Hey everybody, I am new here at Troll in the Corner. I am an avid Redditor and was excited when I saw Ben’s cattle-call for a Dungeons and Dragons editor. Well, thought I, that would be quite the opportunity. Of course I dabble in all things role-play, but my interests are so much greater. I love the dizzying highs of real thorough role playing, the basic strategy of a new, undiscovered board game, and the simple magic of… well.. Magic: the Gathering. Honestly anything with dice and imagination and I am there.
But bringing us back to the post at hand, I have been writing on my blog for a few years now. Nothing special, but an active collection of fiction set in various games I’ve played over time. I sent in a quick introductory story that I had written and Ben, and others here at Trollitc, loved it! Now I’ve got my very own “Weird Al Show.” Well not really, I am writing a story every two weeks here at the Troll. Some will be continuations of the last, but a few might be one offs.
The story line “The End” was inspired by a few sessions of “Shadows over Camelot.”
The old man awoke in a sweat, his bony fingers wrapped tightly around the paunch in his lower abdomen. He had only just closed his eyes but the pain grabbed his consciousness and shook him like a rag doll. Tears rolled down his face and Edmund suddenly felt relief. As quick as they come they leave again. He stirred and pulled back the thick covers from his bed; his feet hovered over the floor. Light exploded across the room; dark shadows were cast against the dark stone walls of his room. He slipped his feet into the slippers on the floor next to the empty iron pot. Looking down, he stopped and stretched his muscles in his back: that damned pot would be his death. If only he could make water and fill it. If only his body would not revolt from him. If only he were young again. Thunder boomed out, tearing him back from his daze, returning him to reality. He moved to the door pausing only to look back at the sleeping shape still in his bed. She did not move as the door closed.
Winds whipped his cloak in a hissing fury; Edmund shielded himself against the soaking rain and strained to see against the night. The castle was still intact, yes, ramparts were in place, the walls secure. His angst slipped from him, off his shoulders and down his back, but resting on his lower abdomen.
Edmund glanced back toward the dark night enveloping his kingdom. Something felt wrong here. He did not usually sleep so uncomfortably, but he had not been so anxious either. His realm was in jeopardy, his succession was in question. He had held his seat for 35 years and he had been happy. Thoughts of loss and retribution from those destroyed did not cross his mind as a lesser king might have. He was King Edmund the Conqueror and no enemy could stand in his way. However he did not do much conquering these days; his place was in the bedroom. Many nights he struggled to produce an heir; the most beautiful women from across the world were at his disposal, but he was at a loss. At sixty-eight he was not the conqueror he once was.
Lightning flashed again and lit the night. Archers milled on the battlements and men stirred in the courtyard. Shouts began to drift up the winds to Edmund’s vantage. He could not make the words, but their intent left little to imagine: something was stirring his hive. He called out the master-at-arms, “You there, what is the matter.” The man turned around and called out. Thunder wracked Edmund’s ears and penetrated his belly doubling him in horrible pain.
Distant lightning flashed across the fields before his keep, the night illuminated, and Edmund forgot his pain. Something was out there.
“Siege works, Sire,” roared the master-at-arms, “Orcs!”
And the thunder rolled.
[tags]fantasy, literature, tales of old, rpg, fiction friday, Shadows over Camelot[/tags]