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theravenandthepawn-blog · 7 years

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Taken from http://thewriterowl.blogspot.ca/2016/03/ultimate-character-questionnaire.html Mora's http://pacificbookworm.tumblr.com/post/159700616020/this-next-chapter-of-mora-is-being-a-bit Decided to start working on a few of these Since Fable did Mora.

Basics What is your name? Travinter Nucras What is your name’s origin and meaning, and how was it chosen? Broken Slave, given to him by his Septrinian overlords when he was a child. The same as all the other Covenant children. Any nicknames? Travis, The Bastard Swordsman, The One-Eyed Madman, The Savage. How tall are you? 5'8 Who do you live with or near, if anyone? Travinter lives by himself. Where is your residence and what is it like? Tavinter, Crown of Chains Era lives in a small private residence in the Evarith District, Orto Ring. His abode is simple with a stone lower wall and wood upper structure, single story and with a small fire pit where he cooks his food and tea. His bedroom has a large double bed of straw, leather, and fur. He has no running water, but he does have a water pump outside his home where he draws water from. Often his residence smells of smoke Blades of Mealis Era, Travinter lived out of a tavern. What is your hometown and local culture like? Travinter grew up in a Septrinian convent having been born an unwanted bastard his parents had sold him as a babe to the reviled creatures as a slave. His raising was brutal with no love, affection, and only the most basic care needed to survive. His role was marked as a Spellbane or a guard for the Convent, and thus his discipline was regularly beaten into him with a whip, club, and spells of the cruelest nature. Who are your parents? Unknown, he was sold off when he was still a newborn. Are you married, single, seeking a relationship, avoiding romance? Travinter is a single, brash, cold, and bullheaded bastard who seems to be either unable or unwilling to care about the well beings of others. Though he has affections towards Mora Shandra. What is your class/income level? Crown of Chains Era, He is Middle-Class. Blades of Mealis era, He is Destitute. What is your income source and/or occupation? Crown of Chains Era, He is a Smith and a damned fine one at that. Blades of Mealis era, Brigand/'Hero'. What is your education? Spellbane Martial Training(Mage Hunters), no formal intellectual education. What is your worldview/religion? What is your level of devotion to that philosophy? Travinter follows Septriss Lord of Moons, Korrel the Maiden of Magic, Mealis Lady of Purity, and Zatolen Lord of Corruption and Power. His dedication is really only towards Septriss and even then its only as a remnant belief from his training. What are your current life problems? Travinter's left eye was gouged out in his childhood by one of his Septrinian Wardens, countless scars cover his back, his throat and lungs are heavily scarred from partially inhaling acid from a black dragon, several dozen stab scars cover his torso in addition to several Septrinian brands covering his torso as a whole, and his right ear is missing a sizable chunk. His knees are giving out from his age and abuse, his hips are failing, half the time he can't breathe properly, and on top of that, those damn kids are always on his lawn. Who (or what) are your enemies? Noble shitlords, Tork Sorrin, Anyone who fucks with his friends. What are your priorities in life? Give the poor a chance, a reward, for pursuing adventure and heroic deeds! To replace the Blades of Mealis who are now aged and worn out from the years of combat and heroics. What is your goal in life? What is your motivation for this goal? Inspire anyone he can to pursue greater heights than their current status in life. Liberate the slave, raise the fallen, and break a few jaws in the process. What is your goal in this story? What is your motivation for this goal? Crown of Chains era, being a grumpy old mentor figure. Blades of Mealis era, Redeeming his sins, avoiding execution. What changes do you undergo by the end of the story (emotional, physical, philosophical, relational, etc.)? Travinter in an attempt to defend his party and now friends tries to stop a direct breath weapon from the nightmarish black dragon with his kite shield. Scalding his arm and burning his throat and lungs permantly crippling him. Travinter falls from a broken man into one who has something worth dying for.

