Prospero
The Duke of Milan
Am excerpt of a story I wrote, based on a campaign I ran for my players. Enjoy.
----
"Why?"
She was dying and she knew it. She felt the blood just beneath her breast, and could almost feel her life
force leaking. Trying to stay on her feet, her hand tried to grab something to steady herself, only to fall
over onto the cobblestones. Panting quietly, she struggled to turn herself over on her back and even then,
that was difficult but she managed, staring up at the starlit skies.
It shouldn't have been a night like this, a cheerful, brisk air with the hint of frost. It should have been a
dark and stormy one. There should have been fog and shadows, not bright lights and mirth. And in the
light of the streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway, still bubbling with laughter, the killer stood there,
watching the woman die. Slowly, with quiet footfall, the killer stalked down to the fallen body and
kneeled; amused at the flinch-what more could it do to her? The killer reached out to clutch her hand. The
stabbed woman's eyes went wide, and a faint sound, like air escaping from a tire, was heard among tired
laughter.
"Didn't expect to die. Not like this. Though I know what you came for. May as well then. But do me a
kindness?"
The killer cocked its head, staring down at the rapidly cooling corpse as the victim said dreamily.
"I got a sister. Been with me through thick and thin. Please...Please tell her Maddy said she...Lo...." The
hissing noise stopped, her eyes became glassy in death, far beyond any troubles anymore. The killer
closed her eyes gently with its fingers, and then selected from a bag, a butcher's cleaver such as tradesmen
use for bone.
This was going to be messy.
The thought sent a deep set thrill up the killer's spine, as the cleaver rose and fell again and again.
---
This is the land of the Outer Zone. If all of creation had a boundary and a center, this would be the very
edge of it. This was a land of could-have-beens, of worlds on the cusp of being, of stories untold and
repeated. It was a patchwork world, full of wonders and its capital was the Emerald City. It had been
conquered long ago by Glinda the All-Wise, with her army and her magic. It had been thirty years now
into her reign, and the Emerald City looked very different today. Though green marble was very much
still a theme, there were very few emeralds now.
There were certainly a lot of citizens, from all over the Outer Zone in this place. All of them with similar
stories, making a living or attempting to just get by, drawn in under the flag of the conqueror and forced
to come together. All of them brought to heel as the city itself, and just as faded with life. In a pub called
the Bad Shroom, the latest news was being discussed by the rank-and-file that every city needs to thrive.
Tradesmen and serious, stoic folk who followed the news insofar as they safely could. You never know
who or what was taking note of how much you knew.
"Murder gentlemen. Murder most foul,” intoned, one of them impressively. His neighbor, with whom he
had shared a fence with since they were children, snorted. He was wise to his theatrical ways, and he
sneered, in half-hearted fashion as he lifted his own lips to his mug.
"Yes well, is there any other kind?"
A rather henpecked looking man, with a pint-sized mug full of a shot glass-sized drink, peered up
mournfully as he warbled.
"Oh, I don't know, sometimes a man really thinks-."
"-Murder most foul!" The first speaker said it again, on the basis that it sounded impressive and such a
thing was not to sneeze at.
Silence filled the bar. It's never good when a bar is silent. Hubbub and laughter are the trademarks of a
good evening, the reason anyone goes out to the pub. That, and to escape some of life's little pitfalls. In
this place, the silence loomed horrible like the shadow of some great beast, watching every patron for the
one who wandered from the herd. For long silence in which to think, and ready booze to become drunk
on, does not a good combination make, in a city like this. Down the bar, someone called out in a voice of
ready rage, like the bleat of a sheep who has left the herd for distant greenery, unknowing of eyes
watching it.
"It's our Queen!" A hush fell over the room at that statement, and there was a sense of even the walls
attempting to lean as far away from the speaker as possible. The man who said it had been drinking
heavily, judging from the bottles around him. A burly fellow with a hand the size of a frying pan, his
expression was an odd mix of intense grief and smoldering anger that with enough liquor, had been
fanned into a forest fire of rage. He had been staring at something in his hand, but now he got up and
glared at everyone.
