# The Scinterlands:  Sibling Rivalry



## Roquesdoodle (Aug 9, 2004)

*Prologue*

Mandlebrot stood over the rent and open body of his wife as his crown city burned around him. The stench of blood and liquified stone flowed through the city’s broken streets like dark veins bleeding out the last remaining heartbeats of the dying city.

His wife stared up at him, her eyes wide and questioning as her mouth slowly moved in silent disbelief.

"Hush, my love," Mandlebrot said. "I’m almost finished." He stroked a bloody finger along his brow and smiled. "It won’t be much longer, my dear."

Thick red spittle leaked from the corner of his wife’s mouth. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, barely audible above the sounds of the city in its final death throes. "I’m...I’m sorry."

He looked at the blood soaked bundle that lay at his feet then back to his wife. "I gave you everything, Thalinda. All that I had was yours. My power, my life...my knowledge. And in return, you corrupted the only thing I ever asked you give me in return." Mandlebrot bent and lifted the bundle into his arms. "So keep your apology. I want no more of your tainted gifts."

"Our...our daughters..."

"Are safe. I secreted them away to the island states. They’re old enough now to take care of themselves, don’t worry. Besides, I didn’t leave them empty handed. They have something to remember me by."

Thalinda managed a grim smile, her pale skin regaining a hint of color. But then the corners of her mouth sank into a scowl. "And your bastard?"

Mandlebrot scowled in return. "Safe. And anonymous. But you needn’t concern yourself with such things anymore, my dear. Such things only concern the living." He stepped over her prostrate form and walked to the balcony, the brittle sound of marble flakes crunching beneath his sandaled feet as he moved.

Through the dirty haze of smoke, Mandlebrot watched the library melt and dissolve in waves of angry blue light. Lifetimes of knowledge and power, bound to ink and pulped wood, burned in magic flame. 

Mandlebrot placed the bloody bundle atop the ornate guardrail in front of him, then spread his arms wide as he made tiny, deliberate gestures with his hands. After a moment he stopped, then turned back to his dying wife and asked, "Thalinda, Darling. What spell did you use to do this? Is this one of your own?"

Thalinda could only gargle in response.

"I’m impressed." Mandlebrot turned back to the bundle as he sneered from the corner of his mouth. "I might actually have to break a sweat undoing this." 

He began to gesture again with his hands. Small tendrils of smoke appeared out of the air like thin angry worms summoned from some hellish garden. The lines of smoke gathered into the wizard’s fingertips as the flotsam of ruined marble around his feet began to dance. The whole of the city was vibrating.

"I wonder," he shouted over the growing thrum. "What was it that angered you so much? Was it that I took a mistress, or that she gave me a child?"

No answer.

"Hmmm." Mandlebrot brought his attention back to the growing cloud of energy swirling in front of him. 

The smoke coalesced into a sphere, shooting off sparks of anti-light like solar flares from a tiny black sun. And then Mandlebrot uttered a word not heard aloud in lifetimes, the sole source containing its meaning now burning in the distance. The world shook. The sphere floated above the bundle for a moment and then solidified. Its surface cracked and deep red lines formed over its shattered face. The sphere began to deflate as small drops of black and red dripped onto the bundle until it was coated with a thick malodorous crust.

When the sphere had completely dissolved over the bundle, Mandlebrot turned back to his wife and said, "It is done." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestured toward his wife’s prone body and then back to the blackened heap encrusted to the marble guardrail.

"I always thought Wraithenul was beautiful in the Spring. Perhaps we should go there. Take a break from all of…this." He swept his hand out to the burning city. "What do you think, darling?"

Thalinda lurched to Mandlebrot’s side, blood and viscera leaking from the open wound in her belly. Mandlebrot put his arm around her shoulders and said, "Un-life suits you, my dear."

The ground moved again as one of the dormitories across the courtyard exploded in a blast of blue and yellow flame. Shards of smoking marble and stone rained down, clattering against the broken tiles. "Or maybe we could head to Dorland," Mandlebrot said as he shook soot and ash out of his curly black hair. "The civil war has left most of the coast untouched and the sunsets over Highwater are truly spectacular. We could even g—" Movement caught his attention. 

The black, crusted bundle started to move. "Look, my love." 

A crack formed in the top of the bundle as small flakes of filth fell away like evil snow. The crack widened and then with a gentle sound like dry leaves crumbling, a tiny human hand poked through. Mandlebrot smiled. He reached out with his pinky and the hand grasped it. 

"Happy Birthday," he said.

Mandlebrot turned and kissed his wife’s bloody lips. "See? We’re a family again. All is forgiven."

He breathed deep the acrid stench of the dying city. "But alas, my dear. So much gone. So much wasted. And even surrounded by such an incredible wealth of knowledge, no one was able to learn the single most important lesson I had to teach..." Mandlebrot raised his hand to the back of his wife’s head and gestured. In the space of a breath, her body flashed a sickening violet then evaporated into nothingness. 

"…all magic has a price."

He lifted the amorphous crust into his arms and leaned against the guardrail, watching fires both magical and natural rage through the city streets. He looked down at the tiny hand before him, then back out to the city. "I hear Lestershire is nice this time of year."

He held two fingers out before him, breathed in one final, shuddering breath, and blinked.

There, in the vast plains of Uilleand where, for decades, countless people came to study at the feet of the most powerful wizard in memory, a smooth disc of virgin earth lay bare to the afternoon sun.

The golden city of Mandlebrot was gone.


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## Herremann the Wise (Aug 9, 2004)

Wow!
That's a damn fine way to begin a tale. Look forward to further installments.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## jonrog1 (Aug 9, 2004)

If I'd known that happened before I entered the story, I never would have left that bar ...


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## DMO (Aug 9, 2004)

Wow, this bears watching.  Subscribe.


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## Bryin (Aug 12, 2004)

dude make another one its starting to get good and thats the fisrt post i see


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## Roquesdoodle (Aug 13, 2004)

*The Rabbit*

No matter how he looked at it, Tibbit thought it was a waste of a good ship. 

Through the throngs of gathered mourners, Tibbit could see the _Lady Darleanna_ moored onto the banks of the Draig Talamh, the slow and steady pull of the river gently cresting around her stern as the water flowed out into the salty blue of Nora's Bay. 

The Scinterland flagship was a narrow spike of wood and iron, its masts rising toward the perfect sky like spires of majestic threat. Sleek, elegant, deadly. Row upon row of lean mahogany planks soaked in the morning sun as its sails billowed like cotton clouds, fighting to break free the ship from its moorings. Even motionless, the war galley sliced the water as though it were racing the high seas. 


Tibbit scratched his nose and tried to ignore the stench of oil coming from the ship. Though he couldn't see it, he judged by the smell that the whole of _Darleanna's _deck was covered with it. 


Five Scinter Knights, all clad in the finest ceremonial armor Tibbit had ever seen, stood at the bow of the ship, flanking the tiny funeral pyre that sat just behind the captain's wheel. The body of young Prince Korskadain lay across the stacked wood, the boy's gold and ivory garb making him look like a cache of riches being offered up as a sacrifice to the gods of the sea. But even from this distance, Tibbit could see that the child looked almost peaceful, as if he had just grown tired of playing dress up and simply wanted to lie down among his protectors and take a nap. Still, it was eerie how the Prince appeared to be only sleeping, in that strange and unsettling way young corpses quite often do. 


Queen Darleanna, the ship’s namesake, stood with her back straight, her dark, curly hair lifting from her shoulders in the breeze. She was surrounded by a phalanx of brutally armed men all impatiently waiting for any opportunity to prove their loyalty. She was dwarfed by the mass of their armored muscle, her thin shapely frame standing at their center like the wispy eye of an iron storm. She was young, not much more than a child herself, but her authority was palpable. Tibbit knew that with just the arch of an eyebrow she could have the head of any man she wanted. 



Next to Queen Darleanna was the King’s Hand, Sir Feon Rey. The man was a statue of grizzled resolve. Not nearly as tall as the Queen’s armed guard, but just as fierce and twice as deadly. When King Scinterod began to unite the island states under a single flag of rule, he had sent Feon Rey to do the messy work of eradicating all the warmongering families. Entire houses disappeared. All descendants, relatives, even mere acquaintances vanished under Sir Feon Rey’s shadow. It was a task that earned him the nickname "House Eater," a moniker the Hand relished. 

Feon Rey leaned in toward the Queen and whispered. She gave a slight nod and then the Hand motioned toward the ship. The five Scinter Knights aboard the _Darleanna_ gave a salute, the ring of their mailed fists pounding their breastplates breaking the heavy silence. Then one stepped forward and pulled a burning torch from a sconce and held the flame high. The Scinter Knight then tossed the torch at the foot of the pyre as he made his way back into position around the fallen Prince. With a sound like dragon fury, the deck of the _Lady Darleanna_ became an inferno. 

Two axeman slashed the moorings and the billowing sails caught hold. With almost magical speed, the ship slipped away from the riverbank and moved toward the open water. Smoke as black as Darleanna’s dress rose from the angry flames. The Scinter Knights stood around the pyre in still and silent vigil as the searing heat turned their suits of armor into glowing ovens. The body of Prince Korskadain wavered in the heat for a moment, then disappeared in a torrent of fire and ash.

