World of Weirdcraft IV
a/n - I just found the webcomic 'Looking For Group'. Wheee! That's quite disturbingly close to the inside of my head. The bits that don't look like 'Girl Genius', anyway...
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The Aggressive Dragon Deficiency
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.
.
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Of all the courtyards, in all the world, she had to fly into his...
She arrives in his life quite unexpectedly. When one is a feared and shunned practitioner of the Dark Arts, one becomes used to all sort of incursions from barbarian heroes and questors on the make. But one does not expect random barbarian women to just crash-land their dragons through the gates.
At the top of the great tower, there is a room. The walls between the tall, narrow windows are shelved, hold neat ranks of grimoires, tomes of eldritch lore, chests of scrolls. But the centre of the room holds nothing but a low dais, a circle of stone. And here, the master of the Dark Keep stands, hard at work.
“No, that's not quite right...” Long fingers move, a smear of light, redraw the symbol.
Strings of glyphs hang around him, glowing, shifting colours, ice and fire and captured starlight, tiny constellations of thought. Here, the world is mapped and ordered, obedient to his will.
He doesn't know what the noise is at first - crashing, and grinding, and a stricken bellowing of some kind, and a vast, leathery flapping sound. He's inclined to ignore it, until the room itself shakes very slightly.
When he appears in the courtyard, scowl firmly in place, the explanation is simple. A dragon, a fairly young one by the look of it, is digging itself out of the wreckage of an inner wall, all claws and wings and temper. The trail of its erratic landing is marked in the trail of destruction behind it, and the long furrows gouged into the stone slabs of the yard. Shaking itself free of the last bits of rubble, it swings a large head round to glare madly at the figure standing before it. It growls.
Sheldor growls back, blue eyes cold and unblinking.
The dragon looks away first. It drops its head, and noses at something on the ground, makes an anxious bubbling. The something groans slightly, then sits up.
There's an uncouth, unwashed barbarian sprawled on the ground, holding her elbow, and using the language the likes of which he hasn't heard since those two delinquent children attempted to push his grandmother into her own oven.
This has to be Sheldor. He's tall, even taller from where she's slumped on the ground. Wonders whether she can get to her axe, and fix that little discrepancy. But her arm hurts, and her head hurts. Her last hope is the great, reptilian head that suddenly thrusts forward, those massive jaws that can crush a horse...
He scratches the dragon behind one ear. It makes a sound like someone using a rusty saw on tin, and slumps happily, eyes half-shut.
She stares. Tranquillity has tried to maul pretty much every guy she's ever brought back to the yurt. And now she decides to make nice?
He could blast her with a word. They both know it. Instead, he helps her to her feet, surprisingly strong and oddly gentle. She lifts her chin proudly.
“I am Penelope, from the Clan of Those Who Ride Against the Wind.”
“I am Sheldor, obviously.”
Blue eyes meet green. He is ice and steel and darkness, she is fire and gold.
Part of the wall behind Tranquillity totters and falls over in a crash of stone. Neither of them even notice.
“You need a healing potion.” His nose wrinkles. “And a bath.”
So maybe she'll kill him later. After the pain has gone away.
Since there doesn't appear to be any active fire and slaughter going on, the others venture out of hiding. Taru had been up in his observatory when the dragon went over, clipping the roof-tiles, and he's still gibbering faintly.
Shlaym has a different focus, peering hopefully around the courtyard. He's carrying a bucket. Dranel looks at it. Shlaym shrugs.
“A woman fell out of the sky? Sew the bits back together, a little zap of lightning...” His voice trails off. “Oh. She seems to be...all there.”
Dranel looks.
The barbarian is from one of the Northern tribes who consider leather to be a hard-wearing and practical material. She just doesn't seem to be wearing very much of it. She's a creature of cream and honey, ripe curves and blonde hair.
They jostle to a halt, and she blinks slightly dazed green eyes at the short creatures bobbing in front of her.
“Shlaym, Taru and Dranel.” Sheldor waves a hand. “They live here, too”
“Are you some goddess fallen from the heavens?” Shlaym would bend over her hand, but she's still clutching her elbow. Taru manages a muffled squeak, and a low bow.
“I can do magic, too.” Dranel says, eagerly. “Want to see some of my magic?”
“Um...” She backs away slightly, finds a solid arm behind her.
