Post by Grimm on Sept 24, 2020 11:13:50 GMT -5
I played a little Dungeons and Dragons back around, oh, 25 years ago. However, given the state of the world, a friend of mine thought some virtual D&D would be fun, and oh my goodness is it ever. He's DM'ing, and most of our party of 6 haven't played before, but we're playing through a beginning story called the Lost Mines of Phandalin on this virtual site called 'roll20.' I play Mad Enoch, a half-orc monk, and I've had a lot of fun fleshing out his backstory. Here are two pieces I wrote during some downtime for our roll20 forums (no one else has done this, but you can't take the PCW out of guy, am I right?), and I'm going to share them without any explanation because that would take too long.
~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, back in Phandalin...
Having already been witness to one Nothic feeding frenzy, Mad Enoch decided to heed young Carp's advice. He walked across the town square to Stonehill Inn where a crowd had already gathered. The citizens were in the midst of a celebration of sorts after Carp's berserker rage and the (seeming) fate of the Red Brand menace, at least for now.
The people of Phandalin had learned to appreciate any good fortune that came their way, for as long as they could. If history was any indication, it would not last for long.
Mad Enoch stepped inside and started towards the back. The crowd parted to let him pass, and he paid no mind to the whispers or stares. Besides, they closed ranks and resumed their frivolity as soon as he was through. There was too much relief and, dare they admit it, joy to concern themselves too much with a half-orc amongst them.
Stepping up to the counter, Toblin Stonehill greeted him.
"Ah, and a good day to you, Master Enoch! How..."
Toblin paused and looked Mad Enoch up and down. He noted blood running down his chin and a Red Right Hand, the result of uppercutting one of those dastardly Red Brands through the roof of sweet Sister Graele's home and smashing Robo-Gerber in his stupid face.
"You look a fright, Master Enoch. Are you well?"
Mad Enoch raised that hand. He clinched and released a fist, then watched flakes of dried blood drift down.
"Ship shape," he said.
Toblin wiped off the countertop. He gave Mad Enoch another once-over, and shrugged. Leaning in, he said, "I bet some goblin fritters would perk you right up, eh?"
The half-orc ran his tongue over his teeth. "I'm well taken care of in that respect, thank you. But I would like a ginger ale."
Toblin rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Of course! Coming right up." He returned lickity-split with a frosty mug and exchanged it for a silver piece.
"Just say the word if you change your mind."
Mad Enoch raised his mug, nodded, and made his way to a corner table by the window. He took a long drink then reached into his pack and withdrew a scroll case. Digging further into the case, he pulled out a quill, ink, and some parchment. He arranged it all just so in front of him.
Now, unknown to anyone outside the walls of the House of Two Hands, Mad Enoch had studied the art of calligraphy as a means to not only make a living as a scrivener (when the time came -- if the time came), but also as part of his training. As an exercise in focus. In clearing the mind. And so, given the raucous surroundings and his recent foray into the practical aspects of martial arts, he resumed said practice.
Mad Enoch closed his eyes. Took three deep breaths. And began copying out from memory the dogma of a certain deity.
Uphold true and fitting justice and maintain the spirit of the law, not the letter of the law. Fitting recompense will always accrue for one's actions. Violence will meet violence and evil pay back evil, but good will also come to those who do good SEEK UNCEASING WAR AGAINST YOUR ENEMIES, AND KILL OR ENSLAVE THOSE WHO OPPOSE YOU. BE STRONG, AND BE PREPARED TO SHOW YOUR STRENGTH AT ANY MOMENT.
Mad Enoch blinked. He looked round about and saw that everything was as it should be. He closed his eyes again, took three more deep breaths, then leaned back over the parchment.
Walk the line of the Doombringer's teachings, seeking retribution, but do not fall into the trap of pursuing evil acts for evil's sake, for that way is seductive and leads only to one's downfall. Vengeance must be sought for all injustices, and all punishments must fit the crime THOSE THAT ARE TOO WEAK TO FIGHT FOR YOUR TRIBE SHOULD BE PUT TO THE SPEAR. THE GREATEST GIFT THAT HE-WHO-WATCHES GAVE TO THE ORCS WAS THE ABILITY TO SURVIVE WHERE THE WEAKER RACES WOULD DIE.
He squeezed his hands into fists and stared at the writing.
"You are Kerr-noon-os of the Even-Handed. Never forget that."
He rushed through the rest of it.
Revenge is sweetest when it is sharpened with irony. All attacks must be avenged. Those who do not respond to attacks against their person or that which they hold dear only invite future attacks.
