|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 12:58:30 GMT -5
This is written by a friend of mine Funeris on EnWorld. It is story of an old gaming group of mine. He hasn't finished the full arc of it and it's been dormant (12/24/2008) for some time, thought I would see if you all liked it.
I'll let you guess as to which character was mine.
====================
The following story is a campaign ran by Destan (see the Story Hour Sins of the Fathers and/or his published book "The Valus"). I am the humble translator/writer.
The first chapter is a summary of emails between the players (roughly edited) and the real story begins with Chapter 2 (our first session) as the original characters journey to help the tiny village of Marchford. We've lost characters along the way just as any campaign does. However after the 1st session, we lost 38% of our players. Why, you ask? Well, read and find out.
And if you're here, thanks for giving us your time and attention.
=====================
Chapter 1
The doors to the Wet Boot were thrown open. A male child, no older than eleven, dashes in. As he passes the doors, he pivots, obviously looking for someone, and crashes into
a table.
"Rorik!" An older gentleman in fine garb shouts. "Calm down, boy. What's the meaning of this intrusion?"
"Sir....Edam..." Rorik stands up and rubs a new bump above his brow. "On the.....ridge....there's a....a.....a....."
"Spit it out, boy, for the love of Morduk." Sir Eddam sets his drink down and moves toward the child.
Rorik gulps in a mouthful of air causing him to appear as a fish-out-of-water. "On the ridge....there's a...."
"a.....monster."
************************************************** **********************
It was an unseasonably cold morning for the first day of Gal. A crowd, sprinkled like sores upon the hillside, gathered around the...thing. As many town-folk as there were, there were just as many foreigners.
Stretched upon the grasses was a beast, easily the size of two men. It looks half arachnid and half man. Armored plates, the color of milk, encase its body. A huge tail, as long as it is tall, lies beneath its crumpled form. At the end of the tail is a stinger as fat and
round as a dwarf's head. Its eyes have no lids; black pupils stare blankly upward at the morning sun.
Rorik, an unkempt child, prods the corpse with a stick. Gasps erupt from the crowd but they do not stir the creature. Rorik squats down and grabs a claw. He lifts and grunts, "heavy" before dropping it.
Quite obviously, the corpse has been lying there, beneath sun and moon, for several days. Maybe even weeks. Yet, not one fly buzzes near it. Not a maggot, not a worm. Nothing.
"Don't touch it, Rorik," hisses one of the crowd. The boy stands, now uncertain, and drifts backward to join the others.
A silence, as thick as tar, falls upon the crowd.
"Give way!" the order shatters the momentary silence. A soldier wearing the colors of Rhelm pushes through the crowd, followed by Sir Eddam. They both stare at the foulness soiling the earth.
"So, Rorik, who found it?" Eddam questions.
Rorik begins to answer but is silenced by another man.
"I did." The crowd looks upon the answerer. A bearded man with several varmint traps dangling over his shoulder steps forward. "I thought it best to tell folk down at the Boot."
"I wish ye would'a told me first, Trunt." Eddam sighs. "Has anyone sent for the priest?"
"Brother Nulm was told," a woman replies. "But this morn marks a new month, one that is holy to Galar, his God's enemy. Nulm refuses to leave his church. 'E says 'tis unlucky tidings and that we shouldn't be coming close to it."
"Mayhaps, mayhaps. Has anyone ever seen...something like this?"
Silence is his answer. Eddam turns toward the soldier.
"Captain Wallach, place two of your men here as guard. I don't want no one touchin' it."
The armored soldier nods. "As you wish, mayor."
Eddam rubs his eyes wearily. "Alright, then, this is over. Back to your homes and hearths. All of ye, please. Talk about it as much as you like, but do yer talkin' in the Boot or elsewhere. Not up here on the ridge."
The crowd begins to disperse. Many hesitating, catching one last glimpse of the creature, before heading downward toward Marchford.
************************************************** **********************
That evening there was a town meeting, held within the common room of Marchford's only tavern and inn, the Wet Boot. Sir Eddam, the town's old mayor, stands with his
back to the bar facing the worried countenances of his townspeople.
"Silence." The people answer his request, many take their seats, and soon the only sounds are the crackling logs within the hearth.
"If yer here, then no doubt ye heard about the thing found up on the ridge. None of us are sure what it is, but it is dead. We rolled it over this afternoon and found a few wounds in its back. Sword strokes, most likely."
The mayor looks about the room. "Brother Nulm won't leave his chapel, but he says the description sounds like a creature found in the deserts across the waters. A scorp..." Eddam pauses, "what did he call it?" Eddam looks to the soldier next to him.
"A scorpion."
"Right." The mayor sweeps the common room with his gaze. "A scorpion-man. Nulm ain't never heard of no scorpions that looked like a man, though. Says it's an unlucky thing to find near our town. I don't know if he be right or wrong. I s'pose time'll tell."
The crowd erupted in murmurs and whispers until a half-orc, busy wiping down the bar questioned, "Whut ye gonna do 'bout it?"
"Well, Oggut," Eddam replies after a moment's hesitation, "I would like to see if there's more of them in those hills. We should tell the Earl at Dun Beric, but I would like to give him more information if there's more to be had."
The half-orc half-laughs and half-grunts. "Who, then, is going into them hills?"
Eddam shrugs. "Captain Wallach can't spare his men." The mayor gives the soldier at his shoulder a pointed glance. "So I was thinking maybe some of you trappers and hunters could scour the hills."
"Like hell," swears a big man dressed in buckskin. "Let the Earl's men do it."
Eddam nods. "Mayhaps, mayhaps. But that's a day over and a day back, at best. And nothing's to say the Earl will agree to send us some of his own scouts. We must look after our own."
Oggut rests both elbows on the bar. "If not Wallach's men, and if not them from Dun Beric, then who?"
Eddam removes a leather pouch from his cloak and places it on the bar. "There are some of you," and at this his eyes drift toward a few of the foreigners before surveying others within the room, "who have no homes here in Marchford. You have no fields to till, no families to watch. I have coins, good silver, to pay."
"How much?" comes a voice from the back of the common room.
"Three hundred silver. Per person. Paid if they bring back information - good information - on what these things are and where they come from."
A low murmur washes over the crowded common room. "Three hundred silver is no small sum," is heard, as well as, "Marchford can't afford that."
The mayor waits for the whispering to subside before continuing. "I'll give anyone who wants to go four days. Starting tomorrow. Come back with good information, and you'll be paid."
"Captain Wallach and I will set up in the corner, over there, with quill and parchment." The mayor waves a hand toward the crowd. "If anyone feels so inclined, then come see me."
************************************************** **********************
"I am Nimrodel." She says, her voice bearing only a hint of a bell-like tone - a slightly raspy tenor with an unusual accent shaping the words in a tongue clearly not her native language. Eyes like pale chips of blue ice survey the other volunteers, the mayer, and Captain Wallach in turn. Her ears appear to be elven, drawing upwards to sharp points. Both ears poke through a mane of hair, as starkly white as the bleak depths of winter, as simply even as the snow-shorn branches of a frost-rimed forest. Her leathers are travel-worn and fit somewhat awkwardly on her lean, rangy frame. Her features could be called beautiful but are only the reflection of the symmetry of her face and form - there is no warmth to her eyes, no life in her step - this woman possesses all the charm of a frozen lake.
In the brief pause after her introduction, she watches as her name is scrawled upon Captain Wallach's parchment. "It is as you say," the elf woman continues. "There is little here for me. I will meet your task."
It is not as if I'll grow rich doing odd jobs for Biminy. Nor will I make any headway finding the one I seek, she thought to herself.
Calm. Nimrodel stilled the fingers drumming upon her axe's haft. Discipline, she reminded herself, as those fingers clenched at her side.
"Perhaps," She began haltingly, "we ought to consider the ridge where the creature was found. It would seem that there are others nearby who have encountered this creature and slain it. Mayhaps we should speak to these folk, whoever they may be, first. If only to find out what they know of these...things."
"Aye," Eddam says. "It sounds as if you have a good place to start. But, methinks you will be in need of companions. One person is probably too few for this task."
Nimrodel steps to the side of the table to allow other volunteers to come forth.
Next to step forward was a young man, well, barely a man. Not even old enough for facial hair yet. His hair was long, wavy, and fire red and contrasted sharply with the studded leather armor, caked in mud, that he wore.
Closer inspection would reveal dried mud, caked to his face and arms as well.
Strapped to his back was a Great Sword that rested awkwardly beside a short bow and a full quiver. Both weapons also were slightly covered in dirt and appeared used.
At six-foot-two he towered over Captain Wallach's table. No emotion showing on his face, eyes colder than ice.
"I, too, will go." His voice was soft but slightly distant.
"Well...er..." the captain looked at the mayor thinking, no boy should go. And this one is much more a boy than a man. But the mayor just shrugged.
The captain responded, "I do not think this is a task safe for...one so young."
The boy's face flushed a slight shade of strawberry-red. "My path is one of honor and valor. If you would try to step between my fate and I, then I challenge you. I’ll fight you to the death. Mayhaps I'll die but you'll not enjoy the rest of your days as a cripple. I will show you I am no boy."
Silence again descended on the tavern as all eyes turned to Captain Wallach, whose face was turning beet red.
The captain grumbled, "Fine, and your name?"
"Funeris Bellator," the man-child answered. The name was scribbled upon the parchment.
Then, Funeris turned, and skulked over to an empty table along the wall where he could sit, watch, and silently gauge the other individuals that might become his companions.
Third, a short, scrawny male teenager in old dark brown studded leather steps forward and stood at attention.
"I am Ember and I will take your task as well," he states simply. "I believe my skills could be of some use with those going into the hills."
With military precision he wheels right and seeks a place to sit where he can see the others.
Besides the old studded leather an old but well cared for steel shield is slung over his shoulder. A shortspear is held on his right and a large dagger hangs from his belt. Oddly, his left-hand fingers tap repeatedly on several small pouches (adorned with arcane marks)
that dangle from a shoulder belt.
Captain Wallach didn't even bother asking this youth if it were wise for him to join the quest. He sighed and scratched the name onto the scroll.
Ember turned toward the elf and man-child, "I agree that talking to the locals where the beast was found would be an excellent starting point. If the body is fresh enough then perhaps its tracks may also be fresh, perhaps a hunter or ranger could attempt to track this creature's path. And even if the track were lost, it would give a general direction to head toward."
"I also suggest we might inquire with the mayor about the services of a pony or mule to carry food and water for the four days. No use wearing ourselves out if there may trouble tomorrow or the day after."
Not waiting for a response, Ember slid his chair back against the wall and watched Captain Wallach's table.
"I'll track."
Having traveled the Marches for a few months now, Motega was used to the stares and whispers by now. The Rorn people were not common, not trusted, in the Valus and Motega new that the tattoos upon his face and animal skins and bones worked into his leathers only added to their mistrust.
No matter, he meant these people no harm. In fact, even though his weather beaten face did not show it, he was still a young warrior set out from his homeland in the mountains of the south looking to find adventure to achieve honor among his people.
Motega left his mark and returned the mayor's scowl with a friendly nod. He wondered to himself if these people would be any more at ease if they new that his name meant "new arrow" given to him by his grandfather signifying his youth and inexperience with the longbow slung across his back.
He adjusted his handaxe on his belt and offered a smile to the fire haired boy just as a shout of "Baby Eater!" came from the crowd.
Tomorrow will be a long day, he thought.
As the crowd looks over those that had signed so far, a man, neigh a boy with light brown hair and green haunted eyes steps up nervously. His simple well-worn traveler's clothes barely hung on his thin, tall frame. He seemed to try to shrink from view as the eyes of the tavern peered toward him.
The youth nearly bumps into the signing table before executing a swift spin, stopping along the side. The Captain starts to reach toward him with the quill, when the boy swiftly ducks his arm, and pulls the quill from his hand.
"No, it's alright, I've got it." The boy smiles and jots his name on the scroll.
Some of the stone masons, in the corner, surprised that this man stepped forward began to murmur. The youth had worked with them previously, a hard worker to be sure, but one to venture off into the unknown?
"Magnus, Magnus Ender," he stammers out. "I sign up to help because they," and he gestures toward the volunteers, "might need protecting...", a few chuckles from the crowd are heard.
The captain leaned and whispered to Sir Eddam, "Look at his eyes."
As the Mayor looks upon this nervous boy he can see his eyes are cold and hard, even as his body nervously twitches.
Magnus heads toward the group appearing to grow more confident with every step. Reaching out his hand, "Hi, I'm Magnus..."
As Magnus introduces himself to the party, he constantly peers around the room, often glancing over his own shoulder. Then he maneuvers his back against a wall.
"So, uh, I know a little magic." He beams at the group and adds, "I prefer the school of Abjuration." The group stares blankly at him as a bead of sweat breaks upon his brow. "Uh, that's defensive magics...Anyway, my real interest is architecture. So, if we come upon any ruins, I'll be quite the valuable asset." Again, he was answered with blank stares. "And, I'll be able to tell you all who crafted it and when it was crafted and..." his voice drifted to less than a whisper.
Her quarterstaff lightly rapping on the floor, the woman strode to the mayor's table. At first glance, her face, framed by luxurious auburn hair and inset with deep blue eyes, appeared expressionless. But closer reflection revealed a serenity that bespoke wisdom far beyond her twenty-some years. Her sturdy boots, leather armor, deep green cloak, and scimitar slung across her back cried out ranger, but the quarterstaff, wooden shield and a peculiar aura about her gave everyone in the room pause.
Murmurs exploded among the crowd as they realized the presence of a druid.
"I am Calyx. I believe my skills may be of use in this undertaking." Her choice of words, whether or not she intended the effect, stirred more than a few more whispers in the room.
She surveyed the array of brave volunteers. A brief smile flickered across her face as she contemplated the Rornman, while the arcanists elicited an equally brief frown. Calyx found the arcane magicks a bit distasteful, but they too have their place in the world.
Without another word, she gave a warm nod and slight curtsy to the assembled group and moved to join them and await further direction.
Captain Wallach, Marchford's garrison commander, closed the book on the table in front of him and stands. After asking the mayor for permission to address the crowd, he turns in your direction.
"You heard the major, you signed the book. The task is yours. Four days. In four days, if we don't hear from you, then we'll assume yer dead or moved on to better things. Fair enough?"
He grabs the book and tucks it under one arm. "You can take an advance from your payment, if you wish, to purchase any gear you might need. One of you asked about a mule - that can be arranged, if you wish. In any event, we won't be advancing more than one hundred princes."
"I can give you an escort, if you'd like, for the first few miles. Our command doesn't extend beyond that. Regardless, I will be on the ridgeline at dawn. If you plan to pray, better do so tonight or before the sun comes up.
"May ye keep yer heads on yer shoulders."
With that, Wallach pushes through the crowd and walks out the Boots' doors. The mayor begins to quietly converse with Oggut, the half-orc bar keep, and a cluster of villagers.
The Druid's frown brings shivers to Magnus, their fearsome feral reputations preceding them. And this one was a girl at that. Magnus starts pacing slightly against the wall, wondering what he has got himself into. Was it the drink that gave him the courage to stand up and sign his name?
No, he had barely touched his ale this night. It could be poisoned, he thought. And, his usual dart game wasn't being played. All-around the creature had disturbed life. Everyone was talking about the bug-man, and what was to be done about it.
But he wasn't as worried about the dead creature as he was about what could have possibly killed it.
Funeris interrupted the silence. "Well, I suggest we take the guide, for as long as we can have them."
Although he had been silent for the majority of the night, content just to watch his now companions, Funeris spoke. He adjusted an annoying strand of hair that apparently longed to be eaten. Suicidal, as it were.
"We should also take the coin in advance at least to the limit they'll allow. And purchase any gear or items we'll need for this little adventure. Better it not come out of our own pockets, for mine are not deep."
With his piece said, Funeris whipped his great sword out deftly and began to polish it, trying to remove all of the caked mud.
Nimrodel casually flipped an errant strand of white hair from her cheek and considers.
She nods to Funeris' suggestion. "The advance should not be wasted. We could buy a few items we may need for our journey."
"Why don't we split up, get the gear we need, and meet on the ridge in the morning." Murmurs and nods noted acceptance and the group disbanded for the night.
==============================
Chapter 2
Dawn on the second day of Gal was greeted with overcast skies and a chilling breeze. It would be a dreary day in the Northern Valus. Sir Eddam and Captain Wallach were standing beside four unknown men. One wore the garb of a cleric and busied himself on an inspection of the creature. Another of the four was a halfling, dressed in a worn cloak. As the stifling morning breeze broke across the plains, brushing the halfling’s cloak away, eight obviously used daggers dangled in the halfling’s belt.
“Right on time,” Eddam spoke. “These two guards will accompany you as far as they can. And we have supplied a mule per your request. Now, if you’ll excuse the captain and myself, we have other business to attend.”
“Let’s get goin’” grunted one of the guards.
“No, not yet,” the cleric spoke. He stood from his crouched spot and brushed some dirt off his clothing. “I am Fitz, devotee of Ceria and this is Raven. We have also volunteered for this task.”
“Let’s go.” Grunted the same guard, obviously agitated.
“This beast was not slain with a sword as first thought,” Fitz continued. “These wounds are slightly small for a bladed weapon. They look more like arrow wounds to my untrained eye.”
Motega bent over the carapace of the creature. “He’s right. But where did the arrows go?”
“Or better yet, why were they removed?” chimed in Ember.
Nimrodel strode over to the annoyed guard and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Where’d the arrows go?”
“For Morduk’s sake, why does that matter?”
“Oh, just tell them Thom, so we can get going,” whined the previously silent guard.
Thom grunted and gestured to a bush on the edge of the plain. Brushing the vegetation to the side, Motega uncovered two snapped arrows. There was nothing distinct about the arrows, except for their lack of quality. Then he inspected the creature’s tracks.
“Why were the arrows removed?” Motega glared at Thom.
“Look, the boy Rorik must have removed them. They weren’t noticed until after the meeting last night. It’s unimportant anyway, right?”
“The tracks lead north toward the forest,” Motega stated. “We should get started. I don’t think there’s anything else to see here.” He pivoted and took off toward the forest.
“Finally,” Tom bellowed and moved to keep up with Motega.
************************************************** *************
One half hour into the trek, the two guards halted.
“What’s wrong?” Funeris questioned.
“Well, we should be heading back.” Thom looked toward the other guard. “The edge of our patrol ends here,” he pointed vaguely toward the scarce brush. “Right, Rodoc?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s right. Our patrol ends here. Let’s go, Thom.” The two guards turned and nearly sprinted back toward the village.
“Cowards,” Nimrodel accused but the guards were already out of earshot. Never in all her life, had she seen such spineless men. On second thought, maybe one or two. If she dwelled ont it too long, though, she might be forced to teach them a lesson. So, she brushed her anger aside.
“So, should we be looking for these creatures?” Funeris asked, peering behind the party at the obnoxiously loud guards.
“That’s probably not necessary,” Motega replied. “Scorpiots are a subterranean race. I doubt we’ll see any in these woods.” He kneeled and studied the tracks again. “I’d worry more about who or what killed the one near town. It obviously wasn’t any of the guards.”
Suddenly, Nimrodel tallwhackered her head to the side and drew her axe. Motega turned toward the direction of the tracks and paused, reaching for an arrow.
“What is it?” Ember hissed, laying a hand on his javelin.
“I heard a woman’s voice,” Nimrodel whispered back.
“As did I. Maybe 200 yards ahead of us. If that.” Motega added.
The scorpiot’s tracks ended in a dense patch of vegetation only 150 yards further. Motega stopped and silently slid into the brush, disappearing momentarily. When he peeked back through the bushes, he whispered, “there’s a clearing. Follow me, we’re going to edge around it.”
Cautiously, they circled the clearing, again heading toward the north. Motega raised his hand to halt the party. Then gestured to the party to be silent.
“I could’ve sworn I heard something,” a voice whispered.
“You’re just paranoid.”
“No. It sounded like something was coming from the town.”
“No one comes from the town, you dolt.”
Perched in a group of trees in the clearing, three archers faced the path they had just left. All three archers had arrows nocked, and were listening intently.
“You there! In the trees! We've come not to slay you” bellowed Nimrodel. The archers spun in their trees, nearly losing their footing. “We want only information. Attack us and you will reap what you sow.“ thwick --an arrow sped past Nimrodel. She dived behind a nearby tree.
Motega and Funeris unloosed arrows they had ready, both finding their mark in the archer that had attacked. In the boughs of the tree, the archer’s body went limp. Ember charged toward the archers while the others took cover behind shrubbery.
More arrows were loosed toward cover, one barely missing Magnus’s head and darting past Calyx’s thigh. Magnus leapt behind Funeris, while Calyx lifted her arms into the air.
“Matris! Confine these would-be-murderers!” She screeched. The forest seemed to shudder—and then to breathe—as the trees bowed to Calyx’s demands. Ember barely stopped his assault before vines sprung from the ground, flicking as if a snake tasting its surroundings—searching for prey. In the trees, vines lashed against the archers’ skin, entangled their bodies, and slowly but adamantly constricted their movements. Groans came from the wooded floor; two previously hidden men with spears were entangled in the living vines.
“Drop your weapons! We do not want to slay you!” Exasperated, Nimrodel took a breath. “We just want to ask you some questions.” She stepped away from the tree, throwing axe in hand.
The remaining archer fired an arrow. It missed Raven, who had snuck through the forest to the north and west, by a wide margin. The last archer slumped against some branches, two arrows and a throwing axe in his chest.
“I repeat. Through down your arms!” A fury blazed behind Nim’s eyes, her fingers tapped against her great axe. The spearmen released their grips on their weapons.
“Now, answer our questions.”
“Not until you release us.” One cried.
Motega and Funeris raised their bows at the spearmen. “Go ahead, Calyx.” Nimrodel commanded. Quickly the living forest died into tranquility, the vines returned to their natural resting spots. “Do not attempt to run. First question, why are you in these woods?”
“Why are you in these woods?” Chimed the other spearman.
“Don’t be cute.”
“We were running from the bugs,” sighed the first spearman. “We managed to kill one or two and have been waiting here for our friends.”
“Question two, why did you attempt to kill us??”
“You fired at us. We were merely defending ourselves.”
“Liars!” Ember laid his javelin’s blade to rest on the spearman’s throat.
“Well…” he stammered, “you spooked us. Maybe we thought it was another of those bugs. You can’t blame us for reacting, now, can you?” He added, “in a defensive manner.”
“Questions three and four, where did these things come from? And, where are your friends?”
“One answer for both questions. Castle Llyndofare, maybe a day’s hike north of here.” He raised his arm to gesture but Ember forced it down with the javelin. ”And before you ask, those things just attacked us. We were merely defending ourselves. I doubt if any of our friends even survived.”
“I want you to leave this area.” Nimrodel, again, commanded. “If I ever see you in these woods again,” she swung the axe, lodging it halfway through an old, massive, oak, “I don’t think I need to finish that statement.” The spearmen grabbed their weapons and turned and bolted south through the woods.
************************************************** *************
The entire group formed a circle around Motega and a fresh patch of ground he had dug. Resting in the ground was another scorpiot. “Well at least we know they weren’t lying about that.”
“And at least we know where we’re heading, now,” added Funeris.
The heavens belched a wicked, thunderous roar; as lightning kissed the woods, not to far from their position. A few drops of rain smattered the faces of the party.
“Let’s begin,” Motega ordered, “before the rains become too heavy and the ground too soft. I don’t want to lose the tracks, in case they were lying.” The party left the sparsely wooded field and again headed north.
Several hours later, what had been a light drizzle turned into a ferocious downpour. The group left the trail in search of shelter for the night.
An old, decaying foundation nestled underneath overgrown trees became their camp. Although in a state of disrepair, the foundation supported pieces of an old floor, protecting the travelers from the storm although not from the relaxing sound of rain splattering.
A fire was built. And upon a makeshift spit, wild game Motega had captured roasted. The smell had the same calming effect as the rain. A reflective, virtual silence descended on the travelers as they ate the game, except for Calyx. She nibbled on various roots and berries collected by both Motega and herself.
As the fire dwindled, Motega spoke. “I think it best if we post a guard tonight. In case anything were to come upon us. We’ll draw straws for the task of first shift. Since there are eight of us, we’ll each take a one hour shift.” He held out his fist, out of which pierced eight pieces of root. “The man or woman,” he glanced toward Calyx and Nimrodel, “with the shortest piece takes the first shift.”
After all of the roots were drawn, Magnus had the shortest of the pieces. “Do…do I have to watch by myself?” he questioned; his face looked agitated in the dying firelight.
“Yes,” Motega murmured sleepily. “Enjoy.” And then he rolled over, only a soft snore issued from his direction.
With each drop of rain, Magnus’ head twitched from side to side. He peered into the darkness watching, but not being able to distinguish much. The rains were slowing and no sound stirred the leaves of the forest.
Magnus leapt as a hand clamped over his mouth, prevented his scream. “Quiet. I will watch with you.” It was Nimrodel. She sat beside him. “My eyes are better in the dark. And I don’t need to rest yet, anyway.” Magnus nodded jerkily. It would take him several hours that night to calm down.
==========================
Chapter 3
The sun pierced the few remaining storm clouds on the third of Gal. Heavenly rays caressed the rain covered leaves, soggy ground, and threatened to disperse the thick fog that blanketed the forest. Sunlight glittered off of every bush, every murky puddle in the earth. Already, the temperature had begun to dry the earth. And a legion of sunlight followed the quickly climbing temperature to assure no raindrop was left behind.
Funeris stood not far from the foundation of the cottage, watching the ascent of the golden chariot. His mind drifted to his childhood, not that he had had a stupendous young life. Rather, his life had not been long. And he did not have much to reminisce about.
The god we honor is Morduk. Every day we must give penance to our god. Our
penance is demonstrated in our manner, in our occupation, in our own
personalities. We must be fair, but that does not mean to be weak. We must
live by our codes. Every day of our lives, we will fight for our god. We will fight
for his will to be done.
But, what is his will father?
His will, child, is equality and judgment. His will is the balance of the universe.
I enforce the laws of man and at the same time pay heed to the laws of Morduk.
Some day, you too will bear the sword and responsibility of our family. Come now, son. It is time to start your training.
But the sun has only just begun to rise.
Yes, the golden chariot is beginning to cross the sky. That means it is time for us to start training.
Why do you call it that father?
Such an inquisitive child, just like your mother. Once and maybe even now, people believed that the sun itself was a god. They believed he rode a chariot across the sky. But this is not of much concern to us. Morduk is the god of death, justice, penance and anguish. And he is our god.
Funeris’ memories drifted back to the present as Nimrodel brushed against his shoulder. He turned to face the elf-woman. She is quite a warrior, he thought. He hadn’t heard her approach although that could be accounted to her natural grace or his reminiscing. She had joined him on his watch and although no words had passed between them he felt closer to her now. Whilst he had stood on the ground watching the slowly fading darkness, she had chosen to perch on the remaining “roof” of the cottage. She silently peered into the distance. Probably daring anything to come near us, he believed.
“It is time to wake them, Fune.”
“Aye. We should head on our way soon. Mayhaps after the fog pbuttes.” Funeris moved toward the cottage to awaken the other travelers.
************************************************** *********************
Within an hour’s time, the warmth of Gal’s sun obliterated the last remnants of fog from the earth. The raindrops were also long gone. The travelers sat around a new yet small fire again eating silently. Breakfast consisted of small game and flora that Motega and Calyx had been kind enough to gather.
“It should be a better day for travel,” Ember stated, as he glanced around the roof of the structure and into the sky.
“At least for the morning hours,” Motega responded. ”Around midday though, the heat of Gal will set upon us. I hope to make it to Llyndofare by then.”
