A Damsel in Distress!? (solo)

[Ulysses]

Solo quest!
The bartender was the sort of man who calls everyone 'pal,' regardless of their age, or whether or not they are, in fact, his pal. In that sense he was nondiscriminatory: he condescended to everyone equally.

"Hey pal," the bartender said, putting his round face uncomfortably close to Ulysses'. "Time for you to go home soon, I think?"

"I'm not drunk." Ulysses said. This was true. He was completely, undeniably sober...despite his best efforts to the contrary. He'd drunk more than any man in the bar that night, but he hadn't gotten the slightest bit drunk. It was as though he'd been drinking water--more like he'd been drinking piss actually, given the taste. He sighed. "That ought to be obvious to a bartender."

The bartender's facade of friendliness dropped for a moment, and Ulysses could see the venal man beneath it. Disgusting. “Now son,” the bartender said, preparing to go into the speech he reserved for those who claimed they weren’t drunk after downing a barrelful. “It might seem that way to you, but it ain’t physically possible for a man to drink that much without becoming a little tipsy, alright? But that’s okay. We can play a little game.”

Ulysses sighed again. “What’s that? Something you play to humiliate men who are already down on their luck?”

The bartender smiled a reptilian smile. “Naw, nothing like that. Just a friendly game of darts among pals, eh?” The men at the surrounding tables burst out laughing. They’d seen this game played before, and it was amusing enough.

Ulysses returned the smile, but his wasn’t even reptilian; it was prehistoric. “Sure,” he said. “Sure thing…pard.” He got up and followed the bartender to the dartboard, and called up the heroic spirit within him. Since the spirit of valor had named him its champion, he’d had access to the memories and talents of heroes of past and from other universes. He called up the strangest and most alien to him, a hero from a time and place he couldn’t possibly comprehend, but whose skills were useful nonetheless: the Gunslinger.

Only one man noticed the change in Ulysses, partially because he was a wizard, and partially because he was the only totally sober man in the place. He simply saw, for less than a second, a man in blue pants with two…objects hanging from his hips. He was wearing a strange sort of hat with a brim and chewing tobacco. Then, after just a single moment, the apparition was gone. There was something different about Ulysses, though. His stance was wider, and he was walking with more confidence. There was something else, though…

His eyes, which had previously been a bizarre gold, were now a stunning, icy blue.

“Y’all just watch,” Ulysses said, and he tipped an invisible hat to the crowd. They laughed, partially at his strange accent, and he laughed too. All in good fun, right? We’re all pals here. The bartender passed Ulysses a handful of darts, and stood him a few paces away from the dartboard. Child’s play. The dartboard was actually closer than it would be for a normal game. Surely there must be a trick…?

He took a dart in his right hand and then realized what was wrong. The darts were weighted. Your average drunk would never notice it, but the darts probably had a little metal ball stuck in the tip. It would play merry hell with anyone’s aim, even more so for a man experienced with dart-throwing. The poor sucker would throw dart after dart, and probably wouldn’t even hit the board. The bartender would stand guffawing, and it’d be a good time for all—except the man with the darts. But nonetheless, a good time among pals, right?

The spirit within him told him how to correct his aim to account for the difference. The Gunslinger was a veteran of countless bars, and although he called them ‘Sal’s Oons’—Ulysses didn’t know who Sal was, or what his Oons had to do with anything at all—the basic idea was the same. Once Ulysses knew how to correct for the weight, this was no different than a normal game of darts. It was quite a lot easier, actually, with the Gunslinger helping him.

“Now, you folks know me, right?” Ulysses said, turning around to face the crowd. Keep them laughing, that was the key. “Fastest shot in the West. Put a sixgun in my hand and I’m deadlier’n a rattlesnake in a whore’s bed, ayuh. So you ought’n’t be surprised when I do this!” With the last word, he spun around and released the dart with deadly precision. Bullseye.

The crowd gasped. Ulysses grinned toothily. The bartender looked mildly disconcerted.

“Yahoo!” Ulysses whooped, and he spun around once more and threw. This time he didn’t aim for the dartboard, but for an apple that was sitting on the bar. The dart pierced the little red fruit, and the crowd clapped raucously. This was even more entertaining than they’d thought. Only the bartender seemed unamused—he was frowning.

Then, another dart in the bullseye of the dartboard. Then a dart plunked amusingly in a nearby man’s mug. There was only one left, and Ulysses twirled around the room, deciding on the most daring shot yet.

He pulled his arm back and swung straight towards the head of the bartender. The bartender ducked instinctively, but Ulysses simply dropped the dart on the floor.

“Oops,” he said. “I guess throwing weighted darts ain’t as easy as I thought it’d be, eh?”

The bartender’s face turned bright red. “Get out of my bar,” he said slowly, enunciating every single word. “Get out of my bar now.”

[Ulysses]

The blue-color of his eyes faded and bled until they were gold once more. The Gunslinger’s spirit resumed its slumber in his subconscious. Ulysses felt the rush of supernatural energy that had filled him fall out of his body, and it was as though someone had dropped a lead weight on his back. Was he really about to get kicked out? Had his life sunk that far?

The bartender snapped his fingers, and two massive armed men appeared by his side. Protection that he’d hired for the bar. Both of them looked muscular, and didn’t seem to be the type to question orders. The man opened his mouth once more, doubtless to deliver some tirade about unruly drunks, but he was interrupted by the door slamming open. A well dressed, tall, thin man in a black coat rushed through the door into the tavern. He was dripping wet—it was pouring rain outside. “My daughter’s been kidnapped!” he shouted. Every eye in the tavern turned to him.

The interesting thing was, the man was about the fourth or fifth person to burst through those doors pleading for help this evening. The Rat’s Eye was a well-known tavern frequented by adventurers and bounty hunters. Someone looking for urgent assistance was wise to look there; they’d probably find someone faster than the job board in town. Normally a dozen adventurers would have jumped at his offer for help, but the crowd seemed hesitant to speak.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait, sir, we have a bit of a situation,” the bartender said gravely. Everyone was silent.