It's too noisy in here, he thought. Even for a monk. Mad Enoch downed the rest of his ginger ale and moved to pack up his supplies once the ink had sufficiently dried. But then...a flash of a bloody spear and one terrible eye, and he heard a guttural laugh cut through the cacophony around him. A growl as if He-Who-Never-Sleeps loomed just over his shoulder.
"I created you out of my blood and hatred, Oathbreaker. You cannot run from your fate."
Mad Enoch shook his head, then stood and cricked his neck. He wondered where the rest of them had gone off to.
~~~~~~~~~
Previously, at Stonehill Inn...
Mad Enoch stood on a windswept hilltop. The light from the new moon shone on the clearing, and gave rise to an audience of shadows from the trees encircling him. Bowing to the four cardinal directions as best he could reckon, the half-orc monk took his stance, and began.
The katas had become second nature, and he moved with a speed and a grace that belied his size and stature. With open hand, closed fist, snapping kick, and twirling staff, he dispatched the shadows in sequence.
Memory of Dark. Shining Wizard. Garnet of Indignation. Blinking Prison Killer. Buggy and Coffin. Subtle Hand Gathering Star. Get Over Here.
Mad Enoch punctuated each movement with what would be a devastating headbutt to even the most hardy of opponents, which was his own contribution to his studies at the House of the Two Hands.
Hoar help anyone who faced this dervish whirling down on them.
As he moved on to complete the full framework of the Science of Eight Limbs, he detected movement at the edge of the tree line. Pausing in mid elbow strike, Mad Enoch saw it was a rodent and nothing more. But it scurried straight at him, and as it did it began to grow. Closer, and larger, until the biggest rat he had ever seen sat on its enormous haunches in front of him.
But then…
…it rose up, stretching to inconceivable proportions, until it loomed over Mad Enoch as a figure. Huge, misshapen, black, and towering. Without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the hill top.
But then…
…Mad Enoch saw the one eye gleaming red in the midst of the dark. The spear glinting in what little moonlight had not been blotted out by the presence.
By Gruumsh.
“You know, if you’re going to serve me, you’re going to have to make some sacrifices.”
It sounded like a legion of voices swirling round him. Like muddy water rushing over rocks.
Mad Enoch tightened his grip on the quarterstaff.
“I never took an oath to you,” he said, watching his breath plume out into that void as it grew ever more frigid.
Was that a chuckle he heard in the gloom?
“Oh, but you did. The moment you were born. Even if it was to that puny excuse of a creature you call a mother. You may not be pure orc, but you’re enough of one to feel it, aren’t you? That rush when you crack a skull or crush a windpipe. That flicker of hate when you look at those elves and half-elves and humans all around you. Even now, after all you’ve done for them, you disgust them. You’re nothing but an ignorant wretch of an orc to them. Claim that right. Show them what that really means.”
The emptiness that was Gruumsh leaned in. Mad Enoch braced himself. For what, exactly, he didn’t know.
“I beg to differ, old one-eye.”
Now, that was definitely a chuckle.
“Do you, now? You and Hoar are always talking of vengeance…what do you think I seek? Hmm? And here you are keeping company with the very foul beasts that stole everything from me. From us.”
The huge shadow grew a bit more…substantial…as if it were coalescing into a material form. The eye turned its full regard on Mad Enoch.
“Do you know what we could do with that Forge? There’d be no creature in the land that could stand against us. That old drow fancies himself a mighty powerful wizard, but at the end of the day he’s just an elf. And you know what we do to elves.”
The shadow dissipated, withdrew, but then it was all encompassing. No more moon. No more trees.
“You could lead the Furies of My Eye. You could be the sharpest of my Tusks. All you have to do…”
The Plucking.
Mad Enoch felt fingers probing his face. They found his left eye, and began to dig…
He blinked. The bed gave a mighty creak as he shifted beneath the covers. Slowly but surely, Mad Enoch reached up to check…
Yes, both eyes were still in place.
He sat up and rested against the wall. Looking out the one window, he saw where the sun had begun its ascent out there over the Sword Mountains. Glimmers of indigo and orange let him know that despite all of that, he had slept through the night. Waking further, he smelled breakfast cooking downstairs. The Stonehill family must already be hard at work, bless their hearts. It smelled delicious – despite his taste for goblin, which still confused (and slightly disturbed) him. Before tending to that, though, and before meeting the rest of his friends (because, yes, they were his friends) to begin the journey to Cragmaw Castle, he needed to get his mind, his body, his soul, right with Hoar. And with himself.
