From: ASG102@psuvm.psu.edu (The Dreamer) Date: 9 Jul 93 13:52:53 GMT Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [MG] Beginning of the End What Has Gone Before: A "pocket reality" has been discovered by Luthor and Erik due to its interference with the normal probability field in Generica. The pocket is anchored to a spot in the kitchen of the Spitting Cobra, a Low City tavern of violent reputation. ------------ "I'll get by with a little help from my friends" - The Beatles Serene touched a warm hand to Luthor's face. His eyes focused. When he saw his companion standing next to him, he flashed her a white smile. "Sorry, I was daydreaming again," he said, alittle embarassed. "That's okay. Do you need anything? I'm going to the basement to see if Trawm has anything in this bar asside from beer." "No, I'm fine, but thanks. You might want to check on Erik, he seems a little down." Luthor nodded in Erik's direction. He was sitting at a table with a deck of cards in his hand. From the pattern on the table, it appeared that he was about to win his twenty-third consecutive game of solitaire. Probability mages tend to find games of chance booring. Serene walked to his side. "What's the matter Erik?" she asked concerned. "What? Oh, nothing. It's just that we rushed over to the 'Cobra and now that we have everything set up, there is nothing to do but wait. I don't know. Maybe it's something more. Since returning to Generica, I've thrown myself into my work. Now that I have time to think about things...Maybe I'm just lonely." "Can I get you anything?" "How about a mate?" She laughed sweetly, "No, seriously. Would you like something to eat or drink?" "No, but thanks. I'm afraid of the kind of 'food' they serve here." He pointed toward a corner of the room where a dead rat lay next to a partially eaten bowl of a greenish-yellow stew. Serene shuddered. "Well, maybe I'll make a run to the market and pick up some fruit. Wanna come?" "No, I'd better stick around incase something happens." She squeezed his hand in friendship and left for the market. As soon as she was gone, Erik sighed deeply and turned half his thoughts to his game of solitaire. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the corner, a seven-and-a-half foot fur-loincloth barbarian fighter in a leather vest and bracers gently picked up Trawm's drooling, detached head. He walked over to the body (which was working on regrowing a lower jaw) and looked at the two of them. "Idjit halftroll," he chuckled, and drew a BLACK runesword from the sheath across his back. "Careful now," he admonished the sword, and trimmed the excess bits of flesh from the ragged neck of the head using the sword's razor edge, then carefully trimmed the excess from the neck on the body. With exquisite care, he stuck the head onto the body, and held it there for a few minutes while it grew on. "Good," he grunted. The eyes blinked but the words coming out didn't make sense. "Don't try to think, Trawm. Just lay there. Here, have a bheer." The barbarian took a full pitcher of Trawm's most trollish ale (if that brew could be called "ale") from a nearby table, and set it before the halftroll, who absent-mindedly sucked it all down then collapsed into unconsciousness. Luthor jumped when the cool, dry hand touched him on the wrist. It was attached to a short, seedy-looking fellow with large moist eyes and a clove-stinking cigarette hanging from one lip. He wasn't sure how he'd missed the reek of the thing, since the fellow had clearly been sitting there for a few minutes. "Excuse me, Mr. Anside, but I think my friend needs some of that nasty black stuff you have in those kegs there." Luthor blinked and pulled his hand away - he'd have to wash it now. "I'm not sure I've had the, ah, pleasure of your acquaintance." "Oh, but we met at your house party. My nom-de-guerre is Errol, I came with ar'Elya and the rest of her crowd." "I, ah, see. Who's this friend of yours who *needs* the Catamount?" "That would be H'ro, over there keeping Trawm from getting beside himself." The smoke from the cigarette wafted towards the giant barbarian in the macho leathers. "Do you know what's going on here?" Luthor demanded. "Certainly. Rafe has gotten himself caught up in another one of these foolish Great Battles (tm), and I seem to be caught up in the same thing. Rafe's timeforked himself. He seems to be going for number while I'm going for quality - I made just the one, but she's potent. You don't remember this, but my own fork brought you back from that ... extended vacation you went on." Luthor had a flash of memory - immense silver wings - and a complex sensation terminating in a burst of hope. A smile crossed his lips of its own accord. "Yes, that's the one," Errol said, forming a twisted little grin. "Hey, bheer," H'ro said, picking up one of the two kegs. It was far too light, even for someone as strong as he appeared to be. He growled and punched a fist into the keg. A hole appeared where his hand went in, and he came out holding a small glowing hummingbird. "Creep! You better not have drunk it all," he threatened, and let go of the bird. It flickered and 'Raelf was standing there, or weaving, as the case may be. "Only had the one. 'Scuse me. Gotta dump power. Clear, dudes," he said, and a white-hot arc of lightning jumped into the corner where the hard-to-notice person was sitting. "Ahh. That's much better." Meanwhile, the barbarian had opened the other keg, and was chugging the contents as if it was a regular mug. Luthor called out. "Erik, I think it's starting." Erik looked over to the many forms of 'Raelf and smiled. ----------- ADMIN: This post written by: Steve Hutchison Editing and additonal material by: -The Dreamer- Love and Peace and Strange Happenstances, -The Dreamer-