I am currently working on a book, tentatively titled Tales Of Terratoise. While some pieces are more like poems or speeches, it is primarily meant to be a collection of loosely connected short stories centering around a tavern that is popular among mercenaries, gallants, and other miscellaneous adventurers. It is set in a world named Terratoise, which is essentially a medieval fantasy kind of world. Some of my friends may recognize it from D&D games I've run.
I'm about halfway through the book, and I'd like to present one of the shorter works, The Last Testimony Of Mordred Duqvacka, and excerpts from two longer pieces. The first excerpt is from Party Hard. The second is from Bryn's Last Battle. I hope you enjoy them.
It may help to know, that a "gallant" is a thrill seeking adventurer (typically more benevolent than a mercenary), while a "Gallaunt" is more like a community benefactor and defacto noble. I'll leave the other odd references for you to puzzle out on your own, or await the rest of the book.
It may help to know, that a "gallant" is a thrill seeking adventurer (typically more benevolent than a mercenary), while a "Gallaunt" is more like a community benefactor and defacto noble. I'll leave the other odd references for you to puzzle out on your own, or await the rest of the book.
The Last Testimony Of
Mordred Duqvacka
“Always listen to what your enemies have to say, not only to anticipate their plans, but because, I hate to tell you, they may well be smarter than you. People don’t just become villains on a lark, after all. There is always a reason, a moment of truth or great loss that led to their malice, because they misinterpreted or reacted badly to it. Learn the lesson they missed, because you may come upon such a moment in your own life, and you’ll want to know how to avoid falling onto the same road they did.”— Selwyn Thasgood
For all those things, I have not been indicted today, have never been in the past, and I expect I never would be, even if I were not expecting execution myself at the culmination of these proceedings.
Rather, the protection of my manor and laboratory licensed me to eliminate intruders. Warfare is not a crime, so long as one declares it and does not violate the rules of combat. Adversarial conflict with rivals is an anticipated risk of subterrestrial salvage operations, which is to say adventures for lost artifacts. Even outright murders, where my name was invoked, are not counted against me as long as there was no specific will or expressed solicitation from me, which there truly never was.
I shall also point out that the teaching of necromancy is not against the law, because it has other purposes than animating undead and it is required knowledge for any attempt to effect countermeasures. Personally, I consider undeath to be the primary function of true necromancy, as the purpose of the rest could ultimately be served just as well by other schools of magic.
No, what matters to the law is not how many deaths I am responsible for, but how I enacted them, because, to all of you, life is cheap. Well, a bit expensive perhaps, but nothing more than this. It may be challenging for you to comprehend, but, to me, life is not so cheap.
You do not wish to die, because you wish to live. The process of dying sounds a very unpleasant experience to you, so you avoid it. You enjoy living, and so you desire to go on living. I chose life over death because I hold a deeper apperception of the difference. I understand death. That is why I sought immortality.
I stand on trial today for abuse of the necromantic arts in the establishment of undeath. It is true that I have dedicated my life to understanding the nature of death, life, and the magics that relate to them. It is also true that I have, and have attempted to, utilize those magics to create undead. So, shall I be judged by you? Shall you who have so little understanding of what it even means to be alive, let alone dead, sit in judgement over me, a scholar of death? You say that I’ve used these magics to perform unholy acts that violate the natural order, yet you neither know anything real about them, nor do you care to, except for the results that they produce.
You persecute me, because I use incantations that summon the undead, that animate the dead. Yet, it is not against the law to animate a chair or a candelabra. It is not a criminal act to give life, or the impression of it, to a golem made of clay, wood, or iron. What is a corpse but nonliving matter, such as clay, conveniently pre-formed in the shape of a body? And most of all, it is not a crime to raise the dead back to life, as you so often love to do with adventurers or your families, those of you who can afford to. We’ll brush past the distinction that adds to the separation between the wealthy and the poor.