“Wait? Bandits run off with my daughter, and you expect me to wait? That’s an absurdity! An atrocity! Ridiculous! Insane! I shan’t—”

“I’ll help you,” Ulysses found himself saying. He hadn’t known what he was going to say until the words started coming out. Then he realized whose intervention had caused that: the Knight. The spirit had awoken, no doubt preparing itself for a quest. Rescuing damsels in distress had once been the Knight’s pastime of choice, and he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity. Ulysses tossed a couple coins onto the bar, to cover his bill, and walked towards the door. “I’ll help you rescue your daughter.”

The man in the coat nodded gratefully. “For what price?”

Ulysses looked over his shoulder at the bar behind them. The bartender was watching them: eyes glazed, expression unreadable. He probably wouldn’t be welcomed again in this bar for a long while. There wasn’t time to negotiate. “Free, of course,” Ulysses said. “I couldn’t in good conscious force a poor man in need of aid to pay for his daughter’s rescue. But let’s discuss this somewhere else, shall we?” The two left the bar and stepped into the pouring rain. They began to walk to the man’s nearby townhouse, and as they did they discussed the job at hand.

The man’s name was Silas Drope. Ulysses was immediately intrigued. The Drope family was one of the less influential Noble Houses of Scara Brae, but they were well known nonetheless. Helping them might be a way to obtain some small amount of influence with the Houses…although Ulysses cared little about that. Silas explained that his daughter, Sophie, had recently gone on a ride in the countryside with her two bodyguards. Only one bodyguard had returned, and he was badly injured. The bodyguard explained that they had been attacked by bandits—possibly even members of the Scara Scourge. The other bodyguard had been killed, and the daughter had been kidnapped and was being held in Brokenthorn Forest for a ransom of a hundred thousand gold coins.

The pair reached the nobleman’s townhouse and went inside. The inside of the house was luxurious and warm; it was a welcome change after the freezing rain. The man sat in the one chair in the parlor and started to dry off; Ulysses remained standing and felt distinctly uncomfortable. A thought occurred to him, but he wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

“Er…” he said. “Are you sure she didn’t just elope with the bodyguard? It’s a possibility, I mean I don’t know your daughter…”

Silas Drope was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his speech was slow and measured—much more the sort of speech Ulysses would have expected from him, rather than the frantic exclamations he previously made. “I wouldn’t suggest that you dishonor the Drope family name once more in such a manner. However, your pragmatism is welcomed, and I’ll admit that I’d considered the idea. However, it is frankly impossible.”

“Why’s that?” Ulysses asked.

“Sophie's bodyguards are all female.”

“Ah,” Ulysses said, not quite sure that this was a foolproof explanation.

“Quite,” the nobleman said. “So I believe this story of a kidnapping. Her bodyguards are also trustworthy, I would trust no others with the life of my dear Sophie.”

Ulysses nodded. “When would you like me to leave?” he asked.

“You? Leave?” Drope said, and laughed. “You speak as if you’re going alone. I will be coming with you, of course, and we’re leaving in the morning. I would recommend you get some rest. There’s a spare room down the left hallway, second door to the right. You are dismissed.”

The nobleman was coming with? Ulysses tried to hide his shock and apprehension. Drope seemed nice enough, for a nobleman, but he clearly wasn’t the warrior sort. The ceremonial sword over the fireplace didn’t look as though it had been used for several generations. Having Drope come with would only cause more difficulties. The conversation, however, seemed to have been closed. Ulysses went to his corridors, found a comfortable enough bed, and fell asleep in seconds.

[Ulysses]

In his dream, Ulysses is floating in darkness. Slowly light gives the darkness definition, and a room floats into focus. There is a couch, tattered and dirty, covered in beer-stains. He realizes with a start that this is an object from another universe. There is a man sitting on the couch. He has shoulder length blonde hair, and stubble around his lips and cheeks. He’s smoking something.

“Hello Ulysses,” the man says. “Do you remember me?”

At first Ulysses is unsure what to say. Then he notices the man’s golden eyes, so similar to his own. “Yes,” he says. “You’re the spirit of valor that came to me.”

The man waves his hand dismissively. “No need for the formality. Call me Cydonia, if you wish. But that’s beside the point, on to the business at hand. First of all, you should know that I called the nobleman to you, with his quest. Damsel in distress. Very traditional. It’ll be great.” He smiles ingratiatingly. “Second of all, you’re probably wondering why it was impossible for you to get drunk yesterday.”

Ulysses nods.

“Well, that’s because I made it that way. I won’t have you going down the path so many heroes have gone down—slain not by monsters but by this,” the cigarette in the man’s hand changed to a bottle of beer, “or this,” the bottle changed into a handful of white powder, which the spirit let fall to the floor. “Take this guy, for instance. Very promising hero. Great musician, was going to be the voice of his generation. Very promising indeed. Not everyone battles darkness with a sword and shield, y’know?”

Ulysses has no idea what the spirit is talking about, but he nods anyway.

“They say he killed himself, but I know that’s a lie. What really killed him is this. Understand?” Cydonia says. “I remember your namesake, too. Brave Odysseus. Nearly lost him at the island of that witch Calypso, hell, she kept him there for seven years before he managed to escape. Pleasures of the flesh are compelling, kid, but they’re not good for a hero, alright?”

“Shouldn’t that be my choice?” Ulysses says, feeling rebellious.

Cydonia shakes its head, laughing. “No. You don’t understand, of course. I have to do this. I want to give you freedom, but I can’t. It never works out…” The spirit sighs. “Oh well, whatever. Nevermind." Then the spirit laughs, but as usual, Ulysses doesn't get the joke. "I suppose there’s something even worse, something that kills more heroes than lust or gluttony or ravaging monsters. And I do hope you don't fall victim to that.”

“What’s that?” Ulysses asks.

“Love,” the spirit says, and it vanishes. The room vanishes also, and Ulysses is left alone…

In his dream, Ulysses is floating in darkness. Slowly light gives the darkness definition, and a woman floats into focus. He recognizes her as his wife—or rather, as the woman who once was his wife, before Cydonia brought him his bizarre package and wiped the memory of his name from the world. Before he was Ulysses.

