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Author Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends.  (Read 696820 times)

Rhaken

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2280 on: October 15, 2014, 10:15:08 pm »

My friends of Steelhold and Demongate! I have an announcement to make.

One year ago today, CubeJackal created the original Steelhold thread. Happy birthday, Steelhold! We remember your batshit insanity with fondness.

As a present of sorts, I give you this segment that I have been ever so slowly writing since the latter days of Steelhold. I hope you all enjoy it.



Late Spring, 260
Dwarven Mountain Hall of Chainbell


Heavy leather workgloves tied to his belt, Stinthad Abbeylanced walked through the crowded streets to his home. It was market day, and the roving caravan had returned not two days past. Wee ones crowded the wagons, badgering the merchants for toys and exotic treats and exciting tales of travel and adventure. Up until a few years ago, his own daughters would be running about, spending most of their allowances on sugary confections and figurines brought from afar. They would always come back with exciting new tales to tell, most of them probably fabricated.

After spending most of the day topside running maintenance on the windmills, Stinthad was looking forward to a quiet evening with the missus. That whole notion went down the drain when he crossed the threshold into his modest apartment. His wife Unib was sitting at the foot of the bed, holding a sealed scroll, a light frown on her delicate features.

Stinthad walked up to her.
"Honey, is something wrong?"

She handed him the scroll. "A messenger stopped by with news from the caravan. He said this was for you."

Scowling, Stinthad broke the wax seal and unfurled the scroll. He was sure Unib hadn't read it, but the look on her face told him she knew. Maybe the messenger had told her. He knew what that meant. A death in the family.

He read the whole thing in tense silence. When he was done, he threw the scroll at the corner of the room, startling Unib. His hands clenched into fists as he spoke, perhaps a bit louder than he intended.


"So the bastard is dead, eh? Well, good fucking riddance. He can get eaten raw by elves, for all I care."

Unib held her husband's arm. "Dear, isn't that a little harsh? I mean, he was your father."

Stinthad pulled away from her grasp. "Yeah? Some father. Do you have any idea what it was like to live with him? He'd disappear for months at a time, then return with a fresh crop of injuries that my mother had to tend to. Or my brother Udil. He'd stay for a couple weeks, always at his desk, barely talked to me, and then he'd be off again. Just like that. Wouldn't even wait until morning to say goodbye. You'd just wake up and he was gone, and you never knew if you'd see him again."

Tears had been peeking at the corner of his eyes as he spoke, and by the end of it they were streaming down his cheeks and into his beard. "He wasn't there when my beard came in. He wasn't there when I turned twelve and got my first job as a ranger. He never gave him anything to remember him by."

Then why was he crying?

He fell to his knees, sobbing. Unib held her husband in her arms until he regained his composure.


"Does my brother know?"

"I don't think so. He's been out hunting."

"I'll go tell him then."



Stinthad Ringlabored was hauling his latest kill into Chainbell. No easy task. He had tracked the giant badger into the Plain of Riders for the better part of a week, and had managed to fell it with one of his last remaining bolts. The trek back was fast draining him of energy.

He was just past the gate when he saw his brother, grim-faced, arms folded across his chest. Not a good way to finish a hunting trip. Still trailing the massive corpse, Stinthad approached his sibling.


"Something wrong, big brother? You look cross."

"Father's dead."

Stinthad Ringlabored, Hunter, cancels Return Kill: Mourning.



The elder Stinthad threw another pair of socks into his ratty old suitcase. His scowl had just deepened since delivering the news to his brother, who had insisted on tagging along back to his home. Though he loved his brother, meeting with him always left a bitter taste in the elder Stinthad's mouth. Why had his parents named two consecutive sons Stinthad? Was the younger brother meant to be a success, where the elder had failed? Their father had certainly been around longer when younger Stin was growing up. If that was the case, no wonder Stinthad hated the old bastard.

"Dear, are you sure you want to do this?" His wife pleaded with him. Stinthad just looked at his brother. He was standing by the door, expression as guarded as ever. Stin was never one to nurse his pains in plain sight. Not even in front of his elder brother.

"I have to. I'm the heir to his estate. And as much as I hate him, I still have to check that he's properly buried." Stinthad sighed, ran a hand through his beard. "Besides. I still haven't said goodbye to my mother. And she died months ago."

