Subject: D&D Cartoon On-Line Fan Club Newsletter #7, Part 4
Date: Sun, 2 Aug 1998 11:03:40 EDT


"Shades", Part 1, continued......

*
Though the others were tempted to run toward the portal - as they had been so
used to doing in the past - they instead walked to meet Eric with deliberate
slowness. It wasn't solely due to Presto's injury; perhaps, it was their own
way of parting with this world.
   Uni lingered by Dungeonmasters' side, bleating out a request with a pitiful
look in her eyes. He understood.
  "Yes, you may go to their world." he told her, "if it is what you truly
desire. But you will lose that which ties you to the Realm: your horn." The
unicorn nodded in comprehension. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make.
She gave one last neigh before running off to join her friends.
  "In time, you will come to forgive, young ones," Dungeonmaster called after
them.
  "In time, Dungeonmaster," Hank replied sadly. His body was encased in the
portal's glow.

  "STOP!"
 Like a razor blade, the menacing voice of their year long enemy cut through
the air. Sheila was at the point of stepping through the portal, and though
she could see nothing past its beams of light, the girl knew beyond a doubt
that the voice was Venger's.
  "We'll fight you if we have to," Hank told him defiantly, backing away from
the portal and nocking a golden arrow on his bow, "Either way, we're getting
through this portal."

  The others retreated to stand by Hank, but were surprised at the figure who
greeted them.
  Venger stood halfway between Dungeonmaster and themselves, and seemed barely
able to hold himself upright. He was an almost pitiful figure; legs shaking,
face strained merely in the action of raising a hand. He looked as if he might
faint at any moment.
  As Eric had done only moments before, he pointed a finger of accusation
toward Dungeonmaster.

 "Perhaps," he sneered "you would like to know what happened to
Dungeonmaster's other pupils.
 Dungeonmaster remained a silent shadow, far away from the portal. Was he
ashamed, or did he simply not wish to speak? None of them could tell.
  "In the dragon's graveyard, where you were...so keen to kill me," Venger
continued, "you found many strange bones, did you not?"
  Eric, who was close to the portal, had no qualms about speaking his
mind."Yeah, so what of it? Save your speeches for Shadow-Demon. We're going
home."
  "Silence!" Even in his feeble state, Venger was still able to command
authority. "Believe me, Cavalier, you shall wish to hear this." He paused, as
if savouring what he was about to say. "They were all the pupils before you,
the children that died in this world. All were from Earth, and all perished
horribly, as twisted mutations of what they had been. Your Dungeonmaster did
not even give them weapons capable of defending themselves. So afraid was he,
that I might capture the weapons and harvest their power for myself. It was he
who led them to their deaths."

  Hank shuddered and turned back to the doorway. He began to usher his friends
forward.
  "I think we've heard enough," he uttered, barely above a whisper. No-one
looked back.

  The coolness of the portal fell around them with dizzying speed, swallowing
the Realm behind it forever.
  Six dazed children found themselves falling into the same seats they had
taken a year ago, and the familiar red and white of the cart met them like an
old friend.
 They were in the ride.
 They were home.
 Exchanging brief looks of excitement and apprehension with the others, Hank
found himself testing the floor with his foot, trying to gauge beyond a doubt
that this was real.
 The floor was firm. Did that mean anything? Hank was almost afraid to
believe, and he was not alone in that thought.

 They whipped past a last few figures before the exit gates loomed in front of
them. Bobby held Uni tightly as she sat perched on his lap. She looked like an
ordinary pony now, an advantage since Bobby had had no idea how to explain a
two foot unicorn to his parents.
 As the doors opened, he noticed a familiar figure towering above him: eight
foot or so tall. With a single horning spiking from his head, he had the
strangest red glint in his eyes...
 Suddenly the park was all around them.