Mind What is your central philosophy in life? Shit Happens, and when People are shit, they deserve some shit in turn. What moral code do you follow and why? Travinter will never harm slaves, peasants, children, or women. He sees it as unhonorable and while he was once a brigand searching only for blood lust from his past mistreatments. He decides to pursue redemption in Zaleth's service developing these codes so that maybe one day he can be a hero like the ones he heard in passing stories told by village children. What is your outlook on life? Stormy with a Chance of Sun, when you're as physically broken as Travinter every moment is living pain. Though, there are always little things that might make it bearable. What do you wish would happen to you? An honorable death in battle, a cure for his ails, the strength to overcome is cold bullheaded persona and pursue Mora. What do you want to hide? Emotion, Attractions, and Weakness. Pride, his greatest of weaknesses. What languages do you know? Evari(Imperial Common/English), Fieria(Local Language/French.) What do you worry most about? His Damned Knee, and throat, and lungs, and all that fucking blood he coughs up. What are your phobias? Being Buried Alive, Brands, being turned into a Cursed being or undead. What are your insecurities? Romance, Love, Social interactions in general. How is your self-confidence? In Combat Travinter is a fearless, unyielding warrior who attacks with a ferocity of a hundred orkish warriors. While he carries a shield, he uses it as a battering ram to knock back and bowl over enemies. Though when it comes to talking to people, opening up his emotions or anything that might make him look weak causes him to freeze up. What is your political stance? Kill all the Politicians, it's better that way. Do you like what you do for a living? If so, why? If not, what do you wish you could do instead? If you mean, the killing depends on what he's killing. If you mean the Smithing, yes he enjoys smithing very much. Giving form, creating rather than destroying. Which is important when you've killed, maimed, and ruined countless dozens of men and monsters alike. Where do you feel most at home? In the middle of a pitched battle or brawl, or in front of his smithy. He needs to be doing something to get his blood flowing to feel at home. Who do you look up do? If anyone, Zaleth. When and where were you the happiest? When he learned that damned dragon was dead and the nation was safe. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Probably being able to feel comfortable confronting his emotions and feelings. That or being able to breathe and walk properly. How do you feel about showing your emotions?

Body What kind of creature are you (elf, human, alien, etc)? Plains Human. What are your abnormalities (deformity, birthmark, allergies)? His left eye was gouged out, his heavily scarred, branded, and tattooed with the arcana. What is your figure like (thin, muscular, pudgy)? Athletic leaning towards muscular. How fit are you? Travinter is extremely fit even with his crippling injuries he's maintained this through endless pain and suffering on his part. What is your hair and eye color? Black hair, Green eye. Left eye is a milky white. What is your hair texture and style? Shaved head, 'five'o'clock shadow' What is your face shape and features (freckles, big eyes, zits, reddish cheeks, birthmark, etc.) Rather standard natural facial features. Slightly sharp chin. Missing a chunk of his right ear, several arcane tattoos cover his face. How old are you? Crown of Chains Era, 39 (Which is getting real old for a human.) Blades of Mealis: 24 What kind of colors do you wear? Earthy colors and blue. What kind of clothing do you wear? Simple tunics, trousers, sometimes a cloak. Combatwise he wears a breast-plate or splintmail. What kind of clothing do you hate on yourself/others? Travinter hates wearing overly restrictive or tight clothing on himself. On others, he finds overly flashy or elegant clothes are annoyingly impractical. What accessories do you frequently have? Never leaves home without his bastard sword, The Nameless Bastard. He also sometimes wears a small bronze locket which contains a small sketch of Mora which for obvious reasons he never has nor ever will show to anyone. How do you feel about your appearance? Shitty with a side of shrapnel. Maybe he would have been a looker if not for all the trials and obstacles life has thrown at him in his life. What is your skin like (smooth, pale, dark, rough, tight, saggy, scarred, etc.)? Heavily scarred, heavily callused hands and feet, burn marks, dry and cracked in places. How is your health? Any problems? What was your health like as a child? Bad, Travinter's health is in a steep decline, and the kingdom's healers believe the only thing keeping him going is he's too stubborn to die. What are your common movement habits and demeanor (swaying, graceful, snapping, wringing hands, staying perfectly still, glancing around, stumbling, etc)? Limping lots of limping, Though when he's still Travinter stands with an intimidating air. What is your race/ethnicity/nationality? White, Fieria('French') What food do you usually eat (amount, kind of food, what times of day)? What food do you like to eat? Travinter can't eat much more than porridge. The more solid foods irritate his throat far too much to stomach. What do you like to drink? Warm herbal tea helps with the pain, strong alcohol. What is in your refrigerator? What the fuck is a refrigerator? The larder has ground oats and corn, tea leafs too. What do you smell like (cologne, sweat, musty, cats, etc)? Smoke, sulfur, sweat, sometimes blood. What would you change about yourself physically if you could? He'd happily get rid of all his numerous crippling injuries if given a chance.