He reaches for her, wanting to embrace her, but she seems impossibly far away. Her hands are folded over her stomach, which seems large. Ulysses realizes that she’s pregnant, and then she vanishes.

“What does that MEAN?” he screams, but the dream is fading into the dark once more…

In his dream, Ulysses is floating in darkness. Slowly light gives the darkness definition, and a man floats into focus. The man is the Knight. He is clad in full-body plate armor, but his helmet is off, revealing a handsome and noble face. The Knight smiles.

“I’d like to discuss this upcoming quest with thee,” the Knight says, in his oddly archaic speech. “I’m excited, actually. It seems so much like what I once did when I was alive.”

“Who were you when you were alive?” Ulysses asks. He has been desperately curious about this. “Where were you from? Salvar? Corone?”

The Knight shakes his head sadly. “Nowhere in your universe, child. The name of my homeland was Britain, and I’m sure thou hasn't ever heard of it. We were a great country, though. Great indeed. But we fell, and it was at least partially my fault. I think Cydonia discussed this with you already, actually.”

“Discussed what?” Ulysses asks.

“The downfalls of heroes. Love,” the Knight says. “That was my downfall.”

Ulysses doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. “What was your name?” he asks. “I must know!”

The Knight shakes his head sadly. “I no longer know. Cydonia took it from me as surely as it took your name from you. But it’s no longer important. What’s important is the quest! The quest to save the damsel! It shall be glorious! Glorious!”

Ulysses looks into the Knight’s eyes, and he sees a fire burning there that terrifies him. He tries to run away, but the Knight’s voice follows him. Glorious! GLORIOUS! GLORIOUS! GLORIOUS! that voice cries out. Ulysses protests, tries to flee, but cannot escape that voice any more than he can escape his fate.

It seems like a long time before he wakes up, but eventually he does. The light of dawn shines through his window, and he awakens feeling even more tired than when he went to sleep.

[Ulysses]

Ulysses and Silas rode towards the dawn, chasing the rising red ball in the east as though it were some great quarry they intended to hunt and catch. Eventually the sun rose above their heads, and still they rode. The noonday sun made the plains around Scara Brae unbearably hot at this time of year, and Ulysses found himself sweating under his chainmail, as light as it was.

He hadn’t had much experience with horses prior to his adventuring life, and the sensation of bumping up and down on a great hairy animal was still foreign to him. It made him feel slightly sick to his stomache, but he tried to hide that fact from the nobleman, who seemed like an expert rider. Silas’ horse was a stallion named Quickstride, and Ulysses’ was a small mare named Susie Belle. That fact, Ulysses considered as they rode, said a lot about their respective positions. Ironically, however, Ulysses thought he’d got the better of the two horses. Susie was a gentle mare and an easy ride, and though she couldn’t match the speed of the stallion, her temperament and friendliness certainly made up for her lack of style.

Ulysses tried to not think about his dreams of the night prior. He could remember them as clearly as actual events, but thinking about them was…painful. Confusing. There was much he hadn’t understood in the speeches of the Knight and the spirit—whose name he now knew to by Cydonia. More than that, there was the brief dream in the middle. What had that meant? What could it possibly have…but no. He’d decided not to think about it. Best to clear his mind, and think of nothing at all. That was a trick he’d learned from the Ronin one day, and it was a wise one. It was best to be calm and enjoy the peace before the battles ahead.

They didn’t bother to stop for lunch, only stopping once evening set on and it was time to eat dinner. They ate jerky that Silas had packed, and a small amount of broth. The conversation over dinner was awkward and polite, for the most part, until Ulysses asked what was perhaps the wrong question:

“Why are you coming with me?” Ulysses asked. “Generally noblemen hire adventurers to go out for them, and stay behind. It’s dangerous.”

Silas gave him a hostile look. “Do you suppose I’m some lazy good-for-nothing, unable to fight at all? I was trained from birth in swordplay, which is probably more than you can say. The nobles aren’t all useless cowards, you know.”

Ulysses felt himself blushing. It was true; the majority of the nobles he’d met hadn’t been like Silas. Most of them were…well, portly, and Silas was thin and muscular. The Lord Drope seemed like a serious man. He had thin eyebrows and high cheekbones. Ulysses had found himself wondering why the Drope family wasn’t more renowned, with this man at its helm. “Well no,” Ulysses said. “It’s just unusual. For a nobleman to go adventuring, that is. Not for him to not be a useless coward, I mean. Er.”

The nobleman shook his head. “You commoners are all so eloquent, no? But I know what you mean. However, don’t find it so odd that I should wish a hand in the rescuing of my daughter. I do love her, and the thought of any harm coming to her terrifies me, I’m willing to admit. She’s not always been the best daughter, and she’s…unusual, certainly, but she is my daughter and I will ensure her rescue. Do you understand?”

Ulysses nodded, impressed. His respect for the Lord had increased tenfold since meeting him. Sometimes appearances could be deceptive. Certainly the man had the haughty, condescending smugness of most nobles—but there was steel beneath that calm exterior.

There was little conversation after that exchange. Ulysses went to sleep, apprehensive about what he might find in his dreams.

[Ulysses]

That night, Ulysses was blessed with a calm, restful, dreamless sleep. The second day of the journey started in much the same manner as the first. They left at dawn, and rode at full speed toward Brokenthorn Forest. A few hours after sunup, something occurred to Ulysses.

“How do you know where the bandit’s camp is?” Ulysses asked.

“I don’t,” the Lord Drope said. “Not exactly. However, the bodyguard that returned said that he overheard the bandits discussing an encampment approximately one day’s walk into the forest. If we continue along the path in that direction, we ought to find some evidence of them. Or they’ll find us.”

Ulysses nodded. It didn’t sound like much of a plan to him, but he wasn’t in charge on this expedition, he was simply serving as a bodyguard. That was fine by him. Drope might have combat experience, but it was doubtful that he could take on a full group of bandits on his own—Ulysses certainly couldn’t have done that. The two would most likely have to use stealth to accomplish this mission successfully.

