Steve Mugsy

@foxmugsy.bsky.social

80 Followers 113 Following

Hi! I'm Steve, a fantasy writer, homebrew GM, and software dev. Mostly the first two here. Be good to each other: the truth will out, and you reap what you sow. Art is made by humans.

Avé rose from his bed and stretched his limbs. His room at the Sandstone Inn, supposedly the best available, made use of Crousteyo’s unique high-rising architecture. His fourth floor room's eastern-facing window perfectly framed the sunrise. Light poured into the valley on the other side of the city wall below. A fiery glow illuminated the valley’s opposing mountain slopes and the river flowing towards Sakretou Bay. Somewhere behind the rolling hills, his hometown resided where the river emptied into the bay on the horizon. Avé interlocked his fingers and reached forward, stretching his hands and arms while nodding to himself. I could get used to this. As Avé changed into the white linen chemise he wore under his armor, he observed bruises on his chest, sides, and arms from recent battles. The last few punishing days on the road made last night’s sleep doubly refreshing while his wounds healed. Not only were the inn’s lavish beds more comfortable than the Liquid Gold’s, affording a place this nice without batting an eye felt great. A fistfull of loose silver coins, collected from his felled foes, could pay for the best room in the moderate-sized city's nicest inn. He hadn’t even had to touch the massive bounty rewards he’d cached in. This was where the hard work and dangers of bounty hunting paid off. Dressed in his hunting gear and feeling ready for the day, Avé descended the winding staircase to the tavern’s main floor. Normally, he preferred a slower start to the morning, but the scent of a hearty breakfast woke him early. He couldn’t be upset about losing a few hours of sleep—the swirling steam of freshly roasting game floated to the top floor, carrying its savory aroma laced with an unfamiliar herb blend. Avé wasn’t going to risk missing an opportunity to explore new foods. Avé reached the bottom of the spiral stairs and entered the main seating area. Most of the tables were still empty. Good. He was more than early enough to get his fair share.
A raccoon sits in a storm drain, its masked head poking straight out in a gentlemenly posture. A second raccoon tail can be seen under the shadow of the storm drain's opening.
The lion-like felino reached a hand out to each Po and the gnome. Po took the hand offered and was pulled to his feet by a firm yet gentle grip. The felino looked pensive for a moment. "So," he started, freezing when all eyes in the small crowd suddenly turned towards him. The lone word was enough for Po to detect a thick accent, though he was unsure where it might indicate this felino was from. He waited for his rescuer to say more. The felino tried again, his attention on the gnome. "You said you're looking for ‘friend? I see you've had ‘rough day. We’ll help you find him.” He looked intently at Po, then at the others gathered around. "Won’t we?" Po responded with a sour look. He had just captured this gnome. Now he was expected to do a favor for the fugitive? Unbelievable.
Anzan could feel his blood beginning to boil. He swept his bare foot back and forth in frustration, kicking up a cloud of dust. When it cleared, he spotted a thin seam in the floor. Hmph. He hadn’t noticed it before. No one had. It was a trap door. Anzan alerted his companions. Using a few spare daggers as leverage, Kiraman and Daz pried the stone slab open enough to grasp it, then lifted away the square cutout of flooring.
Ytka, are you watching me? Daz tilted his head towards the ceiling. All he saw were ordinary wooden beams, just like every other building in Auragunas, only these were in good condition. No, there was no angelic being looking down at him from above. There never was. It seemed so many people in Panditerrelle readily accepted that the Patrons and Spirits were real. Daz never understood how. There was a distinct lack of eyewitness accounts of them throughout the realm's history. Couldn't there be an endless number of other possible realities? Daz had always felt he needed hard evidence of Ytka's existence. He'd searched for it all his life, but to no avail. Now that he was Arevi Madik, shouldn't he just… believe? I need you, Ytka. Now, more than ever. Can you not reveal yourself to me? Let me hear your voice. Daz perked up his ears and scanned the crowded room. He didn't know exactly who or what he was searching for. A person or voice out of the ordinary? Something polished, maybe? A king among the common folk? If you are real, show yourself to me. Daz waited, searching a little longer. There was no response. Not that he expected one, he knew better than to bargain with the Spirits. A staccato tune started up, and a flutist joined the fiddler's performance. The flutist was an unfamiliar sight, but added a pleasant fairy-like quality to the bouncy tune. While other tavern-goers stood up and danced, Daz couldn't enjoy the music. He slowly shook his head, frowning.