“Not now, Dranel.” Sheldor rolls his eyes. He inscribes a glowing rune into the air, and utters one sharp command. There is a snap of light, and all that is left behind is the faint echo of the barbarian's startled squeak.
Well, nearly all. There's a gust of warm, wet air from behind them. Carefully, slowly, they all turn. Look up. Keep looking up.
“Taru, you people are supposed to be able to talk to animals...” Dranel quavers.
“'You' people?...” Taru swallows, looks at the looming nostrils. “What am I supposed to say?”
“How about 'please don't bite our heads off'?” Shlaym offers.
Tranquillity perks up. The Dragon-with-Two-Legs has taken the Lady away, but he's left her some small, scuttling things to play with. What fun. She draws in a breath.
“Run!” Dranel yelps.
00000000
She's escaped out of the bathroom, leaving nothing but a tub that will need a very good clean, and a small pile of grubby leather. Sheldor has a brief moment of horror - the Dark Keep is cheerfully homicidal, even on a good day. But the little wet footprints only waver into his work-room. She's standing in the middle of his work, prodding at the symbols and swaying slightly, eyes wide.
“'S'pretty.” She smiles goofily at him, “Like li'l floaty stars...”
The healing potion is effective, but it is having side effects.
Penelope, distracted by the dazzling light-show, and unsure of how many hands she actually has at the moment, loses her grip on her towel.
“Whoops, don't normally get naked this quickly...”
Sheldor closes his eyes, makes a grab for the slipping fabric. Misses.
She squeaks. He squeaks. And then, she giggles. Sheldor snatches his hands back, and retreats.
He does open one eye a fraction. (Tells himself it is prudent and vigilant; she might have a concealed weapon.) No weapons, but she does have a mystic rune tattooed on her... He swallows.
Sheldor has dealt with many exotic and terrifying things within the walls of this tower. A semi-naked woman has never been one of them before. She complains about his choice of tunics, but eventually he gets her into one, and contrives to tuck her into the bed. A small hand tugs at him, and he finds himself helpless. He can outstare a dragon, but not those big eyes.
“'m s'posed to kill you, y'know...”
“I know. Please don't try.”
“S'what I came here for... Some king tol' me...get a bag of gold if I brought'm your head.” She gives a loopy grin. “Y'make friends easily, huh?”
He actually looks hurt for a moment, and then frowns.
“Told you? You don't have a signed contract?”
“A wha?” The frown fades out as her eyes shut.
Sheldor is quite offended that he only rates one bag of gold. And sending an amateur, too. She's come after a sorcerer, armed with only a half-grown dragon and an axe? She should be dead many times over.
It has to be some kind of enchantment, he assures himself, as he looks down at the blonde head that has so unaccountably found a way into the crook of his shoulder. He's a cold, ruthless mage, he has no time in his life for taming wild barbarians, however nice they smell. But - it's only good sense to keep a hold of her, she can't get at a dagger then. It's got nothing to do with how soft and warm she is. A master of occult forces and dark magics doesn't cuddle. He certainly doesn't close his eyes, and let his guard down, and go to sleep with a would-be assassin drooling faintly on him...
00000000
She wakes up, clean and warm, all her cuts and bruises gone. She's also... in a strange bed. With a strange man. She has a couple of hazy memories, that he has a room full of floating lights. And that he has rather cold hands.
Penelope had always dreamed of making it in the Sacred Forest, a Priestess in one of the Temples. But competition is fierce, even for low-rung handmaidens. And...she's kinda disqualified from some of the Orders. (The winters were long and cold up on the Northern Plains, okay, they had to make their own entertainment.) She'd drifted into the warrior business pretty much by accident, coming back early to the yurt and finding her boyfriend cuddled up with some trashy little acolyte he'd 'rescued'.
She'd packed her belongings onto Tranquillity, flown away and never looked back. She'd met muscle-bound heroes, swaggering pirates and vicious warlords. (Killed a few of them.) And now, she's met a sorcerer. She should be dead. She should be terrified. But it's very difficult to be scared of this man. Evil sorcerers are not supposed to have cute freckles on their necks.
She tells herself that she could stab him in his sleep if she wanted to, but it's really too much effort to disentangle herself from him and find a dagger. Not at all because he looks sweet and vulnerable. Tucks her head back under his chin. She isn't snuggling - bloodthirsty warriors don't snuggle.
