The Torment - Chapter 1

Have I told you about Cap'n Eh'Hab? A forcefully retired whaling captain who lives in an abused house in the fair port of Mervina. Most people would be thrilled to be retired to Mervina, but not Eh'Hab. His first and only love is the sea...

As such, his home is neglected. An adobe affair, it's whitewashed walls are flaking and scuffed. His door is dirty, and his porch is scattered with mismatched boots, sandals, and a few petrified plants in broken pots. A tuxedoed cat lounges in the shade of a small palm tree next to the fence, watching the door the porch and anyone who dares approach Eh'Habs lair.

If you are unfortunate enough to fimd yourself within the confines of this particular domicile, you would find yourself yearning for the nearest stable or that particularly tidy privy down the way. It is suffused with a miasma of stale beer, vomit and urine. Coming in from the light of day, would leave you blind and in the dark, no window shutter is undone, no sea breeze blows through here. Broken glass and sticky floor, this is the penthouse to hell, the private torture chamber for janitors who sullied the premises of other janitors, for it is never clean in here.

Eh'Hab is human equivalent of a honey badger. A dogged hunter, he fought the most ferocious beasts of the sea. He lost a leg, then half of his left hand. Still he went on, until one day, he crossed one foe so fierce it took his right eye, so cunning as that he could not land a single hit. It drove him mad, and lost him his charter and crew.

I am that beast. I watch his waking days and torment his dreams by night. My dagger like claws carved out his eye and I have tasted his blood in my mouth. I am a Prince of the Land of Nod, but to him I am known as... Mitts.

That's right I'm the cat, I live to torment him, and he is my plaything. What? You say can't be the bad guy and the narrator of this story? I can be and will be. I'll even throw the title card up for you-

Dramataic gasp music plays.

THE TORMENT

As you've no doubt guessed I'm not your average cat. The name isn't the clue though, most cats have a lot of honorifics thrown behind thier name, you humans just don't understand them, even though we are shouting them every time we get into a standoff with other cats.

The scene jumps to two cats circling each other under a lamp-light by night. As the calico growls to the ginger the following subtitles popup.

'YOU HAVE ENTERED IN TO THE DOMAIN OF THE GRAND MATRON AL-HARRUM HEIGHTS, DEVOUER OF THE BLACK SQUIRREL OF HIGHEST OAK'

The ginger escalates.

'I AM THE CHAMPION OF THIS REGION, GRAND MAGUS OF THE CUL-DE-SAC COURT AND SLAYER OF HAWKS. I GO WHERE I PLEASE.'

The calico spits.

'INTERLOPER. CHARLATON.

YOU ARE GRAND WITH WORM BLOAT.

BEGONE.'

(The ginger is prepared to fight. Then a tin can falls somewhere in the shadows and both cat bolt for cover)

Pan back to the Tuxedo Tomcat walking lazily on the unbleached cobblestones.

Like I said, we like our honorifics, it buys us time while we look for weak points. But mine are legit. I really am a Prince of Nod, meaning I can literally jump into the dreaming and can mess with people's dreams. Specifically, Eh'Habs dreams.

The scene cuts to Eh'Hab sailing through a fog. Suddenly a laser straight beam of red light comes down from the heavens into the nearby sea. It's stationary for a moment before moving towards the ship. Eh'Hab looks to the sky and sees the dark form of a tuxedo cat looking down on him from a surreal perch upon the worlds ring.

"Nah Mitts, don' doitt."

The beam jumps across the waves and catches the deck next to Eh'Hab. He gulps as the cat leaps off the ring and gigantic descends to pounce on the shiny red dot. Eh'Hab screams...

...Wakes up screaming. After shivering for a few moments he calms down, only to realize something.

"I feckin pissed mahself, again."

The camera returns to Mitts.

Yes I can already hear you asking me 'Why?' And the answer is simple, he messed with me, so I mess with him. Don't worry, we'll get to it.

