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[The Architect]

Yo. I really like your writing. Have read a lot, both old and new, and you've got ability. Only read a few posts because it's 5AM and I'm tired as I can be, but it's very interesting. Please, continue. The dog's name imo should be something derived from its biting ability; hopefully not too obvious like Tolkien's Grip or Fang, because that it's a dwarf's dog, and an exotic name would be fitting. Anyway keep it up and I look forward to reading the rest!

[Tack]

Thanks for the praise, mate. People like you, make people like me continue to enjoy updating three times a day.


EDIT:
... the dog's name is derived from the finnish god of thunder, blood, and war. It is also a common swearword, and during the time of the episcopal invasion, meant "devil" or "demon".

[Tack]

Try to avoid reading this if you don't like REALLY bad writing. it's basically just a very brief chronicle of the stuff that happens in the journey, it be inconsequential enough to not be worth writing in detail.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

*Rumble Rumble Rumble Rumble. The wagon rolls on.

The second temple complex is in the northern section, where the winds blow cold.
The dwarves and elf stop in a city to get some warmer clothes.
The dog has healed already - wow.
They sell off the idol, and share around the money.

Siira blows it on male concubines. (sure, she can pick up men in taverns... but they don't have the same skill...
Motev blows it on a new set of knives.
Adil... blows it on drink.
Turen... has his share blown on drink by Adil.
Tanesh... Spends it carefully.
Servu... Spends it... i dunno. On something. Running out of things to think

They stay at a tavern.

They continue north, watching in dread as the snows get thicker.
And they get to the mountain before the next temple complex, so that in the next post I can have them "coming over the hill".

[Tack]

(opportunities for extra villain cameo's. And possibly a new hunter. )

Thrown in for added comfort, before I call it a night:

Running back to the camp, the two scouts bickered over what their next message should contain. Interruptions of “unimportant” and “over-elaborated” would be commonly heard, if anyone should get close enough to listen. The commander didn’t like his scouts saying anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary - and the consequences for not being perfect in reporting to him were harsh. Some said he liked to run his army like a perfectly adjusted mechanism. The more common complaint was that he liked to run his army as though they were enslaved ironmen.

Getting to the camp, they ran inside. The camp (only being put up for the two days it took for the scouts to get information) was still incredibly elaborate, with a stake-wall surrounding the main areas, and a trench and palisade around the camp itself - despite the fact they were in allied territory.
Running to the commander’s tent, they slid to a halt, before saluting the guards on duty. Then, hoods pulled high, they entered the tent, walking forward exactly three paces, before clacking their feet together in parade attention. Soon enough, the cold command came. “Report”.

After exactly one-second of hesitation, the one on the left spoke. “They went into the city, and are currently moving north”.

The commander scratched his hand across his small beard – one of the only monks allowed to have one. “They mean to go to the next temple... Mobilise the army. Dismissed.”
Sighing with relief, the scouts left the tent. The commander leaned back into his chair, listening to the pounding of feet as one third of the Episcopal army of Armok broke down the camp. Chuckling, he pulled up his hood as the tent he was in was carefully brought down, four acolytes coming into the tent to make sure that no part of it touched the Commander or his chair as the tent was deconstructed; folded; and stored away.

Smiling he stood, as always his chair being the last part of the camp packed up. Moving slowly to his seat at the head of the caravan train, he swung into his seat and gave the order to move out, chucking again as the sound of marching feet started up, the convoy moving away from the site - the only indication of it's presence being the many pockmarks from the stakes, and the perfect rectangle of dirt from the - now filled in - trenches.

Settling in more comfortably, the commander looked to the north. "At last... the hunt is on"

[Tack]

... which have been ignored. Damn.

Don't expect too many updates from me tonight, I've got stuff on... But i'll probably update a few times over the weekend.

[Cirius]

You skipped over a tavern scene? Madness I say, sheer madness.. Everyone likes a drunken dwarf. Especially a group of thieving dwarves with a dog seemingly bred from the underworld.

On a slightly more critical note, the number of commas in the previous posting causes the critic in me to shudder slightly. I get the impression it might have been written either late at night, or in somewhat of a hurry.