That day, they encountered a blockade in the road. Some barrels had been rolled out to serve as a makeshift wall. It didn’t prevent passage, but Ulysses and Drope slowed down and stopped nonetheless. Three unshaven men were lounging in front of the blockade. Ulysses noted that all of them were armed, and judged by their gaits that at least some of them were drunk.

“Alright chappies. Road tax, ten silvers,” one of the men said. He had a bandanna on and seemed to be the leader, judging by his posture and position in the front.

“Road tax?” Drope said, his voice calm and polite. “Really? And to what authority would that tax go?”

“Er, y’know,” the prospective tax collector said. “People. Higher-ups. Queen. Y’know, them.”

Drope nodded. “You know that bandit activity is illegal, yes?”

The man nodded, and suddenly looked grim. “Alright, if you’re going to be that way…give us your money, or we kill you. That good for you, mister?”

“I’m afraid not,” Drope said, and he drew his sword. Ulysses did the same, and he summoned the spirit of the Knight within him. His stance and Drope’s mirrored eachothers: the relaxed, confident gaits of experienced swordsmen. The bandits looked uneasy, but were evidently just drunk enough to not care. The leader charged Drope, and one of the others went for Ulysses. The third, thinking perhaps that his skills weren’t necessary at this point, hung back.

Drope lashed out with viper-quickness and stabbed the bandit leader in the abdomen. The bandit said nothing, but his mouth became an O of surprise and pain. Evidently he hadn’t been expecting any resistance. Just a farmer who’d thought it’d be easier stealing from people than making his own money, perhaps.

The man who went for Ulysses was slightly more cautious. Ulysses swung for him from the side, but his blow was parried, and the bandit swung back with his own blade: a long, crooked, wicked one. He managed to strike Ulysses on the side, barely, and although the chainmail protected him, there would probably be a bruise the next day. Ulysses, tiring of this, swung with his own blade. This time he caught the bandit off guard and wasn’t parried—he made a large gash running across the bandit’s abdomen and stomach. The man collapsed on the ground, and Ulysses did him the kindness of slitting his throat and removing his pain.

He turned around to find that Lord Drope had taken the remaining highwayman prisoner.

“Do you know anything about a girl being kidnapped? Anything?” Drope hissed through his teeth. The bandit was laying on the ground, Drope’s sword at his neck, looking very nervous.

“No, nothing at all, sir! Nothing! We had nothing to do with any kidnapping, just thieves, I swear, just—”

“Shut up you driveling idiot,” Drope said, and he spat in the man’s face. “How about the bandits camping just inside Brokenthorn? Do you know anything of them?”

The bandit looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook his head. Drope kicked him in the crotch, and hard. Ulysses winced with sympathy.

“Alright, alright! I do! We’ve been trading with them for goods, okay? Their camp’s about two day’s walk in, on the southern side of the little brooke that runs there, y’know.”

Drope nodded. Ulysses didn’t think that was much more specific than what they’d already known, but he supposed it did help. And two days? That was interesting; if it was true it added a whole other day to their journey.

“How many men would you say are there?” Drope asked.

The bandit paused, thinking. “There’s probably about twenty in the group, but I dunno, probably most of them are out on jobs and stuff. Maybe a dozen will be in the camp?”

Ulysses winced inwardly. That wasn’t great news. They’d been hoping for about half that number.

Drope withdrew his blade from the man’s neck and sheathed it. “I’m sparing you because we haven’t got time to deal with cleaning up every bit of scum we pass on the way. I wouldn’t recommend that you show your face around here again, and if you’re ever arrested for banditry, and I hear about it and recognize your face, I’ll make sure you’ll get the executioner’s block. Understand?”

The bandit nodded, groveled a few words of thanks, and began to run off into the distance.

The rest of the day passed without incident. As he was falling asleep, Ulysses found himself wondering what the plan was to deal with the bandits when they arrived at the camp. There were two puzzles circling his mind as he drifted off to sleep:

The first was: Why hadn’t Drope enlisted the aid of the city guard, instead of just an inexperienced adventurer? The second was whether or not he would dream again that night.

As it turned out, he did.

[Ulysses]

In his dream, Ulysses is sitting at a large, stone, circular table. The Knight is sitting with his chin resting on his folded hands; he makes no greeting when Ulysses appeared. Ulysses simply stares into his deep blue eyes for a while, trying to fathom what life this man led. There is a compelling charisma in the Knight’s deep voice that makes him think he’d been a leader of men rather than just a simple Knight.

“Hello?” Ulysses says. The Knight looks at him solemnly.

“I’d like to discuss the upcoming battle with you, friend,” the Knight says. “I saw thy strength in combat today, and I was not impressed.”

“Well it was your skills I was using,” Ulysses says.

“True, true. But I can only use thy body to the extent that thy body is able. Much of the strength of a swordsman comes not from knowledge of technique, but from his reflexes and the strength of his muscles. Thou art lacking all three: technique, speed, and strength. We spirits are here more as teachers; thou mustn’t rely overmuch on our skills.”

Ulysses doesn’t really know what to say. The Knight seems calm during this lecture; his tone of voice never changes.

“Over time you may increase in skill and one day become a great warrior. As of now, you are merely adequate, if that. But that is not what I brought thou here to discuss. I brought thou here to discuss the Lord Drope.”

Ulysses nods. “I’ve been wondering about him myself. It seems like he’s hiding something.”

The Knight nods in acquiescence. “Doubtless, and I wonder why that is. It seems strange that he would bring two men to assault a camp with five or six times their number, no? Even with the element of surprise, that merely seems foolhardy.”

“Perhaps he has a plan?” Ulysses says. The Lord hadn’t given Ulysses any reason to doubt him. Drope didn’t seem like the sort of person to throw his life away like that.

“Perhaps,” the Knight says. “But thou dost not think that if Drope had some master plan, he would share it with thee?”

“I don’t know if he trusts me,” Ulysses admits. Probably Drope did not.

“He would be a fool if he did, and I do not take Drope for a fool. Still, there is something going on that we are not catching. Keep thine eyes open, child.”

Ulysses doesn’t appreciate being called child, but he nods. “Where are we, anyway?”

