D&D Cartoon On-Line Fan Club Newsletter #8, Part 2 September/October 1998 ****************************************************************************** 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 2: The skies darkened with frightening speed, blotting out the light of the rising suns. Thunder rumbled like the gods' own wardrums, summoning the wind elementals to battle over the ancient forest. As the elementals passed through the trees of that forest, they began to sing a low, almost moaning battle-dirge. It was an awful sound, coming from a land used to the gentle pitches and crescendos played by a gentle breeze from the nearby sea. Atop a pillar of stone that jutted barrenly from the surrounding green of the forest, the self-proclaimed Lord of the Realm stood with his black wings outstretched as if to catch the supernatural wind and his leper-pale hands raised over his head as he intoned ancient words to summon the Powers of the Air to do his bidding. The blinding flashes of lightning did not strike him from the clouds--rather, they rose from him, cracking across the blackened sky like a whip. At long last, when the earth below was very nearly as dark as it had been at night, Venger descended from the pillar of purple-grey stone to the forest floor below. Those below drew back into the darkest shadows that were their home, save for one. Venger addressed her. "I take it that you find this acceptable." "Quite," the woman answered, pushing back the deep hood of her cloak. Like all the Drow, she was black of skin and white of hair. Like all of the race that the Drow had been outcast from, no sign of age touched her flesh. Only in her crimson eyes did the weight of centuries lie, centuries of cruelty and malevolence. "With this . . . storm? . . . we can hunt them without rest. How long will it last?" "As long as needs be," Venger told her, mounting Nightwind, his half-tamed nightmare. "But do not think to tarry on your mission, girl," he added in warning. Eyes as blood-red as hers glowed with an intensity that revealed none of the strain that summoning, controlling, and maintaining such a storm took. "Of course not," the Drow woman sniffed. "I, too, have my set times. We will begin at once. Far easier to hunt the son of Corimira while he is wounded and bleeding." "Do not forget the children," Venger warned. "I want the fiery-haired girl and young Cavalier taken alive. The rest you may do with as you please, but you will bring me their weapons." The Drow quickly bowed and assured him that it would be so. "Very well. My servants will be arriving by nightfall tomorrow. They will be instructed to aid you, if you have not yet completed your mission." That they would be instructed to destroy the Drow if they balked in their end of the bargain went unsaid, but was perfectly understood. The Drow woman bowed again, and Nightwind carried Venger aloft into the clouds. "How could you just let her wander off like that?" Bobby demanded, eyes smouldering and hand clenched tightly around the base of his massive club. His voice carried over the howling of the forest, but only barely. "What did you want me to do, tie her up?" Hank snapped back. Bobby's face reddened and he spun around, almost tripping over Uni in the process. Diana hesitated a moment before speaking up. "We're ready, Hank," she told him, handing the Ranger a small pack that held a sixth of their small store of supplies. Hank thanked her in a voice that was drowned in the moaning caliphany that the forest had begun sounding as the supernaturally sudden storm had appeared, and took both his pack and Sheila's, slinging them over his shoulder and gesturing for his small band to follow him. Hank cursed himself for ever allowing Sheila to wander off like that, issues to work out or no. