Greenor's Manor Part Two

[Here continues the story of a bag of holding known as Cordelia, attempting to stay alive and sane as she is dragged along for the intended looting of a wizard’s residence.]

The sharp glass shards whiz back through the broken window toward us, and I brace for impact, trying to put as much of Iago as I can between myself and the razor-edged chips of pain. The others tense also, but to my surprise at least, the fragments of glass hone in on Vlad and pelt him largely. He staggers back with a cry as blood speckles through the air, and then the shards fall to the ground with a crystalline clatter. Vlad, wincing and cringing, begins to remove any bits of glass that had embedded themselves in his flesh. Most of the others stare at him, but Iago unexpectedly and rather forcefully shoves his fist inside of me. He gropes around in his impatient way, and a sickening spreads through my threads.

Before I suffer an unpleasant involuntary action all over Iago’s shudder-worthy crotch, he yanks his fist back sharply, fingers clutching onto a small vial, filled with a healing potion. He hands this to Vlad, who finishes plucking the glass shards out of his skin like he were a twitchy chicken before downing it. Slowly, his wounds heal over.

The others approach the window, led by Iago. They peer out the window as if worried some other force would assault them as suddenly as the glass shards had zinged back at Vlad, but all that can be seen through the window is a very damaged chair, lying pathetically on the hard ground of the courtyard.

Taking this as a sign of safety, Iago clambers out the window and, after a moment, the others follow.

The courtyard itself is rather dull and large, extending toward the far wall where a door indicates an entrance, but completely devoid of anything else. I assume Greenor must think empty or near-empty areas are simply one large joke. At the far end of the courtyard, near the door, several dozen weapons of various sizes and styles zip about in midair, buzzing faintly.

“There,” says François, pointing. “That door.”

The assortment of swords and daggers turns and swims through the air toward our group as though just noticing us. The group scatters, the assassin, Sylvia, and François falling back to the wall, Vlad and Iago bolting to the side. I am jostled along, staring up at the quivering weapons, which now are zipping through the air where we were just moments ago. They seem confused for swords and daggers, sweeping back and forth as though trying to sniff us out.

Iago exchanges a look with Vlad, then glances over at the others. Then, before I can do a thing to stop the idiot, he shouts, “Run for it!”

“Right,” says Vlad in agreement, and dashes toward the door while Iago drops to the ground. I am surprised at his brief surge of intelligence, but he is clearly still a bastard—the weapons fly through the air above us, targeting Vlad.

Safe for the moment, the bastard jumps up and dashes toward the door. The assassin, Sylvia, and François make their way silently along the wall to the far door while Vlad staggers along, battling the flying blades as he goes.

We reach the door and clumsily filter through to the other side, Vlad stumbling through last, weapons thudding into the wooden door behind him.

The group turns around to somewhat of a sudden peaceful scene. A green, well-maintained lawn slopes lazily down to a river that sparkles cheerily with the reflection of sunlight. A short distance away, a simple wooden bridge links our side to the far one, and another wall with a door can be seen beyond. They freeze, taking in the scene. I freeze, too, waiting for them to befoul the scenery.

Iago takes the lead and we proceed down the slope awkwardly. After the animate weapons, everyone seems to be eager for conflict.

And then they begin to rise from the water, and my drawstings tighten in shock and disgust. The members of the group ready their weapons as Iago gawks at the figures emerging from the river. They are fishlike, humanoid, but warped in a disturbing way, like they are some kind of twisted cross between a fish and a human. I shrink back as Iago moves forward toward the nearest one and opens his despicable mouth.

“Good day,” says Iago in his slimmest voice, moving toward the bridge. “You won’t mind letting us pass, I’m sure—Greenor sent us, you know.”

The creatures, the merfishmen, do not seem to acknowledge his words. Several of them blink oddly at Iago, and more clamber out of the river, silently surrounding us in a smelly, fishy horde. Iago hesitates for a moment, mutters, “ah, fuck it,” and dashes for the bridge. He can at least run faster than an overwhelming amount of fish people.

I bounce along at his side, and we clear the bridge and approach the door. The merfishmen have already forgotten us, instead focusing on the others, surrounding them with scaly limbs and bulbous eyes. I watch as the others carve their way through them, hacking and stabbing, slowly proceeding toward the bridge. The creatures offer up no resistance, only crowd around, waiting to be dropped. The bastard is clearly bored with all of this—he shuffles back and forth impatiently.