Past When and where were you born? - What are your past occupations and career goals? Brigand, Convent Guard. Escaping, Surviving, and Killing all those reptilian slave drivers. As a child, what did you want to be and do when you grew up? Did you do it? How do you feel about that? Free, Yes yes he did. Glorious! What are your greatest accomplishment? Overcoming poverty, Saving the Blades of Mealis from an otherwise lethal breath weapon, inspiring an entire generation of heroes and adventurers. What are your greatest failures? Not killing that bastard Tork when he had the chance. What is the worst thing that ever happened to you? Breathing in acidic fumes from a black dragon's breath weapon and having his insides semi-melted. What is the best thing that ever happened to you, or your most cherished memory? Wiping out his Convent and freeing himself from slavery. What do you regret? Not being more open with his feelings, never being confident to follow that fucking heart of his. What do you remember most about your childhood? The Whips... the brands. Suppose the training that made him the bane of Mages everywhere is probably the most memorable thing. What was your favorite thing to do as a child? Not get beaten? Some of us slipped off to play ball on the very rare occasion. Suppose that was fun when they didn't catch us. That was always a 'treat.' What did you dislike most as a child? Everything.

Personality What are your vices? He's too prideful, too angry, and often chooses to solve his problems with violence or alcohol. What are your virtues? Selfless, he threw himself in front of a stream of corrosive fire with nothing but a kite shield between him and certain agonizing death. Moral-Aligned, while he may be a belligerent ass at times Travinter's drives tend to be directed ultimately at helping others. What is your typical attitude? Cold, reclusive, and distant. Travinter is insecure in social situations. What are your quirks (only eats raw meat, collects action figures, always wears rubber band on wrist, etc.)? Travinter's heavily drilled childhood worked out most quirks, though he does chew things when frustrated. Generally wood objects. What are your hobbies? Smithing, drawing, trying to learn the lute(Many a Lute has lost it's life in this pursuit.) What would make you smile? Finding someone who can make him feel safe to open up a little, a worthy opponent to end his pain in an honorable fight finally. What would make you laugh? Slapstick, about all that, gets too him. What would make you cry? In the open? Nothing. In private children dying, and general pain, oppression, and suffering in the innocent and downtrodden. What makes you calm down? Alcohol, lots and lots of alcohol and brawls. What makes you revved up? Arrogant shitheads. What do you do when you are happy? Hit hot metal with a hammer, enjoy tea, paint, sketch. What do you do when you are stressed? Ride, brawl, drink, visit secluded gardens for artistic inspiration. What do you do when you are upset? He hits things. Curses a lot. What do you do when you are angry? He hits things, really hard. Curses like a drunk sailor. What are your habits (good or bad)? Travinter chews wood when stressed, he has to do a morning training regiment or his whole day feels off. What is something you can’t resist? Tea, a good fight, and a nice pint of beer. What is something most people do not know about you? His softer side, hidden behind a lot of pride. What are your areas of expertise? Sword and shield combat, Spellbane training that allows him to hunt mages, disrupt spells, and a large range of basic martial training. What is hard for you to do? Socialize, show weakness, nothing(He's far too hot blooded for that.) What special skills do you have? Swordsman. Spellbane(Magic Resistance.) Smith. What weather and physical conditions do you like? Dry weather, moisture makes his bones ache. Physical conditions? Not sure what you mean but his favorite condition is not being stabbed. What would you do all day if you could do anything you wanted? Draw, Sketch, anything of beauty or wonder. Maybe, specifically, Mora.

