Stories from RhyDin & The Rings

"How did you learn to fight?"

The words lingered in Deathlord's thoughts as he returned to the environs of New Haven Manor. Taneth's innocent inquiry dredged up memories the deathknight had thought long since forgotten.

----------------------------------------

"All right, when the doors open, be ready. We have no idea what we'll be facing, but it will probably be tougher than the crypt thing was." The paladin's words of wisdom fell on deaf ears as the experienced adventuring party checked their gear and readied themselves.

"Arr, I think we be ready," the dwarf responded and tapped the handle of his battle axe to emphasize his words.

The doors of the massive stone elevator opened with a loud grinding noise, and the elevator was immediately filled with an explosion as a fireball roared into the space and detonated. The magic-user was crisped in an instant.

Before the party had time to recover a wall of ice rose up, preventing any of the party from exiting. Only the briefest of glances had revealed a skeletal warrior in the distance.

"Moradin's beard!" The dwarf, thankful for his ring of regeneration, focused on putting out the flames in his beard.

The thief, cringing at the side of the elevator, was downing healing potions one after another.

The monk, unaffected by the fireball, having somehow dodged all of the damage despite the enclosed space, examined the wall of ice looking for a way through. "He's going to be waiting for us. We need to figure out a way to get through this fast."

"I might be able to help with that, I think I can melt the ice," offered the druid while rummaging around in his bag.

The paladin knelt and inspected the ashes and bones lying on the floor. "Magic-user is toast."

The mood of the party was fearful.

Precious moments passed as they readied themselves again. "Ok, as soon as the wall is down, go, go!"

The wall of ice came down. The monk leaped out and charged forward, making use of his nearly supernatural speed to reach the skeletal figure...who was no longer alone.

A demon stood at the side of the skeletal knight, leering with excitement.

Another wall of ice blocked the path of the others, who groaned in despair. "I think it was a deathknight!"

"Be careful, sometimes they have magical swords!"

More precious moments as the party broke through the second wall of ice. The dwarf darted through, followed quickly by an invisible thief, and then the paladin.

The monk was engaged with the deathknight, hands and feet furiously trying to inflict damage. And then suddenly it was over. The deathknight's sword snicked out, a perfect blow, slicing the monk's head off.

"Crap!!! He's got a vorpal weapon!"

There was a hollow laugh from the deathknight.

The paladin charged at the deathknight while yelling to the dwarf, "take the demon!" The invisible thief circled behind the deathknight looking for a chance to backstab.

Demon and dwarf engaged, each hewing chunks from each other in turn with axe or claw.

Snick! The dwarf saw from the corner of his eye the thief lying on the ground, her head also separated from her shoulders. Her invisibility had apparently been of no use against the deathknight or his vorpal weapon.

"Damn!"

"Screw this!" The druid, still hanging back at the elevator, and distressed at the death of his cousin, the monk, cast a powerful spell, sending a creeping doom towards the demon and deathknight...and the party members in between.

"What the hell are you doing?" shouted the paladin as he saw the floor disappearing in a flood of advancing insects.

"I'm out of here," the druid responded.

The dwarf, about to get engulfed by the marching swarm of death, leaped at the demon, grappling with it. The demon, surprised by the tactic and reluctant to get destroyed, gated itself back to the Abyss...with the dwarf.

Paladin and deathknight faced off with each other. The only remaining combatants. Thief, monk, and magic-user all lay dead. The dwarf fighter had vanished with the demon. The druid had fled in the elevator. The paladin gripped his holy sword and readied, even though the creeping doom was almost upon him.

The deathknight laughed, his hollow voice echoing. "Are you ready for death?"

I had another name once.

My first life began in the city-state of Greyhawk. An orphan at an early age, my childhood was spent foraging in the streets and alleys of that great and decadent city. A hard childhood, spent scrabbling for food, but hardly a remarkable one, and one that was shared by countless others.

Merchants and lesser nobles made comfortable lives within high-walled estates with their gardens and servants to attend them. Little did they care about the rabble that fed on their cast-offs and survived in their shadow. To them we were as nothing. With no gold, and no station, our lives were as significant as the crusts of bread they tossed to their dogs.

A life could be made serving those rich houses, but it would be one of never-ending servitude. A constant reminder of what was just out of reach. A life in the presence of that which we could never hope to achieve.

There were the craftsmen, of course. The tanners and woodworkers. The smiths and armorers. Competition for apprenticeship within those trades was fierce. Being an orphan of the streets, gaining access to those apprenticeships was nigh impossible. And after apprenticeship? A lifetime of toil, crafting horseshoes, or making chairs, for those very same nobles who were so oblivious.

Envy filled my heart. I coveted that which I did not have, and worse could never achieve.

The holy priests in their temples offered us hope. They offered us a life above the station we endured. All they required was that we devote our lives (and our souls) to their service. Serve those gods of light and share in the rewards of their bounty. Share in the promise of an afterlife filled with riches. A promise of reward. A promise of escape from an ignominious birth.

For most underfed street urchins, the promise of a full belly was enough.

For me, the luster of something better, a life above the streets was an irresistible lure. I wanted more.

I entered their service following that promise of something better. It was easy to believe in their holy words while I fed at their tables. Food, clothing, shelter, letters, all these things came within reach within their halls.

I ate and grew strong. I took up sword and shield in their service, and learned the arts of war. I learned their prayers and how to recognize (and defeat) evil in its myriad forms. I surrendered my envy, and found peace. My life had meaning and purpose. I wore a clean tabard of white and gold, and carried a sword blessed by the gods themselves. I was no longer the hungry urchin searching for a crumb of yesterday's bread, or a wormy apple discarded as unsellable. I was a holy instrument of justice through which those lofty gods enacted their will upon the realms of man.