Finally Vlad, François, Sylvia, and the assassin cut their way through the horde of fishy bodies, stumble across the bridge, and come to a halt near Iago. The bastard stares largely at Sylvia, then points to the door. She steps forward, rolling her eyes, and proceeds to look the door over for traps. This takes longer than Iago cares for, and he crosses his arms and leans over her as she works, as though his grotesque stare could hurry the process along.



The door opens and we enter into a long, dark, enclosed space—a corridor of some sort. The door swings shut behind us and even Iago is still as we attempt to adjust to our new surroundings. Someone invades my bubble of personal space in the dark and brushes up against me, and I wish I had teeth to bite them.

And then, emerging out of the silence is the curious noise of something or things being launched, forcefully, from in front of us. The assassin breaks silence to mutter something about shurikens and then orders us all to the left. I find myself relieved when Iago actually follows the advice, and the sound of something, perhaps two somethings, sharp, metallic, and deadly coming to rest brutally in the door behind us echoes down the corridor back the way the objects came.

We move forward then, cautiously in the dark, the assassin directing us as we go—right, then middle, then duck, then left and duck…The corridor is long, and we seem to be having difficulties making progress. As we near the source of the bits of flying death we have less reaction time, and the patterns become more difficult. Every fiber for my baggy body is tense, expecting at any moment to be torn to shreds. And then we are told to duck and jump at once.

Iago apparently can force himself to be coordinated when necessary, but as we land a cry of pain cuts through the air. François. Jumping was too difficult a task for the silly idiot, and he is lying on his back in a pool of blood, legs completely parted from the rest of him.

“She said jump,” says Iago as he shoves his fist suddenly and disturbingly deep within my folds. I feel near to passing out but manage to hold on somehow, concentrating on Vlad while Iago attempts to fix François with a potent healing potion.

Vlad jerks ahead, seeing the end of the corridor is close, and runs up to one of two mechanisms. With a mighty bit of strength, he jams the bit that flings the weapons back in on itself. He then disappears through a door, likely to attempt to locate and break the device from behind. The others move through the door too, and Iago, in an uncharacteristic move, helps the mage to his newly attached feet. As we exit the door, François last, the mechanism fires one last time. The broken part of the device shatters the shuriken, peppering the poor fool François with sharp bits of metal.

He staggers through the door. Iago reaches inside me again, causing me to shudder, and brings forth two healing potions. He hands one to François and then backs away, leaning to the side to hide himself from view as he drinks the other. The bastard must like how they taste.

Vlad returns, and the group proceeds forward, stopping at the far door of this room to peer into a barrel like thoughtless kittens. Iago lets out a cry of triumph and snatches up the contents before anyone else can. Wanting to keep his prize—an immovable rod—to himself he immediately reaches for me and thrusts the rod violently inside me, no concern for how rough he is on my tender fabric.

I hate him.

We proceed through the door to find a room containing nothing more than a pit. At this point I think I can safely assume Greenor must live solely within the confines of one room; all others in this place are entirely for his twisted amusement.

The group determines Iago’s collection of immovable rods should do the trick, and I decide it’s not enough just to hate the bastard. The rods are horrifically obtained and awkwardly used, then horrendously hidden away again. We are on the other side of the pit and on our way.

The next door opens up to a staircase and another corridor. I hope with all my might that they will continue up the staircase and end this madness as quickly as possible.

“Well?” asks Vlad. “Do we go up?”

“There might be some interesting things to loot on this level yet,” says Sylvia, her eyes darting off down the corridor. Her fingers twitch with eagerness.

“I agree,” says Iago, and I groan. “We shouldn’t pass this up. And we can return here when we’re done.”

Two votes for presumable loot and the group is hooked. I dangle helplessly as we pass by the stairs and continue down the corridor to where it ends in two doors. Vlad chooses the door to the right and we proceed.

The door opens into a room with a deep, rectangular pit in it resembling a pool. It appears empty. The group approaches, curious, and François produces a pebble from his pocket. He holds it above the pool and releases it; it plummets only a short distance before encountering a kind of gelatinous resistance, then is slowly sucked in.

