Practical Solutions

She always sought to fulfill her duties. And so she had come before him, to report of her success, as was customary.

"No, no. I'm afraid that won't do, my girl. Tell me it once more, from the beginning. Make it a story. Really narrativize it, child." He leaned forward, hungrily.

Gellyn Geistly, Gonneslinger, Hero for Hire, knelt before the Lord of Travail. At that moment, she thought: Criminy, this is killer on my knees. She had the sense, however, to externally say instead: "My lord, I am not much of a storyteller. You, uh, you know how it is."

"Even still, my girl. Tell it once more. Tell me of the Dark Lord's fortress, and how you pierced his impenetrable defenses."

The Dark Lord of Ebonfall was, apparently, a man of tradition. The blackened castle loomed before her, its stygian parapets ascending into an eternal gloom and the stormy sky above; the murky flow of viscous dark magic swirling from the obscured heavens, the Ebonfall itself, poured into the central tower's pinnacle. The entire structure was illuminated by the large, frothing pit of lava that it levitated over, casting the dark stones in an appropriately foreboding red light.

Gellyn paused. Was it a pit of magma, or a pit of lava? After a moment of consideration, she was pretty sure magma was right.

The only signs of life were the guards that stalked across the ramparts of the castle, clad in crimsonine armor, each brandishing a wicked looking longarm with a multiplicity of spikes jutting out at awkward and painful-looking angles. The guards' visors were darkened, illuminated only by a distant light from within; Gellyn suspected, from experience with this sort of thing, that they were likely suits of armor animated through some arcane art or another. And, on further inspection, they had the audacity to wear deep black capes that flowed like liquid night behind them.

Gellyn scoffed. Capes. The traditionalists are always prone to make bold fashion statements, she supposed.

Lightning struck one of the upper pinnacles of the castle, rather theatrically, but perhaps a bit on the nose, she thought.

Her gaze fell to the large, spiked bridge that led to the front entrance of the castle. She shrugged, lowering herself from the small rocky outcropping she had been using to spy on the Dark Lord's castle.

The two guards noticed her approach, and each hefted a large sword. They glanced at one another, no doubt in some cocky display of glee at the prospect at vivisecting a young Hero.

There is a prevailing misconception about swordplay. You can fight with a certain flair, a reticence to kill, a flashy showmanship; these make for the excellent sword duels that are so common in the plays Gellyn had seen growing up. But true swordplay is quick, violent. The goal is not to challenge another in a glorious display of strength; not, Gellyn felt, when it's done right. The goal is to not be the one skewered, bleeding on the floor.

The first guard hefted the massive greatsword overhead, preparing to bring it down in a smooth chop. Their visor was perfectly dark against the bright crimson of the armor, and lightning struck just as the blade's tip hit its zenith; Gellyn could see nothing, of course, but she could imagine well enough the surprised indignation in the guard's eyes as her own play slipped between the plates of the heavy armor and found its target. The body sagged; Gellyn drew the sword back out, wiped the flat of the blade against the back of her leather shin guard, and shoved the body away from her.

The second guard was no more quick on the uptake. They, too, relied too heavily on the appearance of an indomitable guard. Once more, she wiped off the gore on the back of her armor, and sheathed her sword. She stepped towards the heavy door, paused, took a step back, and heroically checked all of the pockets of the two new corpses for loose change.