"Then I'm going with you," Unib replied, reticent. She was none too fond of the idea, but she had to. Dwarven custom and all that. Husband and wife must not be torn asunder. Even on a trip such as this.

After a moment's hesitation, Stinthad hugged her. They held each other for a good long moment, paying no mind to his brother. The younger Stinthad was content to hover in the doorway, still as a statue, interrupting nothing. They couldn't even hear him breathe.


"I suppose I should tell the girls," Stinthad said after a fashion.

"You do that, dear," Unib replied. "I'll get to packing."

Stinthad marched out the door, clapping his brother on the shoulder on the way out. Different as the two might be, they both got that faraway look in the eyes when there was something important to be done.

Unib packed in silence for a while, paying no mind to her brother-in-law. Just the way he preferred it. The hunter was not much of one for speaking, but he would always be around to lend support.


"He doesn't mean a word of it, you know," he said abruptly.

Unib turned to face him, confused.
"How do you mean?"

"The whole 'I hate my father' thing." He sounded as distant as ever. Clinical, almost. "True, Dad wasn't the best father in dwarven history, but he never let us starve. He couldn't always be there for us, but always came through when he was around. Stinthad never said this kind of thing back then."

"Why does he say it now?" Unib asked. "What changed?"

Stinthad eyed her coolly. "Think about it. Which is easier? Admitting that you still love the father that dragged you around the countryside on the run from the law when you were barely a beardling; the father who went and got himself arrested for organized crime and managed to drag your darling mother along with him? Or deny the whole thing to yourself and everyone you meet?"

Unib's gaze met the floor. Her husband had not once said a kind word about his father, in all the decades they'd been together. Not once. Now she understood why.

Later it struck her that that was the most she'd heard her brother-in-law say in one sitting.




Getting the permits had been a two-week ordeal of bureaucratic pain in the backside, but now it was done. Stinthad and Unib had visas to enter Steelhold as visitors. Their daughters Unib and Adil had decided to join them and pay their respects to their grandmother. Their grandfather was casually left out of the conversation.

They trekked across the continent for months, their travel clothes slowly but surely taking on the hues of dirt and mileage. Mountains and forests had given way to a vast desert, and Stinthad quickly discovered why half the wagons were full of water barrels. It was only after a month of journeying ever southward that they found the sea. A week after that, they rounded the bay toward their destination.

Steelhold. a prison for the worst criminal filth that The Gloves of Admiring had to offer. And within, Stinthad would find his deceased parents.

How could he have known that the gates would seal shut behind the caravan? How could he have known that the prison had been taken over by a madwoman? A sense of honor had taken him and his across the known world to this place as a visitor. Now they would remain as prisoners, guilty of no crime other than poor timing.

A great tomb had been built for his parents. Neither was interred within. His mother had been thrown in the regular burial halls. His father was never buried. The circumstances of his death had made his body impossible to recover. He had been quite a mover and shaker in Steelhold, they said. A King among dwarves, they said. Those who hadn't succumbed to madness, at least.

His wife Unib was the first to go. She had been hauling garbage outside when the goblin army arrived. They had torn her apart. The body was found days later, already bloated, after the breaking of the siege. Stinthad had been too grief-stricken to bury her himself. Now he had no idea where she was. Probably still out in the field, decomposing away. It's not like anybody else cared.

His daughters were next. They had been sucked dry on the very same day. He had cradled their lifeless bodies in his arms for hours on end, sobbing uncontrollably. He almost felt like succumbing to the curse. He could hear everyone around him droning the same mantra ad nauseam. 'Drink', they beckoned, 'or join the food chain'. He would have none of it. Had everyone else taken leave of their senses?




Logs! More logs. He needed them. Desperately. And stone! So much stone. This was a fucking fortress, why the hell was there no stone? Or leather? Couldn't they just flay one of the dead? It's not like anybody gave two shits about propriety anymore. If you're not going to bury them anyway, why not take the skin while you're at it? Or the bones? You could always make more crafts that way. Even totems.

Where was the fucking leather? And gems! Glorious, scintillating gemstones. Where? Where, by the gods nobody else seemed to believe in anymore,
where?



Irons gripped his throat, pinned his wrists to leaden chains. His clothes had long since rotted away. Not like he needed them. As far as his captors were concerned, being naked just made the whole process easier.