Relationships Who would you ask for help in a tight spot? No one, -prideful bastard- Who’s company do you enjoy? Mora, though his fear of socializing tends to keep this from occurring. How often do you see family and friends? The Blades have a nightly drink! So daily. How do you interact with other people (cold, awkward, friendly)? Cold, when forced to interact he comes off as brash and maybe even a bit awkward around friends. Who is your family and what are they like? The Blades are the closest thing I have to family, and half of them are assholes. How do you feel about your parents and how do they feel about you? What is your relationship with your family like? He never knew my parents, though since they sold me into servitude, he'd have to say his feelings are very negative. What is the person you are most dependent on (your dad, the welfare office, your personal maid, your seeing-eye-dog, your mailman)? Travinter is a very independent in his day to day life, but emotionally speaking Mora is the main light he still looks forward too. If you could convince any one person or group of people of one thing, what would that be? Mora to open up, and himself too. What is the main quality or aspect you look for in a person (good looking, is talkative, seems helpful, has money, etc.)? Virtue, independence, and that hot blood that pushes them through adversity. How does your race/ethnicity/nationality or that of your parents influence you and the way people see you? Is your heritage significant to you or are you removed from it? Travinter's race has littler to do with his personality, though his raising from the Septrinians has lead to his violent streaks and emotional repression. What is something people often misunderstand about you? That he's a lot weaker than I let them see. Can people get the gist of who you are when first meeting you, or is your true self so hidden we would need to know you for a long time? Or somewhere in between? He keeps his softer side hidden behind walls of hardened steel and reinforced granite. Who and/or what sort of people like you? Not many, if any. How do you feel about other people’s worldview/religions? I respect them if they don't involve crushing others in their pursuits. How do most people see you? As a cold, unfeeling asshole. What kind of friends and associates do you have, if any? I have nobles, peasants, valiant heroes, and reviled necromancers. Zaleth brought us all together and he's the Glue. What person or group of people do you dislike the most, and why? Self-righteous Nobles, Knights searching for their vain glory and riches. Are you dominant, submissive, or somewhere in between? Pretty dominate in the day to day, What is your reputation? Cold, brutal, and vicious warrior with no reservations for fighting dirty. How do you greet people (if you greet people at all)? Grumbles, quips, maybe a handshake here and there. How do you feel about and treat authority? He respects anyone who is respectable. Just because you have a shiny office doesn't mean shit to him.

Speech How do you speak (speak loudly, quickly, whispering, interrupting, talkative, etc)? Rarely, his voice is rough and raspy with some strength behind it. Are you dominant or easily unnoticed in a conversation, or somewhere in between? When Travinter does speak, he is a dominant speaker. What words and phrases do you use frequently (omg, dude, like, um, for pete’s sakes,)? - What expletives do you use in surprise or irritation (swears, gasps, yowza, etc)? Fuck, shit, Hells. Do you speak properly or often use slang and bad grammar? Travinter speaks in a relatively proper fashion. Some poor grammar and slang is used at times though. Does your speaking style change when you’re around certain people? If so, how? No, not really. What is your accent or dialect? When speaking the more English aligned language, he has a French accent. What is your pitch and voice texture? Low and rough.

Situations What are the five worst things possible to happen to you? At this point? I guess losing function in my hands so I can't smith or fight anymore and losing my friends. Not really much else to lose. How would you prepare for a hot date? Hiding, terror? How would you tackle a big research project? By not doing it, Travinter isn't much of an intellectual. How would you react in a fight? Brutally and with some real dirty low blows. What do you do when you’re bored (go crazy, tap your fingers, hum)? Sketch, Hum. What are you or would you be embarrassed about? Those emotions, he doesn't really know how to deal with them or how to express them properly. What is the first thing you do every morning (go for a jog, check your phone, take a pill, check your own pulse, etc)? Enjoy porridge and tea! Then a morning exercise and training regiment. What would you do with 5 million dollars? He'd donate it to charity, most of his money already gets donated. If you could teleport anywhere, where would you go (Hawaii, your mom’s house, the theater, that old barn you used to play in, etc)? Nowhere, when you're as old as him everything is equally shit. He'd rather stick to his home. What is your favorite holiday and how do you celebrate it? He avoids all holidays. What are your holiday traditions? None. What do you spend most of your day doing? Smithing, Drawing and slowly but surely dying. How do you want to die (suddenly, alone, with a certain person near you, etc.)? On his feet, in relatively honorable combat. What is the worst you’ve ever been injured or sick (broken arm, cancer, hang nail)? Having my throat and lungs seared with acidic vapors.

