DitL: The Legacy of Boriaul

[Vesth]

I haven't seen a DitL in a long time, so I hope I'm posting in the right place. If not, please do tell me nicely! Now, my writing is a little rusty, and my character tend to die early, so if you have any constructive comments on writing and/or character build, I would love to hear it. So I'll be putting my build here; not to show off, but so that you can advice me on what to do. I'll admit it right here. I'm a newb

Before anyone gets confused, the story is NOT about Boriaul, a halfling Cursed. This is about her son, Roperarc, a halfling Shadowblade. Now, I have to make a note here that I've never played a Shadowblade before...but I just cannot resist writing this. Both have similarities and certain game events that makes everything fall into place, and it's too good of an opportunity to give up.

---

Prologue

"Mother!" the young halfling cried in anguish as he tried to push through the mob, but he was young and weak, and he was shoved backwards instead. He screamed again, but his voice was drowned out by the frenzied roars and curses of the crowd.

Ahead, Boriaul crouched, snarling as she waved a greatmaul about, keeping potential attackers at bay. At her feet lay dozens, all dead or dying with grievous wounds. A terrible aura surrounded her, a darkness which stabbed through the heart and filled the mind with dread. The Cursed glared at the townsfolk with hate-filled eyes, but she slowly retreated, and the crowd jeered and threw stones as she fled into the night.

There was no celebration that night; the dead took priority. But over the next few days, the story about how they drove out a Cursed from their town was told again and again, with each telling being more exaggerated; about how Boriaul suddenly went berserk, killing a score of halflings with a single blow, how she called about the magicks of a demon and laid low the weak of heart, how the thrice-damned witch was finally driven out by the courageous townsfolk with torches and jars full of fireflies. But the young halfling knew better. He was with his mother when two halflings came up to them and tried to stab her, he saw how his mother tried to control the curse, tried to prevent herself from going into a rampage, and how his mother stared at him with clear eyes before she fled...

"Roperarc. Roperarc!" the voice called insistently, breaking the halfling out of his introspection.

"Huh? What...?"

"What's wrong with you? Don't stand there like an idiot. Here's your stick-on tattoo you asked for."

Roperarc cleared his thoughts and looked at the speaker. Tomerirel, a young rogue, younger than he was by about three years, stood impatiently, waving several pieces of paper in front of his face. Energetic and cocky, he was every bit the new initiate...just like I was, so very, very long ago he thought to himself.

"These are called Inscriptions, not tattoos, you-wait a second. This isn't a shielding rune, this is a manasurge rune!"

"Bah, the mana-wazzit-you-call-it looks prettier. You know. To show off what little manliness you have."

"I'll show you what manliness I have, you pipsqueak!" he growled, unsheathing his dagger. They were in Derth, sure, but there was no one else about...and after all, he was only going to rough him up a little and teach him a little manners.

The youngling went first, launching his dagger forward in a stabbing motion with his left hand, hoping to nick the other's face. However, Roperarc was a lot more experienced than he was, and with a simple sidestep, he dodged the weak move and thrust his right elbow down, right onto the initiate's left arm, causing the dagger to drop in mid-stab. But Roperarc wasn't done. With a kick to chest, he pushed Tomerirel back, and launched himself after him, pushing his own dagger against the initiate's neck.

"Learnt your lesson, Tomerirel?"

There was no reply. Instead, blood seeped out of the initiate's neck...and he fell over, quite dead. Roperarc stared, shocked. He only pressed the dagger against the fellow's neck! He didn't even apply much pressure to the weapon...

He looked at the dagger.

The thing glowed dimly with some sort of darkness that ebbed and flowed, a seemingly evil thing that wanted to cut, cut, cut...to draw blood with each slash, to take lives with each swing. Mouth agape at the foreign thing in his hand, he retrieved the dead halfling's dagger with trembling fingers...and it too burst into shadowy flames.

"Oh no oh no oh no oh no...."

Thoughts of his mother's curse went through his mind. Was he getting his mother's curse? Was he going to be shunned and feared by the townsfolk, eventually driven out or killed? Was he going to go into some rampage and kill everyone he knew?