 Fairground music blared. The smells and noises of their own world filled the
air. They found themselves struggling with the lap restraints, wanting to leap
out of the cart before it had even slowed to a stop.
  "Hey, you crazy kids, that's dangerous!" a ride attendant shouted at them,
running over to bring the cart to a halt.
  Eric could have kissed the man. Instead, he pinched his arm just to make
sure that he wasn't an illusion, before scrambling out of his seat and onto
the sidewalk. He was quickly followed by the others.
 The gang couldn't help whooping with joy: this was it, the moment they had
waited for for nearly a year, had dreamt about almost every night. Right now,
even the nearby sound of a little girl screaming for candyfloss was like a
long forgotten melody to their ears.
 They hugged each other, gaped at the rides and the people around them, and
hugged again.

  "Kids, wait. Stop!" that same park attendant's voice broke through their
euphoria. "You've left your stuff behind." The burly fellow strode toward them
with arms filled high enough to hide his face from view. He dumped their
belongings on the ground with a huff, and returned to his ride.
  Presto looked at the bundle, then at his own clothes, and for the first time
realised he was no longer wearing his robes.
  "Yes!" he exclaimed aloud "I get to wear trousers again!" His ankle was
momentarily forgotten.
  "It's the food I'm thinking of." Eric grinned, simultaneously patting his
stomach. He found himself rummaging through the heaped clothes and weapons for
his shield.
  "Look at this thing," he snorted, as he held it out in front of his body. He
cocked his head to the side as if in intense scrutiny. "It looks like a kid's
toy!"
  "I see what you mean," Hank agreed, tapping the shield with a finger. It was
plastic. "You could have won it at one of those games stalls, for all anyone
else knows."
  "Maybe that's a good thing." Diana suggested, "How else could we explain all
this stuff to our parents?"

 Hank bent to scoop up what was left on the ground and handed out weapons and
clothes to their respective owners.
 "Come on, guys." He started toward the park's entrance before cursing
inwardly. Hank reminded himself -rather sadly- that he was no longer the
leader. No-one was.  "I mean..." he stuttered "...shall we go?"
  Eric draped an arm around his friend's neck with a level of happiness so
intense that he seemed caught in a drunken stupor.  "Hank, old buddy," he
shoved a hand out toward the snack stall a few feet away, "You can lead the
way, but, not until I re-acquaint myself with an old flame of mine." With that
he sauntered off toward the booth, calling "Hot dogs, we're reunited at last!"
 Sheila, in stark contrast to her Cavalier friend, stood quiet and still, hand
gripping Bobby's with a gentle firmness. For once, he didn't complain about
her "gushiness". He too was engulfed in the thought of their parents and home.

 "Geez, I just thought of something," Diana tensed suddenly. She grabbed at
Presto's arm and turned a worried face his way. "We don't even know it's the
same date as we left. We've been gone such a long time; even if it's been just
one day here, our families will think we're missing."
  Hank looked momentarily alarmed before his typical calm demeanour replaced
the anxious frown. "We'll just have to find out."
  The passer by he asked shot him a wary, doubting look, but nevertheless
answered his question. Yes, it was Saturday the 6th of July, and yes, it was
the same year as they had left.
It seemed things couldn't get much more perfect, until Eric returned laden
with food from the snack bar. Then, with the Realm far behind them, they set
off home, happier than they had been in a long, long time.

 ****************

  It was hours later - after being re-united with their much missed families -
that the gang found themselves together again, lost in the grandeur that was
Eric's living room.
 They'd all been there before, save for Bobby, but their time away had allowed
them to forget the sheer size of the place; the living room alone was large
enough to fit a tennis court inside it.
 Uni lay sprawled on a large Japanese rug that had been hand crafted to match
the maroon decor of the room. The pony was gazing at the black box Eric had
lovingly referred to as a 'TV'. Apparently, humans used it to watch other
people. It was about as weird as the rest of this world.
  Earth, she thought, would take some getting used to.