Tibbit fought back tears. The loss was overwhelming. The _Lady Darleanna _was the Scinterland Fleet’s FLAGSHIP._ You just DON’T set fire to your country’s flagship simply ‘cause the li’l runt had an accident. Kids fall off castle walls all the time and ya don’t see their folks buggerin’ off to burn a bloody boat! 

_Tibbit wondered if he had made a mistake leaving the Havens and coming to D’Auri for the funeral. The city of D’Auri certainly was a sight to se, but this...this was just too painful to watch. The ship could have been sold for the price of a small duchy or at the very least dismantled and cannibalized on the black market. But to just burn it? It didn’t make sense. Things were so much simpler in the Havens. When someone died, you dug a hole and threw ‘em in. Prince or pauper, didn’t matter. They’d all rot the same.

The war galley, now completely engulfed, moved across the sea like a toy sun rolling along a window pane. Lazy clouds of smoke, thick with the smell of burning pitch and charred flesh, hung over the people gathered in the vast courtyard. It would take an hour for Tibbit to get the stench out of his fur.

None of those gathered moved. Everyone watched the fireball that once was the pride of Scinterod’s fleet skim across the water, burning flotsam in its wake like some broken hell beast shedding its torn and wounded flesh. 

Then a thought came to him. "Strange, that," he said to himself.

A man, smelling more like a horse than a human, turned and looked down at Tibbit. He gave a slight double take as he took in Tibbit’s fur, whiskers, and ears but the somberness of the moment helped him find his voice. "Strange? What’s strange, Harefellow?" the man asked.

Tibbit looked out at _Lady Darleanna_ as her burning shell finally began to sink into the sea. "Well, strange, is all, that just about everyone from the island states is here, mournin’ the loss of the li’l prince." 

The rabbit brought his gaze back to the man. "That is, everyone ‘cept the King."


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## haiiro (Aug 13, 2004)

Wow -- this is _excellent_! I clicked on it because I'm a sucker for good names, and "Scinterlands" sounded cool. 

I'm guessing Harefellow signifies Tibbit's rabbitlike nature -- were-rabbit, perhaps? Hopefully there are more character intros like his to come, because I'm hooked. The juxtaposition of the somber, overblown sacrificial ceremony and Tibbit's "bugger this for a lark" attitude was great.

I'll stop gushing and go subscribe.


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## DMO (Aug 13, 2004)

Ah, this is going to be good.  Don't stop playing, and don't stop writing!


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## Jeph (Aug 17, 2004)

This is way cool so far. Keep it up!
--Jeff


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## jonrog1 (Aug 17, 2004)

haiiro said:
			
		

> Wow -- this is _excellent_! I clicked on it because I'm a sucker for good names, and "Scinterlands" sounded cool.
> 
> I'm guessing Harefellow signifies Tibbit's rabbitlike nature -- were-rabbit, perhaps?




Hey, jonrog1 here, because Andy'll never get around to answering.  Tibbit's one of my favorite PC's ever.  He's not a were-rabbit.  He's ... a rabbit.  Essentially short and stocky like a dwarf, but ... a rabbit.  Big head, long ears, fuzzy paws, in leather armor.

I cannot say again, how much glee I take from this character.  He's a kleptomanic, lie-to-your-face-and-you-believe-every-word snarky bomb-throwing rabbit.  It's Bugs Bunny as a PC.

Stay tuned.  Our lad's a helluva writer, and this is the preview you get before he finishes his first novel and you have to start forking over coin to read him.


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## spyscribe (Aug 17, 2004)

jonrog1 said:
			
		

> Tibbit's one of my favorite PC's ever.  He's not a were-rabbit.  He's ... a rabbit.  Essentially short and stocky like a dwarf, but ... a rabbit.  Big head, long ears, fuzzy paws, in leather armor.




And the watership is definitively down.

Looking forwad to seeing more story, and the novel.  Thanks for the link, John.


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## Angcuru (Aug 17, 2004)

Another subscribe-or-die-goddammit storyhour rears its head!  Rejoice!   

I like that, the anthropomorphic touch. Makes me wonder what else is in store.  I have a mental image of Redwall Abbey burning to the ground with lich standing atop the walls screaming manically.


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## Roquesdoodle (Aug 22, 2004)

*The Pet*

THE PET


Once the _Lady Darleanna_ started to sink into the horizon like a diseased and flailing sunset, they began to bark. 

Valiant had been right. She could hear it now. Their soft, polite whispers, the quiet mutterings, the muted and reverential pleasantries. It all sounded like the obedient yipping of dogs. The words seemed to fall from the mourners’ mouths like heavy and cumbersome rocks as they growled at each other with their ugly sounds. Fortunately, she would not have to endure the cacophony of Common speech for much longer. 

She waited until the _Lady Darleanna_ was no more than a dark and ruined memory in the distance before she approached the Queen. When she was close, one of the Queen’s guards stepped forward and raised his hand. 

“Stop there,” he said. “What…” The soldier paused and gave her a strange look, starting at her feet then slowly up to her face. He gave a shake of his helmeted head. “What can I help you with?” His leather creaked like the planks of a rolling ship as he moved from one foot to the other.

“I bring a gift of condolence for the King and Queen.” It was like spitting gravel through her teeth.

“You can leave your offering with the others at the North Gate. The King and Queen are very grateful for y—“

“I am a representative from Wraithenul. I have come bearing this gift on behalf of Lord Valiant_._”

The guard’s face lost a bit of its color. He stared at her for a moment, his thick brows folding over his nose. Then he gave her a nod and turned to the Queen. “This is…Lord Valiant’s representative. She has come to offer condolences.”

She stepped forward and gave the Queen a small but respectful bow. The young matriarch had dark, swollen rings under her red rimmed eyes. Her black dress, loose and high collared, waved lightly in the breeze. 

“Your dress is very pretty,” Valiant’s representative said.

Queen Darleanna blinked, then gave her the same gaze the soldier gave her, taking her in from foot to face in a slow, awkward motion. Darleanna looked as if she had just smelled sour milk. “Thank you,” said the Queen. “Yours is…_becoming _as well.” The Queen’s voice sounded as if it had been broken and then pieced together with a patchwork of wet chirps and squeals all unkind to speech. “And what is your name?”

“_Sheadur A Buchedau Aught Mfympway A Achos Mm Blessar._” Her name felt like honey on her tongue. Draconic was the most musical of languages: its cadence, the marriage of abrasive fricatives with the lilting flow of rich vowels, the rich tapestry of meaning in every syllable. When spoken, the air danced with its melody.

Queen Darleanna tried to smile, but her swollen cheeks stopped the corners of her mouth from curling up into anything more than a sneer. “It’s beautiful,” the Queen said. “What does it mean?”

For a moment, she toyed with the idea of explaining its meaning, the subtle nuance of pronunciation that made the term such an endearment, even the captivating tales behind the words’ etymologies. But she was bored. 

“In Common, it means ‘Pet.’”

“Pet?”

“Pet.”

The Queen gave another sneer and said, “Thank you…_Pet_, for coming on behalf of Lord Valiant.”

Pet gave another small bow to the Queen then turned to face the monument that sat at the river’s edge. It was a monolith of the finest Gnuland marble carved into the likeness of the young Prince; regal and contemplative, sitting on a child throne as its polished eyes stared out to the vast blue of the sea.. The alabaster features were flawless, almost as if the young boy had been watching the deft and dexterous maneuvers of his father’s armada when suddenly happened upon by a wayward medusa.

She approached the base of the monument, the carving of the boy much larger in death than the Prince was in life (she put that small morsel of insight away to share with Valiant upon her return—humans were indeed odd animals). The wind coming off the sea smelled of salt and ash. It gently pulled at her dress as she knelt before Korskadain’s image.

She felt the spell that Valiant had given her guide her fingers, pulling invisible strands of magic out of the air. Her fingertips touched, then entwined into an elaborate and deliberate shape that resembled the flower that was the pride of Valiant’s private garden. The _Dun Leoð_, the Song of the Mountain. It grew only in the highest crags of Mt. Gyldvynne, far removed from any human eyes.

Pet whispered the flower’s name then blew through a small opening between her hands. A single leaf appeared at the tip of her fingers then floated to the base of the marble statue. Pet stood and spread her hands, feeling the magic that connected her to the tiny leaf pull at her fingertips. The leaf trembled, then sprouted a vine that lengthened along the base, branching out and spreading over the lower half of the monument like a thick, viscous liquid that had no respect for the laws of gravity.

A single flower bloomed, its rich, cardinal petals veined with gold. Another sprang forth, followed by a host of red blooms all along the sprawling vine. Soon Prince Korskadain’s effigy was blanketed in a red swath of rare beauty, the flow of flowers draped over the statue’s shoulder like a royal shawl.

Pet doubted that the King and Queen knew how rare such a gift was. As far as Pet knew, she was the only human alive to have ever seen one. That Valiant would think to gift the mourning family with such a unique specimen spoke volumes of the respect her lord had for the King.

Queen Darleanna stepped forward as she brushed a delicate hand across her face. “Pet, it’s lovely. Are they…are they Mountain Song?”

Pet smiled to herself. Perhaps humans weren’t as hopeless as she at first thought. “Yes, my Lady. They are.”