And it's not like I'm scratching babies or crapping in that sublime mulch of Mrs. Rebsomens garden, it's just him. And I'm sorry good that I've yet to cause any collateral damage. Er... much collateral damage.

The scene cuts to a narrow hall way, the camera pitching to the side as the ship lurches to portside. Mitts is bolting down the passage followed by Eh'Hab, his eye a bloody ruin, brandishing a harpoon.

"Fiend! Whorescunt! I'ma gointa peel you ALIVE!"

The cat reaches the solid door at the end of the hallway and turns arching his back, growling.

'YOU KNOW, I THINK I'LL TAKE YOUR OTHER EYE. TRY THROWING WITHOUT DEPTH PERCEPTION.'

Eh'Hab throws and Mitts's eyes widen. It's a good throw. Mitts jumps into the air. Behind him the door opens. In slow motion the spear passes below Mitts paws, into the thigh of a sopping wet, sailor. Behind him, the dark rain-soaked deck is illuminated by lightning revealing the rest of the crew scrambling with the rigging. The sailor screams and falls on his back. Mitts is a blur of shadow escaping into the gloom of the ship. The crew turns to see thier captain in the doorframe. 

The scene cuts back to Mervina. Mitts is staring at the camera, his eyes wider than normal.

He's oookay! Seriously, minimal blood loss. Minor bone chipping. And Eh'Hab was kicked off his ship, so it was a rousing success.

The cat wraps its tail around itself and preens.

Obviously a man who thinks throwing harpoons in enclosed spaces is unfit for duty. At that point Eh'Hab had made a quite the case for his detention to the brig and subsequent expulsion from the crew. 

The cat stretches out and begins to walk away, tail aloft and hooked.

But enough about us, let's talk about here. This is Mervina. It's on the northern side of an equator straddling continent that is basically one big desert. The coasts are really the only sane place to live, and this particular city is home to a bustling crowd of Bedouin, Franks and Draconians. Visitors are common and there's good business to be had. Cats are here too, and as it happens the locals favor us over dogs, which is as it should be.

Mitts slips between some grating and enters into a dry storm sewer.

Because this town is built on the coastal slopes, the folks who initially designed it decided on an expansive sewer system thinking that this place got enough rain to utilize it. 

Mitts jumps down into a larger line. A small stream of water flows by in a trough.

But we only get a couple months of rainy season here, so water is horded by everyone. This is just a small bit of groundwater tickling through here. When it rains, this sewer will fill up pretty well, but only after all the cisterns are full. So, we cats have a whole understreet to ourselves.

Rats try to claim some turf, but let's be honest, it doesn't go well for them. Mice who flee us here seldom escape. Mervina was built by the big folk, but it's ruled by us cats.

Honestly, the fact that big folk here use sand for thier toilets is proof enough that they've acknowledged our station as lords and ladies of this town. 

Mitts enters into a large basin, open to the sky above. On a grassy island in the center grows a single sycamore tree. A sandy marsh of reeds and odd boulders surrounds the island and light glint off of the thin film of water. Mitts bounds from boulder to boulder, until he reaches a branch to perch in.

Now I mentioned earlier that I'm Dream Cat. I have Eight out of Nine lives to go and I prefer to hunt in the dreams of children. What do I hunt? I hunt nightmares, specifically the nightmares that stalk children.

The scene shifts to a starlit fen. A field of reeds stretches into infinity beneath a sky awash with stars and nebula. A little girl walks in her nightclothes, a lanturn dangling from a stick. Her expression is nervous.

"Mitts?" She calls out, her voice twinged with apprehension. I miss her.

Something dark and sinister, with far too many sharp features, and perpetually drooling, stalks her in the shadows. It circles her slowly.

"Mitts??"

It leaps from cover, she screams as she beholds it, a nightmare from the darkest regions of space, where no one can hear you scream. In two bounds it's almost on her, when a huge paw comes out of nowhere and slams it to the ground. The child immediately loses her fear and looks up in delight, at ME!

"Mitts!" She gasps in delight. 

