Disclaimer
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.
All right, as to ownership-- I own all the characters here. I do NOT own the Bonehoard, nor do I own Thief, nor do I own any rights to it! There.
Now you can read the story. :-)
-(----
The solemn procession makes its way through the wrought iron gates. At its head a fair lady, garbed in black and gold, singing a soft song of mourning and loss; at its feet a guard of blue-robed monks. Between, six men carrying the body of a mighty lord upon a bier.
Behind the gates lies a green mound, strangely isolated from the surroundings, like a hill in another world here before them. The procession climbs slowly over the mound to find a dell within, a tomb lying there, and another pair of gates. The lady pauses, the words of her song fade to a murmur, and the dark-robed man behind her carefully opens the gate. The group passes in.
Behind the gate they find a steep-sloping spiral tunnel, lined with guttering torches. Still the woman leads, the song returning again, and they make their way down to the ground level: a vast high room, tombs of ancient kings and heros staring upon them in sightless eternity. The Bonehoard is home to strange terrors and Powers, even in its youth; a rattling moan, a distant shift of bones-- but the monks chant quickly in an unknown tongue and the sounds cease. They are here on holy business, not come to disturb the awful guardians of the deep.
The lady stares ever before her, no look of fear or jerk of surprise come over her resigned face. She leads through a near low arch and into another room, great as the first and more richly carved, more recent. Gold inlays glitter from decorations high upon the walls, gems and precious stones of a forgotten king. And still the woman continues, still she sings her song, on into another high chamber.
Here a wide avenue of steps clamber up into a narrow passageway before them. A pair of tombs hang from the walls, but no decorations, no silent faces glaring down. She never hesitates-- straight up the steps, the others following close behind. Never closer, never farther.
This part of the ancient burial ground is roughhewn, dirty, rocks and filth and bones crowd against the walls and there are no more torches. The man behind the woman raises a simple candle, lights it from a flint, and they continue. No twist or turn of the passageway, no shadow threatening hidden horrors deters them from their mission.
Light ahead. A small patch of some sort of mushrooms provides reluctant illumination, enough to see the passage's end. Before them another room opens, this with two tall and narrow corridors through the stone, barely more than cracks. To the left another pair of tombs laid shelflike on the wall; to the right a towering portal, once holding a stained-glass image, the warden of the room. Directly before them a powerful statue, a beautiful but fell woman arrayed for death and battle. Even the long years cannot hide the grace of she who inspired the sculptor: a hand grasps a long-lost spear, an arm bears a mighty shield, upon her head sits a lofty crown and helm. The woman leading the column stops before the statue and ceases her song.
"Queen of Heaven and Night," she intones, and bows. The man beside her bows, the pall-bearers incline their heads, the monks chant once and are still. In the flickering light of the candle the statue's eyes seem to turn towards them, the figure almost bows in return. The woman casts back her hood and then throws herself before the ancient queen, murmuring incomprehensibilities. The man beside her turns back to the others.
"Prepare the dead." The pallbearers lower their burden swiftly to the ground just behind the woman, then step quickly back, turn to the walls. The man steps silently past the woman, to the feet of the mighty statue, and lays his hand upon a stone in the pedestal. A trapdoor shifts and groans, then the woman looks up and meets his eyes calmly.
"Farewell." The trapdoor gapes open on a black nothingness, the woman and the body disappear into it silently. The monks begin chanting, the pallbearers mutter. The robed man waits for a moment, then twists the hidden lever back and the trapdoor slowly rises back into place. The monks cast a variety of offerings upon the new grave-- a twisted crown of bay leaves, a block of sacred oak heartwood, a knife for protection in the Afterlands. The robed man leans down and adds his own offering-- the candle, still burning brightly. And a single tear.
"Farewell, sister mine." The group stands for a moment then heads back out the way they came, as fast as is respectfully possible. Through the rooms, past the disapproving keepers, back to the upper world. The iron gate clangs shut, and the Bonehoard is left with its own.
