Author Topic: Community Fanfic  (Read 1439 times)

Offline Shed

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Community Fanfic
« on: August 22, 2004, 07:24:28 PM »
 OK, I'll begin :)

"It rained. This was the type of rain that would soak through cloak, tunic and pack within minutes. Bethal sighed, and continued to trudge up the path that would, she hoped, lead to The Gallows Inn. It wasn't that she disliked the rain - good for the crops, or so she was told; she just hated being wet.
Life as an adventurer wasn't nearly as exciting as she thought it would be. She had saved up for months, purchased some leather armour, a short bow and some arrows, and she wore her hunting knife on her belt, but despite being well-equipped, monsters, adventure and knights-in-distress had simply failed to materialise. On top of which, it was raining."

Please continue the story! I want to find out what happens to Bethal ;).
Quote from: jcompton
Whatever, man. We'll just see what happens when Seifer and Shed have another attack of "omg we are teh funy".

Offline Bons

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Re: Community Fanfic
« Reply #1 on: September 12, 2004, 11:17:21 PM »
Okay, so we are obviously a bunch of fanfic individuals around here. Regardless, I'm joining in and OH. MY. GAWD. posting. Put that in your ham and smoke it.  ;)

Note: I wanted to call whats-her-name "Bethel" the entire time. I attribute this to my youthful adoration of "Wizards and Warriors" and related crush on Prince Dirk Blackpool. Blame any lingering mistakes on 1983 CBS television, that feathered bangs, leather armor-with-shoulder-pads wonderland.


With each mile, the soaking deluge weighted Bethal's gear further, making her load close to unbearable. Giving a weary grunt, she hiked one shoulder. If she could boost her waterlogged pack a little higher, just a tad more into position, she stood a chance of easing her sore back.

Instead, this simple action dislodged a reservoir of frigid rain that had collected in the crevices of her bag and dumped it down the neckline of her armor. Adding insult to ache, Bethal's teeth chattered as the water traveled an icy path along her spine, only to puddle below her belt. Now, with each step, her leggings made a squishing sound.

This... the minstrels never mentioned this in the great stories! Bethal thought in frustration. No, they only described the treasure, the glory, the romance... Not a peep about the weather in your pants. Not a syllable about being so tired from the journey that, even if you ran into something exciting, you wouldn't have the energy left to pull a bow string.

Bethal kicked rebelliously at the latest in a long line of puddles littering the path, grimacing as the water-softened toe of her boot struck a rock. She limped a few steps before noticing that the ground beneath the layer of mud had grown solid, if a bit uneven.

Cobblestones! Bethal recognized. Suddenly, the weight of her pack seemed to float on her shoulders. The raw place where the rim of her quiver rubbed against her neck ceased to matter. Her imagination raced to places warm and dry: a bowl of stew, a roaring fire, and, best of all, absolutely no rain. She doubled her pace over the rise, her thoughts replacing weariness with anticipation.

Sure enough, the wooden gate of the town came into view. Beyond, a small outcropping of buildings waited, their chimneys winking in smoky welcome. She passed through the entrance of the town's palisade, curiously noting the lack of guards.

It's not for the lack of sheltered stations. The watch, at least, would have had a slim chance of staying dry as they kept an eye out for trouble. Not like me, hiking across drowning plains for hours. Hmph. Still, Bethal could admit that if she had a choice between monitoring the rain rolling off the roof slats or waiting out the storm inside a tavern, she'd pick the latter. Chances were good that the local garrison had done the same.

Inside the town proper, Bethal eyed the front of each building. It took a few moments of searching before she identified a placard with a washed-out rendering of a noose that signified the Gallows Inn. Hiking her pack once more, then giving a shivery squint as a second helping of cold water flushed down her back, she trudged determinedly forward.

Set on her destination, the hand on Bethal's arm caught her by surprise.


The word barely had a chance to bubble from her mouth before Bethal found herself yanked aside, then slammed into a stone wall. A second hand roughly seized her other arm, twisting it behind her back until she whimpered in pain. She wriggled, struggling to kick free, but her efforts only served to topple a stack of barrels blocking the way in front of her. Heart racing, Bethal realized she was staring into the depths of an alley. A dead end.

"What 'ave we 'ere?" A bulky figure stepped in front of her, his meaty hands ripping Bethal's purse away from her belt. "Don' ye know ain't fit weather fer righteous folk t' be wanderin' the streets?" The behemoth laughed, his chest heaving like a bellows. His partner joined in with a weaselly chuckle, warm breath puffing against her ear, followed by the scent of onions.

Indignation lit a fire in Bethal's belly. "Give me back my money!" She reared her head back, clashing skulls with the weasel-thief. Bone crashing against bone, it struck Bethal that this move was better reserved for would-be heroes wearing a helmet. Blinking back stars, she found her arms suddenly freed. Bethal took advantage, clumsily slipping her hunting knife from its sheath, and brandished the blade before her. "Give... me... back... my... money!"

The bellows-chest pumped a second round of hilarity. "Looks! It's got a wee little knife! Thinks she can take us!"

Bethal angled her body so that she had both thieves in her periphery. She jutted her chin in the direction of the weasel, who was clutching his forehead, bloodied rainfall dribbling off the tip of his pointy nose.

"Looks like I've already managed to take one of you." Bethal pushed her voice to sound more confident than her flipping stomach. "Give me back my purse, and I just might consider sparing you!"

Bellows and Weasel exchanged a smirk as she warily shifted her focus from one to the other. Deciding to strike, Bethal lunged, intending to plant her blade in the bulk of the behemoth's stomach. Her weapon never connected. Bellows knocked her wrist aside as if swatting a fly. Bethal gasped in dismay as her knife hit the ground, splashing uselessly in a puddle. In the next instant, her arms were immobilized again, this time by Weasel jerking her pack, quiver and bow off her back in one swoop. By the time the straps tangled about Bethal's wrists, Bellows had her throat in a vise, his grip threatening to choke the life out of her.

