The Broken (Forgotten Realms)

[The Grim Squeaker]

“That's a rather ... capitalist solution.”

“This, Ves, is Samael, and he is the best candidate for the position of Perfect Tyrant.”

. Fucking brilliant if crazy

[Ford Prefect]

This chapter marks the end of the unmarked prologue. So far, we've had some craziness, and some introductions to the major characters, but not much more than that. This chapter really kicks Shaft's plot into overdrive.


THE BROKEN
Strange Adventures in the Forgotten Realms
Chapter the Fifth


“His name is Rasiter Xorlarrin.” The voice was distant, tired and totally disembodied. Her body was lifeless, covered with a sheet, but the remains of her soul had been bound through the monk. Samael nodded.

“The Fourth House of Menzoberranzan.” the illithid said, tugging on one of his tentacles. “Undoubtedly he intends to make a grab for power within his family, or drive the family itself up the ranks.”

The monk's eye narrowed. “What exactly did you do that would make your head such an important political bargaining chip?”

Samael ignored his thrall's question and instead said: “Tell me if this Rasiter knows we are here.”

“We do not know where you are staying. We picked up your trail near the coastal markets.” Samael held up his tentacles and the monk shrugged; the illithid asked for more information, this time where they were holed up. “I don't remember the name. I remember he is staying across from us. We are in the ... I think the Stuck Pig.”

“Tell me about Rasiter.”

“He was trained in Melee Magthere. He thinks himself very clever and skillful. He is a liar and a cheat and very persuasive.” there was something like a tired sigh. “I think he sleeps with his lieutenant, Dalil.”

“Is Dalil a warrior? What is the composition of your group?”

“Dalil is a sorceress, though the rest of us are warriors.”

“Do you know Rasiter's plans?”

“No.”

Samael waved one hand and Nameless, let the vestiges of the woman's soul slip away. Samael rubbed the corners of closed, perhaps even tired eyes with clawed digits, then looked over at his thrall. “Find him. Now.” the monk nodded and rose to his feet, walking towards the door to Samael's darkened room, when the illithid spoke again. “And Black Belt? When you're out, get me some good eel. Tonight, I'm cooking satay.”

*

With the fingers of one hand in her golden hair, Vesu'veus looked over the notes she had made the thief write down. Essentially it was everything she knew about the Shadowmasters, which didn't actually amount to all that much. Jack did not, for example, know the names, faces or locations of the actual Shadowmasters themselves. Nor did she know anything much about those directly under them. Below that was her 'handler', though the name was obviously false and there was no location. “I admire their structural organisation. It is designed for redundancy and secrecy, despite it being so sprawling. According to rumour, there are five Shadowmasters, each of roughly equal influence and importance. Below them are an indeterminate number of bosses, who each control a number of lesser bosses, who handle individual cells of upper class operatives, who in turn act as the informants for lesser thieves.

“In order to erase the guild, you must eliminate the entirely unknown overbosses and all their direct underlings. Your handlers do not have the influence to rise up to fill the vacuum, but their handlers could, and I assume would.” she sighed and dropped the pad, and examined the young woman, herself examining her short, rounded nails. “However, this could be as many as a hundred people. And if we do not quickly eliminate the lot, they will delve into hiding, making it exponentially harder to track down the unknown number of totally anonymous people.”

Jack looked up and nodded. “Pretty much, yeah. Oh, and the handlers don't know-”

“Yes, I gathered as much.” Ves sighed, throwing the pad onto the table in front of her. Rubbing an eyebrow, the elf reached out for her tall, frosted glass of tea. “Well, they are a family of thieves who have gone so far to make most of their profit from controlling business and what have you. I think we can manipulate that.” she was silent again, and sipped at her iced tea. Jack watched her, the way that the elf kept her eyes closed. She sat forward and laid her arms across her knees.

“Are you always like this?” Jack asked, after a moment. Vesu'veus opened one eye. Her arching eyebrow made any statements unnecessary. “You're all uptight and stuff.”