Where before I had been spit upon and ignored, those nobles and tradesmen spoke to me in deference. I walked proudly along the streets, with merchants and crafters stepping from my path.

And there was the promise of a glittering reward for my service. A beacon that pulled at my heart and gave me hope and direction.

The will of the priests was just. Or so I believed. I opposed their enemies. I fought in their name. I vanquished demons and foul sorcerers corrupted by dark ways. I protected the weak and helpless.

But I grew troubled over time. The priests grew fat from rich coffers, and the people continued to go hungry and toiled for things promised to them in an "afterlife". Why did the common man suffer, while the priests and nobles dined in fine halls, supped on gold and silver, and slept in beds covered in silks and soft furs? Desperate orphans still filled the streets. They darted forward from their hiding places and pawed at my legs as I rode through the city, begging for a coin, for a crust of bread, for mercy. I saw mirrored in their dirt-streaked faces my own origin. And I had nothing to give them. The church fed and clothed me. Armed me and directed me. Gave me tasks and enemies to dispatch. But they provided no gold that I might dispense to those gaunt, pleading faces.

When I fought in their name, the rewards I might claim from our vanquished enemies were taken by the church to advance their holy causes. Did all of it go to the acquisition of art and exotic delicacies? Had the priests in their fine robes ever known a day of hunger so terrible that it consumed all of their thoughts? Where was the charity? Where was the justice?

Somehow, even though I had advanced so far, I saw that there were still those above me. Still those who looked down upon me, despite my fine clothes. Despite my years of service. And there before me were the priests who spoke lofty words of humility and piety. Of chastity and poverty. All the while wearing robes of fine linen and silk, with fingers adorned by rings set with great rubies, garnets and emeralds. How had I been blinded to their excess? Was it the promise that one day it would be mine?

I was discontent. A black seed crept back into my heart.

The first ripple almost went unnoticed.

My power to gate in a demon was not always successful. A gate opened perhaps three times in four, so it was not a resource I relied upon when combatting the adventurers who ventured into my lair, or who opposed me on the battlefield.

I cannot say why the dread Demogorgon granted me the powers that he did. Why it was that I could summon forth mighty fireballs, but only once per day, while he granted me an unlimited ability to call forth walls of ice. The Demogorgon's will, as one could expect, was capricious and random.

Still, the demons I could summon were valuable allies at times. After some time, when I realized that the the gates would no longer open, I presumed that my lord, Demogorgon, had rescinded that particular gift. The rest of my powers remained unaffected, and my war against the forces of good and light continued.

And then I began to hear odd stories. Stories told about my brother death knights. Stories even about me. Stories that alleged we had been created as punishment by nameless gods or "malevolent forces". Some stories even suggested we had been created by powerful wizards. Madness. As if any pathetic mortal creature could lay claim to my creation. To deny my birth at the will of his dread chaotic majesty...blasphemy.

Yet, the rumors persisted. There was a growing belief that denied my origin. More than that, a belief that denied the existence of demons (and devils) altogether!

I could not believe this to be true. How did the entire world cease to believe in the Abyss? What god had the power to erase all mention, all belief, in the great infernal darkness?

Something, some force, was at work that acted above and beyond those of the known gods. I grew suspicious at this change, and became watchful of its handiwork. I was ready when the next ripple happened.

"Hit him again!" The jeers and taunts of the gang were all around. Orphans and street rats, the lot of them. Surviving on their wits and their fists from day to day. Stealing food and coin. Scrabbling against each other for their share of the scraps that fell their way.

Another blow. Blood flowed freely from a broken nose. The larger boy sat astride his victim. Raining down punishment for violating the "laws of the street."

They were not so far into the alley that passers-by could not see the altercation. And surely the cart vendors might have heard the calls of distress. Still, none of those nameless figures acted to help. It was none of their business. They had their own to take care of. If they abandoned their carts to intervene, the boys would turn on them too, and perhaps their merchandise would disappear into the hands of greedy would-be buyers who saw a chance to profit. It had happened before. Better to stay uninvolved.

The boy on the ground was limp, and wimpering. All will for resistance was spent. His tears were mixed with blood and mud. "That'll learn 'im!"

"Should'a stayed on his own street, he should." The boy had no street. No gang. No allies. No family. He was just another of the lost refugees with no home cast into the alleys by a city that did not care. Left to fend for themselves.

The bully, a vicious mongrel and veteran of the byways of Greyhawk felt the point made. His territory and "honor" were preserved. The rules of the street didn't allow for interlopers that didn't follow the code. His street. His gang. His prey. He wiped away the blood on his knuckles on the boy's tunic and climbed off of him. When he looked down at the boy, there was no pity in his gaze. Had their circumstances been reversed, he would have expected none.

"Let's go." The voices retreated, leaving the boy alone, lying upon the hard cobblestones and broken rock of the alley. Too defeated to move, and too broken to try. The voices joked and bragged, as if their feat were somehow worthy, but in truth there was little glory in preying upon the weak. The bully knew this, and his voice alone was silent.
The girl, who sat curled in a thick fur cloak close to the fire, pondered the story. Her amber and golden curls almost seem to sparkle in the firelight. Grey-blue eyes watched the deathknight who reposed on an icy throne in the center of the room. Neither the light nor the warmth of the fire seem to reach him. His own fiery gaze seemed cold and distant. Lost in the distance of memory. Her face tilted to the side, as though seeking a new angle, and she tapped her lips with a finger in uncertainty. "Were you the boy in the alley?"

The fire flickered and spit as droplets of water from the omnipresent ice fell into it. There was no other sound within the manor. Silence lay upon the room as though in battle with the sound of the crackling fire. The retired general sat impassively for long moments before answering. "No, child. I was never that weak."