Objects What object(s) do you like to keep near you? His sword, the Nameless Bastard. What is in your backpack, purse, or closet? When traveling? Bedrolls, mess kit, utensils, cups, and a tent. If there was a fire in your house and you only had time to grab whatever you could carry, what would it be? His sketches, though to be honest he'd kick that fire's ass. What is your most valued possession (for a reason other than monetary value)? His sword, its seen him through a lot in his life. Do you still have any possessions from your childhood? No.

Random How well do/did you do in school? In his training, very well, why he's such an amazing killer. What is your symbol? A hand-and-half sword and or a smithing hammer. What does your signature look like? Travinter can neither read nor write; he marks his papers with a rough capital T. What is your theme song? Five Finger Death Punch - Wrong Side of Heaven. What is something that really annoys you (loud people, music that is too quite, when your mom vacuums at three in the morning, the sound of trickling water)? Overly Righteous people. What is the place you hate the worst (standing in line at McDonalds, the salon, Toledo Ohio, etc.)? He hates anywhere large crowds form and socialization is dominate. What is your favorite kind of entertainment and what type of content do you like (books, movies, comics, romance, sci-fi, humor)? He can't read nor write so all he has is drawing and smithing really. What were you doing before this story started? Robbing and killing people, cause he was a brigand. What time period do you wish you lived in? Past, future? Do people stop being shit in the future? If so the future. If you were and animal, what kind would you be? A very disgruntled bear. Do you have any special powers? If so, what are they, how do they work, and where do they come from? Being a spellbane, he can disrupt magic and break spells. From his spellbane training, its effectively an inward flowing magic form designed to break projected spells. Do you or have you ever had any pets? No. Do you dislike any holidays? If so, why? All of them, because they're all annoying social-filled festivals. What is your most common method of transportation? Horseback or walking. What are your three favorite songs? All the bard's tales sound the same, so I guess all of them or none of them really. And finally... the most important question of all....What is your favorite color (and why)? He likes brown, no wait blue.

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lepidopterane · 7 years

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long post, storytime

The Revenge of the Last

Nobody knew why the most recent taxes were paid in coins with this tenuous, almost snakelike dragon on the back. But the Baron Grubberton was happy to see his serfs push the large mass of coins into the vault. That was enough to buy him a new plot of land, a fleet of carriages for his daughter Lydia, or even his own in-house theater! Maybe he would let the serfs have a role, but everyone knew their place in his kingdom and he did not want to give anyone such dangerous ideas. Besides, there were more important things to do, and he would rather keep such brainspace empty of the various dramatic logistics, for they would tire his simple mind.

He had just finished a moonlight malt ale in his first dream when there was a disheartening THUD! The Baron shot upright, but the room was just as it had been at any time, for no treasure chest was upturned, no gilded easel collapsed, no jewel-encrusted bookcase fell. Sighing in relief, he gently and slowly lowered his body back into bed when the THUD! happened again. Again, the Baron squinted into the dark. Nothing was out of place or in pieces, but there could be the chance this was a burglar was attempting to ransack his vault and this was a distraction, right? In the still darkness, he waited. Third time’s the charm, he thought as he gingerly grasped the dagger under his pillow. So when the third THUD! reached his ears, he was ready. It had seemed to come from the floor below, the vault room. Slipping the dagger into the sleeve of his robe, he swiftly rushed to the night guards he hired and worriedly reprimanded them in a hushed tone, then returned to his room. To his surprise, he heard no more of the THUD! for the rest of the night.

The second night proved to be much harder to sleep through, however. Many times the THUD! came. Many times the Baron scampered down the stairs in a frenzy to whisper-shout at the guards. Many times the guards claimed they had never heard such noises. Many times the Baron questioned instincts he had trusted for decades.

The third night, he found out that earmuffs only intensified the constant THUD! Restless, the Baron lurched out of bed, into the corridor, down the winding staircase, and through a hidden door into an empty vault room. He called out into the dimly lit space, but the air carried back only gloom, tense and silent. Tentatively, he solved the intricate puzzle on the front. As the last silver tile slid into place, the large door opened with a steady, automated rhythm.

His eyes met the beast’s, whom he recognized as the dragon of the coin: impossibly tendrily, snaking around the pure gold relics snatched by the Baron in previous escapades, scales metallic in golds, silvers, coppers, and bronzes. And it was furious.

