![]() The man barked something unintelligible in reply. "Yes - as I say, it's not quite like I imagined it."Ī man broke off from the blankly staring huddle that had formed behind the once-big man, and whispered in his ear. "Money? Funnelled? There's not enough coins in this valley to fill a fist, let alone a funnel." "Masses - although," Jan paused for a second, "I didn't expect it to look like this, knowing the kind of money that's been funnelled in." "Banks do much business in this part of the land?" "Nothing with cloaks or daggers - I'm employed by a bank." That's what my employers have on record." "No," said the big man, after a moment's deliberation. I hope to find a man called Kolhass - you haven't, by any chance, met a man of that name?." "Jan Havelock", said the bald man, standing up unsteadilly from his rock, "Northwards, or southwards?" "George Sound," said the big man, leaning forward to take his hand. ![]() One of the refugees - a man who, by the set of his too-visible bones, might have been powerfully built once, stepped warily forward to greet him. He shouted a few greetings, trying a couple of languages he half-knew his way around. As it stood, he had nothing to give but bad news, and the clothes on his back 0 which were in any case so hard-worn that no matter how he tried to wash them, he was unable to remove the smell. Perhaps, in a less hungry time, he would have liked to consider himself an altruist. He regarded the procession as it wound towards him, with eyes at once sorrowful and hungry. Leaning against a neglected drystone wall sat a bald man in a dappled grey poncho. These had been walking for some time, perhaps from the coast. Too-wide eyes, cast with the messianism of hunger, sat in leathery faces. They had bound the remnants of their shoes together with bandages, and the grey mud of the track crawled up their bare calves, undrying in the light rain that had been a constant, for several days. At its bottom ran a brook, cheerfully making its way towards the Middle sea. On their left, the valley was bare, close cropped by the horses of passing armies, without the meanest scrap of fire-wood. ![]() On their right, there stood steep slopes of scree, and gigantic granite faces, upon which grew scrags of heather, and wind-bitten trees. At the moment, DCSS is basically 'under the hood', so demons, gods, magic and so on are there - but more like how your heart is present in your chest, as opposed to your eyebrows on your face.Īnyway, I'd love to hear what you guys think.Ī ragged line of refugees made their way along the track that wound along the eastern border of the valley. My style aspiration is Joe Abercombie, so I'm shying away from really high falutin stuff for now. Reading endless scenes of the main character being beaten by hobgoblins is not fun. Rather, it is in the more general world of the dungeon, but advanced by around 100 years. Hey guys, this is the story of the misadventures of Jan Havelock - this is about my third attempt at a dungeon crawl fanfic, and there are a few caveats I've had to make to make it work: Not that anybody except me is reading this shit anyway. Basically, I'll put stuff up here first, then once it's been chewed on and I've polished it a bit, I'll put it there. I put it on because I've been doing a lot of re-reads to try and deal with all of the Chekov cluster-bomblets I've left littered all over the story, and gave it a badass new title ('And Strife is Justice') in the tradition of fantasy falutin, but it's only mostly up-to-date.
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