Posted by Macheath on January 10, 2000 at 23:37:34:
I started this a long time ago, when I was bored and feeling creative, I suppose. As I'm now trying to purge myself of all CF-related inspiration, I finished it and am posting it here. I almost feel obligated to apologize. But anyway; read it if you have a few extra minutes and it won't be too painful for you. The song of the golden ekkabird is an ethereal sort of sound. It floats above more mundane birdsongs, exhibiting an extreme range of pitches and an amazing variety of rhythmic patterns, often shaming other animals of the avian persuasion into utterly embarrassed silence. Emperors and sultans, kings and councillors, wealthy men of all civilizations have chosen this bird as a pet more often than any other living creature because of its song's narcotic effect. Known to flourish in the northeastern parts of the main Theran continent, golden ekkabirds provide hours of entertainment to any travelers which might happen by. Some say that on Poetry's last day in Asgaard, these feathered creatures were blessed - or cursed - in several different mysterious ways. Not exceptionally smart birds by any standard, golden ekkabirds simply croon vapidly on into the evenings day after day, causing those within earshot to be overcome by wonder and empty-headed fascination. The near-comatose state sometimes brought on by the bird's song can result in several mental conditions, given prolonged exposure or - gods forbid - a gaggle of the little tweetling demons. Still, despite this odd and unfortunate drawback, golden ekkabirds are widely considered one of the most beautiful phenomena in Thera. Perhaps this is why the imperial centurion named Bagatus found them to be so irritating. "Almost did get that one," he called over his shoulder to Gand, another centurion he often found himself paired with during daily duties. Bagatus plucked another stone from the ground and heaved it skyward, into a nearby tree. His action was met with the satisfying crash of leaves, and the startled ekkabird's song turned to a frightened squeal as it fled the scene in terror. Snickering happily, Bagatus turned his scarred face toward Gand. The dour centurion stood a few yards away, peering sternly down the merchant road the two were stationed upon. "Why do they post us here," he wondered aloud, "when there is already a set of centurions a bare hundred spans in that direction... and yet another in that?" Gand turned and indicated the opposite pole. Bagatus examined the soldiers down the road to the south. One of them waved happily. "That do be a good question," he replied. He was turning to view the set to the north when a sudden hacking cough interrupted Gand's moment of profundity. "Halt! Who does go there?" boomed Bagatus enthusiastically. Without a bona fide Brawn Education at the Citadel or a certificate from Seantryn's Law Academy, both of which Gand could boast, Bagatus had to make do with his natural gifts. He felt, and rightly so, that his vim, vigor and volume more than made up for the learned skill or talent of other centurions. "In the name of the Emperor and his Grand Empire, none shall pass without proper and due--" "Shaddup, 'fore I rip yer heart out o yer throat an shove it up yer ass, eh," spluttered a disembodied voice. Unsettlingly, the unseen speaker sounded as though it was a scant fifteen feet away and closing the distance rapidly. The air before the two centurions rippled and lurched there on the road, and Bagatus swooned momentarily. To him, foreground and background became one, then switched places and abruptly popped back to their correct positions, while a line he hadn't noticed stretched and slid into a human-sized distortion that seemed imprinted upon the backs of his eyes. He resisted the temptation to vomit and slowly realized he was staring no longer at a twisted area of space, but at a small gray man garbed in arcane robes. "High Arcanus!" gasped Gand, dropping suddenly to his knees. Bagatus had never seen Macheath before. Like most people, Bagatus only knew the irreverent drow by reputation... it seemed that the high councilman preferred life as a social recluse, at least in regards to the centurion ranks. Bagatus had heard about Macheath's molten face before, of course, but had preferred to believe that the reports exaggerated things. They didn't; the crude High Arcanus was not a pretty man. "Eh..." mumbled Macheath, tapping a twisted wand which appeared to be constructed from a snake's tongue against his scarred lips with a hand covered in a net of living, crawling spiders. Bagatus shuddered involuntarily. "Ain't you gonna bow too, or do I hafta pop yer kneecaps off?" Bagatus blinked and forced his knees to the ground, while his temper rose. He peered up at the faceless gray figure before him as he groveled, noting that he was likely nearly two feet taller than Macheath, and that the man was covered with numerous bleeding gashes. One good slice, he thought, seething, that's all it would take. I hate taking orders from people like him. Grinding his teeth in a physical effort to control himself, he glanced over at motionless Gand, who was frantically trying to gain his attention with nothing more than a fluttering eyelash. Before he could discern what Gand was attempting to communicate with his complex eyelid movements, the wounded High Arcanus broke his own silence. "Ya ain't seen a svirf village wench through here, name o Chichiana, have