Sheldor's arms tighten, and he makes a little grumble into her hair, before his eyes pop open in shock.
“So...” She looks up at him, fingers walking up his chest. “I'm completely at your mercy?”
“Well, yes.”
“Huh.” Tilts her head, and she's very close to him now. “Nobody will come to help me if I scream?”
“Are you going to scream?” He enquires, suddenly slightly breathless. The fingers are now walking down...
“That...depends.” Her eyes go a bit wide, and then she grins. “Probably.”
00000000
(She does.)
00000000
“Has it gone yet?”
Shlaym opens the door. A large golden eye looks in at him. He slams the door again.
“No.”
They are huddled in a small store-room near the front-gate. It's been a long night. Mainly because Dranel won't shut up about the wonderful, gorgeous barbarian, whom he seems convinced is his soul-mate.
This isn't the first time he's found a soul-mate, though.
“What about that 'temple dancer' who turned out to be a mad priestess?” Taru demands. “The one you tried to impress by raising a snake-demon?”
“Okay...” Dranel shrugs, scuffs, “Perhaps that wasn't the best idea I ever had...”
“If Sheldor hadn't dragged you out of that summoning circle...”
“Yes, you've made your point, thank you.” Dranel still has the odd nightmare about that geyser of green sparks, all fangs and scales. “Anyway, we had to escape from the kingdom of Dharr-Kho because of you.”
“The Princess Hyzenthlay.” Taru remembers. She'd been a bit too keen on him.
“She had beautiful fur, though.” Shlaym points out. They both look at him. He shrugs. “Hey, my first girlfriend was a mermaid.” Sighs. “Even now, I can't look at a plate of pickled herring...”
00000000
“You ravished me.”
“You seduced me.”
“I let you.”
“I know.”
There is a pause.
“Would you like to ravish me again?”
“Yes, please.”
00000000
Finally, they get a chance to make a break for it; Tranquillity has hooked one of the glow-fish out of the moat, and is feeding noisily and messily.
They sprint across the courtyard, and make it into the tower. By common consent, they all head for the Great Hall, stumble to a startled halt.
Sheldor's throne is placed at the head of the table. A monolithic piece of carving, no-one but the master of the Dark Keep sits there. Usually. It turns out that two people can, in fact, sit in it, if one is astride the other's lap, and personal space is no longer a concern.
Penelope scrambles round, rearranging her tunic hastily.
“Don't they ever knock?”
“I'll get a better charm for the doors.” Sheldor promises.
“She came here to kill you!” Dranel splutters. (Conveniently forgetting his own motives for originally entering the Dark Keep.)
“That was just business.” Penelope waves a hand. “We've...renegotiated.”
Taru and Shlaym exchanges glances. It certainly looks that way. Penelope slithers out of Sheldor's lap like a length of silk, and saunters towards the door.
“I'm gonna go kill the king instead.”
Sheldor smiles fondly at her.
She turns in the doorway, and looks at him, eyebrows raised in happy challenge.
“Come on, the fresh air and exercise will do you good.”
“Oh, very well.”
He gathers his cloak about him, and strides after her.
Taru looks sidelong at Shlaym.
“She didn't look like she wanted to kill him.”
“Unless she was trying to smother him to death.” Shlaym's eyes glaze over. “What a way to go...”
“Does anybody else understand what just happened here?” Dranel asks, plaintively.
“Well, I've been saying this place needed a woman's touch for a while...” Taru muses.
“It's obviously some vile enchantment that I must free her from...”
Taru and Shlaym stare at each other, then at the gesticulating halfling. Dranel seems to forget who the actual master of the Dark Keep is, sometimes.
“...And some day, we'll have smart, beautiful babies together...”
“Yeah, sure you will.” Shlaym pats his shoulder comfortingly.
“After all,” Dranel sticks out his chin, “What has he got, that I haven't?”
Taru and Shlaym think about the Dark Keep, the massive towers, the labyrinthine dungeons, the walls pulled from the living rock by elemental sorceries, and holding within them, an army of undead warriors and eldritch beings, all held in thrall to a master of terrible powers.
“He's...taller?” Taru ventures.
