. Writing style is interesting and I find it very good way to tell this story.


I hope your writing project will continue and reveal much more of story and characters.


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 13, 2007)

*Episode 2:*_ Enter the Drow_​
Imagine














a waiting room​












as far as you can--​
--Well, okay. It wasn't _that_ bad.

The cramped smoke-choked den was illuminated only by streaks of sickly gold spat by several barred windows that lurked high out of reach, as if placed in a direct attempt to prevent its occupants from escaping. Beneath them was a room that had devoured and digested several others, producing a savage clash between well-cushioned leather chairs and charred metal comforters. The stench of death was thick enough to choke on.

There were also some magazines. And nice music. And a few pleasant plants.

_BUT THE PLANTS WERE DEAD._

Four figures of note were present:

Jarle of the Three-Blades, a sword-master of some renowned who had made his name in the war-hungry depths of Acheron. It was said that the old, haggard tiefling had stolen two of the blades from the forges of Dis itself, and that he had forged the third blade with his own blackened hands. His father had supposedly been a fiend, and his mother a hag--it was said that through her he came to know all the deepest darks in matters of steel. He sat in a twisted and blackened metal chair to the left, remaining perfectly still.

Viviana the Beautiful, a lovely dark-haired sorceress who wore her victims' teeth around her throat as if it were a necklace. Said to be part succubus, she was widely known both for her infallible abilities at treachery (despite being known for it) and her immense skills at the mystical arts. She sat in a comfortable leather chair to the right, remaining perfectly still.

Snape the Clever, an always-grinning handsome grey-skinned smoke genasi who had a penchant for escape. It was said that he managed to slip free of Carceri itself--twice--and that the Sons of Mercy had become so fed up with him that they were busy designing a prison _just for him_. He sat in a chair built out of random unused bone-golem parts, remaining perfectly still.

And finally, a dark-elf--otherwise known as drow. He was wearing ink-black robes, standing in the corner. Smoking.

More on him in a bit.

The door opened. A rather slender looking robed devil with rust-red skin and a pair of over-sized spectacles stepped in, reading off a clipboard. "Ahem. Gentlemen, ladies. I believe we're ready to discuss the matter of your payment--"

Something was wrong. The devil leaned forward, scrutinizing the scene. Three of the four people here were remaining _far_ too still.

Lifting his hand up, the robed devil spoke a word, illuminating the room in a fierce burst of light. The dark-elf winced.

Jarle of the Three Blades was currently being pinned up to the metal chair thanks to the aid of his three blades--all of which had been used to impale the old soldier through the chest, emerging from his ribcage like the back-end of tacks from a notice. His jaw had dropped, eyes wide and glassy with death.

Viviana the Beautiful was slumped comfortably back on her leather chair, hands wrapped around her own throat--where the necklace of fangs had been drawn so tight they had bit deep into her skin. Her face was a contortion of choking, smothering agony, baring the signs of death by suffocation.

Snape the Clever was still grinning. His head was, anyway--that was all that was left of him. The head was smoothly decapitated and pinned to the chair by means of a dagger through a knot in the hair; there was no sign of the rest of his body.

"Excuse me," the devil said, scowling. "What happened here?"

"Cancer," the drow said morosely.

"...cancer?" This took the devil by surprise.

"Yeah," the drow said. "It's the silent killer."

"You're telling me that all your fellow assassins died from _cancer_?"

"Tragic as hell. They put up a heroic struggle, every last one of them. But you can't really beat cancer, can you?"

"Can you explain, then, why one of them has no body--one of them seems to have been choked--and another is impaled on all three of his swords?"

"*Dire* Cancer."

The devil's scowl intensified. "I suppose that means there's only the matter of _your_ portion of the payment, then."

"Oh, yeah. Funny thing. All these folks left their shares of the reward to me," the drow announced, drawing a wreath of rolled paper out of his robes and tossing it to the devil. "Last will and testament."

The devil snagged the document, unfurled it, and peered at it critically. "All of them, while dying--"

"From Dire Cancer," the drow reminded him.

"--found the time to write out and sign a document bequeathing their portion of the reward to you."

"Amazing, isn't it? They were heroes to the last." Finishing with the cigarette, the drow flicked it to the ground and lazily crushed it beneath his heel.

"I see. Well, then."

