Dead was dead. Sort of. But not always. Not even all that often, come to think of it.
Niami Denmother tried to gather her scattered thoughts as she stared at the green latticework above her, squinting until it finally resolved into a tree at the top of the ramp leading to Highpass Hold.
Feh. That last giant skeleton had proven too much for her, and her spirit had "temporarily dissassociated itself from her body." Hogwash. She'd died, plain and simple. But the gods had seen fit, once again, to let her try to learn from her mistakes.
With a weary sigh, her bare feet flapping against the hard-packed trail, Niami began the long scamper back to her body, pondering death and life in Norrath.
Not everyone who died came back to life. Sometimes souls were unable, or unwilling, to return to the mortal shell from which they'd been evicted. While this may have been a good thing with respect to population control, there were an awful lot of souls running around out there nekkid as they day they were born, scrambling to reunite with all their mortal baggage. Herself included, it would seem.
Clerics who found enough favor with their gods could intercede on the soul's behalf, shortening the trip back to the corpse, as well as blunting some of the painful lessons meted out by the gods upon the person's death. Niami had giggled when she'd overheard a cleric of Rodcet Nife pontificating once upon the fact that "clerics should approach a revive with the proper dignity and reverence that befits a representative of one's god."
Now, with a long run ahead of her, she thought more deeply on how one such as herself should approach such an event. And as she scampered through the Karanas, her cackles of glee could be heard rolling across the plains as she struck upon the perfect idea.
About a week later, she finally felt she'd exacted sufficient revenge upon the giant skeletons who'd sent her soul precipitously fleeing from her body. Since it had taken 3 at once to bring her down, she retaliated by turning 30 of them into tiny piles of dust and fragmented bone chips. She'd just found a quiet corner in which to rest when she heard an anguished scream, then a barbed bone monk's cackle of victory. Scampering forward, she whacked it on the kneecaps a few times to trim it down to size, then called down some holy wrath upon it. That task complete, she turned her attention to the still-warm corpse of a young barbarian warrior. "Och! Puir lad." A quick check with the Voidservants found that the fellow's soul was in Halas, while his corpse was down here in the mountains of Rathe.
"Puir lad indeed. That be a long run, e'en wi' such long legs. I wish I could shorten th' trip frae him."
"But you can, little one." She heard the familiar hearty laughter in her head, then silence.
"Och! Bristlebane! Do nae do that tae a wee lass! Ye fain startled me oot o' me new boots!" She shook her finger at empty air a moment, then paused. "I can?"
Only silence answered her.
"Proper dignity an' reverence me furry toes! Let's see how ye like this one, oh mischevious creator o' wee halflings!"
She pulled a griffon feather from her backpack as she circled thoughtfully around the corpse, eyeing it from several angles. She muttered to herself as she pondered, "Other clerics get rules an' guidelines. What do I get? Brief messages that gi' me nae clue as how tae start, but startle me silly. Now, how shall I ... ? O' course! Th' kneecaps. Must be th' kneecaps frae this first one."
With a cackle, she dove for the kneecaps, wielding her griffon feather to devastating effect. She drew upon her impressive will, and threw it through the feather and into the body. "In th' name o' Bristlebane, god o' Mischief, get yuirself up an' laughing again." She continued to tickle a few more moments, brown eyes watching carefully for signs of life. Mystical energies had been released, she could feel them all about her, and a corresponding drain on her magical resources, but nothing was happening. Determinedly, she pulled off a boot, ignoring the ripe odor, dragging her feather along the arch of his bare foot. "Come on, lad, get up, afore I have tae tickle ye some more!"
Suddenly, the foot, and the attached leg, was pulled out of her reach as the former corpse drew up into a fetal position, laughing. "No! Ha ha. No more. Hee hee. Please! Stop. Oooohhh!"
With a tired giggle, Niami plopped to the ground beside the fellow. "Ye hae jus' been tickled back tae life by a priestess o' Mischief. Go forth an' laugh some more. ... An' please ... air out those boots o' yuirs!"
Grinning, she accepted his thanks, even while she was mentally planning new things to try on her next tickle-revive, ... and adding a mental note to never remove a warrior's boots again unless the situation was dire!
Created: 2007-07-10 01:59:21
Last Modified By: Niami Denmother
Last Modified on: 2007-07-10 01:59:21
© 2003-17 Niami Denmother.
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