“No, I am not always like this.” she wrapped her lips around the straw again. “It is just that I'm a little concerned in regards to Jules' plan. I never thought he'd ever actually find his 'appropriate' candidate. And I never really thought it would be a, well ...”

“A brain-sucking monster from the lightless depths of the world?” Jack hazarded.

“That's the one.” Vesu'veus said, snapping her fingers. “Though to be honest, I think he eats souls. On the other hand, his thrall is hot.” she giggled musically, then coughed loudly, covering her mouth. Much of the colour had drained from her cheeks. Jack covered her smirk with her drink.

“Don't you hate that?” she asked after letting Vesu'veus stew for no more than four seconds.

The elf's Corrugator supercilii clenched, creasing her brow with the lines of a frown. “What?”

“Uncomfortable silences.” Jack explained, presenting an upturned palm. “Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?”

“No seriously, what the in the hells are you talking about?” as she spoke, Ves rubbed her face with extremely heavy hands. Her shoulders drooped. “Disregard that. I know. You're trying to be friendly.”

“Yeah, I am. It'd be nice if you at least tried to reciprocate.”

“Why?” Vesu'veus raised both hands and both eyebrows. “I honestly don't like you. My experience with you has been limited to your vague information about the conspiracy you work for, and the fact that you're only here and helping because it's profitable to you.” Jack opened her mouth, but Ves closed it for her. “Don't try. I know what mathematics looks like.”

“Yeah, well!” Jack retorted, raising her finger to lance out at Vasu'veus' chest. “I bet you're not helping him out because you believe in his cause! I bet you're just ... you're just ...” her violent finger jabbing slowed, then stopped. Jack dropped her hand. “I don't know, but I bet it's for your own profit too.”

*

Samael, fiddling with the cufflink on his sleeve, read the sign aloud: “Tull and Sons, Merchant Traders.” he swung around to look at Shaft, his tentacles swirling. “It looks kind of ... well, kind of small.”

“That's because this is just Jethro Tull's office.” Shaft explained, shifting his grip on the chest he carried. He gestured down towards the dockfront, in particular a large warehouse. “He has three of those, and he has four sons, each of which commands a pair of merchantman. In total, Tull and Sons owns and operates nine vessels.” Samael's tentacles began to rub against each other and Shaft shook his head. “Jethro has his own ship. Now, let's go.”

The door jangled open, and Samael stepped inside. He wondered if this was what it was like to be on a sea-going vessel; lanterns hung from the roof, and everything seemed to be moving. The illusion was helped by the grimy windows and obviously nautical instruments, like that brass ... thingy. Samael half reached towards it, then instead turned to the wizened looking man sitting behind room's only desk. “Hello my good man.” Samael said, and the man replied by squinting through his pince-nez. He was clearly not of nautical twang, so he was clearly not Jethro Tull – or so the intrepid illithid reasoned. “I'm here to speak with Mister Tull. I have an appointment.”

“Ye have a whart?” the man asked, squinting harder.

“An appointment.” the man's squint became so squinty that he could no longer see. Samael glanced at Jules, who shrugged and moved to the door marked 'head office' on the frosted glass. He knocked.

“Come in!” snarled a harsh (nautical, Samael thought) voice from within.”Who are you gents?”

“My name is Samael, and this is my associate, Jules Shaft. We have a proposition for you.” At once, Shaft put the chest down on Tull's desk and opened it, bathing the old sailor-turned-business man ina wash of rich, red-gold light. He stared deep into the recesses of chest, until Shaft closed it. Tull blinked, then looked up at the two men. The geometries of his face were slackjawed and questioning. “We wish to enter into a partnership with you and your sons. This is our payment for ...”

“Majority stock.” Jules completed. He tapped the chest. “This is worth six tenths of your entire business. We wish to take over administration of this place, and allow you to return to the sea at the head of a new, expanded merchant fleet.”

“Well, I'm not so-” Jules opened the chest again, and Tull was once more drawn into its glowing depths of monetary value. Click went the lid. “Go on.” Tull said.