“Please thank your dragon lord for this wonderful gift.”

Pet nodded. “He’ll be pleased to know that you and the King are…I’m sorry, my Lady, but where is your husband? Where is the King?”

Something flashed over the Queen’s face, a hidden pain like some dark shadow moving behind a mask of flesh. “King Scinterod is at Council in Uilleand. He has been informed of recent events and, though deeply wounded by the loss of his only heir, has seen fit to remain at Council so as to help protect the peoples of the Scinterlands in these trying times.” 

Pet knew next to nothing about human behavior (much of the reason Lord Valiant insisted she attend the funeral) but even to her, in the ugly Common language, the Queen’s words sounded rehearsed. 

“I understand. We are blessed to have such a man on the throne.” Pet and the Queen stared at each other. Pet studied the young woman’s face, trying to read any underlying emotion hidden there, but there was nothing. What had flashed across her face before was now safely buried away. Pet gave a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders, turned on her heel and walked away. 

Pet made her way through the crowds. She had seen enough. Though there were rare moments of interest, they were so few and far between that she did not feel like wasting any more time observing their habits. She would just tell Valiant that she felt humans were too boring to warrant any further study. Their only interesting characteristic was their simple inability to _stop staring at her!_ 

Now that the hypnotic draw of the ceremony was over, she could feel their eyes on her. Obviously, it didn’t seem to take much to fascinate them. All she did was perform a tiny and–to put it plainly–_simple_ spell. That it garnered such attention left Pet with the impression that most humans did not get out in the world. Or if they did, they certainly did not react well to it. 

She couldn’t understand it. She was a human, just like them. 

Wait. 

She amended that thought. She was human, yes, but nothing like them. Being the pet of a fifteen-hundred-years-old crystal dragon lends a bit of individuality to a person. Even so. She thought that there would at least be something familiar in the people around her. The same level of inquisitiveness, a similar need for understanding the world around them. But there was nothing. Pet felt no connection. The people around her were just talking animals, dogs that barked in coherent patterns. That she shared a lineage with the creatures around her made her feel almost…_embarrassed_. 

“Excuse me, miss?”

She turned to see a Scinter Knight, his armor glinting in the sunlight, standing over her with his eyes running the length of her body. When his gaze came up to her face, he suddenly straightened his back and gazed at the top of her head.

“Miss, are you Shay a dooro…um, Shaya...Shaya doruh boob—I mean Booshey…um, uh…” The large man turned bright red inside his fancy armor. She was curious how long he would stand there fumbling her name before he either got it right or just gave up. She was curious to find out so she crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

It took the better part of the morning. 

Pet didn’t say a word, but just watched the man sweat in the morning sun (which was quickly approaching noonday). Occasionally she would yawn hoping that it would spur the knight into acquiescence but his sense of valor kept him stammering incoherently. It was as if the man was trying to build a corsair with nothing but his teeth. 

When the sun was nearly overhead, the Scinter Knight voiced a long string of sounds then puffed his chest in linguistic victory. Pet tilted her head slightly to the side and said, “No. I’m not. I don’t know who that is. But _my _name is _Sheadur A Buchedau Aught Mfympway A Achos Mm Blessar_. ”

The knight opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Again, his eyes roamed over her for a moment before coming back to her face. 

“Now why do you do that?” she asked. “Everyone has been staring at me today. Is there something wrong with my dress?”

“What? No. No, not at all. It’s just that, well, just that…”

“Just what? Is it the color?”

“Color? The color’s fine. It’s nice, really. What kind of material is that?”

Pet smoothed her dress, feeling the fabric glide under her hands and said, “Dragon scales. Though, not the kind you’d wear for protective purposes. My Lord Valiant sheds these lighter ones from time to time and I thought it would be nice if I wore something regal to the funeral. Something regal yet still representative of his Lordship. I made it myself.” She held her arms wide and looked down her front. “Is it stitched poorly?”

“No, it’s just…well, I never knew dragon scales were so…so…”

“So what?”

The Scinter Knight looked down at his feet. “So _transparent_.”

Pet looked down her front again. “What’s your point?”

The knight pulled his shoulders back, his chin set. “Miss, you are Valiant’s representative sent from Wraithenul, are you not?”

“I am. You should’ve asked me that at the beginning.” The man’s jaw flexed and the red in his face changed into a deeper hue. “Why do you want to know?”

This time, the Scinter Knight smirked in a way that reminded Pet of Valiant’s vast smile just before he fed. 

“Because,” the knight said, “Sir Feon Rey wants a word with you.”


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## Angcuru (Aug 22, 2004)

Hmm.. I guess spending a thousand years or so out of human society tends to make one somewhat....forgetful of the purpose of clothing.


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## Herremann the Wise (Aug 22, 2004)

Keep it coming please!

The tapestry you weave is wonderful to behold. The careful and delicate twining of thread upon thread raises it above the standard fair. Weave more of your magic and I might even start comparing it to the greats on this site.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## jonrog1 (Aug 22, 2004)

Angcuru said:
			
		

> Hmm.. I guess spending a thousand years or so out of human society tends to make one somewhat....forgetful of the purpose of clothing.




Hmm.  Unless I'm forgetting something, Pet herself hasn't spent a thousand years away from Humans -- she's a normally aged Human teen who's just spent her entire life with Valiant.  Stranger-in-a-strange-land style.


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## Roquesdoodle (Aug 23, 2004)

Angcuru said:
			
		

> Hmm.. I guess spending a thousand years or so out of human society tends to make one somewhat....forgetful of the purpose of clothing.



John's correct in that Pet is normally aged.  We'll get to see more of her backstory--along with those of all the other charcters--later on.  Hopefully, we'll also get a better understanding of why Pet views the world the way she does and why she has absolutely no concept of modesty.

It's very difficult to get the full flavor of the characters on the screen.  The players (they're all professional--or soon to be professional--writers, not to mention they all have IQs that sit at the FAAAAAR end of the Bell Curve) came to the campaign with such incredibly rich, diverse, and unbelievably INTERESTING characters.  And the way they play them is...well, to put it bluntly, it's pretty frikkin' SCARY.  It is really something to behold when this group gets together.  

I look at our gaming sessions like I'm a carpenter at an improv theater production.  I'll build some sets, set the stage, throw in some props here and there and then just let them go.  Every once in a while I'll change the scenery behind them, but then just get out of their way.


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## Angcuru (Sep 8, 2004)

Hmm...must have figured her for a half-dragon or something else that don't age to quickly.  Silly me.


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## Roquesdoodle (Sep 9, 2004)

*The Farmer*

*The Farmer*




_Two are coming_…

The words rang in his head like church bells, the soft voice of his god now no longer content to quietly watch from the heavens. A formless sound that etched words into his mind’s eye as if they were falling stars that moved through a night sky along deliberate paths, scarring the dark void above.

_Two are coming…_

He stilled his mind in prayer, pushing the prophecy to the back of his mind for a moment. This moment was for Korskadain. The fate of the world could wait for just a little longer. 

Sean’s prayer for the fallen Prince was interrupted by a gentle tapping to his shoulder. He opened his eyes, squinting a little in the noon-day sun, and turned to see a young Scinter Knight standing over him. 

“Pardon, but are you Sean of Torborough?” The knight was sweating inside his mail coif. He was broad and young, most likely having just earned the red mantle of his station. That the man had become a Scinter Knight at such an early age spoke volumes of his ability.

Sean put a hand to his knee and started to rise. The Scinter Knight reached down to offer assistance, but Sean politely waved him off. “Thank you, but I’m not quite as old as I look.” It was the truth, but only slightly so. 

Nearly five decades tilling the earth had worn Sean’s features into something a bit older, more ancient than he actually was. He could feel a tightness in his knees and a stiffness in his back that wasn’t there just a year ago. Though he would never question the reasoning of his god, Sean often wondered why Il Mater had called him into service so late in life.

When Sean was standing upright, he was surprised to see that he only came up to the knight’s chin. Where the King found men this large he simply did not know. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m Sean. How can I help you, son?” 

“The Hand would like a word with you. Follow me, please.” Though the young warrior was courteous, Sean had no trouble understanding the underlying tone in the knight’s voice. Sean didn’t have a choice. 

He bent to retrieve his belongings when the knight stopped him. 

“Are you having trouble? Should I send a woodsmith for your wagon?”

“Wagon? No, I have no wagon.” Sean positioned the wagon wheel over his back, slid his hand-pick into his belt and said, “Lead the way.” The knight gave him a pained expression, then turned and headed toward the castle.

Even though the _Lady Darleanna_ had completed her final voyage nearly an hour ago, people still milled about the open grounds with somber and heavy movements. It did not surprise Sean that the people of the Scinterlands were so saddened by the death of Prince Korskadain. 

King Scinterod’s rise to power had been swift, bloody, and decisive. But once in power, he ruled the island states with an admirable nobility that was scarcely found elsewhere in the world. That his only son and heir should die so suddenly made even the hardest of hearts soften at the loss, of not only a sweet and charming little boy, but of the hopeful and promising future he represented. It was a disturbing omen for the Scinterlands. 

And it was not the only one.

