From: andsol@is.rice.edu (Andrew J. Solberg)
Subject: [KQ]: Kron [ScrRam] One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying......
Organization: Rice University
Date: Fri, 24 Jul 1992 07:15:10 GMT

Moriarty sees Verdigren go ballistic and just about has an orgasm.  "Finally!"
he mutters to himself.  "A chance to even the score with 'Stumpy' and get the
hell out of here!"  He starts a Shavanvaran Chant (Elder Rune; Ritual of One
Thousand Passes and a Pass) and throws a little blue powder on his miniature
brazier.  In a few moments, the Dread Reaver is conjured fully from its plane
of imprisonment.  It ooches across the floor and keens at Kron, who boggles
at the unearthly beast.  "And now....round two...." mumbles Moriarty, and
with a pinch of black dust starts up a Forbidden Abjuration of al-Qaman.
"Hmmmm.......Scissormen, I think......"

Moriarty's concentration reaches out across the multiverse and finds two of
his intented target.  As his arcane skills pull them through the fabric of
reality to Generica, a wisp of smoke begins to seep from the brazier.  The
wisps start to shape themselves into vaguely human shapes.  "Good," breathes
Moriarty between clenched teeth, and concentrates on forcing their entire
existences into the Scrappy Ram.....

WHOOOSH!  The brazier is suddenly swept up off Moriarty's table.  An invisible
force whisks the burner into the air and upends the fuel on the floor.  "HEY!"
shouts Moriarty, running out into the barroom to grab his brazier.  He picks
it up off the ground and dusts it off.  He looks up and notices that he has
attracted the attentions of several of the heroes.  "Oh dear......"

Meanwhile, the Servant of ...sage is saying much the same thing.  It would
appear that the partially-formed summonations have a desire to form themselves,
and they mist after the servant while solidifying.  The servant flees out into
the street, but the Scissormen follow.  Outside, they form completely.  They
are featureless humanoids in black and red; instead of hands they have two
razor-sharp yard-long scissors.  They advance on the servant:

"Transition redundant corpuscle spam." <snip-snip> <snip-snip>
"Singular irreverant Colloquia.  Burlesque!" <snip-snip>

Servant backs away.  It knows that its insubstantial state is no defense against
the blades of Scissormen.  "Warning: termination imminent.  Activate destruct
mode.  Release sentient fragment."

"Pangolin!  Sartorial Numerals!" <snikt>
"NUMERALS!!" <snippety snippety sn...........

THERE IS A VERY LOUD EXPLOSION.

*******************************************************************************

Inside:  Kron squares off against a ten-foot-tall oozing mass of grey slime,
topped with a big red eyeball.  "Ecccchhhh," he comments.

It looks pretty slow, so Kron decides a forward assault might not be a bad
idea.  "Hah!"  he shouts and sinks his short sword deep into the creature's
midsection.

The Dread Reaver cants its eyeball downward and glances at Kron, then at the
sword, then at Kron again.  It does not appear fazed.  Kron favors it with a
sheepish glance: "Mebbe not."

WHAP!! A two-yard-long pseudopod snakes out of the Reaver's body and lumps
Kron on the head.  The force of the blow knocks him to the floor, where he
shakes his head to clear the cobwebs.  The Reaver rushes forward, intent
on rolling over and enveloping the warrior.

A rather long time ago, Dread Reavers were almost common in this part of the
Known Lands.  Mindless and savage, with an insatiable lust for the blood that
is its only diet, the Reavers preyed upon a far less advanced version of human-
kind, and had no predators to thin their numbers.  Some were captured by the
members of the Ancient Race that ruled Generica before the Pinnacle of Man;
they made excellent pets and guards for the Old Ones.  The less you know about
them, the better.

Kron has rolled over on his back and sees the Reaver flow forward toward him,
emitting its high keening wail.  Looking up, he can see the glare of the red
eye peering down at him.  Kron flips backward onto his feet and backs off
from the creature; his superior mobility has saved his neck.  It's about the
only edge he has, though -- it's bigger, stronger and meaner than he is.  And
those pseudopods are tricky.

Kron's attention is drawn to the single eye.  He pulls one of his throwing 
daggers and flicks it at the organ.  It seems to be attached to the end of
a dextrous stalk, however, for the Reaver easily pulls the eye out of the
dagger's path.  How to take that eye out?  Hmmm.......

Looking around, Kron spots a candle-lighter.  This implement, known to
churchboys around the world, is a long pole with a lighting wick on the
end; it is used to light the candles that are too high to reach.
More importantly, the back of the wick has a small cup used to snuff out
said candles upon closing time.  The cup looks large enough to accommodate
the eye.  Kron dashes across the room and grabs the implement as the Dread
Reaver shrieks and gurgles forward.

Using the cup, Kron belabors the Reaver's eye from a distance.  The
monster makes annoyed meeping noises as it tries to withdraw its eye
entirely into its body to avoid the anoying tool.  Soon the eye is entirely
hidden from view.  Now Kron make his move.

Leaping onto the nearest table, Kron pulls his sword and does his best
Air Jordan impression toward the Dread Reaver.  The difference, of course,
is that at the end instead of stuffing a ball in a hoop, Kron jams his
sword down into the Reaver's top where the eye had withdrawn.

Other than a brief spark of light, there is no ceremony.  The body of the
Reaver collapses like a shirt falling off a hanger.  It falls into a 
noisome puddle and promptly starts to evaporate.  Meanwhile, Kron lands
badly and twists an ankle.  "Ow," he says, and sits down on the floor.

Abruptly, a brown-robed little man darts from an alcove and picks up a
brazier that was lying on the floor.  Kron stares at him quizzically.
"Oh dear....." says the stranger.  Kron frowns.

"So just who in the Nine Hells is *that* joker?! Ow......"
-- 
Andrew Solberg          |"If I were your wife I'd poison your tea!" 
Undying University Mooch|              Anon. Outraged British Woman
andsol@owlnet.rice.edu  |"And if I were your husband I'd drink it!"
Phone:713-529-8627      |              Winston Churchill

			
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