From: alden@coos.dartmouth.edu (Laurie F. Alden)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: [Mista]/[L] A Mother's Rage
Date: 19 Nov 92 18:52:08 GMT
Organization: Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH

A dozen mugs and two pitchers for the seventh corner crowd - one of
  Catamount Gold, one of Amber - and Serene was ready to take the order
  from the mystics' table.  She passed close by the stranger sipping his
  Canterbury Dust Mite and Mista fussed again, this time with a healthy
  cry.

  "Ill tempered whelp you have there Miss.  Perhaps it needs a proper
  nap.  A bar is no place for a child Miss, take it from one who knows."
  The stranger said followed by a dry humorless laugh.

  Serene ignored the comment and went on a search for more pleasant
  patrons to serve.

  Suddenly the chaos erupted outside the Inn, and patrons rushed to the
  Inn's defense.  The barmaid set down her burden and scurried to the
  ktichen.  "Fight outside, Mary," she informed her friend, "Seems
  serious.  Shall I start the coffee?"  Already she had washed her hands
  and was drying them on her apron.  Luthor had suggeted calling the fog
  as protection, but first to set things in motion here.

  "Frist thing you do, girl, you get that baby safe out of the way.
  Cradle her, then you won't have to worry."  Mary scolded even as she
  began the preparations for battle-support (fist-sized loaves of cheese
  bread, tapping cold kegs of apple juice).

  Serene wrapped her arms around her little girl.  Mista was not
  comfortable, and would only become more upset by the shouting and
  hurrying.  Clucking to her beloved daughter, Serene returned to the
  passageway between bar and barroom and tugged open the liquor cabinet.

  When Rowan Littlefair built the Dragon's Inn, he knew well what he was
  about.  His furniture was simple and sturdy, his ceilings were high
  enough to accomodate strange guests, and his liquor cabinets were built
  into the structure of thick, aged oak.  No matter how rough the brawls
  had been, those cabinets had weathered them with no chance of toppling
  or damage.  When Mista became a part of the Dragon's Inn family, it was
  the natural place to put her cradle.  Good ventilation, solid
  protection, and a position near both the bar and the kitchen made it an
  ideal spot to stow her safely during brawls.

  The Dalhasan liqueurs had been moved to another shelf in order to
  accomodate Mista's cradle.  Lovingly carved by Littlefair during
  Serene's pregnancy, it was as sturdy and solidly anchored as any of his
  craftsmanship.  Serene gently laid her baby in the nest of blankets in
  her cradle, grateful for the cozy place.

  Too quickly did the short-tempered stranger push aside his Canterbury
  Dust Mite and rise.  Serene caught the unexpected movement with all the
  perception honed by life with her sister.  Unpredictable movement could
  easily spell danger in those days and now - and Serene gathered herself,
  lowering her center, ready to avert disaster.

  His studied smile turned to a snarl and his handsome features contorted
  with hatred and rage.  With singleminded drive he advanced to push past
  the woman and get the screeching brat, now out of the protective circle
  of the woman's energy.

  Perceive.  Predict.  Blend.  Direct.  Serene gathered herself and talked
  herself through the motions, consciously fighting rage, calling up the
  habits which had allowed her to keep her sister safe - and others safe
  from her.  Her baby was his target!  All his focus was on the cabinet
  door, none on her, the throw was utterly unexpected, he crashed against
  the passageway wall, dazed.

  She knew she would have but little time to press her advantage and
  sprung on him, grasping his arm and his neck in the place where she
  would...  No!  No response to the pressure - his body was not human.  He
  shrugged her off with a roar and spun to face her.  She felt the rage
  directed at her and allowed it to come, rolled backward, dragging the
  impact with her, moving the fight back to the barroom, pulling him
  headfirst into a table.

  Blood, too dark and slow, trickled from his mouth.  That scrawny bitch,
  how could she toss him around, nearly twice her weight?  He advanced
  with murder in his eyes.  She prepared, looked for backup - but all had
  rushed out to the battle outside and only a few endless seconds had
  elapsed.  If only she could find it - where the hell was his center of
  moment?

  She found it, suddenly, as he took advantage of his superior reach and
  mass.  She had reached for his shoulders and found them useless.  He
  slammed her, racking her head on the corner of the passageway.  Serene
  slumped, dazed, concussed, to the floor.

  Dodging the spells and Littlefair's crossbow bolt, he cast, energy
  flickered, only a stench remained of him - and of Mista.

  Oblivious to sight and sound, Serene was wrenched by the loss of her
  baby's spiritual nearness.  Primal howls of grief wracked her
  barely-conscious body.  Littlefair reached her, clutched her, bent his
  head in brief prayer for his small friend's heart and health - and for
  the bairn who was surely in mortal danger.
--
lfa@dartmouth.edu                      |There's a little bit of dog hair
Stat Consultant - Dartmouth College    |in everything we do.
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