“So, are we to expect an end to the dismal weather then?” Funeris chimed.
“Yes. I do believe that will be the last respite from the heat we’ll have for at least several days.” Motega returned to finishing his morning squirrel.
“What do we know of this Llyndofare castle?” Nim questioned.
“Well,” Fitz paused to swallow. “I do believe it was once a robust fortress used in the defense of these lands.” He gestured with a wide arc of his hand to the forest. “That’s if my knowledge serves me correctly. It’s rumored that it was haunted or bad luck. At any rate, it was abandoned nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. No one has used it since.”
“I wonder if the scorpiots were the ghosts,” Magnus though aloud.
“It is possible,” began Fitz.
“Well,” Motega interrupted, “If we’re to find out today, we should leave.” He squelched the fire with his boots and grabbed his gear.
“I’d wonder more about what those men we’re doing in the castle,” murmured Funeris before he grabbed his own gear. The group headed back toward the old mule trail.
****
Halfway through the morn, the adventurers reached the top of a hill that climbed above the tree line. No more than a league away, Llyndofare climbed out of the earth. The castle perched upon a small bluff, overlooking two rivers. Its spires soared upward into the sky, dwarfing the trees. The tree line ended perhaps a half-mile before the castle. It was there that the old mule path climbed a carved ledge to Llyndofare’s front gates.
Without further delay, the travelers dove back down the path and into the forest.
***
At the end of the wood, Motega again stooped to the ground to inspect the tracks. “The rain washed away most of the tracks. Here where there are tracks, I don’t see any scorpiot’s trail anyway. Just the boot marks of men.”
“It looks deserted,” Nimrodel claimed.
“It is quiet. But if there were men there and they left,” Motega paused to add weight to his statement, “then why is the door closed?”
“I don’t like the lack of cover,” Raven murmured. “If we approach it directly and it is inhabited, they’ll see us coming.”
“With any luck, we’ll see them coming.” Nimrodel began the ascent to the castle.
They stopped their approach at the edge of a drawbridge. The bridge stretched fifty feet across an ancient mote. Steep jagged sides and a thirty-foot drop dwarfed the miniscule amount of festered, confined water.
Motega followed the normal routine and stooped to inspect the tracks. “Still just human footprints. I think those men were lying.”
Motega was shoved to the ground, “Archer in the left tower!” Funeris screamed as he shielded Motega’s body. An arrow lodged in the earth next to his body. Ember, Nimrodel, and Motega, once he was upright, charged the front gate.
A grinding sound issued from behind the castle walls. A winch began to raise the portcullis and the old oak doors behind were flung open. Three swordsmen awaited the approach.
Meanwhile, an archer had appeared in the right gate tower. His arrows quickly forced the remainder of the group toward the front gate. While he ran, Fitz prayed out loud. “Ceria, please bless my comrades so that they may not fall in this battle. Bless them with your strength to do what must be done.” A faint white glow enveloped the party and then just as rapidly faded.
Once the portcullis was open, Ember ran his javelin into a swordsman at the same moment Nimrodel’s axe crashed into the swordsman’s arm. He dropped his sword and stumbled back; the other two swordsmen stepping into the fray.
The leftmost swordsman jabbed the blade into Nim’s side. She yelped in pain that instantly turned to rage in her eyes. Her great axe again sliced the air leaving a thin scrape through the man’s armor. Ember all the while blocked and parried with the other brute. Two more filthy men rushed to the aid of their compatriots.
Funeris stepped into the brawl at this point. His great sword easily ran one of the new soldiers through. It left an angry wound that would not scream for more, blood spilt across the stone flooring. Fune pivoted then dodged a deadly strike before he doubled up with Nimrodel on her swordsman.
The remnants of the group had made it safely within Llyndofare’s archway. Longing for the death of the travelers, enemy arrows shattered on the bridge. And despite the lack of targets, the archers did not leave their posts.
Calyx unleashed a feral howl. A spine-tingling wolf howl that made everyone, friend and foe alike, cringe. But within an instant, the thieves of Llyndofare realized why she had howled. A gentle yet fierce sound of padded feet traversed the drawbridge as a wolf leapt into the battle and forced the men back.
Ember seized the moment of opportunity to launch a burst of fire from his bare hands. It landed square in the chest of one of the thieves. He dropped instantly, third degree burns bubbled and exploded on his exposed flesh.
But Ember wasn’t the only to seize the moment. Magnus, who had been cowering behind Nim and Fune, popped his head up from behind his human shields. A split second and one of his daggers had split the sternum of the other warrior. In that same split second, he had resumed his crouched position. Nimrodel then opened the thief’s torso, permitting his entrails to taste her victory.
The archer from the leftmost tower loosed an arrow. It grazed Nimrodel’s cheek causing her to pivot, scream, and charge. She shook uncontrollably, which made it difficult for both Raven and Funeris to keep up with her. The three of them pinned the archer to a wall and shared turns striking blows. Ultimately, they sent him to meet his ancestors.
Fitz and Motega split from the group and charged up the staircase for the right tower. They stopped a possible ambush from the remaining archer. Fitz and Motega prevented the ambush indefinitely.
A large double door at the rear of the courtyard opened. Two more archers and a swordsman exited the adjoining room. Funeris and Nimrodel sprinted toward the enemy. Somehow, Magnus was already there. He leapt toward them and screamed a word, both palms out toward the enemy. The syllable was indecipherable due to the acoustics of the castle walls but it held an arcane sound.
Two bursts of bright colored light flashed from his hands, dropping the two archers. Magnus landed and rolled away from the swordsman that had withstood his assault.
An arrow from Funeris’ short bow shot wide drawing the attention of the enemy. Another ball of flame from Ember did not miss its target. But the warrior-thief stood up after it laid him on his back. Blisters erupted all along his flesh but he still reached for his weapon. Before he grabbed it, a shaft pierced his heart. Motega had fired from the tower. Stunned, he could do nothing but gargle as Nimrodel’s axe shredded his abdomen.
Once Motega had descended from the tower, he demanded, “What did you do to those two!?”
“I just stunned them,” mumbled Magnus as he lowered his eyes to the ground.
“Tie them up then.” Motega tossed Magnus a rope. “And make sure they don’t get loose.”
************************************************** **********************
The two bound men had awoken to a sloppy noise. The sound was of something being pressed into the mud. They struggled for a moment before deciding the bonds were tied too well. It was then that they noticed Motega.
Motega was hunched over the body of one of the bandit leaders, a curiously curved but razor-sharp blade busily working its way through the cadaver's ribs. Bloody to the elbows, the ranger concentrated on his task as he sought the most vital organ and began removing it from the gory cavity. Nimrodel's axe strike had made his job slightly easier, hacking many of the bones apart and exposing much of the upper torso's interior. Motega dressed the bandit’s body like any hunter would dress a deer.
"Did you hate him?" The elf's voice seems to float through the still air inside the ruined castle. Her bare feet carried her across the bloody flagstones without pause until she arrived nearby, squatting down somewhat to observe Motega's actions.
"No." The Rornman's answer was short, sweet, and to the point. Meanwhile, the red, pulpy meat of the bandit's heart began to emerge clutched in his slick fingers.
Nimrodel's head tilted slightly to the left, considering. "Did you admire him, then?"
Motega chuckled. "Seeing as how quickly he fell, no. Not particularly."
"Why then the heart?" The elf inquired, dispassionately watching as the ranger prepared his meal.
"Because I like it," he replied. "It has a pleasing texture and taste. And I chose him much like you would choose the ripest fruit from a vine, no other reason."
"Hmmm." Nimrodel gave her head a toss, her white hair flung behind her neck. Several seconds passed as Motega began to eat while the other motley adventurers scoured the keep and the bodies within for clues and loot.
"I hated him." Once again, the elf's voice seems almost to emerge from nowhere, spoken by no one until it's sudden appearance lends no doubt to it's existence.
Motega raised an eyebrow.
"I always hate." Nimrodel explained slowly. "When I am in the red place, I hate."
The ranger nodded. "I have noticed that you fight with emotion. For myself, I do not let emotions touch me in battle."
Slender fingers pointed out Motega's bow." Your tools require a steady hand. "Nimrodel agreed. "Mine, however, are fueled by hate." Her hand moved to brush the handle of the great axe strung across her back.
"Your emotions guide you in battle. Today, I believe we're thankful for that." Motega glanced around at the number of bodies lying upon the courtyard, all of whom wore the tattered clothing of the bandits.
Nimrodel nodded. "I think," she began and then paused. "That control is good. I would like...to have more control. Mayhaps one day you can teach me about such."
With that, she stood and walked toward the two bound bandits.
Motega watched the elf until she was out of sight. "What a curious creature...never have I seen an elf so...troubled," He thought to himself. Then, the bandit's liver came fee of the peritoneum lining of the body cavity and Motega forgot all about elven self-control.
(Translator’s note: the preceding passage was crafted by Nimrodel’s player and was only slightly edited by the translator.)
***
Nimrodel crouched near the living bandits. She threw a glance toward Motega and questioned, “Which organs did you want from these two?” The men burst into sobs and wails. Tears carved clean trails across their filthy faces as they pleaded for life.
Motega walked over to Nimrodel while cleaning his sharp blade. “Let me instruct you on the best way. It should be good practice for skinning animals.” He extended his arm and blade to Nimrodel. She took the blade and began dragging it not so gently across the bandits’ poor leather armor. Both broke into tears again; as well as curses.
Wasting only a few mere moments, one of the men offered to tell the party everything they knew in exchange for his life. The other bandit chimed in that he would make sure the first bandit would not lie, in exchange for his own life. Nimrodel was satisfied and handed the blade back to Motega.
But before the interrogation could begin, Raven returned from the other tower. And the adventurers decided to camp in the fortified tower for the night.
***
“Are we sure they’re to be trusted?” Funeris asked Nimrodel. He had volunteered to serve the first shift of watch because of lack of injuries. Nimrodel joined him and they were quietly debating the information whilst everyone else rested.
“We don’t have much choice. And they seem to be truthful. Fear can be powerful that way. Anyway, their information seemed to coincide with Raven’s observations.”
“They’re ignoble thieves. And I still do not trust them.” Funeris glanced at his great sword – his father’s great sword – and struggled to wipe the dirt, blood, and grime from the blade.
“Good. That means tomorrow when we approach the remaining bandits, you will be prepared.”
Funeris did not look up or respond as he switched to sharpening the sword.
***
All of the party except Raven stood outside of two large wooden doors that barred entry into Llyndofare’s ancient barracks. Raven had meanwhile stolen away a passage along the second floor to the uppermost part of the garrison. It was here that the prisoners had claimed was a back entry into the soldiers’ quarters. If the prisoners had told no lies, only two more bandits waited for the travelers. And one of the bandits was the leader.
Raven removed his lock-pick set from his bags and prepared to pick his door. The lock was a simple three-pin lock. It would pose no threat, he thought. He silently waited for the signal to begin.
“Ready?” Nimrodel glanced at Funeris.
“As ready as I need to be.” They both brought their weapons down against the old wooden doors. In two powerful strikes, the doors splintered and fell. A half-orc with a great axe stepped into the doorway and snarled.
The great axe shredded through Nimrodel’s armor, leaving a deep, wicked, crimson gash in its wake. She stumbled back but managed to stay upright until an arrow embedded between her breasts.
“Oh, sh*t!” Funeris yelled as Nimrodel collapsed to the floor. And then he charged into the room.
***
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Fitz said. His hand rested on Nimrodel’s brow. She jerked upright but his hand held her down. “Ceria says it wasn’t your time to go yet. And now,” he smiled, “she says you need to rest for a moment.”
“What happened?” Nim croaked.
“Teamwork,” He replied with a grin. “Albeit slightly impulsive teamwork. Funeris rushed into the room once you were unconscious. He managed to incapacitate the archer and flank the half-orc while the rest of us took turns with the beast. Eventually, Magnus stunned it and Funeris removed its head.”
“And what of the archer?” She sipped some water from her water-skin.
“Well, he’s now bound with the other two prisoners. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll return to Marchford.” Nimrodel stood up, shakily at first. After a few moments, the wobbliness passed and her strength returned.
“Who’s that?” Nim pointed toward an emaciated man in tattered rags.
“That’s Obrick Humblefoot. He’s a merchant the bandits had imprisoned. He offered to pay us for an escort back to civilization.” Fitz paused to hand Nim her axe. “Are you ready?”
“Let’s go.” She turned and made sure she was the first across the bridge and into the forest.
=======================
Chapter 4 - Return to Marchford
The trip back to Marchford was wholly uneventful aside from the complaints of the bound captives. But Motega moved beside them and his mere presence or perhaps the act of licking his lips and glaring hungrily at the captives silenced the grumbling.
Once the “Heroes of Marchford” arrived back in town, the group eagerly set upon Sir Eddam to disperse the information and to receive their pay. Once the meeting was completed, Captain Wallach placed the bandits in his custody for transfer to Andoric’s Steps for punishment. And the heroes, or rather information gatherers, split to tend their personal affairs.
As the group parted, Funeris returned to Sir Eddam and Captain Wallach.
“Can I help you, boy?” questioned the Captain.
“Actually, I believe it is the other way around.” Funeris removed his old but durable short bow and handed it to Wallach. “I know this isn’t the best of weapons, but I thought your men may need extra weaponry in the not-so-distant future. And,” Fune reached into his satchel and pulled a third of his pay out, “I don’t need this.” He tossed the excess coinage to the Mayor.
“I wasn’t injured and it was just an expedition for information. Your coffers need this money more than I do.” Sir Eddam smiled as Funeris turned and headed toward the small church for Morduk.
***
After each of the group bought personal supplies and Funeris donated some money to the church, they met in Oggut’s bar and inn to decide their next step.
Obrick Humblefoot was devouring his meal, hand over fist, and trying to keep up his conservation with the party. “Anyway,” he paused to imbibe some ale, “I’m more than willing to pay you the 300 princes I promised, but,” he paused again to shove more food in his mouth. “And remember now, mmmumm grummm, I mean I am very appreciative, but perhaps I can make it worth your while to take me back to my home in Andoric’s Steps. I’m not the wealthiest merchant there, but I can definitely afford another 100 princes.” He swallowed, drank, and eyed the group and their disinterested countenances. “Well how about another 200 princes, please?”
“We’ll have to discuss it.” Motega stated before motioning for another bottle of ale from Oggut and moving the party minus one Obrick Humblefoot to another table for their discussion.
Before Motega could say a word, Magnus interrupted and threw out his idea, “Why don’t we return to Llyndofare? We could offer to cleanse the castle and secure the well to prevent anymore of these creatures from escaping. And we could offer to do it for a price. Or, maybe for the castle!” His eyes shined brightly as the dream of owning a castle took hold.
“Wait.” Nimrodel now spoke. “At least a few of us should travel with this merchant. We could use the coinage. And he needs to make it home in one piece. I think,” paused for emphasis, “he’s insufficient at caring for himself.”
After an hour of debate, Nimrodel, Raven, and Ember were chosen to buttist Obrick in his return to Andoric’s Steps. The remainder of the party would ask Sir Eddam about Llyndofare.
***
With, the party divided, Magnus led the buttault upon Sir Eddam for money for a cleansing. As they approached, a rider thundered into town and stopped in front of the Mayor.
“What is it?” Eddam questioned the panting, terrified rider.
“There’s been an attack.” The rider paused to quench his thirst and speak louder. “Dun Beric was attacked last night.”
“Have they fallen?” Wallach demanded. “Who attacked? Spit it out.”
“Dwarves…with black skin. Hundreds of them.”
=======================================
Chapter 4 – Cont'd: No Love for Strange Help
“Come again?” Eddam blurted.
“Dwarves…with black skin. Hundreds of them. They were throwing themselves at the portcullis and the walls. Testing our defenses. When the sun broke the horizon, they were gone. I was…” the rider paused for breath. “I was sent to warn Dun Meggen and Dun Tullow.” He looked pleadingly to the mayor and the captain, begging for their dismissal.
“Yes, yes go then. Warn them.” Eddam turned to Wallach as the rider thundered off in the opposite direction. “Captain round up our women and children. Send them to Dun Meggen. We’ll need the men to stay to hold the keep. Get them moving and lower the gates. Now!” Wallach pivoted and attended his duties.
“Mayor?” Magnus stepped into his view. “Could I offer?”
“Look we can’t pay you. You can go with the women or you can stay here with us.” Eddam interrupted.
“Actually, I was thinking,” Magnus continued, “that we could travel to Dun Beric and warn the Duke. He needs the information we have. What if this is a war on two fronts? Also, we could return here to relay the information we gather.”
“I couldn’t possibly pay you.”
“Oh, well, I was thinking free of charge. As a courtesy.” Eddam had a highly skeptical look upon his brow. “You know, for your generous hospitality and fine ale.” Then Magnus smiled.
“Very well. I will have a letter for you to deliver then. Give me leave for a few moments.” The party turned to gather their gear before leaving.
******
An hour later, the Heroes of Marchford traveled beside the well-trodden path east toward Dun Beric. Fully a quarter-of-a-mile ahead of the rest of the group, Motega crept like a shadow on the ridge of hills north of the road. The rest of the party had their eyes trained oh his silhouette; waiting for a signal of some kind.
The Rornman did not speak often. And had not spoken for long lengths of time. He had interjected his own opinions on the group from time to time. But for the most part he was silent, just observing, resembling an animal stalking its prey. Probably, he preferred his own company. Or perhaps, people that hailed from the Rornlands reserved their words for times when they were necessary.
The silhouette on the ridge, the hunter, paused and knelt. Then his arm waved the rest of the party onward to his position. Once they approached, they saw why he knelt. A dust cloud rose from the road, fleeing toward the heavens. A group approached and they were about a quarter of a mile away.
“What do you think?” Funeris asked Motega. “Looks like, maybe twenty.”
Motega grunted his buttent.
“So, then. It can’t be the whole of the dark dwarven army. Not if there were hundreds. Who do you think?”
At that Motega shrugged. “A division. Someone else. Time will tell.”
He stalked forward through the scrub, letting the rest of the party decide their tactics.
The party walked down onto the road; Funeris and Fitz in lead, with Magnus and Calyx trailing. Motega shadowed them from the hills until he found a suitable cranny to nock an arrow and wait.
The dust cloud continued its course along the path oblivious of the heroes ahead. It traveled slowly, like a lumbering, wounded bear over rough terrain. Until the heroes were in its sights and screams echoed within the curl of dust. Ten dirt-laden creatures dove into the woods. As the air cleared, two men in leather armor stood, swords drawn facing the approaching heroes.
Funeris did not bother unsheathing his great sword; rather he opened his arms in a sign of peace and stopped twenty feet from the filthy soldiers. The men eyed him, then his companions. Their eyes lingered on the druid and they did not lower their weapons. Behind the men, in the edge of the forest, ten sets of scared eyes watched the confrontation.
“We mean you no harm,” Fitz called out and took a step toward the men. But the men still would not lower their weapons, their eyes constantly trained on Calyx.
“She is merely a traveling companion of ours. Tell me, where do you hail from?”
One of the soldiers grunted, “Dun Beric.”
“Oh wonderful. That is our destination.”
“You don’t want to go there.” And the soldier paused, lowered his sword and pointed toward Calyx, “especially with strange company.” By this point Motega returned arrow to quiver and began the descent to the road. The sudden movement nearly caused the guards to jump. “And how many more of you are there?”
Magnus intervened, “Just us five. We have been sent with a message for the Duke, from the Mayor of Marchford. Tell us what happened.”
The guards hesitated, deciding if there were a battle, they would easily be defeated by numbers alone. Then they sheathed their weapons and stepped toward the Rhelmsmen, Funeris, Fitz and Calyx, all the while wary of the Rornman and the Pagan.
“The dwem or dark dwarves attacked last night. We’re not sure o’ the numbers. At least a hundred. Guards were wounded, but no deaths on our side. Maybe a score of ‘em died. I think they were testing our defenses. They charged the walls and gates. Maybe looking for weaknesses. At sun up, they were gone. The Duke ordered the women and children to leave. We’re escorting ‘em to Dun Meggen.”
“When you pbutt through Marchford, would you tell them exactly what you told us?” Magnus questioned.
“The Duke gave us specific orders and we’re not to stop.”
Funeris reached into his purse and pulled out ten silver pieces, tossing five to each soldier. “You will tell the mayor exactly what you told us. Exactly. And then you’ll get your women and children to Dun Meggen. The road ahead of you is clear. Travel well.” Funeris patted the soldiers on the shoulders and the dusty band of children and women rebuttembled.
As the Heroes headed off toward Dun Beric, a giant cloud of dust resumed its journey toward Marchford and Dun Meggen.
==============================
Chapter 4 Cont'd : No Love for strange help
Just so everybody knows, Magnus cajoled and taunted me into an update before our game tonight. So, thank him
***
Chapter 4 Continued and Concluded:
When the Heroes topped the last hill before the decline into Dun Beric, they could see a group of soldiers guarding the gates and a set of workers repairing damage. Briefly they began to discuss the perks of leaving Motega and Calyx outside, when they were spotted and a guard ran through the gate to signal their approach. An earnest sigh on all of their lips, they descended the hill toward Dun Beric.
As they approached, a noble, obvious due to his clothing and his sneer, trotted out of the gate on his faithful, fat steed. The remaining guards moved to position around the old, obese horse creating a wall of flesh between the Heroes and the courtyard. The noble shifted slightly, aiming his richer-than-thou sneer more precisely at the group.
“ ‘Ello ‘Ello. What have we here?” His hawk eyes peered at each of the Heroes for moments, trying to size up a possible threat. “I buttume you wish to gain entrance to the castle of Dun Beric?”
Fitz stepped toward the noble. “Yes, we bring news for the Duke.”
“Ha! I’m sure you do. But, the Duke has no time for your,” his sneer increased in the pause, “band of men and I think, I think that’s a woman. Obviously not from around here, are you lbutt?” Lurid thoughts bounced around behind his dark eyes. “At any rate, you three,” he gestured to everyone except Motega and Calyx, “may enter. If your friends want to join you in the safety of our castle, they will each have to pay a toll.”
“And, um,” Fitz answered, “how much would this toll be?”
“A day’s rations of food for entrance. Now, good day.” The noble kicked the horse in the sides, and pulled the reigns to turn the slow beast around. Then he trotted back through the gates.
After the toll was paid, the party moved into the courtyard of the castle. Debris from the attack littered the yard, but was little in comparison to the wounded soldiers that lie on makeshift cots. Fitz headed directly to the soldiers and the rest of the group began questioning guards for any way of seeing the Duke.
The questioning proved fruitless, so the party headed toward the temporary hospital ward where Fitz had been left to his own devices. A crowd had gathered around the cots, and the crowd was murmuring in awe. The party had to fight their way through to the front, to see what the commotion was about.
Fitz was going from cot to cot, laying his hands upon the brows of the wounded soldiers. He was using Ceria’s power to heal those closest to death. He neared a cot, whereupon a boy, maybe a year shy of Funeris’ age, lied in the grip of death, his leather armor bloody and rancid with stink. As Fitz placed his hand on the child’s brow and murmured to Ceria asking for her healing caress, the boy jerked upright. A cold breath issuing from his lips as he began to weep. The crowd cheered.
The crowd cheered until a noble thundered up on his horse, parting the spectators. “Get back to work!” he ordered. Although his horse was more able then the previous, his sneer seemed all the larger for it. The crowd dispersed, leaving the Heroes, the noble and a few of his guards.
“You’re the group that claims to need an audience with the duke, right?” His glare alone could have made babies cry.
Fitz again took the role of diplomat, saying, ”Yes we are. We bring a message from the Mayor of Marchford, Sir Eddam. We also have information about another possible attack. Could we have our audience?”
“No. The Duke is far to busy planning strategies now to deal with the likes of you. However, anything you can say to him, you can say to me. I’ll give him the information.”
“And you are?” Funeris questioned defiantly.
“I am Sir Gathil, and you will address me as such while in my home. I am an advisor to the Duke. Now spit out your information.” Fitz was slightly distraught with the noble’s rudeness but continued on anyway. Funeris just gritted his teeth.
“Sir Eddam wants to know what you would have his men at Marchford do in preparation for the possible war.”
“Tell him we don’t have time to worry about a little sh*thole of a town. No, scratch that. We have our own problems. Tell him to deal with his. And what of your other information?”
Fitz sighed before continuing. “There is a group of creatures, Scorpiots, from the underdark that have infiltrated Castle Llyndofare. If the dwem are attacking, they may be aiding each other.”
“Oh, so you bring us theories?” Sir Gathil harrumphed. “We don’t have time for theories, we’re at war. And we don’t have time for you spreading the gospel of your goddess.” He tossed a tiny sack of coin at Fitz, hitting him square in the chest. “There is your payment for your healing abilities. Now, remove yourself from MY castle.”
Fitz bent to pick up the sack of coin, feeling a bit like a woman of loose morals. The last young man he had helped grabbed his sleeve. “Sir, thank you. If ever you or your friends need a place to stay, my father owns a farm just south of town. I would be honored if I could entertain you as guests.”
“I’m sorry, what is your name.”
“I am Greffan the younger.” As the youth finished the sentence, the noble grabbed Fitz by the shoulder and shoved him toward the gates. The noble gave him a good, hearty kick in the arse and the guards erupted in laughter. Fitz steadied himself and fought off a tear of indignation while the Heroes exited Dun Beric. Once they were out of the castle, portcullis slammed down, denying any strangers entry.
=======================================
Chapter 5: To Marchford, To Llyndofare, Are those Dwem?
The return trip to Marchford was more uneventful than the preceding journey to Dun Beric. Not a soul was to be seen on the worn trail. And nature showed not a sign of weariness or apprehension unlike the temperaments of the humans in Dun Beric and Marchford. The summer birds continued to chirp and the soon-setting sun continued to shine despite the Heroes’ now foul mood.
Fitz, who almost always had a somewhat cheery disposition, did not raise his eyes from his boots as they tramped down the trail. His expression sang the truth of his emotion; still twisted in anger, in foul resentment.
Funeris’ face was slightly flushed. Less so from physical exertion, he was a well-built youth and had tramped around for the majority of his life, than from shame. He was a follower of Morduk but never would he have treated a follower of another church so disrespectfully. His presence on this journey deftly proved that fact. He traveled with a Druid, an atheistic Rornman, a good and kind priest of Ceria, and a wizard that believed, well, who knew what the wizard believed. Probably nothing.
But if followers of Morduk, the god of justice, could treat non-believers with such contempt and bitterness, what did that mean? That wasn’t justice. That was not fair. What was it that Funeris’ father was trying to teach him? Or maybe, Morduk would deliver the town of Dun Beric some justice. Maybe, Morduk already began to. Before Funeris could finish his thoughts, Motega stopped on a swale. He waited for the rest of the group to catch up before they hiked into Marchford.
The setting sun showed the lack of light in the majority of the buildings of Marchford. Only the keep and Oggut’s Inn echoed torchlight into the descending darkness. Perched on the stone walkways of the keep, guards could be seen patrolling and watching for any signs of attack. The Heroes headed toward the keep first, to relay what little information they had retrieved.
Their presence was made known by the yelling of guards and the drawing of bows, Motega’s hand twitched toward his short bow but he held for just a moment. That moment being long enough for the group to be recognized and the soldiers’ weapons to be lowered. More yelling could be held behind the walls of the keep, and the sound of creaking wood issued from the gates.
Heavy, wooden double doors creaked open, spilling torchlight through the iron portcullis. Standing behind, were several guards that surrounded Sir Eddam.
“What news?” the noble questioned. The lines began to deepen in Fitz’s face as he opened his mouth.