The group exchanges glances.

“The other door, then?” asks Vlad. The others agree. I sigh, somewhat pleased they didn’t try anything idiotic.

The second door leads to a small, completely empty room. At the far end is an entryway into a familiar-looking room...Iago shuts the door.

A gusty wind whips out of nowhere and batters the group. François is immediately caught up and pushed backward through the entryway and into the room beyond, where he begins dancing like mad. The others have enough sense to attempt to make it back to the door, but one by one they are driven back. The assassin is pushed backward into the room, and then the bastard, arms flailing dramatically, me at his side.

This dance floor seems stronger than the last; even I cannot fight back the urge, and as the bastard jerks about, I am compelled to swing on my drawstrings rhythmically. The assassin is not an awful dancer, but clearly François’ legs did not reattach themselves well, for every time he moves he looks about ready to fall flat on his face. Even Vlad is almost at the dance floor by now.

The wind stops suddenly, and, through a haze of dance moves, Sylvia approaches, rope in hand. She had made it to the door and re-opened it; thankfully Greenor had not been clever enough to set a safeguard that would negate such a simple solution. Vlad assists and we are pulled from the room, dancing. Iago is panting.

“So,” says Vlad. “The staircase then?”

“Fuck, yeah,” says Iago, sounding vaguely annoyed.

We proceed. I try to think of inventive curses to wish upon the group as we retrace our steps. I could strangle them all with my drawstrings for taking such a pointless, time-wasting detour.

The stairs loom upward, shrouded in darkness. Whatever is at the top casts no light, and the group is silent for a moment, hesitating perhaps, as if taking one last collective breath before continuing onward into whatever may come.

The darkness waits patiently for us.

Greenor's Manor Part One

[Here follows the tale of one Cordelia, a bag of holding in the midst of a group of unlikely thieves bent on successfully looting a mighty wizard’s manor.]

Ugh, here we are, standing in front of this stupid wall like a bunch of confused rats. If I had eyes, I’d be rolling them now. Honestly. I’ve never been with a more horrendous, idiotic, bumbling group of dunces in all my days, and I’ve had a few. I call myself Cordelia, which suits me more than any name any of my owners has given me—particularly my current one. He tends to refer to me as, “that damn thing,” which I think marks his level of intelligence fairly accurately. I’ve known trees with better personality than this jerk. Iago, he calls himself, although, “the bastard” is probably more accurate.

His companions seem to tolerate him well—idiots, all of them. We’ll stand in front of this wall for a precious long time as they make a simple decision, but I’m sure we’ll be back. And if we’re here until this damn wall crumbles in a fit of decaying magic, I won’t be surprised. My life’s been cursed since Iago’s laid his grubby hands on me.

“So, whaddya think?” asks the bastard now, staring past the wall and up to the impressive manor looming beyond.

“Eh, I dunno,” says Vlad, a tall, distinct fighter. “I already have a bit of gold. Want to go to the pub and get a drink instead?”

“But this,” says Sylvia, “this is Greenor’s Manor. Not only spoken of as the greatest horde of treasure in these parts, but famed for being exceedingly difficult to navigate through and return alive.” She wrings her nimble, thieving hands, an eager glare in her eyes. “If we do this, we’ll all return with both wondrous valuables and fame.”

François, the mage-thief, is standing with a strange expression on his face.

“The tales are not to be scoffed at. It is excruciatingly dangerous to enter here. This wall alone, for example—if we so much as touch it, a loud bell-like noise will sound, and won’t cease until whomever has touched it has died. Most who’ve tried don’t get far past this barrier.”

Iago starts cackling like the deranged madman he is. All eyes turn on him, including those of the assassin, who does not speak much. Including her, their group numbers five—five fools proceeding foolishly forward.

Iago shoves his disgusting, lumpy fist deep inside me and I shudder. Such violations…I can only hope he dies soon and leaves me to a better owner…but I rather doubt that given the current situation…He pulls out two immovable rods and brandishes them with triumph.

“We’ll get over the wall with these.”

The assassin nods and everyone else murmurs agreement, apart from me—but no one ever listens to sense, anyway. Without further conversation, Iago uses the rods to climb through the air over the wall like a shaky monkey. I feel nauseous, but it’s not the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last.