"Well?"

The devil smiled toothily. "Everything looks to be in order. This way, please."


*~*~​*

"I must admit. I've never met an assassin as--as--"

"Mmm."

"So _direct_ about things," Bartleby announced.

The drow was in his office--a typhoon of paperwork, books, gifts, trophies, and other meaningless planar detritus that had apparently gathered around his employer not through any conscious work but merely by Bartleby's sheer magnetism when it came to crap. The drow was sure that if he spent hours digging through the piles of self-important nick-nacks that surrounded him, he'd never find so much as a functional bottle-opener. Bartleby was just incapable of attracting anything useful to himself.

Which made the drow wonder--how the hell did Bartleby manage to hire him?

"Speaking of direct--money."

"Oh, yes. Your payment. My devil-friend over there told me you'll be accepting the shares of your assassin friends. They all died apparently? Very tragic."

"Yeah, tragedy, terrible, choked up, will send flowers. Payment, please."

"Of course, of course." Bartleby slid up to his feet, wobbling about. The man wasn't just overweight--he had long flew past the boundaries of polite obesity on a rocket-propelled sled, making a rude gesture as he went by. The man was _fat_, and that was the end of the discussion. He waddled towards the far side of the room, shoving aside a few bits and pieces of refuse to get at the safe.

"I must admit, it's been an exceptional thrill to have a legend working for me," Bartleby said.

The drow peered out the window behind Bartleby's desk, observing the cityscape far below. "Eh? Oh, you heard of me?" he muttered distractedly.

Bartleby nearly sprang up to his feet. "Well of _course_ I've heard of you! Who hasn't heard of you?! You're a downright legend around here, sir!"

"Mmm. Good to know," the drow said boredly.

"In fact," Bartleby continued, returning to his work on the safe. "I have all your books. I must say, they're quite interesting. Do you write them yourself, or does someone else write them for you?"

"Books?" The drow's eye twitched. His mouth began to spasm. _Oh, Gods, please. Please, no_, he thought to himself. _Please make him shut up. Make him shut up *right now*._

"Yes, yes. I've read them all. Several times! Although I've been wondering--aren't you supposed to have that panther with you? What was his name--"

The drow turned away from the window, staring at Bartleby's back. If the city bureaucrat could see him, he would have recognized a look of such pure murderous sociopathy that it might have killed him on the spot.

The safe clinked open. Bartleby reached inside, fishing out the necessary amount of cash. "Well, anyway. Truly, it's been an absolute honor to have the legendary _Drizz't Do'Urden_ working for m--"

Five seconds later, a window on the top-floor of a tower exploded, a screaming fat man emerging. He flailed his arms for a good 1.3 seconds before slamming into the ground with a sound best described as 'incredibly moist'.


*~*~​*

Bristling with weapons, the guards kicked down the door and stepped into the room. They found three things of note.

Bartleby, their employer, was missing.

The very large window behind Bartleby's desk was currently broken.

In Bartleby's place was a very angry looking drow. An angry drow with a hood and two very nasty looking swords.

"Cancer," the drow croaked.

"Holy mother of pearl!" One of the guards yelled. "Do you--do you know who that is?!"

"Eh?" Said another.

"That's _Drizz't Do'Urden_!"

"_GODS DAMN IT_!" The drow roared, charging.


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## The Great Hippo (Sep 13, 2007)

Also, thank you for the responses! D:

This is a short part; I'm putting it up now just to get it out of the way. I should have the next part up much later tonight or early tomorrow (this episode isn't done).


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## Fimmtiu (Sep 13, 2007)

The Great Hippo said:
			
		

> _BUT THE PLANTS WERE DEAD._



This is quite possibly the single funniest individual post I've ever read in this forum.


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## Bryon_Soulweaver (Sep 13, 2007)

I like the drow assassin. "Cancer killed them." I never laughed so hard.


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## Anthelios (Sep 14, 2007)

Awesome story, for sure! Truly reminiscent of HGttG, but incredibly creative and probably one of the funniest things I've ever read.

Oh, and when first describing Jarle, I think you missed the word "chair".

"He sat in a twisted and blackened metal to the left, remaining perfectly still."


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## Tal Rasha (Oct 8, 2007)

Gently bumping this thread and very subtly reminding the writer of his readers.   