ya?" "No, High Arcanus, not today, High Arcanus!" jittered pitiful, gutless, gibbering Gand. Bagatus was disgusted. "Inattentive sons o... I been followin her since New ThaAAUhhhgk--!" Both centurions abruptly leapt to their feet, to see Macheath frantically gasping for air while being pulled down the path by the rugged leather whip suddenly lashed around his neck. In the tow of a furious faced svirfneblin woman. Gand unsheathed his sword and loosed a warcry, then gaped wild-eyed at Bagatus. He was settling down to rest on his rear end in the dry dirt of the sun-baked road. "What are you doing?" shrieked the readied warrior to the sitting man. "I do be resting to enjoy the fight, and you do be staying at your post. Loyal centurions we are, standing and watching where we have been assigned to stand and watch!" replied Bagatus with a degree of satisfaction. The ringing sounds of war metals crashing against one another and the crackling of magical might mingled together with Macheath's livid profanities, shouted at the highest volume a set of mere drowish lungs could muster. Some distance down the road now, the brawling pair had been joined by noisy Thrym and his bellowing students, who were always itching for combat. Gand covered his ears, a horrified expression sprawled across his stark white features. He whirled to face Bagatus once more, aghast. He worked his jaw silently, as though searching in vain for proper words, then resignedly joined Bagatus in quietly watching the battle down the path. Macheath's cursing had reached a feverish intensity. Bagatus opened his satchel and lifted a chunk of bread from its confines. The two fighters moved away from Thrym's band of lumbering men as Macheath struggled to bring the conflict back within his reach. He was forced to duck behind buildings and trees and attempt to catch the tiny warrior woman off guard in order to use his most potent magics. As he fought, pieces of his gear flashed and sparked, exploding and popping and grinding away at his opponent in impressive style while he himself weathered a rather savage beating. The centurions on the road, both Bagatus and Gand and their counterparts a ways down the path, watched placidly as their drowish superior scampered across the road and out of sight, into a building. Chichiana gave chase, then was flung back across the road to slam bodily into the dirt, her round little body rolling easily. When Macheath followed, roaring something about the price of a good deep gnome prostitute in Seantryn, he had a massive golem of mud, rocks, and clay rumbling at his side. The monstrosity thumped its feet against the ground as it walked, sending tremors as far as Arkham, or so it seemed to Bagatus, who was slowly eating his rye loaf. Between blazing insults and fiery predictions of painful doom, the High Arcanus had managed to utter several useful incantations. Chichiana was now as limber as a piece of wood as she fought, every muscle in her body far too tense for effective fighting--a condition brought about by Macheath's weavings. Now the diminutive mage had gained the upper hand, and he grabbed hold of the tiny villager's body with invisible arms, raising it into the air and slamming it forcefully to the ground repeatedly. With each bone jarring collision, Macheath's spiteful grumblings grew in color, with a marvelous crescendo to a finale that had Gand covering his ears again. Bagatus offered him some rye bread to make him feel better, while marveling at the pyrotechnic display that was currently burning Chichiana's small corpse to ash. A glowing cube in Macheath's hands shivered and trembled, bits of his shining clothing sparked and spit flame, and an array of wands and rods at his belt flashed angrily as he evoked their power in time with his cursing. Realizing that the svirfneblin was now dead and not simply paralyzed, Macheath ended his tirade and stood panting where she had fallen, kicking idly at her limp weapon arm. His golem stared down at him, as if awaiting further orders, and he glared directly up into its blank visage and kicked its shin viciously; he yelped in pain as his foot sank through the clay giant's leg until it founded itself upon a particularly sharp rock. He then grumpily affixed his featureless gaze upon Bagatus and stalked toward the centurion pair, limping. Bagatus dropped to his knees without needing to be told, in unison with Gand. "Well fought, High Arcanus, you do be a terrific specimen of--" "I ain't really interested right now. Me foot hurts, an I ain't had any sleep in over six hours. What's th damn racket goin on out here, eh?" Bagatus looked up at Macheath's irritated face in utter confusion, spreading his hands helplessly. "Th birds, eh! They're drivin me ta distraction! Kill 'em all, an sacrifice their bodies ta whatever gods ya feel like." "They are golden ekkabirds, High Arcanus, and they are a favorite of the sultan..." began Gand. "Hideous noise, an so loud I couldn't hear me own brain tryin ta tell me legs where ta walk. They'd better be extinct startin tomorrow. Get goin." Macheath spun on one heel - his uninjured heel - and stumped his bloodied frame north toward the citadel. Thus began the shortest, bloodiest, and least known campaign in the history of the Empire - ordered by a faceless man, endured by a race of birds, and waged by a small and hastily assembled band of drunken Thalonian sailors willing to work on a centurion’s wage, divided six ways.