Secrets Committed to the Soil

Secrets Committed to the Soil

Postby LightForce » Mon Aug 07, 2006 3:47 pm

"Don'! Not 'er! Bury it, drown it, throw it in t'deepest 'ole y'can find. Do wotever y'bloody like, but don' give it t'er!"

"Jus'... get rid o'it. I don' want anyun' t'find it. ... that 'cludes me, too."

"All right. So, it's dangerous. Is there a way to destroy it?"

"... didn' say d'stroy it! Jus' get rid o'it!"


In that dark, dank, rat-infested gaol cell, the imprisoned vagrant had been absolutely, violently clear about what he wanted D'ran to do with his obsidian drow-axe. It had come into the tavern guard's custody, unplanned and unexpected, on the night of his arrest. At that time, Biske asked him to deliver it to someone named Daisy.

Something, it would seem, had changed his mind.

Now, as he stares at it, leaned against the wall of his quarters at the tavern, he contemplates how best to carry out Biske's request. As the setting sun shines through his window, its rays give the two garnets that adorn the axe a malignant sparkle. The man is tempted, briefly, to keep it for himself. How sweet it would be to cut down a drow, the accursed creators of that dark weapon, with it's wicked blade. But no, he had given his word to make the thing disappear. He wouldn't be able to use it effectively, anyway, and there was another opportunity to inflict ironic, poetic revenge on those who had captured him.

Later that night, well after most people have retired to bed, the tavern guard slips from his room, with the drow-axe propped against shoulder and a lantern in hand, and makes his way outside and into the stable that sits behind the tavern. There, he carefully wraps the weapon in an old, disused horse blanket and sets it aside.

His attention turns to the end of the building where bales of hay and sacks of oats are kept for guest's horses and the tavern's own animals, and he begins to relocate them, taking great care not to litter the floor with feed. It takes him quite some time to move it all, as Molly keeps even the stable well-stocked in preparation for whatever calamitous events may come in the future.

Now, a shovel bites into the packed dirt of the stable floor where the feed had been. The guard digs the outline of a hole large enough for a man, although it will not be filled by one, and soil is carefully piled nearby. It takes him an hour, perhaps two, to create a waist-deep hole. When he is finished, D'ran sits on the edge of the pit to rest briefly. He take a minute to enjoy the quiet, the rich scent of the soil, the cool air of the night.

A few moments later, D'ran is back to work, and the blanket-wrapped axe is lowered into the earth. Unceremoniously, he begins to replace the soil he had dug up earlier, covering the blade and steadily filling the grave-sized hole. Fortunately, this takes much less time, and before too long, he is replacing the bales and sacks of feed in their original location. He stops now and then to stifle a yawn; he can feel the lateness of the hour as he begins to tire considerably.

Finally, everything is back in place, and the guard scatters fresh hay around the floor to mask the few remnants of his late-night activities. What little evidence that still remains could easily be explained by a visit to investigate a noise, or the workings of some wild animal. After a final gaze at the stacks of hay and oats, which now guard a buried secret, D'ran exits the stable and returns to the tavern, to sleep soundly for the short remainder of the night.
LightForce
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