'The Lantern' - A Story from my 'Realms of Terrinoth' rpg Campaign
While playing an rpg today, there was a brief digression about whether you could use severed head for divination purposes. My brane, being the big weirdo it is, took that idea for a walk.
For those not playing the game, the characters involved in this story are:
- Chance Wonderway (Gnomish Wanderer and Storyteller. Self-Proclaimed Greatest Adventurer in the World. He is telling this story to his young daughter as a bedtime story)
- Dandy Wonderway (Chance's Daughter. Loves hearing her father's stories and dreams of following in his footsteps.)
Names associated with the Terrinoth Setting and which may require explanation include:
- Baroness Harriet of Frest. The newest of the 12 Barons that make up the Council that rules Terrinoth. Formerly a carpenter, she became Baron after leading a Peasant Revolt which took power following a period of extended discord. While a good leader, she is still a controversial figure.
- The Riverwatch Riders. A combined guard group and messenger service, they patrol the areas along the River Systems of South-Eastern Terrinoth. They are based in the Free City of Riverwatch and are, in general, highly regarded by the people.
- Aerendor Keep. Home Seat of Baroness Harriet.
- Other names, Moonglow Marsh, for instance, are self-explanatory or require no real further explanation. to understand the story.
With that out of the way, read on...
 |
| (The City of Riverwatch and its Environs) |
* * * * *
THE LANTERN
At one time, long ago, there was a nefarious plot against one of the Barons. Fortunately, the plot was discovered and a messenger was sent to alert the Baron before the plot could be enacted. Unfortunately, agents hired by the plotters waylaid the messenger as he was crossing an area of swampy ground. They cast the body into a bog and took the head to prove to their employers that the deed had been done.
On the way back, the assassins were caught in a terrible storm and tried to shelter in a ramshackle hut. Inside, they found an elderly woman whom they beat and threatened when she tried to forbid their entry. Once inside, they shut her into a large wardrobe before settling down to eating her dinner. As the night drew on, the men set to chatting. And the talking gradually turned to arguments as each one began to make harsh comments about the others. Eventually, these arguments turned into a fight as knives were drawn and plates shattered underfoot.
Finally, a single assassin stood amongst the chaos, his face flushed with exertion and gulping air as he surveyed the disarray before him. How had it come to this? Less than an hour ago, they were smug and self-satisfied, happy with a job well done and looking forward to getting paid, and now they were dead, lying bloody amidst a pile of broken furniture in this... hovel?
"Simple," he heard a familiar voice behind him. It was the voice of one of his allies. He glanced over at the corpses before him and saw his friend's dead eyes staring up at him. He turned to see the crone, somehow freed from her restraints, standing before him.
She spoke, and again, the voice of his dead ally emerged from her dry and aged face, "You chose the wrong place to shelter." The assassin looked down to see the black hilt of a long knife emerging from his chest as everything went black.
The witch stood over the bodies of the intruders.
"Now here's a puzzle," she mused, "six bodies with seven heads." She rummaged amongst the various bags and discovered the severed head of the messenger. Now... this one seems like an ill-fit for this uncouth lot. Let's see if we can't find the rest of you. She looked about, trying to find something.
"Hard to find anything in this mess," she grumbled, rummaging through a pile of detritus before coming up with what looked like a broken lantern. She sized it up briefly, and used her still-bloody knife to clear the dust-caked glass from the metal frame before grabbing the messenger's severed head. She shoved it roughly inside the frame of the lantern. "Quit complaining," she muttered, "It's not like you ain't 'ad worse."
Lifting the lantern up, she mumbled something under her breath and the mouth swung open, the jaw slack and with a dim and sickly luminescence beaming out from from within. She placed the lantern onto a shelf and the jaw shut again with a clack of teeth. "Right." she said, "Now where are them boots?"
Minutes later, she was slogging her way through the ankle deep water. The lantern swung out ahead of her in wide arcs and, whichever direction it shone the brightest, that was the way she trudged. The rain continued to hammer down, making a silver veil as it cascaded from the wide brim of her battered old hat.
Before long, she stood, peering down into a deep hollow formed in the crook of a pair of massive tree roots. The rain had ceased to hammer down and churn the water's surface so the lantern cast its light out in an uneven circle. The light had grown bright enough that you could see the shadow of the skull through the translucent flesh. She rested the lantern down on one massive tree root and stood over the hollow, her hands on her hips. "Well, " she said peevishly, "Whatcher waitin' for? A written invitation?"
In response, something moved beneath the deep water. A few bubbles and some black leaves broke the surface. "Come on, come on, I ain't got all night." Several more bubbles erupted up, and the surface roiled until, at last, a headless torso breached the water's surface, and lay still again as the waves gradually subsided back into stillness. The old woman reached her claw-like hands down haul the corpse up, and slung it over her shoulder. She snatched up the lantern again and proceeded to trudge back to her home.
