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"Truth or Tattoos?"

Episode 05 of the Wyvern Saga, Where Honesty is often better than a permanent Mark of Servitude

By David WhitePublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 11 min read
2
Artwork by Vinhza at Deviantart.com

“My name is Church,” said the little metal-man, as he clinked and clanked up the stairs. “My boss wants to have a few words with you, and possibly offer you a position on the team.”

The four adventurers followed Church up the stairs away from the prison cells. Behind them, the insectoid creatures could still be heard faintly chirping, despite the punishment inflicted on them by the burly guards, four of whom tromped along behind the party. They walked through stone-walled hallways, under soaring wooden-beamed arches, and finally, into a vast steel-arched atrium with magnificent glass panels overhead that revealed a bright, cloud-filled sky. The vast courtyard below the atrium was filled with hundreds of creatures of all types and races, either meeting in small knots, or seated at various tables, exchanging documents, sharing food and drink, or using unusual flat panels of glowing numbers and images. Some of the beings looked roughly familiar to the group—elves, dwarves, even a few gnomes and humans—but the majority were strange, almost bizarre, and unlike any races they’d ever seen.

There were quite a few more of the burly, gray-skinned brutes, most of them in uniform and carrying their hollow-tube weapons, while other wore elaborate suits with sashes and other military decorations. There were also some odd simian-type creatures, fully as big as any elf or human, some with pinkish-purple skin, others with a more orangish tint. A pair of those took off from a balcony far overhead, and glided with underarm wings close over Rohkud’s head before landing a few yards away, as if such a thing were completely normal. The half-Giant instinctively ducked, which caused the metal-man to laugh.

“I almost forgot, you four are new here.” Church indicated with one metal hand the gliding simians who were now deep in conversation as they walked away. “Those are called Hadozee. Word is that they were once just a type of arboreal monkey living out a happy existence in a jungle on some planet somewhere. Then a wizard started feeding them an experimental potion that wound up giving them sentience, and before you could say ‘The wrathful Wraith rung out a worn wrecked red wrap,’ those fellers created their own civilization. Took to the skies they did, and now run a sizeable transportation network.”

The metal-man hooked his thumb behind them. “I should probably introduce our guards as well. They’re called Giff, and though their size may suggest a brutish disposition, I assure you they’re as cultured and refined as any other. They do appreciate a good uniform, and they proudly serve in armies and navies throughout the Astral Sea.”

As they continued their walk, Dowlin stared at a trio of oddly shaped amorphous blobs, complete with blobby appendages and a blobby head with no distinct features. “And what in the Great Name of Orn are those creatures?”

Church chuckled at the question. “They’re called Plasmoids. No idea where they came from, but they’re all over the Astral Sea. They can squeeze through practically any crevice, and are pretty near indestructible when it comes to acid and poison. Nice trait to have, though I wouldn’t give up my shiny skin for that.”

Yumaia noticed a squad of marching insectoids off to the right, and whispered to their metallic tour guide, “There’s more of those prisoners! Are they escaping? Why isn’t anyone trying to capture them?”

“They’re called Thri-kreen, and no, they’re not trying to escape,” Church assured her. “Yes, they’re just like the prisoners in the cells, but not all of them are bad, only the ones that have been perverted by their pirate employers.”

“You have pirates here?” Dowlin asked.

Church frowned, which made his metallic face screech like a rusty hinge.

“Piracy is a blight on every trading system,” Church replied in disgust, “and we're no exception.” His mood lightened as he added, “Which is probably why my boss wants to talk to you four.”

They passed a magnificent fountain that sprayed some kind of rainbow fluid that hung in the air, defying gravity, before changing colors and dropping back down with a melodic splash like ringing wind chimes. “Pretty as flowers,” Rohkud commented, with a deep sigh.

“We do have a nice setup here,” Church agreed, “though this base is small in comparison to others.”

“Base?” Kah’terra echoed. “This is a military base?”

“Oh, indeed!” Church replied. “Omicron Delta Two-Nine. One of a hundred or so scattered across Known Space.” He caught sight of a moving shape just visible through the vast atrium windows. “And there’s an example of what we’re a base for.”

