Dzurlord's Exercise
In which we see that a Dzurlord is never unarmed.
Those readers who have followed the adventures of our heroes in their entirety will no doubt remember that Tazendra had by this period in her life given much of her time over to the studious development of her formidable skill at sorcery. Yet it must be noted that despite the sedentary nature of most of her activities, the good Dzurlord was not only able to maintain a sightly figure, but moreover, was able to preserve the muscles she had acquired in her more active centuries of youth.
This was achieved by means of maintaining a daily regimen of exercises, which featured as its main event a strenuous sprint about the perimeters of the camp, her path easily defined by the limits imposed by the barrier surrounding the place. As had been her custom for centuries, she performed these activities in the early hours of the morning without traditional armament; the greatsword and her wizard’s staff that had accompanied her through so many adventures had never been a part of her morning jogs, and sadly, never would attain such inclusion. This had the unfortunate effect of causing Tazendra to be running in an area known to be fraught with troublesome zombies whilst she was weaponless, that is, whilst appearing to be at her most vulnerable.
So it was that one day, as she was racing along the perimeter of the barrier, she found a particularly insistent zombie in her path. Seeing that it had caught her attention, it addressed her, saying, “Here, my good Baroness, I would speak two words with you.”
Though Tazendra was loath to interrupt her activities, no gentleman or woman can ignore such a hail without causing grave offense; therefore, she promptly responded, “How, two words?”
“Just so,” said the zombie, giving her a slight bow.
“Well, then, I am listening.”
“Then presently, I shall speak.”
“That is good.”
“Here it is, then: you will perceive that I am a zombie, that is, an undead abomination that must live by feasting upon the brains of certain individuals.”
“The Orb!” cried Tazendra, who was by no means squeamish, but felt it was only proper to meet such as statement with a certain degree of disapproval. “You say the brains of certain individuals?”
“I more than say it,” responded the zombie. “I repeat it.”
“Well, this is famous! But come, who are these certain individuals?”
“Well, you perceive, not just any brain will meet the requirements of my diet.”
“Ah!”
“Here, you say ‘ah.’”
“It is just that I am not aware of the requirements of your diet.”
“Then I shall explain it to you.”
“Please do so.”
“First,” the zombie explained patiently, “the brains must be those of a thinking being, that is, of a sentient being such as a human or an Easterner.”
“Well, but this seems somewhat morbid,” murmured our good Dzurlord.
“I nearly think there is some justice to what you say,” agreed the zombie. “But there is more.”
“How, there is more!”
“Just so. These brains must not only be those of a sentient being, but more, they must be consumed from a living being.”
“Well, but any brain comes from a living being.”
“Ah, but not all brains currently reside within a being that is alive. It is a small distinction, but an important one, I think.”
“Very well, I will accept your reasoning.”
“You are most gracious, my dear Baroness.”
“Well,” Tazendra said, smiling.
“I believe that brings us to the matter of my addressing you.”
“I would agree, for I have never been very good at guessing, and--well, you have not yet said why you wished to speak with me.”
“I shall endeavor to make all plain to you.”
“That is well,” Tazendra said, “for it has been an hour since I have wanted anything else.”
“Are you not, my dear Baroness, a sentient being?” the zombie asked.
“Oh!” Tazendra said, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Well, but my friends have assured me that I am.”
“That is well, for it shows you have friends of a caring disposition,” commented the zombie. “And are you not also alive?”
“As to that, I should nearly think I am!” huffed Tazendra, who is, in fact, to be widely regarded as dead by the standards of the Dragaeran Empire, but by some unknown factor of camp met all the standard requirements of life. “And here is the proof: I am standing here, speaking with you.”
“You have, then, the brain of a sentient, living being,” concluded the zombie.
“Why, so I have!” exclaimed Tazendra.
“And you are, moreover, not carrying any weapons, for they would unnecessarily burden you in your activities, which leaves you in a position from which you would have a difficult time preventing me from taking said brain,” said the zombie.
“Well, but what of it?”
“Oh, simply this: I intend to make the attempt presently.” And no sooner had the zombie made its intentions clear, but it acted upon them, lunging at Tazendra, grasping with rotting fingers. The two struggled momentarily, for a Dzurlord’s fondness for pitting herself against long odds means that she is better suited for fending off a sudden attack of any sort than most others. The dead creature, however unable to perform magic or other higher forms of attacks, was shortly going to overcome her with its superior strength.
It was at this point, however, that Tazendra remembered the drink that she had concocted to keep her body supplied with the correct balance of nutrients as she exercised; the flask was, in fact, still at her waist, and so seizing it, she brought it up and then down again upon the wretched creature’s brittle right arm, crushing it and momentarily forcing it back. As any Dzur would when presented with such a reaction, Tazendra let a smile play across her lips, and advanced, wielding the flask as she would any other stick of similarly short length. She thrashed the creature in this very manner for several minutes more.
“Ah,” cried the zombie, “But you must realize that you may never truly overcome a zombie except with a blast to the left eye of such force that it necessarily destroys the brain and, indeed, entire head behind it, and I should be surprised if your improvised weapon could ever produce such a blow.”
“What you say is full of justice,” answered Tazendra, who was by now grinning fiendishly. That having been said, the Dzurlord drew out one of her flashstones, which are of such a size that, as was noted as early as her adventures in The Phoenix Guards, she has always carried with her in the course of her exercises without experiencing any particular hindrance. “Yet I nearly think that this is not only capable of such a strike, but more, was prepared with such attacks in mind.”
“Ah,” lamented the zombie.
“Well?”
“It seems I have made a grave error,” it explained.
“Oh, as to that-you hardly need to worry, for on the positive side, you will never make such an error again,” Tazendra pointed out cheerfully, shortly before discharging her stone.