"You all know it's true! Every month, one girl selected for glory! Taken to the palace and never seen
again! Where are they, huh? Why is it no one ever can see them?" Pure anguish underlined his anger like
an underground river. It churned and it rushed unseen, but always there, threatening to unleash itself. He
was one of the small tradesmen among many that characterized the city workforce. One of those random
citizens you might see handing over your meat, in neatly wrapped paper, or perhaps applying sandpaper
and varnish to furniture with a craftsman's eye for neatness. Politics had prior meant nothing to him. What
did the high and mighty care for a mere worker? It took no great mind to sensibly stay out of their way,
and perhaps that may have been the end of it, were it not for one thing.
His daughter, age fourteen was as fresh and charming as her father was gruff. She had opted for schooling
and one day, she simply never came back. Her teachers, some proud and others unable to meet his gaze,
had informed him that Glinda herself had visited and whisked her away. A seed of unease had been
planted in his heart that day, soothed over by money and letters that came describing her days. And then
one day, the money stopped coming, but what did that matter? So long as he knew she was well and good,
he was happy enough.
And then her letters stopped, and things went wrong. The seed of unease grew into a mighty oak of panic.
The guards rebuffed him, his cries went unheard. And every night, he came to the bar and drunk himself
into a stupor.
"Fatty, shut up!" someone hissed, but Fatty merely spat to the side.
"I don't care anymore! I can't live like this! I want my daughter back!" He stumbled away from the bar,
cheeks red and face flushed. People watched him go with all the gravitas of watching a man bear his own
noose to the gallows save one, who looked into his mug in old shame. Fatty slammed open the door and
wavered into the street. People got up, watching from the windows as looking up into the night sky,
invisible from the street lights flare, Fatty cried out.
"YOU BITCH! YOU UTTER BITCH! GIVE ME BACK MY DAUGHTER!"
Up in the skies above and invisible, there was a sound, like fluttering wings, and a wild scream and the
barman snapped out.
"Bolt the door!"
Hands flew quickly to do that, as outside dark shapes flew down from the sky upon Fatty, screaming and
howling as the unfortunate man was torn to shreds. Watching the gruesome incident, one of the patrons
swore.
"Fallen sky..."
"Let that be a lesson to everyone!" the barman shouted, as he glared at people.
"Keep your head down and don't rock the boat!"
Outside, the screams of Fatty were absent now, amidst the howls of the creatures that killed him, and
perhaps that was more terrifying, knowing what they were doing as the barman closed his eyes and
muttered.
"Not like we can do anything else."
As the patrons went back to their drinks in sullen silence, two of them by the window would be watching
the tableau play out. Fatty had been a big man, and the creatures that killed him were the sort to not turn
their nose at fresh meat. The smaller, a blonde waif of a girl in a grubby dress and simple shoes, glared at
her companion. Her hand lifted up, signing to him in quick succession.
"You could have done something."
Her companion scowled. Dressed in flowing black robes and a flat, wide-brim hat, around his neck hung
the emblem of a certified doctor: a twin-headed serpent in nickel as he looked at his glaring friend. Grey
met mismatched gold, an eyepatch dominating the man's face, as locked in eye contact, the latter looked
away in renewed shame into his mug as he muttered aloud.
"Yeah. But ain't worth my neck no more to risk it for anyone. Besides, there's a lot of folk. None of them
raised a hand to stop him I noticed."
"They were scared"
"Ain't no excuse for it," he muttered, but his heart wasn't in it, as he sighed out and sat back down in his
seat. The girl continued to watch, all the way up to the point the creatures flew away before she moved to
sit down next to him, leaning on him with only a token grumble from the man who remained still as stone.
A minute later, she signed out.
"Are you scared too, Drake?"
Drake stared down at her cuddling into him, before looking up. The atmosphere of the Bad Shroom had
changed mightily. The silence, a long-time presence in the late hours, flitted between the people like a
wraith. No more were the loud conversations and general chatter you'd expect from a near-full place like
this. Instead, there was quiet you'd expect from a tomb. Folks clung to their small groups, barely talking
above a whisper, and everywhere you stared, there was a sheet of fear over everything. He nodded,
slowly.
"Yes Alice, I'm scared too."
Alice had no reply to that, but she held his hand when they got up to leave, walking to the door to exit out
into the dark night. Green street lights made for strange illumination, making the remains of Fatty an eerie
sight. Drake stared in particular at the bones, the way they were cracked to obtain the marrow, and
shuddered as he turned to walk him and Alice firmly away from the gruesome sight. There was no
curfew, not really one anyway. But most people who take the time to think for a second, tend to avoid
hours when the Queen's hunters stalked the night skies, and so they hid, behind barred lock and bolted
windows.