Samael stepped forward, flowering open one clawed hand. He leaned over Tull's desk, and rested his weight upon the chest. “Listen to me Jethro.” he said quietly. “Take this now, and I will make you an even richer man in time. You have four sons, and I will give them and their families rich futures too. All you need is to trust me. And fire your receptionist.”

The chest yawned open, and Jethro Tull was swallowed by the light. Of mutually assured profitability.

*

“Ladies, you are looking at the new chief executive officer of Samael and Tull, Merchants at Sea.” the illithid crowed. Neither paid him any heed, and instead focused entirely on viciously, silently ignoring each other completely. Tentacle-tips wringing against each other, Samael waddled off, shoulders slumped, muttering. “I wish Black Belt was here.”

Dropping into the soft embrace of the ringed couch, Jules Shaft closed his eyes and smiled. Both Vesu'veus and Jack watched as he seemed to ... melt, as though he was actually relaxing. Placing down a gloriously blue and green quill, Vesu'veus sat up. “You bought out a group of traders then?” Shaft nodded. “And it all went smoothly, without a hitch?”

“Tull's first son Ian should be making port in a few days, so there might be some hitches then, but,” he opened his eyes and grinned. “I doubt it. Not one of the Tull boys were going to have the business bestowed upon them – they had to buy it off the others when the time came. It's only the first step, but Ves-” he fixed her with his eyes. “Damn son, we're doing it!” despite herself, Vesu'veus could feel her ears perking up, and her lips curled into a smile. Shaft began looking around. “Where is the monk anyway? I want to tell him as well.”

*

The Stuck Pig had been incorrect – the actual name of the inn was the 'Impaled Pork'. Which to Nameless, seemed about as valid as anything else that inns seemed to go by. The monk took a step further back; he blinked and the world turned grey. The very substance of the buildings around him seemed formed from mist and smoke, and as he stepped out into the street, a harried trader with a wheelbarrow of melons rushed through the monk's body. In the far distance, their lurked an impossibly gargantuan mass of void. The monk ignored it, and exploiting the unique properties of the Ethereal Plane, stepped into the Impaled Pork.

It was a riot of half-drunk, half-mad and below-the-poverty-line adventurers, and by that, I mean all three at once. The patronage was made up of those abandoned souls who never made it through more than a few adventures, the coin coming from sold magical items going towards feeding an addiction to pub nuts, cheap ale and tall stories. The monk supposed that the likely very rich drow were using such locations as cover. They stuck out like stomped on thumbs. He honed in on a certain elf, the one with the richest clothes and the twin scimitars propped against his table.

Rasiter was entertaining a group of rapt young maidens with his girl-man looks and his ... impressive vocabulary? His gums didn't seem to stop flapping, yet the monk could not make out much of what he was saying. He lowered his ears to the drow's mouth, but he sounded distant and muffled at the same time. The monk straightened up and shrugged. He could wait, and then he would know where the elf made his bed.

Taking a step back, the monk felt the feather's touch of steel wool that indicated someone had passed through his ethereal body. On reflex, Nameless turned his head; the man was turning himself, close enough that the monk could make out the individual thread of smoke that collided and coiled to make up the contours of his face. He seemed to blink, and despite the fuzzy reception the Ethereal Realm got, the monk gritted his teeth,. The man seemed to have focused on him, and the monk took a step back as a hand went up.

Waving his own hand, the monk slipped away, leaving the man reeling amidst the growling innards of the inn.

[Shroom Man 777]

Adventures with dicks are truly fun. Keep it up, Ford!

Talk about context.

[Ford Prefect]

Since my exams start tomorrow, and there will be a week of inactivity from me, I thought I'd give you lot a new chapter. With extra female nudity! Also, sillier (longer) metaphors.


THE BROKEN
Strange Adventures in the Forgotten Realms
Chapter the Sixth


Standing on the balcony of Shaft's loft, Samael clutched a glass of his favourite sugared-water in one tentacle. With one elbow resting on the flat top of the stone wall, he watched collimating groups of yellow lights drift silently in the distance, sixty-foot vision limit be damned. He heard the low click and friction of the sliding door opening, then the same sounds in reverse. Vesu'veus approached and dropped her entire upper body against the wall.