He couldn't take it. He had to leave. Before they find out about his new powers. Before they link him to the death of Tomerirel. Before they killed him.

And so, he fled Derth.

Level 1: Dual Weapon Training, Rush, Dagger Mastery

[Vesth]

Part 1: The Trollmire

He ran recklessly, the scene around him blurring as tears filled his eyes, his legs pumping up and down, running barefoot over sticks and stones...

“Oof!”

Tripping over an unknown object, he fell face flat onto the ground, his left eye almost impaled by a particularly sharp branch. Cursing in anger, he recovered from his fall and kicked at the offending object with as much strength as he could muster. His kick, much to his amazement, dislodged a silver chest that sailed through the air, hitting the ground on its side with its lid open! The ornate chest, though empty, had nary a scratch, as if it has just been forged the day before. Wiping the tears from his face, he approached the chest and brushed away the dirt...but quickly withdrew his hand, eyes wide in shock. There was an aura about the chest, something old, yet innately familiar...it was his mother’s taint! He gripped the chest tightly, affectionately wiping the dirt away as he looked around.

What is my mother’s taint doing on this chest? Why is it in the Trollmire? he wondered, glancing at the nearby forest. It was aptly named, because of the plague of trolls that lived there. But if there was some clue to his mother’s whereabouts, or something that allowed him to control his power, he had to find it.

Putting the chest in his backpack, he drew both daggers, and advanced into the forest.

---

The Trollmire

“Uggh.” he groaned, kicking aside the dead body of a wolf. The feral thing almost caught him off-balance when it suddenly burst out of the bushes, claws outstretched for the kill, but a few well-aimed blows brought it low. He groaned, not because of any damage it did to him, but the curious feeling whenever he stabbed it. It felt as though the dark energies surrounding the daggers drained him, left him feeling strangely tired. Not physical fatigue, but a kind of mental exhaustion, one that muddled his thoughts and gave him a minor headache.

“Wolfie! You killed wolfie!”

A troll lumbered into the area, apparently incensed by the sight of his dead pet. In a roar of rage, he slammed his club down, dealing a glancing blow, but one strong enough to send the halfling stumbling back.

“Arghh,” he cried in pain, matching the troll’s hate filled eyes with his own, “Yes, I killed your wolf, and I’m going to take-OH HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THINGS IMMORTAL!”

From the shadows of the trees, several more wolves and trolls stepped out, quickly outnumbering the halfling twelvefold.

“Your head will make fine addition to Prox’s collection of heads!”

---
Roperarc grunted as he weaved through the trees, taking hit after hit from the foes that chased relentlessly after him. Desperately, he searched through his surroundings for something, anything that could turn the tide of battle...and then he spotted the scraps of paper sticking out of his shirt pocket. The Inscriptions Tomerirel had given him! He hastily slapped them onto his arms, the slips of paper glowing as their power transferred to his skin.

“Wild Infusion, Regeneration, Manasurge!” he called out as he activated each one in turn.

“Now I can take on these suckers.”

(Yes, you DO start out with those Inscriptions...and yes, I know how to use them, haha. But a question for anyone who is reading this. It seems difficult to balance Dex, Cun and Magic to get the appropriate skills. I like Flurry, Backstab AND Blursight (not to mention Teleport being very useful) but I don't have enough stat points to get all 3...)

[Vesth]

Part 2: Retribution

Level 2: +2 Dex +1 Cun, Dirty Fighting, Combat Accuracy

Roperarc sat on the ground, exhausted. Around him lay the corpses of wolves and trolls, all of them with tainted cuts ravaging their skins. In a panic, he had activated all the Inscriptions he had, and though he thought Manasurge would be useless, it actually made him feel better, more refreshed. But he isn’t a mage or an alchemist...he shouldn’t have mana. Unless...

He looked carefully at the darkness surrounding his blades. He originally thought it was a sign of a taint, that he was becoming a Cursed. But he knew that from experience that they grow stronger when they’re angrier, and he was pretty sure that his mother didn’t bother with such trivialities such as Manasurge runes. But if he wasn’t a Cursed, what WAS he? Some sort of half-mage rogue?

