The Community Fanfic fizzled when posted here, I like to think because 1) we are a bunch of fracturing individualists, and 2) too
lazy busy making mods to waste time writing fan fiction. To further prove that case, when I caught a cold around January, I continued working on my personal plan for the story in between Nyquill-induced delirium and naps. Since I don’t want anyone to confuse this for a round robin, I am starting a new thread with my version of the story as it progresses. Every time I have writer’s block on mod content, this gets a page or two farther along the outline. Go to the Studios thread if you really, really want to participate in a round robin (and our Community Fanfic thread is still abandoned here in the forum somewhere).
Thank you, cliffette, for letting me take advantage of Tomtom.
I also hope Icelus respects me in the morning.
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Bethal trudged along the path, wiping the rainwater from her eyes, as if that would make the trail clearer. She had been hiking for days, a quiet and uneventful journey regardless of moonfall or sunrise. Her only company had been the rain, a persistent presence that had joined her for the past three hours.
Most travelers would give thanks for a safe trip, but then, most travelers had not saved their coin for months to buy leather armor, a bow, and a hunting knife as they dreamt of peril, knights and legends. Bethal would have appreciated an interruption, any interruption.
Anything, but the rain. The local farmers were surely rejoicing, but Bethal grumbled. She hated being wet. Obviously any monsters along her path agreed and had chosen shelter over mischief in the downpour.
If the stories she’d heard at home were accurate, she should be nearing the outpost of Pebbleford. Within the town, the main lodging had been described as The Gallows Inn, where a bounty of hospitality to wait out a rainstorm should be available for a modicum of coin. Bethal hoped this rumor was true. Her purse was small, and her optimism grew smaller to match with each step. It would be a sign of hope if just this tiny something worked according to plan, since adventure and the weather were not cooperating.
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, dumping 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 bowstring.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.
“What?!”
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.
She... the minstrels... never... mentioned...Then, her world faded black.