On a more complimentary note, the image of the commander sitting in his chair and refusing to move whilst his camp is disassembled around him is a great one. It's a spectacular representation of an eccentric and domineering leader, obsessed by detail and control.

On a more drunken dwarven note, aye demands me moar dwarf. Get ye to the scribbling table!

[Tack]

You skipped over a tavern scene? Madness I say, sheer madness..

I'll put in a bar-war later on. Just had a really good idea for the next section and I'm seriously bursting to get to it. Sorry for the comma-ing, it was pretty late at night - just before I went to bed, fyi. Thanks again, and I promise another choking rush of updates tomorrow.

[The Architect]

All caught up on your writing. From thieves to mass murderers! What will they do now?

[Tack]

Currently writing the next part, as a matter of fact.

Hey... hey... thieves are allowed to be genocidal, if it helps storytelling. Besides, they're basically treasure hunters - and everything in a huge circle around that.

[Tack]

The caravan topped the rise, and Turen – whose turn it was to drive – stopped the caravan and gaped. “Quick, look at this!” As the rest of the pack clambered out, they too, gasped in shock as they gazed upon the next temple complex.
The place was utterly deserted. If it was not then the engineers and mechanics around the area had all gone on strike for a long, long time. The gates were hanging from the hinges, and evergreens grew inside the walls – making the walls of marble show up in stark relief against the forest growing around it. The temples had been overrun by the surrounding greenery, and here and there, animals grazed in between the ruins.
“Oh... my god” said Servu
“It’s beautiful” from Siira
“It’s been destroyed” said Adil

Turning, Tanesh gestured towards the wagon.
“No” said Turen. “The lock where the last piece was... It was solid, right?”
“Aye”, Said Motev. “Few others than I could have gotten into it.”
“But he-“
“Shh, Adil”
Turen turned back to the temple complex. “If they’ve abandoned this place though... there must be a reason”.
Servu turned back towards Turen. “Maybe they didn’t abandon it by choice...”
Adil shrugged. “It’s still a reason. You coming?” With a nod, he set off towards the complex on foot.
Turen grabbed him by the shoulder. “Not this time. You got the action – now you are staying with the wagon”.
Adil started to argue, but ceased in the face of Turen’s uncompromising stare. “All right. Have fun, assholes”.  With a snort, he turned back towards the wagon, Tanesh tailing him as they prepared a haphazard camp. Together, Siira, Motev, Turen and Servu walked towards the temple – listening to Adil’s muttered curses behind them.
Reaching the twisted gates, they stepped through them, marvelling in both awe and fear at the intense quiet inside the complex. Turning, they moved around behind the second temple, looking for the trap door which should have been present. Instead, they found overgrown weeds. Drawing gleaming maw, he slashed down at the ground, the axe biting deep into the earth. Heaving the axe backwards, he swung again, this time the axe hitting and biting through rotted wood. Stepping forward, he kicked in the trapdoor.

Servu staggered back, waves of nausea taking him by shock. Standing straighter, he looked around at all of the others, giving a little “I’m fine” pat of his hands as reassurance. One by one – they all entered into the bowels of the complex.

Moving quickly, they were surprised at just how easily they could go – with no guards anywhere in sight. Turen, noticing Servu’s increasing state of agitation, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder – quickly pulling back his hand when he found him covered in sweat. “Are you all right?” Asked the worried Turen. Servu turned around to face him, and Turen could see the worry in his eyes.

“Something... feels wrong. I’ve got a really bad feeling about all of this.” Turen nodded in agreement. “I’ve got a queasy feeling too, lad. Don’t worry. Everyone gets it.”
“No.” Servu cut in. “It’s different.”
Turen gave him a quizzical glance. “Cmon, lets keep moving”.
The four moved on, cautious glances left and right. After about a minute of walking, Siira suddenly stopped. “Something against nature is near. It’s screaming in my head”. Servu, suddenly pale, nodded in agreement. “Watch ahead. Something very evil is very close”.