He had fathered hundreds of them. Wee beardlings, birthed by the first two women captives he had been forced to copulate with. He had refused at first, of course. What would Unib say? But the masters would have none of it. They used that shining mask to bring the fire to his loins, and by damn, it had to be appeased. He didn't even feel good doing it. It just happened. More than once he had blacked out, and when he came to, he was in the middle of it. Sometimes with the originals. Sometimes with his daughters. Granddaughters. Greatgranddaughters. Whatever they threw at him. No amount of shame could keep him down, try as he might.

Dreams were his only solace. In dreams he saw the world, saw his wife, his daughters who were naught but skulls now. He saw other places, faraway. A land across the waters. Great ships filled with humans and dwarves and elves. Caves, more vast than the greatest mountain hall, damp, rancid, smelling like home and death and placenta and madness and life. And the masters probed him endlessly about these dreams. Sometimes he even understood what they were saying long enough to tell them. At least, he thought he did. Maybe. As long as they let him see and hug his daughters when he was done. Probably.

He had no idea how long it had been. All he knew is that he was getting old, and his children were starting to age as well. The masters saw fit to find a new use for him. They removed the shackles. He fell to the floor on legs that hadn't walked a step in what could have been a century. They opened his mouth by force. The one with the mask hovered overhead; he who had been slowly eating the one-armed female. He held goblet of blood. Dwarven blood, birth-blood of one of the most recent children. What would he do with it? He was mad. He had to be. Only a mad dwarf would wear a mask on his chest instead of his face.

The mad one upended the goblet. Thick, chunky blood filled his mouth, and it was not his own. The fleshless one made him drink. The heat was upon him then. When it subsided, only thirst remained. Thirst and vision and sleep and two parched skulls.

His masters had nodded then. He would father no more children. But he would be their entertainment for centuries.




The sounds of boot-clad feet dragged Stinthad from a most pleasant dream. He had been talking to his father again. So many things the old dwarf had to say. Something about patience and power and conspiracy and war. Now awake, he heard more of the same from the Kin within the chamber.

"The Third Army has begun to take the North, my lord," spoke one of the armored ones, kneeling before the throne. "They expect a solid victory over all settlements north of the Funnel on the Steppes. Within a year, the North may yet be yours."

Shank nodded his pleasure. He reclined upon the throne, dressed in the finery of a warrior-king. In a sense, he was. "And the Father?"

"Our sources tell us he is within the territory of the First Iron. Presumably near the Funnel. No actual contact had been established at the time of the report."

"Very well. Continue the conquest, Commander. Bring the Knights of Saint Zane to their knees as swiftly as possible. That will crush morale in the North."

"And the Olympian raids, my lord?"

"Insects," the Lord of the Bloodkin spat. "Ants hiding in a hill. Crush them beneath your bootheels or scatter them to the winds. It makes no difference to me, and should make no difference to you. As long as they are snuffed from existence, I could not give less of a shit."

"Your will be done, Lord Shank."

The Commander saluted, wheeled around, and left the golden hall. He paid Shank's pet lunatic no mind, completely unaware that he was his direct descendent. What did paternal relationships matter to the Bloodkin, anyway? They often said that they all had the same Mother, Father, and Uncle, and these were their rulers. How you were born was irrelevant. How you were turned was irrelevant. All were their children, and all were therefore siblings. That was the meaning of family to their race.

Shank paced up and down the hall, muttering to himself. Talking to his Masters through the Mask. He heard and answered countless voices, endless requests. They had given him a race of his own, they said. He was in command now, just as he wished. Now he must uphold his end of the bargain. Deliver them the world. A shattered world, bathed in blood, filled with his warriors. A world to corrupt and destroy other worlds of the brother-nemesis of their own lord.

This he would deliver. He would foerever be their instrument of death and suffering. The mere thought of it got him hard. He would have to go murder some of the livestock when he was done.

Once the meeting was over, Shank left his throne room - yes,
his throne room now that his beloved was finally gone - and descended the granite staircase. He had forced his subjects to set up the livestock near the first cavern, where he could see their suffering from the windows of the summer palace. He walked onto the balcony, and was immediately bathed in the shrieks of the damned. It made him cackle.