Mad Enoch swung his feet out onto the floor. He caught the jade frog in the corner of his eye, as it had been placed on a chair in the corner of the room in such a way that it looked right at him. Mad Enoch narrowed those eyes of his – the one blue, the other white.
Don’t judge me.
~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, back in Phandalin...
Having already been witness to one Nothic feeding frenzy, Mad Enoch decided to heed young Carp's advice. He walked across the town square to Stonehill Inn where a crowd had already gathered. The citizens were in the midst of a celebration of sorts after Carp's berserker rage and the (seeming) fate of the Red Brand menace, at least for now.
The people of Phandalin had learned to appreciate any good fortune that came their way, for as long as they could. If history was any indication, it would not last for long.
Mad Enoch stepped inside and started towards the back. The crowd parted to let him pass, and he paid no mind to the whispers or stares. Besides, they closed ranks and resumed their frivolity as soon as he was through. There was too much relief and, dare they admit it, joy to concern themselves too much with a half-orc amongst them.
Stepping up to the counter, Toblin Stonehill greeted him.
"Ah, and a good day to you, Master Enoch! How..."
Toblin paused and looked Mad Enoch up and down. He noted blood running down his chin and a Red Right Hand, the result of uppercutting one of those dastardly Red Brands through the roof of sweet Sister Graele's home and smashing Robo-Gerber in his stupid face.
"You look a fright, Master Enoch. Are you well?"
Mad Enoch raised that hand. He clinched and released a fist, then watched flakes of dried blood drift down.
"Ship shape," he said.
Toblin wiped off the countertop. He gave Mad Enoch another once-over, and shrugged. Leaning in, he said, "I bet some goblin fritters would perk you right up, eh?"
The half-orc ran his tongue over his teeth. "I'm well taken care of in that respect, thank you. But I would like a ginger ale."
Toblin rapped his knuckles on the bar. "Of course! Coming right up." He returned lickity-split with a frosty mug and exchanged it for a silver piece.
"Just say the word if you change your mind."
Mad Enoch raised his mug, nodded, and made his way to a corner table by the window. He took a long drink then reached into his pack and withdrew a scroll case. Digging further into the case, he pulled out a quill, ink, and some parchment. He arranged it all just so in front of him.
Now, unknown to anyone outside the walls of the House of Two Hands, Mad Enoch had studied the art of calligraphy as a means to not only make a living as a scrivener (when the time came -- if the time came), but also as part of his training. As an exercise in focus. In clearing the mind. And so, given the raucous surroundings and his recent foray into the practical aspects of martial arts, he resumed said practice.
Mad Enoch closed his eyes. Took three deep breaths. And began copying out from memory the dogma of a certain deity.
Uphold true and fitting justice and maintain the spirit of the law, not the letter of the law. Fitting recompense will always accrue for one's actions. Violence will meet violence and evil pay back evil, but good will also come to those who do good SEEK UNCEASING WAR AGAINST YOUR ENEMIES, AND KILL OR ENSLAVE THOSE WHO OPPOSE YOU. BE STRONG, AND BE PREPARED TO SHOW YOUR STRENGTH AT ANY MOMENT.
Mad Enoch blinked. He looked round about and saw that everything was as it should be. He closed his eyes again, took three more deep breaths, then leaned back over the parchment.
Walk the line of the Doombringer's teachings, seeking retribution, but do not fall into the trap of pursuing evil acts for evil's sake, for that way is seductive and leads only to one's downfall. Vengeance must be sought for all injustices, and all punishments must fit the crime THOSE THAT ARE TOO WEAK TO FIGHT FOR YOUR TRIBE SHOULD BE PUT TO THE SPEAR. THE GREATEST GIFT THAT HE-WHO-WATCHES GAVE TO THE ORCS WAS THE ABILITY TO SURVIVE WHERE THE WEAKER RACES WOULD DIE.
He squeezed his hands into fists and stared at the writing.
"You are Kerr-noon-os of the Even-Handed. Never forget that."
He rushed through the rest of it.
Revenge is sweetest when it is sharpened with irony. All attacks must be avenged. Those who do not respond to attacks against their person or that which they hold dear only invite future attacks.
It's too noisy in here, he thought. Even for a monk. Mad Enoch downed the rest of his ginger ale and moved to pack up his supplies once the ink had sufficiently dried. But then...a flash of a bloody spear and one terrible eye, and he heard a guttural laugh cut through the cacophony around him. A growl as if He-Who-Never-Sleeps loomed just over his shoulder.