Magnus stepped in and said, “The Duke of Dun Beric says he cannot send any aide this way. He needs his men in case there is another attack. But he said to hold down the keep if you can. And send the women and children west to Dun Meggan.”
“I’ve done that,” Sir Eddam mumbled. His stark white hair seemed to have thinned in the past day. Or perhaps the torchlight and stress just seemed to make him age one hundred years in the course of a day. “And how does Dun Beric fare?”
Magnus again answered before anyone else, “None dead, thanks to yours truly,” and he motioned toward the group. “But several wounded and we could not offer much help. They were in the midst of repairs when we left.”
“Good, good. And what are your plans now?”
“We’re not sure. We haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, we could always use more hands, if you want to stay.”
“We’ll, uh, talk about it.” Magnus grinned his most charming, which isn’t to say much, smile. Then the party turned and headed toward the tavern.
============================================
Chapter 5 Continued (sorry its short)
Oggut had just finished loading the last keg of his special brew onto a small horse-drawn trailer, when the party approached. The look of surprise on his countenance did nothing to improve his muddled half-orc features.
“Back so soon?” Oggut probed. Motega stepped forward and whispered into his over-sized ear.
“Eh. Stay here?? Fine by me, I’m just on my way out. Do me a favor, wouldya? Lock up when you leave.” Again Motega leaned in, this time dropping several coins into Oggut’s hand with the exchanged words.
Oggut’s look of surprise turned to one of happiness as he grabbed the barrel he had just placed on the back of the trailer. He then moved it back into the bar, the party following him in.
“Just remember to lock up.” He grunted as tapped the barrel and left it on the bar for consumption. Then he exited, leaving the party to their own devices. Motega immediately sat down and imbibed the ale.
After some quick and quiet conversation, shifts for watch were determined and the majority of the Heroes went to sleep. The humid, warm night remained silent and rapidly turned into morn. Following their usual morning preparations, the band set off toward Castle Llyndofare.
Hours into the march, Motega darted forward behind a group of shrubs. He crouched and withdrew his bow, nocking one arrow. The rest of the party followed his lead; withdrawing weapons and buttuming a defensive position.
The lack of movement and silence of the party emphasized the robust noise of movement seventy feet ahead. Twigs snapped and armor shifted as seven pitch-black creatures struggled through the coarse brush. Motega stood, took aim and loosed his arrow.
Until that moment, the dwem had not noticed the Heroes of Marchford. But as the first arrow sailed not an inch over their heads, their attention was quickly drawn from their prior task. Three of the dark-dwarves drew crossbows and moved into better firing positions.
The remaining four hefted battle-axes at the ready and charged toward the Heroes. Calyx was however prepared for their approach. Whispering in the secret druidic language, she again commanded nature to restrain her foes. Branches and vines answered the call; snaking around the creatures and binding them to their spot. Only three of the dwem remained unchecked.
The three unbound dwem let loose with a volley of crossbow bolts. Several struck Motega as he moved into cover. Behind him, Funeris retaliated by firing back, scoring a nasty wound against the dwem. But the luck of the shot was for naught; within seconds several arrows caused the 6’2” man-child to collapse to the ground in a bloody heap.
==========================
Chapter Five Continued
Funeris’ eyes peeled open. The entire world had gone gray. As he climbed to his feet, not a leaf stirred and not a sound was made. Reflexively, he reached for the final arrow that had pierced his throat, bringing the darkness.
But his hand just grasped empty air. His eyes darted toward his other wounds but there were none, just bloodstains on his body and armor. The soreness of an overly long journey still washed over his body, but no pain from his wounds echoed through his muscles.
As his worry about his wounds faded, another replaced the vacant spot in his mind. Where had his new friends gone?
Funeris was still in the proximity of the last battle. They should be nearby. But his searching revealed nothing. The vines and plant-life that had constrained the dwem still looked vivid and alive. He took a step toward it, but nothing moved. He couldn’t even see the dwem that were confined to that living prison.
Funeris sighed as he sat and pondered what he was going to do. Even the summer breeze seemed to have disappeared on this accursed day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Magnus had watched that last nasty arrow pierce Funeris’ neck. Hell, the spurt of blood had nearly hit me, the mage thought. Motega had since maneuvered back into the dwem’s line of sight. Magnus wasn’t sure what was scarier, the fact that the dwem never seemed to run out of bolts or that Motega was roaring at the top of his lungs and firing back.
Magnus slinked along the ground, covered by Motega’s own body and gradually pulled up beside Funeris. Funeris’ eyes had rolled up into his head with only the whites showing. An ashen pale had fallen over his body and blood still flowed feely from the last wound.
“D@mn.” Magnus rummaged over the body. “I know he had it here somewhere.” A poorly aimed bolt flew above Magnus’ head and the young mage embraced the ground.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the other side of the battle, Calyx and Fitz had teamed up against the other two dwem that had not been imprisoned in the writhing vines. But through either the quality of the armor of the delve durven or their own inexperience with battle, the little buggers managed to evade their attacks. And although both Calyx and Fitz were missing, the durven were not so ineffectual in battle.
If something miraculous did not happen soon, Fitz knew he’d be meeting his goddess this fine day.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Funeris had been sitting on an old, dirty stump for what had seemed an eternity. In his head, he was rationalizing the reasons he could not possibly be dead. At the top of that list, his now questionable beliefs in Morduk resided. Morduk could have had no reason to leave me in a hell as endless as this, he thought.
As he sat there, lost in thought, a sudden radiance, not unlike the parting of clouds on a stormy day, fell upon his countenance. He glanced upward, not having felt that warmth since before the last arrow had struck.
His eyes stopped their upward glance, upon a woman. Well, at first she looked like a woman. Until his eyes adjusted and took in her full form. Huge, feathered, white wings protruded from her back and stretched upward. Despite their size, the wings glowed of an intrinsic grace. Just as her eyes, crystal blue glowed of a beauty and strength he had never seen in the eyes of a mortal.
Golden locks of hair spurted from her head and fell upon her shoulders as water cascading down a fall. Her radiance seemed increased by her full plate mail that shined with its own inner light. And in her hands rested a great sword. The great sword was of a quality Funeris was sure he’d never see again.
“My lady,” he started as he dropped to his knees.
“Stand up, Tobias.” Her voice and manner were somehow familiar and radiant as her form. The warmth of her breath brought him as near to ecstasy as he had even been.
“You know me, my lady?” Funeris’ confusion grew a bit with the use of his real name.
“Yes I do, Tobias. And you really should use your real name. Your grandfather’s name is not appropriate for the life you will lead.”
“And what life is that, my lady?”
“You are to be one of my swords, Tobias.”
“But, I am a servant to Morduk. Am I to serve you both?” Funeris’ eyes darted to the ground as her radiant eyes turned for a moment to cold steel.
“You do not serve that…god.” Her voice sounded full of insult on the last word. “You were meant for more than their foolish games. You will help me purge this world of evil. You will be a beacon of truth, of light for the lost creatures trapped within those petty gods’ games.”
“How my lady?”
“If you have faith, dear Tobias,” her voice softened to its former sweet sensuality, “you will know. And I will be there to help you, as I have been for your entire life.”
It was only after that last statement, that Funeris noticed the bloodstains that covered her armor and weaponry. Even her perfect white feathers, covered with blood, still shone with purity.
“My lady?”
“You may call me Reddel my faithful Tobias. What is it?”
“Am I not dead then?”
“No, dear sweet boy. Prepare yourself, because you’re about to go back.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Magnus grabbed the minor healing potion out of Funeris’ satchel.
“Did you have to hide it in that bag of yours?” he hissed as he popped the cork. The contents of the vial splashed into Funeris’ mouth, trickling down into the darkness of his throat. As Magnus watched, the neck wound quickly resealed, preventing the loss of any more blood. Funeris’ eyes flickered open as Magnus slid the great sword into the man-child’s hands.
But Tobias let the sword hit the ground again as he stood, grabbing an arrow from his quiver. The arrow was nocked and drawn before he was completely on his feet. Once standing, a quick step to the left of the howling Rorn gave him a clear line of sight of the durven that had nearly sent him to his death.
A split second later, Tobias returned the favor, an arrow between the durven’s crossed eyes, and another one in hand.
=========================
Chapter 5 Concluded
Motega glanced to his rear left and a gigantic smile split his face. But his grin faded as another of the dwem archers broke free from the writhing mbutt of vines and quickly took the place of the fallen durven. With the combined skill of Motega and Tobias, the dwem crossbowman did not last long at all.
Climbing to his feet, Magnus paused and gave himself a pat on the back.
“Why thank you Magnus, oh…you’re welcome. Not a problem. Glad I could help.” The mage spoke to his self while surveying the battle. It seemed Calyx had fallen as well, but that cleric was well within reach to heal her. Not much to do, he concluded and turned his attention back to the ensnared durven.
The largest one and the closest to Magnus, was screaming what sounded like obscenities. I will have to learn whatever that language is, Magnus silently noted while observing the scene. Magnus checked once more, Funeris and Motega had their backs toward him. Check. Calyx was unconscious or dead. Check. And Fitz was distracted with the hand-to-hand combat with that other durven. Check.
“Well, that means you’re mine.” A smile stretched across his face and then the vines released their grip. His smile quickly turned to hard determination as rays of color crackled from his hands, directly hitting the durven leader and the other remaining dwarf square in the eyes.
Motega and Funeris whirled around, having dropped the last durven archer, to the sight of Magnus slaughtering the two remaining dwem with his tiny daggers. The dwem were definitely unconscious. Fitz had removed the threat of his durven, healed Calyx at least to consciousness and returned to the other side of the battle.
Everyone shared looks, mentally deciding what to do next. Finally, Motega said, “Camp.” And it was so.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega and Tobias grabbed the durven bodies, dragging them toward the campsite while Fitz gave Calyx her routine battle check-up. Magnus had already started plundering the bodies, a sheet of parchment and a quill in one hand, his other hand rummaging. Occasionally his chuckling filled the air as he catalogued every item the enemies had held.
After a quiet dinner, Magnus went over his list with the rest of the group. The items that could be carried were divided up and Motega hid the rest in the wilderness. Then, shifts for watch were divided up and the majority of the party rested.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias had been stuck with the graveyard shift again. The woods were comfortably silent and he found his thoughts drawn back to Reddel.
It wasn’t unheard of to be chosen by an angel. He thought the chosen were called Paladins. But it often led to a life of persecution. The Risen Gods weren’t the most friendly toward the perfectly designed angels and their chosen. And that was not saying anything about the Gods’ even more imperfect followers on Ostia Prim.
But his thoughts drifted and ebbed as his eyes started to close. Tobias’ head bobbed; sleep slowly rapped its exhaustive tendrils around Tobias. And whether from the exertion of the day or just the lateness of the night, he slept.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Shhhh....Shut up, will you,” the cloaked mage whispered hoarsely. “We need our hearing! You can’t see in the dark, can you?!” The mage stalked slowly ahead of his two remaining companions. Already, they had lost too many companions this foul night.
Now, they were forced to trudge through this d@mn forest, just to escape….whatever the hell those things were. And Galum, the mage, wasn’t happy at all about it. Especially with his two remaining noisy companions.
“We need to hear in case they’re following,” he hissed to emphasize his point. As he said that, he stopped abruptly causing his companions to bump into him. His hand shot up in the gesture for stop although he doubted they knew what that meant. So, instantly he changed the gesture to one meaning look.
His companions stepped nearly silently from behind and peered at the young man sleeping against the tree.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
A harsh snap of twigs and metal clanging together roused Motega. He nocked an arrow, while on the ground then kicked Magnus to wake him. The mage’s eyes flickered open as well and before he could utter a sound, Motega motioned for silence then pointed toward Funeris’ general location. Magnus nodded and rolled over to tap Fitz.
Motega stood up, the fire had died long ago and what few embers remained did nothing to alleviate the darkness. With the skill he was practically born with, Motega stalked over to an old, huge tree that provided enough cover. His eyes, slowly adjusting to the dark night made out three shapes standing above Funeris. One of them was reaching for Funeris’ great sword.
Suddenly a clank from the camp caused the bandit to snap his head up. No time like the present, thought Motega. He loosed the arrow, which hit the bandit in the shoulder. Galum, stepped backward toward the entrance of the forest, avoiding the arrow fire.
The other bandit stepped in toward the still sleeping paladin, removing a huge sword from its scabbard. He swung at the sleeping boy with all of his might. The sword landed maybe an inch above Tobias’ head. The reverberation of the tree woke the sleeping paladin, his hand instinctively grabbing the sword.
Magnus, Fitz and Calyx ran onto the scene as Tobias stood returning the sword blow. Galum unleashed a ball of energy onto Tobias, which pushed him back but didn’t nearly drop the man-child.
Within mere seconds, with the mage making his self known, the battle was ended as abruptly as it began. The bandit with the sword lied dead at Tobias feet, Galum’s body not far off in the wood and the younger bandit cowering at Fitz’s feet, begging for mercy from the cleric.
“I haven’t had a good hek.” Fitz stated plainly. “You’re lucky I’m a holy man. Bind him.”
====================
Chapter 6: Return to Castle Llyndofare
When Tobias awoke the next morning, the interrogation was almost complete. Not much information was to be gained from the bandit that had survived the attack. He had been a member of a group of bandits from Andorric’s Steps. They had fled southward to Llyndofare and met resistance from a creature, a scorpiot. Many of their group had died leaving only the three that had foolishly attacked the Heroes the prior night.
The noisy bandit, Torren, had apologized for the attack. Blaming the mage, Galum, for the hostility, he swore he would do anything if not put out of his misery. So, for the moment, the Heroes just bound his hands and headed for Llyndofare.
The remaining journey was quiet and uneventful. Time pbutted quickly and before they were aware, the edge of the forest dashed toward them leading them into the shadow of the plateau Castle Llyndofare crouched upon.
Motega stopped to check tracks but aside from the minor marks left from the three remaining bandits, none were to be found. He shook his head and the party began strategy discussion.
“We could just barge in through the front again,” Magnus suggested. “It worked the first time. Why not make it habit?” He grinned at the last word, daring the gods to act against the Heroes of Marchford.
“No. Back door,” was all Motega grunted.
Funeris picked up the slack in conversation, “While I like the idea of barging through the front door, if they’re waiting for us and are aware of our route last time, Mo’ might be right. Perhaps its time to use the back door.”
“It was trapped.” Magnus reminded.
“I can handle it,” Motega rebuttured the party. “Simple trap. No problems.”
“Fine,” conceded Magnus. “Let’s go then.” As the party left the mouth of the forest, Magnus glanced backward to see Fitz talking to the bandit.
“Are you coming, priest?”
“I’m sure you’ll be alright. I’m going to convert….I mean talk to our new friend, Toren.” Fitz’s eyes were alight with happiness.
“Suit yourself, priest.” Magnus turned and caught up with the remainder of the group.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega had scouted ahead, per the norm. He stopped at the back door, which was no longer trapped. As he peered under the heavy wood door, he could make out what appeared to be a human in leather armor. Another bandit he buttumed and waved the rest of the Heroes forward.
The group quietly entered the rear courtyard of Castle Llyndofare. This was the place where Nimrodel, the barbaric elf, had nearly fallen. As they noted details, a door that had previously been closed and secured had since been opened.
They headed toward the door, listening intently for sounds of life on the other side. Not a peep was heard, nor a stir of the breeze. Motega stealthily shut the door.
“Upstairs. We’ll use the catwalks to look----“ as he was finishing the statement, the doors slammed open, knocking him across the courtyard. He landed splayed out but was only down for a half second. As he leapt back onto his feet, drawing his bow, he searched out the cause of his embarrbuttment.
Standing in the doorway for the unknown courtyard, was another of the monstrous scorpiots. Its mandibles clicked and clacked as its dark eyes measured up its new dinner.
Slowly, its arachnid tail snapped back and forth, preparing for a strike.
Tobias loosed an arrow as Motega charged with his sword drawn. Calyx also rushed in for melee. But neither Motega nor Calyx could pierce the thick hide of the beast. Tobias’ arrows bounced harmlessly off of its exoskeleton as well.
The scorpiot ducked a blow from Motega and came up after an attack from its tail, delivering two devastating claw attacks as well as a bite on Motega. The Rorn fell back a few paces, fighting a quick poison that flowed within his veins, sapping his strength.
Calyx stepped in to cut the creature off as Magnus rushed into battle, daggers drawn. Tobias, still from a safe distance, loosed several more arrows. One arrow dug slightly into the beast, several others all deflected.
But the beast was not phased by Tobias’ arrow. Its clickety clacking increased in rapidity, and it dove in for the kill on Calyx. She narrowly avoided the poisonous tail but was hit hard by the claws and bite.
Magnus uttered, “Ceria, where is your priest?” He stepped forward to distract the beast from Calyx, who was now on the ground.
Tobias, have faith in me. Have faith in yourself. A voice sounded in Tobias’ head and the compulsion led him to drop the bow and draw his sword. Strike true, my paladin.
As Tobias reached the battle, Motega was again on his feet, taking more swings at the primitive humanoid. The beast vacillated on which it wanted to kill first, Magnus or Motega. It struck Motega again with the poison and landed a serrated claw attack on Magnus.
Tobias stepped up and brought the great sword down hard across the beast’s exoskeleton. It stumbled back and responded with the same attack that had forced Motega back. The burning in Tobias’ veins didn’t take hold. And the young paladin screamed in rage. His great sword came down again and again, smiting the beast.
The scorpiot gurgled black bile as its carapace hit the ground. Motega took his sword and cut the poisonous stinger off of the tail. Then strung it onto a chain that he wore around his throat. Standing, Motega and Tobias looked around at the damage.
Magnus whimpered, “Cleric…”
============================
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 13:06:37 GMT -5
Chapter 6 Continued: Return to Castle Llyndofare
Fitz looked the bloodied heroes over. Not much in the way of wounds, just minor scratches. But the poison from these creatures, the scorpiots, was nasty. Funeris had barely fended off the damage. Motega, Calyx and Magnus were not so fortunate. Fitz quickly repaired the battered heroes and set about cooking a mid-morning lunch.
The bandit Toren smiled gleefully beside the food fire. He had stuffed his face all morning on nuts and berries while nodding to the priest’s sermons. The priest had also been kind enough to remove the bonds and allow him to stretch. Not a bad group, he thought. Much better than Galum yelling at him all the time. Even if he did have to endure the priest’s babbling about the Goddess Ceria.
Tobias looked over at Toren, watching the bandit’s eyes flicker back and forth in thought. “So then, has our great priest reformed you yet?”
The bandit absolutely beamed. “Well, he’s doing the best he can. I’m sure a couple more sermons and he’ll have me following his Ceria.” His grin did not diminish as he pocketed another handful of berries.
“And what God do you follow, boy?” The bandits teeth nibbled incessantly on another nut.
Tobias’ eyes skirted toward the ground. “I do not follow any god anymore.”
“What’s that?” Fitz chimed in. “Not even Morduk, Funeris? You did donate to the church in Marchford did you not?”
“Well, yes. My beliefs have changed a bit since then. And I don’t feel like discussing it right now.” Tobias turned away to finish his brunch. “And, my real name is Tobias, Fitz.”
The party sat in silence in the early summer mid-morning until their meals were consumed. Then they returned again to the rear entrance of Castle Llyndofare.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Fitz had again stayed outside the castle walls, to continue preaching to Toren. Motega was slightly annoyed with this turn of events. Definitely, the cleric could have been used inside Llyndofare not outside converting a bandit to Ceria. Had he just eaten the bandit, the healer would be inside with the rest of the Heroes. A silent sigh escaped Motega’s lips. This problem would never occur again, he promised.
The rear courtyard was exactly had the Heroes had left it. Well, almost at any rate. The only difference was the disappearance of the scorpiot that had been slain. In the corpse’s place was a set of tracks left from the body. A trail left from the body being dragged into the unknown courtyard. Motega motioned for silence as he listened for movement. But again, not a sound could be heard over the quiet summer breeze.
Through hoarse whispers, a quick plan was created. Calyx was left beside the double doors to the remaining courtyard. Motega, Tobias and Magnus climbed stairs onto the catwalk that looked into the empty remaining courtyard. Motega’s sharp eyes could see the trail of the corpse slithering into the doorway for one of the storage rooms.
The three on the catwalk readied their weapons and aimed at the doorway. Motega launched a rock backward off the catwalk, signaling Calyx to pin the doors shut with the climbing pitons. As soon as Calyx brought the hammer to bear on the piton and the sound broke the midmorning silence, a scorpiot charged out of the storage room.
Motega and Tobias pegged the beast with their arrows, two apiece before it traversed the distanced to the double doors. The monster clicked in fury and rage as it hit the double doors. Although the shots did not kill the scorpiot, it did give Calyx enough time to wedge four pitons into the door.
As the beast smashed against the door like the sea on the shore, Calyx ran up the stairway to rejoin her companions. Motega and Tobias kept smacking the beast with their arrows. Magnus sat coolly back, watching the storage room, his crossbow aimed at the doorway.
But, Magnus blinked. And during that blink, two events occurred. The first was the unavoidable smashing of the doors by the enraged scorpiot. The second, another scorpiot stepped from the storage room and pelted Motega with a blast of raw, magical energy.
Magnus’ eyes began to reopen as the magical energy engulfed Motega. Then his fingers, out of pure nervous reflex, pulled the trigger. The bolt flew straight and pounded the scorpiot wizard in the chest. The beast squealed and clicked as it ducked back into the room.
Tobias let his bow hit the floor as he moved toward the stairwell to confront the scorpiot that pounded up the stairway. The mage stepped over to Tobias’ prior position and resumed his position watching the door. After a moment’s breath, Motega also stood and trained his bow upon the same archway.
The scorpiot that chased Calyx up the stairs nearly pinned her at the entrance of the catwalk before Tobias was upon the beast with his great sword. The scorp mage made the mistake of stepping out of the storage room to prepare his next spell. It was the last mistake he’d ever make as Magnus’ bolt pierce his chest and Motega’s arrow found a home between it’s eyes. The lifeless carapace collapsed against the framing for the door.
Motega turned his feral eye to the beast Tobias was engaging in combat. Tobias was holding his own, fighting off the poison but not having much luck at connecting. Motega rushed into the battle with his own blade and quickly the scorpiot met his fate at the hands of Motega’s and Tobias’ blades.
The Heroes looked around at each other. No poisoning, just a few scratches this time. They all broke into grins.
=============================
Chapter 6 Concluded: Return to Castle Llyndofare
Surveying the inner courtyard from their position on the catwalk, it was decided to walk openly into the area would probably be an invitation for attack. With minimal difficulty, the Heroes could scale down the wall and onto the one-story buildings that abutted the walls.
Motega took his usual position as first in the order of Heroes to descend. He slinked quietly along the roofs of the storage rooms to the edge of the structure the scorpiots had attacked from.
Edging toward the door, he checked to make sure the scorpiot mage was still crumpled against the doorframe. His ears detected no sound from the room and so he climbed stealthily to the ground and peered through the doorway.
The only other scorpiot in the room was the one they had slain earlier in the morning. He noted the absence of a stinger as his work. Motega motioned everyone else to come forward. Then he bent down to remove the scorpiot mage’s tail and add it to his collection while waiting for the other Heroes to join him.
The room the scorpiots had issued from was just another storage room. One table had been swept clean and the first dead scorpiot had been laid in a resting position. His arms, if they could truly be called that, crossed upon his chest. Two large rubies were set on top of both of his eyes.
Magnus grabbed the rubies and pocketed them. Then proceeded to ransack the rest of the room, although only rubble and trash were seen. He came upon a jade necklace of scorpiot figures. Examining it, he declared it as non-magical and threw it into the sack that hung loyally from his side.
“Well, there’s not much else here,” he stated. And looked at the rest of the party. “We should probably reinforce the well. If they’re pouring up from the Deeping Delve, the well is their source. If we close it, there will be no more scorpiots.” He flashed a grin before mumbling, “and no more poison.”
The party turned their attention toward the well near the center of the courtyard. Broken chunks of rock and wood littered the area. But nothing covered the hole.
“There has to be someway to seal it off.” Magnus stated.
“Door,” grunted Motega.
“Right. Funeris come with me and help me move the door.” Magnus took off toward the large rear door for Llyndofare. The two headed to the rear door. It still lay upon the poor bandit that had been crushed. With a bunch of heaving and grunting, Magnus and Tobias could not move the door. Motega and Calyx were gathered and the extremely heavy wooden door slid toward the well.
The group paused for breath about fifteen feet before the well. Magnus decided to take the opportunity to see if any more scorpiots were coming up. As he neared the well, his body trembled and he started to shake. He only looked down for a split second before he turned tail. He didn’t stop running until he was nearly out of the courtyard.
Tobias watched all of this and decided to figure out what had happened. He stalked toward the well and peered down it. As he neared, his body tried to shake and tremble in fear. It felt almost as if a cold breeze was blowing out of the well. But he forced himself to peer over the edge and search the darkness with his eyes.
Thirty feet below, the well abruptly ended and a tunnel shot to the north. He couldn’t make out anything in the tunnel because of a lip of rock that protruded from the wall.
Tobias’ ears exploded in cold whispers. The whispers rocked his body and he felt the shaking start to return. The word evil formed in his mind. Hard, dark and definable evil lurked within the well. With his hands covering his ears, he turned to warn his companions.
“Evil…”
Then a dark shadow was upon him; rending his flesh and sapping his strength.
========================
Chapter 7: Child's Play
Reader Warning: Hilarity Ensues...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias struggled to understand what was now happening. His sword seemed to weigh an extraordinary amount. As he focused, he realized the blade hadn’t gained any weight, nor were his arms any weaker. No, his mind was what had lost weight. And now his ability to concentrate on the task at hand, dispatching this dead beast, was diminished.
As he continued trying to focus, he realized the creature was tearing Magnus, who had apparently returned to help Tobias, virtually apart. Although the wounds the creature caused were more mental than physical. And the black shadow of un-life seemed to swell with each attack, feasting upon their minds while blinding its attackers with fear. Magnus had begun to drool before the other Heroes stepped up to the task.
Motega’s arrows flew harmlessly through the wicked spirit ricocheting off the stone and shattering. And when he stepped in with his blade, it went just as cleanly and painlessly through the ephemeral body. Motega’s face turned to one of anger and rage. Perhaps hidden in the lines of his face, was a little fear as well.
Calyx almost immediately understood the nature of the beast and cast a spell onto her weapon. And although she landed a hit or two, the constant mind raping the beast did seemed to heal it immediately.
Tobias rejoined the fight, swinging only to distract the beast. Motega had the same plan in whatever was left of his own mind. And all the while, Magnus lie on the ground drooling.
Several minutes passed and the beast was still no worse off. Motega gave up the ghost, grabbed Magnus and ran faster than any Rorn could toward the exit. This sudden retreat prompted Calyx to also withdraw from the battle.
The beast turned upon Tobias, who stared almost dumbly at it for ten full seconds. Then realizing his friends had left, he wiped the drool from his own face and stumbled after them.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fitz took a cloth and wiped the drool and dirt from Magnus’ face. Magnus twitched away from the priestly hand.
“Not now. Game.” Magnus scrawled a big “X” on the ground with a stick. Tobias broke out in overly proud laughter and countered with an “O”.
“Cat! Cat! You win!” the young paladin screamed and both he and Magnus burst into tears of joy. Their laughter was terribly loud and grating.
“Well from what you’ve told me,” Fitz started, “It was probably an Allip. We’ll need some magic to cleanse the taint in that soul. And I haven’t prepared the necessary spells today. And I’m not sure if it is within my capabilities to help our young friends. We need to head to a town or city that can handle our needs. Marchford and Dun Beric, the prior from lack of funds the latter from lack of civility, cannot help us at this point. Suggestions?”
