|
By Tennessee Ernie Ford
WARNING: THIS DISCLAIMER (although silly) LIMITS OUR LIABILITY
PLEASE READ
The following is a work of fiction.
As such, it is written expressly for the amusement and entertainment of the
reader. The views expressed are not necessarily those of the underwriters, the
publishers (electronic or otherwise), those who produce or distribute the game
(including, but not limited to the 3DO Company and New World Computing), the
game's players, nor even the author.
Reasonable people can sometimes find offense where none was intended by other
reasonable people, including the author. The author would like to make it
clear that the similarity of persons (living or dead), characters (fictional
or semi-fictional), deities (worshipped or forgotten), or religions (supported
or abandoned) is entirely coincidental.
PLEASE DO NOT READ if you take seriously your religion, your games, or your
politics. The author does not intend to belittle or disparage, compare or
disparage, impugn or put down. However, some people could be dismayed upon
reading the story.
Additionally, those whose game play is still in progress are advised:
HERE THERE BE SPOILERS.
It is recommended that you not read the story unless you have completed the
Temple of the Snake.
==========================
It's not easy being Gold, thought Vermatrix. Sure, you expected the Greens to
envy you, but did the Reds always have to get so angry? Did the Blues always
have to mope? Why was it always left up to the Golds to take care of business?
It hadn't been like this in her father's day. Certainly not. Back then, a
dragon was respected. You gathered your treasure, you wove your magic by
carefully constructing your trove, and, once in while, for form's sake, you
stormed a castle or kidnapped a young prince or princess (who were always
returned unharmed, assuming the more-than-modest ransom was paid). Yes, a
dragon had been respected because each dragon had taken responsibility for
ensuring the reputation of all dragons.
No longer. Why, a dragon could hardly leave her cave without getting swarmed
by adventurers hungry for booty. They acted as if they had no idea that dragon
treasure was sacred. They acted as if it were some sort of reward for ridding
the kingdom of a particularly nasty sort of pestilence. As if dragons were
some sort of mutant vampire bats or flying form of unusually large rodent. And
if by some chance, you managed to take a nice glide around the continent, why
then, when you came back, you found that your cave had been defiled.
Why it was said that humans had even slaughtered old man Witherhide.
Incredible! After all the ghosts and skeletons poor Longfang had knocked off.
After years of patrolling Darkmoor Castle grounds, stripping the area of its
darkest demons, poor Longfang had retired to his meagre cave. Hardly fit for a
young dragon rook of three or four hundred years, never mind a well-respected
and beloved senior like Withers. He never went out. Hadn't left the small hole
in centuries. And now, some ignoble party of so-called heroes simply stormed
inside and without so much as a by-your-leave started wailing on the sickly
Gray. They even made off with his bones. Not a single scale remained of the
elder dragon, not a single dubloon of his treasure.
No, these were not heroes, concluded Vermatrix. Heroes would have come to
learn from Witherhide about the changes in the world since the arrival of the
VARN, about the Lost World of Xeen, about the battles between Good and Evil.
Heroes would have brought Longfang treasure, rather than stolen it, realizing
their wealth would only increase and unto the tenth generation, for such a
small kindness to such an old dragon.
Vermatrix had not thought matters could get much worse, until she, too, had
been the victim of misguided humans. She was humiliated. She feared that she
would never be able to show her face in public again. She had been trapped and
caged like some, some circus animal. She, a Gold. Not only a Gold, but a
Goldenhyde. She wanted to cry, but wouldn't give these slimy creatures the
satisfaction. Although, honestly, she couldn't be sure how they would react.
She was having trouble making any sense of them at all. True, they must have
had ancestors in common, long ago. The green scales of her captors sparkled
rainbows in true sunlight, just like her green cousins. But these medussae
were something new. She wasn't sure what to make of them.