In the end, you have put me on trial, because my goal was to make myself into that which can never die, for it is neither truly alive nor wholly dead, a lyche. In the pursuit of that goal I killed, I robbed ancient ruins, monasteries, and tombs, I experimented with forces you cannot fathom, and read books in languages you have never heard of.
Why, in a world where raising the dead is so simple, even commonplace, would I bother? After all, it was one of the first things people sought to reestablish after the Time Without Magic finally came to a merciful end. So, why should I go to so much trouble trying to achieve immortality when death can be so easily overturned? You know why, but you refuse to account for it, because you do not understand death the way I do.
You call me a criminal, a madman, a villain, evil, twisted, abominable—why?! Because I fear death? Because I summon the undead to be my soldiers? At least I don’t ask the living to die for my cause. Because I expect these walking corpses to do my bidding? What about the dead everyone else brings back? Why are they raised? Because there’s something people expect of them: to fight their enemies, to save their town, to be a gallant, a lover, a hero, a father, a daughter—you all bring them back to do your bidding! Is that not a violation of the natural order? I say it is the worst kind.
It is a far worse thing, in my mind, to disturb a soul at rest and expect a living being with a mind of its own to fulfill your wishes and expectations than to control a simple mass of dormant flesh that has no will of its own.
You defend yourselves on the premise that "a soul must be willing to be brought back.” Ha! A cheap shot. What mother, if offered the chance, would not return at the tears of her child? What son at the lamentation of his father? What Gallaunt at the call of their city? What criminal at the laughter of accomplices? The truth is that the dead are always willing to live again, even when they know they shouldn’t.
Yet I am the villain, because I bring the dead back as so-called monsters. I have sad news for you, the only way to bring them back is as monsters. You raise your heroes back whenever you can afford the coin, as many times as you please. All seems well enough the first few times, a bit of amnesia here, an odd quirk in their personality perhaps, but mostly they seem alright. So you do it again, and again, and what happens in the end?! Their very souls, tortured beyond sanity, become so tainted that the result is a twisted, raise-worn, madman that their own loved ones, more often than not, are forced to kill again!
The thing most people fail to understand about the dead is that they are supposed to be dead. Yes, I summon the undead, but I would never be so foolish, so cruel, or so arrogant as to bring the dead back to life. Judge me if you will. Your fate lies not with me, but beside you while you sleep.
So, I will not deny the charges against me. I am guilty of undead necromancy. I am guilty of retaining a natural fear of mortal death. I am guilty of respecting the souls of the dead more than the bodies of the dead. So, put me to death if you feel you must, oh you who hold life so cheap, but I have one final request, I entreat you, and be sure that my disciples and followers hear of this: please ensure that no one is ever allowed to tempt me to come back.
Party Hard
(excerpt, pages 16–18)
There is a semi-official entrance to The Wylds. At a point where forest begins to turn to jungle, there is a stable where they must leave their horses, as The Wylds are too thick and unpredictable for riding.
The Wylds were abandoned by all civilized races long ago. Once, they were home to the Wyld Wizards, purveyors of a surprisingly effective, if volatile, form of chaos magic. At some point, letting magic enact its own will affected the whole environment, badly. It is not known what exactly became of the Wyld Wizards, or everything that may now dwell in their corrupted lands.
The trees are dense and overrun with vines and hanging foliage. The trunks and branches are gnarled and contorted, in places twisting into one another so that several trees form a kind of wall together. The canopy is insolently low and oppressive, in some places so thick it lets through no direct light at all.
The air is hot, heavy, and difficult to breath. The thick haze carries a musty smell of decay. Between the low light and the fog, line of sight is extremely limited, less than the breadth of a torch in a dark cave. With Krista’s senses, she has no trouble navigating, even in these conditions, but the passage of time is difficult to measure.