Half turning her head, propped up on one hand, she made eye contact. After a few seconds, Samael's tentacles started to coil and uncoil. His drink slipped free, yet tumbled only a short distance. The illithid grabbed the halted drink and placed it carefully upon the smoothly hewn sandstone. One corner of the elven wizardess' mouth curled upwards and she said. “You seem very jittery.” she reared up and took a single long stride into Samael's personal space. Her eyes narrowed, then she grinned, poking at Samael's midsection; in particular, the silver chain strung across his vest. “He gave you this. Do you know what this means?” the intrepid illithid shook his head. “It means that when it comes to helping Jules, you better succeed or die trying. Anything less and I will take the very subatomic components of your being and sunder them apart, spreading them to the far corners of Toril. Very, very slowly.”

“Uh, right you are, Carmen.” Samael grinned, then flinched backwards as her hand flickered up, the extended finger skimming across his chest. He slowly opened one black eye and saw a small silver disk rotating clockwise and then counter-clockwise. Vesu'veus cocked her head and Samael took the watch; a jab of his thumb flipped it open. The glass face was cracked, and the hands neither ticked nor tocked. When he looked back up, she was already halfway back inside.

“The eel was nice.” she said, before the door whirred closed. Samael closed the watch, and examined the simple winged crest embossed into it. It had Shaft's initials, and a hefty dent.

“I don't get the significance.” he mumbled.

*

“Stupid, stupid paladins.” Rutger smirked beneath his hat, listening to Elvira shiver as she bathed. “Even if we didn't have three score paladins of Tyr, there's no possible way to hide Norin.”

“Are you done bitching?” Rutger asked, stepping out from behind his tree. Elvira stood, hip-deep in the clear spring, red-curls slicked against goose-bump ridden shoulders. She was staring over her shoulder at the druid, one eyebrow curved as elegantly as an arch from the Casa Simón Bolívar. “No, you're just making smalltalk. I should know by now that the hard wilderness living does nothing to phase you, lady. And I must apologise that I was only able to find rumours.”

She turned fully towards him, and approached the bank. Patting her ample chest dry, she watched Rutger carefully. Of all men she knew, only he seemed totally immune to the wiles of her body. Even now, he seemed unmoved by her nakedness. Sighing, Elvira climbed onto the soft grass and dried her legs. “Well, it doesn't really matter. Norin won't make any moves until it's dramatically appropriate. At which point we will find them effortlessly.”

“And how long do you-” Rutger raised his head and turned around. The man of the hour was emerging from the brush like a whale from the waves. He finished his sentence slightly more lamely “think that will take?”

As Norin approached, spiked hammer over one shoulder, one could feel that his title was not hyperbole. Vibrations crawled up both priestess' and druid's legs. When he halted, the mighty paladin lost two inches of height, sinking into the earth. Elvira pushed her knees together and covered herself with her damp towel. Rutger tugged the brim of his hat down in greeting. At the same time, he glanced back, and saw that Elivra's cheeks had gone pink, and she had a stupidly large smile on her face. “Hello Norin.” she half-squeaked.

Inclining his moon-like head, Norin spoke, his voice a practically sub-sonic rumble. “Druid.” he said, before turning his full attention upon Elvira. His eyebrows wavered above slate-grey eyes, and he moved the resting place of his hammer; from the twin hills of his shoulders the the earth in front of him. “Mother, when you're ...” Norin cleared his throat, and it sounded like colossal machinery within ancient mineworks. “I would like to speak with you in private.” Rutger tipped his hat low to cover a toothy smile. However, Norin still turned his attention towards the druid. “And you afterwards. When you're ...”

Swinging his enormous bludgeon back up across his shoulders, Norin nodded his great head and turned away. He disappeared into the foliage, leaving a wake of compressed grass footprints. Rutger turned to see a single drop of sweat running across the bridge of Elivira's nose. “What were you saying?” she asked, poking at her nose with her towel.

