In the streets of Crawlinghome...Viri strides forth, a featherweight giant among dwarves with a forceful shield of growing potency, making her way toward the grand puffball in the center of the village, and looks about for anything that might be charitably described as a town hall, her eyes eventually settling on the largest pyramid in sight. Seems like a good one to try first. Walking up close, she gives the double doors of the place as solid a knock as she can, and they open up with surprising speed and a wave of incense-smelling air, revealing a smallish dwarf in a black robe who seems a bit surprised to see Viri.
"A human? Wandering about town?" she says in a very distant tone. "Most curious. What do you seek?"
In Crawlinghome's jail...Rev, having successfully fooled the inhabitants of the jail, wastes no time in fishing for exposition.
"Tom, you greasy bastard, show some respect! The Captain's daughter came in, and she, and she-" he winces at the sounds of destruction coming from the barracks.
"What are we going to do? The ones she doesn't kill, she's turning into horrible fleshy monstrosities! Even if we survive this, how are we going to cure them? Who could we go to for help against this sorceress' curse?""How on earth should I know?" June snaps, pressing her back against the door. "The temple? Maybe?"
"Heh! Temple's never helped anyone. I say the whole lot can go die for all I care. Law's never done right by me," Tom says, probably feeling rather safe behind the bars of his cell.
In the dining room of Mayor John the Eldest...Whiskers continues his conversation with the mayor.
"Mm. Well, that sure cleared up a lot, and I thank you for your competence and empathy during my moment of frustration. One more thing, before I go: may you please tell me where the marketplace and mages' institutions are in this town?" he asks of the old dwarf.
"No mages here, I'm afraid," the mayor replies. "You could perhaps ask a goblin at one of the trading depots, if one happens to be in town at the time, but nobody local is likely to be of much help in magery and sorcery and what have you. Of course, provided they're not deliberately keeping a low profile, which they very well might be. As for the marketplace-"
There is a short, polite knock at the door. The mayor looks its way just as it opens, and in strides an elderly, busy-looking and purposeful dwarf, flanked by an odd-looking, heavily injured and bloodless dwarf Whiskers, being an astute peeker at everybody else's business, has no trouble recognizing as
Martingold.
"Ah, John. I see you are talking to a cat. Or perhaps, I should say, fox?" he says, glancing at Whiskers. "Anyway, the guards called me over to look at a corpse, which turned out to be our friend over here. He's also a fox, and quite alive. He's been so kind to tell me what they came here for, so we're here to talk to you. He's also told me that there were five of them when they came here, so presumably there's three more of them somewhere in the city," the elderly dwarf rattles off quickly.
"Most enlightening, Dave," the mayor comments. "Between the two of us, we may have a complete story in our hands. I do hope the other three haven't run into trouble, though. Or, god forbid, caused any. At any rate, I trust these two know each other?" he looks at the two foxes.
"Martingold! How has your day been?" Whiskers remarks.
"Why, it was lovely, my dear Whiskers, thanks for asking. I'll fill you in later. Now if you don't mind me, I need to talk to the mayor," he says, turning to the dwarf in charge.
"Good evening, Mr. Mayor. I've seen that you've talked to my friend Whiskers. I'm assuming that he already talked to you about who we are and what we're looking for. Since I'm not interested in wasting time repeating things, I have my own requests. There is another fox with us, her name is Viri. For some strange reason, she's been put into a prison without having committed any crimes. By any chance can you give her a pardon?""I'd hope so if it gets you lot about your business quicker," the mayor replies, shrugging. "Though that's the hypothetical answer - truthfully, it depends on what hypothetical crimes she has committed. If they are indeed hypothetically serious, it might not hypothetically be such a simple matter. Some more information is probably required, my good fox. I haven't really received word from the militia just yet, so I'm afraid I'm very ill-informed on the issue, and thus some guesswork is all I can provide."
In a dwarven logging camp...Faer, not satisfied with the blue goblin's display thus far, continues to narrate as he applies more fear to him.
"Interesting... a user of magic... hm," he says, not really thinking as he talks to himself, lost in thought as his eyes rest on the blue goblin, pressing a figurative white-hot spike of fear into his skull. The goblin, though, remains still, and Faer keeps pushing harder and harder - and yet the goblin, perhaps out of madness, perhaps out of stubbornness, refuses to yield, the spheres of flame growing larger, his body growing incredibly tense. The logging camp, previously bustling with activity, has gone entirely silent, even the other two goblins having gone completely still. It is at this moment that Faer, concentrating more intently than ever on the task, fails to keep his internal narration to himself once more.
He inadvertently says... something out loud, something so inconsequential that he can hardly remember it the next instant, the grim realization of his mistake mere moments later as the blue goblin turns to look his way drowning out any hope of recall. In one moment the now enormous spheres of flame go still, and in the next they are rushing toward Faer at blinding speed, the entire tension of the goblin placed into one astoundingly precise blast of fiery magic. Faer attempts to leap out of the way, but the blast radius of the incoming fireball handily engulfs him and a great deal of the undergrowth in one rush of air and flame that sends him flying, chunks of burning, twisting flesh ripping themselves free of his body in an effort to preserve the whole - flying off in an arc, he lands smoking in a ravine, impacting a helpless fern like a minor meteor, now half the fox he used to be, overwhelmed with pain as his shapeless, burnt form automatically shifts into that of an arctic fox, seeking comfort in the familiar as he mutters an accurate firsthand description of the blast several times, internalizing them carefully.
((I'm assuming it's flat out not happening.))
That's how it turned out, yes. I hadn't actually started on the turn when I made the previous post, so I allowed myself some wiggle room.
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Topic: Outfoxed - Chapter 1: A Sense of Direction (Read 14529 times)