“There is a city to the north of Dun Beric,” Calyx responded. “It may have the resources you need. If we travel toward Dun Beric, we can rest at Greffan’s family farm. Then, we’ll head north to Dun Moor. The road will take us.”
“Excellent idea. Let’s be off then. Toren, round up the children, would you?” In the background two children laughed and screamed while playing hide-and-go-seek. Toren chased after them as Fitz, Calyx and Motega grabbed the gear they could carry.
=========================
Chapter 7: Child's Play Continued
Sorry to keep you guys waiting. Here's a brief one. More updates coming this week.
__________________________________________________ _______________
Greffan the elder’s farm was a quaint yet vast rolling land just to the south of Dun Beric. As the party approached, the sun was about to descend below the horizon.
“Thank you Ceria for protecting us in our journeys,” whispered Fitz. Greffan the younger ran up the trail to the home.
“Thanks for taken me up on my offer,” he said. Then his eyes peered at the group of worn heroes before him. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my father and get you setup for the night.”
Greffan the elder was a wizened man; his silver locks cut short, barely spiraling away from his head in a gentle curl. His hands, worn from working the fields, reflected a youth not spent in hard labor. His fingernails were pristine, despite the inevitable dirt encountered in farming, and also cut short. Eyes a crystal blue radiated joy when the travelers entered the home. He stood and with outstretched arms gestured them in, then bowed humbly before the group.
“I welcome you to my humble home.” A grin split his face as he finished his bow. “You have given me quite a gift and I believe I will always been indebted to you for the life of my son. Please, please sit down.” He motioned toward a few finely crafted high-back chairs that were arranged around an empty fireplace.
“Thank—“ before Fitz could finish, Tobias slapped Magnus and charged out the door. Magnus pivoted and followed in a quick dash. Fitz’s knuckles whitened from pressure on the arm of a chair. “As I was saying, thank you for your hospitality. We appreciate it greatly.”
“Not at all a problem. But you’ll forgive me, its been quite awhile since I’ve had guests and I hope you’ll find everything to your liking.”
“Everything is perfect.”
“Son, please bring drinks for our friends. Now, if you don’t mind, tell me of your adventures.” The joy in his blue eyes mingled with excitement as the travelers recounted their tale.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The remainder of the night passed too swiftly for the Heroes that retained their wisdom. Greffan the elder was not an extravagantly rich man but his home offered comfort beyond anything the Heroes had found on the road. Dinner was a feast of homegrown vegetables, ham raised on the farm, and deer caught in the forest that abutted the rear of the property. The feast was washed down with a strong homebrew made from a secret recipe that had been in the family for two generations.
After dinner, Greffan the elder appraised many of the items the adventures had collected. He had been a jeweler before retiring to lead a life of quiet on his farm and gave them his appraisal for free. “To prevent you from being swindled,” he noted.
The remaining hours of the evening were spent in conversation of adventures past and possibly to come. All went to sleep full and content.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the sun pierced the horizon, the travelers looked back at the farm. Greffan the elder had made them promise a return trip, if ever they were in the area, again. When the march northward began, everyone looked forward to experiencing the comfort of the farm in the future.
The party passed Dun Beric in the early morning rays. They skirted the west side of the walls, avoiding the looks of the guards on patrol. No further signs of attack showed on the old, stonewalls. The damage to the entrance had been completely repaired since their last horrible visit to the town.
The northern road to Dun Moor was free of traffic and danger and the party reached the gates by mid-afternoon. The large town was setup almost exactly as its sister-city Dun Beric. A large stonewall skirted the outside bounds and entry was granted through gates manned by guards.
But as the party entered, they noticed a striking difference between the sister-cities. Dun Beric had been colorless bearing only the stark grays of Morduk, the god of justice. Dun Moor, in contrast, was overflowing with colorful greenery. Everywhere the party looked, plants grew upon buildings. Ivy climbed the sides of structures nearly covering the gray stone. Flowers of every variety and color blossomed on the edges of streets. Bright green trees sprouted in empty areas, offering their shade to people.
Fitz quickly hid his holy symbol while whispering a final prayer to Ceria. Then he motioned toward a wooden building in the center of an empty square. Empty except for the plants.
“The priestess will most likely be in that building.”
“Why do you hide your icon, cleric?” Calyx questioned.
“Qwyna Pru and Ceria are not on the best terms. If they see Ceria’s symbol, they may not be willing to help us.”
Calyx grimaced. “Fools with your petty gods.” The group of adventurers moved toward the wooden church.
==================
Chapter 7: Child's Play Continued
Note: Just so everyone knows, Magnus is a 16-year old male. He is suffering from a wisdom drain (as is Tobias and Motega to a lesser extent). He also rolled a natural ‘1’ on his diplomacy check. Much laughing ensued.
--oo—
Magnus’ mouth hung wide-open, drool dribbling out and splashing toward the floor. Fitz quickly dashed forward and covered the young mage’s mouth. Standing in front of the party, the apprentice to the priestess tapped her foot nervously. Her earthen colored robes clung tightly to the natural hills and valleys of her beautiful frame. The brown curly locks of hair danced down to her shoulders accented by strands of flowers among the curls.
“I will repeat myself only once,” she nervously, yet sternly stated. “Why is it that you need to see Mistress Erigal?” She shifted uncomfortably, trying to loosen her nearly skin tight robes.
“Well, we’re in need of some restorative powers,” Fitz blurted. “Specifically my friend here.” He nodded at the mage he had a hand clamped firmly over. “And a those two back there,” he gestured over his shoulder with his head.
“What you are requesting won’t be free.” She motioned to the makeshift cots on the floor of the wooden church. “Especially in dire times like now.”
“We are willing to pay for the services.” Muffled giggling erupted from Magnus’ covered mouth.
“Let me check with the lady.” The apprentice pivoted, and stalked toward the doorway in the rear of the church. Her head shot over her shoulder to catch all of the Heroes’ eyes, except Calyx’s, on her youthful form.
Calyx’s eyes, instead of staring, rolled and she grunted, “Men.”
The apprentice was only gone for mere moments. When she returned, still shifting uncomfortably under the Heroes’ gazes, she said, “You may enter the back room. Mistress Erigal, the Grower, will see you.” The party peeled themselves away from the apprentice and walked into the back room.
The Lady stood waiting for them in her private chambers. She eyed each one over as they entered. Her eyes focused briefly on the drooling youth. His head was rotated over his shoulder, peering back through the door. An older man practically dragged the youth through the door. If not for his lack of religious icons, he could’ve been a priest. The orange cloak he wore would point him out as a follower of Ceria, she thought. But no priest of Ceria would dare come to a church of Qwyna Pru for help. The rivalries between the goddesses ran deep.
Next through the door was another youth, although this one had long red hair. His eyes looked nearly vacant as if he lacked intelligence. And following him closely was a Rornman. The tribal tattoos easily pointed out his nationality. Heathens, she thought silently.
Calyx stalked into the doorway last. Mistress Erigal’s jaw almost hit the floor. Almost. A druid dared to enter?! What a strange party, she pondered. Druids were hated as much as followers of Ceria by the church of Qwyna Pru. Of course, followers of Ceria weren’t burned alive like the heathens that worshipped the old gods.
“The ritual is too expensive. I fear you won’t have the amount of currency necessary. I’m sorry to waste you time.” She smiled maliciously at the rag-tag band. She turned away, physically instructing them to leave.
“How much?” Fitz asked through clenched teeth.
“Eighteen Hundred silver pieces. Way beyond your means,” the Lady chided.
Fitz rummaged in the haversack. He removed the jade scorpiot necklace and tossed it onto her table. “Its been appraised at seventeen hundred silver pieces. And I’m sure we can handle the rest.” The look of surprise on the Lady’s face bolstered Fitz’s attitude.
She moved toward the table and inspected the jade figurine necklace. The gears in her mind turned over the new developments. “I can only give you twelve hundred in credit for this,” she struggled to make a disapproving scowl, “necklace. You still need six hundred silvers.” Assuming she had dissuaded the grungy travelers, she began to return the necklace to Fitz.
Fitz had another idea though. He grabbed a sack of coin and pushed the priestess aside. He dumped it’s contents onto the table and sorted through it. Once done he stated angrily, “There. There’s your other six hundred.” A cold glare pierced his usually peaceful eyes.
Lady Erigal’s jaw actually hit the floor this time. She quickly counted and was embarrassed. “Fine. I will perform the restorations for you. But, not until tomorrow.”
“Do we really have to wait that long?” demanded Fitz angrily.
“I am tired and will need to rest for the spell. Tomorrow is the earliest I can perform it. You are welcome to try someone else though, if you like.” The smug smile returned to her face.
“Fine. We will see you first thing in the morning.” Fitz grabbed his companions and pulled them out of the chapel. As the Heroes headed to the tavern, Mistress Erigal’s greedy giggling drifted out of the church.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note: Silvers Pieces are the standard currency in the Valus. So when I said 1800 silvers, it was actually 1800 GP in DnD terms.
=========================
Chapter 7 Continued
Merry Christmas everyone. This will be my last update before Christmas. I'm going out of town...need a break from the Yeti's demanding emails
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Myra, come in here please?” Lady Erigal’s overly sweet tone requested from the private chambers in the rear of the church. The apprentice’s eyes opened wide and she turned to hurry into the bedchambers.
“Yes, Mistress.” Myra bowed her head low in a show of respect and awaited her orders.
“I have a small task for you, dear Myra. I want you to follow that group of,” her words twisted into a tone of disgust, “heathens. I need to know anything and everything about them before tomorrow.”
“You can’t be serious!” Myra blurted and quickly dropped her head into a respectful gesture again. The manipulative smile on Lady Erigal’s face was replaced quickly with a stern, almost angry quiver of her lips.
“I am quite serious, Apprentice.” Condescension hung on the Lady’s words now. “I need to know about these individuals. These heathens. They travel with a druid and quite possibly a priest of Ceria. They may cause problems. And,” she paused to grope Myra’s chin, pulling her eyes upward, “I will have the church ready in such an event.”
“Yes, Lady Erigal,” Myra whispered. The Lady released her grip on the apprentice’s jaw. And broke into a wide smile again.
“They’ll probably stay in the Weeping Willow tonight.” Then she turned from her apprentice and back into her own thoughts.
Myra pivoted toward the door and sulkily left the church. Her thoughts were shrouded with the drooling looks of the Heroes of Marchford. Myra shivered, despite the warmth of the early summer evening, and moved toward the Willow.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Weeping Willow Bar and Inn stood only a few blocks from the church of Qwynna Pru. Aside from the overbearing plants that draped lazily from the ceiling and stood in nearly every free space on the floor, the Weeping Willow was like every other bar any of the heroes had seen.
Trying to keep a low profile, Fitz quickly purchased rooms and a round for his friends. Then, he headed off to find the table his friends had taken. The table was in a shadowy corner and nearly surrounded by several tall shrubs. The flickering light of the tavern cast the plant-life in an almost maniacal shadow. But, the shrubs did offer some degree of privacy, at least.
Fitz chose the seat closest to Magus, to hinder the witless mage’s exit. A bar wench brought the five tall ales over to the corner table. Her long brunette hair ran temptingly down her chest. She made sure to bow extra low for the dirty travelers.
Magnus’ mouth dropped open again, saliva spilling onto the table and Fitz’s drink. But as the mage started to clamor across the table, Funeris grabbed him by the robes and threw him backward into the wall. Magnus sighed, the air pummeled from his chest, and slid into his seat.
“You make uncle Fitz mad at us!” Tobias barked. Then the paladin grabbed his ale and swallowed it all in one quick gulp. He slammed the glass into the table, cracking and splintering it but not shattering it. “I’ll have another, thanks.” The bar wench smiled and headed off to refill the massive warrior’s ale.
Magnus grumbled but his slurping of ale drowned the sound out. Fitz sighed and consumed his own glass of brew then turned to Motega and Calyx.
“So,” Fitz tried to peer through the shrubbery to make sure no one was taking special notice in the heroes, “what next?”
“Finish that accursed spirit,” Motega spat. He looked uncomfortable in the bar and was only sipping the ale. Calyx hadn’t even touched her own. She looked as though she was planning defensive strategies. The plants would definitely give her an edge in any battle in the bar.
“Right. So, we’ll go back to Llyndofare, again, when we’re done here. Maybe with my presence, you’ll do a little better, eh?” Fitz grinned, the ale slowly taking its toll. Suddenly the bar wench turned the corner with the next round of ales.
Magnus’ arm leapt toward a point above Tobias’ shoulder and shouted, “Look!” Everyone turned, the bar wench nearly dropped the drink. Magnus took the momentary distraction and leapt toward the bar wench, groping hands pointed toward her overflowing chest.
Tobias’ reflexes were unfortunately quicker than the mages. A gigantic hand slammed into the mage’s ribcage throwing his leap far off the mark. Magnus landed upside down in a shrub with an audible ‘Whump’. His body pressed many of the poorly trimmed branches toward the bench seat of the table.
In the next booth Lady Erigal’s apprentice sat with a piece of parchment and a quill, scribbling notes. But her scribbling had paused when Magnus flew into the shrubbery.
"Wow,” Magnus exclaimed. “You’ve got some huge knock—.“ Fitz leapt from his seat and clamped a hand over the mage’s mouth.
“Shut up fool!” Then he saw the apprentice in the booth. Fitz’s face flushed maroon with anger just as the apprentice’s face flushed with embarrassment. Fitz pulled Magnus back into the booth and stood up. “Let’s go to our room. We can’t discuss anything here.” Fitz stalked off, dragging Magnus with him.
Magnus latched onto the apprentice’s booth. He leaned in and didn’t stop until he had a nice close view of her robes. “Ers. I said, ‘You’ve got some huge’.”
“I know what you said!” Myra squeaked. Her look vacillated between one of frustration, embarrassment and anger.
“Oh. Well if it makes you feel any better, they look great even upside down.” He flashed one more grin before Fitz pried him off the booth. Funeris didn’t even stop when he left the table.
Motega, however, stopped right in front of the apprentice. He glanced at the parchment and Myra made an attempt to cover it. Motega snapped it away from her and stuck it into his haversack. He leaned in real close and she cowered against the wall. Motega gnashed his teeth and growled in a low feral tone. Myra shuddered, trying to push herself through the wall.
When Myra opened her eyes again the heroes had disappeared toward the rooms. In the distance, she could hear one of them screaming about someone’s grandmother. Eric’s grandmother? Who is Eric, Myra thought. Then sighed, realizing Lady Erigal would not be pleased.
======================
Chapter 7: Child's Play Concluded
Lady Erigal peered at her servant from across the old oak desk. The stony glare would not have revealed much emotion except for the slight twitch in her left eye. Her lips began to move, no sound issued forth though.
“Mistress?” Myra whispered. Erigal’s knuckles turned white as her grip on the desk increased.
“You learned absolutely nothing?” The hoarse question was more of an accusation, Myra realized.
“No—“ the apprentice began but was immediately silenced by Lady Erigal’s gesture.
“I should have expected as much. The priest probably expected it. Well, I will just have to think of another method to attain my information.” Myra began to open her mouth again, only to be silenced for the second time that night.
“You are dismissed, Myra. Get some rest. Tomorrow might be a long day.” The Lady’s hands clasped her chin in quiet contemplation as Myra scuttled out the door.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fitz looked as if he had been slapped. His mouth hung open and his eyes wide. “But, we had a deal.”
“Well the rules of the deal have changed slightly. What you ask for is,” Erigal’s conniving grin lit up, “expensive.” Fitz grumbled and rummaged through his pack for his bag of coin.
“No, no,” the Mistress chided. “I do not require more money.” Fitz stopped rummaging and grunted. Motega almost beamed at the near-feral groan.
“What I require, aside from the monetary payment, is information.” Her grin pierced Fitz’s emotion and incited rage. “You see, the information I require will benefit both parties involved.”
“We DO NOT have time to run on errands for YOU!” Fitz screamed. His anger only served to widen the Lady’s smile.
“The information I require, you already possess. All you need do is answer my queries. Then, you shall receive the restorations as was agreed.” Her disheartening grimace inspired a slight level of fear in Fitz. But he nodded, fully expecting the worst. With a few gestures and quiet words from the Lady, Fitz felt divine magical energy crackle around him. It instantly faded but Fitz had recognized the spell at once: a zone of truth.
“Question number one,” the condescension in her voice heavily apparent again. “How exactly did you come into possession of such a minor fortune?”
Fitz released a nearly audible sigh. Quickly, he recounted the Heroes’ adventures since meeting in the Town of Marchford. Lady Erigal’s eyebrows peeked at certain points in the story, but her expression remained neutral. Upon completion of the tale, Fitz smiled happily. Not one lie, he thought proudly.
But the overly proud grin on the Lady’s face did nothing to quiet the discomfort that welled within Fitz’s stomach. She rested her chin on the palm of her hand, staring through the empty air. After a few moments of unsettling silence, she reaffixed her gaze on Fitz.
“For the second and final question, you each must answer individually.” Fitz’s mouth ran dry. He felt he knew the next question. Lady Erigal’s gaze now shifted between each of the Heroes of Marchford, lingering longest on Calyx before returning to Fitz. “Which god to you worship?”
Fitz’s stomach plummeted. If he were to answer truthfully, he thought, his friends would not receive the help they had already paid for. His eyes lowered to the floor in quick contemplation. And if he lied, the gears grinding furiously in his mind, then she would instantly know. Fitz raised his gaze, stared deeply into the Lady’s eyes and made the only right decision.
“I don’t have to tell you that.” Lady Erigal’s smile faded. “First, it wasn’t part of the original payment. Second, I am not in need of your restoration. So you can take your question and shove—.” Motega patted Fitz on the shoulder, quieting the priest.
The Lady Erigal’s lip twitched slightly. “Fine, those not in need of a Restoration need not answer,” she grudgingly conceded. “Everyone else though, must. I use my abilities for the good of my own church, not for enemies of my church.” Her eyes again glowered at Calyx.
“You, redhead! What God do you worship?” She implored.
Tobias smiled. Shrugged. Fitz’s face twitched in earnest. “I worship no gods, priestess.”
The Lady grimaced. This young heathen told the truth. Seemed to take pleasure in it, she thought. Her scowl deepened. “Fine, I will be able to restore you.” She pivoted toward the mage. Magnus’ head was peeked out the doorway eyes intently fixed on Myra. “Shut that door!” The priestess bellowed. Magnus leapt backward and shut the door abruptly. He turned but his gaze was now locked on the floor.
“And what God or Goddess do you follow, pig?” Her stern gaze kept Magnus’ eyes staring at the floor for only one moment.
But Magnus raised his head and smiled. “Myself,” he stated tallwhackerily. The Lady’s face went red and she almost choked on the air she was breathing. “Within my body there is power you couldn’t understand. And I don’t have to worship some monkey wearing colorful robes to get it!”
Fitz chuckled under his breath. The Lady Erigal grew rigid and angry. Her body convulsed. Magnus beamed at his sudden clarity of thought. But as quickly as it came, it passed.
Still no lie, the Mistress thought. “Let us be done with our business.” The words slid out between the Lady Erigal’s gritted teeth.
As quickly as was possible, the companions were restored and pivoted to exit the small church. As Calyx moved toward the door, Lady Erigal grasped her by the shoulder.
“We Burn Druids,” the Mistress hissed. Fires of hate welled in Calyx’s eyes, but her mouth remained shut.
“Take care not to pass this way again, Heathen. Else we may have to convert you. Painfully, if need be.” Calyx ripped her shoulder from the Lady’s grasp. And without any word, exited the church.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Heroes stood outside the gates of Dun Moor, deciding their next actions. Calyx stalked out of the gate and pushed through them, making no move to slow down or stop.
“Wait!” Magnus cried. “Where are you going?”
Calyx stopped and turned. Her eyes were full of tears and rage. “To get answers.” The druid paused for a moment, taking a steadying breath. Then with finality claimed, “My path lays a different way than yours.” She spun away from the Heroes and ran into the forest. The forest swallowed her form eagerly and the four remaining Heroes of Marchford looked on in surprise.
=========================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep
The Heroes stared into the forest. Calyx had gone. She had left them just as quickly as she had joined them. It was unexpected.
“Uh…” Magnus started then abruptly just stopped.
“Why?” Tobias began but likewise silenced himself.
“She travels her own path,” Motega answered.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Fitz agreed. “Let’s move on. What’s next?”
“We have to return to Llyndofare,” announced the paladin. “How can we defeat that…creature?”
Fitz turned toward Tobias. “Well, our weapons won’t be of much use against the spirit.”
“And we don’t have enough money to purchase new weapons,” Magnus declared. “Don’t have enough money to do much of anything,” he added in a whisper.
“We’ll go back for the gear,” grunted Motega.
“Yes,” Magnus said doing rough calculations in his mind, “if we get the gear and sell it, we should have enough money to purchase some scrolls…” his voice trailed off in thought. “We’ll need a cart!” Everyone turned and stared at the mage. “What? It’s a lot of gear! And not to doubt the strength of our warrior here,” he added quickly, “But, if we have a cart, it will speed the whole process up.”
“Can we afford a mule drawn cart?” Fitz asked.
“Well…um…”
“I can,” answered Tobias. Then he turned and entered Dun Moor.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Ahh, well I’m sorry I can’t help you.” The Stable Master uncomfortably answered.
“It’s just for a few days. You have my word.” Tobias’ eyes measured the Stable Master up. He was an older fellow, probably in his forties. His unkempt brown hair hung loosely over his shoulders. And his face was covered by a layer of filth, probably from working in the stables. Tobias noted the man’s clothing, which was not much more than rags held together precariously by a handful of remaining seems.
“Well see…the carts are needed…” the Stable Master began again.
“What’s your name?” Tobias interrupted.
“Harold,” the man answered raising his eyebrow questioningly.
“Okay. Harold, look I am in dire need of a mule drawn cart. I, well my companions and I, are transporting goods for sale. But as I’ve said, we need a cart. It will only be a few days. But if you can provide the cart I need, I promise to bring you more business. And,” the paladin reached into his satchel of money, “I tip heavily.” Tobias dropped two silver pieces in the man’s hand. **
Harold’s grin could have lit up the room. Two Silver Pieces, he thought. That’s more than I make in a month. “You will have the very finest cart. And try to have it back at the end of three days. But if not, keep it as long as you need.” He grinned again and moved hurriedly to secure the cart for travel.
** - On top of slipping the Stable Master money, I had to roll a diplomacy check. I rolled a twenty. The man idolizes me Also…remember that silver pieces are actually gold pieces in the Valus.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Several days had passed. The Heroes had gathered the gear from their hiding spot in the woods near Llyndofare, transported it back to Dun Moor and sold all of it. The proceeds had gone to a few scrolls the mage suggested and to Harold the Stable Master. Tobias had also slipped Harold a few more silver pieces for his time. The only problem the Heroes had run into was a small band of Orcs and Goblins. The problem didn’t last long.
The Heroes looked through the archway at the well. The solid oak door was still beside the well, and nothing else seemed to have changed. Magnus used a scroll or two to enhance the blades Motega and Tobias wielded. They headed in toward the well.
A few feet from the well, the shadowy apparition slid up through the ground to attack. The insane babbling of voices attacked the Heroes, but could not pass through the magical enchantments on the party. Smug smiles cracked on the Heroes’ faces. Then they sent the spirit to its final death.
=============================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
The northern tower shot up above the high walls of Llyndofare. It was easily twice as high as the protective stonewalls of the castle. Empty black windows looked down upon the courtyard. Not a creature stirred, not a sound was made after the defeat of the Allip. The tower was the only area in Llyndofare that had not been searched and cleared. Heaving the heavy wooden backdoor over the well, the Heroes moved toward the tower.
Once in the entry, two sets of wooden stairs drifted upward into the ceiling. One set of stone stairs pierced the ground, spiraling downward. Of the mindset to prevent any ambushes, the Heroes headed downstairs into the basement.
The basement however was empty, with the exception of two dwem soldiers. The soldiers had been dead for several days, as evidenced by the rot of the corpses. Both had suffered several bite attacks, pieces of flesh ripped from their bodies. Their gear lay unceremoniously in a pile next to their corpses. The Heroes gladly helped themselves to the easily earned loot. Then, they proceeded upward, past the entrance hall and to the second story.
This level was also empty except for antique furniture from the days Llyndofare had been occupied. A spare room near the northern wall held more free loot. This loot also came from the deaths of two dark dwarf corpses. Anticipation racked the minds of the Heroes as they gathered what could possibly be used, then headed to the third level.
Upon finding another empty floor, exasperation coupled with anticipation. This level yielded absolutely nothing, not even dwem corpses. The party looked emptily at the last remaining staircases. Tobias started up the right, just as Motega began the left.
As their heads popped above the final floor the familiar clacking mandibles of the Scorpiots sounded behind. Tobias unsheathed his greatsword, Motega knocked an arrow and the battle was joined.
But despite the warning of the clicking mandibles and the anticipation, Tobias took the full force of a wicked claw attack to ascend the final few stairs. Motega was more fortunate, pushing his attacker off the offensive with a well-placed arrow. Both Motega and Tobias moved away from the stairs, opening a path for the mage and cleric below.
Tobias forced his scorpiot adversary away from the stairs with a stunningly powerful attack. The scorpiot barely deflected the arcing swing of the greatsword and retaliated with equal fervor, it’s poisonous barbed tail piercing Tobias’ armor. The familiar burning of poison stung Tobias’ veins, but he shrugged off the poison and raised his sword for another attack.
A missile of magical energy exploded into Tobias’ back, damage he couldn’t shrug off. Motega launched a volley of arrows at the scorpiot mage; his arrow-tips found only the walls of Castle Llyndofare.
Upon the explosion of the magical missiles, Magnus scrambled up the stairs and headed toward Tobias. The mage had memorized a strength-enhancing spell that morning and moved into a position to deliver the extra power to Tobias. As he took his place behind and slightly to the side of Tobias, a final viscous attack dropped the young fighter unconscious. The scorpiot turned its attention toward Magnus. Magnus gulped.
Fitz finally ascended the stairs near Motega. The Rornman had dropped his bow and now faced off with the claws and tail of the scorpiot mage. The Cleric of Ceria peered around to find the best course of action and moved toward Tobias.
Magnus pivoted, barely dodging a claw and ran toward Motega, drawing the beast away from Tobias. But before he had made it halfway across the room, the beast’s barbed tail pierced his kidney. Magnus remembered the feel of the poison as it coursed into his veins just before his world went black.
Motega’s blade slid powerfully between the natural armor of the scorpiot. Its beady eyes went wide as it embraced the death delivered. The ranger lifted his boot to the scorpiot’s chest and kicked its corpse off his blade. Then he turned to pursue the other attacker.
Fitz had dodged nimbly by the charging scorpiot and slid to a stop in front of Tobias. He leaned down withdrawing a wand and coaxed the healing into the fallen paladin’s body. Tobias’ eyes flittered open.
“Behind you!” Tobias’ raspy voice called out. Fitz spun about to see the scorpiot drop Motega into a heap. The scorpiot charged the cleric, a cacophony of noise spurting from its mandibles. Fitz stepped back and the beast nearly fell upon him.
Tobias leapt up at the last possible second, his greatsword raised high, using the creature’s own force to impale it. The monstrous beast slid off the blade with a sickly slop sound.
Fitz looked around at the carnage and then moved to heal his party members.
==================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
Here's that second post I promised for this week
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early morning of the next day, the Heroes of Marchford awoke in castle Llyndofare. A sprinkling of rain had passed during the early morning hours and despite that relief, the rising sun promised another scorching day.
Motega stalked out into the nearby forest to hunt and harvest a meal for the entire party. The other three remained in the castles and began constructing warnings for any bandits that might wish for refuge. An hour later Motega returned with a dear and various nuts and berries.
