Original Submissions by Thunkkin of type 'Stories'

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  Harmless Old Woman Mugged by Templar
  Added on Jul 25, 2011

  A harmless old woman, who was just minding her own business, is accosted by a Templar for something that was a *complete accident* and would never happen again (on purpose).

  ---

  Wehga:
  This withered old crone stoops with the weight of a harsh lifetime.
  Calloused, long-fingered hands and wobbly knees accompany a frame that is scrawny in the extreme. Dark spots and blotches pepper her nut-brown, leathery skin which has something of the texture of erdlu jerky. Lank locks of flint-grey hair hang limply from her head, framing a puckered, hollow face. A sharp chin and nose are offset by her sunken cheeks and completely toothless mouth. Alone of her features, the lively spark in her deep-set, pale blue eyes speaks of a certain keen alertness.
  The withered, leathery crone is in excellent condition.
  
  You are using:
  [worn in hair] a multicolored leather cord
  [worn in left ear] a dangling tooth earring
  [worn in right ear] a cloth-threaded ceramic earring
  [worn about throat] a crude jozhal-shaped pendant
  [worn across back] a red-dyed hide backpack
  [worn on torso] a ragged linen smock
  [worn on arms] a frayed lace shawl
  [worn around wrist] a bracelet of ceramic shards
  [secondary hand] a knotted agafari cane
  [worn as belt] a stained yellow linen sash
  [worn around body] a hooded rat-skin drape
  [worn on legs] a pair of patched sandcloth pants
  [worn on feet] a pair of half-rotted sandals
  
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  Meleth's Circle [NESW]
  A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
  The short-haired, umber-hued man is standing here.
  A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
  A brown inix stands here, carrying the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping on his back.
  The burly, long-haired bouncer stands here, guarding the inn's entrance.
  An aged human beggar sits cross-legged against the wall of the inn here.
  
  As he saddles up on a brown inix, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping looks down at you.
  
  The withered, leathery crone flinches.
  
  You think:
  "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."
  
  Dipping his head up and down in a simple nod, the short-haired, umber-hued man says to the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Yes, Lord Templar. The sands do not bother me as much as some. I grew up in Menos. Not so well protected from the sand as the Highlord's City."
  
  The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping winces behind the black silk covering his face, his imposing glare shifting towards the towering obsidian building to the northwest.
  
  [Hidden Emote] A faint mist seems to waft after the withered, leathery crone.
  
  [Wehga quickly walks a few blocks]
  
  Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
  Tradesmen's Street [NS]
  This street flanks the west side of the Merchants' Quarter, and is where most merchants from outside the city go to sell their goods. Oddly-decorated caravans and wagons are parked along the edge of the street, which bustles with activity, as traders carry their goods into the chaos of the Main Bazaar. Here and there, traders stop members of the passing crowd, trying to convince them of the miracle of Jathlir's Sand Tonic or the wonders of a trinket discovered half-buried in the desert sands. Tradesmens' Street extends as far north as one can see, and Meleth's Circle is directly to the south, the noise there growing even louder.
  A tall, spindly half-elf stands shouting the price of his wares.
  A one-eyed blue-faced dwarf squats next to a small mat laden with wares.
  
  The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping has arrived from the south, riding a brown inix.
  The half-giant soldier has arrived from the south.
  The short-haired, umber-hued man has arrived from the south.
  A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the south.
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Stop. Now."
  
  In a smooth motion, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping draws a dragon-etched obsidian longsword out of a long, black leather sheath.
  
  The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping brandishes his dragon-etched obsidian longsword.
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man begins guarding the north exit.
  
  The withered, leathery crone freezes, clutching her cane.
  
  Sliding his dragon-etched obsidian longsword to his side, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping turns stiffly in a brown inix's saddle, watching the short-haired, umber-hued man from afar.
  
  Bobbing her head, you ask the short-haired, umber-hued man, in sirihish:
  "Ah, wha's th'problem?"
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man moves to stand in the way of you, his large body taking up alot of room.
  
  The withered, leathery crone's eyes rake over the short-haired, umber-hued man, lingering over his crotch.
  
  His voice muffled, soft-spoken behind the black silk scarfing his head, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping says, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "If she tries to run, pin her to the ground."
  
  With a grimace and a wave of his hand towards the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, the short-haired, umber-hued man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "I believe the Lord Templar wishes you to stop and talk with him now."
  