And there I am, a gigantic tabby with white paws, fat and old. I play with xenomorph like it's a grasshopper, careful to crush and not get any of its goo on me. The world-rings light is caught on my vast form, and I sit on my haunches to watch the life leave the monsters twitching form. I feel a tiny form bump up against my old leg and feel an arm squeeze around me in the waking. It's too much and I start to purr unashamedly. The ground vibrates for miles around.

I had a pretty good first life. She was the sardine on top of it all. Feeling love in two separate realities simultaneously is awesome, but seeing yourself through a child's eyes is wonderful. In dreams I am huge because I was everything to her.

Transition back to Mervina, daytime. Mitts is once again a tuxedo cat, but he looks cross. His posture is straight, his ears are laid back and his tail is swishing.

Death for a cat like me is like waking up. I woke up a kitten and knew I was in my next life. It would take me a couple months before I'd be able to find my way back to her. So I grew up as fast as I could. Then one day, he came. Grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dropped me into that smelly coat pocket of his. I was too small, I couldn't see far yet, I couldn't escape.

And that crusty old man took me aboard his ship and sailed away. Without my consent I was made the ships cat.

Fuck my life.

Four tips for Starting a Narrative Campaign on the Right Foot.

 One of the most daunting things for a DM to do when starting a long term campaign is figuring out where to start.

For DMs who run DnD for a rich narrative experience (like myself), this is doubly difficult. You can build a world, arrange a vast number of memorable characters for your players to interact with and still have it a fall flat when players don’t feel engaged, or feel bored with the story.

So here’s how I get them tied into my adventures and world. Hopefully, you can draw some ideas from mine and put them to use.

No false advertising.

Don’t sell your game as being an action filled adventure when in fact it’s a slow burning mystery-drama. Be upfront with your style of DMing. On the same note, don’t compromise your style to fit a players preference. You can easily be manipulated to change things up for a dissatisfied player. This ties into my next point.

Set group boundaries.

This can also be considered a code of conduct, a tool I have used to enhance group cohesion. If the players respect each other and the DM, the game can begin smoothly and comfortably for all. This isn’t just what you as the DM are comfortable with, but what the players are also comfortable with. We all liked Game of Thrones, but who really would want to experience half of the things we saw, let alone with your friends nearby. Unless your into that sort of thing, I’m not one to judge…you degenerate.

Acquire the Sacred 4 Components of each Character.

The DM provides four things to the player: NPCs, setting, dilemmas and arbitration. In turn the players, individually, provide the DM with four things that a DM can use to craft and guide a delicious narrative experience for them: personality traits, ideals, bonds and flaws. These are important for RP, important to the player. These things are often overlooked by the player as they will subconsciously let a portion of their own personality overlap, so pay attention and make note of anything that isn’t on the character sheet. A DM can challenge an ideal, exploit a personality traits, utilize or threaten a bond, highlight a flaw. These four components are how you know what dilemmas to subject you players to, determine who they encounter, and what treasures they may find.

Have that Session 0.

Have it at the beginning of the campaign, have it with any new player who joins. Give the party choices as to what they want to pursue in the long run as a group. If you want to, let them choose the setting. Help them build characters suited for the journey and get to know them as they are built. After all, you’re going to be spending some time with them.

Next time: How to build a Party.

Rendering

Amelia was not unaccustomed to filth. She had earned her spending money by emptying chamber pots, mopping the floor after drunken brawls, and cleaning her fathers festering wound.

Purging the entrails of the green dragon that hot afternoon, didn’t bother her one bit. What did, was the fact that Milo had still not shown up with the lime, and that meant that the quality of her project was in jeopardy. One hundred feet of intestine lay coiled on the rocks overlooking the north sea. Amelia had finished stripping them of their contents the night before, now she had set out several tubs of varying sizes, and was cutting the intestines into yard-long sections, and placing them in simmering water.

It was mid-day when she saw her cousins sailboat coming out of the west. When he ran aground at the shore, she came to him with the intent of berating him, only to step back in surprise. Instead of a bucket of white lime, there was two filled with a grey paste, that she took for wet ashes. There was also a dead shark on the floor of the boat, about four feet long. She frowned and looked quizzically at her cousin.