The ground is motley and erratic. At one moment it may offer solid dirt or thick mud, threatening to leave tracks that Jasper must quickly work to cover; the next, it becomes a swampy wetland the party must trudge through slowly to minimize the sounds of sloshing, splashing and clinging glorps. Hills and valleys rise and fall suddenly, many too steep to traverse on foot, forcing occasional detours.
Despite the density of the trees and heavy air, sound seems to carry rebelliously, bouncing and echoing so that every noise seems to simply be rather than come from any particular place. A few of the group are unsettled by unidentifiable forest babble. As they travel, Darrow becomes more and more agitated at the sound of his own party.
Not wanting the delay of donning armor, should a battle erupt, Gynt walks in his heavy full-plate armor, which clinks and clanks with his every move. Being mithral does make it a bit quieter, but not as much so as he’d like to think.
The strings of Leanna’s miniaturized viola catch and pluck on branches, and Leanna is having a terrible time stopping herself from humming and whistling travelling songs.
Somewhere along the way, Rinn attempted to cozy up to Alyce by asking how Mahojin magic differs from wizard spells. Despite the fact that she is not herself a Mahojin, she prattles on somewhat aggressively about the entire history of magic, from the god Mahokami revealing it to the Mahojin people, to their great civil war (the Mage War), to their secrets being made public and “corrupted” into the “crude imitation” performed by wizards and priests today.
Jasper rustles leaves and scratches at the ground while covering their tracks, an unfortunately loud trade-off. Mr. Grahame, Jasper’s mudge companion, grumbles and whines, occasionally trying to climb on Jasper’s back only to be shooed off. (A mudge is something like a honey badger or a wolverine, only lazier and more curmudgeonly.)
Rinn brought his familiar, a mink named Lockyer, who occasionally teases Mr. Grahame with barks and chirps from his perch on Rinn’s shoulder. Mr. Grahame tries to ignore it, but eventually it ends the same way every time: Mr. Grahame suddenly gives Lockyer a stern grimace and Lockyer runs about Rinn into his cloak, tickling him.
The group’s collective footsteps sound like a discordant drumline.
It’s all Darrow can do to remind himself that yelling at them to be quiet would be self-defeating.
Aside from Krista and Darrow himself, Fiesal is the only one who seems capable of going truly unnoticed, which makes Darrow nervous for other reasons.
More than once, they spot the vague shapes of wild animals, and less natural predators, watching them, hoping some fool will separate from the group.
Some time in the afternoon, they notice a pair of glowing dots that seems to be watching and following them at the edge of their vision. A few moments later, a second pair appears alongside and starts to move off to get ahead of the group. Everyone stops. They slowly reach for their weapons, watching to see what the creatures will do.
Darrow leans close to Krista, whispering, “What sort of creature has eyes that glow that way. They seem to shift from orange to yellow.”
Krista whispers back as she thinks out loud, “I’m not sure. It’s quite strange. They almost seem to dance about or … flicker.”
Darrow and Krista have only a moment to share a single look, thought, and phrase, “They’re candles.”
Before they have time to warn the others, the air is filled with the sound of guttural screeching and bodies crashing down through the canopy. In an instant, it is raining gobblings, which are much more aggressive, and much hungrier, than their goblin cousins.
The trees are dense and overrun with vines and hanging foliage. The trunks and branches are gnarled and contorted, in places twisting into one another so that several trees form a kind of wall together. The canopy is insolently low and oppressive, in some places so thick it lets through no direct light at all.
The air is hot, heavy, and difficult to breath. The thick haze carries a musty smell of decay. Between the low light and the fog, line of sight is extremely limited, less than the breadth of a torch in a dark cave. With Krista’s senses, she has no trouble navigating, even in these conditions, but the passage of time is difficult to measure.
The ground is motley and erratic. At one moment it may offer solid dirt or thick mud, threatening to leave tracks that Jasper must quickly work to cover; the next, it becomes a swampy wetland the party must trudge through slowly to minimize the sounds of sloshing, splashing and clinging glorps. Hills and valleys rise and fall suddenly, many too steep to traverse on foot, forcing occasional detours.