He rolled the prophecy over in his mind as he followed the Scinter Knight under the iron portcullis and through the stone walls of the castle. Here in the vast courtyard, nobles and knights talked in quiet circles among the marble fountains and magically groomed hedges, all shaped into fantastic and majestic beasts that seem to leap from out of the ground.

The nobles gave him furtive glances with the occasional lord or lady twisting their nose at him in disgust. Priests of Il Mater were not uncommon in the Crown City, but one burdened with a wagon wheel was certainly cause for a second look. But the stares did not matter to him. Sean was not a man of possessions or status or power. He was a man of faith.

The knight led him through the courtyard and into a small grotto outside of the castle proper. Two large oak doors, flanked on either side by two Scinter Knights dressed in dull, battle-worn accoutrements, rested deep in the gray walls of the castle, out away from the open view of the courtyard. 

Flowered ivy climbed along the walls and over a cobbled archway that hovered over the two doors. There was a small bench next to a tiny flower garden and a sundial that sat in the small open stretch of green grass between the castle wall and the opening to the rest of the courtyard. 

Next to the bench stood a Materite, a heavy shield of formed Heofenvyld oak slung over his powerful shoulders. Blond hair framed his handsome features in lazy curls as he peered out from under two crags of brow with eyes of sapphire blue. The holy warrior stood in a way that implied a casualness and comfort, but Sean could see that he balanced himself in a way that allowed him to spring instantly into any direction should such action be necessary. 

Not far from the Materite was one of the strangest sights Sean had ever seen. A stunning young woman, clad in a transparent dress that faded from shades of violet to pink to iridescent blue, was conversing with…a rabbit?

The rabbit stood upright and was as tall as the woman, though only due to the height of its impressive ears. The top of the harefellow’s head only reached as high as the young woman’s chin. It wore traveling leathers and rested its paws—upon closer inspection Sean discovered they were indeed hands of some sort—on a thick black belt that held a number of round objects like small coconuts and two small, very unusual looking clubs—more akin to blackjacks—stuffed behind the front of the belt.

The Scinter Knight turned to him and said, “Wait with the others. Sir Rey will find you shortly.”

Sean nodded as he watched the Rabbit and the young woman talk for a moment. The woman, thankfully, stood with her arms crossed, hiding certain parts of her nubile form that, were Sean thirty years younger, would have made his choice of loose fitting robes an embarrassing mistake. 

But as the young woman seemed to be doing most of the listening, the Rabbit seemed to be doing most of the talking. His furry hands would motion or gesture in a way that would cause the woman to arch her eyebrows or nod her head. The Rabbit’s ears would sometimes droop then stiffen when his gestures became more exaggerated. 

_Two are coming…_

Again, the words clawed at him. He approached the Materite. “Blessings of Il Mater upon you, brother,” he said.

The Materite stared at him, taking in the wagon wheel, then gave him a warm smile. “And to you as well…Father.”

Sean returned the smile in kind. “You’re the first person to call me that. I suppose it will take a little getting used to. I’m new to the cloth.”

The Materite tilted his head toward Sean’s wagon wheel and asked, “Is that something new to the priesthood as well? Most priests I know have difficulty carrying their own thoughts, much less a burden such as yours.”

Sean shifted the weight of the wagon wheel to his other shoulder. “I can assure you, I have trouble carrying my own thoughts as well. I rarely keep them to myself for very long.”

“Few people do. So why the wagon wheel?”

Sean looked around at the lush and well manicured grotto, the flora spreading around them like living works of art. “The first time Il Mater spoke to me, was when I was in my field mending my wagon. It was more a feeling, I guess. An intention. A purpose being conveyed to me more so than actual words. But I remember the meaning of it being so clear it was as if Il Mater was standing next to me, whispering in my ear. He wanted me to take only what I had…and walk.” Sean pulled the hand-pick from his belt and tapped the iron binding of the wheel with its tip. “And all I had was a hand-pick in one hand and a wagon wheel in the other.”

“But walk? Walk where?”

“Wherever he guided me.”

The Materite creased his brow. “So you just…left?”

“As far as I know, my three-wheeled wagon is still stranded in that rocky field.”

The holy warrior shrugged his shoulders with a grunt of approval. Together, they watched the clouds float across the pale blue sky. “Are you here to see the Hand?” Sean asked.

The Materite nodded as a flock of gulls flew through their field of vision.

Sean gestured toward the woman and the Rabbit. “Them too?”

The Materite scratched his heavy jaw as he watched the two on the other side of the grotto. “I assume so, but I can’t say for sure. The girl hasn’t said much. The Rabbit, however, has done nothing but struggle with her name.”

“Her name? Is it difficult for his kind to pronounce?”

“It’s difficult for ANYONE’s kind to pronounce, but no. The Rabbit spoke it flawlessly. He’s just been spending most of the afternoon trying to use it in some very vulgar, and I must admit, some very clever limericks.”

Sean’s hearing wasn’t what it once was, but obviously the young Materite could hear what the Rabbit was saying. Every now and again the Materite’s handsome face would blush while the Rabbit motioned with his hands, his ears, and—occasionally—his pelvis. But when Sean looked over to the woman, she never showed any sign of embarrassment. She seemed fascinated by the creature.

The Materite spoke, still watching them talk. “You said ‘the first time.’”

Sean turned to him. “I’m sorry?”

“You said it was the first time you spoke with Il Mater.”

Sean pulled his gaze from the gyrating Rabbit. “Yes, yes it was.”

The Materite continued to watch the Rabbit poke his nose through his folded over ears in a way that made the holy warrior turn as red as a Scinter Knight’s mantle. He took a breath, then turned his powerful gaze on Sean. “So he’s spoken to you since then.” 

“Of course.” Sean could feel himself turning red under the Materite’s steady stare. “Il Mater always speaks with me. Oh, not in words, but in other ways. I always feel his presence guiding me, helping me.”

The Materite’s eyes were locked on Sean’s, unblinking and searching. Then, with a soft snort of acceptance, the holy warrior turned back to watch the Rabbit and its vain attempts to embarrass the young woman.

Il Mater had only spoken to Sean once since the day of his conversion. And it was not with a feeling of purpose or divine intention. It was with words. Words as dark and ominous as a summer storm. 

And they echoed inside his head like thunder.

_Two are coming… Each bear the mark of a father’s love, but one will seek to lose it, the other will seek to find it. One shall seek a father’s justice, one shall seek a father’s revenge. And when the bastard holds forth a broken heirloom, the golden city will soar on vacant wings as Cerebus casts his father’s shadow anew, until it is swallowed by the greater darkness of a broken child’s whisper._



.


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## jonrog1 (Sep 9, 2004)

Wait ... the Materite has little curls?  No.  I refuse to acknowledge this.  Cap does not have curls.  Maybe if he got a buzzcut and stopped focusing on styling product he could master some of the more complex combat maneuvers.   Like throwing that shield.  Or, say ... climbing ladders.

Don't worry folks, you'll see.  It's a hoot.

Although knowing that prophecy now, and knowing what we do ... well, we're roundly screwed, aren't we?

I'll be back in the bar.   Nothing to see here.  Move along.


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## DMO (Sep 17, 2004)

Hmm, I can't believe I let this update sit unread for a week.  I'm really enjoying the character introductions and looking forward to reading more of the story.


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## Herremann the Wise (Oct 26, 2004)

Unfortunately, It looks like this thread may have gone the way of all good things. A shame.

Roquesdoodle, wherefore art thou?

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## Roquesdoodle (Nov 3, 2004)

Sorry sorry sorry for those of you reading this.  I've been a bit preoccupied lately but hope to have then next installment in the next week or two.


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## jonrog1 (Nov 3, 2004)

Don't make me have to write my own chapter, pal ...


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## Roquesdoodle (Nov 10, 2004)

*Finally, an update.*

Again, sorry for the delay.  After this update there is only one character introduction left.  Once that is done we get to the REALLY good stuff.  Anyway, enjoy.



*The Hero
*
  As the knights led the small group through the corridors of the castle, Glasdon could not help but feel as if he had been swallowed by some gigantic stone beast and was now being sluiced along its marble innards.  Though he and the others certainly weren’t prisoners—it was almost safe to assume they were guests…almost—Glasdon still felt a need to move with deliberate caution.

               Sean moved by his side, occasionally adjusting his wagon wheel whenever the passageway became too narrow or turned in what seemed a random direction.  The elderly priest seemed at ease, though the way he kept pulling at the collar of his robes suggested that he was unaccustomed to being surrounded by so much stone.  

               The rabbit, Tibbit Proudhopper was his name, kept one eye on their escorts and the other to the shadows as his ears moved toward sounds that Glasdon could not hear.  The rabbit’s nose twitched and his eyes roamed as Glasdon watched the Harefellow twice visibly restrain himself from vanishing into the shadows.  Though Glasdon was fully aware of the martial prowess of the Scinter Knights that led them through the grand halls of the castle, he wondered if the Harefellow would indeed be able to disappear right from under their noses if it suddenly became necessary.  

   Being asked to meet with Sir Feon Rey was in and of itself nothing too terribly frightening.  Though the man had a reputation that would make even the most hardened warrior blanch, he was also known for his fairness.  Don’t cross the Hand and he won’t hang you by your thumbs and have you skinned alive (a single, but rather dark, incident that helped bring peace to the warring Island States).  