Those readers who have followed the adventures of our heroes in their entirety will no doubt remember that Tazendra had by this period in her life given much of her time over to the studious development of her formidable skill at sorcery. Yet it must be noted that despite the sedentary nature of most of her activities, the good Dzurlord was not only able to maintain a sightly figure, but moreover, was able to preserve the muscles she had acquired in her more active centuries of youth.
This was achieved by means of maintaining a daily regimen of exercises, which featured as its main event a strenuous sprint about the perimeters of the camp, her path easily defined by the limits imposed by the barrier surrounding the place. As had been her custom for centuries, she performed these activities in the early hours of the morning without traditional armament; the greatsword and her wizard’s staff that had accompanied her through so many adventures had never been a part of her morning jogs, and sadly, never would attain such inclusion. This had the unfortunate effect of causing Tazendra to be running in an area known to be fraught with troublesome zombies whilst she was weaponless, that is, whilst appearing to be at her most vulnerable.
So it was that one day, as she was racing along the perimeter of the barrier, she found a particularly insistent zombie in her path. Seeing that it had caught her attention, it addressed her, saying, “Here, my good Baroness, I would speak two words with you.”
Though Tazendra was loath to interrupt her activities, no gentleman or woman can ignore such a hail without causing grave offense; therefore, she promptly responded, “How, two words?”
“Just so,” said the zombie, giving her a slight bow.
“Well, then, I am listening.”
“Then presently, I shall speak.”
“That is good.”
“Here it is, then: you will perceive that I am a zombie, that is, an undead abomination that must live by feasting upon the brains of certain individuals.”
“The Orb!” cried Tazendra, who was by no means squeamish, but felt it was only proper to meet such as statement with a certain degree of disapproval. “You say the brains of certain individuals?”
“I more than say it,” responded the zombie. “I repeat it.”
“Well, this is famous! But come, who are these certain individuals?”
“Well, you perceive, not just any brain will meet the requirements of my diet.”
“Ah!”
“Here, you say ‘ah.’”
“It is just that I am not aware of the requirements of your diet.”
“Then I shall explain it to you.”
“Please do so.”
“First,” the zombie explained patiently, “the brains must be those of a thinking being, that is, of a sentient being such as a human or an Easterner.”
“Well, but this seems somewhat morbid,” murmured our good Dzurlord.
“I nearly think there is some justice to what you say,” agreed the zombie. “But there is more.”
“How, there is more!”
“Just so. These brains must not only be those of a sentient being, but more, they must be consumed from a living being.”
“Well, but any brain comes from a living being.”
“Ah, but not all brains currently reside within a being that is alive. It is a small distinction, but an important one, I think.”
“Very well, I will accept your reasoning.”
“You are most gracious, my dear Baroness.”
“Well,” Tazendra said, smiling.
“I believe that brings us to the matter of my addressing you.”
“I would agree, for I have never been very good at guessing, and--well, you have not yet said why you wished to speak with me.”
“I shall endeavor to make all plain to you.”
“That is well,” Tazendra said, “for it has been an hour since I have wanted anything else.”
“Are you not, my dear Baroness, a sentient being?” the zombie asked.
“Oh!” Tazendra said, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Well, but my friends have assured me that I am.”
“That is well, for it shows you have friends of a caring disposition,” commented the zombie. “And are you not also alive?”
“As to that, I should nearly think I am!” huffed Tazendra, who is, in fact, to be widely regarded as dead by the standards of the Dragaeran Empire, but by some unknown factor of camp met all the standard requirements of life. “And here is the proof: I am standing here, speaking with you.”
“You have, then, the brain of a sentient, living being,” concluded the zombie.
“Why, so I have!” exclaimed Tazendra.
“And you are, moreover, not carrying any weapons, for they would unnecessarily burden you in your activities, which leaves you in a position from which you would have a difficult time preventing me from taking said brain,” said the zombie.
“Well, but what of it?”
“Oh, simply this: I intend to make the attempt presently.” And no sooner had the zombie made its intentions clear, but it acted upon them, lunging at Tazendra, grasping with rotting fingers. The two struggled momentarily, for a Dzurlord’s fondness for pitting herself against long odds means that she is better suited for fending off a sudden attack of any sort than most others. The dead creature, however unable to perform magic or other higher forms of attacks, was shortly going to overcome her with its superior strength.
It was at this point, however, that Tazendra remembered the drink that she had concocted to keep her body supplied with the correct balance of nutrients as she exercised; the flask was, in fact, still at her waist, and so seizing it, she brought it up and then down again upon the wretched creature’s brittle right arm, crushing it and momentarily forcing it back. As any Dzur would when presented with such a reaction, Tazendra let a smile play across her lips, and advanced, wielding the flask as she would any other stick of similarly short length. She thrashed the creature in this very manner for several minutes more.
“Ah,” cried the zombie, “But you must realize that you may never truly overcome a zombie except with a blast to the left eye of such force that it necessarily destroys the brain and, indeed, entire head behind it, and I should be surprised if your improvised weapon could ever produce such a blow.”
“What you say is full of justice,” answered Tazendra, who was by now grinning fiendishly. That having been said, the Dzurlord drew out one of her flashstones, which are of such a size that, as was noted as early as her adventures in The Phoenix Guards, she has always carried with her in the course of her exercises without experiencing any particular hindrance. “Yet I nearly think that this is not only capable of such a strike, but more, was prepared with such attacks in mind.”
“Ah,” lamented the zombie.
“Well?”
“It seems I have made a grave error,” it explained.
“Oh, as to that-you hardly need to worry, for on the positive side, you will never make such an error again,” Tazendra pointed out cheerfully, shortly before discharging her stone.