The Knight looks at him gravely. “Thou art quite an inquisitive young hero. It’s a trait that might be thy downfall. But thy question is asked with innocent purpose, and so I shalt answer it: we are at the Round Table, in Camelot. It’s one of the places I remember best from my life, one of the few memories that remains pure and untainted.”

“Where’s that—” Ulysses begins to ask, but the Knight hushes him.

“That is enough questions for one night, I think. It’s about time for you to wake up, methinks,” the Knight said. “Remember: keep thine eyes open…”

Ulysses awoke to the first beams of the sun falling over the horizon. Drope was already up and ready to go, and Ulysses hurried through breakfast so as to not slow them both down.

[Ulysses]

They reached Brokenthorn Forest at about midday. The forest started as just a sparse scattering of young oak trees, and then became denser and denser as they rode deeper into the forest. The oaks themselves became old and gnarled, and the canopy overhead made it seem like twilight. Drope had Ulysses dismount, and he sent both their steeds back towards the city. They were well-bred, intelligent animals; hopefully they would find their way back to the city of Scara Brae safely.

Hopefully Ulysses would find their way back to Scara Brae safely too.

It didn’t take long for the forest to become dense and eerie. Movement flickered between the branches, leaves rustled, and Ulysses tried to convince himself it was just squirrels and deer. This part of Brokenthorn Forest had never really been domesticated, despite attempts to start up lumberjacking operations elsewhere.

As the afternoon wound into evening, Ulysses found himself considering what the Knight had spoken to him of the previous night. What was Drope hiding, exactly? There was some piece of the puzzle that Ulysses was missing, but what? Talking to the Lord was almost useless. Ask him any question and he would dodge, or evade, or (most likely) simply say nothing at all. It was frustrating, but that was the way it was dealing with almost any member of the Scara Brae Noble Houses. Ulysses had been born into a poor fisherman’s family. He wasn’t part of that world of treachery, subterfuge, and trickery…nor would he ever be. Nor did he want to be, frankly.

Dusk came early in the forest. As the sun sank into the west, the trees blocked light, and it was like seeing through a green-gray haze. Drope said that they would travel straight through the night without rest. With luck, they would find the bandit’s camp before midnight, rescue Sophie, and escape without before dawn. Ulysses thought the plan was a bit ambitious—it assumed that nothing would go wrong, for starters—but he didn’t say so.

It got darker. The monotonous trek through the forest seemed to blur into one, lengthy, arduous hike. Ulysses stumbled over roots and caught his clothes on branches and thorns. Drope seemed able to maintain the same aloof grace he always had. Ulysses stumbled over a rock, and the Lord paused. Ulysses started to mumble an apology, but Drope silenced him and walked over to an ancient oak. There he began to run his fingers over the bark of the tree. Ulysses watched, not sure what to make of it. The Lord walked back to where Ulysses stood, and held his hands up, fingers spread. It looked as though he had webbed fingers: some silvery substance was caught between them. Ulysses’ eyes widened as he realized what it was.

“Spiderweb,” Ulysses said. “You don’t suppose that there’s giant spiders around here, do you?”

Drope nodded. “Keep your eyes open.”

A shiver went up Ulysses’ spine, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the threat of spiders…or because the advice the Lord had just given him was so eerily similar to that what the Knight had told him last night.

About an hour later, Drope vanished. One moment Ulysses was following his silhouette in the gloom, and the next he was gone. Ulysses immediately stopped. All of his instincts screamed at him to not make a single movement, that even breathing too loudly could be deadly. He stood frozen for a long time. Eventually he cautiously, ever so slowly, took a step forward. He sensed movement from above and darted to the side—and a good thing he did, too. A giant spider had swooped down to where he’d been standing only a moment before.

[Ulysses]

Even in the darkness, Ulysses' eyes blazed blue. He understood immediately what had happened. The spider’s web was above, and it waited for passersby along the path before it swooped down and grabbed them as prey. Drope had been unobservant—well that wasn’t really fair, Ulysses hadn’t noticed either—and he’d been caught in the creature’s web. If the same happened to Ulysses, they would most likely both end up devoured. The giant spider was possibly an even more formidable and cunning foe than the bandits they would be forced to deal with later. They could only count themselves lucky that it was one spider and not many…assuming that there weren’t others in the trees above.

Ulysses had the advantage of surprise. He darted forward with his blade and thrust upward into the spider’s soft belly. The creature was about as large as a horse, and its legs were long. Crouching down, Ulysses could fit underneath it; which was probably a safe place to be…away from its spiky limbs or biting mouth.

Blue blood gushed out of the sword wound, and the spider shrieked like a lobster ducked into a pot of boiling water. It stomped its legs up and down and tried to reach at the little creature beneath it. In his terror, Ulysses was hysterically reminded of a ballroom dancer. Care to dance, Mrs. Spider? he thought stupidly.

The spider jabbed at him with its legs, but Ulysses managed to dart out of the way. He readied himself for another swing of his sword, but something hot and sticky was splattered across his chest and he was flown backwards. His sword fell to the forest floor. The spider had spat a glob of web at him, and he was now plastered against a tree, unable to move. He struggled and squirmed, but found himself unable to escape. The spider approached him, eight eyes shining hungrily. Ulysses prepared for his eminent demise.

Before the spider could reach him, however, something dropped on top of it. It appeared to be…another spider? The new spider had a rider, which Ulysses realized (with shock) was the Lord Drope. He appeared to be controlling the spider via makeshift reins made out of spiderweb.

“Yah! Yah!” Drope shouted, and he hacked with his sword at the spider that had been attacking Ulysses. He struck its eyes, and the spider began bleeding immensely. It shrieked and collapsed on the ground in a heap of hairy limbs and blood. Drope motioned his strange mount over to Ulysses, and chopped away the web holding him with his sword.

“What?” was all Ulysses could manage to say. “What?”

Drope laughed and pulled Ulysses up behind him, so that they were both sitting on his spider steed. “Something has occurred to me. Are you aware of the heraldry of the Drope House?”

Ulysses shook his head, and Drope pulled up his sleeve, revealing a tattoo on his shoulder. It was a black spider on a field of green. Ulysses gasped.

“I didn’t know!” he said.