There was one bit of business to attend to before he got to his fun. He clamped the mask he had long ago sewn into his chest, had it seek his agent in the other land. Communication had to be much more direct now that Kivish was gone.


"Amsan. Hear me, necromancer." Try as he might, he couldn't keep the mirth from his voice. "The time draws near."

He would not wait for a reply. There was suffering to cause and sample, and Shank's patience had been worn thin in the past seven centuries. He vaulted the balcony railing, and came crashing a hundred feet below in a heap of filth and slush and gore. He shattered both his legs. They rebuilt themselves instantly.

Shank grinned, began to cackle. Thousands of pairs of eyes fell upon him in absolute terror. Yet beneath the fear, hidden away, was the faintest glimmer of a dark hope.

Many would be released from their torment by the time he was done.
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Of course, he may have simply crushed the forgotten beasts with his massive testicles.

Forget a spouse, he needs a full time gonad wrangler.

Deus Asmoth

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2281 on: October 16, 2014, 05:48:29 pm »

Shank is in the wrong game. He would have done well as a Chaos Lord.
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Gnorm

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2282 on: October 16, 2014, 10:11:18 pm »

You know, this narrative seemed really serious, and then . . .

The mere thought of it got him hard.
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Deus Asmoth

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2283 on: October 17, 2014, 04:34:23 am »

Shank's always been turned on by insanity though. Even project immortality did it for him.
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MDFification

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2284 on: October 17, 2014, 07:54:57 am »

Shank's always been turned on by insanity though. Even project immortality did it for him.
And here I thought he had a monarchy fetish.
Still not the weirdest confirmed sexual relationship in these threads.
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4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2285 on: October 17, 2014, 06:38:10 pm »

Urk.

Sorry about my lack of activity guys. :/

I'm just swamped in college application stuff right now.

If you all could resolve all of the plotlines (except for the big finale, which I can still write) which need to be resolved before the finale, that would be great...

Sorry...

FallenAngel

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2286 on: October 17, 2014, 06:59:30 pm »

Demongate's prisons

FallenAngel IV walks past Thane.

"Daemones numquid surgent, castella numquid ceciderit...
Indica in milites..."

FallenAngel IV leaves, a haunting aura remaining in his place.

Deus Asmoth

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2287 on: October 17, 2014, 07:31:24 pm »

Thane rolled her eyes and went back to her book.
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Gnorm

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2288 on: October 17, 2014, 10:48:15 pm »

Shank's always been turned on by insanity though. Even project immortality did it for him.
I know, it's mainly the term "boner" that I found odd. I just think it's a little colloquial and a bit silly in comparison to the rest of the writing.

And here I thought he had a monarchy fetish.
Still not the weirdest confirmed sexual relationship in these threads.
Have you been compiling a list?
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Rhaken

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2289 on: October 17, 2014, 11:02:06 pm »

Shank's always been turned on by insanity though. Even project immortality did it for him.
I know, it's mainly the term "boner" that I found odd. I just think it's a little colloquial and a bit silly in comparison to the rest of the writing.

Though that term never actually came up, I pretty much did it on purpose to showcase how batshit Shank can be. Honestly not sure if it worked for or against that.

Also, fun fact about Stinthad's daughters. One was drained of blood by Asmoth. The other was drained by Shank.

You seriously cannot make this stuff up.
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Of course, he may have simply crushed the forgotten beasts with his massive testicles.

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Gnorm

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2290 on: October 17, 2014, 11:04:43 pm »

Shank's always been turned on by insanity though. Even project immortality did it for him.
I know, it's mainly the term "boner" that I found odd. I just think it's a little colloquial and a bit silly in comparison to the rest of the writing.

Though that term never actually came up, I pretty much did it on purpose to showcase how batshit Shank can be. Honestly not sure if it worked for or against that.
I meant to say "hard," not "boner;" forgive me, for I am quite tired. Nevertheless, I was personally snapped out of the narrative by that one word.
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Rhaken

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2291 on: October 17, 2014, 11:08:32 pm »

Shank's always been turned on by insanity though. Even project immortality did it for him.
I know, it's mainly the term "boner" that I found odd. I just think it's a little colloquial and a bit silly in comparison to the rest of the writing.