After a quick breakfast, the Heroes quickly finished with their preparations. Magnus was quietly affixing his crystal blue arcane mark to the tops of the towers when Motega sighted a band of men approaching from the North. A shrill whistle sounded from Motega’s lips and the rest of the party took their positions.
Motega, Tobias and Magnus waited along the catwalks at the rear of Llyndofare while Fitz exited the back door. He walked to the edge of bridge and waited.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gandras had welcomed the sight of Llyndofare from the distance. She was a magnificent keep that had protected him, his kin, and his associates for many years. The tales of the keep were over-exaggerated in his opinion. Often there were sounds in the castle at night but it was easy to recognize the sounds as nothing more than insects and animals. But the superstitious peasants had obviously exaggerated. Bugs became restless spirits. Animals became vicious ghosts craving companionship. It was for that reason he had chosen Llyndofare. No guards would dare enter the keep, preferring to face the wrath of their commanders than the wrath of a spirit.
But Llyndofare was different this time. He recognized it easily even from this distance. Gigantic blue symbols blazed at the top of each tower, even along the walls intermittently. The mark had to be of a mage Gandras thought. The implications were something to worry about. But perhaps, it was merely from a mage that traveled with another group of bandits. Deciding to at least garner a bit more information before deciding whether to flee, Gandras instructed his six companions forward.
When the bandits had finished climbing the steep trail up the plateau, a shrill whistle pierced the air. Movement could be seen among the catwalks behind the high walls. The bandit group slowed a bit to search for archers. Seeing none they continued toward the rear door, which surprisingly was gone.
A man shuffled out of the keep and toward the bandits. Gandras’ hand went instinctively to his dagger, but he did not withdraw it. He stopped his men ten feet from the man, obviously a priest not a mage. That meant there was at least one other here, Gandras thought. He saw movement above and quickly multiplied that figure.
An awkward silence stilled the warm air until Gandras broke it. “I seek refuge for my traveling companions and myself. Please step aside.”
“I am sorry,” Fitz began, “but castle Llyndofare can no longer be a refuge for travelers.”
“She has always been a refuge!” Gandras quickly retorted. “Surely a priest and mage would not cast travelers out?! Especially ones exhausted with a hard journey and just needing a bit of rest?”
“Castle Llyndofare has been reclaimed by his rightful owner the Duke of Dun Beric. No one is permitted to enter at this time,” Fitz calmly replied. “It is not safe.”
“Safe? Of course Llyndofare is safe. You’re here aren’t you?” Gandras didn’t believe the lie about the Duke. These bandits were just fortunate enough to have a cleric as well, he decided.
A grunt issued from behind the wall, as Tobias lifted the tied object and flung it over the wall. The body of a scorpiot plummeted downward then snapped as the rope held it in place. Looks of horror blossomed on the bandits’ faces, all except for Gandras.
“Llyndofare is not safe, not be gone.” Fitz demanded.
“Just one,” Gandras searched is memory for the name of the unnatural creature before him not finding one, “beast and already dead. Now let us in!” Suddenly three more of the insect-appearing beasts flew over the edge of the wall. Then four more bodies joined those four, the dwem corpses.
Gandras had heard of the dark dwarves. He knew them to be evil, more evil than petty bandits. His mind began to change. Perhaps Llyndofare wasn’t so safe.
“There are more inside.” Fitz challenged. “If you really want to risk the lives of your men, then by all means enter. But,” he held up a finger to mark his point, “the infestation has not been cleared yet. You would do well to leave.” The other six bandits turned to walk away. Gandras had a hard time pulling his eyes from the corpses.
“Oh!” Fitz added. “If you have need, I can send a garrison of soldiers with you to make sure your journey is a safe one. I wouldn’t want you to run into any bandits along the route.” Fitz nearly beamed as the leader turned to follow his men.
“That won’t be necessary!” Gandras shouted. “We know the land well enough!” Then the bandits disappeared over the lip of the plateau.
====================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
Here's the first half of the next part. I'm working on the next part but I'm not sure I'll get it up today. Enjoy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias and Motega slid the one thousand pound door off the well. Cautiously they peered into the hole that ended abruptly at a cave-in only thirty feet down. From the cave in, a tunnel headed generally northward, but the ledge was such that nothing could be seen.
“There is still something evil down in the well. Not too far down that tunnel,” Tobias noted. Then he shifted to find a handhold of some type. A rope fell in front of his face, as Magnus and Motega secured it with a climbing piton. As soon as it was sturdy enough, Motega grabbed a hold and lowered himself down the thirty feet.
He landed slowly on the cave-in, distributing his weight with care. A pebble fell bounced off his shoulder and landed in front of him. He peered upward at his friends.
“So you can see!” Fitz hollered down. Motega noticed the pebble did glow with enough illumination for his eyes. He picked it up and started down the tunnel.
Above Magnus, Tobias, and Fitz waited anxiously for what seemed eternity. Tobias’ patience gave out and he grabbed the rope to descend. Halfway down, Motega re-entered the well. The remaining Heroes shuffled their way down the rope in turn until they all met up at the bottom.
“Tunnel ends. Fifty feet then water.” Motega led them into the tunnel. “Dead dwem,” the Rornman pointed at a corpse.
Tobias and Magnus rummaged over the dead deep dwarf. Both sets of eyes focused on an onyx amulet. Tobias could feel its taint and grabbed his sword to break it.
“Wait!” Magnus threw himself on top of the desiccated body.
“Move away, mage.” Tobias’ sword was poised on the verge of attack. Magnus’ interference had spared the amulet only a few minutes respite.
“It…uh…it,” Magnus searched his memory for a reason not to destroy the expensive amulet. “It could be a prison,” he blurted.
“What?!”
“It could be a prison for a demon. Their souls can be trapped in gems like this. If you broke the gem, you would set it free!”
“Well, then I’d just have to kill it.” Tobias glared at the mage.
“But you don’t know what the effects of shattering it would be! It could explode, causing another cave-in and killing all of us. Or you could release a powerful and ancient demon.”
“And what would you have us do? Sale it? I think not. I will destroy it here and now and forever.” Tobias hefted his greatsword but Fitz’s hand stopped him from completing the blow.
“The mage is right, Tobias. We will take it to a powerful priestess to examine it.” Fitz reached through Magnus’ arms and grabbed the pendant. Then he dropped it into the haversack. “We have more important things to worry about right now. I hope you two know how to swim.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time everyone swam through the tunnel, Motega had already started the next descent. The waterlogged tunnel had been short at only twenty or thirty feet to a point where it forked. One tunnel headed farther downward, a direction illogical if only for the need for air. The other tunnel led upward and hopefully away from the water. It was the second tunnel the Heroes chose and it led them to another corridor with air.
This tunnel went forward only thirty feet. And had it not been for Fitz’s pebble lights, the Heroes may have all fallen to their demises. The cliff ahead of them was at least a one hundred and fifty foot drop. Possibly, it was two hundred. The fall was straight except for one ledge that would’ve invariably broken their fall and their bodies if only for a moment.
Motega had been the first to climb downward. With lengths of rope and climbing pitons, he secured an easier path for the other Heroes. Fitz occasionally threw another lighted pebble down the cliff, which made the climb much easier for Motega. He left a lighted pebble at each of the more treacherous areas of the climb.
Once he made it to the floor, Motega took in as much visual information as he could. He would be prepared if the lights went out before Fitz could create another.
The rest of the Heroes, thanks to Motega’s efforts, had a relatively easy climb downward. They took their time with Tobias in the lead but within a quarter of an hour they set down on the same ledge Motega waited upon.
With another blessing to Ceria, Fitz created another light source and flung it into the darkness. The twisting shadows rolled away as the light bounced down the seemingly endless corridor. A passageway loomed out of the darkness toward the approaching light. As the pebble passed its entrance, a high-pitched shriek echoed through the tunnels. The Heroes had to brace their hands against their ears to stop the deafening sound.
Motega waited until the echoes had passed to speak. “Shriekers. If anyone was waiting for us, they’ll know we’re here now. We should be prepared.” He withdrew his bow and nocked an arrow. Everyone else followed suit and drew weapons. Fitz lit a few more pebbles and threw them toward the doorway.
It wasn’t long before they all noticed the faint sounds of the stone being scratched by thousands of appendages. The sounds steadily grew nearer…
=========================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
A large insect with thousands of legs slithered into the main tunnel from the side corridor. Its writhing legs scuffed and clawed the dirt floor, pulling its bulbous mass along. The shrieker fungus tried alerting the Heroes, but they were already aware with hands clamped over their ears. Shades of dark rotting greens and putrid deep earth browns swirled over the insect’s body, decent camouflage in the dark of the deep. However, Fitz’s ascendant powered pebbles cast shifting shades of black on the movement of the beast, allowing the Heroes constant, if somewhat blurred, sight of the bug.
The bug shifted onto its haunches, half of the terrible frenzied appendages waving futilely in the air. With only half of its body lifted into the air, the creature was a good two feet taller than any of the Heroes. Two long, feelers attached to its swollen forehead searched the air for a scent of its prey. Three high-pitched whistles filled the air as arrows and a bolt pounded the thick exoskeleton. Magnus’ grin could’ve lit the cavern because he had actually hit his target.
Tobias had no time for pointless facial expressions; he dropped his bow and drew the great sword. He leapt to a lower perch of rubble and prepared to meet the wounded insect head-on. The beast would’ve squealed if it had the vocal chords for such a task. Instead, its bloated body collapsed back to the floor and charged dinner. As the insect sped toward Tobias, a smaller version peeked out of the corridor, its feelers pointing toward the group. It slithered out, alerting the shrieker, as did two of its brothers.
Arrows rained down upon the three smaller beasts as Motega loosed them rapidly. His arms were a flurry of trained motion: grabbing two arrows at a time, tossing one into the air then nocking, pulling, and releasing the first, catching the second arrow and repeating.
But few of the arrows found their targets. The inhuman beasts seemed to sense the speeding projectiles and slithered just to the left or right to avoid wounding. What they couldn’t avoid were Magnus’ bolts, that filled the gaps in Motega’s pattern. Each bolt tore into the thick bony hide, slowing the creatures down.
Tobias’ sword leapt in a great arc as the massive mother bug’s head lifted again. With a squelch, the blade pierced the exoskeleton, spurting greenish bile all over Tobias’ armor. He just as quickly wrenched the blade from the hide, and spun the other way nearly mirroring his first cut. More bile exploded and the bug shuddered, its frenzied claws scrapping at Tobias, pushing him backward into the rubble. With a scream the paladin charged forward, the bug started to pull away but the blade was much too long. The steel of the blade parted the armored hide, slicing upward and splitting the grotesque insect in half.
“Tobias!” Magnus’ scream would have alerted the paladin, if his survival instinct hadn’t already kicked in. The blade that had nearly pierced the ceiling of the cavern arced back down to the right, spinning with the warrior, and slicing the baby insect horizontally into two nearly even length pieces. Where the smaller creature had just been, a fine green mist hung momentarily in the air, before plummeting like its owner onto the dirt.
Tobias stood from his position and looked out at the battlefield. The other two insects had been stopped by arrow and bolt only five feet ahead of him. The shattered carapaces of the mother and the first brother lay disjointed and broken at his feet.
Three minutes passed, then ten. Still all was silent in the hallway besides the breathing of the Heroes. Motega clambered down the rubble and handed Tobias his bow. The paladin wiped as much of the muck off his face and blade as possible. Then the Heroes descended the rubble and started toward the side passage.
They followed the passage back to a series of natural rooms and searched each room. Aside from a few coppers and a few dwem corpses stashed in a nest, the rooms were empty. The side passage continued in a northwestward direction but the Heroes chose to fall back to the main corridor and begin their journey into the deep there.
=====================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
Second update today....woohoo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For several long hours the Heroes walked in the near-darkness without finding another diverging trail. The corridor wasn’t an evenly worked path and yet it never thinned to less than ten feet across. Odd broken fragments of stone reached out like fingers, grasping for the Heroes but never quite catching their prey. Fitz continued to leave lighted pebbles every now and then along the path. As a result a dim trail of light snaked along behind the Heroes, its tail flickering out and shortening slowly in the timeless depths.
Rather suddenly, the tunnel emptied its travelers in a high circular chamber. Six perfectly smoothed pillars swam from the center of the floor to kiss and support the ceiling. Like the pillars, the walls were smooth from being worked with small unusual triangle shaped holes piercing it like a veil in weird places. There was no discernible pattern to the odd gaps in the wall, just that they circled the entire cavern.
All of this detail was readily available to the Heroes, yet their eyes were drawn to the smoothed ceiling of the chamber. Not to the chamber itself so much as the corpses dangling there from lengths of rope. Two naked dwem bodies hung staring emptily downward toward the Heroes, nooses taught. Beside the dwem hung four scorpiot carapaces. A multitude of crude blows could be seen engraved into the carapaces. Whatever weapons had been used, hadn’t been very sharp.
Motega grunted and quietly reached for an arrow.
Tobias reached inward, calling upon the abilities granted by his divine counterpart. His senses magnified stretched outward and he recognized the presence of tainted creatures. His arm shot out, “There!”
Motega loosed the arrow he had quietly nocked. It flew through one of the odd holes and clattered hollowly against a second wall. Tobias’ hand traced the movement of one of the creatures and then he dropped it.
“There are at least eight of them,” the paladin began but was silenced. A deep rumble similar to thunder rang out down the corridor. Not the corridor they had traveled, but the other that exited this vaulted chamber. Another of the rumbling sounds followed but this was slightly higher pitched. Then the two sounds rhythmically alternated in a slow vibrating song.
“War drums,” Motega grunted. He took a step backward, miraculously avoiding a rock hurled through one of the odd triangular holes. The Heroes except Tobias took steps backward toward the trail. Motega had another arrow knocked but couldn’t guess which of the many holes to fire into.
Tobias stood in the center of the cavern, stretching out with that sixth sense, trying to narrow and focus its scope down the other hallway. Slowly his sense reached outward past the irritating rock-throwers toward the war drums. Hurled stones slid off his armor, clattering heavily into the floor or nicking and scraping his hands. Ten his mind counted no twelve, no…the paladin’s eyes fluttered open.
“We have to get back into the tunnel!” He spun, dodged a rock aimed for his head and rushed toward his friends. He slipped into the tunnel without so much as another scrape.
Motega ushered him past, his bow still aimed into the chamber. “You. Priest. Go. Light the way. Watch for ambush. Mage and I follow.” Magnus withdrew his crossbow and stood beside the Rornman giving Fitz and Tobias a head start.
Nearly an hour passed in the slow retreat back toward Llyndofare. The war drums never stopped singing. At the edge of sight, a mass of creatures hovered in the darkness, always getting closer but never piercing the light. Their war drums had upped the rhythm of the song, speeding the pursuit but keeping the tribe at bay.
“Stop!” Motega grunted toward the paladin and priest. “Can’t outrun them. Stay and fight.” Fitz and Tobias moved back toward the others and prepared for a lengthy battle. The Heroes waited anxiously together, Motega and Tobias in front, the mage and priest behind. Tobias had his sword drawn, Motega his bow and Magnus’ crossbow rested on the paladin’s shoulder for better aim.
The war drums continued to approach for many minutes until the creatures were once again at the end of the light, only forty feet away. Then, the sound of the drums died leaving an eerie quiet in the halls.
Slowly, two of the creatures shuffled into the light. They were human size with arms slightly longer than the average man. Their skin had a gray tone about it, similar to that of a headstone. Frazzled hair the color of pitch hung loosely toward their naked bodies. Their lips were overly large and long, giving the appearance of a head that would flip open if those lips parted. They had a steep forehead that nearly overshadowed their black eyes, useless eyes in the depths of the underdark.
The two that had taken a step into the light parted, opening a dark gap in their lines. Out of the gap stepped another of the creature. This beast was taller and meatier than the others. His body was covered in necklaces adorned with body parts. A skirt of flayed skin covered his genitals and hung loosely to his knees. In his right hand he wielded a huge sword, the blade made of stone. Two long strands of hoarse hair hung over the front of his face. Those strands were died a deep red with what could’ve only been blood.
The beast took two tentative steps toward the Heroes and started gibbering in some guttural tongue. He heaved his sword into the ground; it easily pierced the dirt floor. Once done, he stood facing in the direction of the Heroes. No one moved and the beast erupted into a fit. He yelled and screamed and flailed about but took no step forward.
A low growl issued from Motega and the beast shut up. Motega took a step forward, dropped his bow and started howling back. The Rornman grabbed his necklace of scorpiot tail-barbs and dwem ears and whirled it about as he used his native tongue. To finish his display, the Rornman grabbed his crotch and barked what only could’ve been a profanity at the creature.
The creature laughed, his lips splitting open to reveal jagged teeth. He held out a necklace and shook it toward the Heroes. Dangling from the necklace were the testicles of human men. Then he turned toward his tribe and shouted out a phrase before turning back around. Movement exploded behind the tribe chief. And what looked like a large package was dropped at the chief’s legs. The chief extended one of his gangly arms downward and yanked on the package.
A bald man unfolded and was lifted upward. The beast growled at him in the deep tongue, set him down, then slapped him on the back of the head. The blow wasn’t a strong one but was more than enough to splay the old, starved man onto the ground. A gush of blood fled from his nose onto the uncaring floor.
Tobias’ eyes filled with rage and he took a step toward the chief. Fitz’s arm flashed out and caught him by the shoulder. “Wait,” the cleric pleaded. Tobias only grunted.
The old man struggled for a minute to right his self. Then he brushed off the crusty rags he wore. “The...they want me to speak for them,” he stammered. The chief muttered something and the man proceeded to translate. “They say you’ve invaded their territory and your lives are forfeit. You are encouraged to surrender so that some of you may live.”
“Tell them,” Fitz began, “that we mean them no harm. We have only come in search of the scorpiots and dwem that have attacked our homes.”
After the translation the chief laughed again. “He says,” the beaten man replied, “that he cares not for the bugs nor the dwem. They will all die if they come this way again. And that you should drop your weapons now, to make it easier on yourself.”
“Never.” Motega growled.
The old man shuddered and translated. The beast again only laughed his horrible, wicked laugh. “He says that you challenge him. And that he accepts. You,” the man pointed to Motega, “will fight him in a fair match. If you win you may leave with your lives. If not…” the rest of the sentence faded to nothing.
“Fine,” Motega answered. He unsheathed his longsword and started forward. Motega stopped halfway between the Heroes and the deep folk. The chief backhanded the man into his clan and withdrew his sword from the earth.
With two great strides the beast had reached Motega. It swung with all its strength but Motega ducked to the side, his longsword extended and dug into the chief’s calf. The beast roared in pain and staggered a few steps. Then he turned toward the Rornman.
Motega lifted his blade and licked it. “First blood,” he roared as he charged the chief.
========================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
Third update today....D@mn I'm good
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A mighty clang rang out as Motega’s steel sword was blocked by the chief’s stone blade. The two faced off, both growling over their crossed weapons each trying to gain the advantage. Motega knew this brute probably had more strength and was holding on for just the right moment. The steel squealed in delight as it slid against the stone, the chief edging Motega backward toward his clan.
One step then two Motega allowed himself to edge backward then he thrust with all his might. The chief had anticipated the move however, his muscles bulging as he forced his weapon at Motega.
He hadn’t anticipated the Rornman’s technique though. Motega fell sideways to the ground allowing the brute to stumble forward over him. The chief kicked the Rorn hard in the ribs but Motega’s sword danced in the air, slicing an inch deep into the thigh and up through his buttocks.
The chief fell forward and landed with a thud in the dirt. All the cheers from the clan raised by Motega’s fall were awkwardly silenced. Motega stood, a jagged stabbing pain in his chest. He took a step to allow the chief to stand.
Scowling, the brute climbed to his knees. Motega swept in and swiftly kicked him in the rear, again planting the chief’s face in the dirt of the deep. A roar of hissing arose from the chief’s clan. Motega bowed and took four steps away to allow the chief the chance to stand.
The chief spun on his stomach to face the Rornman before standing. He slowly stood, drops of his blood splattering the dusty floor. Motega roared as he rushed at the chieftain. The chief brought up his left hand, flinging a handful of dirt into Motega’s eyes.
Motega’s attack went wide; the brute dodged and brought his stone blade down on the Rorn’s arm. He rolled with the blow as well as he could but the wound had already begun to soak the studded leather armor. Deftly, his sword swiped upward to block a killing blow and Motega spun toward the chief, unleashing a furious kick in the groin.
The brute stumbled backward to absorb the blow but found Motega raining blow after blow upon him. His back quickly found the wall while the steel sword quickly and continually found soft gray flesh to pierce. Motega leapt back allowing the brute to come forward into his killing blow.
The chief lashed out one final time. Motega ducked, bringing his sword in after the beast nearly slicing its arm off. The blade continued downward and turned, hitting a vital artery in the creature’s thigh. Motega grabbed the hilt with both hands and slammed the blade through the chief’s chest.
The chief’s face went slack even as he dropped his stone blade. A slick sound accompanied the departing steel blade. The brute fell to the floor. Motega immediately stooped downward and removed the chief’s member. Then he strung it onto his necklace.
Silence had fallen in the tunnel. The remaining members of the clan sensed the fall of their chieftain. After Motega walked away, two of the other creatures came forward to drag the body back toward the circular chamber. One of the creatures was screaming something at the old man.
“They say, you’re free to go.” The old man had a longing look in his eyes.
“Well you tell them that we aren’t leaving without you,” Tobias retorted his sword still drawn. The old man translated and the beast standing beside him looked furious. It raised its stone axe and severed the old slave’s foot. The man collapsed into a bloody heap on the floor.
Tobias charged toward the evil humanoids. Fitz’s hands weren’t quick enough to stop him. Magnus’ hands did touch but not to stop. As the mage’s hands touched, the muscles in Tobias’ body swelled. Motega and Fitz quickly chased after the paladin.
Tobias’ greatsword found the gut of the beast that had severed the man’s foot. It dove in and twisted with his great strength, turning the creature’s intestines into a puddle of gore. One of its brothers stepped up next to Tobias but the sword easily tore through that one too.
More of the creatures rushed and Tobias was under a multitude of attacks. Motega stepped beside him, diverting much of the attention while Fitz slid behind the massive fighter. He slid a wand out of his pack and tapped the paladin. Tobias felt another magical warmth spread through his body as his wounds began to close.
His sword rose again and again, decimating the beasts in front of him. Several tried to step past the youth to get at the Rornman only to find Tobias’ blade change direction and sever them clean in half. With every hit that opened a wound on his body, Fitz’s wand snapped in to heal the damage.
For minutes that seemed like years, the beasts kept charging and dying. And then all of a sudden there were no more. Digging through the pile of corpses, the paladin pulled the wounded slave up.
"Most useful thing I’ve ever bought,” Fitz murmured as he slid the wand back into his pouch.
“Let’s get back to the surface,” Tobias said, a tired expression on his face. “I can sense more of them not far back. We have to get this man to the surface.” He turned, the slave in his arms and started the rush back toward the well.
==========================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Continued
Ok...well here's the first half of the conclusion. I wanted to get it posted so I at least have something posted today. I will continue to work on the second half of the conclusion while working. Hopefully I'll get that posted for you guys & gals too.
P.S. Sorry it seems short.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” The old slave was crying profusely, half from joy, half from the sting of the midday sun. His arms were outstretched and he embraced the warm earth. A wide smile spread across Tobias’ exhausted face.
The war drums had started again not so long after they had fled. At first it seemed the war drums were pursuing, but perhaps it had been a trick of the caverns. After an hour, the war drums did not seem to be edging closer. The timbre and tempo of the drums sounded more of a funeral procession than of a call to arms anyway.
The return climb had been more difficult with the added weight of the man. He had been starved and had not the energy or skill to make the climb on his own. The Heroes had strung him up cautiously and carefully, distributing the slight weight evenly. Motega had supervised the tying, had actually named it the “Rorn hog-tie”. They had modified it, of course, for comfort and so the burden was shared.
And once the ascension was complete, what little energy the foursome had went to re-sealing the well with the half-ton wooden door. Now, they stood or lay collecting the preciously warming rays of the summer sun. For fear of the old man losing his sight, they rose again. And dragged him into the nearby room which had been used as a Scorpiot burial chamber. Here, the light was more dim and would not burn quite so harshly.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Magnus began, “could you tell us how you came to be a slave?”
The man’s head dipped a little before he began to speak. “I, well I should begin with my name. I am Buric Godrinson. I don’t know how long I was done there,” his voice stammered and dropped. “I know it was at least a decade. I lost count long ago.
“I was a farmer outside of the town of Andorric’s Steps. My father owned the farm and his age was starting to wear on his health. So, I, his oldest son only in my early twenties had taken the responsibility of running his farm.
“It was a day like any other, I had risen early to tend the cattle. The cattle were out grazing in the fields and I had turned to my other responsibilities.” The old man paused to scratch his beard, attempting to stimulate the now nearly lost memories. “I’m not sure what happened. I must’ve fallen asleep or been knocked out. The next time I opened my eyes, it was in that dark barren hell. And I’ve been made to suffer since. They beat for pleasure and out of anger.
“I thought once that they meant to actually kill me. Lucky for me, I managed to figure out that grunting they call speaking. If I hadn’t…they…they.” Tears again flooded down his face and his head dropped onto his shoulders. Tobias’ hand patted him comfortingly on his shoulder.
“Well, Buric, you’ll be safe now.” Magnus proclaimed. “After all, you are in the car of the Heroes of Marchford.” His youthful smile nearly split his head in half. “We should decide our next steps fellas.” They provided the man with food and turned to exit.
“Could you take me home?” His eyes pleaded.
“To Andorric’s Steps?” A cloud of emotion crossed Tobias’ face and his voice became colder. “We’ll discuss it.”
=====================
Chapter 8: Into the Deep Concluded
“We need to go to Andorric’s Steps, however, I think we take Buric to Dun Moor.” Tobias face was still shadowed with pain. “I know I haven’t told you of all of the details of my past. Its time I shed a little light on the subject.
“I ran away from Andorric’s Steps when I was only nine. I’ve been running for six long years now. And, quite honestly, I’m afraid to return. My father was executed for treason on the day I left.” Tobias’ visage reddens in hue as he breathes slowly.
“My father was a Captain of the guard and quite the devoted worshipper of Morduk. Six years ago he was in charge of the soldiers and engineers building the new keep. I was so young at the time that I don’t remember much. He used to talk about work on occasion at home and I know the keep was to have secret exits.
“These passageways ran underneath the castle, deep under the earth and out a safe distance from the town. My father was accused of leaking the designs.” Tears began to leak from Tobias’ eyes. His face was fully flushed by this point, and he seemed to not want to continue. “I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t. My father was the most honorable man I have ever known. He lived and would have died for the King. I guess in a way he did.
“So, I ran. I was just a child. And I fled. I was scared that the same might have happened to me. So I left. And I vowed to earn back the honor of my family. Even if that means returning to prove my father’s innocence. And dying, if need be.
“Buric disappeared from Andorric’s Steps years and years ago. Taken as a slave. This makes me think that perhaps the two events are connected somehow. Maybe I’m grasping at straws. Probably. But, we will have to go to Andorric’s Steps sometime.
“That being said, I say we take him to Dun Moor. We can give him some money so he can live out the rest of his life in safety. Then we need to finish what we’ve started here. And from there, maybe we go to Andorric’s Steps.”
The rest of the Heroes had maintained a respectful silence during Tobias’ recounting. Magnus shifted uneasily and walked over to the warrior, a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sure we’ll make it there soon. Let’s go to Dun Moor tomorrow. We have some contacts there to equip and sell whatever we’ve come across. Then we’ll decide our next steps.” A quick nod from the rest of the party sealed the plans.