  Having raided his larder's ample supplies, Eric had provided his friends
with pepperoni pizza and an assortment of milkshakes, and they now sat in a
comfortable silence. They were content just to be in each other's company.

  Diana's eyes strayed from the view of Eric's garden and pool. Turning back
to her friends, she let her thoughts return to Dungeonmaster for the first
time since leaving the Realm.
 "Do you think we should have forgiven him?" She set her half-eaten slice of
pizza back down on its plate, and looked from one face to another.
 No-one had to ask who she was talking about.
  "I think he did what he had to do." Presto replied, smiling sweetly. He had
just spent the last two hours having his ankle bound in a cast, down at the
county hospital. Of all of them, he had the most reason to be angry, and yet
he seemed to hold no grudge at all. "We shouldn't have expected him to be
perfect. We all made mistakes too."
  Bobby wiped away a milk moustache with his hand. "But it was a big lie." He
reached forward to smooth Uni's mane. "He shoulda' told us we could go home
for a while."
  They all nodded in agreement. But, after all, what was the use in thinking
about it now: they'd never see the little guy again.

Eric glanced at Uni, then to Bobby. "Barbarian," he grinned, "she makes a mess
in here and you're clearing it up."
  Uni baahed at the insult, and they all laughed. They were simply glad to be
home at last.

                                                     *****************

 Bobby had spent the whole evening in his parents' company. They were
surprised to receive so much attention from their son, who was usually off
with his friends whenever he had any free time. His mother swore there was
something different about him; hadn't he grown taller?
  Luckily, Bobby was able to avoid most of his parents' questions. Sheila had
informed them that they were both too tired to talk much, and had helped Bobby
to smuggle Uni up to his bedroom. They'd think about how to explain the pony's
presence tomorrow.
  As he lay in his own bed, watching the little unicorn's chest rise and fall
as she slept, Bobby found he still could not get the image of Venger from his
mind. They hadn't defeated him, not totally, and who was to say he wouldn't
try to regain the Realm all over again, that they'd be called back once more.

 Bobby had this nagging feeling that Venger hadn't left their lives for good.
 It would be a full five years from that time before he'd find out he was
right.

To be continued...

Stay tuned for Part 2 of ?Shades? in the next issue!

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The City of Silver Fire
by Buggman (MdBugg@aol.com)
This story is copyrighted by Michael D. Bugg (1998) though it is based upon
the characters and precepts of the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon, whose
copyright is owned by others.  No challenge to the original copyright is
intended, it is purely a work of love.  Permission is hereby given to copy and
distribute this story, so long as the credit is given to the proper author.
Story Rating: PG-13

Chapter 1:  A Stranger by the Lake
        Venger leaned back in his throne, listening to Shadowdemon's report with
interest.  "A pity," he said when his minion had finished, "that the young
Cavalier was freed from the helm.  An even greater pity that I was occupied
with the destruction of Lydia, else I could have taken advantage of the
situation.  I am surprised that the Cavalier took the helm and sword at
all--he has never struck me as one who had the courage to grasp such power."
        Shadowdemon bowed, refraining from making comment.  He knew that if Venger
ever found out that he had been the one to bring the Cavalier to the weapons,
he would be torn apart, if not worse.  It was a dangerous game he played, but
the promised rewards of his true Master were great.
        He waited for Venger to say more, but the Lord of the Draghkar Waste remained
silent, brooding with his fish-pale chin on his fist.  Finally his head came
up and his eyes burned into Shadowdemon's insubstantial form.  "Where are the
Young Ones now?"
        "They make their way through the old country of Ulreth, my Lord," said
Shadowdemon.  "But they go cautiously, and I lost them in the Windsong Forest
yesterday."
        Venger frowned.  "They could be going to join forces with the Elves," he
murmured displeasurably.  Then his blood-crimson eyes flared with both emotion
and power.  "Could they be seeking the Silver Fire?"
        "I know not--" Shadowdemon began.
        "Silence, you fool!" Venger snarled.  He thought again.  "They have one of
the Keys already," he muttered to himself.  "If they find the others . . . and
the girl has a token . . ."
        Suddenly he rose.  "Have Darkwind saddled!" he commanded in a voice that
boomed throughout his fortress.  "You, Shadowdemon, will travel to the Abulagh
Swamp and gather my troops there.  Especially Morghryth.  I will take no
chances where the Young Ones are concerned."