-Thwdrr- An arrow hit the crate directly in front of Anzan and vibrated. A freaking close call by friendly fire. “Po!” Anzan barked, “Stop making pincushions out of crates and get in here!” Po heeded the order, stowing his bow and unsheathing his rapier as he scampered closer. Anzan turned to his opponent, clenched his fists, and swung at the scoundrel's face. He connected with the nose once, then twice, drawing a satisfying stream of blood. He hopped backward to make room for his incoming ally. The assassin reeled, head tilted to the sky. Po stepped into the opening and stabbed him in the gut. He clutched the wound, coughed up more blood, and keeled over to the ground. “Up top?” Anzan said. Po nodded. Anzan cupped his hands together, ready to give a boost as they’d done to ascend several cliffs before. Anzan waited as Po picked up speed and bounded into his hands. He caught the feline foot and lifted with a burst of force, sending his companion soaring up the wall, just high enough to grasp the roof and climb up. Yes! A masterfully executed maneuver, this time in the heat of combat. He watched Po’s feet disappear behind the top of the building, admiring their work. Anzan signaled his other companions to attack the remaining assassins in the alley. Channeling the Way of the Mountain Goat, he leapt onto the crate, then to the rough stone wall, rebounded to another crate, and jumped to mount the flat rooftop with Po.
A photo collage split into quadrants, each with a photo of a young cherry tree in a mulch-covered garden. In the top left, the tree is lush and green with many leaves. In the top right is a close up of a bright red cherry among the leaves, the cherry slick with recent rain and the leaves dotted with water droplets. In the bottom left, many of the tree’s light green branch stems are bare of any leaves. In the bottom right is a top-down of the tree showing green plastic deer fencing surrounding the tree.
[Spoiler]’s legs exploded with force. Jumping with gravity was quick, but Po's feline feet were quicker. Po sidestepped, slashing as [Spoiler] shot by and tumbled to a stop on one knee. Po lunged, the attack deflected. The duel was on. Po struck furiously, the ring of clashing steel dominating the tunnels.
A lily bloom with water droplets dotting the petals against a backdrop of the lily's leafage, and mulch dampened and darkened by recent rainfall.
Kiraman had forgotten that his departure from home a week ago meant he would miss his family’s celebration of Terra Day. On the day of the festival, Ortvistians would gather at the town hall for an afternoon of eating and socializing. At nightfall, everyone would dance to the cheery tunes of the old elf Elmon's lute and baritone vocals under the hanging lights’ colorful glow. When other families retired for the night, Kiraman and his parents would take a ratty blanket and hike out of the mountain hollow up the short but grueling snow-packed trail to Clarvoyer Peak nearby, where they would watch the stars sparkle over the sprawling Noble Plains far below. On those rare years when the sky was crystal clear, they could see all the way across the plains to Lerosi, where the huge rock lights that decorated the distant capital city shone like a beacon of rainbow stars. Auragunas was a drab cesspool compared to those memories. Sure, the northward mountain was impressive, but a breeze coming from the town carried an odor of rotting wood and cheap ale. Sun-baked sand got everywhere, and grinded in the cracks between his metal boot plates. Missing Ortvist festivities seemed like no big deal at the time Kiraman left. He assumed celebrations would be more lively outside his tiny town, but now he wasn't sure. He should have at least waited to sneak out of his hometown until after spending one more festival with his parents. He also probably should have told them he was leaving.