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He turned to Presto, who was staying behind with Eric in case Sheila returned while they were out looking for her, intending to work out a signal with him, when Bobby's glad cry cut through the wind. Whirling, he saw the young Barbarian running into his sister's free arm; her other arm, Hank saw, was wrapped around a stranger in grey as if supporting him. The stranger certainly looked like he needed it, Hank saw as he drew closer. His long, dark hair was matted to his face by sweat, and blood ran sluggishly down his somehow alien face despite a hastily tied bandage around his temples. There were other wounds as well, darkening the pale grey of his clothing. "What happened?" Hank demanded as he took the stranger's other arm and helped him to sit against a tree. Sheila sighed gratefully as the weight left her shoulders, both literally and figuratively. "He was under attack," she said over her shoulder as she knelt beside the stranger, grimacing at his wounds. The stranger smiled at her. "Fear not, fair one, I am not wounded quite to the death." He looked up at Hank, his face sobering. "I am Llythen a'Corimira of Sidhe Gildas," he introduced himself with a courtly little bow from his seated position. "And I owe your lovely young friend my life." Diana looked over him admiringly. "Find any more like him?" she asked Sheila with a conspiratorial wink. Sheila smiled back. "In a manner of speaking, but I don't think you'd find them quite so charming." Hank realized that he was scowling at the stranger--Llythen--and made himself stop. He started to tell Sheila how much she had had them all worried, and made himself stop that too. Suddenly, very nearly for the first time in his life, Hank found himself speechless and uncertain. "Um, what are you? I mean . . ." Presto said, fumbling at the awkward tone of the question. Llythen looked surprised. "Surely you must know, young wizard." Eric snorted. Presto shrugged in embarrassment. "No I . . ." "We're not exactly from around here," Bobby explained helpfully. "I see. I am an Elf, my friends." Diana grinned at him. "Do they all come as tall and handsome as you?" Llythen raised an eyebrow. "Hmmph. Do you bake cookies, or wrap up toys for Christmans?" Eric asked. "Eric!" four voices and one bleat said in unison. Llythen just looked confused. "Never mind him, Llythen," said Diana. "He's just being a dork." Eric scowled at her. Sheila quickly completed the introductions before he could think of a comeback. Llythen's almond, emerald eyes widened in recognition as he took Eric's hand, falling on the hilt of his sword. "You are the Warduke?" he asked in an unreadable tone. "I was," Eric said darkly after a taken aback pause. He stepped back, crossing his arms defensively. "It's okay, Llythen," said Sheila in a soothing voice. Her sideways glance at Eric was a mixture of pity and something else. "It wasn't his fault, and Hank freed him from the curse." Hank felt the bleakness flood over himself for a brief moment. But Llythen shook his head. "No, you misunderstand! I have been searching for you these last two weeks. I need your help." "For what?" asked Bobby. "And how did you know about Eric?" asked Sheila. "Hold on, slow down," said Hank, sitting on his heels and leaning on his bow like a staff. "Maybe you should start at the beginning," he suggested to Llythen. Llythen nodded. "My apologies. The people of my Sidhe--" "What's a 'she'?" asked Presto. "A Sidhe is a hidden city of the Elves," Llythen explained. When they had nodded their understanding, he continued. "My people once lived in a great city, called Elessar, which was said to be so tall that its towers stood above the clouds. But when the fallen Sorcerer, whose name is Venger--" "Figures," muttered Eric. "--came to power, he attacked Elessar, seeking the secret of the Silver Fire." "What's that?" asked Hank. "The . . . word does not translate well into your language. Suffice it to say, it is a source of great magical power, and of our eternal youth. When it seemed that he would succeed, Queen Orin did the only thing she could. She sent the city away." "What?" said Sheila. "How do you send a city away?" asked Bobby. Llythen shook his head. "I do not know. None of us survive from that time, so we have only the words of the legend to tell us what happened. I can only think that she used the power of the Silver Fire and made the city vanish somehow." For some reason, he looked at Sheila as if for the answer. "So what happened then?" asked Hank. His hand had tightened around his bow as if getting ready to use it as a club. There was something all too . . . confident . . . about the way this guy looked at Sheila. Now he really was getting stupid, he chided himself. This was no time for jealousy. Heck, when was the last time he'd had time for jealousy? "We became exiles. Without the Silver Fire, we became . . . less. I cannot explain it to you, but there is that within us that needs the Silver Fire. Without it, in time our hearts fail and