She was interrupted mid-thought by sounds heralding her next feeding. The
aroma of lunch wafted across her room. Stale goblin flesh. Again. She would
eat the tasteless meat because she was afraid that she would not otherwise
have the strength to fly away, someday. She lived with the hope that her
assailants would make some minor mistake, allowing her to overwhelm their
defenses. Maybe they would leave the skylight unprotected from her fiery
breath, and she would melt the glass like butter on hydras al mojo de ajo. Or
mayhaps they would come to feed her, and thinking her tired, weak, and cowed,
they might forget that she was a Gold Dragon, and not merely some colorful
flying serpent.
The doorway to her cell opened, and her hydra matrons entered. Today, they
were followed by a half dozen human peasants. The guards pointed their Icicle
Stix at her, but she had already retreated to the corner. She had felt the
sting of cold many times on her armored hide. But though the blasts were more
annoying than painful, she thought it best that the guards believe her afraid
of their powerful weapons. On this occasion, she also hoped to be able to gain
some insight into her imprisonment from listening to the humans. She wanted no
distractions.
The guards lit powder in the chalices at the corners of her tiny room and
began chanting in their slithery tongue. Interestingly, the humans waited
respectfully. So unlike these pink and brown bipeds to be polite to other
creatures. The prayers ceased, and now the humans set up a brazier of their
own in front of her. Vermatrix Goldenhyde watched carefully and sniffed
cautiously: oil of lizardman, powdered tusk of venom beetle, crushed shell of
titan noble (difficult to find), and lastly, … what was it? Snakeskin? The
room became thick with the musk of these powerful reagents. The humans
gathered in a semi-circle and faced her:
"Oh, hear us, O Lord, our God! Hear our prayers. We make this sacrifice to you
out of love, not anger; out of respect, not fear; out of joy, not sorrow.
Lord, we ask you to consider our offering and grant us the honor of your
attention. We ask that you listen to our prayers. We ask you to find us worthy
of your notice. We ask for your help. Yaweh, behold!--our sacrifice unto
thee."
The lower door opened again, and two more medussae entered, rolling in a large
fire pit mounted on wheels. Behind the fire pit, two more humans appeared,
carrying a third o'er head. The first set of peasants began preparing a fiery
stake, heating it in the brazier. To Vermatrix's horror, she realized this
would be no traditional sacrifice; there would be no burnt offerings of
unusually large rats or of fatted calves. No, this would be human sacrifice. A
particularly ugly, painful, and slow human sacrifice.
Worse, she realized that these peasants, and probably the medussae as well,
were praying to her! They thought her to be some sort of God. She was vaguely
troubled by the notion of a race that believed in a deity that could grant
powerful boons and yet be so easily captured. (Worse, they didn't seem to ken
that she was female, not male-saw they not the strong aura of her powerful
ovaries?)
Vermatrix was devastated by the knowledge that these humans would continue to
make sacrifices to her. Sacrifices that would become more frequent, not less;
ceremonies that would become more painful to the sacrificed, not less… For
Vermatrix Goldenhyde was sure of only three things now: that she would be
unlikely to be able to grant any prayers to any being as long as she was
unable to fly; that even if possible, she would be unwilling to grant even the
least of prayers to this sorry group; and that she would rather die, than be
responsible for needless and painful death.
As she contemplated her future, the peasants prepared their sacrifice for its
last moments of agony. As they lifted the man to face the fire pit, his face
became visible to her, and she realized she knew this human! This was none
other than Emmanuel Cravitz, Furrier of Blackshire, and the only human to have
received the Dragon's Circle in the last 240 years. She could not stand idly
by and watch him die.
Vermatrix knew she had little time. As she, herself, could not escape, she
must create enough chaos so that Cravitz might disappear in the confusion,
before those scaly women could cast their solidifying gaze upon him. Surprise
might be the only weapon at her disposal, since her pyrotechnic gland had been
drained as recently as this morning. Her wings had not little room to flap,
and her larynx had been coated with something to prevent her from singing. Yet
she must act quickly.
Suddenly, she heard shouts from the corridor above. "Alohaaaa! Cravitz? Manny
Cravitz? Anyone here seen Manny Cravitz? A short, kind of Jewish looking
bloke, a little wiry looking? Anyone?" Humans, she could tell. She didn't have
to smell them to recognize a voice booming with that blessed optimism that so
infuriated her cousin Blues.