“How long do you think it will take for Norin to get his act together?”

“Oh, a couple of days at most.” she nodded confidently, breasts bouncing pointlessly.

*

Three weeks into running Samael and Tull, Merchants at Sea (a registered trademark of the Samael Corporation), both Samael and Jules seemed to have forgotten their various drow or paladin related troubles. Rather, they obsessed over maps and charts and had discussions with greedy businessmen.

Jethro Tull was a fine sailor, but he had been a poor businessman, in both senses of the word. As such, Samael had taken it upon himself to completely revamp the workings of the company. Changing the organisation of storage and deliveries for supreme efficiency was keeping him occupied, but one afternoon, he returned to the offices with a new question on his squidy mind. Lumis, the blonde halfling secretary, smiled radiantly at Samael as he entered. She had been chosen for too reasons – one, she could write at almost seventy words per minute; two, because many people had positive reactions to halflings. Though sometimes they had negative reactions too. Non-illithids were so variable, Samael had decided.

The burly handydwarves waved and grunted loudly, before continuing with their extensions of the office. Samael briefly stopped to commend them on their work, then entered what had been the office of Jethro Tull.

Jethro had not used the office in two weeks, as he had left on a new voyage with the equally new merchant fleet. Once he had sailed into the sunset, Shaft had co-opted Vesu'veus and had her quickly organise what passed as Jethro's files. The office still sported only one desk, and Samael took his seat opposite Shaft. Without glancing up from whatever it was he was drafting, he asked: “What's bothering you?”

“Jules, we're doing this in order to effect massive social change.” he paused and leant over the desk. Shaft looked up and found himself eye to eye with Samael. “But,” continued the intrepid illithid. “We have so far managed only to organise the running of this small trading business. It has been a few weeks now, and nothing has happened.”

“It's a slow process, Samael.” Jules said, and turned his head back down to his writing.

Samael leaned in closer and poked Shaft's bald scalp with the tip of one tentacle. “And another thing: we can't afford another three warehouses. We just bought three merchant trading vessels, which comes with associated crew costs. Vesu'veus won't give us any more money.”

Shaft placed down his pen firmly, but not so firmly that it made him seem like he was exasperated. In fact, in putting down his pen, it was as if he had put down the economic crisis looming over Samael and Tull, Merchants at Sea (a registered trademark of the Samael Corporation). The simple act had removed that solid weight from Samael's hands, and the illithid sighed inwardly in response. Shaft rose up, eyes closed, two fingers and a thumb rubbing his short beard. “Samael. In a week, Martin and Glenn will have returned with their cargo, and a few days after that, Clive will too. Who much have we determined we can increase their normal profit by?”

“About sixteen thousand percent.”

“Exactly.” Jules leaned back in his chair. “So what are you worried about? Especially considering that shortly after that, both Jethro and Ian will have returned, which is more money in our coffers. And, I have something even more important in this situation.” he held up what appeared to be a newspaper. Samael leaned in close and mumbled the words to himself.

“What in the cloying darkness is an 'internal combustion engine', and what does it have to do with us?”

“Samael, this is how we're really going to make our fortune.” Shaft pushed himself to his feet. “Hathgrim Urbenson needs capital in order to expand upon his engineering concepts, but no one wants anything to do with him.” he gestured out a once-grimy window. “Ships all powered by the winds, while in Lantan the technology exists to produce mechanical force via the boiling of water and production of steam.” he glanced over at Samael, who was staring out at the sails of boats in the bay. “Seems a little backwards, don't it?”

“No?” the illithid ventured, turning his head up towards Shaft.

“Easy ... I know what I'm doing.”

*

A slice of sunlight crept slowly up Vesu'veus body and spitefully settled across her eyes. Her expression twitched and she turned away from it. Being an elf, she did not sleep, but she could certainly fake it to put off the work that she had to do. Neither Jack nor the monk protested, and Jules wasn't around to haul her out of bed.