“There you are, murderer.”

Shocked, Roperarc quickly jumped to his feet, turning around to look at the source of the voice. The speaker was a disheveled halfling dressed in the garb of a rogue. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

“Look, I-”

“Don’t deny it. I tracked you all the way here. Why did you kill Tomerirel?!”

“...It was an accident.”

“I’m not an idiot. I saw the body - you slashed his throat. Were you jealous of my little brother, worried that he might replace you?”

“NO! Nothing of the sort...”

“Then what’s the reason?”

“...”

He sneered, drawing his daggers. “Nothing to say, do you? I, Wilward, will drench my blades in your blood and avenge my brother. And none of those fancy tattoos either!” He added, as Roperarc reached for his Inscriptions. “As much as I would like to bring the whole gang on you, I want a fair fight. Halfling to Halfling.”

Roperarc sighed and drew his daggers instead. There was nothing he could do to dissuade him, and he doubt that Wilward would understand the circumstances that lead to Tomerirel’s death; it seemed like too much of a coincidence. He wouldn’t have believed it himself, if he were in Wilward’s shoes.

The two combatants circled each other warily, their bodies tense as they eyed the subtle movements of the other. And then, Wilward struck. Yelling out loud, he charged forward, his dagger swiftly going for Roperarc’s left eye. Anticipating the attack, Roperarc quickly ducked...and his eyes widened in realization as the blow came short.

A feint!

Wilward’s knee connected solidly with Roperarc’s chin, and the force sent the latter flying backwards. Recovering from the blow, Roperarc spotted the follow-through just in time, and parried Wilward’s blades with his own, stopping the deadly blade mere inches from his nose.

Undeterred, Wilward simply growled and pushed forward, attempting to use sheer strength to overcome his opponent’s defence. But Roperarc was crafty, and as his arms wobbled from the strength needed to repel Wilward’s push, he gathered his saliva...and spit into his opponent’s face!

As Wilward stumbled backwards, using the back of his arms to wipe away the spit that got into his eyes, Roperarc spun in a tight circle, and his flashing blades scoring several blows against the halfling’s arms and chest before he could properly defend himself from the onslaught. Screaming from the pain, Wilward quickly swung his own dagger in a wide arc, forcing Roperarc to disengage to prevent himself from being beheaded, though the blade still managed to nick his collarbone as he tried to step out of range.

Mad from anger and pain, Wilward pressed the attack, launching blow after blow, readily accepting hits from his opponent as he stabbed recklessly. Under such a furious offense, Roperarc was pushed back, and though he dodged and blocked as much as he could, Wilward’s blades still managed to find openings, and soon, both of them were bleeding all over from various cuts and abrasions.

And then, Wilward made a mistake. Putting too much strength into a stab that missed, he overbalanced, and making use of the opportunity, Roperarc plunged both his blades into the halfling’s soft belly. Groaning from pain, Wilward, pushed himself off the daggers, and stumbling back a few feet, he lifted his own weapons as if ready for another assault...before crumpling to the ground.

“It’s over. I’m sorry about your -urk!” All the strength seemed to vanish from Roperarc’s body, and he promptly fell to his knees. A strange numbness crept over him, spreading from his wounds, as if...

“P-poison. And you said this would be a f-fair fight.”

A wheezing laugh came from the Wilward’s broken form. “A fair fight...against your enchanted daggers...”

Roperarc cursed as Wilward’s form went still, trying to keep his drowsy mind focused as he forced his hand to move, ever so slowly, towards the Regeneration rune on his arm, willing the darkness at the edge of his vision to go away.

But it was futile. The last thing he felt was his fingers brushing against the rune before everything went black.

(Dying on the 2nd level of the a starter dungeon is never a good sign, though to be fair, it was negligence on my part. I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing - maybe I was just cocky - but I just kept attacking a rogue that popped up non-stop, realizing he only had a sliver of health when the fight was over. And apparently, poison damage comes before healing from a regeneration rune. Luckily, the Eidolon is a friend...