Po turned, widening his yellow cat-eyes as he faced his older, half-elven brother. A blatant attempt to defer the question. Avé sighed, picking up a new stick. He kept whittling, shaving bits of bark directly into the campfire. “Obviously, our story is a package deal. Slightly less depressing than all of yours. For one, our tragedy is not recent. But still, not a happy story by any means.” Po blurted out, “Our parents were killed by vampires!” Anzan tilted his head. That was an unlikely story, at best. Of the mythical monsters said to roam Panditerrelle, many had verifiable accounts of being seen. But accounts of vampires consistently failed to rise above the credibility of a child’s fairytale. Still, Anzan felt edified. He had an explanation for the brothers’ obsession with vampire hunting. Avé nodded in support of Po’s interjection. “That happened a few years ago. We’ve been taking bounties to support ourselves ever since.” “Really? Vampires?” Daz said, also hung up on the peculiar detail. “Are those… common where you come from? Do you take ‘lot of bounties for them?” “Nope,” Po said, “no bounties at all. That’s the mysterious part.” Po turned again to his older brother. “Isn’t it?” Avé averted his eyes and whittled with increased intensity.
A shallow oval dish of crème brûlée with a golden caramelized top on a restaurant table. Three sliced strawberries garnish the center.
The ogre raised its meaty hand overhead. “No!” Kiraman lunged to block it, but he was too late. The ogre’s razor-sharp fingernails mauled Po aside in a plume of shredded fur. Po smacked the wall and struggled to hold himself upright. With Po out of the way, Kiraman was sandwiched between the massive ogre on one side, and the fog cloud containing two Enmists on the other. The ogre pivoted to finish Po – Kiraman had to sacrifice his body. He shifted in front of Po, exposing his back to the cultists. One Enmist's axe clanged the back of his ribs, knocking the breath out of him, and the ogre's punch found his shoulder, smashing him into Po. He pressed his hand on Po to right himself. “Sorry about that.” Po's grateful look changed to a furrowed brow, confused by the apology. Kiraman spun to find the ogre. At the edge of his vision, Daz was already stepping up to command the attention of both cultists. Kiraman smiled. Nice read, Daz. Being shoulder-to-shoulder with him was reassuring; being on the same mental wavelength was even more so.
Graph of Thamnug the Barbarian's d20 rolls by percentage. 4, 11, and 12 are all about 16 percent. 7 is at 50 percent. All others are 0 percent.
“Aw, lighten up, big bro,” Po bent to strap on leather greaves. “I think you're a little hangry. Once we get to Auragunas and cash in that first bounty, we'll celebrate with a proper roast and potatoes at their finest tavern. A feast to commemorate the start of a new era!” Anzan set his jaw and dug his fingernails into his palms. A third morning with these brothers, a third meditation lost to noisy banter. Avé let out a loud, dramatic sigh. “Fine. I'll try to ‘lighten up.’ As long as you promise not to make any other cute little remarks like that for the rest of today.” Po offered, “How about for the rest of the morning?” Ave considered it. “Deal.”
His hip was raw from the rhythmic thumping of the scabbard hanging at his waist. It housed Amun, the proud relic of his tribe. You are unworthy to carry it. A disgrace to its presence. Your people are dying. Dying! The blade decorated in gold was a symbol of the Arevi tribe's tradition of vigilante-ism – the weapon was to be used to protect the weak and vanquish those who threatened them. To bring light to the darkest corners of Panditerrelle. Daz recited the mantra in his mind. To bring light to– Fool, there is a roaring flame of darkness on the horizon, directly behind you. Look at it. Face it! Curses you coward, why won’t you acknowledge it! Daz swallowed the lump in his throat and clenched his teeth. He shook his head. Have I lost them off my trail? He didn't turn around to check. He focused on the trickle of the Whispering Valley River, the air off its ice-laden water of late-Winter and early-Rising wicked away the sweat in his fur, and his skin tightened. Daz had reached the valley. Ytka will forsake you for what you've done today.
