Difference between revisions of "D3"

Latest revision as of 19:57, 29 September 2017

An Incident by Firelight

Derrick squatted by the stolen campfire, trying to will his wounds to close. The Orc had made a fine mess of his face and nearly sent him to his final accounting with Papa Starlight. He wasn't ready for that, he was too far in Papa's debt to settle up just yet.

For a moment he remembered his mother. It had been many years since the blight had taken her and most of his memories were of his father tending to her as she wasted away. This memory was old, Derrick was little more than a toddler watching his mother geting ready to clean a prairie dog. She was stropping her good knife and singing gently to herself.

"When you go to hunt a wifey, ask to see her knifey. Be sure she keep it bright and sharp and clean."

"For if she leave it black and dull, be sure she's lazy, black and foul. lass like that will treat you just as mean."

Derrick remembered blurting out "I don't like it mama. The sharp knife scares me."

His mother had laughed at him. "Oh my shining boy, Don't be afraid. A sharp knife is a good thing. A dull knife will cut you just the same, but it will not cut nice. A dull knife rips and tears. A sharp blade moves through things like a fish through water, it doesn't even hurt. A cook has to cut things, but the least you can do is cut with as little suffering as possible.

Back at the campfire Derrick tried to squeeze the ragged tear in his face closed. He muttered under his breath "I don't think he knew about your song, Ma."

His new companions emerged from the Orc tent, dragging packs. This first attempt to interact with the Orc Horde had gone rather poorly from a diplomatic standpoint, but if his companions were going to wrap themselves in gear clearly looted from orc corpses then diplomacy was going to be off the table. As they pawed through the bags it became apparent that he need not be concerned. This wasn't looted from an orc, but by an orc. Flatware? Clearly not an Orcish concern.

Derrick's blood froze when they pulled out the book. Derrick remembered the last words Papa Starlight had said in the barn. "When Papa Starlight say you ready, Papa Starlight will send you a gift and you will choose how you bind yourself to Papa Starlight. You may choose the Chain, you may choose the Blade, or you may choose the Tome. Once that choice is made, the pact is set and may not be unset."

Derrick had assumed that he had chosen his pact with that infernal flute, but what if he was wrong. What if Papa Starlight meant to put two sets of shackles on him? His blood went cold at the thought. He stared fixedly at the fire, but watched from the corner of his eye as the book was passed around.

His companions pawed dumbly at the book, looking for pictures. They did not seem to respond strangely to touching the book, perhaps it was just a simple journal. When it was offered to him he tried to cover his panic. They handed it to the Frostblood, the human who called himself the Locust.

The Locust tucked into the book, studying it more intently. When he said it belonged to an elven bard, Derrick's blood froze. Was Papa mocking him after the massacre in the Iron Hills? No, the druid had heard legends of this bard, she must be a true tale.

Then the Locust mentioned a Warlock, a binder of demons. Surely that was another coincidence. Papa was devious, he wouldn't dangle such an obvious carrot before Derrick. Still, he would laugh his wicked laugh and taunt Derrick for being a fool if it was his Pact and Derrick stumbled into it as stupidly as he had the flute.

No, it was not safe. He couldn't trust it. But a binder? A binder would know spells of breaking, wouldn't he? What if the whole universe was not an elaborate stage for Papa Starlight to torment Derrick. What if there were other powers who were trying to lead Derrick, to give him hope.

No, dashed hopes are the plaything of Nyarlathotep. He revels in them. No Derrick, you are in his shadow and it is up to you to find your way out of it.

Derrick decided on a plan. He would wait. He would watch the Locust through the black hour. If this was touched by Nyarlathotep, it would leave a mark, even disguised. If the Locust showed none of the signs, the nightmares, the tremor in the hand, the eye that doesn't blink, if none of these show in the morning, then Derrick will carelessly mention the book. Then he will in his most casual tone offer to glance at it.

Later that same day, Derrick watched as the Locust stood on the Altar of the Frost God. He watched as the ice spirits converged on the Locust, all but annihilating him, leaving only an empty skull. An empty skull and no book.

Shit.

Chapter 2 Chapter 4