The four stared in wonder as above the building, a vast wooden sailing ship soared across the sky. Not only did the craft have billowing sails that spread wide from a pair of vertical masts, but it bore a series of horizontal sails as well. It floated lower until it crossed into an area of the city beyond which dozens of other masts poked up over chimneys and slated rooftops.

“Your ships? They—they fly?” Yumaia asked incredulously.

“Absolutely!” Church replied, with so much pride you’d think he’d built the ship himself. “Don’t you have flying ships where you come from?”

Kah’terra scratched his chin through his beard. “No, we do not. But I suppose if magic can make creatures without wings fly, then it’s possible to do the same thing with ships.”

A little more awestruck than before, the four followed Church across the atrium into a more secure area off to one side. There were more of the gray-skinned Giff standing watch, each of whom focused their eyes on the four strangers dressed only in their white smocks.

These troopers flanked a high-walled security checkpoint, where a taller, thinner metal-man stood watch beside a frosted glass door. He held up his brass-colored hand to Church. “Name and ID, please.” From under his cloak, Church rolled up his sleeve and displayed a multi-colored tattoo of intricate whorls and lines. The thinner metal-man pointed a glass rod at this symbol. Instantly, an image of Church appeared on the frosted doorway as if someone had used a wet finger to draw a life-sized version of him on a frosty windowpane. Beside this image was his full name, Churchester Helmsford McCarren, his rather exemplary service record in the New Astral Space Fleet, various awards and decorations, and his current posting, which read only, “New Member Integration.

The silvery metal-man touched a few buttons on a nearby platform, and the door swung wide. “You may enter, sir,” the metal-man said. Church nodded and proceeded through, then spun around abruptly on the other side.

“These four are with me. They were recently found on the Sea without gear or IDs. We’ll need to set them up.” He made a motion to the tattoo on his forearm.

As the thinner metal-man reached for what looked like a high-tech branding iron, Kah’terra bristled. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to voluntarily stamp my skin.” He rubbed the back of his hand. “It’s sort of a Gnome thing. Where I come from, a tattoo denotes ownership by another.” He stood as tall as his four-and-a-half-feet height would allow. “I’ve lived near ninety years without being owned by any other sentient. My only allegiance is to my God, my people, and to the cause of justice.”

The Giff standing nearby shared a few smiles and a bit of silent whispering, but Kah’terra stood firm. Church pondered this for a moment before replying, “I think we might be able to accommodate your request. Would you be able to call up that fancy truth-confirmation spell you did before, to prove who you and your comrades are?”

The old Gnome’s eyes twinkled. “Certainly!”

With closed eyes and a sweep of arcane hand gestures, the silvery-white sphere of pure energy descended around him. Yumaia stepped forward as Church conversed with the taller metal-man, who reached for a box of silvery discs.

“Yumaia, Warden of the Five Groves,” she said, as the frosted glass panel began to display a full-sized version of her. She paused for a moment, wondering what else to add, before continuing. “I’m a Tiefling, and a Druid of the Third Order.” She thought a bit longer. “Defender of the Sacred Oak, nemesis of the Sanguine Defilers, chastiser of the Vandals of the Empty Purse.” She chewed her lower lip for a moment, before adding, “And since I’ve met Kah’terra here, I’ve defeated black dragons, Illithid slavers, evil Drow, and more mindless beasts than I can count.”

Throughout her speech, the light continued to shine its brilliant silvery-white radiance. Beside her image on the frosted glass, text blocks appeared, highlighting her own stellar accomplishments.

Church nodded. “That should do quite nicely.” The thin metal-man selected one of the circular metal discs and dropped the branding iron on it. After a brief, vibrating hiss, he handed Yumaia the disc, complete with a long beaded neck chain.

“Please keep this on your person at all times,” the thin metal-man said in his monotone voice. The glass doorway swung open, and she joined Church on the other side.