“As for the problem of the Crousteyo’s book inventory, or lack thereof,” the Duke's grandiose way of speaking complemented the throne's gaudy display. He turned to Derivine, “I’ve taken the complaints you shared at our feast under serious consideration. I’ve set in motion the beginnings of a library, to be located here in the castle’s entry tower. It will be open to all cityfolk upon completion, and you are appointed as the library’s leading decision maker. I've recruited the city’s own Professor Ormenoff to help you tend to daily matters.” Derivine perked up in his seat at the offer, but Daz knew it was far too kind a gesture to accept. He opened his mouth to object. “No no,” the Duke shook his finger, silencing Daz before he could start, “I’m repurposing an old room that doesn’t get any use. It really is no burden. On this matter I will not compromise.” Daz sank quietly into his seat, unsure how to dispute the Duke. The Duke knew exactly what Daz was thinking and quashed him before he said anything at all. He sank deeper, feeling unworthy of his great mane and the title Arevi Madik. How had the elder Arevi had made negotiating with authorities in the cities they visited seem so natural?
Anzan wedged his way into the cluster around the bulletin and selected a page at random. “Whoa, this one says ‘Ogres in the area threaten Auragunas. Two-thousand gold pieces per head.’” Avé lowered the bounty he was reading and gave Anzan a dubious look. Two-thousand? That was at least ten times larger than the largest bounty ever posted back home, and even that had been too much for the Storm brothers to handle. “Even when split five ways,” Anzan said, “we'd be rich after just one ogre. Who could afford to pay out a bounty like this?” He inspected both sides of the flier. “More importantly, wouldn’t we be splitting it six ways?” Avé asked. Had Anzan miscounted? Or forgotten someone existed? It couldn’t have been Avé… surely, his big personality took up too much space to be forgotten. He could go even bigger, just to be sure. Something to consider.
“Those b*******!” Po pounded his fist on his knee. “Did you find them yet? Get vengeance?” “Not yet.” Anzan appreciated Po's fiery intensity, despite it being a rather juvenile display. “I stuck around the temple long enough to bury my brethren – a week or so – and left shortly afterwards. As the sole survivor, I couldn’t bear to stay any longer.” Anzan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, and pointed a finger at the Storm brothers. “I was only travelling for a week before I met you two.”
Derivine caught himself on the edge of a coffin that lay ajar on the ground. A rotting, boney hand shot out, clutched his wrist, and yanked his arm into the dark opening. Derivine’s head smacked the coffin’s cover. “Nnnggg…” He blinked a few times, the room spinning. No time for pride now. “Heeelp!” He could barely make out three of his companions come to his aid. They fended off some swarming mummies, but couldn't free Derivine. He jerked back and forth as a mummy and the boney hand fought over him in a painfully vigorous game of tug-of-war. “It’s time to end this,” Kiraman said defiantly. “Libra! Bring down your judgment!” Derivine couldn’t tell where Kiraman was, but there was the crunch of a massive hammer smashing bone. Strange, considering Kiraman wielded a sword. Whatever had happened, it brought Derivine no relief. Come on guys, what's taking so long? Perhaps Derivine had entrusted his life to the wrong people. Derivine’s vision faded to black, and he strained to stay awake. Awareness came in short spurts between jolts of shoulder pain. Tug… Yank… So this is it. This is how it ends. Wood split and splintered nearby. Yank… Pull… Jerk… What a charming place to go out, he thought, half-ironically.
Kiraman wrested his bracers off and tossed them on the ground next to his helmet with a clatter. He rubbed his wrists to dry the film of sweat that had formed underneath the armor. When at last he had tediously removed his chest plate, what was left was his sweat-stained white shirt and armored leggings. He relaxed his whole body at once and crashed to the ground, then gently laid his head on the metal chest piece. Kiraman stared up at the bright blue midday sky and watched clouds go by. He could see mountain peaks poking out between the rooftops in his peripheral vision. Something about the view reminded him of his hometown, Ortvist, and he wanted to freeze in this moment. It was the first time since he left home a week prior that he had thought of Ortvist, and it was his first time feeling homesick. He had never been more than a few miles from his house before. Now, an entire mountain range separated him and everything he had ever known. His mind wandered with thoughts of what his family, friends, and mentor might be doing on their side of the mountains at this very moment.