Drope motioned the spider in the correct direction of their journey. Travelling this way was much quicker. “I had one of these bastards as a pet as a kid. And what do you suppose my clothing is made out of?”

Ulysses was silent, dumbfounded.

Drope laughed again. He seemed filled with an inward fire, and he was happier than Ulysses had seen him on the whole trip. Evidently he was in his element here. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, boy.”

[Ulysses]

They did, in fact, reach the bandit’s camp at about midnight. A crescent moon stood in the sky, and they saw only by star and moonlight. The camp itself was a rough collection of tents in a clearing, with a dimly burning campfire in the middle. The bandits had posted two guards, who were patrolling about the camp. Incapacitating both guards without them alerting the others would probably be impossible. Ulysses also noted a much larger tent—probably the tent of the leader. He didn’t see Sophie anywhere.

“The leader’s probably taken her into his own tent,” Drope said with a smirk. Ulysses wasn’t sure why he looked so pleased. “He’s in for a nasty surprise, that’s all.” And Drope would explain no further.

Drope let the giant spider go, after feeding it something from a pouch on his belt, and squatted next to Ulysses on the forest floor just outside the camp. He looked deadly serious now; there was none of the joy that had suffused him earlier.

“Before we go to war together, you must know,” Drope said. “If we are to fight a battle with such hopeless odds, we must be as brothers. That’s the only way we could be victorious, do you understand?”

Ulysses thought he did, and nodded.

Drope sighed. “I suppose I have led you to believe that I have some sort of master plan for victory. I do not. There are simply us two, going up against many times our number. It is almost certainly a suicidal mission.”

Somewhere deep in his heart, Ulysses had always known this to be true. The Knight almost certainly had.

“I could not have obtained help from the City Guard, or even most other adventurers. The Drope family has been dishonored, and it is a long and difficult story why—you need not know all of it. But the fact of the matter is, despite our wealth, most other noble families wouldn’t give a Drope the time of day.” The Lord looked very sad for a moment. “But you also must know that this rescue: it is the right thing to do. My daughter is in genuine jeopardy of her life, and I love her. She is only one life among many, but that matters. Do you understand? It matters. So even if we both die, or one of us dies, we will have died a hero's death.”

Ulysses nodded. “I don’t think what kind of death you have matters much,” he admitted. “But what kind of life you lead does, and you’re right. I will help you. If I turned back now I would be a coward. But you must know something about me as well, before we go to war, as you said.”

Drope looked at him inquisitively.

“I do this for myself, and I do this because it is right. I do not go to war for any spirit or god, or for glory or money. I do not go to battle for you, or for your daughter. I go to battle tonight because it is the right thing to do, no more and no less.”

Drope nodded. “That is a noble sentiment. I think I may have misjudged you. You aren’t a great warrior, boy, but you may be one day…if you survive this night. I can’t honestly ensure that. But there’s no more time for delay, we must go. As brothers?”

Ulysses smiled wanly. “As brothers.”

The two got up from their position in the bushes and went to war.

[Ulysses]

The two warriors circled the camp until one of the bandits on watch came dangerously close to the edge of the clearing. They both jumped on him at once, and the man made only a muffled cry as Drope slit his throat.

The other bandit on guard duty was not so easily silenced. Ulysses rushed towards him, but the bandit managed to let out a cry of protest.

“Help!” he cried, and then Ulysses sword through his neck cut his cry off.

Still, the damage was done, and some of the bandits began to crawl out of their tents. They were bleary eyed and sleepy, but most of them had been smart enough to grab their weapons.

“Stand with your back to me, boy,” Drope said, and Ulysses did. They were soon surrounded by enemies. Ulysses had no time to count, but there were at least a dozen—probably more. The combatants circled eachother warily, none willing to make the first move. The situation was deadly, yet for some reason Ulysses felt elation. There was indeed something glorious about it all. Standing with his back to Drope’s, both of them willing to give their lives for eachother, he’d never felt closer to another human being.

“There was something I forgot to tell you,” Drope said, loud enough for the bandits to hear.

“What’s that?”

“If you have to go down, go down fighting. Don’t let them take you alive.”

Ulysses nodded, and the chaos began.

Several of the bandits jumped forward, and Ulysses and Drope reacted immediately. Ulysses could feel the spirit of the Knight rise within him once more, and his eyes turned that deep blue once more. He felt closer to the spirit’s true nature than he’d ever been before. Perhaps it was because he was pursuing a noble goal, rather than simply using the Knight’s talents for his own benefits.

A bandit swung his blade toward Ulysses, and he parried. The bandit’s blade went clattering to the ground, and Ulysses went in for the kill. The feeling of his blade sliding between the man’s ribs was sickening but satisfying.

There was already blood on Drope’s blade as well. The two made their way through the battlefield, taking a number of blows themselves—Ulysses had a great gash on his lower arm, and Drope’s left leg was bleeding profusely—but dealing far more to the bandits than they were taking. Soon the battlefield was littered with bodies, and the remaining bandits (of which there were a number) seemed hesitant to attack the demons that had suddenly appeared in the middle of their camp.

Still, things did not look good for Drope or Ulysses. They were still alarmingly outnumbered, and their opponents were well armed. They’d had the advantage of surprise, certainly, and at first their enemies had been half asleep. In a fair fight, however, they were almost certainly doomed. Ulysses raised his blade once more, exhausted though he was.

There was a loud noise from the bandit leader’s tent. First an enraged scream, then a howl of pain. The battle paused, and all stared at the tent. After a long moment of silence, Sophie emerged. She was a lovely girl, wearing a beautiful white dress, which was now for the most part dyed red with blood. Her eyes had the same fire that Drope’s had possessed earlier. She was carrying a knife in one hand and a sword in the other. She threw the knife, and it sprouted out of the chest of the bandit closest to her, who then collapsed onto the ground.

“He tried to rape me,” Sophie said, gesturing toward the leader’s tent. “But I don’t suppose he’ll be doing trying that with any other girls.” She smiled ferociously.

“That’s my boy,” Drope said with a smirk. Boy? Ulysses wondered. Drope must have misspoken. Sophie took her place with Ulysses and Drope, and the three of them stood back to back to back in the middle of the camp, swords raised.