Dowlin stepped forward next. “Dowlin Oervorant, an Owlin Monk from the Ivory Temple of Orn.” He took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I helped defend the village of Ladriss against a rampaging horde of bandits. I supported the Kaliff of Regenmoor when his evil uncle tried to usurp his throne. I was there when the ghasts of the Dark Lake tried to overrun the valley of Goodsheath. Oh, and I too have had the honor to stand beside Yumaia and Kah’terra as we defeated many fell beasts that threatened the lands.”

The thin metal-man stamped a disc for him, and he proceeded past the frosted doorway.

Next up was Rohkud. The other three held their breath, wondering what the half-Giant would say about his past.

The big fellow looked around, at them, at Church, and at the armed Giff, almost as tall as him, as they nervously fingered their hollow-tube weapons. Then, in a surprisingly soft voice, he said, “I am Rohkud. Rohkud is big and very strong. Rohkud is not that smart, this Rohkud knows. But Rohkud only hurts bad people and dangerous monsters. Rohkud tries very hard to stay in control of his…” He searched for the right word. “She-nan-uh-gans.” His face brightened as he remembered, “And Rohkud loves pretty flowers!” In a quieter voice, he added, “Some day, Rohkud will give pretty flowers to Elf-lady back where we met. Maybe Lady will be nice to Rohkud.” He looks around sheepishly before holding up his hands. “Rohkud hopes that is enough to get to the other side.”

Church smiled. “That’s just fine.” The thin metal-man handed him his stamped disc, but added a second beaded chain for a longer necklace to fit around his much wider neck.

Last came Kah’terra. He stood before the frosted glass as the image of the massive half-Giant was replaced by his much smaller Gnomish figure. He began, “My name is Kah’terra—”

But before he could get another word out, the illuminated field changed to a deep purple-green.

Church looked puzzled. Yumaia, Dowlin and Rohkud looked confused. The Giff guards looked suspicious.

Then Kah’terra remembered something, and gave a deep sigh. “Of course. You all know me as Kah’terra. That’s the term I’ve used since I left my Gnomish clan in disgrace, having lost my family’s heirloom armor of adamantine and platinum. Until I can return with a similar or better set of armor, I’ve chosen to identify myself with the term Kah’terra, which in my tongue means ‘Without a true home.’”

As his words flowed, the shimmering field returned to its previous silvery-white radiance, though it was tinged around the edges with a trace of reddish-orange. Though he didn’t explain the reason for the additional color, those who listened interpreted that shade as demonstrating both his sincerity as well as his emotional state of being as he shared such personal details.

“I’m a Cleric of Ioun, Goddess of Knowledge and Wisdom,” he continued, “though I’ll admit, I’ve practically lost touch with Her since arriving in this land. It’s true, I’ve helped defeat many evils, though I believe my greatest gift has been in keeping those around me alive.” He halted. “Most of the time.” He glanced over at his three companions with something amounting to regret. “I know going forward, we’ll have more occasions to call on my powers to keep us strong and healthy, as we tackle greater evils and more dangerous monsters. But with the Goddess’ help, we’ll see them through with the same determination that we’ve always done.”

He glanced off to one side, and realized the Giff there were standing at something like attention, as if he were giving them a speech before going into battle. He gave one of his distinctive harrumphs, dispelled the field with a simple wave of his hand, then closed with, “I hope that’s enough to let me join your little club.”

Church exploded with a boisterous laugh. One of the Giff leaned down to clap him on the back, while another yelled out, “Let ‘im through!” The frosted door opened and he stumbled through, remembering at the last minute to reach back and accept the stamped disc.

As they followed Church into the darker hallway beyond, Rohkud leaned over and whispered, “Rohkud moved by old Gnome’s speech.” He seemed to wipe a tear away.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kah’terra muttered, as Yumaia and Dowlin shared a smile.

AdventureFantasySci FiSeriesShort Story
2

About the Creator

David White

Author of six novels, twelve screenplays and numerous short scripts. Two decades as a professional writer, creating TV/radio spots for niche companies (Paul Prudhomme, Wolverine Boots) up to major corporations (Citibank, The TBS Network).

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