we die." There was bleak pain in his voice, and Sheila patted his hand comfortingly. Hank felt his mouth twisting downward. "So what's that have to do with us?" asked Diana. "Two weeks ago, the Dungeonmaster came to us." Eric groaned loudly, throwing up his hands as he walked over to a thick tree trunk, where he began beating his head softly against it. "Is he okay?" Llythen asked in utter confoundment at the Cavalier's behavior. "Yeah, he's always like this," Diana said in an almost warm tone. After the whole Warduke episode, it was good to see Eric acting almost normal . . . for him, anyway. "Ah. In any case, the Dungeonmaster appeared to us and gave us this riddle: 'The time of your exile is near to close. Seek out the last Warduke and the Children of War, for they have a key and a lost token. They will take you to the Silver Falcon, and you shall ride it to Elessar.' Then he stepped behind a pillar and vanished." "That's our Dungeonmaster, all right," said Presto. The others had to smile at that. Smiles burst into laughter as he added in a falsetto, "He's gone, AGAIN!?" "How did you know that Eric was the Warduke?" asked Sheila after the laughter died down. "Hank destroyed the helmet." Hank felt the bleakness again. Good ending or not, the process had nearly destroyed him, not to mention Eric. "Because he had one of the keys," Llythen explained. Moving stiffly, he drew his slender sword. "This is the Moonblade, one of the three keys needed to open the way to Elessar." Eric turned towards him, his hand unconsciously touching the hilt of his own sword. Llythen nodded. "Yes. That is the Frostband, the second of the three keys. Now we only need find one more." "Another sword?" asked Bobby. "Yes." "What about this token?" asked Sheila. Llythen looked into her eyes with such intensity that her fair, freckled face reddened. Hank had halfway risen before Llythen said, "Do you not know? You wear the cloak of our Queen, Orin Talamerith of Elessar, Keeper of the Silver Fire." To be continued . . . ****************************************************************************** ******* D&D Poetry Corner! This all-new part of the newsletter features a limerick AND a poem from Fay Keenan! If you have your own poetry or short-form literature you'd like to submit for the newsletter's poetry corner, please be sure to send it to me at IllyanaAM@aol.com by October 21st! D&D Limerick by Fay Keenan (fay.keenan@bristol-west.co.uk) There was a young Ranger called Hank Who, of them all was top rank His arrows of light Gave Venger a fright And the sweet taste of victory he drank There was a young knight called Eric Whose wit was ascerbic and caustic He spoke out of turn And he soon had to learn Cheek DM and he'll turn you blue nosed quick There was a young magi called Presto Whose robes were the colour of pesto He pulled off his hat Spoke of this and that And found himself in only his vest-oh There was a young gymnast called Di Whose moves could take her to the sky Both agile and true She beat orcs black and blue And lizardmen dared not even try There was a young redhead called Sheila Whose cape never would reveal her She'd fight orcs, bats and clones But hated being alone Was a Thief but she never would steal-nah There was a young viking called Bobby Defeating Venger was his favourite hobby He'd run into trouble Straight away on the double And bash his club 'til the ground went all wobbly * Stolen Hours by Fay Keenan (fay.keenan@bristol-west.co.uk) All is quiet, dying embers burn low The Magician asleep, Cavalier snoring Barbarian at rest, small unicorn close Staff clasped tight, the Acrobat dozes. The Thief is awake, lying beside a man Who rests momentarily, shrouded in sleep His tired eyes closed, lips silent in rest Close to her, as she watches over him. Her eyes show compassion, and deepest love If he were to wake, would he know or see? Gently she brushes the hair from his brow He stirs and opens his sky blue eyes. A moment of fear, then recognition Eyes touching eyes on this deepest of nights Lips moving closer, no need for words Within a touch, so near, so far. All defences dropped, no more a leader But a lover. Starved, alone so long Her lips close to his, an unguarded moment His parted, hungry, half-dreaming, yearning. Suddenly she wakes, cold in the darkness Her heart thumping, her cheeks aflame She sees him, so close, but so far away She sighs. Somewhere. Someday.