“Pat Tanner says that potash is the best to use, and that we’d need sharkskin to finish the product. I caught him an hour ago, so we’ll have enough skin when the time comes.” He hefted the dead monster over his shoulder and grabbed a pail with his free hand, Amelia grabbed the other pail and showed him to her operation.

There were six tubs. Two were made of tin and sat over small fires, simmering with the guts. The rest were made of wood and filled with fresh water from a spring amelia had found nearby. She also had some stripped sapling staves that she had raked through the fire to harden and had wedged them in between the crevices in the sea worn stones. Together, the two cousins strung a rope between the posts and returned to the task of preparing the gut for processing. They scraped off fat with dull knives, peeled off the outer coating. When the material was uniformly pale in their hands, the moved onto the next porton; leaving the half finished product to dry. Eventually they would tie a knot in one end and let pebble fall through the tube. Using the pebble as a grip, they would twist the tube, glazing it with a solution of potash and water when it grew tough and dry. Twist and stretch.

The day became two, then three. It was a slow process. They didn’t talk much, but on the third day, with most of the gut cured, twisted and hanging to dry; Amelia began to play her harmonica by the fire. Milo, having hung up the last bit of gut, sat down across the fire from her and spitted a seabass. She played a nonsensical song, playing off of one chord after another. After a few minutes of picking at the harmony, she paused and gave the fire a stir. Milo cleared his throat.

“We need to talk about what happened.”

Amelia frowned, “Must we? It’s not high on my list of prefered memories.”

“We must.” Milo’s face was set. “It’s important.”

“How so?”

Milo settled himself. “I heard what happened from his companions. They were honest and told me everything they saw. Some of it doesn’t make sense.”

“How so?”

“They think he was seeing things, not simple hallucinations. They saw you, but he he was talking to someone else.”

Amelia was silent for a moment. “The gaunt, young man.”

Milo raised an eyebrow. “So you did here him. What did he say?”

“He was giving my father a choice. Him or me.”

Milo sighed, “I was afraid of that.”

Amelia waited for his explanation.

Milo began slowly. “A man can have anything, if he’s willing to sacrifice.  I read that in an old book in the library at Tempered Vale. It stuck with me, and at the time I thought it meant that if I tried hard, and sacrificed myself on the altar of the world, I would become the man I wanted to be. Now I find myself as the man that I am, and I realize that the words were a bit more literal.

I’ve seen how people offer up sacrifices in hopes of receiving favour from deities. If such beings exist, they are for the most part indifferent to the sufferings of the few and more concerned with the bigger picture. I’m not so sure of that anymore either.

A sacrifice is a lot like a deal. The difference is the price. It has to cost you on every level, personal, physical, spiritual. Your father sacrificed himself for you.”

Amelia felt numb, but pressed on. “So he traded his life for my protection?”

“Yes, but it’s part of the equation, we’ve got to think about the other side of the transaction. What did this fiend get?”

Amelia felt a chill in her gut. “His life.”

“It’s his now. His life for your safety. I think that’s a persistent deal. So long as he is in possession of that life, I think that he won’t be able to touch you or anyone that uncle loved for that matter.”

“You think?”

“This is supposition on my part. I’ve been giving it some thought.”

Amelia breathed out, but she was no less at ease. Her father's love could still protect her, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted him back.

“Do… Do you think it’s reversible?”

Milo shook his head. “There is no refund for a sacrifice.”

She hugged her knees and stared at the fire. They sat like that for a while, as the sun sank over the coast. Suddenly a question came to Amelia.

“What was your father like?” Milo was taken aback by the question. “I ask because I cannot remember him. I barely remember my mother.”

Milo chewed on an answer. Finally he spoke. “He was taller than your dad. Golden hair, like mine.” He paused, thought it over a bit more. “He was quiet, always thought about what he would say before talking. I remember him being polite, calm.” He seemed torn in in his recollection, but would not say why. Amelia let him stew.