00000000
It's a small, peaceful kingdom, maybe half a dozen villages and a pretty little capital city. The palace sits atop a hill, a dazzling white confection of airy towers amidst manicured lawns and elaborate terraced gardens.
Tranquillity ploughs to a halt through the rose-garden, and settles down to munch on the shrubbery.
Penelope strides into the throne-room.
“I brought Sheldor's head...”
The tall figure behind her flips back his hood.
“...you never said you wanted it detached from the rest of him.”
The king gestures. A tall bearded man in dark robes raises his staff, and purple lightnings play about him.
“Your magic will avail you naught within this chamber, foul sorcerer.”
The king's own bodyguard fan out, weapons drawn.
“Oh, old school.” Sheldor draws his own sword, sighs. “Very well, gentlemen, you may begin...”
The fight is short, violent and fairly one-sided. After all, these are half a dozen of the most highly-trained knights in the kingdom.
The mage levels his staff at the barbarian stalking towards him.
“Know that I cannot be harmed by any man....urk.” He drops to his knees, with a look of intense surprise on his face.
Penelope puts her boot against his chest, jerks the axe out, lets the body flop back.
“Honestly, all this discrimination is really starting to piss me off.”
Turns to find Sheldor fastidiously wiping his blade clean on the last soldier's cloak. He looks at her, shrugs.
“My father insisted that I at least learnt the basics.”
“What exactly does your father do?” Penelope asks, faintly awed.
“He was a professional monster-slayer.” Sheldor looks sad for a moment. “He disagreed with something that ate him.”
They both turn and look at the ashen-faced king, still huddled on his throne. He lifts his chin.
“I will show you how a king dies.”
“The same way as anybody else.” Penelope says, and proves it.
00000000
“Queen Penelope. I like that.” She puts the crown on, twists her head this way and that. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful as always.”
Part of the palace is now ablaze. Below them, there is confusion in the streets, panicked citizens and confused soldiery.
Tranquillity rears theatrically against the moon, spreading her wings and roaring defiance.
Penelope settles back, his chest warm against her shoulders, tilts her head to smile up at him.
“With your brains, and my brawn...”
Sheldor smiles back, his arms about her waist, and completes her thought.
“...this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
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(*) - the name of the Omaha tribe does actually translate as 'those going against the wind'.
.
.
The Aggressive Dragon Deficiency
.
.
.
.
Of all the courtyards, in all the world, she had to fly into his...
She arrives in his life quite unexpectedly. When one is a feared and shunned practitioner of the Dark Arts, one becomes used to all sort of incursions from barbarian heroes and questors on the make. But one does not expect random barbarian women to just crash-land their dragons through the gates.
At the top of the great tower, there is a room. The walls between the tall, narrow windows are shelved, hold neat ranks of grimoires, tomes of eldritch lore, chests of scrolls. But the centre of the room holds nothing but a low dais, a circle of stone. And here, the master of the Dark Keep stands, hard at work.
“No, that's not quite right...” Long fingers move, a smear of light, redraw the symbol.
Strings of glyphs hang around him, glowing, shifting colours, ice and fire and captured starlight, tiny constellations of thought. Here, the world is mapped and ordered, obedient to his will.
He doesn't know what the noise is at first - crashing, and grinding, and a stricken bellowing of some kind, and a vast, leathery flapping sound. He's inclined to ignore it, until the room itself shakes very slightly.
When he appears in the courtyard, scowl firmly in place, the explanation is simple. A dragon, a fairly young one by the look of it, is digging itself out of the wreckage of an inner wall, all claws and wings and temper. The trail of its erratic landing is marked in the trail of destruction behind it, and the long furrows gouged into the stone slabs of the yard. Shaking itself free of the last bits of rubble, it swings a large head round to glare madly at the figure standing before it. It growls.
Sheldor growls back, blue eyes cold and unblinking.
The dragon looks away first. It drops its head, and noses at something on the ground, makes an anxious bubbling. The something groans slightly, then sits up.
There's an uncouth, unwashed barbarian sprawled on the ground, holding her elbow, and using the language the likes of which he hasn't heard since those two delinquent children attempted to push his grandmother into her own oven.
This has to be Sheldor. He's tall, even taller from where she's slumped on the ground. Wonders whether she can get to her axe, and fix that little discrepancy. But her arm hurts, and her head hurts. Her last hope is the great, reptilian head that suddenly thrusts forward, those massive jaws that can crush a horse...