I would really appreciate comments; first of all, to help me improve, and secondly...well, it gets discouraging when it feels like no one's reading after you put in so much effort. If you enjoy it, comment, and if you don't...comment anyway, so I can change!)

[Mewtarthio]

Death by carelessness is pretty common for the Rogue metaclass. Melee glass cannon isn't the most forgiving of playstyles, after all. You didn't say anything about Roperarc using his wild infusion against the rogue; was it on cooldown? Because that would have cured the poison and saved your life right there.

[tiger_eye]

well, it gets discouraging when it feels like no one's reading after you put in so much effort. If you enjoy it, comment, and if you don't...comment anyway, so I can change!

Yes, I was reading it and enjoying it. I didn't comment because I didn't want to interrupt the story

[Vesth]

Thank you tiger eye!

@Mewtarthio: ...I didn't realize that. I kind of panicked when I saw he had very little health, and I didn't think of the wild infusion at all. Most of the time, I use wild infusions for the resist damage effect, so I didn't think about it...

Argh! That death was completely avoidable! Roperarc, I'm sorry for being such a klutz!

[Vesth]

Part 3: The Eidolon

“Where...where am I?”

The halfling found himself floating in darkness. Stretching from miles around, this strange place seemed endless. There was nothing; no soil under his feet, no sky to orientate himself. There wasn’t even light, saved for tiny dots far from his reach...and a glowing being that regarded him with curiosity.

This being had no definite shape nor form, and seemed to be made out of light itself, far brighter than the dots that surrounded them. It seemed vaguely humanoid...but it was clearly nothing Roperarc had ever seen before.

“I am the Eidolon, and you are in my realm.”

“Your...realm? Am I dead?”

“It is hard to explain, but to put it simply, no, you are not. You are an interesting creature, Roperarc. You are unlike any other.”

“You mean the magic thing? Being a mage-rogue?”'

“No. Shadowblades are more common than you think. They ally with the darkness, using it as a tool to enhance their weapons, phase door out of harm’s way, and so forth. What interests me is not what you are, but what you can become. Your potential is staggering...for a mortal. Much like your mother, Boriaul the Cursed, you hold great promise. I will be watching you.”

“Wait, you know my-”

“-mother...? Dammit!”

He was back in the Trollmire, the body of Wilward splayed at his feet. Strangely enough, Roperarc had not a scratch on him, as if he had been completely healed. The Eidolon had given him much to think about. Who exactly is the Eidolon? What potential did it speak of? Was his mother still alive?

The furious roar of a troll ripped through the forest, breaking him out of his reverie. Questions would have to wait; there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely a problem called ‘Prox’, whoever he was. A troll he fought previously mentioned this name, and while trolls are not known for speaking Common well, they at least refer to themselves in first person. Usually.

A second roar followed the first, closer this time, and the very ground rumbled and shook, growing in intensity, until finally, a huge troll, bigger than any the halfling had ever seen, burst into the vicinity, followed closely by several smaller trolls and a pack of wolves.

“...you must be Prox.”

“Yes, I am Prox the Mighty, ruler of Trollmire!” he roared, and the other trolls cheered and clanged their weapons together. “Puny Halfling, you have killed enough of my brethren! But no more. I shall end your life today. Attack!”

“Wait wait wait! Can’t we settle this fairly? A one on one fight, between you and me...?”

“You think I stupid? I got my name for being clever, not dumb! Charge!”

Seeing the horde of trolls and wolves surging forth, a tidal wave of fury whose only purpose is to end his life, Roperarc quickly backpedaled, moving as quickly as he could to find a good vantage point to fight them on more even terms.

“Wolfie, cut him off!”

As he sped through an opening between two trees, one of the wolves rushed ahead, stopping right in front of him, cutting off his escape. He was trapped, with Prox right at his heels.

“You have nowhere to run now, halfling!”

“No way out, no way out....” Roperarc muttered, as he desperately racked him mind for a solution. “Wait...wait, what did the Eidolon say about shadowrogues...? PHASE DOOR!”