“Ok then,” Magnus said, “Let’s decide on watch for the night.” After watches were chosen, the party disbanded to their own personal routines. But before Tobias could get away, Motega grabbed him by the shoulder.
“You’re honorable. I like you. We don’t fault you for you past.” Tobias nodded accepting the praise graciously. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?” Motega’s demeanor had changed with the question, a pointed look on his face.
Tobias shirked back slightly, in awe of the erratic and sudden change. “Um…well no. That was it.” Motega’s hand grasped a little tighter, his look dark and then he released his hold and walked away.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias had again taken the third shift of watch. The graveyard shift it was called. The eerie shadows of the abandoned castle only enhanced that definition. He struggled to keep his eyes open and his mind active. The late hours were always the worse, yet he always accepted the shift as if he was paying penance for some past wrong.
As his lids drifted again, a sharp scratching sound punctuated the air. He stood and withdrew his greatsword. Quickly he darted around the well, waking the other members. As they wiped the sleep from their eyes, the thousand-pound door exploded into fragments of wood.
Clambering out of the defiled well was a large beast, stone gray in color. It appeared to be carved from stone, its reptile-like scales a granite color and texture. Black beady eyes burned in its sockets, eyeing the party viciously, hungrily. The beast let out a shrill roar as it stepped toward the Heroes.
Behind it, two of the naked tribal warriors climbed up, stone blades in hand. Wicked grins of malevolence split their blind countenances. The beast paused, sensing moving behind itself. With a quick spin, its claws tore through the tribal warriors with ease. Their malevolent grins turned to agony.
Tobias took the brief respite to charge the beast, slamming his sword across its great scales. His blade dug in barely and then skidded off the beast. A very thin line of dark blood bubbled from within its body and it growled again.
As the drake lurched toward Tobias, Motega released a few futile arrows. One arrow thudded dully before falling useless and shattered to the ground. The other flew wide, but it was enough of a distraction that the beast only had one attack at Tobias. The beast missed and Fitz wadded in with his scythes.
The silver crescent blades of the Goddess Ceria had little effect against the stone hide of the creature. Magnus’ crossbow bolts also, for the most part, bounced harmlessly off the hide. Motega dropped his bow and drew his longsword, charging the beast and attempting to flank it with Tobias.
Motega’s attack pierced the rough hide and the beast shrieked, loosing an idle swipe at the Rorn. As the beast pivoted Tobias greatsword danced in a long arc, driven onward by his feral cry. The blade slipped through the posterior and downward, nearly severing the beast’s rear leg. It uttered another cry as it spun and slammed Tobias with its great claws.
The beast tried to close its salivating maw over Tobias’ face but Motega’s blade elongated the gash on its rear. Magnus’ bolts now found entry through the arterial gash as well and the beast had to keep spinning to protect itself. As it spun, Tobias’ sword lurched downward again and again finding its target over and over.
The beast roared and turned, slamming into Tobias and knocking the sword from his hand. Tobias stumbled back as the beast leapt, its powerful jaws open wide and targeting his throat.
Motega’s sword slammed downward and a sharp crack drove the beast into the ground. Dirt sprayed upward from the force of the beast. When the air cleared, the beast lay growling inches from Tobias, it’s spine severed.
Tobias stood and drove his retrieved blade through the drake’s thick skull. For the remaining five hours of darkness, not one of the Heroes slept.
==============================
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 14:58:50 GMT -5
Ok folks, here's your first update for Chapter 9. Enjoy!! (BTW, I'm working on another one now, since this isn't all that terribly long)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At daybreak, the Heroes of Marchford stood at the entrance of the well. The quickly rising sun cast constantly shifting shadows into the mouth of the underdark. An inspection of the few remaining splinters of door easily cancelled any thoughts of barricading the well. Even if the pieces had been larger, their ability to hold back the tides of the deep evil would not have made much difference.
Instead, the Heroes dismissed the idea of a barricade and decided to collapse the well. Pitons had been surgically placed within the well, Magnus dangling like a spider from its web inspecting the structural integrity of the tunnel.
Old Buric merely watched, his eyes slowly taking to the early morning light it had once known. The Heroes had informed him that the trip for this morning would not be going northward to Andorric’s Stepps but more to the southwest, a city called Dun Moor. He had heard of the city in his youth and was grateful for any place aside from the deeping delve. “Probably,” he contemplated, “there is nothing left for me at home by now anyway.” The rationalization couldn’t complete fend off the sadness of his loss.
A shout preceded Magnus’ return to the surface, that classic childish grin on his place. “It’s perfect. A few good hits in one spot will collapse the entrance. And if there are any following, they’ll be digging for years if they’re not drowned outright. Hammer please?”
Motega grabbed the small hammer, a piton and passed them over to the mage. “You sure?”
“Oh yes,” emphatic nodding, “I did study with a stone masons guild and one of my first teachers taught me quite a lot about architecture. This tunnel isn’t worked and isn’t sturdy by any stretch of my imagination. A few well placed hits and I promise it’ll collapse. Just, uh, do me a favor. When I yell, pull me up quickly.” Instructions delivered, the mage dove back into the hole.
Tobias, Motega, Fitz and even Buric grabbed onto the silken rope, muscles tensed and waited. Twenty-five feet below the sound of metal-on-metal-on-stone echoed upward toward the light.
The earth sighed and trembled a bit. The shifting quickly stopped and the earth was still. A sharp clang assaulted the air followed by a cry. All four above the well pulled sharply on the silken rope and heaved backward, shifting Magnus toward the sky. Magnus’ two-hundred pound frame flew out of the well and onto the ground as the earth roared.
The earth shook and trembled, roaring an unquenchable growl as the mouth began to collapse. Spitting dust into the early morning sky, the mouth closed and the delving deep’s throat also closed. The ground sunk in, a snake slithering northward toward the highest section of Llyndofare’s walls. The serpent stopped easily twenty feet from the main keep, the growl slowly subsiding as the arterial spout of dust and debris settled to the earth.
“Well done, mage,” Fitz congratulated with a pat on the back.
“I second that,” Tobias conceded.
“Thank the Gods!!” screamed Buric.
“Not bad,” grunted Motega. “Let’s go.” The Rorn turned to grab his gear.
==========================================
Second update for today and twice as long. Woot!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So, where is your heathen friend?” Lady Erigal’s false grin did little to hide her malicious grin. Fitz’s sigh was weary but he knew answers had to be forthcoming.
“She departed. She no longer travels with us.”
“Oh, well,” the grin wasn’t false this time, “I’m sure its for the better. Why anyone would ever want to travel with an enemy of Qwynna Pru, is beyond me. She was a druid you know, dreadful heathens. Even worse than worshippers of Ceria,” the Lady’s gaze paused on Fitz, his religious symbols hidden once again. “Although, not by much.” Her grin was acidic and unforgiving but just as quickly she dropped the façade and asked the question on her mind. “So, why have you troubled me today?”
“Well, we have a new tale to tell,” Fitz began. “Involving this farmer, Buric Godrinson.” Buric stepped forth and bowed his head. Fitz related the story as quickly as possible wanting to be done with the Qwynna Pru witch. “So, we were wondering, if your gracious city wouldn’t mind taking him in since he has no other place to go.”
“Of course he can stay we only request a donation to our True church. To feed and clothe and care for the man obviously.” Another greedy grin spread across her face. “That is, if you have anything to donate.”
Magnus removed one of the ruby funeral gems from the haversack and handed it over. The Lady nodded and accepted the gem, studying it momentarily.
“Myra!” The Lady shouted as much as requested. Her apprentice ran into the room and stumbled when she saw the Heroes.
“Uh, yes ma’am?”
“Take this man and see that he is fed and clothed.”
“Yes, my lady.” Myra escorted Buric out of the room.
“Is that all for today then?”
“Yes, Lady Erigal. That is it, this time.” Fitz responded.
“Very well, then. You’re dismissed.” She waved them out of her private chamber without a second look.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias had wandered for quite some time. Motega had gone in search of information regarding the Scorpiots, Dwem, and anything else that may have crept upward from the deep dark. Fitz and Magnus had taken the atrocious medallion to have it destroyed and Tobias wandered off all alone and without purpose.
Upon noticing his surroundings, Tobias realized he had wandered into the poorest section of Dun Moor. Shacks no larger that seven-foot square stood in dirty rows mating alongside the dirt street. Windows, no more than a roughly cut hole to allow in light, pierced the walls in random spots. They were empty hollow holes that gaped outward, showing a lack of furnishing inside. If a single rug broke the crude monotony of the dirt floors, the family was obviously well off.
Each little house was crudely formed with rotted and splintering wood. Holes pierced each in random places allowing an inside view aside from the rough windows. Drafts of cold wind would stir through the domiciles in the winter, claiming the weak, the elderly, and the young.
A depressing site it was. For all of civilization’s upsides, the downsides were more pronounced. Poverty always flourished in cities where the greatest manors and residences dwarfed the streets. Of course, the impoverished areas were always kept separated from the upper-class homes.
Tobias grimaced. “No justice at all,” he mumbled to himself.
Tobias stopped as he approached an occupied shack. Two voices, male and female were whispering heatedly inside. The paladin slipped up to the window to understand the sorrow that seemed to emanate from the hovel.
“Look, I don’t know what to say. It wasn’t my fault. He just…he just didn’t like me, I guess. And no, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“You NEED to work! His fever isn’t going to pass. I won’t have him…just like Alec. So young. He deserves better!”
“I’m TRYING! The merchant…he accused me of thievery. I…you know I would never. I mean I smuggled some of the less rotten fruits home…but we need to eat too! And they were going bad, he couldn’t have sold them. I never stole any of the good bread or fruits he had! I worked hard. He just….just didn’t like me.”
“No excuses! You go back out there! Find SOME way, ANY way. Get the money for the healers. NOW! I won’t have our second son die too!”
Tobias and the father sighed at the same time. The father of the sick child just stood motionless watching his wife’s tears pour down and over her cheeks. Tobias tore off a small piece of parchment and drew some ink from his own satchel. With quick strokes he drew Reddel’s holy symbol on the parchment. He set the parchment down on the crude stoop and weighed it down with two handfuls of silver.
Standing quickly, Tobias pounded upon the door and darted around the side of the shack.
“What in the Gods’ name?” The father questioned as he pushed outward on the half-inch thick door. “By the Gods!” He grabbed the money and parchment pulling both inside. “Honey! Honey! Look!”
For the rest of the afternoon, Tobias walked along the impoverished streets. By the time he returned to the inn, his sack of money was nearly depleted.
============================================================
Ha! Third update today. Internet access at home is awesome!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Magnus and Fitz stared the merchant down. But as per his usual panache, the merchant just beamed.
“Look, I respect your business, but I’m not sure I can really give you the amount you probably want for the merchandise.” His words were silky smooth; they always were. “I mean, I don’t even know exactly what uses this medallion could have. It’s beyond my means to appraise properly. I know a few people that can but,” he paused and punctuated his statement with a finger jabbing in the air, “it may take awhile.” He smiled again and then leaned casually and noncommittally against his countertop.
“Gaius, you know as well as we do, that we don’t have the time to wait for a ‘proper’ appraisal.” Magnus was beginning to become annoyed with the constant haggling games with this merchant. Still, the man had connections and was good at what he did. So, Magnus swallowed his pride and asked what needed to be asked. “What can you give us for the medallion?”
“Ahhh…I’m so sorry you don’t have the time. Let’s see, how much could I give you for it?” Gaius’ long slender arm reached upward to massage his brain as he did some quick computations.
“Stop toying with us, Gaius. As has already been stated; we don’t have the time.”
“Of course, of course Master Burn. I would never desire to ‘toy’ with you, as you say. It’s just that this is a difficult business and if I calculate wrong, even slightly, then I could jeopardize my business. You know, it’s a very perilous occupation buying and selling goods. One wrong move and I could lose my livelihood. Surely you understand?”
“Of course we do,” Magnus patronized, “How much?”
“Um…well…Fifteen hundred silvers?”
“Seventeen-Fifty,” Magnus challenged. “And I get a discount on a few spells.” Magnus glared at the shopkeeper.
“Fine, fine,” Gaius began, “Seventeen hundred and fifty silvers for the medallion.” The merchant’s quick hands snapped up the medallion from countertop. “But, no discount on spells.” Another cocky grin stretched across his face.
“Fine,” the young mage assented. The merchant tossed a pre-counted bag of silvers across the table.
“Anything else my ever-gracious customers? Aside from the spells the young Master Burn would like?”
“Yes, actually, I’d like to talk to you about a suit of armor.” Both Fitz and Gaius smiled.
===============================================================
Hope you guys & gals think I'm putting this whole lack of sleep thing to good use.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega passed the flask to the trapper. The burly man took a great gulp, nearly draining the tin. The man was rough, even for a trapper. His beard was growing in scraggly and dark in patches across his strong jaw. The black hair falling to his shoulders was tinged with silver and dirt from weeks in the woods. A pungent, sweaty odor clung to his worn leather clothing and equally worn gear. Two piercing blue eyes, ever alert, peered from underneath the silver-black mop of hair dancing over his forehead.
Motega had instantly liked the trapper Algach. He had caught sight of the trapper moving on the edge of a wood just north of the town. His pursuit had not gone unnoticed and eventually Algach had allowed Motega to catch up. Algach had been hunting and trapping in the lands around Dun Moor for the majority of his life. No one could outsmart him in his own forests and hills.
The trapper, unlike many in Rhelm, held no racism toward this man from the Rornlands. Algach felt everyone akin with nature was as a brother. And so, he had allowed the Rornman to catch up with him. Together, they had continued along the trail in silence, pursuing their prey and measuring each others skills.
An hour farther along the deer-path, Motega split from the trail. Algach had paused in surprise at the Rorn’s change in direction. The tracks continued to lead north and the Rorn had broken off into the brush along the left side. The trapper paused for a brief inspection of Motega’s new path but could find no reason to follow. He paused, taking in the filtered sunlight passing through the heavy green leaves and the warm breeze flowing through the forest. His curiosity peeked the trapper followed the Rornman’s new trail.
Fifty feet further, just over a slight ridge Motega knelt on the dry earth, an arrow drawn. Algach quietly moved into a position slightly behind and to the right of the Rorn, peering through the brush. Not twenty-five feet directly ahead, a large buck and several doe lapped water from a sliver of stream. Algach saw Motega’s bead on the buck and drew his own bow, taking aim at one of the larger doe.
As one, the trapper and Rorn released their arrows. A soft whistling sound pierced the canopy as the buck and doe were slammed by the wooden shafts. The buck took two steps before collapsing onto the forest floor; the doe made it no farther. The remaining deer began to dart away. Algach stood but Motega had somehow managed to release another arrow; another doe fell.
Algach’s mouth hung open as Motega stood, replacing his bow. The Rorn then handed the trapper the flask of firewater. Brother, indeed.
Algach and Motega had feasted quietly on the buck. The antlers had been removed, all of the deer skinned. The meat that couldn’t be readily devoured had been salted and preserved enough to make the return trip to Dun Moor. Once the feast had been finished, Algach turned toward the Rorn.
“How did you know they were to the northwest? The trail led north.”
Motega grinned. “I could smell them.”
“Impressive. My next question would be: Why were you following me?”
“For information, friend. Just some information.”
===================================================
Ok, its short. Hopefully its the first of several posts. That is if the Yeti keeps bugging me tonight
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Heroes plopped down one by one by two around their table at the Weeping Willow Bar and Inn. The ale had been flowing nearly freely for an hour before Motega stalked in to take his own chair.
The Rorn was laden with dirt, strands of mud interwoven with his thick black hair. A content smile was on his face as he dove into the ale. Already he reeked of alcohol and not the watered-down ale kind.
“The amulet has been taken care of?” Tobias questioned.
“Done and done.” Magnus grinned. Tobias’ eyebrow began to arch.
“It’s been placed into appropriate hands to be rid of,” Fitz affirmed.
“Good.”
“And,” Fitz added, “I’ve had a suit of armor commissioned. And the mage and I have purchased some useful supplies. Besides, what did you do today?”
“Nothing of any import to you. Just explored the city.”
“I’ve gathered some information.” Motega paused to capture everyone’s attention as he grabbed his fourth goblet of mead. “Seems the Earl here has been recruiting the trappers and hunters in this area to track the dwem. The trappers and hunters have been smuggling information between towns and cities.
“The dwem hit Dun Beric hard that first night then practically disappeared. But there have been even more troubles farther north, near Victorsburg and Rhelm. The forces in the north, if they are separate forces, seem to be larger than the group of one hundred sighted here.
“But the information is sketchy at best. Several trappers have gone missing. And so the Earl has forbidden the trappers to leave the lands surrounding Dun Moor. The hunter I spoke to says a force was sighted just to the west of here not long ago. But further attempts to find the dwem were unsuccessful.
“Also, my friend claimed there are a set of caves just to the north of town maybe ten miles north of here, maybe twenty. The caves used to be frequented by bandits but they’ve been abandoned recently. A strange scent akin to rot has repelled the beasts naturally found in the area.
“Algoch says the caves run generally south-southeast. If that is their course, then they should probably intersect with the tunnels under Llyndofare. Probably right where the nests of those carrion crawlers were. I think we need to investigate those caves. I’d bet a good barrel of mead the dwem are held up there.” Motega grabbed another tankard and looked up at the party.
Everyone else’s tankards had stopped halfway to their mouths that hung wide open in confusion. Magnus looked most astounded.
“What!?” Motega roared.
“You…,” the mage stammered, “you spoke. In…in complete sentences…paragraphs even!”
Motega grunted as he finished his tankard.
===================================
Second update for tonight.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The night passed quietly in the Inn, as quietly as could be expected. Fitz woke the other party members an hour after dawn. The gear was gathered quickly and quietly and they poured into the common room for a quick meal.
Fresh eggs and bacon quickly disappeared from their plates. No words were spoken about their plans. All had decided the caves north of town were the best place to begin their search for the dwem. Of course, four could probably do very little against an army of the deep dwarves but still this was an information gathering mission.
Only the nervous barkeep seemed off on the beautiful early summer morning. The man was overweight and balding, as per the norm with barkeeps. Yet, he seemed filled with anxiety as he bounced quickly to refill plates and mugs. A slight tremor in his hands vibrated the platters of food while rushing about.
He leaned in to slap more bacon onto Motega’s plate when the Rorn’s arm snapped out and grabbed his wrist. The platter of bacon dropped onto the table, nearly overturning as the man tried to pull away.
“Ow…ow…ow!” The man pulled back again. “Uh…could you…um let go of my wrist?” Motega glared at him. “Uh…please?” The Rorn retracted his grip cautiously. The bartender snatched the bacon off the table and stepped backward.
“What troubles you so badly this morning barkeep?” Fitz did not bother to look up as he spoke, still cramming food down his gullet.
“Well my good sirs, let me just say that I’m a man of small means. And normally, normally I would ne’er do what happened last night. But he was so persuasive. And he gave me three silvers. I really don’t usually accept bribes, you must understand…”
“Grmm mmph blarm.” Fitz paused to swallow his mouthful. “Stop your prattling. Just be direct. We’re here, we’re listening. What did this man want?”
“Well…uh he wanted to know if you all were staying here. And I couldn’t refuse him. He slipped me three silvers just for a yes or no. And then he promptly left.”
“Well, it seems there was no harm done, uh…what’s your name again?”
“Graham.”
“Right, well, Graham. You did right in telling us. What did this man look like?”
“Well, sirs, he looked like a farmer. A large man, rough looking. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in days. And he carried a pickaxe.” The Heroes finished their plates and stood, hefting their gear onto their backs.
“You’ve done well Graham. Breakfast was delicious. The room was pleasant as ever. We like your establishment. And now we know we can trust you. You can count on our business.” Fitz beamed to try to put the man at ease. “I don’t suppose you got his name?”
“Well, no. He didn’t give me his name.”
“No matter. For your trouble,” Fitz passed Graham five silvers.
“No thank you, sir. I feel bad enough as it is for troubling you so. And as I said, I don’t take money for nothing.”
“You’ll take it from us. Consider it a deposit for our room next time we’re in town.”
“Yes sir.”
The Heroes turned to exit, Motega standing absolutely still by his chair.
“Are you coming, Motega?”
“You go ahead. Don’t wait for me. I will catch up.”
“Suit yourself.” Fitz and the others walked out the door.
Motega slapped another two silvers into the barkeep’s hand. “If they bother you again, just let me know.” The Rorn smiled viciously and after a few moments slipped out of the Inn.
==================================
Hope this update makes sense. I'm kinda exhausted...so I hope it didn't turn out too badly. Enjoy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fitz, Tobias and Magnus stepped between the armored guards and onto the dirt road heading north. Motega hadn’t rejoined the group in the short walk from inn to city gate. So the three companions walked at as steadily a pace as Fitz’s heavy armor would allow in the general direction of the mines.
Within a quarter hour the group stood on the top of a rounding hillock, staring back at the gates of Dun Moor. Still Motega had not made his appearance. However, a group of seven men slowly paced toward the Heroes of Marchford. At the distance, no distinguishing features could be found on the men except for the gritty silver-sheen of a pickaxe. The Heroes turned and resumed their own pace, hoping to outdistance their stalkers.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega paused in the overgrown shadow of a green-filled alleyway. He had allowed himself to fall behind his comrades to watch their steps. As they neared the gates, Motega ducked into the side street hiding inconspicuously behind an overly-large fern.
Quiet minutes passed, swallowed only by the typical hustling sounds of impatient city-goers and merchants. The day was heating up quickly; beads of sweat gathering on the Rornman’s brow.
A large man scuffled out of a merchant’s tent near the main city street. The layers of dirt and stink nearly covered the balding patch on the top of his head. Nearly, but still the soft shine of sunlight glanced off the already sweaty skin. A large pickaxe rested seemingly carelessly on the shoulder of the giant man. His knuckles, white with pressure, told another story altogether.
The man leaned back inside the tent and shouted a quick unintelligible word. He then headed toward the city gates to leave. A moment after, six similarly armed men followed.
Motega waited as patiently as possible, allowing the stalkers time to get out the gate. Then, soft as a shadow, the Rorn slipped from behind the shrub and out the city gates.
The group of seven followed the path of the Heroes of Marchford. Motega saw an opportunity and ducked into the same forest Calyx had disappeared into.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Heroes of Marchford stopped their march. They had been walking for two hours without gaining a lead on their seven pursuers. Tobias had called a halt to their walk, deciding to settle whatever was to occur then rather than later.
Still Motega had not rejoined the group. Worries of their comrade would force them to return to the city if the Rornman did not show up soon. So patiently, the trio waited in the early morning sun for their stalkers to join them.
The group of seven stopped their own march. Twenty feet distant, both parties sized each other up. The large man with the pickaxe, obviously the leader, paced three steps forward. Hanging freely around his neck, a circular medallion blacker than pitch absorbed the summer light.
“Come now, Priest of Ceria,” the maliciously grinning cleric began. “If a follower of Cula Vak can openly display the accoutrements of his church, then so can a follower of the Lady of the Harvest.”
“Cula Vak?” Magnus whispered, “but that’s the god of the…”
“The underdark,” Fitz finished. “The evil god of the forsaken creatures of the deep.”
The priest of Cula Vak grinned at the recognition and bowed humbily.
The Rornman nocked an arrow in his bow. Steadily he moved the pickaxe-wielding leader into his sight. He breathed deeply to hold the arrow and bow steady. If this turned nasty, Motega swore, first blood would be his.
========================================
heh. Got it up before midnight. Eat that Yeti.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I am Thyvron.” The priest of Cula Vak bowed low in a mocking style. The malicious grin spread across his face seemed permanently chiseled in his gritty skin. “And yes, I am a priest of the Sunken Lord.”
Fitz grunted and donned his best sneer. “We have no time to talk to you. Good day.” Fitz pivoted to continue on his merry way.
“Oh you will stop. And you will listen, even if you do not speak.” The malicious grin had transformed into a cruel mockery of a smile.”
“What do you want?” Tobias loosed his sword slightly, baring two inches of the blade. Light from the summer sun danced from the blade into the black priest’s eyes.
Thyvron grunted and untied a broad brim hat from his belt, placing the hat upon his balding head. “We are loyal servants of Cula Vak. And we have come on behalf of his followers. All we want is a few words with you noble fools.”
"Continue.”
“On behalf of the followers of Cula Vak we humbly request you cease the pointless slaughter of our people. Whatever you may call your quest, it is nothing but murder. You have invaded the home of our God and slaughtered his followers. If you do not stop your interference, we will be forced to prevent your meddling.”
Tobias shook his head and laughed. Already his sixth sense was stretching outward confirming all of his suspicions. He could feel the taint upon each of the souls now facing his party. Thyvron’s taint was easily the strongest of the group of seven. The cleric had power. With his harsh laugh Tobias brought his blade out two more inches.
Thyvron cleared his throat to regain the tempo of the discussion. Tobias’ laugh gradually dwindled giving the cleric space to speak. “We would also like to thank you. You have actually been quite helpful to us recently. Although, I’m afraid I’m not really at liberty to say how.”
“Is that all?” Fitz questioned.
“Well,” Thyvron continued, “once we have your words you will no longer interfere with out business. And once we retrieve something of ours that you have.”
“You’ll never have our word.” Tobias blurted. “That God’s followers, those rapists and murderers you represent. All will meet swift justice of our blades.”
“I am truly, so truly sorry you feel this way. Wolfram!” One of the others stepped forward. This man also dressed as a farmer but wielded a large greataxe.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Tell me, Wolfram, what is the name of your new slave? You know,” Thyvron’s eyes glared toward the Heroes, “that female druid we collected from the nearby forest.”
“Her name was Calyx, my lord.” Wolfram grinned, his few stained, crooked teeth not improving his pock-marked face. “She was quite…submissive after I taught her a few new tricks.” Again his grin stained the beautiful summer day. Tobias’ blade edged out a few more inches, his arms trembling slightly in anticipation and anger.
“You see, my friends. We can be quite persuasive in our own way. If you know what is good for your friend, I suggest you comply.” Thyvron smiled again.
Tobias snapped. His greatsword shed the hard shell protection dangling from his belt, arcing upward into the sky. The sunlight bounced off the blade, attacking the followers of Cula Vak. As Tobias’ sword came down, Thyron stepped back to dodge. The sword drew a thick line of blood across the cleric’s chest, wiping the smirk from his face.
Thyvron’s right arm glanced into the air and cut downward as words spurted from his mouth. As his hand reached its lowest extension, Tobias’ eyes rolled into his head. The fighter dropped his sword and fell forward, unconscious.
=================================================
First of Two Updates (Hopefully)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The thud of two arrows combined with the sound of Motega’s charging feet. The Rornman had already hung his bow over his shoulder and drew his longsword during the charge.
Magnus’ face drained as he began intoning the words for a spell. Thyvron’s smirk only grew larger as he quickly completed another spell. When Magnus blurted out the last few words of the spell nothing happened. An impenetrable silence had filled the air around the mage. His face quickly shifted from pallid to deep crimson as his eyes twitched in rage.
Fitz drew the healing wand and stepped toward Tobias. The other Culites charged toward the cleric of Ceria, all of their weapons drawn. Arrows rained downward from two of the Culites, experienced archers.
Thyvron lifted his pick-axe, to finish off the young fighter. Screaming silently, Magnus flung himself toward the cleric. The pick-axe dropped downward as the two bodies crumpled to the ground in a twisting, groping struggle for control.