He scratches the dragon behind one ear. It makes a sound like someone using a rusty saw on tin, and slumps happily, eyes half-shut.
She stares. Tranquillity has tried to maul pretty much every guy she's ever brought back to the yurt. And now she decides to make nice?
He could blast her with a word. They both know it. Instead, he helps her to her feet, surprisingly strong and oddly gentle. She lifts her chin proudly.
“I am Penelope, from the Clan of Those Who Ride Against the Wind.”
“I am Sheldor, obviously.”
Blue eyes meet green. He is ice and steel and darkness, she is fire and gold.
Part of the wall behind Tranquillity totters and falls over in a crash of stone. Neither of them even notice.
“You need a healing potion.” His nose wrinkles. “And a bath.”
So maybe she'll kill him later. After the pain has gone away.
Since there doesn't appear to be any active fire and slaughter going on, the others venture out of hiding. Taru had been up in his observatory when the dragon went over, clipping the roof-tiles, and he's still gibbering faintly.
Shlaym has a different focus, peering hopefully around the courtyard. He's carrying a bucket. Dranel looks at it. Shlaym shrugs.
“A woman fell out of the sky? Sew the bits back together, a little zap of lightning...” His voice trails off. “Oh. She seems to be...all there.”
Dranel looks.
The barbarian is from one of the Northern tribes who consider leather to be a hard-wearing and practical material. She just doesn't seem to be wearing very much of it. She's a creature of cream and honey, ripe curves and blonde hair.
They jostle to a halt, and she blinks slightly dazed green eyes at the short creatures bobbing in front of her.
“Shlaym, Taru and Dranel.” Sheldor waves a hand. “They live here, too”
“Are you some goddess fallen from the heavens?” Shlaym would bend over her hand, but she's still clutching her elbow. Taru manages a muffled squeak, and a low bow.
“I can do magic, too.” Dranel says, eagerly. “Want to see some of my magic?”
“Um...” She backs away slightly, finds a solid arm behind her.
“Not now, Dranel.” Sheldor rolls his eyes. He inscribes a glowing rune into the air, and utters one sharp command. There is a snap of light, and all that is left behind is the faint echo of the barbarian's startled squeak.
Well, nearly all. There's a gust of warm, wet air from behind them. Carefully, slowly, they all turn. Look up. Keep looking up.
“Taru, you people are supposed to be able to talk to animals...” Dranel quavers.
“'You' people?...” Taru swallows, looks at the looming nostrils. “What am I supposed to say?”
“How about 'please don't bite our heads off'?” Shlaym offers.
Tranquillity perks up. The Dragon-with-Two-Legs has taken the Lady away, but he's left her some small, scuttling things to play with. What fun. She draws in a breath.
“Run!” Dranel yelps.
00000000
She's escaped out of the bathroom, leaving nothing but a tub that will need a very good clean, and a small pile of grubby leather. Sheldor has a brief moment of horror - the Dark Keep is cheerfully homicidal, even on a good day. But the little wet footprints only waver into his work-room. She's standing in the middle of his work, prodding at the symbols and swaying slightly, eyes wide.
“'S'pretty.” She smiles goofily at him, “Like li'l floaty stars...”
The healing potion is effective, but it is having side effects.
Penelope, distracted by the dazzling light-show, and unsure of how many hands she actually has at the moment, loses her grip on her towel.
“Whoops, don't normally get naked this quickly...”
Sheldor closes his eyes, makes a grab for the slipping fabric. Misses.
She squeaks. He squeaks. And then, she giggles. Sheldor snatches his hands back, and retreats.
He does open one eye a fraction. (Tells himself it is prudent and vigilant; she might have a concealed weapon.) No weapons, but she does have a mystic rune tattooed on her... He swallows.
Sheldor has dealt with many exotic and terrifying things within the walls of this tower. A semi-naked woman has never been one of them before. She complains about his choice of tunics, but eventually he gets her into one, and contrives to tuck her into the bed. A small hand tugs at him, and he finds himself helpless. He can outstare a dragon, but not those big eyes.
“'m s'posed to kill you, y'know...”
“I know. Please don't try.”
