Quest for the Spire of Morpheus [Mature]

[This thread is rated M for mature themes, language, and violence.]

Epic Motherfucking Prologue!

Come round the fire and sit ye’ for a spell.
Let me tell ye’ a tale of a town called Stonevale,
And a lone little warrior who resided there.
She hadn’t resided there for long,
And actually, we’ll get to that in the main story
So maybe just forget that mmmkay?

Let me tell ye’ a tale of a town called Stonevale,
And a lone little warrior with a dancer’s spirit.
Now, ye’ might be thinking to ye’self,
“The Spire of Morpheus? That sounds
A lot like recent epic the Lyre of Orphaeo!”
Well shut yer’ face if that’s the case!
We named this thread for magical purposes
Something something, magical purposes.

But let me tell ye’ a tale of a town called Stonevale,
And a lone little warrior with a dancer’s spirit.
Only she could save the world from the coming calamity.
And that’s not really a spoiler, because we all know
About the coming calamity. And FYI Senor Dirks,
Starting a story with the end of the world makes it
JUST A LITTLE hard to raise the stakes.
Thanks for that!

But let me tell ye’ a tale of a town called Stonevale,
And a lone little warrior with a dancer’s spirit.
Only she could save the world from the coming calamity.
Only she could dance the Demon’s Dance Ritual,
Following the footsteps of Marion the Prancer before.
But there would be more, oh so much more…
She would journey to the Spire of Morpheus
On the way meeting many perils
And meeting many more when she arrived, obviously.
Perils, that is.
For there would be evil out to stop her saving the world.
Evil in its darkest, most shadowiest nighttime armor.
Evil that would make ye’ need to take a pee break
Before ye’ reads the next post.
Now that is a ghastly evil.

“Twenty gold pieces on the big fucker!”

“Thirty gold pieces on the Coronian!”

Shouted wagers echoed off the high stone walls that bookended the Stonevalian back alley. Blood already painted the cobblestone street from previous matches, and two humans were fighting as if their lives depended on it. One was a large, pale man. The other was a tiny, tanned woman.

Alina Espad’rina, the prodigy Fallieni dance-fighter, cartwheeled away from her opponent and continued building the mana-energy within her by rolling her hips and stepping side-to-side. The dance drew some whistles and catcalls from the crowd, but it infuriated her opponent. The big Coronian let out a roar, his face the same color as his ginger hair, and let fly with a massive right hand.

The dancer leaned backwards, letting the punch arc within an inch of her chin. The big man was close enough that she could smell his sweat and the eggs he’d eaten for breakfast. Close enough for her to put him down.

Alina concentrated the mana-energy pulsating throughout her body into her left elbow and spun, around the outside of the Coronian’s overextension to smash into his jaw. His eyes rolled back and he crashed to the ground, unconscious.

The dancer took a few more hip swaying steps and curtsied to the crowd, who gave an appreciative roar. Money changed hands as Alina moved off to the side, and the next pair of combatants prepared to take the center of the alley.

One tall, handsome elf seemed to be the one collecting most of the gold, and he broke off and ran over to Alina as she limped away from the impromptu battle ring. He smoothed back his long blond hair and peered at her with bright green eyes, a smile extending his sharp cheekbones.

“You really had them going with that one,” the elf said, “you almost had me thinking you were going to lose! When he kicked you in the leg and you buckled for a second, the bets just poured in. Here, there’s your half.” He stuffed a fistful of thick coins into her palm.

“Not enough, Dyneheart!” Alina said crossly in her thick Fallieni accent. Although she had spent many months living and fighting in Corone and Scara Brae, she was still picking up the language. “Find me money fight,” she said, shaking her fistful of coins. “Money fight!”

They set to the circular process of arguing over her cut of the profits as they navigated the town. Alina complained that half the coin was too little as they progressed past some residential construction which smelled of fresh lumber. Dyneheart insisted that he had more expenditures than her, greasing palms in order to find the fights in the first place, as they meandered through a local park with hedges and fair-smelling flower beds. They growled back and forth, and eventually gave up because of the language barrier, as they emerged into the earthen square in the center of the mining town.

“Dyneheart!” Alina shouted at the elf over the lute-music coming from some local street performers. “I fight everyday. You must find me a way to make more money for less fight. Understand?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“Yes, I bloody understand!” The elf shouted back. The lutes were annoyingly loud. “Let us meet tomorrow in that tavern yonder;” he indicated a nearby establishment. “I will bring whatever work I can find your way.”

Alina nodded, and sent him away with a kick to the bottom. So this is what my ordinary world has become, she thought to herself as a passing horse took a big shit.

Over the next twenty four hours, a horse taking a big shit became an accurate metaphor for what happened to Althanas. A comet descended out of the sky, a supervolcano erupted to the west so violently that it knocked Alina the graceful dancer down, and as a result ash started snowing from the sky like discount slush. By the time the Fallieni met up with her elf friend at the local establishment, a lack of coin seemed like the least of her worries.

The bar they were in was a tavern; to be precise, it was a pub. It had sawdust on the floor and patrons sleeping at the bar and several tables. It had shelves full of liquor and kegs of ale. It had a man in a dark hood sitting in the back corner, brooding over his pipe and drink. In short, it was an Althanas pub. Dyneheart greeted Alina at the door and offered her a mug of ale, which she accepted and quaffed, for inhaling ash all day was thirsty work.