"Good, going, Zoltan… now we've got company," from a human female voice.
Presently, Vermatrix sensed a substantial disturbance in the Force. She knew
that Fundamental Magicks had been invoked. These must be powerful heroes,
indeed, to have become skilled in the mysteries of The Dark. She heard
Fireballs exploding and smelt the familiar aroma of Dragon Breath. "Chalk up
another one for the big guy," she heard someone yell. She felt, rather than
heard, the air implode in the room across the hall. She heard the sounds of
massive bodies hitting the floor. Then, briefly, silence.
Perhaps, she would be able to take advantage of the confusion caused by the
battle and release her family's friend. She turned around, only to see the
medussae rushing out of the room, the peasants quickly dousing both brazier
and fire pit, and carrying the hapless Cravitz away. Too late!
Still, now she was alone. Perhaps the scaled magicians had not taken the time
to recharge the defenses which prevented her escape. She began to flap her
wings, preparing to fly up and crash through the stained glass (which was
rather lovely, she had to admit; she would be sorry to destroy such a work of
art). She could feel the wind her powerful limbs were creating; the air moved
faster and faster, blowing away the heavy scent left behind by the aborted
religious ceremony. The ashes of the brazier and fire circled up towards the
skylight. She felt strong enough with hope that she might yet even create a
vacuum within the room, using the strength of the air above the skylight to
break the roof of her prison.
She sensed, however, that she was being watched. Without missing a flap, she
turned, and faced the corridor. Never had she seen a more scraggly, unruly, or
(alas) smelly quartet of humans. From the looks of their costume (clearly, not
a one of them had any sense of color or fashion), these must be the
adventurers she had heard, come to rescue herself and their own cousin,
Goodman Cravitz.
She began to welcome them in the Old Tongue, but they just stared at her in
confusion. She had forgotten how savage the humans had become. No wonder they
robbed dragon treasure, risking a curse that would affect their families for
evermore. Why, they couldn't even speak language of their ancestors! She
stopped, and tried to recall the traditional greeting in Herospeak; surely
they would understand that. It was the right thing to do. Though she lived
this day in a prison, no human would receive less than the traditional welcome
to the (alas, involuntarily adopted) Home of Vermatrix Goldenhyde!
But before she could open her mouth, the raven-haired woman screamed, "another
ruddy, hyper-thyroidic, wanking, gold, flying serpent! For Baa's sake, Zoltan,
didn't we see enough of these in Dragonsand to last our all of our lifetimes?"
The other woman also shouted: "(GoHeroes3) you, Zoltan, this Cravitz guy
better been pretty darn grateful we're here to save his carcas. If he doesn't
have the Horn of Ros, my next Lightning Bolt will be directed at your face!"
Vermatrix dropped her jaw in disbelief. She had never heard such disrespect
before from a human. Did they not realize they were allies against these scaly
wormhole denizens?
Apparently not, as the four crusaders jumped into her room from the hallway
above and proceeded to assault her personage. The dark male let fly with the
deadliest incantations of shrapmetal she had felt in centuries. Bleeding
profusely, she realized this rag-tag crew had no intention of rescuing her;
far from it: they were trying to lay her to waste.
With no time for explanations of the proper relation between man, woman, and
shedragon, Vermatrix roared into action: it was time to kill or be killed. She
had a sudden inspiration as she snapped her tail at the fair-haired man
(breaking his armor in two): these must be the same four cowards who slew
Witherhide!
She brought her wings together suddenly to create a sonic boom that sent each
of them careening towards the wall. The dark-haired man staggered, and then
fell. The raven-haired woman opened her mouth, but could not produce a sound;
the paler one frantically began chanting healing spells. The van-dyked man
began waving his hands in the classic manner of a skilled mage, but quickly
stopped when Vermatrix's front paw fell on his leg with a crash.
Perhaps, thought Vermatrix, this might not be such a bad day after all.
|