The reign of Queen Glinda had begun smartly enough. After Ozma had perished, Glinda had graciously
according to the history books sidled in as steward, until another member of the Royal Family could be
found. She had been welcomed as her status deserved, and then later questions had arisen about her
policies. Simple ones, casual ones from folks who had been baffled.
Why have you taken my grandmother, our wise woman and healer?
Why did my daughter, of ten-years-old, have to be taken away? Why can't I see her?
Why are my spell books burned? The knowledge-.
They come to our village and they hunt for all things magic. Hide the children!
Magic! That had been the root of it. As Ozma had been killed by magic, it had been decreed that all
magic, save for those approved by the state, were to be examined and organized. Which was just a fancy
word for exterminating. Those with talent, with items- Right unto the flying broomstick that nobody knew
how to work, everything was confiscated or was destroyed. Many a library and record hall had seen their
scrolls and tomes put to the flame, deemed too dangerous for anyone to simply study. Some protested this
treatment- The Scarecrow, the Governor of the Emerald City appealed to her for mercy and for
understanding. Some had been healers, others appalled at the knowledge lost.
She had taken the criticism well, smiling as she left for her own country, leaving the Scarecrow to clean
up after her.
When she returned, it had been with the sword and the old Emerald City perished, its former ruler killed
off, as it was seen how well straw could burn. And then, like every tyrant, her eye then turned to the other
realms of the Outer Zones...
Gnomes and Kalidah's, Knife-Men and Iron Legions, Whimsies and Growleywogs. Things that didn't do
anything so simple as take the lives of those who dared to speak out, to stand out among the crowd. These
were left alone, to stand on their soapboxes and denounce their queen with thunder and venom. But when
they returned to their homes unmolested, it was to empty chairs and silent cribs, where a family once were
waiting.
And then suddenly, it was all public apologies, and perhaps if she was gracious and merciful as she often
was, she would return them to you in one piece...
Such was the reign of Glinda, the All-Wise, the Perilously Fair. Long live the Queen.
----
"Why?"
She was dying and she knew it. She felt the blood just beneath her breast, and could almost feel her life
force leaking. Trying to stay on her feet, her hand tried to grab something to steady herself, only to fall
over onto the cobblestones. Panting quietly, she struggled to turn herself over on her back and even then,
that was difficult but she managed, staring up at the starlit skies.
It shouldn't have been a night like this, a cheerful, brisk air with the hint of frost. It should have been a
dark and stormy one. There should have been fog and shadows, not bright lights and mirth. And in the
light of the streetlamp at the mouth of the alleyway, still bubbling with laughter, the killer stood there,
watching the woman die. Slowly, with quiet footfall, the killer stalked down to the fallen body and
kneeled; amused at the flinch-what more could it do to her? The killer reached out to clutch her hand. The
stabbed woman's eyes went wide, and a faint sound, like air escaping from a tire, was heard among tired
laughter.
"Didn't expect to die. Not like this. Though I know what you came for. May as well then. But do me a
kindness?"
The killer cocked its head, staring down at the rapidly cooling corpse as the victim said dreamily.
"I got a sister. Been with me through thick and thin. Please...Please tell her Maddy said she...Lo...." The
hissing noise stopped, her eyes became glassy in death, far beyond any troubles anymore. The killer
closed her eyes gently with its fingers, and then selected from a bag, a butcher's cleaver such as tradesmen
use for bone.
This was going to be messy.
The thought sent a deep set thrill up the killer's spine, as the cleaver rose and fell again and again.
---
This is the land of the Outer Zone. If all of creation had a boundary and a center, this would be the very
edge of it. This was a land of could-have-beens, of worlds on the cusp of being, of stories untold and
repeated. It was a patchwork world, full of wonders and its capital was the Emerald City. It had been
conquered long ago by Glinda the All-Wise, with her army and her magic. It had been thirty years now
into her reign, and the Emerald City looked very different today. Though green marble was very much
still a theme, there were very few emeralds now.