Regards.


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## Mahtave (Oct 9, 2007)

Second Bump - I too laughed out loud when the deaths were all due t cancer..

Please write more!


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## The Great Hippo (Oct 14, 2007)

My apologies for my long lack of presence; a buttload of school-work hit me, and in the resulting doldrum I went over what I've written here and realized that although I don't like a lot of it, there's a little potential.

I've decided to actually try to write a book. One concerning the power of love, friendship, and steam-powered necromancy (not really, but hey--I should write that idea down). This means sterilizing a lot of my ideas from their specific Planescapian roots, *serious* proof-reading, and not posting the result on the tubes.

If the attempt fails miserably and I'm left with nothing but a manuscript thick with cobwebs and dust, I'll probably end up posting it here anyway. I expect to finish it sometime near the end of October, but after that I can't say how long I'll try to get it published (in part or as a whole) before I just throw my arms up in disgust and offer it as a sacrifice to the gibbering Elder Gods of the Internet.

Anyway, apologies for playing the shell game on you all.


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## Tal Rasha (Nov 22, 2007)

Hello there.

How's the book going? If all is progressing well then I am looking forward to buying the book when it is published, and will patiently wait until it is released. 

If however work on the book is not particularly advanced (>= 50%) then I would like to respectfully disagree with your decision to _steriliz[e] a lot of my ideas from their specific Planescapian roots_. Here's why.

IMHO, there already are quite a number of books that deal with friendship and love quite successfully. However, I do not think there are many books / stories / what have you that do so in a Planescape setting. I believe that in trying to isolate yourself from your original idea, you are removing part of the appeal and running a risk of your work being drowned in a sea of similar novels.

Moreover, if I have read your post correctly, you think that the Planescape setting will somehow hinder your creativity or your expressivity. I do not think this to be the case. Planescape is a very rich medium, and one that fully supports good story-telling and traditional as well as innovative techniques.

You might think that the prerequisite background knowledge (Planescape setting, D&D, Drizz't reference etc.) will be a put-off to your readers. In this I can only offer my opinion that a well written novel with a specific background setting will attract more readers (people familiar with the setting + people who don't know about the setting but like the writing) than a well-written novel with a generic (no offence) setting (people who like the writing and happen to find this particular item). Moreover, you can introduce people to the setting through the elf's eyes.

Long story short: I think you write *well*, and I _really_ want to see well-written books in the Planescape setting. I understand the desire to do something properly, which is why I won't be too upset if you tell me "sorry, no Planescape." But please let me know what you think.


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## A Crazy Fool (Nov 24, 2007)

Part of the reason is probably because he can't get a planescapey novel published because of copyright.


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## Tal Rasha (Nov 25, 2007)

Yes, I did think about that. My reasoning was -- Planescape isn't in-print at this time, it's not actually used, so it shouldn't be particularly expensive to use its intellectual property right? I mean, from the owner's (TSR?) perspective it would be 0-risk income. Thoughts?


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## humble minion (Nov 25, 2007)

Tal Rasha said:
			
		

> Yes, I did think about that. My reasoning was -- Planescape isn't in-print at this time, it's not actually used, so it shouldn't be particularly expensive to use its intellectual property right? I mean, from the owner's (TSR?) perspective it would be 0-risk income. Thoughts?




WotC simply doesn't subcontract out their settings like that, particularly for novels, and even if they did, I've got a hunch that licensing would be much more expensive than you realise.  They keep the fiction line very much in-house.  They'd want creative control, they'd want editorial veto over sex, violence and language (WotC's novel line is aimed mostly at teens, remember) and they wouldn't want to do anything to promote the 'old' Planescape and the Great Wheel at a time when they're trying like hell to popularise the new 4e planar cosmology and pretend the old one never existed.  There's more to be considered from WotC's point of view than any hypothetical licensing fee.  Also remember that TGH was also referencing Drizzt in his SH, and Drizzt WOULD be expensive!

And that's not even considering to what extent copyright law would allow it. 

And as a rather belated aside to The Great Hippo - very nice setup.  You have a gift for language and observation, and I'd love to read more.  Let us know when/if anything comes up on the original novel front, ok?


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## A Crazy Fool (Dec 5, 2007)

The reference to Drizzt would qualify as a parody, I'd think.


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