Rab's Geekly Digest: Fiction

Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts

25 October 2014

helix infestus giganticus

The giant aggressive land snail (helix infestus giganticus) is generally found in communities of between six and thirty in the sort of habitat favoured by their smaller cousins. Unlike the common garden snail, these brutes are a threat to far more than a nicely tended vegetable patch. Although predominantly carrion feeders, they will opportunistically predate upon small mammals as well as unwary travellers. They have no teeth as such, but excrete a thick salivary fluid which causes necrosis in plant and animal cells, breaking them down so they may be more easily consumed. Their slime trails also contain this compound which, with sufficient time, can also dissolve materials made from plant fibres and animal skins, as well as corrode non-magical metals.

The snail thing that started from my blog post last week has led to an entirely unexpected level of interest, spawning a fairly extensive conversation on Facebook, and now an actual miniature to play the part of the alarming gigantic gastropod.

These beauties (?!) were sculpted by George Fairlamb for Tom Pugh of Bolt Thrower Miniatures and will hopefully see release in the near future.

Now I just need to play around with some stats for them for WFB 3rd, and/or Knights' Quest and get ready for a quest to hunt for the key ingredient in the midwinter feast of the ~~French~~ Bretonnian King's court...

Rab

13 September 2014

The Brotherhood of the Burning Brand

Ranald, god of thieves and tricksters

in some of his many guises: cat,

crow or magpie, and charming

chappy. He achieved godhood by

tricking Shallya, goddess of mercy

into letting him drink her tears.

A good con, eh?

Mael crept forward nervously, his breath ragged and harsh in the silence of the night-filled corridor. Nearly there, he thought, nearly there. And, as he stepped out into the larger hall, he saw he was right. There, nestling upon a velvet cushion, atop a little but finely carved stone altar, was the object of his criminal intent - a gently glowing firestone. One cautious step into the room. No sound. Another step. Still nothing. A third step and... click... as the flagstone shifted slightly. That was when the crossbow bolt hit him in the back of the head and the world went even darker than the dimly lit temple.

He woke to a splitting headache and the wry chuckle of a hooded man crouching beside him and repeatedly tapping his chest with the padded end of the bolt that had floored him. Mael groaned with the pain in his head, but more from embarrassment at having been caught out so easily; he'd been avoiding that particular sort of Tilean two-way trap for months without any bother. The groan brought another chuckle from above him.

"Don't despair, little novice," came the voice, heavily accented with the nasal twang of Altdorf's Reiksport and rich with amusement, betraying the speaker to be Brother Gregoire, "But do learn!" The good humour vanished. "I have no intention of burying another over-confident boy this year."

In the silence that followed, Mael tried not to groan again and struggled up onto one elbow, vibrant colours bursting across his vision with every tiny move of his head. When Gregoire spoke again, his tone was light once more. "I tell you what, boy, to soothe that aching head of yours and because you got so close, I'll give you your three answers. Ask away."

Mael licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Brother. I do have questions or I wouldn't have struck this deal with you. First off, why do we have a torch as our symbol when we're thieves and don't want light? Second, what do I have to do to become a full Brother? And third, why were you and that spice merchant talking about me a few days ago?" The words had come out in a rush, but he hoped that keeping the most important question to last would work in his favour, that Gregoire would get more talkative as he went along. He held his breath.

Gregoire nodded slowly. "Good questions, boy. Where to start? With the torch, I suppose. The Brotherhood of the Burning Brand! Sounds mighty fine, almost like the sort of thing Sigmar would approve of, eh? That's the first reason, gives us an air of... respectability. Something that's sure to amuse Randal*. Second, without a torch, there is no light and therefore no shadow to hide in; people get false confidence when they've a lantern or the like illuminating a small patch of their property. And third? Gold, my boy, gold glitters wonderfully by torchlight; always take a torch underground into storehouses and strongrooms so you can spot your prize." Then he stopped. Mael waited for him to continue... then felt the crushing disappointment wash over him as he realised he'd been tricked and groaned aloud. Gregoire laughed delightedly at the groan of realisation and clapped him gently on the shoulder. "That's right, my boy, three answers promised, three answers given, but all to the same question. Now, go and get some rest; you're going to need it!"

* In Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Randal is listed as the god of thieves and tricksters who exhorts his followers to lie, cheat, deceive and steal but without violence. The trickery is the thing and a well executed con is almost an act of worship.

29 August 2012

One evening, down at the Wounded Griffon...

... a group of young farm labourers and woodsmen are just getting into the swing of things. Ale and insults are flowing in equal measure when one of them decides it's his turn to tell a tale.

Look at this, lads! Well it’s a jewel, ain’t it? Yes I know it’s just glass, that’s not the... Look, shutup, will you... What!? Really? Well your sister didn’t complain! OW! Alrightalright, sorrysorrysorry, get off me, will you!

Anyway, this jewel. Got it from one of those wandering preachers this morning, he was up by that dead oak near the crossroads over by old man Fletcher’s place. He was just standing there, eyes closed. I was going to walk past him but he called my name, didn’t even open his eyes to begin with, and said he had a gift for me. “What sort of gift?” I asks. “Wisdom” says he and then hands me this bauble. Great, I think, a bit of broken glass. Some gift. But then he grabs my hand and I can’t pull away, even though he must be about sixty and scrawny as a sick hen. “Look at the jewel,” he says. “See how it has many sides? All the temples focus on a single face and call it their god, but it’s just one face of the Whole. Remember that, boy.” And then, I swear, he just fades away like mist, but I still have the jewel. Perhaps I’ll save it to be a bride-stone for your sister, eh?

Ow, get OFF me, you savage...

25 August 2012

Echoes of Averaigne

My two boys, aged 4 1/2 and 2, now have their very own sets of 'gem' polydice so their full geek conversion nears completion mwahahaha!

When they are a little bigger, I hope they'll enjoy playing Swords and Wizardry with me (although I doubt darling wife will ever join in). By that time I hope I'll have a well-developed 'world' for them to adventure in. I've made a start on the first part of it: the northen Marches of the Kingdom of Averaigne. Given my overwhelming attraction to all things chivalric, it'll come as no surprise that Averaigne (and its neighbouring kingdoms of Lombria, Calthus and Ferrand) are inspired by western European countries of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.

I haven't drawn a map yet (although I have the outline in my head) but I have written a couple of imagined overheard conversations of the folk who scratch out an existence in the Marches. Here's the first, from a pessimistic old fellow, deep in his cups.

Life in the Marches can be hard.

Not like in the broad vales and wide, gentle plains of the Near Shires with their abundant harvests. Nor like the peaceful Forests in the Earldoms and Baronies of the Founding Families, with their common grazing and the security of the King’s Law. Nor yet like the river and coastal towns, brash and wealthy, fat on trade and the bounty of the sea. Up here the winters are hard and long, the soil scarcely rewards its ploughing and the forests are dark and unwelcoming.

We may not have to worry about armies marching under the banners of other kingdoms during the short-lived wars that flare up around the border towns and fortresses but, nevertheless, we are under constant siege. Too far from the King’s palaces to be considered a prize, we are also too far to attract much notice or concern. Out of sight of the rich and powerful, monsters thrive. In the mountains and the forests, the caves and long abandoned ruins, they make their lairs and strike when bold or desperate enough. It has always been so.

Kings and kingdoms have risen and fallen down in the plains but, whatever flag has fluttered above the seats of power, their writ has never truly extended here so it has ever been a place for the desperate, the mad, the monstrous.

Oh yes, life in the Marches can be hard.

Rab's Geekly Digest

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