Once over, Iago hesitates. One of his companions shouts, “throw them over!” but the jerk still remains motionless. He never likes to part with his precious crap.

Finally he tosses his immovable rods over the wall and the rest of the group crosses, one at a time, with the exception of François, who is carried across last by Vlad. Iago snatches his rods back, and the group glances at each other before proceeding up the sloping lawn toward the manor. They hesitate at the door before Sylvia breaks away, calling back to the others about scouting the perimeter.

Iago examines the door, and the others examine the windows and walls. Sylvia returns, explaining that the perimeter is a rather large rectangle.

Kill me now.

Iago has the bright idea to open the door and enter, clearly without a thought for my safety. The others follow him and the door swings shut.

We are in a long room full of tapestries, each portraying a man who obviously thinks he’s the greatest wizard that ever existed. Pose after pose of Greenor boldly stretched on tapestries urges the group toward the door at the far end of the room. The assassin lingers to peer behind a few of the most vomit-worthy wall hangings before following.

This door, like the last, closes behind our group. On the far wall, a band of musical notes dips and flows around, more likely affixed there by magic than painted. A pedestal in the middle of the room is lit in an intimidating light, and the group proceeds toward it.

They huddle in front of it, Iago pressing eagerly forward, and bashes me against the pedestal sharply in his need to get to whatever might possibly be worth getting to. I pass out from the blow, and come to hearing the lot of them mumbling dimly about whatever it was they had read on the pedestal, apparently a riddle of some sort. Iago and Sylvia’s voices are louder, quicker—they’ve decided they’ve worked out the mystery of the pedestal.

Both of them dash forward like hungry children, but it is Sylvia who reaches the far wall first and extends her hand toward the note representing B sharp. The note slides inward like a button, and a door opens to the left.

Beyond the door is a long hallway. The group peers down it suspiciously, and I sigh a baggy sigh. Sylvia steps forward for better examination, then steps back.

“Traps,” she says.

“Can you disarm them?” asks François.

“Of course.”

She proceeds, slowly, while the others hang back. Well, the others, apart from Iago—the bastard’s bouncing from foot to foot so eagerly that it is all I can do to keep down my inner contents. Finally she steps back, dusts off her nimble hands, and mutters, “there!”

Iago clearly needs no further encouragement, for he bolts forward like an arrow from a bow, me bouncing along beside him, clenching my threads in fear. The remainder of the group hangs back in the doorway and watches Iago’s mindless dash.

From behind us there is a large, dull thud that shakes through the floor and the walls, echoing menacingly toward us before fading away to a steady, gravelling rolling sound. My drawstrings are on end with fear as Iago turns to look behind him.

Rumbling down the corridor behind us, gathering speed, is a massive boulder, obviously the sort quite capable of squashing a handful of Iagos. For a brief moment I hope, then realize I too would be flattened, and urge Iago on by bopping more forcefully against his disgusting thigh.

He turns back around and dashes doubly fast down the hallway, me hanging along at his side. As he bolts and I bounce outward for a moment, I catch a glimpse of François stepping forward, gaze set on the boulder. I continue to watch in brief, unsteady glimpses, as the boulder begins to shrink, slowly.

The end of the hallway approaches, and it is apparent there are three doors waiting for us, one on the left wall, one on the right wall, and one directly in our path. Iago, of course, dashes right to the door directly in front of us, yanks it open, and spills into the room beyond.

Our mad dash ceases abruptly; the boulder, now reduced to the size of a grapefruit, rolls in behind us and comes to rest several steps away. Iago starts shuffling about like he’s attached to strings some invisible hand is pulling, and I bop about in tow, wondering how long it will take before I completely lose my sanity altogether.

Several heads peek through the doorway and stare; apparently the corridor is now clear.

“What are you doing?” asks Vlad.

“I can’t stop this damn dancing,” says Iago. “Fuck!”

The assassin throws a rope his way and Iago dances toward it, picking up the tiny boulder as he goes. I brace myself—there is only one place he plans to shove it. I choke down a small boulder, fist and all, before Iago removes his hand and grasps the rope. We are pulled in from the smooth dance floor and Iago’s feet quiet over the threshold.