  With a simple nod towards the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping as he looks down at you, the short-haired, umber-hued man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Running would... not be smart."
  
  To the short-haired, umber-hued man as she gulps and turns toward the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, you say, in sirihish:
  "Ah, 'ight sweetie. Ya can pin me any time, though."
  
  Lowering her head and bowing, you ask the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, in sirihish:
  "Wha' may a 'umble old woman do fer ya, Lord Templah?"
  
  His voice emotionless, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Sit down."
  
  The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping swings his legs over and jumps off of a brown inix.
  A brown inix curls up on the ground.
  
  Easing herself down, her joints popping and cracking loudly, you sit down.
  
  Approaching swiftly with a swish of his robes around his ankles, unlatching his leather waterskin, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping
  
  asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Want some water, wench? Hmm? Are you thirsty?"
  
  The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping stops using his leather waterskin.
  
  The withered, leathery crone glances out of the corner of her eyes at the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping.
  
  The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping kneels over a bit as he clenches his leather waterskin, lips twisting crookedly under his hooked moustache at you.
  
  Tugging the silk off slowly as he speaks, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar stops using his sheer, black silk face wrapping.
  
  Stuffing it away, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar puts his sheer, black silk face wrapping into his glossy, black leather swordbelt.
  
  Licking her lips, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Ah, I wouldn't presume t'drink ya watah, Lord Templah."
  
  You feel nervous.
  
  Lifting his dragon-etched obsidian longsword's tip, pointed at your throat, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "And I wouldn't presume to drink yours...Vivaduan."
  
  You think:
  "Does he know? How can he know?"
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar's eyes widen as he glares down malevolently at you.
  
  Gasping, you ask, in sirihish:
  "Wha'? Me? A witch?"
  
  You think:
  "Fuck."
  
  You feel suddenly resigned.
  
  Placing his dragon-etched obsidian longsword's razor sharp obsidian blade closer to your neck, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Do you deny it?"
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man moves to stand behind you, one of his meaty fists clenching with an audible creak.
  
  With a rasping cackle, you say, in sirihish:
  "Eh... ah ... no, not as such, no. It, ah, just happened sudden-like, Lord Templah. All mah life, nevah happ'ed afore."
  
  Straightening her shoulders with a hint of pride, you say, in sirihish:
  "Outlived mah no-good husband and seven brats. Finally free o'them and I'm cursed wit' this all o'sudden. Like bein' preggers, but worse."
  
  Over the noise of the crowd, a tall, spindly half-elf shouts, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Your lil' templar feeling a lil' wilted lately? Sand Tonic'll stiffen your wick, just 40 sid!"
  
  Snapping, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar exclaims to a tall, spindly half-elf, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Shut up!"
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar turns his dragon-etched obsidian longsword over towards a tall, spindly half-elf with a swoop away from you.
  
  The withered, leathery crone eyes the retreating blade with relief.
  
  Hopefully, you ask the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "I's just mindin' mah lil' business at home in th'rinth. Ain't botherin' nobody, eh?"
  
  Swinging his dragon-etched obsidian longsword over his shoulder to his long, black leather sheath, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Nobody's bothered by your presence in the alleys?"
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar sheathes a dragon-etched obsidian longsword into a long, black leather sheath.
  
  Glancing around and licking her lips again, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Well, nobody knows, like, eh? Just happened, like I said."
  
  Holding up her wrinkled hands, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "I ain't evah do it again on purpose, I promise."
  
  Shaking his head back and forth a few times with a deep sigh, the short-haired, umber-hued man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "It's what they all say, I bet. "
  
  Peering southwards down the street, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "So what were you doing down southside then?"
  
  As if it were obvious, you say, in sirihish:
  "Lookin' fer good stuff in th'trash."
  
  The blonde, beak-nosed young man has arrived from the south.
  
  With a frown, the short-haired, umber-hued man looks down at the blonde, beak-nosed young man.
  
  The blonde, beak-nosed young man edges around the crowd, looking on curiously.
  
  The withered, leathery crone coughs, the loose phlegm in her throat rattling.
  
  Grabbing his glossy, black leather swordbelt's buckle, giving it a twist around his waspish waist, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "You must wear the gem, or you are a rogue. You have two paths right now, child, and two paths only."
  