“S'what I came here for... Some king tol' me...get a bag of gold if I brought'm your head.” She gives a loopy grin. “Y'make friends easily, huh?”
He actually looks hurt for a moment, and then frowns.
“Told you? You don't have a signed contract?”
“A wha?” The frown fades out as her eyes shut.
Sheldor is quite offended that he only rates one bag of gold. And sending an amateur, too. She's come after a sorcerer, armed with only a half-grown dragon and an axe? She should be dead many times over.
It has to be some kind of enchantment, he assures himself, as he looks down at the blonde head that has so unaccountably found a way into the crook of his shoulder. He's a cold, ruthless mage, he has no time in his life for taming wild barbarians, however nice they smell. But - it's only good sense to keep a hold of her, she can't get at a dagger then. It's got nothing to do with how soft and warm she is. A master of occult forces and dark magics doesn't cuddle. He certainly doesn't close his eyes, and let his guard down, and go to sleep with a would-be assassin drooling faintly on him...
00000000
She wakes up, clean and warm, all her cuts and bruises gone. She's also... in a strange bed. With a strange man. She has a couple of hazy memories, that he has a room full of floating lights. And that he has rather cold hands.
Penelope had always dreamed of making it in the Sacred Forest, a Priestess in one of the Temples. But competition is fierce, even for low-rung handmaidens. And...she's kinda disqualified from some of the Orders. (The winters were long and cold up on the Northern Plains, okay, they had to make their own entertainment.) She'd drifted into the warrior business pretty much by accident, coming back early to the yurt and finding her boyfriend cuddled up with some trashy little acolyte he'd 'rescued'.
She'd packed her belongings onto Tranquillity, flown away and never looked back. She'd met muscle-bound heroes, swaggering pirates and vicious warlords. (Killed a few of them.) And now, she's met a sorcerer. She should be dead. She should be terrified. But it's very difficult to be scared of this man. Evil sorcerers are not supposed to have cute freckles on their necks.
She tells herself that she could stab him in his sleep if she wanted to, but it's really too much effort to disentangle herself from him and find a dagger. Not at all because he looks sweet and vulnerable. Tucks her head back under his chin. She isn't snuggling - bloodthirsty warriors don't snuggle.
Sheldor's arms tighten, and he makes a little grumble into her hair, before his eyes pop open in shock.
“So...” She looks up at him, fingers walking up his chest. “I'm completely at your mercy?”
“Well, yes.”
“Huh.” Tilts her head, and she's very close to him now. “Nobody will come to help me if I scream?”
“Are you going to scream?” He enquires, suddenly slightly breathless. The fingers are now walking down...
“That...depends.” Her eyes go a bit wide, and then she grins. “Probably.”
00000000
(She does.)
00000000
“Has it gone yet?”
Shlaym opens the door. A large golden eye looks in at him. He slams the door again.
“No.”
They are huddled in a small store-room near the front-gate. It's been a long night. Mainly because Dranel won't shut up about the wonderful, gorgeous barbarian, whom he seems convinced is his soul-mate.
This isn't the first time he's found a soul-mate, though.
“What about that 'temple dancer' who turned out to be a mad priestess?” Taru demands. “The one you tried to impress by raising a snake-demon?”
“Okay...” Dranel shrugs, scuffs, “Perhaps that wasn't the best idea I ever had...”
“If Sheldor hadn't dragged you out of that summoning circle...”
“Yes, you've made your point, thank you.” Dranel still has the odd nightmare about that geyser of green sparks, all fangs and scales. “Anyway, we had to escape from the kingdom of Dharr-Kho because of you.”
“The Princess Hyzenthlay.” Taru remembers. She'd been a bit too keen on him.
“She had beautiful fur, though.” Shlaym points out. They both look at him. He shrugs. “Hey, my first girlfriend was a mermaid.” Sighs. “Even now, I can't look at a plate of pickled herring...”
00000000
“You ravished me.”
“You seduced me.”
“I let you.”
“I know.”
There is a pause.
“Would you like to ravish me again?”
“Yes, please.”
00000000
Finally, they get a chance to make a break for it; Tranquillity has hooked one of the glow-fish out of the moat, and is feeding noisily and messily.
They sprint across the courtyard, and make it into the tower. By common consent, they all head for the Great Hall, stumble to a startled halt.