Despite the density of the trees and heavy air, sound seems to carry rebelliously, bouncing and echoing so that every noise seems to simply be rather than come from any particular place. A few of the group are unsettled by unidentifiable forest babble. As they travel, Darrow becomes more and more agitated at the sound of his own party.
Not wanting the delay of donning armor, should a battle erupt, Gynt walks in his heavy full-plate armor, which clinks and clanks with his every move. Being mithral does make it a bit quieter, but not as much so as he’d like to think.
The strings of Leanna’s miniaturized viola catch and pluck on branches, and Leanna is having a terrible time stopping herself from humming and whistling travelling songs.
Somewhere along the way, Rinn attempted to cozy up to Alyce by asking how Mahojin magic differs from wizard spells. Despite the fact that she is not herself a Mahojin, she prattles on somewhat aggressively about the entire history of magic, from the god Mahokami revealing it to the Mahojin people, to their great civil war (the Mage War), to their secrets being made public and “corrupted” into the “crude imitation” performed by wizards and priests today.
Jasper rustles leaves and scratches at the ground while covering their tracks, an unfortunately loud trade-off. Mr. Grahame, Jasper’s mudge companion, grumbles and whines, occasionally trying to climb on Jasper’s back only to be shooed off. (A mudge is something like a honey badger or a wolverine, only lazier and more curmudgeonly.)
Rinn brought his familiar, a mink named Lockyer, who occasionally teases Mr. Grahame with barks and chirps from his perch on Rinn’s shoulder. Mr. Grahame tries to ignore it, but eventually it ends the same way every time: Mr. Grahame suddenly gives Lockyer a stern grimace and Lockyer runs about Rinn into his cloak, tickling him.
The group’s collective footsteps sound like a discordant drumline.
It’s all Darrow can do to remind himself that yelling at them to be quiet would be self-defeating.
Aside from Krista and Darrow himself, Fiesal is the only one who seems capable of going truly unnoticed, which makes Darrow nervous for other reasons.
More than once, they spot the vague shapes of wild animals, and less natural predators, watching them, hoping some fool will separate from the group.
Some time in the afternoon, they notice a pair of glowing dots that seems to be watching and following them at the edge of their vision. A few moments later, a second pair appears alongside and starts to move off to get ahead of the group. Everyone stops. They slowly reach for their weapons, watching to see what the creatures will do.
Darrow leans close to Krista, whispering, “What sort of creature has eyes that glow that way. They seem to shift from orange to yellow.”
Krista whispers back as she thinks out loud, “I’m not sure. It’s quite strange. They almost seem to dance about or … flicker.”
Darrow and Krista have only a moment to share a single look, thought, and phrase, “They’re candles.”
Before they have time to warn the others, the air is filled with the sound of guttural screeching and bodies crashing down through the canopy. In an instant, it is raining gobblings, which are much more aggressive, and much hungrier, than their goblin cousins.
Bryn's Last Battle
(excerpt, page 3–4)
“At any rate, the battle! I remember it too well, it was as glorious as it was tragic. Since Bryn put me off from helping, Merian and I’d climbed up roof-wise for the view. It started as just a large goblin raid. There must have been a hundred of the breeders, and then some. They were flung-open that day too! They’d targeted healing herbs over grain, so it had to be a bite against the adventurers over some recent toss. They ripped through that field like a toiman through dirt, pulling and bagging at a gallop!
“Having a quality Gallaunt as their patron, the farmers knew a bit of how to fight, of course, but not to take on that kind of invasion alone. Fortunately, it wasn’t too long before the warning bells brought help.
“The Alwyn hirelings showed up in a flash, and the city guard was close behind them. A few scattered mercs and other adventurers followed along, as well.