Though that term never actually came up, I pretty much did it on purpose to showcase how batshit Shank can be. Honestly not sure if it worked for or against that.
I meant to say "hard," not "boner;" forgive me, for I am quite tired. Nevertheless, I was personally snapped out of the narrative by that one word.

I'll admit, I'm now quite curious as to how I could have kept that from happening while still conveying the same message of general batshit insanity. I thought making it contrast the rest of the narrative would just make it stand out a bit more.
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Of course, he may have simply crushed the forgotten beasts with his massive testicles.

Forget a spouse, he needs a full time gonad wrangler.

Deus Asmoth

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2292 on: October 19, 2014, 01:33:40 pm »

Minor update: pending confirmation from MDF, the pre trial scene is reasonably up to scratch. Once that's finalised, the trial itself will need some input from Rhaken, MDF again and Fallen once it's written, and then I think the plot will be mostly sewn up.
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Deus Asmoth

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2294 on: October 20, 2014, 12:57:10 pm »

Beef Vanderhuge crept towards the cells of Demongate. It had taken him weeks of planning to advance this far; learning the schedule of the Guardians so he’d know when Brenzen wasn’t keeping an eye out for him, getting to know which of the jailors wouldn’t bother asking why he was visiting the captain at this time and more importantly who liked to leave five minutes early without checking the mostly empty cells. Even finding out the precise amount of gypsum that would block out the voices without rendering him incoherent had been a feat in itself considering the effects it had on his short term memory. In a few short moments, everything would be fine. Thane would be free, at least one of those dead people would leave him alone. Just Beef, some peace and quiet, and perhaps a few pinches of psychological stimulants. Beef checked behind himself one more time to make sure he wasn't being followed before turning into the hall of cells.
“Captain Vanderhuge! What are you doing here?” a stern voice asked. Beef turned back around to see that scribe. Tarmid? He was pretty sure that he’d be able to spear him and make good on his escape, but on the other hand, Tarmid was pretty good friends with Brenzen from what Beef had seen. That Knight was scary enough without hunting for some vengeance.
“I was, uh, just going to see the captain,” Vanderhuge improvised. It occurred to him that this was actually a perfectly reasonable excuse. “We were in a squad together for years, after all. Got to make sure she’s holding up ok.”
Tarmid sighed. “Beef, no one who is going to visit a friend sneaks around corners like you were doing. I am nearly certain that Brenzen has told you not to attempt anything rash already, so would you care to tell me what you had planned for this evening or should we go and find him?”
“The Baron... he, ah, left me a letter... before he died,” Beef decided, praying for inspiration. “He said not to open it until he was gone, but all it said was to look out for Thane and... make sure she was safe. I didn’t think that being in prison on threat of execution was in line with Vlad’s wishes.”
“You do realise that breaking her out of confinement is the thing that would make her appear most guilty in the eyes of the fortress, I assume?” the Scribe asked. He sounded as though he thought this should be painfully obvious. “If you truly wish to aid Thane, I have a job for you, though. Are you interested?”
Beef considered. On one hand, this was putting off his next stone nosing by an unacceptable amount of time. On the other, if Vlad thought that he was helping the girl without getting prodded, he might stop with the prodding... He nodded slowly.
“Good,” Tarmid smiled. “As you may know, Thane has been imprisoned for the sorcerous murder of one ‘Fallen Angel’. The fact that his body disappeared soon after the alleged murder, as well as the repeated sightings of a dwarf matching his description and... unusual mannerisms... mean that the trial should be a mere formality pending dismissal due to lack of evidence at this stage. It would be preferable if you could track down Fallen Angel and ensure that he attends the trial so that there is no doubt that Thane did not in fact murder him, though. Brenzen is not a great believer in the old adage of ‘innocent until proven guilty’. I doubt it will be difficult to find Fallen Angel, subtlety is not one of his strong points. You may be in some danger when you attempt to apprehend him, though, as he appears to possess a variety of...”
Beef nodded solemnly every so often, letting the Scribe’s lecture wash over him. If all he needed to do was find some dwarf, the rest of the evening could be spent using up the gypsum he hadn’t been able to use in preparation for this mission. The search could begin in the morning.


I should at least have a draft of the trial scene done by the end of the week. If anyone else wants to get it done before that, feel free. My brain is just a bit fried at the moment.
« Last Edit: October 20, 2014, 02:52:56 pm by Deus Asmoth »
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