   But even armed with the knowledge of Feon Rey’s diplomacy, Glasdon still could not bury the sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach.  A dead Prince and a traveling King were not the most comforting circumstances in which to meet with a man known to have eradicated entire families for daring to threaten the sovereignty of the Crown.  

               But what unsettled Glasdon the most was the way the Scinter Knights always kept watching him from the corner of their eyes.  He expected some wariness from them;  the tense rivalry between the Materites and the Scinter Knights was legendary.  Though both served King and Country, the Materites ultimately answered to their god Il Mater.  It was an extra link in the chain of command that most of the secular Knights believed could too easily spread disloyalty.  Kind Scinterod was viewed as the King by divine right.  However, should the priests and clerics of Il Mater suddenly find it necessary to rescind the approval of their god, the Scinterlands would be plunged into a holy war.  To Glasdon’s reasoning, this was why the King had embraced the church  of Il Mater and their sect of holy warriors, the Materites.  That his most decorated and skilled Knights would eye a Materite with such suspicion, however, gave him pause.

               Oddly, the young woman with the strange name and wildly inappropriate dress did not appear to be terribly concerned with her deadly escorts.  She even reached out and touched the lead Scinter Knight’s red mantle of station, studying its texture with her fingertips.  The knight, however, was not amused by the breach of his personal space.  The scowl he gave Pet would have sent anyone else scurrying away in fits of mad panic, but the young woman gave no mind to his ferocious gaze.

               Glasdon casually shifted his oak shield and noticed that each of his escorts made sleight gestures toward the blades resting at their hips.  They were not movements made of fear or unsettled nerves, but practiced responses to a possible threat.  He could not help but smile to himself.  Though he knew that each of these knights were battle-hardened veterans, it was nice to see that word of a Materite’s ability traveled this deep into the castle.

               When they came to a large unadorned room, they were ushered inside.  The Scinter Knights moved to each of the doors and stood sentry, their mailed mass prohibiting anyone from exiting.  

   In the center of the room was a large table, adorned with a modest display of food and several freshly arranged bouquets.  The smell of the flowers and freshly cooked meat contrasted sharply with the dull scent of cold marble and steel.  

   Though the food looked quite appetizing, Glasdon felt it was out of place on the aged wood.  He pictured maps sprawled across the broad oak expanse.  Maps along with reports of troop movements and supply lines as Generals and Kings glowered over their schemes of conquest.  Food belonged on that table no more than Glasdon belonged in that room.  This was not a room for feasting or entertaining, but a room for strategizing, for planning.  



   This was a room for warmongering.  



   The Scinter Knight on the far side of the room moved to allow Sir Feon Rey into the room.  His presence filled the open chamber like a flood of glacial water.  

   “Sit,” he said.  And as Sir Feon Rey House Eater gestured to the chairs surrounding the table, Glasdon could not shake the image of a condemned prisoner being presented his last meal.


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## jonrog1 (Nov 16, 2004)

*BUMPED* for the sake of sheer bumpage joy.  I like Roques writing, and this is the way to get more of it.  Positive reinforcement.

Now, type, damn you!


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## Roquesdoodle (Nov 21, 2004)

*The Bartender*

_(DM’s note:  this is the last of the character set-ups.  Although I just touched on some of the major aspects of each character, there’s a lot more to them that should come out later in the story.  After this we start getting into the thick of it: twisted magic, elusive mysteries, and epic evil.  _

_Not to mention born-again kobolds, un-scalable ladders, a shiny metal purse, and a strange and effective military tactic know simply as the “Reverse Johnson.”)  _




*The Bartender*



     Connor gave the serving wench a wink and a comforting smile as he wiped the blood from his hand.

             “Be a love and see the soldiers get a round on the house.  This fella won’t be troublin’ ‘em any more today.”

               The round girl nodded at him and filled her tray with pints before whisking out to the table where several soldiers of the Scinterland army were scowling into empty mugs. 

               Connor bent down to the bloodied drunk at his feet and pulled him up by the scruff of the neck.  “Come on, lad.  Time to go.”

               “You broge my nothe!”  The words leaked through the man’s hand as he held it over his broken face, thin lines of blood and spittle dribbling between his fingers.

               “Aye,” Connor said.  “And be thankful I did.  Otherwise those men over there mighta’ seen fit to hang you from the castle walls.”

               The drunk darted a quick glance at the soldiers through the corner of a swelling eye before he stumbled out the door.  

               Molly the serving wench met Connor behind the bar and started placing mugs into the soapy basin at her knees.  “You should have let them have him.  They would have given more than just a broken nose.”

               “And ruined my bar in the process.  No, he got what he deserved.  No more, no less.”

               Molly wiped her hands in her apron.  “Still, to say that about the King was—“

               “—wrong, yes.  But not worth dyin’ over and certainly not worth killin’ over.  Those soldiers woulda had to spend time in the stocks if they had their way with him.”  Connor wiped a mug clean, inspecting it as if he were appraising a diamond.  “This way, everybody wins.  That drunkard learns his lesson, the King’s honor is defended, those boys stay out of trouble, and I don’t have to spend a week remodeling my bar.”

               “But it scares me to see you fight, Connor.”

               Connor flashed her a wistful smile.  She waved a dirty rag at him and said, “Oh, you silly man.  I just worry that someone might damage that pretty face of yours.”  Then she turned to see to a couple of royal blacksmiths who had just sat down.

   Molly was new and still seemed to be overly concerned by Connor’s size.  Though certainly not a small man, he wasn’t a large man either.  But it did seem that he was always the one having to look up during a conversation, especially in this bar.  

               The Broken Halberd was only a few short blocks from the castle proper and was a favorite among the Scinter Knights and most of the other men in King Scinterod’s army.  Connor hadn’t been there long himself, but in the short time he had been there he had earned a reputation for keeping the tavern free from the typical violence one would find in a place frequented by men whose sole purpose in life was to kill other men…  

   …and drink…  

   …GARGANTUAN amounts of alcohol.

               But that reputation wasn’t easily earned.  The first few months he had tried to ignore the sparring soldiers under the auspice of “boys will be boys,” but when he had to patch holes and replace windows just as often as serving ale, he put his foot down.

               Literally.

               Connor was wiping greasy fingerprints off the bar when two Scinter Knights walked in.  They were tall (as they ALL seemed to be), broad, and dressed in ceremonial plate-mail that glinted in the dull light of the bar as if it had been covered with a fine layer of gem-dust.  It was their best armor, worn in honor of the fallen Prince.  The same armor the Knights on board the _Lady Darleanna_ were wearing when she set out on her final voyage.  

               Connor could see the haunted look in their eyes.  The same look that was on everyone’s faces these past few days, ever since the sweet Prince had died.  It was a look reflected in his own eyes when he stood before the looking-glass.  

   Connor shook his head then gently laid the bar-towel over his shoulder and nodded to the Knights.  “Afternoon, mi’lords.  Perhaps some ale to help dull the pain of this dark day.”

   The two men shared a look, then one asked the other, “That him?”  

   The Knight nodded.  They both strode to the bar, their heavy plate-mail rustling like the leaves of an iron tree.  “Connor is it?”

   “Aye.”

   “The Hand would like two barrels of your finest ale delivered to him.  Now.”

   “Of course, mi’lord.  I’ll have a boy run them ov—“

   “No.”  The Knight leaned forward, his leather bracings creaking.  “You.  Sir Feon Rey said YOU were to deliver it.”

   “Me?”

   “Is there another man by the name of Connor who keeps bar at the Broken Halberd?”

   “No, I suppose there isn’t.”  Connor was about to ask why the Hand had asked for him specifically, but then thought better of it.  When dealing with the Hand, it was always best to keep questions to a minimum.  The less he knew of the Hand’s business, the safer he’d be.  Just get in.  Just get out.  The sooner he delivered the ale the sooner he’d be back to mopping vomit off the floor.

     The Scinter Knights said nothing on the way to Arradian  Castle.  Connor walked between them, a barrel of Dobhran’s richest ale under each arm as he tried to ignore the feeling that he was being taken prisoner.  He was just going to deliver the barrels to the kitchens and be done with it.  Get in, get out.  Nothing more.  There was no reason to feel uneasy.

   He had been inside the castle before, making similar deliveries to the kitchens for the King’s chefs.  But Connor couldn’t fathom why the Hand would lower himself to request errands on behalf of a _cook_.  Of course, the kitchen help was obviously too distraught over young Prince Korskadain’s death to be able to do such simple tasks as requesting a delivery of ale.  That had to be it.   

   Once inside the castle, they made their way past a host of servants and nobles alike, all of them quiet and somber.  

_Yes, the kitchen help is too upset.  That must be it.  Ah, the poor things._

   He adjusted the barrels under his arms as they walked straight to the hallway leading to the kitchen—

_Yes, poor things._

   —and then turned in the opposite direction.

   “Excuse me, mi’lords, but aren’t the kitchens back that way?”

   The more talkative of the two Knights stared down at him, never losing stride and said, “Yes.” 

