Hare Today — Gone Tomorrow

 

Hare Today — Gone Tomorrow
By Michael S. Webster

Planting 13, 576 CY — Night

The door shuddered once then fell beneath the blow of Irving’s “St Cuthbert’s Lockpick”.

Dog and Kern ran in followed by Irving.

Dog and Kern stood still, eliciting only a simple “Oh!”.

Irving, looking down as he carefully stepped over the fallen door.

“My apologies at the abrupt entrance, my lady…”

Dainty, bare feet were followed by shapely legs as Irving’s gaze moved up. A lovely torso supported a graceful neck and an exquisite face.

Irving could see in his peripheral vision Dog and Kern looking away, hiding their eyes.

Her gaze locked onto Irving’s as he noted the crown of writhing snakes upon her head.

His eyes widened as he felt his body stiffen, but not from fear.

The transformation started slowly, but rapidly encased the paladin in unyielding, unfeeling stone.

Where once Irving had stood was a statue of grey stone.

─── 🐇 ───

The medusa slain, but not without cost. In addition to the fossilization of Irving, Kern had fallen to the venom of the medusa’s serpents. While Terry Or was able to cast a spell of resurrection from a scroll to return Kern to the living, no such remedy existed for Irving.

While the party members embarked on a search for a possible cure, Harvey hopped up to the statue. Lying on the feet, the hare pressed his forehead to the cold stone.

─── 🐇 ───

The fog was thick as Irving walked forward. A shape formed out of the mists. A tall warrior in plate armor walked up to Irving and lay a friendly hand upon his shoulder.

“Fear not,” was all he said before disappearing again into the mists.

Irving turned around, looking to where the figure went. He noted it sounded like one of the previous wielders of the Lesser Mace of St. Cuthbert who were attached to it.

A feminine hand, scarred from battle, appeared on his shoulder.

“It is as it is,” said a strong feminine voice.

“Have I joined you?” Irving asked.

The hand withdrew into the mist.

“Duty continues.”

This voice, bold and commanding in tone, sounded next to him. Irving turned to look and only caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure fading into the mist.

A friendly slap on the back announced the next visitation. Irving turned to see a warrior, a wry grin on his face.

“The way is to be strode.”

Irving was about to speak when a hand grasped his other shoulder. He turned to look but no one was there. A female voice simply said, “Prepare.”

Irving looked back and forth and saw he was alone again in the fog.

Moments later a large man in heavily scarred armor strode forward to stand before Irving. Looking at him up and down, he pointed in a seemingly random direction.

“Ever onward.”

Irving turned to where he pointed and saw nothing. Turning back, he noted the last figure was gone.

Irving took a deep breath, or at least what he thought of as a breath, and walked in the direction indicated.

─── 🐇 ───

Silversun returned the decapitated head of the medusa back into the sack as he noted the goblins had been turned into stone.

“They’ll make fine garden ornaments, I think.”

The party looked at the meager loot gained from the goblins when the sound of metal clanking and leather creaking—the sure sound of someone in heavy armor in motion. They turned and looked at the dark hallway and ready weapons for whatever foe might step out of the darkness.

They were ill-prepared for the sight of what came out of those shadows.

It stood scarcely three feet tall—not counting the ears. It was wearing plate mail armor bearing the symbol of St. Cuthbert upon the breastplate. Where it wasn’t covered, grey fur could be seen.

The great helm upon the head had opening for the ears. The face was concealed.

It carried a familiar mace, albeit smaller than before. It was Irving’s Mace. It was Irving’s armor.

A furry hand reached up to the helm and took it off. A lepusian face looked at them.

It looked like Harvey.

But the eyes… the pale blue, steady, unyielding—were Irving’s.

“Duty continues.”