"I created you out of my blood and hatred, Oathbreaker. You cannot run from your fate."
Mad Enoch shook his head, then stood and cricked his neck. He wondered where the rest of them had gone off to.
~~~~~~~~~
Previously, at Stonehill Inn...
Mad Enoch stood on a windswept hilltop. The light from the new moon shone on the clearing, and gave rise to an audience of shadows from the trees encircling him. Bowing to the four cardinal directions as best he could reckon, the half-orc monk took his stance, and began.
The katas had become second nature, and he moved with a speed and a grace that belied his size and stature. With open hand, closed fist, snapping kick, and twirling staff, he dispatched the shadows in sequence.
Memory of Dark. Shining Wizard. Garnet of Indignation. Blinking Prison Killer. Buggy and Coffin. Subtle Hand Gathering Star. Get Over Here.
Mad Enoch punctuated each movement with what would be a devastating headbutt to even the most hardy of opponents, which was his own contribution to his studies at the House of the Two Hands.
Hoar help anyone who faced this dervish whirling down on them.
As he moved on to complete the full framework of the Science of Eight Limbs, he detected movement at the edge of the tree line. Pausing in mid elbow strike, Mad Enoch saw it was a rodent and nothing more. But it scurried straight at him, and as it did it began to grow. Closer, and larger, until the biggest rat he had ever seen sat on its enormous haunches in front of him.
But then…
…it rose up, stretching to inconceivable proportions, until it loomed over Mad Enoch as a figure. Huge, misshapen, black, and towering. Without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the hill top.
But then…
…Mad Enoch saw the one eye gleaming red in the midst of the dark. The spear glinting in what little moonlight had not been blotted out by the presence.
By Gruumsh.
“You know, if you’re going to serve me, you’re going to have to make some sacrifices.”
It sounded like a legion of voices swirling round him. Like muddy water rushing over rocks.
Mad Enoch tightened his grip on the quarterstaff.
“I never took an oath to you,” he said, watching his breath plume out into that void as it grew ever more frigid.
Was that a chuckle he heard in the gloom?
“Oh, but you did. The moment you were born. Even if it was to that puny excuse of a creature you call a mother. You may not be pure orc, but you’re enough of one to feel it, aren’t you? That rush when you crack a skull or crush a windpipe. That flicker of hate when you look at those elves and half-elves and humans all around you. Even now, after all you’ve done for them, you disgust them. You’re nothing but an ignorant wretch of an orc to them. Claim that right. Show them what that really means.”
The emptiness that was Gruumsh leaned in. Mad Enoch braced himself. For what, exactly, he didn’t know.
“I beg to differ, old one-eye.”
Now, that was definitely a chuckle.
“Do you, now? You and Hoar are always talking of vengeance…what do you think I seek? Hmm? And here you are keeping company with the very foul beasts that stole everything from me. From us.”
The huge shadow grew a bit more…substantial…as if it were coalescing into a material form. The eye turned its full regard on Mad Enoch.
“Do you know what we could do with that Forge? There’d be no creature in the land that could stand against us. That old drow fancies himself a mighty powerful wizard, but at the end of the day he’s just an elf. And you know what we do to elves.”
The shadow dissipated, withdrew, but then it was all encompassing. No more moon. No more trees.
“You could lead the Furies of My Eye. You could be the sharpest of my Tusks. All you have to do…”
The Plucking.
Mad Enoch felt fingers probing his face. They found his left eye, and began to dig…
He blinked. The bed gave a mighty creak as he shifted beneath the covers. Slowly but surely, Mad Enoch reached up to check…
Yes, both eyes were still in place.
He sat up and rested against the wall. Looking out the one window, he saw where the sun had begun its ascent out there over the Sword Mountains. Glimmers of indigo and orange let him know that despite all of that, he had slept through the night. Waking further, he smelled breakfast cooking downstairs. The Stonehill family must already be hard at work, bless their hearts. It smelled delicious – despite his taste for goblin, which still confused (and slightly disturbed) him. Before tending to that, though, and before meeting the rest of his friends (because, yes, they were his friends) to begin the journey to Cragmaw Castle, he needed to get his mind, his body, his soul, right with Hoar. And with himself.
Mad Enoch swung his feet out onto the floor. He caught the jade frog in the corner of his eye, as it had been placed on a chair in the corner of the room in such a way that it looked right at him. Mad Enoch narrowed those eyes of his – the one blue, the other white.
Don’t judge me.