        She hung in her chains, toes barely touching the floor.  Her back felt
sticky, and in some distant part of her mind she knew that she had been
screaming.
        "We grow weary of this, witch.  Confess, and you will save both your body and
your soul from the Fire," said the man who held the whip, which glistened with
her blood.  He was dressed in flowing robes of red, and had a sunken, intense
face in which two eyes burned like smouldering coals.
        "I'm no witch," she gasped hoarsely for perhaps the hundredth time.  Why
wouldn't they believe her?
        "Lies!" the man hissed.  He turned to a brazier and picked out a cherry-red
iron.  It hissed like a serpent when he spat on it.  "Feel then the fire you
so desire!" he shouted, and pressed the iron into her eye.  She screamed a
name . . .
        Sheila came awake with a tiny, strangled scream, barely keeping herself from
awakening the entire camp.  Instantly, as if he had been waiting for it, Hank
was at her side.  "Sheila, it's all right!" he whispered loudly.  "It was just
a dream."
        She sat there, wrapped in her blankets, for a long time.  She shivered in the
cool air, cold sweat coating her face.  There was the sound of a waterskin
being swished, and Hank handed her a damp cloth.  She washed her face with it,
still breathing as if she had run a league.  "Thank you," she said finally,
quietly.
        "You're welcome," Hank said, starting to put an arm around her shoulders.
She flinched as it touched her back, and he quickly withdrew it.  It didn't
hurt anymore, really, and under Meredith's ministrations even the scars had
faded to fine lines, but flinching away from things that touched her back had
become an ingrained habit during her recuperation.  Her nightmares made it
even harder than usual to keep herself from flinching.  She hadn't explained
all this to Hank--she didn't want to talk about it--but he seemed to
understand.
        Right now, he was looking across the camp, to where Eric lay sleeping.  The
cavalier's dreams too, had been troubled of late, but right then he slept like
a babe, looking almost like the old Eric, except for one addition.  The
Warduke's sword lay in its worn leather scabbard at his side with his shield.
        It wasn't by choice that the Cavalier carried the blade.  He had intended to
leave it with Reian at the Keep of the Bearers of the Sacred Flame, after the
fanatics that had lived there had been defeated by the Warduke's hobgoblin
troops, who had in turn been defeated by Reian's men.  Nor was it by
compulsion such as had forced him to wear the Helm of Warduke for nearly a
month.  It was by Dungeon Master's advice.
        "I will not command you to take the blade, Cavalier," the gnomish old man had
said to him, mere moments after Hank had forced him to free himself of the
helm.  "But by doing so you may open a way home for you and your friends."
        So Eric had taken the sword.  Reluctantly.  He had not drawn it from its
scabbard since that day.
        Though Eric had been freed of the spectre of the Warduke, it seemed almost as
if something of that dark spirit remained still.  Eric, usually the first to
talk to fill the silence, had become withdrawn and quiet, tormented by the
ghosts of those who had died because of his actions while under the control of
the helm.
        Hank, though he perhaps hid it better, was just as troubled in his own way.
Though he hadn't been forced to kill Eric, and had in fact saved the Cavalier,
the Ranger had committed to doing it.  While he had killed before on the field
of battle, it had never been intentional when an intelligent creature had died
by his hands.  What was the knowledge that he was capable of killing a friend
doing to him?
        Bobby didn't have either of their burdens to bear, but three weeks of
constant fear for his sister had left their mark on him too.  He had always
been hot-headed and overeager.  Now he was like a raging furnace--a consuming
flame beneath a casing of iron control.  And he refused to let his sister out
of his sight.
        Presto and Diana were the least changed, but even they had been affected.
Presto's jokes no longer came as quickly or as cheerfully, and Diana had taken
over much of Hank's role in cheering the group.  Both tried almost constantly