   Connor nodded and then stared straight ahead, letting the two men guide him deeper into the castle.  _The chefs, they must be so upset they couldn’t leave their quarters.  Yes, of course.  That was it.   Just no more questions, Connor lad. Get in, deliver the ale, and get out._ 

   When Connor’s arms started to strain with the weight of the barrels, they stopped in front of a heavy door so deep within the castle that he was beginning to feel claustrophobic for the first time in a long, long while.  One of the Knights knocked twice with the toe of his boot, then once high above his head.  The door opened and Connor was ushered inside.

   Inside a small group of people were sitting down to a feast.  The Hand himself stood at the far end of the table, his squire by his side.  Sir Feon Rey looked up and said, “Good.  Pour us something to drink.”

   Connor did as he was told.  But as he poured ale into the empty mugs, he tried his best not to look directly at the faces of those gathered.  The less he knew, the safer he’d be.  But it wasn’t long before his curiosity overtook his reason.  

   Though he had seen all matters of creatures in the city of D’Auri, this small assembly was particularly odd.  A harefellow agitated in his chair while next to him a young woman—just old enough to be called so—sat with her back perfectly straight, the smooth mounds of her womanhood clearly visible through the sheer fabric she wore.

   Opposite her a Materite sat politely moving food to his plate while an older man with a wagon wheel resting against his lap bowed his head in prayer before serving himself.  But perhaps the most noticeable thing about them was that they looked as nervous and as uncomfortable as Connor felt.  

   He concentrated on bringing his breathing under control, lest he spill ale on one of the Hand’s guests.  _Get in.  Get out._  When all of the mugs were filled, Connor made his way to the door to take his leave.  The Scinter Knight standing in front of the door did not move.

   “Connor…”

   Connor turned.  “Aye, Lord Hand?”

   “Stay.”

_But there’s vomit waitin’ for me._  “Of course, mi’lord.”

   Connor stood by the wall, stared at the floor and imagined himself fading into the stone.

   “Please, eat as much as you’d like,” the Hand said.  “While you do, I will explain why I brought you here.”

   From the corner of his eye, Connor watched the rabbit’s nose twitch while he put as much food in his pockets as he did his plate.  The others politely nibbled at their food, all of them watching the Hand from their periphery.

   “I’m afraid I have no pleasantries this day so I will get straight to the point.”  Everyone at the table froze in mid-motion for a moment: mugs, napkins, forks all pausing halfway between plate and mouth.  Everyone except for the young woman.  She seemed to be studying the food at the end of her utensil, turning it this way and that before putting it in her mouth.  

   “To put it simply, the Scinterlands needs your help.  Your King needs your help.”  Sir Feon Rey let out a low, heavy sigh.  “And I need your help.”

   The people sitting around the table stared at one another, all looking as if the Hand had just told them they had sprouted horns from the tops of their heads.

   The Materite wiped the corner of his mouth then said, “Of course, my lord Hand.  I would never presume to speak on behalf of the others gathered here, but it would be an honor for me to assist the Crown in any endeavor.”  

   “My thanks to you, Glasdon.  But before you agree, any of you, there are certain things you must know.”

   The rabbit found his appetite again and was shoveling food into his mouth and pockets with equal relish.  “Mmwha sor’ a fings?”

   Connor knew that now would be the best time to start singing to himself or reciting the lengthy list of Uilleand mead carried by the Broken Halberd or even the lengthier list of bar matrons he’d met in his young life.  Anything to keep him from hearing what the Hand was about to say.  The less he knew, the safer he’d be.

_Let’s see, there was Denise, Shannon, Ariel of Newsport as well as Ariel of Fallsworth…”_

   “Because I am giving you the opportunity to refuse, I cannot divulge all the information unless you accept.”

_…Mary, Farsinna, Bellenellaria, Sue…_

   “But I can assure you that you will all be paid.  Handsomely.  Gold, land, and titles.”

_…Cara, Sarah, and who was the girl that liked the manacles?  Oh yes, Darla…_

   “As for the task itself, until you agree, I can only tell you this…”

_…and the sisters from __Greenfield__, what were their names, the sisters…_

   “It involves the Sisters.”

_…the sist—_

   Connor looked up at the mention of the Sisters and saw that everyone at the table had gone pale, like ghosts haunting the place of their last meal.  Almost in unison, they emptied their mugs.

   Sir Feon Rey House Eater sat quietly, watching his guests ponder such a task.  Connor could hear the Hand breathing as he waited, arms folded, his squire at attention by his side.  “Connor,” the Hand said.

   He stepped away from the wall.

   “You are included in this as well.”  

   Connor could feel his blood draining from his face and pooling at his feet.  “I’m honored, mi’lord, but I’m only a barkeep, after all.”

   “Save it, Connor.  You honestly think my men don’t talk to me?  I am fully aware of how well you can handle yourself.”

   Connor nodded without a word, then picked up a barrel of ale, raised it to his lips and took a long swallow.  

   The old man with the wagon wheel cleared his throat.  “Excuse me, Lord Hand, but when you say ‘the Sisters,’ do you mean _the _Sisters?”

   “Yes.”

   “As in Mandlebrot’s daughters?”

   “Yes.”

   The rabbit raised a gravy-stained paw.  “As in the three crazy sisters who buggered off just before their father’s great magical city up an’ disappeared?” 

   House Eater stood up and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.  “Yes, those sisters.  What I am asking you to do will not be easy, I understand this.  But I have selected each of you for various reasons which I will not go into now.  All you need know as of this moment is that your King is calling upon you to help the Scinterlands.  If you wish to leave, you are free to do so.  But just remember…” the Hand squeezed the hilt of his sword, the tendons in his hand popping like twigs in small fire.  “…it’s not everyday that you are asked to become heroes.”

   House Eater stepped away from the table, his hand no longer looking as if it was resting on the hilt of his sword but more like it was ready to pull the blade free.  “This is all I will tell you.  Gold, lands, titles.  All yours.  But the task involves the daughters of Mandlebrot.  The Sisters.”

   The Hand then turned to Connor, staring at him with cold disinterested eyes, and spoke.  

   “Choose.”


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## jonrog1 (Nov 23, 2004)

Huh.  I actually wish I played him this cool. Nicely done.


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## Elph (Dec 15, 2004)

*bump* 

In an effort to encourage my boy to quit wasting time with his "day job" that pays his "electric bill" and get off his butt and write more story hour....

*bump*


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## Roquesdoodle (Dec 16, 2004)

*A Simple Task*

“King Scinterod is not in Uilleand.”  Sir Feon Rey readjusted himself in his seat and twirled a vicious carving knife between his able fingers.  “He is here in Arradian  Castle, in some form of…of…”  He stuck the point of the knife into a large cut of meat, the handle wobbling for a moment after he let go.  “Some form of stasis.”

               Out of habit, Connor filled the empty mugs on the table while Glasdon asked, “What exactly do you mean…_stasis_?”

               “Not alive, but not exactly dead either.  Stasis.”  Sir Feon Rey rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes.  “We found him that way a few days before Korskadain’s death.  Nothing we’ve tried has been able to rouse him.  Valance, our court wizard, has exhausted every magical avenue and still nothing.  But the Queen is desperate.”  The Hand looked up from the skewered roast.  “Which is why I have gathered all of you.”

               Tibbit said, “I think you’ve made a mistake, Lord Hand.  I don’t know anything ‘bout rousin’ Kings from magic naps.”

               The Hand pulled the knife from the roast and began carving a slice.  “No, but you do have some experience with discretion.  South Haven, for instance.” 

               The rabbit’s ear twitched.  “I’m from North  Haven, Sir.”

               Sir Feon Rey threw a slab of beef into his mouth as he stared at Tibbit.

               “What happened in South Haven,” Pet asked.  

               The Hand spoke around a mouthful of food.  “Mmm…the regent of South Haven had…an accident.”

               Pet turned to Tibbit and tilted her head.  “You killed the regent?”

               As Tibbit sputtered, trying to deny the accusation, Sir Feon Rey broke in.  “No, he didn’t kill the regent.  However, the man who did is now in control of South Haven.  And apparently he isn’t terribly fond of bards.”  The Hand stabbed another slice of meat and held it in front of his face.  “This new regent dislikes bards so much that he had the tongue of every bard in South Haven cut out and nailed to a wall.”  The Hand threw the meat into his mouth and began to chew with a hint of a smile.

               “All of them?” Sean asked.

               “Well, all the ones that Tibbit here didn’t smuggle safely into North Haven.”

               Tibbit casually wiped some crumbs from his leather jerkin.  “For a price, mind you.”

               Pet folded her arms across her chest, her narrow eyebrows furrowed in a knot of confusion as she spoke to the Hand.  “And you let this new regent do this?”

               Sir Feon Rey audibly swallowed the food in his mouth as he spread his arms in resignation.  “There’s nothing I could do.  South Haven isn’t part of the Scinterlands.  I know it’s easy to forget sometimes, but I have no official authority there.  Now, had he come across the river into North  Haven searching for his grisly trophies, well, then I could have done something about it.  And believe me when I say I would have nailed more than just his tongue to a wall.”  

               Pet tilted her head.  “Like what?  His p—”

               “Perhaps some more ale, Pet?”  Connor tried to smile as he filled her mug.    

   Sean leaned back and rested an arm on his wagon wheel.  “Well, Tibbit.  It was a noble thing you did.”