Sheldor's throne is placed at the head of the table. A monolithic piece of carving, no-one but the master of the Dark Keep sits there. Usually. It turns out that two people can, in fact, sit in it, if one is astride the other's lap, and personal space is no longer a concern.
Penelope scrambles round, rearranging her tunic hastily.
“Don't they ever knock?”
“I'll get a better charm for the doors.” Sheldor promises.
“She came here to kill you!” Dranel splutters. (Conveniently forgetting his own motives for originally entering the Dark Keep.)
“That was just business.” Penelope waves a hand. “We've...renegotiated.”
Taru and Shlaym exchanges glances. It certainly looks that way. Penelope slithers out of Sheldor's lap like a length of silk, and saunters towards the door.
“I'm gonna go kill the king instead.”
Sheldor smiles fondly at her.
She turns in the doorway, and looks at him, eyebrows raised in happy challenge.
“Come on, the fresh air and exercise will do you good.”
“Oh, very well.”
He gathers his cloak about him, and strides after her.
Taru looks sidelong at Shlaym.
“She didn't look like she wanted to kill him.”
“Unless she was trying to smother him to death.” Shlaym's eyes glaze over. “What a way to go...”
“Does anybody else understand what just happened here?” Dranel asks, plaintively.
“Well, I've been saying this place needed a woman's touch for a while...” Taru muses.
“It's obviously some vile enchantment that I must free her from...”
Taru and Shlaym stare at each other, then at the gesticulating halfling. Dranel seems to forget who the actual master of the Dark Keep is, sometimes.
“...And some day, we'll have smart, beautiful babies together...”
“Yeah, sure you will.” Shlaym pats his shoulder comfortingly.
“After all,” Dranel sticks out his chin, “What has he got, that I haven't?”
Taru and Shlaym think about the Dark Keep, the massive towers, the labyrinthine dungeons, the walls pulled from the living rock by elemental sorceries, and holding within them, an army of undead warriors and eldritch beings, all held in thrall to a master of terrible powers.
“He's...taller?” Taru ventures.
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It's a small, peaceful kingdom, maybe half a dozen villages and a pretty little capital city. The palace sits atop a hill, a dazzling white confection of airy towers amidst manicured lawns and elaborate terraced gardens.
Tranquillity ploughs to a halt through the rose-garden, and settles down to munch on the shrubbery.
Penelope strides into the throne-room.
“I brought Sheldor's head...”
The tall figure behind her flips back his hood.
“...you never said you wanted it detached from the rest of him.”
The king gestures. A tall bearded man in dark robes raises his staff, and purple lightnings play about him.
“Your magic will avail you naught within this chamber, foul sorcerer.”
The king's own bodyguard fan out, weapons drawn.
“Oh, old school.” Sheldor draws his own sword, sighs. “Very well, gentlemen, you may begin...”
The fight is short, violent and fairly one-sided. After all, these are half a dozen of the most highly-trained knights in the kingdom.
The mage levels his staff at the barbarian stalking towards him.
“Know that I cannot be harmed by any man....urk.” He drops to his knees, with a look of intense surprise on his face.
Penelope puts her boot against his chest, jerks the axe out, lets the body flop back.
“Honestly, all this discrimination is really starting to piss me off.”
Turns to find Sheldor fastidiously wiping his blade clean on the last soldier's cloak. He looks at her, shrugs.
“My father insisted that I at least learnt the basics.”
“What exactly does your father do?” Penelope asks, faintly awed.
“He was a professional monster-slayer.” Sheldor looks sad for a moment. “He disagreed with something that ate him.”
They both turn and look at the ashen-faced king, still huddled on his throne. He lifts his chin.
“I will show you how a king dies.”
“The same way as anybody else.” Penelope says, and proves it.
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“Queen Penelope. I like that.” She puts the crown on, twists her head this way and that. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful as always.”
Part of the palace is now ablaze. Below them, there is confusion in the streets, panicked citizens and confused soldiery.
Tranquillity rears theatrically against the moon, spreading her wings and roaring defiance.
Penelope settles back, his chest warm against her shoulders, tilts her head to smile up at him.
“With your brains, and my brawn...”
Sheldor smiles back, his arms about her waist, and completes her thought.
“...this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
.
.
(*) - the name of the Omaha tribe does actually translate as 'those going against the wind'.