to reach out to Eric, but he kept brushing them off.
        And what about me? Sheila wondered.  How much have I changed?  She had always
been timid, she knew.  Now she was becoming afraid even to sleep.  The
nightmares wouldn't stop.
        Sheila stood, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders against the
night's chill.  Hank rose with her, watching her with a concerned expression.
"I just need to take a walk," she told him before he asked.  "To clear my
head."
        Hank nodded.  "I'll come--"
        "No."  She tried to smile at him.  "I'll be fine.  I just need to be alone
for a little bit."
        He nodded slowly.  "Don't wander too far."  He tried to smile back.  It came
out weak, probably as weak as hers had been.  "I don't want to be the one to
have to explain to Bobby that I let you wander off alone."
        She actually giggled, trying to smother it behind her hand lest she wake the
others.  How long had it been?  "I won't," she promised.  The darkness
swallowed her before she had taken five steps away from the small campfire.
        Strange, that she should so desire to be alone.  When she had finally
rejoined with the others, she had thought that she would never want to be by
herself again.  Somehow, she had thought that once the group was back
together, and Eric had been freed of the Helm of Warduke, everything would be
okay again, the same as it had always been since the six of them had been
dumped in this terrible world.
        She had been a fool.
        Sheila pulled up the hood of her cloak and slipped through the forest
invisibly.  Overhead, the wind blew through the branches and the hollow boles
of the tall broadleaf trees that made up the majority of the wood's canopy.
The holes in the hollow trunks acted much like flutes, and emitted a low,
almost soothing sound that varied with the strength and direction of the wind.
The song of the forest covered the sound of her footsteps completely.
        After some minutes, she stepped out of the trees and onto the shores of a
lake.  She sat upon a fallen tree-trunk and watched the reflections of the two
out of the three moons that were visible as they played over the miniscule
swells in the placid waters.  She watched the luminescent swirls for a while,
letting her mind drift.
        The ring of steel on steel startled her out of her reverie.  Sheila came to
her feet instantly, a hand on the hood of her cloak, listening intently.  Not
her friends, not unless they had somehow managed to circle around her and come
up further down the shore of the lake.  There--she could see a silvery glint,
flashing like a lightsaber in the moonslight.
        Now she hesitated.  The sensible thing would be to slip back to the others
and bring them here.  She had had enough being on her own to last her a
lifetime.  Even so, she found herself drawing up her hood, vanishing, and
running towards the nighttime battle.
        Cloaked in invisibility as she was, Sheila still approached cautiously,
moving along the edge of the woods lest her footprints give her away on the
soft mud of the lake's shore.  Crouching beneath the leaves of a huge tree
that reminded her of an oak, she spied upon the combatants.
        The beauty of the stranger dressed in grey took her breath away.  He was
little larger than she, but possessed of a litheness of limb that made him
seem somehow taller.  The blood that ran down the side of his face did nothing
to mar the sculpted, yet somehow alien features.  Blue-black hair was tied
back, leaving his tapered, almost lobeless ears bare, and his large, emerald
eyes glinted with battle-rage.  His teeth were bared in an almost animalistic
manner as he wielded his long, slender sword with a inhuman grace despite the
wounds that darkened his moon-grey tunic and cloak.
        His opponents were no less beautiful, but it was a horrible kind of beauty,
as if the stranger's features were reflected in a shadowy mirror--or perhaps
the negative of a photograph.  Their skin was dusky where his was almost
ghostly pale, their hair as white as his was dark, and their weapons as black
as his was silver.  Instead of frenzied snarls, they wore hideous grins, like
hyenas standing over a kill.  Sheila's soul seemed to shrink before those
smirks.