  The blonde, beak-nosed young man looks down at you.
  
  The withered, leathery crone's face puckers sourly.
  
  Pointing northwards with his crooked finger, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Go there, and you will die, like your family. Like all others who have tried. Bear the gem of the Highlord, and you will serve a better purpose."
  
  Turning his glare from you, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar looks at the blonde, beak-nosed young man.
  
  Pointing north, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Eh, so, ah, ya'd let me go, eh? If'n I promise t'be good? Or, ah, does rogue mean ..."
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar turns his beady eyes back down to you.
  
  The withered, leathery crone draws a finger across her throat and makes a gurgling noise.
  
  Dipping his head once, lifting his spidery fingers to his medallion of Tektolnes, clenching it tightly as his other fist curls out rapidly in the stirring breeze, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "...it means game over. Lights out."
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar calls out the name of the Highlord.
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar utters an incantation.
  Your vision goes black.
  
  Someone lowers his fist from you, taking a step back.
  
  Someone moves swiftly to someone's side, weapons drawn.
  
  Someone watches with wide eyes.
  
  Someone bends down and quickly snatches up his knotted agafari cane with a deep frown.
  
  Someone nods once.
  
  Someone snatches you up off the ground harshly, and onto his shoulder.
  
  Someone glances toward someone, with a single, silent nod, you over his shoulder.
  
  The withered, leathery crone's mouth flops open, a not particularly pleasant smell wafting out.
  
  Someone walks along, carrying you on his shoulder.
  
  A thin thread of drool slowly extends from the withered, leathery crone's mouth.
  
  [Lots of walking]
  
  Someone drops you on the floor with a *thud*.
  
  The withered, leathery crone sprawls in a jumble of thin limbs and knobby knees and elbows.
  
  Someone kneels down near you and grimaces, turning his head slightly and bringing his small bone vial to your nose.
  
  Someone rests his hands on the hilts of his cross-etched obsidian longsword and his dusty bone hawkblade, watching quietly.
  
  A pungent odor fills your senses.
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man closes his small bone vial.
  
  Small Room in the Barracks [S Quit Save]
  This appears to be a small room within the barracks of Vivadu's temple. Stout stone walls protect this room from the crime of the outside city, as does the stout wooden door that seals the chamber off. The walls have been painted a deep, calming blue, the principal color of Vivadu, and a small mural covers the northern wall.
  A thickly quilted bedroll is neatly rolled up near the cradle.
  A rocking, baobab cradle stands next to the head of the cot, blankets tucked inside.
  A brittle, crystalline flower rests on a small shelf.
  A pale, luminescent fungus sits on a small shelf.
  A bone sided chest sits at the foot of a padded cot here.
  A large wall closet is embedded in the westmost portion of the south wall.
  A sandstone carving of two lizards stands in the middle of the room, one of the lizards missing the tip of its tail.
  Covered with irregular splotches of red, an oversized, padded cot is tucked against the wall.
  Nestled into a corner near the chest is a small white-boned footlocker.
  A burned large, rough wooden barrel is tucked into one corner.
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar is standing here.
  The short-haired, umber-hued man is standing here.
  The tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak is standing here.
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man pushes up from the ground and moves back towards the doorway, almost completely filling it with his body.
  
  Snorting and coughing, you exclaim, in sirihish:
  "Help! Help!"
  
  The withered, leathery crone blinks a few times, looking around.
  
  Features hidden within the shadows of his hood, the tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak silently watches you, standing rock-still in front of the door.
  
  Turning a blurry gaze toward the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, you say, in sirihish:
  "Ah, I choose th'gem, Lord Templah ... ah ... "
  
  Holding it out and frowning down at you, the short-haired, umber-hued man gives his small bone vial to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar.
  
  Wiping a trickle of snot from her nose, you say, in sirihish:
  "I's just a poor lil' old woman. Not meanin' harm."
  
  Eyeing you, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar puts his small bone vial into his glossy, black leather swordbelt.
  
  Securing the leather strap, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar hangs his leather waterskin on his belt.
  
  The withered, leathery crone rubs her shoulder, sitting in a heap on the floor.
  
  Pointing at the closed door, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "There are over fifty people in that intersection who would be over-joyed at the death of a magicker, rogue, or gemmer. It's all a matter of principle..."
  
