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Comment: "Khwaj, jerk, no fair posting roleplaying stories without
a huge warning on them. I almost read some of that." Well, I'm warning you now. Someone on the Rookgaard forum started one of those "ongoing" stories, and offered a prize to the best contributor. As far as I know, they never paid anyone. Not that I much cared. |
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| Kulla | ||
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Kulla was a kind-hearted sort of herbalist, and though outwardly shunned by local townspeople for her crafts, her assistance was often sought in secret. Above the soft hush of the forest canopy in the breeze, she heard the quiet breathing of the abandoned child. As she approached, she caught the scent of a distant hearth, perhaps a campfire, long extinguished. In a quick moment the child was in her arms, warm through his rough and hasty wrappings. Kulla was neither stranger to children nor their needs, and she started off homeward, recalling the contents of her cupboards. Perhaps it was a draft that was causing her usually modest cookfire to burn so fiercely. Kulla had no complaints, though, as she was able to quickly warm some milk. Nall lay comfortably on the peak of the roof, his flexible neck allowing him to peek at the scene through a high window. He watched Arthimus feed and brighten as he did. The young dragon soon dozed to the sound of both witch and child giggling, knowing he had found an apt guardian. Nall awoke with a start and quickly rolled onto his haunches. He has no time to place the smell of well-oiled steel before the night was disturbed by a THUNK THUNK THUNK at the door. "Witch! Witch! Open and obey!" came the booming voice of a soldier. Kulla roused and instinctively checked on the child. Surprisingly, he was awake, yet quiet. Had she forgotten to open the flue in the chimney? The air was a touch smoky. She hastened to the door and opened a small window within it. "If you should like some help you'd best be more polite," whispered Kulla. Her eyes went a bit wide as she noticed how many torches she saw beyond the rough corners of the grim guardsman's face. "A child was lost in your swamp. Give it us, and be thankful if we leave both you and your house intact!" he growled. "I see," whispered Kulla, "you stout men must all be the child's father?" As she spoke, her hands moved silently, fingers folding and unfolding into weaving gestures. The door began to creak. "OPEN THIS DOOR!" barked the man, as he put his back against its worn surface. The creaking then became a squeaking, and the squeaking an unusual popping, as small green nibs appeared at the edges of the aged oaken door. These soon grew outwards, not towards man or moon, but radiating out from the edge of the doorway. The now long green branches then turned into the surrounding stone wall's rough surface, piercing and forcing and gripping where they could. In a blink, the tendrils thickened and hardened into the stout arms of an ancient oak. |
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Comment: So I leave the old witch and child barracaded in an
oak-reinforced cottage surrounded by soldiers. That's a hefty
setup for the next contributor, I was thinking! Of course, they followed up my part of the story with something like: "Well, Kulla and the baby were at the next town because they escaped." A tasty cliffhanger handed right to 'em, and they buggar it up. What a giant ball of suck. |
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