“What did you find?” Alina asked as she wiped the ale suds from her lips.

“I have discovered a great task for you,” Dyneheart said with a mysterious twinkle in his green eyes. “I’m sure you have noticed the great calamity that has befallen our world?”

Alina coughed emphatically, producing a lungful of ash which swirled around before settling on the floor.

“Right.” Dyneheart said. “In that spirit, I have discovered a means of both saving the world AND procuring ample coin for both of us. I encountered a strange benefactor who wishes to pay you to journey to a place called the Spire of Morpheus. There you will dance the Demon’s Dance Ritual, and in doing so save our world. You will be richly rewarded with fame and fortune.”

A panpiper got up at the front of the room and began playing a song called A Call to Adventure is Heard.

Dyneheart led Alina to the back and indicated a table surrounded by experienced looking folk.

"I have called together six merry travelers to aid you on your journey;

Rupert, the rogue. He is a thief, a dastardly halfling from Scara Brae, but a quicker hand and better back-alley guide you will not find.

Alonzo, the tank. He is a warrior, a brawny Coronian, with strong armor and weapons to guard your back.

Suman, the healer from the far south. She is Fallieni born, but studies under the Ai'brone monks in Radasanth.

Emerson, the dwarf.

Liza, the-"

"Wait," Alina said, holding up a hand, "what does Emerson do?"

Dyneheart and the bearded Emerson exchanged a glance, and then both looked at the dancer.

"Nothing... he's, just a dwarf.

But there is Liza, the Raiearan spellsinger. Her magics will aid you in many unexpected situations.

And last, but certainly not least, is Albert the Salvic brooder. Whenever you need someone to sit in the corner of a pub, smoking, with a hood pulled over his eyes, Albert is your man."

There was a brief silence, and then Alina opened her mouth.

"It happens more often than you'd think," Dyneheart answered her unasked question.

At the front of the room, the panpiper continued panpiping.

Standing against the horizon like a giant ogre, or an oncoming storm, or an ill-fated destiny, or anything else ominous, the tower of the Shadow Diety of Darkness could be seen for miles. Peasants cowered in its shadow, fearful of the monstrous tyrant within. He laid heavy taxes on the people he didn't have any right to ask taxes from, threatened to kill them if they did not pay, but killed them anyway. His name was Lord Mortus Gangriddidy and he was as terryfingly ugly in looks as his name suggested.

To keep with the theme of his tyrannical rule his tower was very tall, and very dark. Especially inside, where only candles were allowed, and his own special eerie blue magic flame. As he leant back in his bone white throne, that was made of bones, he surveyed his henchmen with a horribly scarred face. An old fight with his long lost (dead) wife had ended up with a large wound that slashed down his face and left one eye permanently closed. His hair was black, lank and dirty, and he was robed in black, because all evil tyrants wore black in those days. In his one good eye he had placed an enchantment to make it glow red and evil, but really it just looked like he hadn't slept a lot of the time.

A portly, huffy man ran in, clutching his sides, pushing past the various groups of shuffling henchpeople (henchpeople because of gender equality). He was short and looked a bit like a dumpling, as in the food.

"Masssterrrr," he hissed in a snake-like voice. "Masssterrrr!"

"Ah, Villanus," Lord Mortus leant forwards and waved a hand. "Come."

The dumpling shuffled forwards and threw himself, prostrating, on the ground. "Masssterrrr ... I bring newssss."

A blue flame appeared in Lord Mortus' fist. All the henchpeople began to shuffle faster, sqeauking in higher voices. They didn't like his fire. It hurt.

"What news?" Lord Mortus demanded in a loud, evil voice that dripping with evilness and sounded very evil.

"Masssterrrr," Villanus said, "I -" and he shivered. "We f-failed in kidnapping the princesssss of Sssnowbell."

Snowbell was a very magical kingdom with pixies and unicorns that could be found via an enchanted doorway in the wood nearby. It was bright, always sunny and very beautiful, where the purest of heart lived. Mortus did not like the place. He had wanted the princess to lock her in the top of his evil tower, because he had heard that is what evil people do.

"WHAT?" Lord Mortus yelled, getting to his feet. The flame in his hand became bigger. Really , it was the only magical thing he could do, but it was scary enough for Villanus to press his face deeper into the stonework and for the henchpeople to bump into each other as they scurried around blindly in fear. (Literally, blindly, as it was that dark. You had to make it dark and scary somehow, including building your evil tower stupidly tall.)

"Mmyyy Masssterrrr ..."

"UGH!"

Lord Mortus yelled like a grumpy teenager, and stamped his foot like a toddler. Lifting up his fist of flame he threw the fire far, so it arched and then landed onto one of the henchpeople. Suddenly there was light, and the fearing faces of the numerous short and tall, female and male, fat and thin henchpeople could be seen, as one of them was set alight and burnt to a crisp.

"Why? Why do I have such incompetent henchpeople!"

"Masssterrrr!" Villanus shrieked, "pleasseee! There is - there is another way for you to get power!"

"How?" Lord Mortus stared around with his one red eye. "How?!"

"The Ssspire of M-morpheussss!" Villanus hissed. "A tower of unknown origin and possibilities!"

"But what power does it hold?" Mortus asked.

"That'ssss the p-point masssterrrr. Itsss ... Unknown."

"Oh."

And he burnt someone else for the hell of it. Because he was evil.