               “Noble or not, it’s one of the reasons he’s here.”  The Hand handed a napkin to his squire and then stood.  “There are various reasons why I’ve chosen the five of you, perhaps the most important being that you each represent one of the Island States.  Tibbit, you hail from Lesterhsire.  Pet, from Wraithenul.  The good Materite Glasdon here is from Dorland.  Sean comes from Torborough, and Connor lives here in Valdurren.  Though you each hail from a different state, you each call the Scinterlands home.  And I prefer to have all the states represented in this struggle to help the King.”

               “Why would anyone care if Wraithenul was involved?”  Pet asked.  “Most people don’t consider it part of the Scinterlands anyway.”

               “I care, and that should be reason enough.  But there are those in this country who want to go back to the way things were before King Scinterod united the Island States.  If the King’s condition were to become public knowledge, those people would take advantage of the situation and we would have civil war.  I will NOT allow that to happen.”  

   Sir Feon Rey did not speak for a moment, but let his eyes slowly roam over the people at the table in front of him.  When he did speak again, his voice seemed to reverberate off the stone walls in thick, heavy waves.  “I will be very displeased if the King’s condition is revealed.  And I can assure you…the new regent of South Haven isn’t the only one with carpentry skills.”

   Pet raised her hand.  “But I don’t have a—”

   “Pet!”  Glasdon reached over and laid his hand gently across her forearm.  “Perhaps we should let his Lordship finish what he has to say before we start debating the technical aspects of our punishment for treason.”

   Everyone else at the table crossed their legs and leaned forward over the table.  The Hand smiled, his mouth thin and crooked across his face.  “Now that you’re aware of my problem, let me tell you of my solution.

   “We know that the great wizard Mandlebrot created a sigil of immense power.   We believe that this sigil will help us free the King from the spell he is under.”

   Sean raised his hand.  “And you want us to find it for you?”

   “In a manner of speaking.  For the most part, I already know where it is.  I just need you to go get it.”

   “So how does this involve the Sisters?” Connor asked.

   “Mandlebrot divided this sigil and gifted a piece to each of his daughters—the Sisters as they are more commonly known.  These pieces have been inked into their very living flesh.  I need you to go to each of the Sisters, copy the sigil’s likeness, and then return those copies to me.”

   Glasdon leaned forward, his clear voice falling over the table like a warm mist.  “Pardon, Lord Hand, but what makes you believe these sorceresses will be willing to share such a personal and private thing with five total strangers?” 

               “Nothing.  I imagine they won’t be too pleased with the idea.”  The Hand washed down a bite of meat with a hearty swig of ale.

               “Then how are we supposed to retrieve these copies?”

               “Convince them.”

               “It sounds like suicide, my Lord.”  Sean was scowling, a strange and foreign feature on his weathered face.

               “Which is one of the OTHER reasons I chose the lot of you.  You’re expendable.”

               “But wouldn’t it just be easier just to send some of your Scinter Knights to do the job?”

               “Yes it would.  Unfortunately I need them elsewhere.  War is brewing in the north and I cannot divert my forces to a task that you should be quite capable of handling.”

               “But they’re _the SISTERS!_”

               Sir Feon Rey dismissed Tibbit’s outburst with a wave of his hand.  “It will be easier than you might think.  Two of the Sisters recently had a falling out in the small village of Naur’ ali.  Their fighting turned the village into a smoldering pile of bloody ashes, but it also left them both greatly diminished in power.  They should pose no problem for the five of you.”

               “What about the third Sister?”

               “We only know that Roh is somewhere in Wraithenul and is now in service to a dark god new to these lands.  The Sister Cymbaline is here in Valdurren, living just outside of Riverrun.  As for Celosia, we have no idea where she might be.”      

               “So Cymbaline is the only Sister we know where to find?”  

   The Hand gave a slow nod.  “As of right now, yes.  Hopefully, she will be forthcoming with the whereabouts of her siblings.”

   Connor took a long draught of ale before saying, “Well lads, looks like were off to Riverrun then.”

   “My squire Geranzimuth will accompany you.  He will act as my eyes and ears since I cannot be there to wa--  Ahem.  _Guide_ you.  Besides, he’s of age now where he should be setting off on adventures of his own.”  Sir Feon Rey walked over to a small serving table against the wall and picked up a small square box.  It was roughly the size of a book and its face was smooth, the grain of the wood shining through the polish.  “Now, it would be very dangerous to copy the pieces of the Sigil onto just anything, so here.  Take this.”  He placed the box on the table in front of the group.

   “How do we use it?”  Tibbit asked.

   “Take this to a blacksmith by the name of Akkadian Zigguraut, just outside of Riverrun.  In return he will give you what you need to safely copy the pieces of the sigil.  But do not open this box.  He will know if you do.  But more importantly, so will I.”    

   Sean twisted in his chair and pulled at his collar.  “Excuse me, my Lord, but what if she doesn’t cooperate?” he asked.  “Cymbaline may be greatly reduced in power, but she still is a daughter of Mandlebrot.”

   Sir Feon Rey held out a hand to his squire.  The thin youth produced a piece of paper and then returned to his post just a step behind the Hand.  “This is a warrant for her arrest.  We believe she has information regarding the disappearance of someone very close to the Crown.  She can either cooperate or spend a week in the stocks.”  He placed the paper on top of the box.  “The choice is hers.”  

               “Your Lordship,” Glasdon said as he stood, his eyes focused sharply on the Hand.  “Whose disappearance is she allegedly involved with?”

               Sir Feon Rey’s face stiffened as his heavy voice became somber, almost sympathetic.  “Wycliffe Arlatheon’s.”

               The Materite nodded.  “When do we leave?”

               “First light.  Horses and supplies will be waiting for you at the front gate at dawn.  Good luck.”  With that, the Hand turned and headed toward the door.

               While the others sat at the table in silence, Glasdon hoisted his shield over his broad shoulders and started to follow after the Hand.

               “Who’s this Wycliffe?” Tibbit asked.

               “I don’t know.”  Connor said.  “Glasdon.  Glasdon!  Do you know who Wycliffe Arlatheon is?”

               The Materite stopped, but did not turn around.  He stood frozen for a moment, his thick red cloak flowing underneath his shield like bloody tears from the eye of a wounded god. “He is the son of Lynn and Ferrel Arlatheon, Duke and Duchess of Highwater.”  He readjusted the heavy oak shield before moving again toward the door.



   “He is also my cousin.”


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## Roquesdoodle (Dec 31, 2004)

*The Stormfront*

“Do you see it?”  Tibbit asked.

     Connor squinted in the morning sun, taking in the barley fields and the small copses of trees that lined the road.  “No.  Is it coming this way?”

     “Safe bet to say so.”

     The Materite shielded his eyes and stood in his stirrups.  “How long until it reaches us?” 

     “Four, maybe five minutes.  Thinkin’ perhaps we should get off the road.”

     “Why?  We have nothing to fear,” Geranzimuth said.  The Hand’s squire sat atop his grand war horse, gesturing up the road with a skinny finger.  “This is Talumh road.  Bandits wouldn’t dare accost travelers this close to the city, much less a band on business for the King.”

     “Yeah, about that.”  Connor dismounted and patted the side of his horse’s neck.  “We’re not supposed to be attracting attention.  And announcin’ we’re runnin’ errands for the Hand might make that a bit difficult.  Besides, I don’t think they’re bandits comin’ up the road.”

     Geranzimuth turned his horse back to Connor.  It was strange how easily the young man moved the animal, never pulling the reigns or giving loud, obnoxious commands.  However annoying the young man might be, there was no doubt that he knew how to handle his horse.  

     The squire leaned over slightly and spoke with genuine sympathy.  “I understand if you’re afraid, bartender.  One doesn’t find much danger in a tavern.  And to be suddenly plucked from the safety of your bar to face the Sisters must be most frightening.  But you need not be afraid.  I have been the Hand’s squire for half my life and have stared into the dark visage of death many times.  I will keep us safe.”

     Connor stared at the young man, noting his narrow shoulders, the thin shadow of his mustache, the dull shine of naiveté behind his eyes, his fragile spinal column waiting to be shattered over his knee like a dry and wasted sapling.  “And exactly what kind of ‘dark visage’ do you see comin’ down the road there, good squire?”

     Geranzimuth turned, squinted and said, “I can only see a dust trail.  Could be a merchant coming to the city.”

     Connor nodded and then walked over to Tibbit.  The rabbit spoke out of the corner of his mouth.  “Li’ bugger thinks rather highly of ‘imself, doesn’t he?”  The bartender nodded.  “And what’s with this ‘dark visage’ bollocks?  I think the lad spends more time readin’ love poems than practicing with that mace o’ his.”  Tibbit scratched his ear.  

     Connor motioned toward the growing dust cloud.  “You ever see a merchant move that quickly?”

     “Once, when he was runnin’ from someth—”  Tibbit crinkled his nose as his whiskers twitched in the wind.  Then in a rush he swung one leg over his horse and dropped to the ground.  

     “What are you doing?”  Geranzimuth asked.  “We need to keep riding if we want to make it to Riverrun by midday tomorrow.  Now back on your horses.  I told you it’s only a merchant.”

     Tibbit started moving his horse to the rushes on the side of the road.  Connor ran over to him and caught him by the arm.  “Tibbit, what is it?”