Motev looked around to the four, and reached into his backpack. “Evil, eh? Evil shouldn’t hide in the dark.” Pulling out a torch, he advised the other three “Don’t look at the light”, then, lighting the torch, he threw it ahead of him.
The torch bounced across the stone floor, and rolled to a stop. Seeing no problems, Turen started walking forward, just as something hit the torch with a dull “Thump”, causing it to go out.

The four watching in horror, the giant cave spider slowly lowered itself from the roof.

[Servu]

Oh shit I'm dead. No-one can survive after saying "I got a bad feeling about this" while entering the lair of an evil monster.

[Tack]

Servu gasped, the screaming inside his mind echoing back and forth as he watched the chitinous monster raise itself off the ground until it was standing easily taller than a horse. Staring into the eyes of the great beast, he didn’t hear Turen say “Run”, or the echoing footsteps of the dwarves and elf fleeing behind him. All he could see was the spider come rushing towards him. Leaning forwards, Servu raised his hand, in a dreamlike state. In a language reverberating with the power of gods, he said. “Stop”.

The giant cave spider slowed, but continued its mindless advance towards the new food. The closer it got, the more effort it seemed to have taking step after step. Servu leaned forwards, his every effort into denying the creature – imposing his will upon that without emotion. Slowly, the spider crept forward, until it was staring at Servu through its multitude of eyes. Hesitantly, almost tenderly – the spider leant forward, and bit Servu in the neck.

Suddenly Turen was beside Servu, axe flashing and cutting through the spider’s head as he pulled Servu back behind him, Motev picking up the limp dwarf and running back towards the entrance. Turen turned and ran after him, but halted at the sound of the a giant cave spider running after him. Turning, Turen faced off against the spider, a chunk of its head severed and dangling from its neck. The spider, not noticing that it’s lifeblood was still flooding out, reared back and shot a stream of web at Turen, who dived aside at the last second. As it ran towards him, he shouted out a battle-cry and rushed the monstrosity.
Whipping “Gleaming Maw” back, he plunged it into the spider’s body, just passing the chitin. However, upon tasting the ichor of the beast, the enchantments on the axe began to work, and, living to it’s name, the axe began to bite deeper, magically pulling itself further into the wound. With some effort, Turen pulled the axe out and whipped across to shear off the front two legs of the beast.
The spider undeterred, continually tried to bite the worrisome dwarf, even as it’s body overbalanced and it crashed onto its head. Laying down, it’s head was level with the dwarf’s pelvis.

Turen, seeing that the spider was incapacitated, turned to run again, however the clacking of feet started up again. With an angry growl, he turned again to face it, only to see that the spider had indeed gotten up again, pushing its head along the ground as it again tried to get at Turen. “God, when do these things give up !” Jumping up onto the spider’s mangled head, he swept his axe down, burying it in the side of the spider’s neck. Again, the axe sheared through the rest of the neck – cutting the top half of the head clean from the rest of the body. Still, the spider kept moving, having no spinal cord – having no weak points at all. Shaking off Turen, it swept it’s head forward to bite him, but Turen, on reflex, and with little power behind the hit, smacked the spider in between the eyes. The spider, not noticing the axe, not even realising the pain, continued onwards, trying to eat the dwarf – even as its head sheared in two and it fell, twitching, to the ground.

Motev ran, Siira leading the way out of the damnable place. Turning the next corner, she stopped, giving out a small squeak. Motev reached her as she started running the other way, back behind him. Stopping, he puzzled at what she could be running from - as yet another giant cave spider crashed around the corner.
“Shit”.
Motev turned and fled.

Turen pulled himself out from underneath the giant cave spider’s split head, giving himself a half-hearted wipe-down. It was inconsequential anyway – he was covered in ichor. Looking back towards where Siira went, he shook his head, and continued past the body of the gigantic beast. How great was his surprise when he saw Her, and Motev sprint past him! Shouting after them, he gave a glance back, only to see another giant cave spider running after them, further back down the corridor. Turning, he ran after Siira and Motev – still holding the dangling Servu.

Siira, first in line, came to the the tunnel entrance that, should – by rights lead into the bedroom. Shouting, “Turn here!” She wheeled and dived into the bedroom. As the other two followed, she closed the door and locked it – hearing the slither as not one, but two giant cave spiders, ran past it.