“What d-do you w-want?” asked the Baron. “W-Who–or w-what are y-you?” The dragon rearranged himself, and grinned with teeth sharper and bigger than knives.

“I am the Last,” roared the dragon. “When people have nothing more to give yet must pay a price, no matter how taxing, they go and find me. In their lockboxes, in their purses, in their socks, I am there. And I will restore the balance of pay, for that is why I have been summoned!”

“B-b-but–that’s j-just the w-way th-things are. I h-have n-no n-need to ch-change th-that,” the Baron sputtered in response. Rapidly, the Last coiled himself around the mortal and gently pressed a talon to his throat. “Is that so? Then. I suppose you have no need for sleep,” he said, moving closer, “or your life.” His breath smelled coppery and moldy, like currency that had gone out of style centuries ago.

“So w-what do y-you w-want m-me to d-do?” asked the cowering Baron. The Last uncoiled himself to the roost he made in the vault. “You have one moon to restore balance amongst your people. When the moon vanishes, so might everything else.” With that, the dragon collapsed into his coins with a puff of golden dust and a familiar resounding THUD!

From there, the Baron learned to make peace with denial. It relieved him to hear his servants whispering of his “madness” or hear his friends appreciate what they considered “a fairy tale of a most occult encounter!” The story gave him more edge, gave him a chance to reinvent himself and his wardrobe to be darker in spirit. Even when he brought in a local mystic to verify his experience and boost his new persona, it was dismissed because it was claimed that the Last was “a myth that barely survived from an age that barely survived.” A good story, a dream was all the Baron needed to climb further on his social ladder.

Time passed, and soon his daughter Lydia was to attend her first ball. Her father ordered her army of ladies-in-waiting to make her look very much (but not quite) like a goddess, and she was gleaming and beaming by the time it was time to step into the carriage.

The Baron had already absorbed a few books and more than a few glasses of fine wine when he realized how late Lydia was staying out. Whatever, he thought. She is most likely having a jolly good time, and I do not blame her. I remember my own youth of charming clandestine capers under the waning crescent, and I want her to have that, even if the crescent is gone. He closed his eyes and relived his memories.

The Baron was broken from reverie by the clip-clop of hooves in the distance. The Baron looked at the clock. It was one, or the witching hour, as he would say in his fitting persona. That must be Lydia! He clambered to his feet and went out to receive his daughter in the front of his manor. Yet something was not right about this arrival, and he felt it in the air…

It was the carriage. There were serious scratches and dents in it, as if there was some trouble getting home. Nothing a new carriage could not fix, the Baron thought. Eventually, it rolled up to his house, empty in person but not in meaning. The driver pulled to a stop and descended from his stoop, tears streaming down his face. He could not meet his master’s gaze, but gestured to the cabin. “Sir–your daughter, I could not explain, but it–it just reached in, and took her. I could try to tell you how it happened, but I know you would not believe me. No one would. No one ever does…”

However, the Baron did. As the driver was talking, he looked at the scratches. They were deep and long, denting and almost cutting through the wood of the car. That was not the thing that caught his attention, though. It was the dust around the scratches. In golds, in silvers, in coppers, and in bronzes, it awakened a fear inside him that had been waiting, well-rested, to course through his veins once again.

Days later, the Baron’s men found Lydia dead in the Northern Forest. The only way the Baron knew how to recover from wounds that deep was by immersion into a fantastic new project, one that would blow everyone away with his sheer splendor. For days he sat at his desk, penning, planning, sketching away at his idea. The Baron’s servants feared for his health, but despite the many continuous days he scribbled indoors without breaks, he had never felt better.

At Lydia’s funeral, he stepped up to the podium with a smile. Next he pulled over an easel with many different pictures of Lydia by notable artists and plastered the plans over the right half.

He bubbled, “Ladies and gentlemen gathered here today, I wish to tell you of my wondrous plan! Over the next month we will take on a great feat. Behold, the Grubberton

Tower! The tallest thing a gentleman can erect in this fair nation of Grubbertonia, and perhaps the world! I doubt you’ve never seen anything so very extravagant, so very beautiful, believe me. Funding will come from my benevolent parents, and admission will cost 2000 Grubbucks.” A dainty hand graced the air above noble heads as a voice called out, “And what exactly does this have to do with the passing of your daughter, Lord Grubberton?”