At length he spoke again. “She had black hair, and she loved to laugh. She lit up the room every time she entered it. She said she loved your father because he gave her something to dance to.”

Amelia was taken aback by this revelation. She’d heard it all before, but it never meant as much as it did now. She drew out the harmonica again and began to blow into it again.

Tomorrow they would polish the cords with sharkskin and dry grass. Once that was done, they would loop the chords and package the product. They would sail back to Whytecliff and sell the product, build the instrument and go on. Missing some people on their journey was just part of it.

The Last Letter

To my Companions,


Some time ago, I stole a weapon from our enemy, an agent in the service of Tiamat. Rather then simply denying them a weapon, I used it against them in our quest to halt their march. We won, but it does not suffer the peace we have acquired easily. It hungers for blood and compels the hand that wields it to keep it fed. My hand wields it even now, and I must feed it.

 To bleed another is cruel, so I have fed it my own blood when it calls. I have searched for a way to destroy this curse, but have found no way of doing so. So I send out this request for aid.

 If I had an age to shoulder this burden, I would gladly, if it meant peace. But my health is escaping me and I will not see this evil passed to another, neither my family, nor the good people of this land, and most definitely not the villains that scurry from dark place like the rats that they are!

 I would see an end of it. Will you help me destroy it, once and for all?

Anton Frieneli
Aka: Cazzo


Note from Milo: They came and together succeeded in destroying blade, although at the cost of my uncles life. This is his last known letter.


Resquiet en Pace, Zio.

To the Head Curator/Librarian of Tempered Vale

Dear Scholarly Sir or Madam,

I am looking for information pertaining to legendary weapons that may have a history in our region; primarily blades that may have been cursed. I am interested in anything from local folklore, to details on the construction and enchantment of these weapons, as well as stories of how such weapons were destroyed and/or rendered inert.

I understand that this may seem a waste of time, but I am willing to reimburse you for your troubles with a collection of poetry and songs that I have gathered here in Whytecliff. My volume is not complete, but when it is ready, I will gladly bring it to you myself, should you acquire the information I seek.

May warm winds whisper of spring,

Anton Frieneli,

Proprietor and Bard of the Cat’s Cradle, Whytecliff

Defender of the Vale

Dear Tellara

Dear Tellara,

I write to you in hopes that you are well and that your brother is well and that your tribe is also well. As for my folk, we prosper as much as the last winter has permitted. My nephew Milo has taken on the task of ranger for our community, providing food and insight into the forest that is near us. He does our family proud.

I write to you in hopes that you and your brother Lanikar can speak to your fellow, Vendrick on my behalf.

During the beginning of the war, I came into possession of an artifact of great evil. As the war progressed, I used it to defend the weak and strike at our enemies. As Vendrick can tell you of what he witnessed of its nature; I will disclose that within it, something lurks, it speaks to the hand that holds it and demands sustenance. As such, during the war, it was well fed but now, it starves. This has made it desperate and tenacious. I have been forced to feed it myself.

I cannot divulge any more information for fear of interception, but I hope that Vendrick might know more and be moved to aid me. I seek both the beginning and end of this thing.

I do hope you will visit my Taverna. We have much to discuss.

Your friend and comrade,

Anton “Cazzo” Frieneli

Dear Leonardo,

I have failed you. I've fled across seas, across gulfs most folk couldn't imagine, and I still cannot keep our family safe. I've picked up an accursed weapon in hopes of saving our family, but it draws on me. I feel weaker by the passing day. I've managed to provide a safe home for Reyna and the children, but, it's not enough for Milo. I fear he puts himself in harm's way now because I did so. I tried, brother, I tried so hard to give him everything we couldn't have in our youth. I thought he understood. I thought he might understand, so I told him, in a moment of drunken weakness, I told him everything. Now he will not see me, will not come home. Your only son, brother, I cannot protect. Reyna is right to be angry with me.

Forgive me brother. I cannot. 

Your despicable brother, Cazzo