Motega leapt in front of Fitz, drawing the skilled slashing of the Culites. The priest of Ceria knelt near the fighter, laying a hand gently on the pulse preparing to use the wand. Tobias groaned, as if in deep sleep. Fitz smiled as the wand slipped back into his satchel. He stood, withdrawing his scythe, and waded in beside the Rornman.
Thyvron and Magnus continued to struggle upon the ground, both reaching for the pick-axe. Magnus’ arm shot out but the priest’s knee found a painful opening and the hand retracted sharply. Magnus brought his fist down solidly against Thyvron’s skull. The cleric shrugged the pain off as he extended his leg, kicking the mage to the ground.
Motega and Fitz easily dropped two of the swordsmen. Fitz charged toward the closer of the archers as Motega pursued the Culite, Wolfram. Wolfram was moving to aid Thyvron until Motega intercepted bringing his sword upward and creating a deadly obstacle.
Tobias groaned and shifted, his eyes fluttering open. His blurry vision parted as he deciphered the wrestling forms in front of him. He tightened his grip on his blade.
Thyvron grabbed the pick-axe, lurching into a standing position. Magnus flipped over onto his knees, scuttling out of the way. Thyvron screamed in rage, the cocky façade on his face disappearing, as his pick-axe charged downward.
Magnus’ eyes focused dead ahead at Tobias’. Tobias’ eyes had stretched unusually wide in horror. Slowly, the lips of the fighter spread, sound edging its way out of the hoarse throat. Magnus’ tried a feeble grin as the pick-axe shattered his skull, the pick piercing his brain. Fractures spread out around the impact wound, destroying the solid portions of skull still intact. Blood flowed from the mage’s eyes and nose as his half grinning face kissed the earth.
===============================
Second update. WOOT!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A tingling sensation spread outward through Magnus’ head in a circular pattern, weaving a web of numbness interlaced with several undulating spikes of pain. The crystal blue of the fighter’s eyes had reflected something before his eye lids had closed heavily.
Magnus grasped mentally for the image. Memories merging, ebbing and flowing like the waves of the sea; Magnus reached past the images of water and shuddered. The soft lapping of the ocean solidified as temperature dropped. A fierce wind tore through the wintry wasteland.
Magnus grasped for his cloak, hands touching only the bitterness of the empty landscape. Flurries then larger snowflakes fell from the vastness of above, into the eternal depths of nothingness below.
A quiet calm settled over the mage as he stared into the blinding whiteness. Then another sharp spike smashed the silent calm. Magnus clutched toward his non-existent head. A deep blackness poured into the whiteness.
Salt and pepper danced swirling, confusing trajectories in the empty. Another jagged, raw explosion echoed throughout the mage’s mind.
“No!” He shrieked into the darkness. The memory fluttered out of the shadow and into the light. The reflection was of a pick-axe, piercing and collapsing Magnus’ skull. Blood splattering outward slowly and then reversing back into his skull. Then the blood exploded outward again; the never-ending rebirth of a single blooming crimson flower.
Metal scraping metal, a cacophony introduced the assaulting blackness again. Memories of Victorsburg were called back from Magnus’ childhood. Sagat, his father, cooked in the bakery in the early morning hours. His sister Susanna, helped the old, one-armed war hero. The sweet smell of raspberry pastries and fifteen differently baked breads would fill the house everyday.
“Now, the dwem are heading northward. Toward Victorsburg,” the mage thought grimly.
“I WILL not die!” Magnus screamed into the repressive darkness. Somewhere, something white and cold shifted insubstantially in the darkness.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bones bowed outward, sliding back into place. Magnus’ eyes flickered slightly behind his eyelids. Fitz sighed and tapped the mage with the wand another time.
Tobias dropped an unconscious body next to the cleric. The second archer thudded and despite the groan, remained unconscious. Motega paced restlessly nearby. All of the remaining Culites had been killed except for the last archer, spared by Tobias. Calmly, the fighter wiped the blood of Thyvron off his blade and snatched the black orb medallion from the priest’s neck. He slipped the holy icon into his satchel and returned to polishing his blade.
Motega stalked over to Wolfram. The Culite had admitted many things before the Rorn ran him through. Motega bent low and with a few flicks of his knife, collected the eyes of his victim; the eyes of Calyx’s rapist.
“We have to move these bodies into the woods,” Motega grumbled.
Magnus’ eyes opened. Painfully the light flowed into his mind.
“Welcome back, mage.” Fitz said. “That was a close one.” Motega easily hid his relieved smile from the other Heroes.
=================================
Ok everybody, here's an update for you. A bit darker I think than the prior ones. Its also about a thousand words longer than my typical posts. Enjoy.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega shoved the Culite into a stone wall. Blood leapt from the man’s mouth splattering upon the old wood of Llyndofare’s flooring. The man landed on his knees, his head ducked downward, nearly in his own lap.
Drip, Drip, Drip.
The crimson vitae fled down the worn leather armor leaving a deep stain. Raspy breaths became hoarser when accompanied by a shallow shudder; the tremor from a snapped rib or two. The Culite looked up at his torturers and laughed. Then the farmer spit blood into Motega’s eyes.
Crunch, Snap, Thud.
The Culite lay on the floor, the blood pooling near his face. Tiny islands, faintly resembling teeth, broke the surface of the bloody lake. Motega roared and rummaged. He dropped two fleshy orbs into the dirt beside the Culite’s face. As the man, the killer, opened his eyes he found himself peering into the eyes of his former accomplice, Wolfram. Again the man just laughed.
Drawing a dagger the Rornman crouched next to the Culite. The cold steel blade edged a thin line of blood beneath the killer’s eye. “Speak,” Motega grunted increasing the force of the blade.
Laughter was the only answer. The blade dug in deeper.
Again only laughter echoed in response. A stream of blood danced upon the curving blade of the dagger. More laughter.
A quick twist of the wrist and a quiet thump accompanied the settling of a small mote of dust upon the floor. Motega stood as the Culite laughed. With a jaw breaking kick to the face, Motega stormed out of the room leaving his companions, the Culite and three sticky eyes on the floor.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega stormed along the catwalks toward the rear entrance of Llyndofare. Tobias sat perched upon the parapet, his chain mail lying unceremoniously against the stone in a heap. The warrior’s eyes flitted across the northern horizon; his fingers caressed the holy symbol of Cula Vak.
Motega leapt wildly onto the parapet, his grace and balance preventing a deadly fall. The small Rornman kicked his feet outward, landing with a thud beside the red-haired fighter.
“What’s that?”
Tobias looked downward then held out the medallion. “I thought it might aide us at some point. So, I took it.” He twirled the symbol and tossed it back into his pack. “Not going well up there?” Tobias examined the amount of blood staining Motega’s leather.
“He won’t speak. I left the mage and priest to handle him.” The Rorn grunted disapprovingly. “Men and their foolish gods.”
A smile broke on Tobias’ face. “I understand perfectly what you mean.”
“Didn’t you worship that gray god, Morduk?”
“I like to think I learn from my mistakes. They don’t care about us, Mo. On that, we can both agree. They have their plots and plans and we’re just a means to an end for them. Sometimes I think it would be better if this world didn’t exist.”
“Easier.” The Rorn now combed the northern horizon with his own eyes.
“Definitely that. She probably is already dead, you know.” A quiet, angry grunt emanated from the Rorn.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Laughter. Magnus scowled deeply as the acid dripped into the Culite’s empty socket causing only laughter. The mage stood and kicked the man in the stomach and moved back, pulling on his shaggy mane of hair.
Fitz bent downward, grasping the Culite’s face and drawing his stare upward. “I won’t let him kill you until you answer a few questions.”
A thick glob of bloody spittle splashed on the priest’s face. “I’m not speaking to you. Kill me and get it over with. Send me to my black God.”
“Fine.” Fitz’s eyes and face steeled over. “Have it your way.” A few low key words and the Culite’s remaining eye began to shed light. A painful wail split the quiet midday noises of Llyndofare.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias’ neck arched back toward the chamber. A high-pitched cry had erupted, echoing off the stone parapets and through the courtyards. Birds in the wood to the south had broken the summer air, flocking away from the castle. Almost immediately, Tobias recognized the scream as not of his companions and turned back to the Rorn.
“You’re uncomfortable with it?” The Rorn’s black eyes were questioning and seemed ponderous.
“I understand the necessity of it. I can rationalize it. I’d prefer just to give him a swift death but we need to know what is happening. I’m going to pull my hair out if I can’t figure it out.”
“Still you wish it was different.” The words were more of a statement than a query.
“I’m an honorable man. I have my limits and I don’t need to test them. I just hope they find something worthwhile.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Make it stop! MaKe It StOp!! MAKE IT STOP!!!” The man writhed on the floor, slamming body parts into the wall and floor; he tried to fight the light.
“You’ll tell us what we want to know?” Fitz asked innocently.
“Yes, yes anything! Just make the light stop!” Fitz dismissed the power of the cantrip, returning the Culite’s eye to normal.
“So, where is Calyx?”
“You will give me a swift death so I can join my God?”
“Of course, whatever. Where is Calyx?”
“Swear to me priest. Swear to me by the name of your weak Goddess.”
“I swear to Ceria that once you answer our questions you will be given a swift death. Fine? Good. Now where the hell is the druid?”
“She is being taken to Rhelm.” Fitz’s mouth opened to speak but he was cut off. “For a druid burning. That’s assuming she is still alive.” A frown spread across the cleric’s face as he pondered another question.
Magnus stepped back toward the prisoner. “What is happening?”
The prisoner sneered, “What do you mean?”
Magnus tugged at his already wild hair, “We have scorpiots flooding out of wells and dwem attacking cities in the middle of the night! What the hell do you think I’m talking about? Why is it happening?” The mage’s last words were heavy with an implied threat.
“I am not a priest. How would I know?” Arcane phrases rattled out of Magnus’ mouth; the Culite’s eye began shedding light again. The prisoner kicked and spun on the floor, trying to escape the inescapable light.
“You will answer my question. The priest is not the only one with that trick and you will find me much less agreeable.” Pure hatred laced the threat; pure hatred stretched across the wizard’s face. “And if you don’t, I will have you hung tomorrow from the parapets in the noonday sun so that you can slowly starve as gravity pulls your arms out of their sockets. So you can slowly die while bathing in the summer light. Every night, we will heal you enough that you will survive a practically forever. Every night I will make sure your eye glows like the hot summer sun. And every day you can writhe on the parapets as the crows and ravens pick slowly away at your flesh.
"Now answer the damned question.” The mage dismissed his spell with the flick of a hand.
“There is a prophecy. I do not know the specifics, I am just a farmer. It says that the creatures of below will flood the world. And the world shall drown in the darkness of the great God, Cula Vak. I swear, that’s all I know.”
“Good. Then let’s get you dead, shall we?” Magnus kicked the Culite in the crotch, as the man reflexively bolted upward the wizard brought his heel down and broke the bones of the prisoner’s hand. “That felt good.” Magnus turned and dragged Fitz out of the room.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias steadied the prisoner’s footing on the ledge. Both glanced downward into the remains of the collapsed well. The fall was still nearly thirty feet from the one side. Tobias checked the binding of the rope, assuring tightness.
The warrior glanced over to the fire blazing by the camp in the other courtyard. There his friends slept soundly, peacefully. It had been decided Tobias should deliver the deathblow on his nightly guard shift. The young man always chose the witching hour as his shift, assuring his friends were well rested.
“Do you have anything else to say or request?” Tobias lifted the dagger to the Culite’s throat.
“They will come after you. You will all die. And when Cula Vak returns to rule Ostia Prim you will all suffer eternally for your insolence.”
“Right.” The blade danced upward away from the killer’s neck, Tobias’ skilled arms plucking out the one remaining eye. “That is so you can truly embrace the darkness of your God.”
The blade flashed again, catching the moonlight as it opened a horizontal wound in the neck of the captive. “One more thing,” the paladin spoke as blood gushed downward and sprayed toward the far side of the collapsed well. “I want you to know that I am a paladin, a warrior of the angels. They’ve sent a message for you. Your god cares not for you. And as you pass into the realm of the gods you’ll realize this. It is at that point that Cula Vak will rise up and devour your soul.
“You’ve wasted your life.” A gurgling rasp was the only response. Tobias released his hold on the prisoner. The Culite disappeared into the black maw of the collapsed well.
Slowly and methodically, Tobias knelt saying a prayer to Reddel. Then he moved to shift enough stone and dirt into the black maw to hide the corpse for an eternity.
===================================
The days crawled past the Heroes under the veil of a shadow of misery. Still the summer sun baked the Valusian earth without the gentle kiss of rain to comfort and nourish the earth. But the sun was dimmed in the shade; helplessness for a past comrade. Purpose became ritual and time was sacrificed to the devouring cycle of sun and moon.
The band had left the prophecy, untold as it was at Llyndofare. Also, they left their hopes for Calyx’s life in the ancient stone structure to wander the circling corridors, brooding and wasting away as they did now on the trail. Even if the trip to Rhelm could have been made, the timeframe was such that Calyx still couldn’t have survived. Instead, the Heroes decided to avenge themselves upon the Culites in the area.
Motega stopped in the center of the tracks, arm upraised in the motion to stop as he studied the heavy yet small prints pounded into the scorched field. Two different individuals at least, possibly three he thought as he inspected the imprint. Smaller than a human and heavy, obviously dwarven he confirmed. And if dwarven at this location halfway between Marchford and Dun Beric, then obviously dwem he thought. The Rorn lowered his arm to signal the other to come forward as he stalked farther down the trail toward Marchford.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twilight had appeared in the sky as the party edged ever closer to Marchford. The cool summer breeze kissed their faces and ruffled their filth-laden hair, the only respite they had known on the trail. Rations were low but Motega provided more than enough to keep them going. Exhaustion however had taken a foothold and constantly opposed them. Eyelids drooped, sometimes feet didn’t quite step high enough to clear a root and that only further slowed their progress.
A half-hour before twilight the party had slipped off of the dwem trail and back onto the actual road. They had forced themselves to continue both for the vengeance they sought and because the dwem tracks had led toward Marchford. The town had steadily grown in their affections and now it measured up as a home away from home. They all held fears to the well-being of the town and so would not stop even to rest their exhausted frames.
The road began to descend in long winding swales. Motega now walked with the rest of the party, safety in numbers. He recognized the location from their prior travels as no more than three-quarters of a mile from Marchford. Silently, his head drooped and he nearly stumbled. He double-stepped to regain his balance and kicked loose stone off the road and into the brush. As the dust and stone settled, a heavy snap of underbrush snapped the Rornman out of his near exhaustion.
“Weapons!” He shrieked, already picking out two dwem hiding with the shadows of the branches. As he drew his sword he charged the one nearest him, trying to prevent the dark dwarf from stepping onto the road.
Tobias wrenched his blade out of its scabbard, weak though his arms were from exhaustion. As he twirled it around, three of the dwarves charged in to circle him.
The dwarf that had signaled Motega accidentally bashed the ranger with his shield, hefting his axe for a killing blow but the Rorn fell backward and out of the way of the wild swing. The Rorn was quickly up and returning the wild swings of his enemy twofold.
Another dwarf farther along the road darted toward the black ring encircling Tobias. Magnus fumbled inside his pouch for a few spell components, the quickening darkness not aiding the search. As the dwarf neared, the mage unleashed another bright ray of rainbow cascading colors. Stumbing, the dwarf dropped its weapons and collapsed into a heap in front of the wizard.
Motega ducked another treacherous swing, rolling again on the ground. The dwem challenger moved to rejoin the group of deep dwarves assaulting Tobias once the Rorn was out of the way. The Rornman pivoted over to the incapacitated dwem and delivered a quick death.
Tobias was pushed back a step to avoid an incoming blow only to feel an axe-head explode into and through his kidney. Blood fled from too many to count wounds already despite the whirling blades of his Cerian friend. The priest kept attempting to distract the killing circle, but they only paid him heed to deliver swift bloody wounds. The circle was intent on destroying the young warrior hub of their wheel.
Fitz pivoted forward again, scythe dipping and weaving with a successful although miniscule wound to the dwem in front of him. The deep dwarf roared, bringing his axe downward and cleaving through Tobias’ well muscled chest. The axe slipped and slid, breaking through his collarbone and grinding into his ribcage, many of the ribs snapping like twigs.
Tobias groaned as he fell forward, barely aware of the continuing downpour of blades breaking his flesh, muscle and bone. His eyes closed as the blood pooled around his head, his last sights of a crimson, unending lake. The killing circle broke and turned toward the mage and ranger, completely ignoring the Cerian priest.
Magnus unleashed an orb of bright energy that slammed into the largest dwem. The dwarf only grunted, momentarily pausing the moment of the axe. But then the head carved downward exploding into Magnus’ frame. The mage’s large bones did little to slow the slaughtering force of the axe head. He joined his warrior friend on the ground.
Fitz dropped onto his knees, one arm curled as if broken or strained. He grabbed the healing wand from his pouch and lifted it to administer to the warrior. He touched Tobias with the tip and felt the divine energy flood through the carved wood pouring outward into the youth. But the energy dissipated as if Tobias were not even there. None of the wounds closed; none of the blood was staunched. A single tear dripped from the priest’s eyes as he lifted his gaze. Standing in front of him, a dark dwarf brought his weapon downward.
Motega roared in anger as he furiously parried and attacked the two dwem focusing their rage on him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched both Magnus and Fitz join Tobias on the ground, either unconscious or dead. The other two dwem were coming back to rejoin the fray. The Rorn knew the tactic as they began to close the circle.
Already, Motega was bleeding profusely; his head was becoming dizzy from loss of blood. He managed to fall back at the precise time one of the dwem erred, his longsword severing an arm and removing one combatant. Exhaustion and lack of blood pulled him downward though. He managed to brace his fall with an arm and push into a roll.
The dwem changed course, flocking toward the wounded ranger leaving their comrade to bleed out. Motega leapt off the ground and charged toward his friends, searching for breathing space. He leapt over the carnage, rage tearing through his veins and tumbled through the brush. Quickly he climbed through the brush several yards taking refuge behind a massive oak. The two smaller dwem halted their chase at the edge of the wood.
The dwem leader roared in undercommon; the word for food not understood by the Rorn. As Motega crouched behind the tree he heard the heavy thump of an axe and the splintering sound of a skull being crushed open.
============================
Yes...final part of this extremely long chapter.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega sheathed his blade as quietly as possible and leaned forward to loose his bow and draw a few arrows. He shifted the group’s haversack carefully, sliding it over a deep laceration on his shoulder. The Rorn placed one arrow in his teeth as he nocked the other and stood, still leaning against the tree.
Carefully, he peered around the edge, just catching the silhouettes of the dwem on the road standing above his comrades. The rage welled up within him again as he pulled back on the bow and loosed the arrow. A dull thud and groan followed the impact as he had already gripped the tree for stealth again.
Undercommon floated to his position on the summer breeze. Quickly he slung the bow over his back and climbed up into the oak. He stopped after traversing a few boughs and balancing precariously he nocked the other arrow.
The two smaller dwem were rummaging in the edge of the wood, heading slowly toward his position. He took aim and then changed his mind. Lifting the arrow slightly he targeted the leader. The large dwem was holding his axe above his head again to brain another victim. Motega released the arrow.
The tiny spear plummeted downward catching the dwem in the throat. The axe dropped as the dwem grabbed the shaft; a raw gurgling sound escaped his mouth. The Rorn slung the bow over his shoulder again and leapt off the branch of the tree. He stiffened his legs, all of his force going into the fall as he impacted one of the lesser dwem. The creature’s body crumpled beneath him and he went into a front roll.
Branches and vines lashed his body, opening new wounds, as he struggled through the brush trying to find another hiding space. Quickly he spun around on his stomach, the bow again in his hands and another arrow nocked. Just ten feet away, the dwem he had midget-stomped groaned and tried to stand. Ten feet farther away, the other dwem lackey turned to aide his companion.
An eerie red incandescent light lifted from the forest floor. Motega unleashed the arrow, spearing the dwem through its eye. The bulk of the dwarf slammed into the hard earth. The Rornman stood and darted through the brush, trying to move out of the remaining dark dwarves’ sight.
He ran fifty feet through the forest before catching a branch and swinging up into a tree. Perched on a branch, he stretched the stiffening muscles in his body. He inventoried his wounds, most of which had stopped bleeding. A few, including the laceration on his shoulder, still spewed their life-fluid. He readied another arrow, hearing the rumblings in branches not too far away.
Slowly the silhouette of the other dwem came into focus among the fronds and leaves of the wood. Motega’s breath paused as he took his aim. Slowly the dwarf waded through a dense bush and it stopped, lifting its head. The shiny red eyes glared out of the underbrush; Motega’s breath slowly released along with the arrow. The dwarf dodged, the arrow catching and shattering against his armor.
Two crossbow bolts slammed into the tree where Motega had been, but the Rorn was airborne. His strength carried him upward a few feet before his weight kicked in drawing him back toward the earth. His feet slammed into the shoulder of the dwem; bones popped and cracked under the force. Both collapsed in a heap of flailing arms and legs.
The dwem’s shoulder was shattered if not out of place. The wound allowed the Rornman the time to draw a dagger and open the dwem’s throat from ear to ear. The blunted black fingers twitched as they released their grip on life and the Rorn. Motega roared, dipping his hands into the blood of his victim. He wiped the blood in streaks across his own face. Then taking only a finger of blood at a time, he etched Rorn symbols on his already blood covered body.
The Rorn grabbed his bow, nocking the final arrow he would use for the night and proceeded toward the road. As he emerged from the brush in a brisk trot he loosed the arrow. The shaft found its mark in the leg of the last dwem, the largest dwarf, the leader.
Motega screamed with all his rage in the direction of the beast. He drew his sword. The black dwarf ripped the arrow out of its leg and lifted its axe. They screamed at each other, fifty feet of space in between. Then panting and wounded, they both charged.
The two monsters clashed, blade to axe. Motega’s forward momentum was the only thing allowing him to stand the shattering blow of the deep dwarf. The might of the wounded creature was unimaginable and frightful. For a moment, Motega doubted the survival of any of his friends.
Then the axe bit deeply into his flesh. Motega cried out in pain; the pain transformed to fury and he drove his own blade through the gut of his foe. Lifting his foot, he kicked off and crashed into the ground five feet away.
The flap of the haversack loosed itself, contents spilling over the open road. Motega slammed his hand down for leverage to stand. His hand closed on a vial when he stood. Ripping the stopper out with his teeth, the Rorn downed the potion in one fast gulp. Wounds began to knit themselves together when the dwarf stepped in with a devastating blow.
The axe crumpled Motega’s arm and he fell backward again. He kicked and flailed backward trying to escape the deep dwarf. He brought his blade forward as a protective shield only the blade wasn’t in his hand. He looked back at the dwem sergeant, his blade piercing the beast’s bowels. The dwem stood unwavering but clearly dead on its feet. Motega stood, ripped the blade out of its gut and watched the corpse hit the ground.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega had taken the dozen healing potions and tended to his party. Fitz was the first to wake and assisted in bringing Magnus back from the brink of death. All sat in a state of disbelief around the body of Tobias. The warrior’s brains were spilled all over the ground. His empty eyes stared upward into the dark sky, a stream of blood staining the skin around his mouth.
Lovingly, Motega wrapped the body in a wool blanket tightly, to help prevent decay. Fitz murmured a few divine words over the corpse to also assist in keeping the body fresh. Magnus wept openly.
Once the body was wrapped, a makeshift stretcher was made for the corpse. Also, a sled was built to haul the looted bodies of the dwem. Once everything was gathered, the three Heroes headed toward Marchford.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They stood at the edge of the Town of Marchford. A terrible thunderstorm had erupted in the last leg of the journey, bringing relief to the scorched earth.
“The world weeps for you, my friend,” Fitz whispered at the corpse they bore.
“Not just him.” Motega grunted. He pointed toward the Town and the few buildings that remained. Most of the homes had been burnt down, were still burning. An angry sneer was carved on the Rornman’s visage.
The sounds of fighting echoed out of Oggut’s bar. Dwem could be seen entering and exiting the stone and wood structure. Sounds of joy poured out of the tavern and inn. Meanwhile, guards stood watch from inside the small keep. Figures could be seen moving about the battlements, tending to the torches that could barely hold their light in the downpour.
"I will kill every last one of them,” Motega swore.
“Not yet,” Fitz laid a comforting hand on the savage. “If we hurry, we may be able to bring the warrior back. We do not have time to fight a pointless war. We must go.”
“Fine. For Tobias, we go. But first I will leave them a warning.” Motega quickly piled the corpses of the five dwem on the ground in a pile. He quickly removed there heads, setting them to the side. Then he lathered the bodies in torch oil, a malicious gleam on his face.
He bent to light the bodies but the flames sputtered and died. He looked heavenward as if challenging the gods to kill the fire again. Then he attempted again. The flames caught and sputtered and then burst upward, screaming into the oncoming rain, screaming at the heavens.
Quickly Motega dumped oil into the fleshy black heads and set those ablaze as well. With three swift kicks, the flaming dwem skulls bounced and crashed down the hill toward the tavern. Motega roared a Rorn curse into the air. Then the Heroes of Marchford turned and left. Behind them, Marchford slowly burned away to ash despite the storm.
===================================
Tobias struggled in the pitch black darkness. His body tingled but would not move. Nor could he open his eyes. The numbness of unconsciousness he had experienced before, but this time was somehow different. His thoughts drifted back to Reddel and his first meeting with his guardian.
His near death experience occurred within a cold mirror of the natural world. It was the Valus, it was Rhelm his home and yet it was the world without time. The coldness had been the infinite gap in perception human minds weave into time. It had been a place without emotion, untouched by anything considered real.
This place was just emptiness.
Then, his perceptions exploded with a tingling sensation in his head. A slow pressure starting at the crown of his head and traversing backwards through his skull created the feeling. It was fear. It was pain, just numb pain. And it dripped with the terror Tobias had as a child. The terror of watching his father’s execution for alleged and unproven crimes, forced to watch the life flee from the corpse.
The feeling of sensing something was wrong but not seeing the cause. An unknown reality twisted upon instincts too subtle to be understood: wariness and suspicion.
His body convulsed or his mind, he was unsure which. And the tingling passed. He felt his sentience expand, blossoming as a flower and flooding upward. Not flooding, flying as if pulled upward by a great force. He concentrated and could imagine although not physically see the world growing smaller behind is rapidly ascending soul.
Bright light bathed his soul as a flaming orb appeared within his “sight”. The light, although warm due to the flame, was hostile and unwelcoming. Toward this sun he hurtled ever faster, unable to slow or stop. Before the first flame licked his soul, the flight abruptly ended.
His soul dangled in front of sun, held by some unrecognized force. Yet the flames of the Risen God’s prison still flailed toward him, trying to devour. His soul shifted backward, pulled by another force and he felt warmth spreading across his back.
“That prison is not for you, my chosen.” Reddel’s melodic and stern voice whispered into his being. “That realm they call heaven is not. It is more a hell. And by serving faithfully, you have been exempted.” Her strong arm spun Tobias’ soul around and her firm hand gripped his.
With a swift beat of her wings, his course altered and he was pulled across time, space and through dimensions. A bright light enveloped him as his vision filled with blinding white.
“Welcome home, Tobias.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Heroes were stopped at the gates of Dun Moor by a filthy guard with rotten teeth. He walked a slow circle around them, inventorying their goods with his eyes.
“Aye, and whadda youse want?” The guard poked Tobias’ corpse with his bow and Motega smacked it away. The man’s hand grasped his sword’s hilt.
“Entrance, guard.” Fitz stated. “We need to see the Lady Erigal.”
“Right. Well I don’ think she’ll have the time to see you. But, es your loss.” He pounded on the huge oak doors and a peephole slid open. “Ese travelers want to be let in.” A snicker passed through the hole.
