Edits are coming.
25: A Gathering
The prototype rescue boat, just off L' Ile St. Martin-
Somewhat later, topped up with pizza and trouble, John spotted a blinking, open application in his internalized think-space. Not the first time that had happened, and not surprising, given all the interruptions he'd been dealing with. He was just about to hit 'run' and return to work, when basic caution prompted the astronaut to click on the glittering app and take a closer look. A long line of complex code spooled forth, its import and meaning causing him suddenly, completely, to focus. For there, in Steel-basic, was his Alan-termination command, big mouth and all.
Startled, John dropped everything else to cancel the application, which vanished at once with a sharp, internal 'pop'. Literally, he felt sick. How often, during such work-immersions, had his half-expressed wishes been carelessly programmed and run? Who else might have suffered, because he'd lost his damn temper?
This, in turn, sparked another crazy notion. Thinking about the RPG, with its violent and demon-haunted underworld, might he somehow have triggered a spate of real world seismic activity? Perhaps even raising an island?
Far-fetched, on the face of it… but there was a reason he'd promised to stay clear of the cyberverse, one that had nothing to do with Five or role-playing games, either. Feeling suddenly cold, John Tracy readied himself to return to work, this time vowing to keep a better check on his feelings.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Elsewhere, scattered, but present-
At the appointed time, via cell phone and PDA, everyone gathered for the first new session of Alan's big game. He was a little nervous, okay, because Scott, Dad and Virgil would be listening in, not to mention TinTin and Grandma. Tough crowd, y'know? Still, Alan went ahead with the game because…
A) He was saving the world, here, and…
2) A guy's gotta have a little fun, right?
On with the show. In his game scenario (rolled up with the PDA's dice app and scribbled on the back of an old maintenance log), a travel-stained Gawain finally entered the Crossroads Tavern after spending huge amounts of time seeing to St. George, his horse.
Coming into the low-beamed and rush-floored common room, Gawain checked with the innkeeper, Toomey. Comfortable looking sort, solid and squat, with a big pot belly and a stained apron. Didn't look like much, till you learned that his tongue was cut, and that he'd once been a general, efficiently 'retired' here by the new queen. At any rate, Gawain always treated the man with a great deal of respect, listening hard to interpret his garbled words and providing (when possible) a small finder's fee. In return, he received quite a few timely hints and a generous drink tab.
This time, the man jerked his stubbly chin toward a booth in the back, but kept on wiping out mugs. All clear, evidently.
"Many thanks, Master Toomey," said Gawain, flipping a handful of coppers onto the nearest unoccupied table. One of the innkeeper's daughters would pick them up, later, or the formidable missus, herself. But no matter how long the coins sat, absolutely no-one would be tempted to steal them. Not here.
Toomey's reply was a smile and brisk salute, given with one hairy, rag-wielding hand. Gawain acknowledged the gesture and then moved on, heading to the rear booth where his party awaited their leader. Small, chunky Frodle was there, busily leafing through his tome as he recorded everyone's presence and tried proving something to Allat, who couldn't have been less interested. The only aspects of magic that mattered to their quick, dark thief were those that stood to make him money. Whys and wherefores didn't fill the purse, after all. And neither did "Knowledge".
Male Elf was there, too, sitting with his back to the white-washed wall. At this point, Gawain halted, for seated beside the dark-elf was what appeared to be a good-sized mountain of weapons and scabrous flesh. Parts of it turned at a nudge from Male Elf, and then the thing made eye contact with Sir Gawain. What happened next was unavoidable, considering his status as a Knight of the Cross. Unable to help himself, Gawain rendered Judgment.
All sound seemed to fade from the busy common room as a genuine, visible air-pulse passed between them, shaking the rushes and dousing a few tallow candles. A silvery glow next surrounded Gawain, as the Powers he served decided whether they'd tolerate one tired and humble half-orc.
Held fast in the will of his deity, Gawain's hand shot to the hilt of his sword. Beneath the scarred table, Male Elf's did the same. The moment passed, though, allowing sound to return and Gawain to breathe, again. He ceased to glow, and became once more himself, rather than instrument and vessel.
"That was ruddy stupid!" he growled at Male Elf, dropping onto the bench beside Frodle. "He might have got killed, and you along with him!"
The pale-haired elf shrugged negligently.
"'Might have been' is for Faerie tales," he replied, pouring Gawain a stiff drink. "You summoned us, we're here. I brought a friend. End of explanation."
In the banked gleam of the fireplace, Male Elf's face was as closed and calm as that of a marble grave-effigy, his only movement an occasional, absent rub at his left wrist. It was the inner light that drew Gawain, however; that within the odd creature that desperately wanted not to fall. There was some of the same in the half-orc, as well.
So the knight looked their newcomer over, noting a hulking expanse of blotchy skin, bulging muscles and yellow teeth. The scarred and warty forehead jutted above heavy brows and surprisingly innocent blue eyes. It was the eyes that did it.
Reaching across partly-filled mugs and torn loaves, the knight offered his hand.
"Gawain of Espan," he said. "How d'you do?"
"I am Glud," the half-orc announced, enveloping Gawain's hand in a huge, knotted paw. Kept his nails trimmed, at least. "I am liege-man now to an elf, who says you make the rules. I will listen and work well. Tell me to fight, I will fight. Tell me to stop, I will stop."
Obviously, the orc had his pitch well memorized. Gawain reclaimed a somewhat compressed right hand, saying,
"Very well, Glud, Through Male Elf, I accept your service, though the quest be a long one, with uncertain rewards…"
"You have food?" Glud inquired seriously.
"Aye, for now."
"Drink? You have ale, as well?"
Another important point, apparently up there with "fights-on-command". Fortunately, the dark elf's bottomless flask might be upended to drain the potion it now contained, and then refilled with ale enough to sate even Glud.
"Aye. We've drink, also."
"Then Glud is rewarded. The elf has paid up front, will pay again when the job ends."
"Which reminds me," Allat cut in, shifting his appearance again with a quick, mumbled word. "What, exactly, is the job?"
Gawain hesitated, feeling the weight of four direct stares and expectations. Setting a strong privacy ward, he squared his broad shoulders and said,
"We're off t' re-forge a crown."