The group exchanges glances, the bastard’s smeared with a vague silliness. The other two doors are examined. The one to the right appears to lead to a courtyard; the one to the left, to a room with a chair. And like the greedy fools they are, they steer toward the left. Sylvia checks the door for traps and the group proceeds.


We dump into a warm, dark room with paneled walls and wooden flooring. A cushioned chair sits in front of an empty fireplace with a common-looking clock perched on the mantle. Opposite is a window looking out on the courtyard, and on the far end of the room is another door.

The group splits up and sets upon the room like deranged, ravenous wolves, seeking treasure. There is a chair and a clock in here. I can’t understand them. Iago bounces about, his low attention span taking in various parts of the room bit by bit. The assassin examines the fireplace while Vlad stares out the window, and François and Sylvia engross themselves in the nature of the chair.

When I am questioning myself for the fifty-second time why they are so thick, they decide to proceed to the far door and open it. We enter into a warm, dark room, also with paneled walls, wooden flooring, a fireplace, a window, a cushioned chair, a clock…

The group sets to their monotonous task. If I could get my drawstrings close enough, I swear I’d strangle the lot of them, starting with the fool Iago. I can hardly believe I have to endure this madness…

After finishing their most thorough examination of the room, the group approaches the far door and enters boldly into…another room identical to the last. I sigh loudly and hope the others think it is Iago breaking wind again. They set into their tasks, examining the room, and I doze off.

When I awake I notice we are still in the room, although I don’t know how far we’ve progressed. The bipeds seem to be catching on—at least, they are all standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, asking each other in annoyed mumbles what to do. François, a particularly irritated expression on his face, parts from the group and grabs the clock off the mantle, attempting to secret it away on his person while the assassin approaches the door that the group came in from and opens it.

Iago bounds over to the far door and does the same. A small performance ensues while various people walk through the doors, randomly opening and shutting them in attempts to solve the mystery of the repeating room, but no solution is to be had. They rejoin in the center of the room, Vlad red with anger and frustration. François frowns thoughtfully at the chair.

“I have an idea,” he says. “You see that chair?”

“Fuck it,” snaps Vlad, and all eyes stare at him. The assassin raises an eyebrow. Iago seems amused, even eager, perhaps. Disgusting bastard.

Vlad makes a noise of annoyance in his throat and grabs the chair. As one, each member of the group steps back. How they can manage to do this when they have troubles with everything else, I cannot understand.

Turning toward the window, Vlad takes a step and hurls the chair with the force of a very strong, very angry person. It sails through the air and through the glass, landing in the courtyard outside.

Hardly has anyone taken a breath when the shards outside fly upward, hissing a path through the air back at us with all the force Vlad had put into the window’s destruction.

Post of Enlightening Introduction

Loosen your drawstrings and take a load off for the introduction of the introduction. I am the Old Bag, here to give you a decent explanation of the goings-on of this place. Laugh at me if you must, but I have carried many a load in my days, and have heard many an unsung story. And without further ado, the introduction.

When tales are told by the heroes, much is overstated--ask any bag of holding you come across, and you will be assured this is sheer, unblemished, unsoiled truth. Like a fisherman boasting a catch which progressively grows more impressive, adventurers have this way about them which shines the facts up and leaves a polished, gleaming result that sugars over the reality of the events--long plodding is severely reduced, fights become even more glamorous, members of the group gain vast expanses of intelligence, and insects evaporate into nothingness.

Any bag of holding of moderate character will swear by its bottom threads that these gilded tales are not as wondrous as they seem to be. From their unnoticed perspective, they can take in the natural flow of events--pure fact, unclouded in the boastful recollections of those vying for a spot of glorious worship. They endure whatever their owners wish to stuff them full of, and live with the knowledge of all that is done.

And thus, tales straight from the openings of ordinary bags of holding are able to show a fascinating, fresh, new perspective on the actions and events of a typical adventuring party. Members are portrayed in the raw, their actions told as experienced by the bags, who do not discriminate but merely relate the truth of events, incidents, and ingenuity.

Truly, then, these bags of holding are scuffed-up gems lurking, waiting, amassing stories that must be free. And here, I, the Old Bag, have collected a few of these tales in a place where I might show them to you, that you might receive a new understanding of our lot in life, and might appreciate recollections unfettered by flattering auras of golden glory, speckled all around with the guts of foes.

Enjoy.

-The Old Bag