There were certainly a lot of citizens, from all over the Outer Zone in this place. All of them with similar
stories, making a living or attempting to just get by, drawn in under the flag of the conqueror and forced
to come together. All of them brought to heel as the city itself, and just as faded with life. In a pub called
the Bad Shroom, the latest news was being discussed by the rank-and-file that every city needs to thrive.
Tradesmen and serious, stoic folk who followed the news insofar as they safely could. You never know
who or what was taking note of how much you knew.
"Murder gentlemen. Murder most foul,” intoned, one of them impressively. His neighbor, with whom he
had shared a fence with since they were children, snorted. He was wise to his theatrical ways, and he
sneered, in half-hearted fashion as he lifted his own lips to his mug.
"Yes well, is there any other kind?"
A rather henpecked looking man, with a pint-sized mug full of a shot glass-sized drink, peered up
mournfully as he warbled.
"Oh, I don't know, sometimes a man really thinks-."
"-Murder most foul!" The first speaker said it again, on the basis that it sounded impressive and such a
thing was not to sneeze at.
Silence filled the bar. It's never good when a bar is silent. Hubbub and laughter are the trademarks of a
good evening, the reason anyone goes out to the pub. That, and to escape some of life's little pitfalls. In
this place, the silence loomed horrible like the shadow of some great beast, watching every patron for the
one who wandered from the herd. For long silence in which to think, and ready booze to become drunk
on, does not a good combination make, in a city like this. Down the bar, someone called out in a voice of
ready rage, like the bleat of a sheep who has left the herd for distant greenery, unknowing of eyes
watching it.
"It's our Queen!" A hush fell over the room at that statement, and there was a sense of even the walls
attempting to lean as far away from the speaker as possible. The man who said it had been drinking
heavily, judging from the bottles around him. A burly fellow with a hand the size of a frying pan, his
expression was an odd mix of intense grief and smoldering anger that with enough liquor, had been
fanned into a forest fire of rage. He had been staring at something in his hand, but now he got up and
glared at everyone.
"You all know it's true! Every month, one girl selected for glory! Taken to the palace and never seen
again! Where are they, huh? Why is it no one ever can see them?" Pure anguish underlined his anger like
an underground river. It churned and it rushed unseen, but always there, threatening to unleash itself. He
was one of the small tradesmen among many that characterized the city workforce. One of those random
citizens you might see handing over your meat, in neatly wrapped paper, or perhaps applying sandpaper
and varnish to furniture with a craftsman's eye for neatness. Politics had prior meant nothing to him. What
did the high and mighty care for a mere worker? It took no great mind to sensibly stay out of their way,
and perhaps that may have been the end of it, were it not for one thing.
His daughter, age fourteen was as fresh and charming as her father was gruff. She had opted for schooling
and one day, she simply never came back. Her teachers, some proud and others unable to meet his gaze,
had informed him that Glinda herself had visited and whisked her away. A seed of unease had been
planted in his heart that day, soothed over by money and letters that came describing her days. And then
one day, the money stopped coming, but what did that matter? So long as he knew she was well and good,
he was happy enough.
And then her letters stopped, and things went wrong. The seed of unease grew into a mighty oak of panic.
The guards rebuffed him, his cries went unheard. And every night, he came to the bar and drunk himself
into a stupor.
"Fatty, shut up!" someone hissed, but Fatty merely spat to the side.
"I don't care anymore! I can't live like this! I want my daughter back!" He stumbled away from the bar,
cheeks red and face flushed. People watched him go with all the gravitas of watching a man bear his own
noose to the gallows save one, who looked into his mug in old shame. Fatty slammed open the door and
wavered into the street. People got up, watching from the windows as looking up into the night sky,
invisible from the street lights flare, Fatty cried out.
"YOU BITCH! YOU UTTER BITCH! GIVE ME BACK MY DAUGHTER!"
Up in the skies above and invisible, there was a sound, like fluttering wings, and a wild scream and the
barman snapped out.
"Bolt the door!"
Hands flew quickly to do that, as outside dark shapes flew down from the sky upon Fatty, screaming and
howling as the unfortunate man was torn to shreds. Watching the gruesome incident, one of the patrons
swore.
"Fallen sky..."
"Let that be a lesson to everyone!" the barman shouted, as he glared at people.
"Keep your head down and don't rock the boat!"
Outside, the screams of Fatty were absent now, amidst the howls of the creatures that killed him, and
perhaps that was more terrifying, knowing what they were doing as the barman closed his eyes and
muttered.