  Gesturing his hand at a rocking, baobab cradle near a cot, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "...if I let you roam around the alleys ungemmed, then other rogues would do the same."
  
  Lifting his brows, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar looks at a rocking, baobab cradle.
  
  The withered, leathery crone peers suspiciously at a rocking, baobab cradle.
  
  Sliding his beady dark brown eyes away from the cradle, lips twisted at one edge under his curly beard, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "How did you say your children died, again?"
  
  The tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak drums his claw-gloved fingers lightly on the hilt of his cross-etched obsidian longsword.
  
  With a shrug, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Eh, well, Dmitro caught tha' spittle coughin' thing. Heaved up a lung, I tell ya. And then Elsia, she nevah came back when I sent her t'buy some wine fer mah husband ..."
  
  His eyes shifting momentarily, the tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak looks at the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar.
  
  Continuing in her raspy voice, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "And then o' course th' third one, nevah could remembah his name. He turned out bad, tha' one. Just buggered off one day. Think he joined th'Byn or somethin'."
  
  The tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak absently reaches up and brushes back his hood.
  
  The stocky, smokey-eyed man lowers the hood of a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak.
  
  Approaching with swift steps, planting his feet softly on the ground as he stoops forwards, hands clasping behind his back, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "A tragedy. You will thank the Highlord this day, that you were not born in Tuluk."
  
  Cackling, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "And then Rodgy, he was allays a sickly child, ya know, Lord Templar? One day, just passed away in his sleep. And then Turva, she ..."
  
  Lifting his hand over your head, waving a hand to silence you, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "What is your name?"
  
  Pausing, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Ah, right. Yah. I thank th'Highlord I warn't born in th'otha' place. Mah name's Wehga. Some's calls me Grandmother Wehga, but they ain't no brats o' mine. Least, not tha' I knows."
  
  [Hidden Emote] A sour smell drifts from the direction of the withered, leathery crone.
  
  Nodding softly, peering downwards, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "You may have a difficult time wandering around the alleys with a gem on."
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar frowns minorly at you as he rummages around in his thick, blue silk robes.
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar pulls a dull black gem out of a blue, hooded templar's robe.
  
  Wrinkling her nose, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Eh, I don't think they'll be too keen on me on th' west side, Lord Templah."
  
  Suddenly catching sight of him and favoring him with a wide, toothless grin, you look up at the stocky, smokey-eyed man.
  
  Holding his dull black gem over, dangling from a dainty string, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "I was just about to say that."
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar gives you his dull black gem.
  
  With a sigh, you stop using your crude jozhal-shaped pendant.
  
  The stocky, smokey-eyed man gazes back toward you with emotionless eyes, simply watching.
  
  Holding up your dull black gem, you exclaim, in sirihish:
  "Well, tha's it fer me. Bettah'n dead, though, eh? I survive 'em all!"
  
  The short-haired, umber-hued man looks down at you with brooding, half-lidded eyes, a frown creasing his face deeply.
  
  With a touch of defiance as she slips it on, you tilt your head forward and fasten your dull black gem about your throat.
  
  Turning from a rocking, baobab cradle, glaring over it with his beady, eyes and hooked, aquiline nose turned down as he frowns, the skeletal, sharp-bearded
  
  templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
  "Well, at least now you know where to get your baby stock..."
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar turns for the southern door, nodding to the stocky, smokey-eyed man militantly.
  
  Scowling, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
  "Eh, don't want no more babies . Nothin' but trouble. Don't evah have 'im, Lord Templah."
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar opens the door.
  
  The withered, leathery crone pushes herself to her feet awkwardly.
  
  The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar walks south.
  The stocky, smokey-eyed man walks south.
  The short-haired, umber-hued man walks south.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You contact the short-haired, umber-hued man with the Way.
  
  You suffer from use of the Way.
  You send a telepathic message to the short-haired, umber-hued man:
  "Ya steal mah feckin' cane? Wha's this city comin' to?"
  
  You dissolve the psychic link.

  Wehga:
  This withered old crone stoops with the weight of a harsh lifetime.
  Calloused, long-fingered hands and wobbly knees accompany a frame that is scrawny in the extreme. Dark spots and blotches pepper her nut-brown, leathery skin which has something of the texture of erdlu jerky. Lank locks of...
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