In the morning, one of the young men came from the village. As usual, he dared not approach too close, so he stood there in the mud at the clearing's edge and shifted nervously from foot to foot, deliberating over whether knocking on the door or simply leaving the basket he carried and heading home would be the worse breach of etiquette. It looked like a deliberation that was going to take some time, thought the old woman, either that or the lad was fixing to piss his breeches.
She shrugged. Either way, she had plenty of time to finish her tea before seeing to business.
"Well?" she croaked, just as the lad seemed decided one way or the other. He jumped, before bowing his head and avoiding her eyes.
"I have the goods from the village as you asked for last week," he stammered, and made to move a step closer.
"Excellent," she replied, "And I've got something for you." The boy started at that and for a split-second forgot to avoid her gaze. Their eyes met for an instant before he remembered and reflexively, slammed them shut. Seconds later, he opened them again, this time, with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Only this time, there was something there: a pair of mud-caked black boots.
The old woman stood there, barely an arm's reach away, but he'd only looked away for an instant. How?
"Never mind that," she said, thrusting a small, oiled leather package into his hand, "Now get that to the watch master. He'll be glad to get it. And mind you don't go takin a pee for yourself. There's nothing in there to concern you." She grabbed the basket he held in his other hand, and for a second, he was flummoxed at exactly what was going on. By the time he'd gathered his wits, she'd vanished.
"Same again, next week." The voice came from back at the hovel, and before he could look up, the door slammed, and she was gone. He wasted no time hurrying back home to inform Watch Captain Bascomb of what the witch had told him.
"Wait, Bascomb?" came a tiny voice, "Bascomb Bascomb?"
"Well, I'm sure that wasn't his real full name, but yes, indeed. That Bascomb." Chance Wonderway looked down into the wide eyes of his young daughter as her face scrunched up, trying to process this new information. He waited for the question to work its way through the gears of her mind.
"But..."
"Yes...?"
"But I don't remember there being a witch and murderers and magic head lanterns and a boy in Bascomb's story."
Chance smiled, "Well not in that version. But there are all sorts of versions. Including this one, which just happens to be the true story."
"But..."
He looked at her quizzically, and could almost see the thoughts being examined, re-examined, turned over and over again.
"But..." she repeated, "If all that was in the story, it wouldn't necessarily be Bascomb's story," Chance smiled, "It'd be the story of Bascomb and the witch and the messenger and the boy and the murderers." She scrunched up her face again.
"But..." she said again, "Why is that better?"
In the original story, Oswic Bascomb, an intrepid member of the Riverwatch Riders and scion of a noble house, had intercepted a message and ridden, alone, halfway across two Baronies to deliver a message to Aerendor Keep, pausing only at Riverwatch to change horses. In return for this great feat, he'd been presented with a hefty purse of coin, a tremendously shiny medallion and a high-ranking position in the Riverwatch Headquarters of the Riders. Not only had he gone well beyond the call of duty, but he'd effectively saved the life of Baroness Harriett. This was during the early years of her time overseeing Frest, when she had much to do, little to do it with, and many enemies eyeing her, awaiting the smallest sign of weakness.
In reality, he'd been a barely adequate administrator who, due to his family lineage, had been offered a provincial posting at a small settlement bordering the Moonglow Marsh. After receiving the message, he'd been uncertain of its veracity and had journeyed South to Riverwatch to pass it up the bureaucratic chain. His superiors there had recognized it immediately and sent him on, with a substantial retinue, to Aerendor. The part about him being rewarded was true, however, his position in the Headquarters was largely a sinecure where he could be paid heftily to remain inconsequential.
Chance looked down at his tiny daughter, wracking her brain for answers. In a way, he was proud that she couldn't immediately see the answers. To her, all people were of value. They all mattered. Whether you were a brave, valiant soldier in shiny armour on a mighty steed, a strange old lady living in a hovel, a hapless village boy delivering food and supplies or even a doomed messenger destined to die in a swamp.
Back then, Harriett's rule was tenuous, and she needed something... anything... to shore up her reputation with the nobles. Bascomb had been a gift. His family had been one of Harriett's most vocal and influential critics, but if they wanted the advantages that came with tales of heroic feats, they'd have to change their tune.
All it needed was a good story to put the right spin on it.
It wouldn't be the first time Chance had been called upon to craft a compelling narrative on a shoestring budget with a ridiculously narrow deadline, but in the end, he'd been quite proud of the results of his craft... if not the reasons for it. He'd really missed his call as a playwright, but he'd always rather be out there making history instead of just re-telling it.
Chance looked down at his daughter, still puzzling away, "It's not better. It's easier, and maybe more fun to tell a story about a single brave person doing amazing things. But the best stories are the true stories. And in true stories, every great and famous hero has a hundred people helping them along, working hard, and making sure that their heroic deeds are possible. Everyone who helps someone is a hero, and everyone is important."
Dandy scrunched her face up, this time with happiness, "Even me?" she squeaked in her tiny voice.
"Especially you," replied her father and kissed her goodnight. He stood up and paused in the doorway. Because you'll be the one who tells them the truth. You'll be the one who tells everyone.
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