Still, Ves arose from her mattress regardless of her feelings on the matter. She stretched and pulled on her wizard's bathrobe, before stepping out into the living area. The monk and Jack were both pouring over the sheets of parchment on the tables, bowls of what appeared to be ... chocolate porridge in their laps. As she entered, the monk looked up at Ves and asked: “Are these plans to connect the Sea of Fallen Stars to the rest of the seas surrounding Faerûn?”

“Ah.” Vesu'veus yawned in affirmation. Presumably.

“That's a ... large engineering task.” Jack noted, before shoveling in a heaped spoonful of brown something. “As you appear to be going about it in the most destructive way possible.”

“I don't think Jules will let me remove the Golden Plains, so I won't be going with that one.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause in which the monk collected all the notes and diagrams and complex mathematical equations, stacked them, and placed them as far as way as was possible on a coffee table with an area totaling less than a metre squared. He dug into his chocolate porridge.

Vesu'veus was staring closely at Jack, one hand covering her left eye. The elf squinted and frowned. “Are you wearing my underwear?” she finally asked after some time had passed. Jack, teeth churning against the sodden brown mass like the efforts of a particularly hungry ungulate, nodded. Ves glanced to the monk who mouthed 'that's hot', then turned her cyclopean gaze back upon the thief. Her mouth quirked as those pretty pink lips cleaned off yet another spoonful of porridge, and a growl began to manifest deep within her. She stood tall and flicked her hand away, revealing her left eye. Jack couldn't help but notice a red gleam, and perhaps the shape of a bird. “Vesu'veus Tuun'guska orders you! D ... di ... don't take our shit without asking.”

“Geass'd.” the monk chuckled, as Ves sat down.

“So can I wear your underwear?”

“No.”

At that, Jack stood up and undressed. Vesu'veus blinked, mouth agape. The monk grinned, half leaping out of his seat, launching his bowl of porridge across the room. It left an interesting brown set of rays and rings on the wall. When Jack had placed the undergarments in the lap of their rightful owner, Nameless spoke. “I wish that someone had invented the mobile phone with built in digital camera!”

*

In his room at the Impaled Pork, Rasiter Xorlarrin arose from his bed, leaving his lieutenant dazed, sweaty and smiling. He stretched magnificently toned muscles beneath velvet black skin and moved across the room, each step a remarkably measured pace, designed to indicate that he really was as full of himself as earlier hinted. Sharp eyes instantly discovered the pale rectangle at the base of the door. A letter, clearly. Donning a mail glove, Rasiter approached and retrieved it. Staring at it for a full minute, he returned to Dalil, who lavily reached out for him. He waved the letter beneath her nose. “Is this safe?” she nodded. “Then carry on.”

A mile growing on his lips, the drow noble unfolded the pale, beautifully folded letter and cocked his head. This is what it said:

Dear Rasiter,

You have been in this city for quite some time, in order to seek revenge on me as part as some ridiculous political game. I can't exactly call you comically inept, because you haven't actually done anything yet. Frankly, you should seriously rethink your course of action. In my opinion, you shouldn't be playing the 'wait and see' game, but instead be harrying me endlessly, as you've already proved you can track me down already. Think of it as a terror campaign, in which you would make my life difficult with continual hit and run attacks, avoiding direct conflict with my bodyguards.

Just a little piece of advice.

Love,
The Rapist of Menzoberranzan

Dalil yelped as his fists fist tightened around the letter and her hair. That bastard wanted to mock him? Wanted to mock his eventual executioner!? No, calm down. Rasiter told himself, his eyes focusing on the letterhead. Along the top of the crumpled parchment, in gold ink:

Samael and Tull, Merchants at Sea (a registered trademark of the Samael Corporation)

Rasiter's smile returned as he smoothed Dalil's white hair. “Checkmate.” he said.

[Starglider]

Are you still working on this story?

[Ford Prefect]

Are you still working on this story?

In time, yes. Currently, I'm working ont he second, extremely long chapter of another fantasy story in an original setting. When that's finished, I'll look to writing another chapter of The Broken (and if anybody cares, Things Might Get Trippy)