Just as Prox’s mighty club descended upon him, he vanished, and by a stroke of luck, he appeared right behind the wolf that was blocking him. And before the wolf could turn around, he slashed it throat, and it crumpled to the ground.

Stepping over the body of the dead wolf, Roperarc grinned. The rest of Prox’s army seemed to be stuck between the very gap he was trapped in earlier, and this meant that they could only fight him one at a time. Just what he wanted.

(Phase door saves the day! The was originally one whole big part, but I split it up, because I wanted to lengthen the boss fight for Prox. I don't know what language the people of ToME usually speak in, so I assumed it was Common, which is the language almost everyone shares in D&D. This is a little off tangent, but languages fascinate me. There are different words in certain languages that simply cannot be translated over without losing meaning. The language actually says a bit about the culture of the native speaker. In R.A. Salvatore's books, it was once mentioned that orcs had hundreds of different words for different ways of killing, compared to Common. In real life, there are no real curse words in chinese (at least none that I know of - though there are plenty in Hokkien), and the worse way to curse someone is to call him a rotten egg, or to curse his parents. This shows how much emphasis is placed on loyalty to family!)

[Vesth]

Part 4: Prox the Mighty

Prox roared as the last of the hunting party fell before his eyes, and with a reckless fury, he charged forward, his stomping generating sickening crunches as he stepped on the skulls and bones of his allies. What he lacked in dexterity, he made up for it in sheer strength, and his blows, while slow and unwieldy, felled trees and tore up earth wherever it hit, and Roperarc was forced to retreat, for even his regeneration rune could not keep up with the onslaught.

But slowly, surely, Prox slowled. Roperarc’s wounds healed at an unnatural pace, allowing him to dart forward, score a few blows, and when his body couldn’t take any more punishment, he ducked away, healed up and repeat, while poor Prox could only roar all the louder and swing his club is wide arcs, his skin quickly turning red with blood that seeped from every increasing dagger marks.

Frustrated and angry, Prox grabbed his club with both his hands, and swung downwards as hard as he could, slamming it straight into the ground. Nimbly dodging out of the way, Roperarc came right back in, stepping on the club itself, and with a crouch, jumped off it, using Prox’s own strength against him, as the ogre lifted his club to attempt to free it. With the mighty leap, the diminutive halfling somersaulted right over Prox’s ugly head, and latched onto the back of his neck. Before Prox could grab Roperarc to shake him free, the halfling quickly hugged his opponent’s neck with his legs, and with his free hands, he drew both daggers...and swiftly stabbed both of poor Prox’s eyes out with his daggers.

The ogre stiffened immediately, and after a few tense seconds, it fell forward, crashing into the ground.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the halfling set out to clean his daggers...until he felt his mother’s taint emitting from a huge pouch Prox hung on his waist!

Digging through Prox’s loot, he found an ornate iron rod, a curious pair of yellow boots, an evil looking staff, and a strange metal circle.

He recognised the circle as a telekinetic core and the staff as Kor’s Fall. Rare and somewhat powerful, but that was not what held his interest...the rod and the boots were definitely in his mother’s possession before.

The rod had faint markings that spelled out ‘Recall’ in common, and the boots had a small piece of paper attached to it, and he gingerly extracted the creased paper and opened it.

It was titled ‘Eden’s Guile’, followed by a short poem about a running man. On the other side, however...

Flurry For Dummies!
(You can stab like a pro in 3 easy steps!)

Step 1: Don’t be a shopkeeper
Step 2: Scream ‘FLURRYFLURRYFLURRYFLURRYFLURRY’ at the top of your lungs
Step 3: Stab as fast as you can! Don’t stop until your target is dead.

-Eden

“...well, that was useless. I wonder what my mother had to do with this Eden fellow?”

(I took so long to make this part, which is so short...man, Dungeon Crawl Stone Soup is taking a LOT of my time. Damn my previous incarnations that keep trying to kill me! Funnily enough, I had Eden's guile for BOTH Boriaul and Roperarc - Burb Lulls, the game itself is asking for you to continue!)