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.
All right, as to ownership-- I own all the characters here. I do NOT own the Bonehoard, nor do I own Thief, nor do I own any rights to it! There.
Now you can read the story. :-)
-(----
The solemn procession makes its way through the wrought iron gates. At its head a fair lady, garbed in black and gold, singing a soft song of mourning and loss; at its feet a guard of blue-robed monks. Between, six men carrying the body of a mighty lord upon a bier.
Behind the gates lies a green mound, strangely isolated from the surroundings, like a hill in another world here before them. The procession climbs slowly over the mound to find a dell within, a tomb lying there, and another pair of gates. The lady pauses, the words of her song fade to a murmur, and the dark-robed man behind her carefully opens the gate. The group passes in.
Behind the gate they find a steep-sloping spiral tunnel, lined with guttering torches. Still the woman leads, the song returning again, and they make their way down to the ground level: a vast high room, tombs of ancient kings and heros staring upon them in sightless eternity. The Bonehoard is home to strange terrors and Powers, even in its youth; a rattling moan, a distant shift of bones-- but the monks chant quickly in an unknown tongue and the sounds cease. They are here on holy business, not come to disturb the awful guardians of the deep.
The lady stares ever before her, no look of fear or jerk of surprise come over her resigned face. She leads through a near low arch and into another room, great as the first and more richly carved, more recent. Gold inlays glitter from decorations high upon the walls, gems and precious stones of a forgotten king. And still the woman continues, still she sings her song, on into another high chamber.
Here a wide avenue of steps clamber up into a narrow passageway before them. A pair of tombs hang from the walls, but no decorations, no silent faces glaring down. She never hesitates-- straight up the steps, the others following close behind. Never closer, never farther.
This part of the ancient burial ground is roughhewn, dirty, rocks and filth and bones crowd against the walls and there are no more torches. The man behind the woman raises a simple candle, lights it from a flint, and they continue. No twist or turn of the passageway, no shadow threatening hidden horrors deters them from their mission.
Light ahead. A small patch of some sort of mushrooms provides reluctant illumination, enough to see the passage's end. Before them another room opens, this with two tall and narrow corridors through the stone, barely more than cracks. To the left another pair of tombs laid shelflike on the wall; to the right a towering portal, once holding a stained-glass image, the warden of the room. Directly before them a powerful statue, a beautiful but fell woman arrayed for death and battle. Even the long years cannot hide the grace of she who inspired the sculptor: a hand grasps a long-lost spear, an arm bears a mighty shield, upon her head sits a lofty crown and helm. The woman leading the column stops before the statue and ceases her song.
"Queen of Heaven and Night," she intones, and bows. The man beside her bows, the pall-bearers incline their heads, the monks chant once and are still. In the flickering light of the candle the statue's eyes seem to turn towards them, the figure almost bows in return. The woman casts back her hood and then throws herself before the ancient queen, murmuring incomprehensibilities. The man beside her turns back to the others.
"Prepare the dead." The pallbearers lower their burden swiftly to the ground just behind the woman, then step quickly back, turn to the walls. The man steps silently past the woman, to the feet of the mighty statue, and lays his hand upon a stone in the pedestal. A trapdoor shifts and groans, then the woman looks up and meets his eyes calmly.
"Farewell." The trapdoor gapes open on a black nothingness, the woman and the body disappear into it silently. The monks begin chanting, the pallbearers mutter. The robed man waits for a moment, then twists the hidden lever back and the trapdoor slowly rises back into place. The monks cast a variety of offerings upon the new grave-- a twisted crown of bay leaves, a block of sacred oak heartwood, a knife for protection in the Afterlands. The robed man leans down and adds his own offering-- the candle, still burning brightly. And a single tear.
"Farewell, sister mine." The group stands for a moment then heads back out the way they came, as fast as is respectfully possible. Through the rooms, past the disapproving keepers, back to the upper world. The iron gate clangs shut, and the Bonehoard is left with its own.