He replied, “Well, it’s quite obvious, don’t you see? We…uh…I…uh…a statue of Lydia, the apple of everyone’s eye, will grace the top of this ivory tower!” As he spoke, he moved a picture of his daughter to the top of the easel, right above the plans. “Uh, did I mention the tower will be made of the purest, most expensive, most unsoiled ivory? Because it is. I want to make a point that no sordid firestarter can touch the impressive elite of Grubbertonia, and a monument to my dear daughter will do just that, believe me.” The baron made one last flourish to the plans before skipping back to his seat.

Weeks rolled by and the tower rose. Indeed, it was the tallest, whitest thing anyone had decided to erect in that part of the world, and once again, an unnatural passion had consumed the Baron. Since now he was most obsessed with height, Lydia’s tribute faded from his thick head. He hired contractors and fired them faster than a speeding bullet, because there was no other way to build this thing according to him. It was now rumored in some alleys that he had decided to put a throne of pure gold atop the tower in Lydia’s memory of how she supported him so.

Because the men at the top of the tower only looked upward, they never saw the metallic curves, the snaky tendrils, the undullable claws of the beast that suddenly clawed the tower with noise more hideous than a THUD! or fingernails on marble. The Last was quick, he clawed and threw his weight against the tower, and down it went. As the dragon went away, the Baron heard a whisper: “I guess that is why you say your tower is so untouchable.” He was the only one who survived the crash, mainly because he put on a parachute pack once during safety training and decided to never take it off.

The crash filled him with rage. Numerous times, he delivered addresses at many balls, vowing to crush whatever monster had violated his rules, upturned his carefully groomed class structure. Everyone assumed the monster was a metaphor, despite his desperate and weak attempts to clarify the evil’s origin. “They were probably working with peasants,” one lord suggested during one such tirade. Since then, the Baron made a point to his guards that they needed to arrest any peasant that looked vaguely suspicious. A few weeks and a few hundred prisoners later, a new comment arose, this time from a duke. “What are you doing about this? You would not be so angry, Grubbs, if the monster was gone.” The Baron fumed at the mention of a nasty nickname he had not heard in decades. “YOU? Claim that I, chief enemy of the beast, am doing nothing to stop it? Impossible! How do I know you are not working for them, you rat? If you think you are up to my level,” and here he spat at the ground, “come lead an army with me and kill the monster that did this to us!”

Unfortunately, that duke was persistent. Together they stirred up a militia, but not without negativity. Collaborating with the duke was infuriating (he just seemed to do most of the work without breaking a lordly sweat!), but he had to keep his image together somehow. At last, they had figured out where that dragon had ran off to, and so they ventured to the cave, a most ancient hoard.

However, the easiest way to distract the Baron was with money, and in the center, there were two impossibly large chests made of some hematite-ebony-lead alloy. Shiny, black, and carved with ancient runes, they called to his soul. He ordered his men to carry both of the chests out to the woods where they could open them. It took a great while and a great effort to carry the huge chests out into the forest, but the real challenge was opening the chest, which he had tasked the small force with, since he had men from the vault room attending this affair. While they worked at the lock, he went to take a nap…

…but when he woke up, he saw his entire militia lying prone around the two chests, coughing deeply every now and then. His men’s skin had taken on a gray undertone, and they were unable to comprehend orders. Anyway, they did not seem threatening if not a little tired. “I’ve seen worse,” the Baron said to himself as he studied the lock on the nearest chest. He reached out and touched the lock to see if he could hack it when the runes lit up with a fiery red-gold and the chest opened, throwing its lid back as if the hinge was spring-loaded.

Yet nothing was in that chest, just a dark void. He walked to the other chest, noting that the duke was among the fallen around that one. Touching that lock magically opened that chest to reveal nothingness once again. For a moment, he was truly frustrated, but that frustration turned to fear when a hand grabbed his leg. The duke was certainly feeling a little uncanny. “Walton, are you all right?” asked the Baron. “I know not if you jest, but please let go of my leg.” In response, the duke Walton, or what once was him, turned around with an angry, inhuman expression and attempted to bite the Baron’s shoulder. But it was in vain, for the Baron turned around and fled, but not before almost stumbling into another crowd of infested men. He and his horse were almost to the edge of Grubbertonia when an eerie whisper floating on the wind found his ear: “You cannot outrun your corruption. Its consequences may not be direct, but it has forced directions on many.”