        It was a decision born more of instinct than rational thought that she made
in that moment.  Her right hand found a fist-sized stone, hefted it, and threw
it at the first of the dark ones all in one motion.  It struck his head, and
he fell like a puppet with the strings cut.  The smiles instantly left the
faces of the three others, and they leapt back, black swords raised.  They
looked around in confusion, and the stranger slumped against a tall rock that
jutted from the shore, as if he were rapidly losing the strength to stand.
        A second stone glanced from the skull of another dark one, dropping him to
his knees but not completely knocking him out.  Now their eyes centered in on
Sheila's location, though they of course could not possibly see her.
Nonetheless, she froze, her third and last stone in hand, afraid to move lest
they locate her by sound.  Some instinct told her that those ears could hear
as well as any wolf.
        Inspiration struck, and she quickly whipped the stone through the woods.  It
vanished in a racket of snapping limbs and crunching leaves.  The three dark
ones turned to follow the noise with their eyes, and at a word from the downed
one, who clutched his blood-darkened brow, ran after it, certain that the
noise had come from a fleeing assailant.
        The dark one still standing bared his teeth in an unholy, mocking grin again,
and stalked towards the pale stranger, sword in hand, with utter confidence.
Sheila could see no wounds on him--indeed, he hardly seemed to be winded.
There was no doubt how this fight would end.
        The stranger, to his credit, betrayed no fear as he stood away from the rock
on his own feet, sword held high by arms that shook with exhaustion and pain.
The dark one opened with a whirlwind attack that was designed to quickly wear
down his opponent and finish him off.
        Suddenly, the dark one staggered as if shoved from behind, eyes wide with
shock and surprise as he fell upon the point of the stranger's silver blade.
His mouth opened as if to scream, but all at once the crimson light faded from
his eyes and he slid back off the sword, dead almost instantly from a heart
impaled.  The other dark one, smirk faded to a gaping look of surprise,
started to rise with his sword, but suddenly his head snapped back as if
kicked, and he fell to the mud.
        The stranger's face was no less shocked, and only became more so as Sheila
pushed back the hood of her cloak and appeared in front of him.  "It's all
right," she said quickly, raising her hands as he raised his sword.  "I'm a
friend."  She didn't look at the one she had killed, albeit indirectly.  She
couldn't see any other way, but still she thought that if she looked she would
be sick.  Even now she shook so hard with reaction that she was amazed that
she could speak at all.  It was the first time she had ever knowingly killed
an intelligent being, however evil.  Was this how Hank felt his first time?
Or did it get easier?  Somehow, that was not a comforting thought.
        The stranger lowered his sword and slumped against the rock again.  "I
suppose you are," he said, speaking the human tongue with a soft, pleasant
brogue.  He smiled wearily.  "And I am in your debt.  I am Llythen a'Corimira
of Sidhe Gildas."
        "I'm Sheila--" she started, but a horncall stopped her words and left her
shivering.  It was like the wailing of a soul in the Abyss.
        Llythen's handsome face intensified around a frown.  "More of them.  We had
best be going."  He tried to stand and walk forward, but fell back against the
rock.  "If I can manage to get my legs to work properly," he added with a
pained half-grin, half-grimace.
        "Here, let me help you."  Sheila gently took his left arm and looped it over
her shoulder.  He smiled at her in a way that somehow mingled cocky arrogance
with a self-effacing wryness and honest thankfulness.  His emerald-green eyes
seemed far too old for his young face.  Sheila realized that she was rapidly
losing herself in them and quickly pulled her own eyes away, blushing
furiously.  A stupid thought crossed her mind as she helped Llythen to the
cover of the forest:  It wasn't fair that God made any person that beautiful.

To be continued . . .

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