"Not like we can do anything else."
As the patrons went back to their drinks in sullen silence, two of them by the window would be watching
the tableau play out. Fatty had been a big man, and the creatures that killed him were the sort to not turn
their nose at fresh meat. The smaller, a blonde waif of a girl in a grubby dress and simple shoes, glared at
her companion. Her hand lifted up, signing to him in quick succession.
"You could have done something."
Her companion scowled. Dressed in flowing black robes and a flat, wide-brim hat, around his neck hung
the emblem of a certified doctor: a twin-headed serpent in nickel as he looked at his glaring friend. Grey
met mismatched gold, an eyepatch dominating the man's face, as locked in eye contact, the latter looked
away in renewed shame into his mug as he muttered aloud.
"Yeah. But ain't worth my neck no more to risk it for anyone. Besides, there's a lot of folk. None of them
raised a hand to stop him I noticed."
"They were scared"
"Ain't no excuse for it," he muttered, but his heart wasn't in it, as he sighed out and sat back down in his
seat. The girl continued to watch, all the way up to the point the creatures flew away before she moved to
sit down next to him, leaning on him with only a token grumble from the man who remained still as stone.
A minute later, she signed out.
"Are you scared too, Drake?"
Drake stared down at her cuddling into him, before looking up. The atmosphere of the Bad Shroom had
changed mightily. The silence, a long-time presence in the late hours, flitted between the people like a
wraith. No more were the loud conversations and general chatter you'd expect from a near-full place like
this. Instead, there was quiet you'd expect from a tomb. Folks clung to their small groups, barely talking
above a whisper, and everywhere you stared, there was a sheet of fear over everything. He nodded,
slowly.
"Yes Alice, I'm scared too."
Alice had no reply to that, but she held his hand when they got up to leave, walking to the door to exit out
into the dark night. Green street lights made for strange illumination, making the remains of Fatty an eerie
sight. Drake stared in particular at the bones, the way they were cracked to obtain the marrow, and
shuddered as he turned to walk him and Alice firmly away from the gruesome sight. There was no
curfew, not really one anyway. But most people who take the time to think for a second, tend to avoid
hours when the Queen's hunters stalked the night skies, and so they hid, behind barred lock and bolted
windows.
The reign of Queen Glinda had begun smartly enough. After Ozma had perished, Glinda had graciously
according to the history books sidled in as steward, until another member of the Royal Family could be
found. She had been welcomed as her status deserved, and then later questions had arisen about her
policies. Simple ones, casual ones from folks who had been baffled.
Why have you taken my grandmother, our wise woman and healer?
Why did my daughter, of ten-years-old, have to be taken away? Why can't I see her?
Why are my spell books burned? The knowledge-.
They come to our village and they hunt for all things magic. Hide the children!
Magic! That had been the root of it. As Ozma had been killed by magic, it had been decreed that all
magic, save for those approved by the state, were to be examined and organized. Which was just a fancy
word for exterminating. Those with talent, with items- Right unto the flying broomstick that nobody knew
how to work, everything was confiscated or was destroyed. Many a library and record hall had seen their
scrolls and tomes put to the flame, deemed too dangerous for anyone to simply study. Some protested this
treatment- The Scarecrow, the Governor of the Emerald City appealed to her for mercy and for
understanding. Some had been healers, others appalled at the knowledge lost.
She had taken the criticism well, smiling as she left for her own country, leaving the Scarecrow to clean
up after her.
When she returned, it had been with the sword and the old Emerald City perished, its former ruler killed
off, as it was seen how well straw could burn. And then, like every tyrant, her eye then turned to the other
realms of the Outer Zones...
Gnomes and Kalidah's, Knife-Men and Iron Legions, Whimsies and Growleywogs. Things that didn't do
anything so simple as take the lives of those who dared to speak out, to stand out among the crowd. These
were left alone, to stand on their soapboxes and denounce their queen with thunder and venom. But when
they returned to their homes unmolested, it was to empty chairs and silent cribs, where a family once were
waiting.
And then suddenly, it was all public apologies, and perhaps if she was gracious and merciful as she often
was, she would return them to you in one piece...
Such was the reign of Glinda, the All-Wise, the Perilously Fair. Long live the Queen.