She turned to see Motev lowering the injured dwarf. Coming closer, she could see where where the spider had bitten right through Servu’s collar, and had stabbed into his neck. Cutting free the troublesome material, she gasped. Around the four giant holes in his neck, a thick tribal tattoo was etched, running around from the side of his neck to the front, and stopping at the line of his collarbone. “What on earth is this?” Turen stared in shock. “I know what it is” Motev said grimly. Twitching, Servu’s hand came up, fighting against the paralysis to try and hide the telltale markings. “But” Motev said, “The backs of his hands aren’t tattooed.” Pulling open Servu’s shirt, he pointed to the spot where the tattoo on his collarbone branched off into jagged spines which barely reached across it. “Nor is his chest”. Turen shook his head. “Resisting paralysis, commanding creatures, even the Dog! How did we not notice this before?”  “What the hell is wrong!”Siira cried out in Exasperation.
Motev turned to face Siira, his face a mask.

“The boy, Servu... He’s a Zustash Dungeon Master.”

[Tack]

More asides, while I'm at it.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

1. I have been waiting for ever to bring that into the light. Story awesomeness rises exponentially.
2. Yeah... I looked in 40d, and dwarven for ancient is "Zustash". Bad name, but believe me - they are different from the average.
3. Siira is now the underplayed character, with Turen suddenly becoming badass.
4. I realise the amount of genocide that a group of once humble thieves are now causing. It's not their fault. They've become renowned.

[Servu]

A Dungeon Master? Awesome. I'd say this is the appropriate time to mandate a black bronze armor stand in my dining room. Chop chop. Just don't let me near any forges or you'll find those steel plate mails you ordered to be no-quality.

[Tack]

Truth be told, I was actually waiting for someone to reply before I posted my next bit. As far as I know, Servu, Cirius, and The Architect are the only people who read this.


The Zustash Dungeon Masters are the basis for why the current Masters are regarded as nobility. They were the first Dungeon Masters, back in the time when man and beast was more closely bound, Destined to be the people who could go anywhere, communicate with any animal or humanoid. The earliest were possessed of the speed of cats, and eyes that could see in the darkest corridors. The strength of bears, and wisdom of owls.

Over time, the races of elf and man forgot the ways of the Dungeon Master - and even the Dwarves had their skills and lore faded over time, until today, where Dungeon Master is merely a title bestowed upon nobles who can track their lineage. However, Some groups of dwarves had held true to the traditions, and had not allowed their blood to mix (with non-Zustash Dungeon Masters), or their lore to be forgotten.

The tattoos, found only on the Zustash tribe, represents their mastery of the Dungeon Master Lore. Upon the age of twelve, a young Zustash Dungeon Master which has been brought up with his tribe will - having been tutored in feats of agility and speed - be tattooed upon the neck with the symbols of the cat - representing their mastery of that part of Lore. Until the age of eighteen, the youth are tutored in the way of hand-to-hand combat, and feats of strength. Upon their eighteenth birthday, the Zustash men are given the sign of the bear, a tattoo interlocking with the sign of the cat, running down their chest, on the side of their "favoured" hand. However, the last tattoo, and the Lore that must be learned for it, is easily the hardest to obtain. For the mark of the owl - found on the back of the hands, is the most elaborate tattoo. To obtain this, a Dwarf must be taught in the Lore for ten years of hard study, and a Zustash cannot obtain these tattoos before the age of thirty, when they are deemed to be wise enough to use the teachings of the lore wisely.
The mark of the owl is on the backs of the hands, and not interlocked with the mark of the bear and cat, because of the age old idea that when in battle, strength and speed must be used together - however wisdom must always be a seperate, and controlling power.

Zustash Dungeon Masters are the most heavily demanded Dungeon Masters as nobility - as they have more power and wisdom than all of the other tribes. They, also, unlike many Dungeon Masters - have spartan tastes, and would rather sleep on the floor, than in a bed. However, many of the reclusive Zustash live in tribes in the wilderness, preferring to keep the old ways true.