"Snags a few more coins from this pluck n' stuck, it will," Weasel chattered over her gear, the cut on his temple forgotten as he rifled through her possessions. "Knock 'er, n' let's divvy."

Bethal wanted to shout her fury, to protest, but the best she could manage was a wet gurgle as she slapped helplessly at Bellow's forearm and struggled for breath. "Now, now," the behemoth grunted, playing tutor to his partner. "It pays t' be thorough." He looked Bethal's prone form up and down as he clicked his tongue. "Ye'd 'ave left the clothes on 'er back. Last rule o' thieving, ye ken: waste not, want not."

A shriek lodged in her throat as Bethal felt the laces of her jerkin being cut. Bellows clicked his tongue once more, wagging a finger of reprimand as she struggled anew. Bethal blinked, and that finger closed into a fist. She blinked a second time, and that fist connected with her jaw. Her world burst into a red blur for a moment, then wavered. She heard a splash. Raindrops hit her naked arms. She gagged; her mouth tasted of mud.

The... the minstrels... never... mentioned...

Then, her world faded black.

To Be Continued??

Someone please take this somewhere interesting before I feel compelled to post fanfic again. *sob*

P.S. Dirk Blackpool. *sigh*
Newt had always suspected that people who regularly used the word "community" were using it in a very specific sense that excluded him and everyone he knew.

             --Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, "Good Omens"

Offline cliffette

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Re: Community Fanfic
« Reply #2 on: September 23, 2004, 04:45:10 AM »
Of all the smells she might have expected to wake up to, smoked ham was not one of them. But there was no denying the homely, heartening scent filling her nostrils. She opened her eyes to a slit and registered an a bright glow in front of her. A fire, she assumed, although she still felt as if she was lying in an icy puddle. Her eyes focused slowly. Definitely a fire, although its crackling sounded muted and muffled.

Although she didn't consider herself experienced in wound management, she knew that it would be foolish to move at all. Even lying still, her bones felt as if they were grinding to dust beneath her own weight and her face might as well have swollen to twice its size, considering how tender it felt. She would not have been able to open her eyes further even if she had wanted to.

A warm trickle of water from her still-wet hair ran down over her icy cheek, causing her to shudder, which set off a new round of aches that shrieked their way from her shins up to her jaw, before exploding into red lightning between her ears. The two ruffians had certainly done a number on her. And all for the few coins in her purse. She would have snorted in disgust had she not feared the effect this would have on her body.

Muted footsteps on the floor that vibrated through her protesting body told her that someone was coming toward her. A shadow interposed itself between her and the fire, and a thumb interposed itself between her brow and lash, painfully dragging open an eyelid.

The alarmingly large face before her was distinctly dwarfish. Grizzly grey facial hair abounded and a gold tooth glimmered in his mouth as he spoke, "You're awake then."

Seemingly satisfied, the dwarf sat back on his haunches and fixed her with an intense stare. "I'll make no bones about it, girl. You were attacked, beaten and likely intefered with, by who I don't know. I found you slumped and half unclothed in an alleyway. Be glad your skin's so white, else I would not have seen you, and you'd be dying about now. Not that you might not be dying anyhow."

The sound of water droplets nearby told her he was wringing out a cloth, a fact confirmed as the dwarf proceeded to dab at her face with what passed for gentleness. The first touch of the hot cloth burned against her skin. "You're badly beaten and bleeding in a dozen places. You'll have a nasty cold and that'll probably carry you off. You've been sleeping since you got here and that would have been for about the last three hours. And you're still cold to touch." To emphasise his point, he lay a hand on her bare shoulder. From the contrast between the temperatures of their flesh, his stumpy hand might as well have been heated in a forge beforehand.

"Not to worry. I'll cook a broth for you. It'll burn you up on the inside as it goes down, but that's what's needed here. You concentrate on living, girl. You've had a bad shock to your system, but you're safe now. And I don't feel like digging a grave this evening." The dwarf paused from wiping her face and twitched a shoulder toward a corner of the room. "If you're wondering, what's left of your pack is drying over yonder. Nothing left though. Might as well throw it in the fire for all the good it'll do for you now. Green adventurers, travelling solo, pah!" He dropped the towel into the water with a loud splash and stood up.

"I'll be making that broth now. Don't you fall asleep til it's in you, girl!" He turned and trudged off a pace before he turned back. A stumpy finger waved inches from her face. "One more thing before I go, girl. If I'm the last person you ever see, the better to know my name. You're in the house of Tomtom Dorrin." The crinkly face became genial for a moment before it settled back into a series of stoic creases and folds. "And what's your name, girl? I need something to write on your gravestone."

It would hurt to speak, but she'd try anyway. It came out a shade above a whisper, though the throbbing in her jaw increased to a scream.

Tomtom frowned, "What was that again, girl?"

It hurt a little less this time. "Albeth. Albeth Brackwater."

The dwarf nodded, his fingers rubbing at his jaw as he fixed her with another intense stare. "Then Albeth it is. I'll be off to make that broth now, lass." He stumped away.

The heat from the towel seemed to be slowly leaving her. She kept her eyes open and fixed on the fire. Closing them would just bring back the faces of the thugs and she didn't want to think of that now. Instead, she concentrated on her new name and tried to disregard the clammy feeling that was once again spreading across her body. She hoped Tomtom would be back soon.


All right, that didn't take it anywhere interesting. But there was no Tuxedo involvement. :)


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