The remaining bandits looked apprehensive, but at this point they were fighting for their lives as well. The battle resumed with the clanging of steel and cries of pain. Ulysses suffered a cut to his throat, which was fortunately not serious, but still hurt. Drope looked more and more tired. Only Sophie seemed to be relatively unharmed—and she fought more fiercely than either of the men.

Eventually Ulysses was surrounded by three bandits. He managed to down one of them, and another left to help a comrade deal with Sophie, but the third shoved him with his buckler, and Ulysses sprawled to the ground. The bandit’s sword darted towards his throat, and he winced. Suddenly the bandit’s arm stopped, and a sword poked out of his gut. He collapsed and revealed the Lord Drope standing behind him.

“That’s how many times I’ve saved your life now? Three?” Drope said.

“At least,” Ulysses replied with a half-smile, and he stood up. Sophie approached the other two, smiling.

“I think that was the last of them,” she said.

Ulysses breathed a heavy sigh of relief, as did Drope. “Are any of you injured seriously?” Drope asked. “If you are, we must rush to the city. If not, we should rest—”

He was cut off and his eyes widened in shock. A sword sprouted out of his chest, then retreated and left a gaping hole. Drope collapsed to the ground with a gurgle.

One of the ‘corpses’ behind Drope hadn’t been dead, apparently—just pretending to be so. The bandit had a huge hole in his abdomen, it was a wonder he could even stand. Sophie shouted in rage and plunged her own blade into the man’s chest, then twisted. The bandit let out a cry of pain and then died.

Ulysses crouched beside Silas, trying to gauge how serious the wound was. The bandit’s blade had come very near to Drope’s heart. Sophie joined him. Drope was still breathing, but heavily.

“I don’t…” Drope said. “You were always a good daughter, Sophie. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

Sophie was weeping. She said nothing, but instead embraced her father’s head. Ulysses was silent. There was nothing that could be said.

Then Silas Drope died.

[Ulysses]

The next day, the sky was clear and blue. The carnage of the day before seemed as though it had happened a million years ago. Ulysses and Sophie sat on the side of the brook, washing the blood out of their clothes, tending to their wounds, and resting. Ulysses observed Sophie’s half-naked form and felt awkward. He wasn’t sure what needed to be said, or how to say it, but Sophie did for him.

“Yes, I am a boy,” Sophie said. Without clothes on, this much was obvious from her…well, his, physical appearance. Sophie sighed. “You fought beside my father, helped to rescue me and were there when he died. I suppose you deserve to know the whole story.”

“A long time ago, my father killed the son of a member of the House Kanin in a duel. The duel was deemed unfair, as my father cheated. As per the ancient laws of the Noble Houses, my father owned the House Kanin a blood-debt: the life of his first-born son.”

“That’s horrible!” Ulysses protested.

“Yes, it is. It’s a law rarely called into play anymore, and it was made in far less civilized times. The bastards of House Kanin decided to bring it up, though, and there was no one that would support my father. He decided never to have children, but life does not always work the way we expect it to.

“I was born a boy, but my father rose me as a girl. If it had been revealed that I was a son, I would have had to die—but a daughter was safe. I spent the first fifteen years of my life as a girl, and never thought it to be particularly strange. It was just the way things were.

“Eventually, however, it was revealed by the midwife that saw over my birth that I was truly Drope’s son. The Noble Houses were in an uproar, and House Kanin was out for blood. My father, however, chose to protect me, and so received disgrace and was exiled from the Houses. House Drope was allowed to exist, and I was allowed to survive, but we were no longer a family with any influence or power. Most noblemen won’t even speak to us.”

Ulysses nodded, but he was still confused. “If your gender was revealed, why do you still live as a girl? And then why would the bandits kidnap you?”

Sophie gave him a half-smile. “Does it not occur to you that I might prefer to live this way? I have spent my entire life as a girl, it would seem strange to me to be otherwise."

“And as for the bandits…well, they kidnapped me because I asked them to, curse my stupidity. If I hadn’t, my father wouldn’t have foolishly come to rescue me, and he would still be alive.” Sophie started sobbing.

Ulysses frowned, unsure what words of condolence to offer. He’d barely known the Lord Drope, but he’d felt fairly close to the man at the end nonetheless. “He was a good man,” Ulysses offered. Was that what he was supposed to say?

Sophie looked at him sharply, tears still drying on her cheeks. “You don’t know the half of it. He was a great man, and the Noble Houses were fools to exile him over a single rash decision of his use. Scara Brae needed him, it does not need me.”

Ulysses thought he understood. “So you had yourself kidnapped? To allow your father to regain the place you thought he deserved?”

Drope’s son nodded. “It was stupid, wishful thinking on my part. My father knew that to be my plan, and that’s why he had bodyguards to protect me. I bribed one to flee the island and the other to lie. Things didn’t work out so well after that point. The bandits were vile men. The leader tried to rape me—nasty surprise on his part when he looked under my skirt, ha—and when you and my father arrived I had no choice but to join you in battle."

Ulysses nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he absolutely meant it.

Sophie started crying again. “I suppose that does mean something, coming from the man my father chose to spend his last days with. He had dreams about you, you know.”

Uysses’ eyes widened. “What?”

“Yes. He told me in the months leading to all this that he’d been having dreams of a boy with brown hair and golden eyes. I suppose he always had a bit of foresight in him.”

They were both silent for a long time. Ulysses wondered whether the dreams had truly been a premonition, or if they’d been a trick from the spirit Cydonia to lead the man to Ulysses. Probably the latter, he guessed.

“I guess we should head back to the city,” Ulysses said. Sophie shook his head.

“Not me. There’s no life for me there. You go, but I must forge a life for myself in the countryside somehow. Maybe I’ll leave the island. Go to the Elvish Territories, perhaps. I’ve always wanted to see elves.”

Ulysses embraced him. “Alright,” he said. “Alright.”

The two parted without another word. Ulysses went down the forest path back to the city, and Sophie began to follow the brook downstream. Eventually it would lead him to a river, and then the ocean, and then who knew where? Ulysses was certain that he could fend for himself.