[darkgod]

AHah flurry for dummies

[Vesth]

Part 5: Bill the Crazy

“Down boy...down!”

The wolf baring his way snarled in response. It was bigger than most he had seen in the forest, and by far the most fearsome. A scar cuts across its left eye, revealing an eye with no pupil. Its fur was a coarse grey, and it had a peculiar collar; it was more of a necklace tied about its neck, but it glittered in the sun.

Roperarc cursed at this new development, and tried to edge around it. However, the wolf moved as well, apparently determined to stop the halfling from passing through.

A dry, crackling sound broke out as Roperarc accidentally stepped on a twig, and the wolf charged.

The halfling quickly fell back, and the wolf jumped right on top of him, sharp canine jaws moving inches from his face before Roperac managed to kick out, sending the wolf flying away from him. Getting to his feet, his daggers flashed once, twice, thrice with each dagger, and the wolf fell away with 6 new holes in its flank. Even though at least one of those strikes seemed to have hit a critical point, the wolf struggled to its feet and growled loudly, charging forward once more...and two daggers maneuvered around its collar and dug deep into its throat.

As the mighty wolf slumped to the ground, Roperarc gingerly removed the daggers from the corpse, cleaning it on the grass. Turning to leave, he looked back at the corpse, eying the necklace.

“Could come in handy...” he muttered as he pulled it from the wolf. “It wouldn’t need it anyway.”

A large voice echoed through the forest, a joyful voice, unmistakably that of an ogre. Stiffening, the halfling, crept behind a boulder, peeking above it at the bizzare sight before him.

A huge orge, slightly smaller than Prox, stood next to a cauldron. Like others of his kind, he wore a loincloth, except for the fact that many shrunken skulls adorned it. The look in his eye, and the way he moved spoke of a dangerous madness. Around the massive ogre sat several smaller orges, facing the big ogre. Much to his horror, Roperarc realized that there was a hand sticking out of the cauldron.

“I AM BILL NINE...AND I SHALL TEACH YOU SCIENCE.”

Bill paused, sniffing the air in Roperarc’s general direction, who cursed and quickly hid behind the boulder. But it was too late.

The huge ogre narrowed its eyes and grinned, licking its chops. “The first lesson of today...HALFLING EVOLVES INTO SOUP!”

The halfling felt the boulder being torn straight from the ground, and he scarcely had time to roll away before one of the smaller ogres grabbed him with its grubby fingers.

Half a dozen or so ogres squeezed through the gap, launching themselves at Roperarc.

The halfling twirled his daggers. A hand fell, followed by an arm, then a head. And another head. After fighting Prox, these ogres seemed like small fry, and they fell as quickly as he could swing his daggers.

And then, his daggers bit wood instead of flesh. Two wide eyes looked up at two insane ones.

“...the force you exert on the tree is the force the tree exerts on you.”

Roaring in delight, Bill stamped one foot into the ground, and swung his tree trunk as hard as he could. Bark connected with midriff, and Roperarc was sent flying backwards...straight into a tree.

The halfling fell foward, landing on one knee. The world spun around him, and everything was reduced to a blur. He could hear footsteps, and in some deep recess of his brain, he understood the urgency. Gritting his teeth in pain, he took a step forward...and fell down again, spitting blood onto the mossy ground.
He could hear it; amidst the footsteps, a giggle, surprisingly girly for a huge ogre. He had to get away. He had to.

He forced himself to stumble forwards again, but the footsteps...they were getting louder.

He felt a rough hand grab him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn around, where Bill grinned in his face, allowing Roperarc to see every sharp incisor, every glob of drool that dripped from its maw.

“Where should I start, dear halfling? From the head, or maybe the feet...?”

“EAT SAND INSTEAD!”

Grabbing a fistful of sand, he tossed it right into the ogre’s ugly face, and Roperarc took advantage of the loosened grip to get away.

He stumbled over rocks, he tripped over roots, but the furious roars of the ogre receded behind him.

I must have gotten his eyes...he thought, as his adrenaline finally ran out, and he slumped against a nearby tree.

That was lucky...really lucky.