“Bryn took a couple of minutes getting armed and all, retirees not having a habit of sitting about in gear, you know. About the time Bryn shows, everybody that had been at Journey’s Dawn got there from across the way…”
At the mention of Journey’s Dawn, Selwyn cries out, “It goes down at the Dawn!”
A riotous chorus comes up in repetition, “It goes down at the Dawn!”
This is followed by everyone polishing off their drinks, and yes, most of them are drinking alcohol with breakfast, well brunch. You must understand, though, it’s not quite the same as plain old alcohol on earth, like you may be accustomed to. It’s a special brew with hearty additives that help keep them in shape for—alright, they’re adventurers, and they like their drinks. What do you want me to say?
Meanwhile, Selwyn and Rebecka exchange knowing smiles. She throws in a wink and starts readying a new round of drinks for everyone.
Darrow, presently at the bar next to her, shakes his head at them, “I can’t believe you’ve installed a permanent drinking game in this place just to sell more ale. How exactly did you manage that, anyway?”
She gives him a puzzled look, “Me? This was their idea.”
Meanwhile, Cyrus’s tail goes on, “... and that’s when the left flank came around and boxed the gobbers in! They were all mixed in and stuck for a fight now. So, they resigned to it, and the brawl went on. It should have gone quick with so many mercs, guards, gallants, and fighty-farmers all on the task, but like I said, those gobbers were on for it that day and stubborn.
“As if that wasn’t enough, it seemed the goblins had been followed by a whole feast of gobblings looking to make a banquet of the goblins and their spoils. Well, some of the gobblings got impatient, as they do when hungry, which is always, and revealed themselves early. Once the jig was up, they all just poured out of the treeline."
(excerpt, pages 7-8)
Cyrus continues, “...were clearly offended something awful. Well, after that they weren’t gonna offer any more help. So, they took wing and flew off. Meanwhile, everyone is looking at Harlow with daggers in their eyes. The poor fellow really did mean to help, but he clearly knew nothing about negotiating with hippogriffs.
“Not long after, things really came to froth when it turned out the gobblings weren’t the worst threat either! Out of the shadows rode a dark figure, a Raiseworn, driven mad, paranoid, and bitter as a gent.
“Oh, he’s looking the part of villain, no accident: spiked black full-plate armor, wielding a bastard in one hand and a magic rod in the other, with his personal sigil on a blood red banner over one shoulder, all set atop a wyvern he could barely keep control of. The pomp!
“Either he was waiting and watching for his moment a lot longer than I’d expect a Raiseworn to have the patience for, or he arranged the whole thing as a trap to pull in as many town guards, mercs, and gallants as possible. Either way, he made his plans clear quick with that rod; he lifted it overhead, spoke a word, and a ring of fire sprang up around the whole mess and started spreading inward.
“Panic broke out! Goblins, guards, gobblings, mercs, farmers, and gallants were all trampling each other before the fire even reached them! He was all set to wreak mindless vengeance on the lot of them and leave the city nearly defenseless.
“The Guard Commander, Tykus Longborn it was, tried to rally everyone and take down the real threat, but the crowd was just a mess. No one what was paying attention could get to him, and he was alone when he reached near the Raiseworn. Tykus managed to wound the wyvern and ground its rider, but the Raiseworn jumped down from his mount and landed sword first on poor Tykus, gods rest him.
“It was then old Bryn came up. It seemed a bit of a struggle with his age, but the old Færin took wing and lifted up over the crowd just long enough to address the chaos. The crowd turned to look, and he started giving orders like it’s his own army, and didn’t every ear listen! He says, ‘Casters, douse that fire! Sneaks, duck the farmers out of the mix! All else, feed those goblins to the gobblings, then tie up the bags while they’re fat! And leave the Raiseworn to me!’ Of course the healers didn’t need to be told to keep everyone on their feet.
“Just like that, Bryn had the whole mess sorting themselves out and making progress, cutting a path for him to get at the Raiseworn."
Thanks for reading!
I'll let you know when I've got the rest finished and ready to publish.