Ulysses himself wasn’t sure where he would go to next. Back to the city of Scara Brae, he thought. That was where he belonged. He thought over the adventure as he walked, and considered how strangely everything had turned out.

[Taskmienster]

Super Sorry for the Delay! I read over the thread once, without looking at it to judge it, just to read it. I wanted to try it that way to get a better idea of what’s going on instead of immediately jumping into judging. That initially took me only an hour or two. Then I got distracted, put it off for a moment, and then forgot about it till Zook reminded me. :D

Now, your judgment!

If it’s not detailed enough for you, or you have specific questions or concerns, feel free to PM me or catch me on AIM at TheTaskmeinster (I know, super original. :))


Continuity 5

:: The only true continuity in regards to your background I get is what I saw in the dreams, which doesn’t exactly explain everything, and a few sparse scatterings of sentences here and there regarding your past. One in the 7th post says something about a fishing village, but nothing else really about it. Remember to put in some things about background leading up to the point you are at, because it’s important for the reader to understand that character on the fundamental level as much as his current motives. It explains motives in the current situation for the thread, but also helps explain a lot about personality and actions as you go along.

Setting 5

:: [[The bartender smiled a reptilian smile. “Naw, nothing like that. Just a friendly game of darts among pals, eh?” The men at the surrounding tables burst out laughing. They’d seen this game played before, and it was amusing enough.]] Post 1 :: This is a great example of persona through narrative, with the use of “reptilian smile”. However, what I noted this for was the ability for you to utilize the writing to offer the reader a little more in the way of setting. We’re interested in the surroundings, from the way they look, smell, feel, sound, and taste… but it’s also easy to incorporate a setting and mood of a scene by use of characters. You can easily elaborate a little more on the other patrons of the bar and in turn give an example of just what type of people may frequent where you are. It adds a bit of feeling, but also helps make your NPC’s come alive a little more. It’s not always about only the physical setting, but also the feel that you are trying to display.

Pacing 5

:: A few things noted here and there in the comments of other categories. However, I’d like to add that sometimes you tend to just jump ahead quite a bit in time, yet still want to elaborate a little bit here and there on it. It is a way of writing that a few use, and it’s not bad, but at times it can be burdening to read. Suddenly your done with the bandits, you dreamt in the next post, and the next you are looking at a forest. Where did the rest of the time go? If you are going to elaborate, make sure to add enough into the explanation of the time that passed to show what happened, what your character was thinking, the effects of the time in the saddle leading up to that point… stuff like that. It doesn’t add too much more to the writing, but it will help transition between the scenes much more smoothly.

Dialogue 6

:: The dialogue for the knight changed quite a bit from the first dream to the second. Remember to remain consistent. If you want him to talk in old English, keep it that way every time. Otherwise it’s as if I’m reading a entirely different character’s dialogue and speech.

Action 4

:: [[That day, they encountered a blockade in the road.]] Post 5 :: It’s a bit of a pacing thing that I noted first, then I figured it’d also serve well with action as well as setting. Instead of just throwing in something random without anything truly leading up to it, write it out a bit more. Explain what you saw from a distance, setting, and elaborate a little bit to get the reader into it, pacing. First and foremost, however, if you saw it from a distance, why head for it? That’s both action and persona. What makes you want to continue riding towards what looks like a trap? Is it heroic valor that makes you want to break it up? Or is it general inexperience with the world and what you were about to encounter?

:: Also in that post, you throw both your character and the NPC into combat… but it seems that you are fighting on the ground. Last I knew you were on horses, though not sure when you switched from horse to foot.

Persona 5

:: I commented a lot of this in other parts. However, persona in regards to what I said in dialogue is probably the most immediately prevalent and valuable thing. If you change the way someone speaks and what they do, like I said in action, then you’re going to have to explain why they changed in that way. Also, if you keep the action and dialogue the same throughout and elaborate a little bit more on it as you go, the persona of the characters will most often flourish beautifully with the writing itself without much more work at all.

Technique 4

:: [[He'd drunk more than any man in the bar that night, but he hadn't gotten the slightest bit drunk.]] Post 1 :: You use the word drunk 3 times in that paragraph, 2 of them in the same sentence. It’s not bad, exactly, but it tends to detract from the writing a little when you overuse a word. Try and mix it up, use synonyms and such in place of drunk and you can avoid overusing the word.

:: You tend to do this thing when you write… by using a hyphen you avoid going into too much detail about what is being expressed and as such you tend to have something really short. Brevity is not discouraged, by any means, but it takes away from golden opportunities to incorporate more descriptive interjections. I’ll post a couple examples below.

[Post 1] “Only the bartender seemed unamused—he was frowning.” Instead of “he was frowning.” You can have something more in-depth; explain the frown in a simile or something. It’s not difficult to find little points in a thread to add a little bit more to them.

[Post 2] “He was dripping wet—it was pouring rain outside.” Again, the part after the hyphen can be given more depth and turned into something that is more advanced in its technique.

Mechanics 7

:: [[Once Ulysses knew how to correct for the weight, this was no different than a normal game of darts.]] Post 1 :: “this” is a word that often refers to present tense, which is a tense disagreement with the past tense that you have been writing with. Its not a huge problem, but one I’ll always pick up because tense agreements always catch my eye immediately. :p. It’s easy to fix though. You could have changed “this” to the word “it” and remained in the past tense.

:: [[The two would most likely have to use stealth to accomplish this mission successfully.]] Post 5 :: Used “this” again.

Clarity 7

:: Generally everything was clear except for a few questions I had regarding the action with the roadblock as I said above. Other than that, I was confused at a few points, but you cleared those up with further narrative and storytelling later on which is great. I love wondering about something only to find out as the story progresses what the answers to my questions are. In that regard, I wish it had been a little bit longer (just to add some more here and there) and I wish you would have thrown in a little more advanced techniques with the writing. As it stands, it was really easy to read though.

Wild Card 6


Score: 54


Rewards:

Ulysses gains 550 exp and 175 gold
((Added a little extra gold for assisting the noble peeps!))

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added!