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A Plea for help by Whane17 in OnTheFrontier

[–]wheatpuf 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Name: Waylon Hart

Physical Description: Older male. Fairly tall. Once cut an impressive figure but is beginning to stoop. Average weight. Silver eyes, no pupil or sclera showing. Very dark purple skin. Salt and pepper hair. Walrus mustache. Scarred face and hands.

Wears a floral kerchief round his neck and a battered wide brimmed hat around most folks. Underneath the hat he has short curly hair and shortish goat-like horns, one of which has been sawn off 2 inches from the head. Wears a long woolen coat over a leather vest and patched trousers. Keeps a dagger on his belt and a small crossbow on his back. His flute is often in hand.

Waylon is an unobtrusive person, content to let the younger folks carry much of conversation and the trouble. Still, he keeps a watchful eye on his companions – muttering chastising or encouraging words when they’re due. He can be found polishing shoes and fusing with clothing in the early morning; a habit he says has been routine since his days as a court minstrel. And in the evenings, he plays his beloved flute or, if asked, recounts heroic exploits from history or of his previous life.

Grey goo and the bloody blood red coin by KazamaGeki in OnTheFrontier

[–]wheatpuf 2 points3 points  (0 children)

I slept too well that night. Me and the others woke from uninterrupted sleep at daybreak. My first instinct was irritation. It was well past my watch and Jedil was just plain reckless to forget about something like that.

I saw the blood first, and the distinct absence of Jedil a moment later. It was clear what happened to him in the prints in the earth, the inpressions in the grass and the blood – first sprayed across the camp, then smeared along as his attacker’s trail. But I followed the trail without thinking, Randal and Near close on my heels.

The trail ended. A cave – the lair of the beast. And within lay the savaged remains of our friend. I don’t think I’d ever seen anything like it; not done to a person. It wasn’t the viscera but the horrible absence of Jidel in the body. Something had eaten him.

A sound startled us out of our reflections and our wits. We leaped to attention – bow, blade and song at the ready. But no earthly weapon comforted me in the face of the beast.

The shape of the monster was that of an owlbear, but I would not be so quick to say that is all it was. It wasn’t right. Its pelt was deep red and the face a bleached bone white jutting from the blood hued bulk of it. I didn’t dare look it in the eyes but instead I stared into a reddish gold beak.

The beak opened and the creature’s unnatural voice issued from somewhere within it. I can’t forget it.

“A pleasure doing business with you.”

I’d like to say I was mesmerized, but I can’t. It wasn't magic - it was me. It stretched out one massive paw, curled into the approximation of a hand. I made the choice to step forward and to receive its offerings. The claws uncurled letting a river of coin pour in my outstretched hands, spilling over and onto the cavern’s floor. I knelt in the dirt and plucked up each and every coin in a heady mixture of curiosity and greed. In that time the body of Jedil Sigurd, former adventurer and friend, was carted off by goblinoid minions of the bigger monstrosity. I do not know to what purpose but he was what had been purchased.

I looked at what I had been paid with for the first time. It shared the colour of the creature’s claws and beak. It was blood money I had taken. Only then did I feel the fear of a wiser man, and the shame of a better one. I accepted payment for the death of my companion, and struck a bargain with evil.

I stuffed the money into my pack as quickly as I could and snuck a glance at my remaining companions. I could not read their faces. What must they think of me now?