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 what...is the capital of assyria?, grail quest, werewolf-style [open]
Erik
 Posted: Jul 11 2013, 05:09 PM
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STAY COOL EVERYONE
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the premise goes like this: medieval werewolf dude is on a silly quest to find the holy grail
but a quest is more fun with two?

join with anyone you like. sex, violence, & sacrilege are sure to follow


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The pagan boy stared at the sheet, but he would not read aloud. The old monk sighed and took it back, because he did not like being stern. It was a page from Brother Vincent's manuscript, left in the scriptorium; someone had drawn three legs on Prester John instead of two, so the whole thing was no good. But he kept it to teach the pagan boy, because the Latin itself was fine enough.

Do you know what this writing says? he asked-- in the common speech, not Latin.

The pagan boy stared at the letters, silent. The old monk pointed to the picture instead, where the little three-legged man sat looking sumptuous.

This is Prester John, a powerful Christian king who rules in India-- that's in the east, very far east. Look here; in the Orient the people are strange, though they are all still Christians in Prester John's kingdom. These are the Blemmyae, headless, the Cynocephali, dog-headed, and the Panotti, who cool themselves by flapping their giant ears. In the kingdom of Prester John, the rivers flow with gold, and the trees hang ripe with sapphires. Incredible, but it's all true.

There are many holy treasures there, but none so holy as the Graal. The Graal is the vessel for the Blood of Christ, and Prester John himself is Keeper. Those who drink the Blood are cured of all their ills, and some say they gain the power to perform miracles...but, well, it isn't just anyone who can have a sip, now is it?


~


William broke the last bandit's neck, letting the body fall. The campsite was silent then, or seeming-silent, until the nighttime whine of cicadas returned gradually to his ears. There was the pop of the firepit, the susurrus of the forest, the quiet, inflating sound of lungs in his chest. So it had never been silent. Only the fighting had been loud.

After listening came looking: the horses stood a distance away, impassive to the slaughter. There were four tied to the trees, one of them his own. The thieves' campsite itself was a mess, and his own things had been tossed onto a mound of stolen goods. The men lay twisted on the undergrowth, arms and necks broken.

William squatted and retrieved his sword and dagger, which would have ended the fight quicker, if he had them. He looked again: the saddle-bags were still on his horse, and inside them was the scroll-tube. That was good. He had memorized the contents long ago, but was loathe to part with them.

After listening and looking came smelling, which never ceased to fill his awareness: there was loamy soil, woodsmoke, the urine of small mammals, the singular smell of each man and the identical smell of each man's fear-- and finally, perplexingly, the scent of the other thing, which had come during the fight and stayed.

"Don't skulk about," William said to the air as he stood, not without a touch of wryness. He was a large man, dark and rough and in his prime, and he had just ambushed three thieves and killed them with his bare hands; he was not afraid of much.

So, cracking his sore knuckles, the thief-killer went to check on his horse.

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