Again, the Last was right. The Baron’s failure to protect his own people from such a supposed threat was all the skeptics needed to write him off as a loser. Anyone who knew the Baron knew him as a man enamored only in his wealth, given to excessive outbursts of anger and pride, and a chaser of imaginary beasts. Society had every reason to reject him, and so they did, no matter what scheme he tried to use. He visited even the most grimy pubs in Grubbertonia if it meant cleaning up his reputation, but often he would be caught in his attempts and regarded as a hypocrite. This was the perfect time for a sign of hope.

Late one night after a pub crawl, there was a sparkle in the corner of the Baron’s eye, and then it was a closer gleam, and then it was a gleaming lady, one who he might consider hooking up with, and then he realized it was a girl, now a shining young woman, who he had not seen in months, not since that fateful night.

“Lydia!” he called. “Is that really you?” The girl rushed over to him.

“Father! Of course. Who else would it be?”

“I thought you were dead for so long…”

“Well, I am alive. But let us not worry about that! We should play a game,” Lydia said, opening the door to the next pub. It was poker night, so the overjoyed and reunited pair sat down at a table with two peasants starting a game. “With these fellows?” he whispered to his daughter. “Are you sure?” In return, Lydia gave her father the puppy dog eyes that would turn even the sharpest no into a resounding yes. The game began.

“Are we betting everything?” asked one peasant.

“I suppose we are, because I know between the two of us, we have nothing.” replied the second peasant, taller than the first. “What about you two aristocrats?”

“We will bet 10 Grubbucks,” responded the Baron. Lydia looked at her father, disappointed. “Are we not the greatest family in the world? We should bet everything. Besides, there are two novices,” she said, gesturing to the peasants, “and two of us. So there is a fifty percent chance of us winning, and it all goes to our family name.” The Baron sighed. There were certain things he could not refuse, and his daughter was among them. “Fine. We too will bet everything.”

The game was long and suspenseful. Even though there was danger at every turn of the game, usually Lydia was smart enough to think her way around it. She was winning with her father in close pursuit, and no one could stop her. However, while the peasants were unable to challenge Lydia, they did manage to shake the Baron’s standings at the last second. If it was not for Lydia’s brilliance, the Grubbertons would not have won.

Once they got home, Lydia said, “I have a special surprise for you, because you did so well, and you inspired me to win. But you must close your eyes and take my hand.” That he did. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked.

“Lydia, why are we in the vault?”

“Hm, I am not quite sure why. It is a good place to tell you something secret, though. You will want to hear this important message! I can get us out, anyway.”

“Well, if you insist…”

“Thanks. Trust me, you really need to hear this, and I am the one of the only people you really listen to. That game back there was no mere game. Your lack of decency brought this upon you. A daughter’s murder, an ambition shattered, a life-threatening warning unheeded and survived; nothing could shake a cent from your purse. Which is why I had to win everything from your grubby hands in the way I did. You see, you owe me something. And I…” Lydia writhed, the shimmering metallic accents in her dress expanding and merging with her flesh as she grew into a more serpentine shape. To his horror, the Baron realized who had been behind this, glints of gold, silver, copper and bronze reflected in his terrified eyes.

“I am everyone.”

Everyone in every last village of Grubbertonia thought it was a joke at first when they awoke to find the stuffing of their pillows had turned to coins. The alchemists made many tests, skeptical of the coins’ reality; for the Baron was known to dupe any class lower than him multiple times. But no, they were real, and if science was not enough for some of the more ignorant serfs, there was yet another sign. Somehow, the dragon-backed coinage had made it into everyone’s share. People seemed a little lighter because their purse was a lot heavier and nobody was above or below anyone else anymore.

Yet still, the Baron’s manor stands, but now as a residence for the homeless. The vault room is still there, locked shut. The groundskeepers did confirm that the vault was empty, and it just remains shut because now it has no purpose but to remind others of this cautionary tale, and whenever a leader in the community turns 14, they are told the story at the vault. But on certain nights, guests of the manor can hear ghostly screams from the other side, filling them with courage instead of fear.

#important #long post

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