     The harefellow gestured with his furry chin up the road toward the growing dust cloud in the distance.  “I smell death.”  The rabbit turned and in a few moments had hidden his horse and himself inside the tall grass.

     Connor watched the dust cloud, its trail lifting in the morning breeze.  He ran over and grabbed his horse’s reigns.  He looked at Sean, quietly sitting on his mule.  “Trouble’s coming, my friend.  Best we hide.”  The old priest nodded and gave his mule a gentle kick.

     As Sean helped guide Pet and her horse to a safe distance off of the road, Geranzimuth scowled down at Connor.  “This is disgraceful.  Show courage, dear Connor.  Adventure is upon us!”

     “Um, yeah.”  Connor looked up to Glasdon who was watching the thing approach.  “Can you tell what it is?”

     The Materite sat very still for a moment, then turned.  “Single rider.  Knight, I think.  Moving fast.  And he’s carrying something.”

     “What?”

     “Still too far away to tell.”

     Geranzimuth craned his neck.  “A knight, are you sure?”

     Connor’s horse gave a nervous stomp and a slight nudge.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, standing in the middle of the road like this.”

     The materite grunted in agreement.  Geranzimuth folded his arms and said, “We have no need to fear a knight of the realm.” 

     Glasdon glared at the squire, his thick brow like crags, and then rolled his eyes.  “It’s all right, Connor.  I’ll stay with the boy, out here in the open just off the road.  ‘Knight of the realm’ or not, it would be unwise to get in his way.”   

     “I am not a boy.”

     Glasdon pulled his shield from his shoulder and held it at the ready.  “Best stay in sight, Connor.  If he stops, we don’t want him thinking he’s being ambushed.”

     “Aye.”  Connor started to lead his horse off the road, but then stopped and turned.  “Hey there, Ranzy.”

     “Geranzimuth.”

     “Yeah, Ranzy, you may want to clean yourself up a bit before you go talking with ‘knights of the realm.’”

     The squire’s face seemed to pucker inward as he glanced over himself.  “What are you talking about?  Surely a bit of traveling dust on one’s boots would—“

     “No, no.  Your face.  You have a little something…”  Connor motioned with his finger to the area just below his nose.

     Geranzimuth rubbed his face several times.  “There, did I get it?”

     “No, it’s still there.  Rub harder.”

     He rubbed his face again, then the squire pulled a small dagger from his belt and peered into the reflective metal.  “What is he talking about?  I don’t see anything.”

     “Geranzimuth,” Glasdon said.  “Pay attention.  He’s coming.”

     When Connor reached Pet and Sean, they were both already dismounted and waiting.  “Are we going to be doing this EVERY time we pass someone along the road?” Pet asked.

     Sean set his wagon wheel on the ground and began to brush his mule.  “It’s just a precaution,” he said.  “Whoever it is coming down the road, he seems to be in a hurry and we don’t want get in his way.  I fear we have enough trouble ahead of us without wantonly looking for more.”

     “Well,” Pet said, “isn’t that what the boy’s for?”

     Connor gave a short, derisive snort.  “I doubt the lad could do much on his own to protect us from trouble, lass.”

     “Protect us?  No, I meant as a distraction.  You know, toss him in front of whatever trouble comes our way while we ride for safety.”

     Connor smiled, then reached up to his chin and the back of his head and cracked his neck.  “Not a bad plan… <crack> … but the kid’s not all bad.  Annoying, yes.  But he’s got a good heart.”  He could tell by the way Pet pursed her lips that she seemed genuinely disappointed that they wouldn’t be using the squire as a human shield any time soon.  “But don’t worry, Pet.  If we ever do need to use him for fodder, you can be the one to toss him in.”

     The girl smiled, flicked back her hair, and then turned to the growing sound of hooves barreling toward them.

     The rider was in full view now, his black horse pounding the road at an angry pace.  It was a knight, clad in light battle armor that even from this distance Connor could tell was dulled and scarred from frequent use.  Rising from the knight’s lap was a large and cumbersome burden shaped like a gnarled tree trunk.  

     “What is that?” Sean asked, raising his voice over the rising sound.

     The bartender could feel the earth vibrate beneath him.  He squinted again, trying to make out what it was the knight carried but it was still too difficult to tell.  At first glance it appeared to be a torn and damaged banner sagging on an iron pole.  But as the rider closed the distance, Connor was finally able to see clearly the odd thing the knight carried.  

     “Do I get to toss the boy now?”

     “Huh?  No… no.”  Connor turned back to the knight who was now nearly on top of Geranzimuth and Glasdon, and who showed no signs of slowing down.  His horse was lathered and frothing, the road behind it transformed into a tempest of billowing dust and thunder.  He was helmetless, his eyes dark and determined as he rode toward them.  

     In one hand he held the reigns to his speeding horse.  In the other, he held a lance, skewering the dead bodies of four kobolds.


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## Elph (Jan 6, 2005)

*The Good Ol' Days*

It's fun to go back and remember when we still had hope of living and/or not destroying the world. Sigh.


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## DMO (Aug 17, 2005)

How about another peek into the Scinterlands? I for one would like to know how the good ol' days went bad. (Left out on the counter overnight in the summer heat, I'll bet.)

Roquesdoodle, are you still around? Is there more to this tale? Here we are; entertain us.


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## Roquesdoodle (Aug 18, 2005)

*What's (not) going on?*

Obviously, there as been no activity here for quite some time.  There is still plenty of Scinterland story left to tell, but our group pretty much stopped playing not long after my last post.  

We all stopped playing because our careers were kicking into overdrive and we no longer had time.  Which has been both happy and sad.  I love playing, especially with this group and desperately hope to play with them again soon.  But right now we are all focused on work.  And when I say work, I mean writing.  

My game-mates are out writing movies, television shows, comics, and producing everything under the sun.  That's what they do (and man do they all do it well).  But when one member of your D&D table has to leave for Vancouver to film a pilot, another has to head off to New York to be wooed by DC Comics and the WB, another has to chain himself to his keyboard because the studio is chomping at the bit, another is building a comic book franchise from the ground up, and yet another has to crank out scripts for producers dying to work with her, it makes it difficult to find six hours on a weekly basis where we can all get together.

But why haven't I updated the Scinterlands, you ask?  Well, because my own writing has started to bear fruit (I am very happy to say).  First, I finished a novel.  Let me repeat that.  I FINISHED a novel.  That's just one of those things that I never really thought I would be able to say.  Time that I did not spend writing the Scinterlands was time working on the book.  

Another thing that I've done in the interim was write an 8 page comic that was included in the highly lauded Zombie Tales from BOOM! Studios.  I have another one coming out in the next ZT anthology as well as my very own comic series (just finished the 1st...I mean 3rd draft of book 1 yesterday).  So I have been writing, just not for our merry band of Scinter-ites (although I've been toying with the idea of writing and (hopefully) selling some D&D modules).

So what happens now?  Well, I am still working a day job to pay the bills (and I use that phrase 'pay the bills' very loosely).  That means that my writing time is devoted toward things that will further my career so that one day WRITING will be my day job.  But I've finished the novel (the most daunting task I've undertaken thus far) and most of my comic book scripts are ready to go.  So I'm hoping that I will have some writing time to devote to the Scinterlands.

I've been wanting to come back for a while and now that my writing schedule is thinning, I'd like to return.  It's hard since we no longer play and I'm not living with the characters every week but I think I should be able to get back in the swing of things.  

Here's hoping.


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## jonrog1 (Aug 18, 2005)

And might I add, one of the best reads for a first novel I've ever enjoyed.  RD has got a nice career of getting paid to type coming to him.


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## Herremann the Wise (Aug 19, 2005)

Hi Roquesdoodle,

Congratulations on completing your first novel!   
Tell me the details and you'll have an automatic sale from Sydney, Australia when it's published.

Can you tell us all anything further about this project? I mean if you need a few more test-readers then hey... you've got one here.   

Best Regards and Congratulations Once More
Herremann the Wise


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## Roquesdoodle (Aug 19, 2005)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Hi Roquesdoodle,
> 
> Congratulations on completing your first novel!
> Tell me the details and you'll have an automatic sale from Sydney, Australia when it's published.
> ...




Thank you! I can honestly say that when I typed the words "The End" it was one of the most satisfying feelings I've ever had. I literally did a little dance for about five minutes in the middle of the room singing "I just wrote a bo-ok, I just wrote a bo-ok." The book I'm proud of. The dancing, not so much.

The book is a fantasy, but it's not the kind of high fantasy you find in the Scinterlands. The fantasy element doesn't really come in until halfway through the book so that may cause some problems in finding an agent and a publisher. But I think that it works for this story. 

I don't want to give too much away but simply put, it's about a man who tries to get back something that was stolen from him. Oh, and a dog. 

Can't forget the dog.

p.s.  In a pleasant bit of irony, the book is titled "Dingo."

shoot me an email about a pdf


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## Roquesdoodle (Sep 11, 2005)

*More writing.*

Well, I've been pretty swamped with current projects, but I should have some free time coming up in the next month to add an update to the Scinterlands.  In the meantime, I'm posting my novel online as a serial.  You can find it here:

http://dingonovel.blogspot.com/

Hopefully this will be entertaining enough to tide everyone over until the next Scinterlands update.


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