“Well, you know the new law. Travelers, if you wish entrance to the great city Dun Moor, then you must pay a fee. Otherwise, return from where you came.” A gruff blue eye stared out of the hole.
Magnus fumbled with his robes, extracting several silvers and handed them quickly over to the dirty guard. He examined the coins for a moment, bit them and slipped them into his pouch.
“We only accept weapons or armor. ‘Ose are the rules.”
Magnus’ eye twitched. “Then let me have my money back.”
“Wha’ money?” The guard’s face broke into a smile, rancid stench passing through his rotten teeth. Magnus’ hand twitched as arcane energy began to fill his palm.
Motega grasped the mage’s hand, interrupting the spell. Then he grabbed the dwem armor and weapons and threw it into a heap at the soldier’s feet. “Is that enough?”
“Aye, savage. At’ll do. Open the gates!” The heavy doors groaned as they shivered ajar slightly. The Heroes turned and walked toward the city.
“Enjoy your stay!” The guard yelled from behind. “Oh, an’ nice doin’ business with youse.” Another sour smile crept across his face.
Motega’s arm lashed out and he struggled to get the mage and Tobias’ corpse through the portal.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The eternal starlight of Angulum lit every building and field in a beautiful silvery hue. Tobias walked along the pristine streets, Reddel beside him. Every blade of grass or stalk of wheat swayed to a harmonic rhythm, a music that danced lightly on the air.
“What would have happened had I passed into the sun?” Tobias’ eyes glanced at his guardian. Still her wings were caked with the blood of the unholy. Her great-sword was sheathed though.
“You need not worry about that. You would have never passed into it; I was there to catch you.”
“But, my friends?”
“They will not be so fortunate. The sun itself is just Saficea’s wrath. They will pass not into it, but through it into the realm of the Risen Gods. And then they will spend eternity trying to dodge the constant war of the gods. It is not a paradise.” She glanced briefly at Tobias before looking forward.
“But Fitz, he is a cleric of Ceria. Will he not be afforded a station at her side?”
“He will suffer the same fate as all of the others. The Gods care not for their worshippers.” She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “He may not know that that is his fate, yet. But as he grows in power he will find out. And then, like all of his brethren in all the churches, he will seek to keep the afterlife a secret.” Tobias’ face fell, his eyes locked upon his feet.
“But you need not worry about that now. You are here, in heaven. This is your place and your friends have chosen their own paths. Maybe some of them will be redeemed along their path. Perhaps some of them will fall even further. These are not your concerns, now.
“Much of this, chosen one, you already knew or felt. Why do you question it now?”
“I suspected it, yes. And I felt it. I just would prefer my friends not suffer that fate.”
“It is their path. And only they can change it. That was not your task. Now,” she reached down and laid a comforting hand on the paladin’s shoulder, “I must take care of another charge. I will return. Enjoy this paradise.” A silent shimmer and a shift in the breeze marked Reddel’s departure.
Tobias turned and looked into the infinite twinkling starlight. “My poor friends.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Ahhh, I see you are without your druid friend. I do so enjoy your company more without that whore in my presence.” Lady Erigal grinned greedily at the compatriots as she stared at the body of Tobias. “What service do you require of me this fine day?”
“We need you to resurrect our friend.” Fitz laid a gentle hand on the corpse, his eyes shifted downward.
“Of course, of course. I can do that. If you can pay.” She hungrily glared at the Heroes.
“We can pay.” Fitz quietly responded.
“Very well, first I need to know which of the Risen Gods he placed his faith in.” Her condescending smile nearly brightened the room.
“Morduk,” Motega grunted.
“Yes, the God of Vengeance and Justice,” Magnus added sorrowfully.
“But,” the Lady interrupted, “I was under the belief that he had renounced Morduk. He said as much last time I spoke with him. So, who did he worship?” Blank stares appeared on the wizard’s and the Rorn’s faces.
Fitz cleared his throat and turned to his companions. “Friends, please wait outside while I finish this transaction.” The blank stares turned into questioning glances, but Motega and Magnus shuffled out of the Lady’s private chambers.
“Oh, this should be good,” Erigal remarked as she sat upon her chair.
“Tobias admitted or confessed to me some time ago that he had become a,” the cleric paused, hesitating only for a moment, “paladin.”
Erigal’s face flushed bright red and turned deep crimson. “A paladin?!”
“Yes, Lady. A paladin.” Fitz’s eyes were now permanently fixed upon the floor.
The Lady stood up swiftly and spit on Tobias’ cold, dead body. “You bring an angel-worshipper into the House of Qwynna Pru and ask for a resurrection?! You have some nerve, priest of Ceria.” Her eyes were knives piercing Fitz’s skull. “This is intolerable. I will not perform this raising. His death is deserved.” She flung herself back into her chair.
“He was a good man, Lady.”
“I don’t care if he gave all of his money to the poor. I don’t care if he slaughtered every demon upon this island. I don’t care. HE IS AN ANGEL WORSHIPPER!!! He does not deserve to return.”
“My Lady,” Fitz’s eyes lifted from the floor and fixed upon Erigal, “despite his beliefs, if I had the ability I would raise him myself.”
“You are a Cerian. That statement in and of itself is a blasphemy. By my church, I should have you slaughtered. I should have had him slaughtered,” again, she spit on the corpse. “And I should have slaughtered your heathen b*tch.”
“I can pay above the normal price, Lady.” Fitz resumed his gaze of the floor.
“Yes, well, that would be a start. But I will have to confer with Qwynna Pru herself, and see if she will allow the,” Erigal gritted her teeth, “angel-lover to return. And priest, you will pay for that service as well.”
“Yes, Lady.”
“And you will pay for it now.” Her eyes took on their cold glare as she waited for his money. Fitz laid the money upon the table and stepped backward one pace. Erigal snatched the money up, placing it within her own purse.
“Wait here, harvester. I will return with my Goddess’ denial in a few minutes.” The Lady stalked off into another room.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The minutes idly passed as Fitz stood in Lady Erigal’s private chambers waiting for the denial. He kept no track of the time, his eyes settled upon the body of his friend.
Suddenly, a door slammed open and Erigal walked back into the room. She turned slowly and shut the door. Then, cautiously she walked toward her chair and eased herself into it.
Fitz raised his eyes to survey the Lady’s cocky countenance. His eyes could not find the condescending sneer though. Instead, the Lady’s face was chalk-white as though she were ill.
“Lady?”
“Qwynna Pru will grant your request*,” she stated in a sickened whisper.
“Lady?!” Fitz’s hopes soared.
“Not so fast, harvester,” the priestess interjected sensing Fitz’s joy. “That is not even taking into consideration whether or not he wants to come back.”
“Yes, Lady. I know of the ritual.”
“And if he does return, he will owe a debt to Qwynna Pru.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it will need to be paid immediately upon return. I can perform the ritual tomorrow in the morning. I need the payment tonight though.”
“Of course, my Lady.” Fitz beamed.
“And if he chooses not to return, your silvers will not be refunded.” She stated with finality.
“Yes my Lady.” Fitz dug into his pouch. “How much extra, Lady Erigal?”
“Just the standard price.” The priestess looked as though she would faint or vomit. “No extra money this time.”
Fitz eagerly handed the coins over and turned to leave.
“Tomorrow morning, bright and early,” Erigal demanded.
“As you wish,” Fitz conceded. Then he bowed and exited the private chambers.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* - Destan had me roll an unmodified d20 to see if Qwynna Pru would allow Tobias to be resurrected. I rolled a natural 20. This is before I decided whether or not to return...
And so you all have a time frame, this occured in late October of last year. The only reason I know that is because the next day was my birthday. And Destan gave me the best b-day present ever...a player death...(that's sarcasm). Needless to say, I spent the following two days inebriated. Mourning.
=============================================
Fitz. Magnus and Motega leave the Qwynna Pru chapel and stood in the road. The overwhelming greenery of Dun Moor had browned in the fury of the summer drought. Fitz’s eyes roamed up and down the street.
“Calyx could’ve done something about this,” the priest said. “I don’t understand their unrelenting hatred for the druids.” An audible sigh escaped his lips as he turned to walk toward the inn.
“How’d you get her to do it?” Magnus queried. Fitz shot the mage a reproachful glance. “I mean, we heard her screaming in the common room of the parish. Not that we could hear what she was saying,” he quickly added. “Her tone was indicative of non-compliance, however.” Magnus grinned broadly.
“Well, you know. I’m sure she has some goodness in her hear…” Motega cut the Cerian off with a wave of the hand.
“Every whore has her price,” the Rornman hissed. He turned back toward the church and spit. Then, Motega led the others into the inn.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunlight splashed through a half opened window shade onto an old oak table. Motes of dust swirled in the light, dancing as the door to Lady Erigal’s private chambers shut behind the last of the Heroes. The sunlight draped itself across the body of their slain friend, a shining robe of glory.
Lady Erigal sat upon a raised stool at the head of the table, applying a green poultice to Tobias’ brow. Her forest green robes dangled loosely toward the floor, skirting the unpolished wood and awakening the restless motes of dust. She didn’t bother to look up as they came in, concentrating on the task at hand. After the Heroes had taken seats upon chairs she had positioned, she removed the poultice from the table and moved it to her desk.
“I want you take note of what happens here, Master Fitz,” the priestess began. “I want you to behold the endless power of Qwynna Pru. And afterward, once you have seen the glory of the Lifegiver, we can discuss your conversion.” Fitz’s nose twitched.
“First, the decision to return is completely up to your friend. Qwynna Pru cannot force him to return, if he wants to stay in the afterlife. The choice is completely Tobias’ to make. Now, if he does want to return, Qwynna Pru will have a few rules for him to follow.”
“And what might those be?” The Rorn demanded.
“Well, they can only be told in front of the twice-born. Should he choose to return.” Erigal smiled. “Now, I need complete silence for this ritual. So, keep your questions to yourself.” Lady Erigal’s eyes closed as she assumed a cross-legged stance on the stool.
Minutes passed, marked only by the Lady’s quite rhythmic chanting and the Sun’s brightening rays through the window. Motega grew restless quickly but kept focused, if only to slaughter the priestess if she messed up.
Suddenly an explosion of green light filled the room, emanating from Lady Erigal. Her eyes twitched open; iris, pupil and white drowned in an overpowering, luminescent green sea. A palpable aura of divine energy appeared around her lithe body. The green tendrils of Qwynna Pru’s power snaking outward like rapidly growing vines. They arched momentarily toward the window bathing in sunlight before stretching back toward the table. Her robes shimmered and shifted into a beautiful emerald green as the tendrils clamped onto Tobias.
Motega’s knuckles turned white as he grasped the hilt of his sword. Magnus had also jolted backward with his hand fingering his crossbow. Fitz sat, clearly unimpressed with his arms folded across his chest.
The tendrils snaked across Tobias’ cold corpse then reflexively snapped into the air above. For only a split second they hung there quivering, before the tendrils flowed into the warrior’s open mouth.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias’ head snapped backward and his world spun. Reddel’s form shivered, blurred. Suddenly the violation passed and his sight returned to what he had come to accept as normal. Splotches of green spattered here and there however ruining the silver hue of the light.
“What…what were we talking about?” Tobias’ hand massaged his temples to remove the remaining green splotches.
“Well chosen one, you had asked me the meaning of life.” Reddel smiled.
“And what was your response?” The angel laughed.
“We’re not supposed to know that, child. We are only meant to enforce good. You would do well to remember that. Maybe next time, you’ll keep to your role.”
Tobias grimaced as another searing green light nearly blinded him. He collapsed to his knees on the street they had been walking down. His hands plastered to the side of his head, he wailed in agony.
“That isn’t necessary child, don’t fight it.”
“What….what IS IT?!” Tobias screamed.
“Probably your friends trying to bring you back. They would’ve had to contact one of the imperfect beings to request your return. That is why there is so much pain.”
Tobias loosened his restraint and allowed the green searing light into his vision. He saw the face of a beautiful woman staring into his eyes. Her skin was a vibrant green, with flowers growing from the vines that substituted for hair.
“Your friends request you to return, angel-lover.” Disdain weighed heavily on every word. “There will be a price for your return though.” The goddess impatiently stared the paladin down.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an acceptable answer mortal. Yes or No will do.” The goddess smirked.
“There is much more you could’ve done child,” Reddel chimed in. “Return if you think you can assist your friends. Just know, you won’t remember much of this, if any. Your questions will remain answered. But ours is not the place to question, just to do.”
Tobias turned back toward the Mistress of Mangroves.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias’ body snapped upright as he convulsed in a coughing fit. Motega, Fitz and Magnus all stood at once and went to their ally. Lady Erigal moved from her stool to a high-back chair. She slumped down in the seat, the divine power having drained her energy.
Questions bombarded the twice-born warrior. His ears tried to adapt but just felt overwhelmed. He shook his head and pushed everyone back a step. Cautiously he swung his legs over the edge of the table and adjusted to the weight of his body.
Too quickly, he pushed off of the table and his legs, healing but partially atrophied, buckled underneath. His head slammed against the hardwood of the floor. Pain exploded in his skull as a small stream of blood trickled from his nose.
Motega stepped in to assist but Tobias pushed him away. The warrior let his head hang back, laughing through all the pain. More carefully, Tobias grabbed a hold of the table and pulled himself up until standing.
“Now, as you should know Tobias,” the Lady interrupted, “you owe a debt of gratitude to Qwynna Pru. This promise is to be fulfilled in the following ways: First, you are never to travel with the heather druids again.” She paused to assure her words were being memorized. “Second, in the event you come upon a town that is burning druids, you must stop and preach to the town about the treacheries of heathenism.”
“And lastly?” Tobias inquired to speed up his departure.
“Finally, there is a small task that you must undertake. North of this town many of our pilgrims have been attacked by a group of bandits.”
“Simple enough,” the warrior intoned.
“Don’t interrupt me. The bandits work with a,” she nearly shuddered, “half-fiend. This beast’s name is Uzukiel. He’ll be easy enough to spot with the large, curling ram horns that adorn his skull.
“Rumor has it that Uzukiel is making use of an abandoned abbey once used by a sect of Mordites. But the abbey has been empty for centuries. This abbey is built in a hollowed crevice on a mountain. You should find it easily enough as well.”
“Does this abbey have a name?” Magnus asked.
“Since the Mordites turned on their followers and slaughtered every last one of them, the monastery has been known as the Abbey of Sin.” Lady Erigal rested her chin upon her hand as she waited for their next question.
“Anything else I need to know about this Uzukiel?” Tobias already wore his battle-face.
“If you fail he enjoys torture. Oh and his favorite method of execution is disembowelment.” She stopped to relish the surprise on the mage’s face. “That is all. You may go now.” Then the priestess stood and ushered them out the door.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I won’t ask you to go,” the warrior stated. “This is my task and I will undertake it alone.”
“Shut up,” Motega ordered. “We’re you’re friends. We’re going with you.”
Tobias patted the Rorn on the shoulder. “Good to see you, too. By the way, where is my gear?” Tobias’ eyes drifted toward the mage.
“Ahh, well,” Magnus stuttered. “I had to sell some of it.” Tobias’ face reddened. “To pay for your resurrection.” Magnus scurried quickly past the warrior and ahead of the Rorn.
===================================
The Heroes stopped at the bottom of an incline. They had traveled north from Dun Moor several days after purchasing new supplies. Tobias had been ecstatic that the majority of his gear had been saved.
The summer sun beat down on their backs as they stared up the rocky incline. The path, if it could be called such, was strewn with rocks and boulders that impeded the forest’s growth. Heavy dust hung in the air and covered all of the rocks. The drought’s full force and effects bore down on each and every living thing in the area of the trail.
At the top of the incline was a mountain of rock. A recess had been into the tower of rock. Inside the recess, remains of a Morduk monastery stood silent. The rays of the setting sun cast twisting shadows over the face of the structure.
“How do we want to do this?” Motega asked, already preparing an arrow.
“Did Lady Erigal speak of any other way in?” Magnus turned to Tobias. The warrior shook his head in response.
“I’ll go first,” Motega grunted.
“I’ll follow, it is my mission.” Tobias responded. “I’ll give you a lead though. You are faster and quieter than most of us.” Magnus and Fitz acquiesced, so the Heroes began the arduous climb upward.
Five hundred feet from the gates, a large gong echoed across the hillside. The Heroes scattered to either side of the trail seeking cover from the large rocks. The twenty foot high doors of the Abbey roared open. Scuttling from the darkness, five shaggy humanoids began to pick their way down the slope. All carried longbows, arrows already drawn back.
Motega held up his hand, indicating the number approaching. Then with quick deft movements, the Rorn indicated the creatures carried bows. Silently, Motega popped out from behind his boulder and loosed an arrow. The arrow flew high and wide, only alerting the beasts to the Heroes presence.
As Motega leaned back, a barrage of arrows clattered harmlessly against his boulder. He readied two arrows this time and missed twice again.
Tobias managed to score a glancing hit. But his arrows were as ineffective as the Rorn’s. Magnus, however, continued to pelt the enemy with crossbow bolts. The mage calmly waited for the exchange between the front-liners and the opposition. Once the arrows were released, he popped out and nailed the beasts.
Minutes seemingly turned into hours. Three of the beasts fell to Magnus’ bolts before the remaining two dropped their bows and resorted to blades. As they came around the boulders, Tobias and Motega met them with their own steel. Once in face-to-face combat, the creatures couldn’t hold their own. They fell swiftly to the Heroes’ blades.
Tobias took a step forward to finish the approach and Motega laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“No. We camp here tonight. It can wait one more day.” The Rorn turned toward the group. “We have much to discuss. We’ll camp here.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hours later, a small campfire shed cascading reds across the faces of the Heroes. They had moved the dog-like beasts out of the path and set a camp. The small fire would probably be noticeable from the Abbey but the Heroes hoped the distance would give them enough time to rally for a defense. If the remaining beasts were anything like the first group, the Heroes had little to fear.
Magnus had been prattling on for what seemed like years. He talked of all manner of things. Yet, the mage didn’t seem to be able to hold a single line of thought for more than a few minutes. His thoughts were incomplete and seemingly random.
Motega suddenly interrupted the young mage. “These were gnolls. I have dealt with their Roven kin before, but these were nothing more than rabid dogs hardly worth staining a blade upon.”
Magnus glanced around the group his crossbow was still laying across his lap. “Thanks for the advice, Motega.” The young mage beamed. “I followed your shots exactly and killed three of ‘em!” Magnus turned toward the Rornman and noted the scowl growing across his face. The mage muttered, “Thank you,” and turned to stare into the fire.
“If you are done wagging your tongue, mage,” the Rorn started, “I have something to say.
“I know that my people are viewed as nothing more than savages outside of our homeland and that may be true. We are not ignorant to your ways. We are just as varied as you in our beliefs and practices. Some of us pursue arcane studies as Magnus does. Most place their faith in one or more of the Risen Gods, though I do not. Some practice the old ways as Calyx did. Some even follow other callings,” Motega turned a suspicious eye toward Tobias.
"No matter what path we choose, my people believe we all have our own Ka....purpose on this world. I was sent away from my tribe, the Makkapitew to find my Ka because I was jealous of my brother and his gift even though we were both yuma.
“I do not yet know what my Ka is, but what I do know is this: I have seen one not much older than a boy stand up after a blow that would kill most men. I have seen a holy man of Ceria, not only perform minor miracles, but order a priestess of his rival around like a serving wench. I also now sit in the presence of a twice-born, brought back from the dead with no mark of the divine upon him.
"Yes, I may not know what my Ka is, but I do know it is linked with the three of you, making us Ka-tet.
“I know we each have our own histories. And that they are varied. But I think for our Ka-tet to survive, any of us holding back an important fact should come forward now.” The Rorn cast another glance toward Tobias. Magnus caught the look and turned toward the twice-born as well.
Tobias’ cheeks flushed a bit as he cleared his throat. “I am not just a twice-born. I am a Paladin, an Angel worshipper. I am sorry I did not admit this to you sooner. I would accept your departures if you decided you could no longer travel beside me.” The warrior glanced toward the earth.
“Shut up,” Motega sputtered. “I thought you might follow an Achak. I just wanted to hear the truth from your own lips.” Motega stood and unsheathed his dagger. With the blade, he carved a Rorn symbol into his palm. Turning to the group he held the blade outward.
Each member carved the symbol into their hands, allowing the blood to mix upon the blade of the knife. “We are like family now,” Motega stated firmly.
"I think I know what you mean by being tied together,” Magnus was the first to break the silence. “You three and Calyx have been the closest I’ve been to anyone in the last six years. Traveling beside you has increased my confidence and abilities.” The mage beamed again.
“Not to mention your wealth,” added Tobias with a good-natured grin.
“Somehow,” the Rorn cut in, “its been unable to tighten your loose tongue.” The Rorn smiled as he rolled over onto his bed. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”
=================================
Tobias stood in the center of the rapidly fading effect. Uzukiel, the half-fiend, the hot-blooded murderer, the beast Tobias was sent to eradicate had already collapsed into ash. Tobias’ hand had not made the killing blow. The success of this battle had been in large part, Magnus’ doing. Even Motega had landed several strikes.
Tobias had been, in a word, ineffectual.
Now the Holy charge of the angel Reddel wondered if their attack had been a bit hasty. The Heroes had faced the necessary and expected evils of invading a desecrated tomb. Wicked followers of the half-fiend had been mercilessly vanquished. The hordes of goblins and gnolls had fallen to the group; to Tobias’ blade in specific. But the cool steel held in the paladin’s hand had not once touched the real target.
Tobias’ glanced around at his comrades; all resting momentarily in the debris laden courtyard of the abbey. There they sat gathering their strength and cleaning gear. All of the companions were covered in the blood of their enemies and the foul dirt of this place. All, except for Magnus, sported minor burns.
Uzukiel had asked to speak with the party before the combat. He had specifically wanted an audience with Tobias. It seemed as if the half-fiend had expected them. The Heroes offered no such chance at parley. They shot the messenger, allowing the gnoll to run back to its master. Then, the Heroes did what heroes did. They stormed the humble room cut into the face of the plateau.
Tobias now doubted that Uzukiel was trying to trick the party. Something in his gut churned; the realization that a parley could have offered some information. The paladin shook his head trying to remove that thought. After all, why trust a half-fiend? It had to have been a trick.
Even if it wasn’t, Uzukiel seemed prepared for battle. Perhaps the Heroes pushed him into the position. When the Heroes approached the door of the room, they found themselves caught in Uzukiel’s web both literally and figuratively. And Uzukiel flew above the movement-constraining web, ranting and raving. He also had his pick of which Hero to kill.
Only, the half-fiend hadn’t prepared for the mage. Magnus had stayed back from the main party to watch another doorway. Once his friends were ensnared, Magnus returned. It was the mage that burned the web and consequentially his friends. It was the mage that had saved the Heroes’ collective asses. And once the webs had burned away, Motega and the mage were most effective. Tobias had been…useless.
Whatever Uzukiel had wanted to speak to the paladin was scattered to the wind with his ashes. The silky strands had all but vanished in the few moments since his death. Only unanswered questions would remain.
Tobias grimaced. He hefted his sword and laid the blade across his shoulder. The paladin stalked away from his companions.
Magnus’ head darted up at the movement. “Hey! Where are you going?!”
Tobias remained silent. He crossed the large courtyard and stood at the other door. This doorway was recessed into the stone, just as Uzukiel’s had been. Tobias glared at the thick door. He grabbed the handle and wrenched but the door was solidly locked.
Magnus bolted over to Tobias, company in tow. The mage slipped his large hand onto the paladin’s arm. “What the f*ck do you think your doing?!”
“My job.” The paladin grunted as he kicked the door, shattering the old lock. The door flew open.
=================================
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 14:59:37 GMT -5
An unhallowed aura poured from the doorway like the driving currents of a flooded river. Tobias stood unmoving, waiting. Magnus shrank back momentarily, the taint slicing into his skin and clawing at his heart.
Ahead of him, Tobias allowed his senses to stretch outward his second sight kicking in easily, hungrily almost. The entrance to the room was shrouded in the diffuse stain of corruption. A foul breeze assaulted their noses, the faint lingering scent of death. Tobias was uncertain his companions could feel the suffering he sensed, the evil.
The paladin spun, sword waving directly toward Magnus. The mage’s eyes opened wide and he tumbled backward barely dodging the edge of the greatsword. Tobias had been too slow.
A sickly, slithering shadow pooled out of the ground. Its intangible claws rent bloody wounds along the mage. The embrace was full of pain, loss, and death.
Tobias easily pivoted the arc of his blade, readjusting for the shade’s new position. The blade danced in and through the shadow. A harsh squeal erupted in all of the Heroes’ minds. Magnus’ hands tightened even more around his ears. Coldness gripped his limbs.
The undead crept away from the mage, flinging its insubstantial form at the paladin. Tobias stepped toward the doorway avoiding the attack and his companions’ ranged weapons. The specter ignored the arrows, pursuing its prey relentlessly.
The sword darted into the shadow’s heart and the shriek echoed within their consciousness again. The dark form seeped downward through the earth. Tobias returned his glare to within the entrance. A soft grating sound behind the fighter-paladin marked the mage scrabbling to his feet.
“What the f*ck?!” Magnus screamed. “That was reckless!! I could’ve been seriously hurt.” Fitz quietly tended the wizard’s wounds, silently shaking his head.
Tobias remained as still and noiseless as a statue, eyes closed and his sixth sense alert. He had not heard Magnus’ whining. He did not respond.
Motega stalked up beside Tobias. Quiety, the Rornman hissed, “What do you sense?”
Tobias’ sword danced straight out, piercing the re-emerging specter through its center. Like smoke, the shadow split into billowing wisps of pitch-black air, rising upward and vanishing.
“Death,” Tobias remarked as he paced into the room. The other Heroes followed. “I need this room searched,” he commanded. Motega gave a quick glance over the room and shrugged.
Magnus leaned cautiously inside, “Are there any more of those beasts in here?”
“No mage. I don’t sense any. But there is something…else. I can feel it in my bones.” Sighing, the paladin twisted to the mage. “I’m sorry about your wounds. I was trying to protect you.”
“Apology accepted.” The typical beaming smile returned to the mage’s face.
“Look at this.” Motega’s voice came from a sparsely furnished corner of the storeroom. He shifted a large, decomposing wooden barrel. Carved into the floor was a recessed trap door. The Rorn checked it over for traps as they all gathered nearby.
“Looks clear to me.” Motega lifted the door open. Twenty feet below the opening, a worked stone floor led away from the passage. Motega gently pressed on the metal ladder embedded within the stone walls. “Looks safe to me.” Then the Rorn descended.
“Wait for me, Mo’,” Tobias shouted as he hastened to follow the Rorn down the rabbit hole.
=====================================
Fitz sighed. A longing for his own home amongst the Weedsea was calling him. A home amongst the flock, other followers of Ceria, he thought. Yet, here he was, traveling once more to Dun Moor, a major center of the Church of Qwynna Pru. Qwynna Pru was, as had to be within the cosmic irony of the universe, Ceria’s adversary. What did I do to deserve this?
The Cerian priest observed his comrades. All were dirty and worn from hard battles fought. Only Tobias and Magnus seemed to have the energy to continue. Even Motega looked drained and introspective. Meanwhile the paladin’s eyes carried that unmistakable gleam of vengeance. Magnus, conversely, seemed to radiate arcane energy. The mage was growing too quickly in power. If the young mage were not careful, those abilities would surely corrupt. Fitz was certain.
Perhaps that is why you’ve sent me here, concluded the priest silently. Which should I watch over more carefully: the power-hungry mage, or the vengeance-filled warrior?
Fitz bowed is head in quiet prayer. Give me the strength, Goddess of the Harvest, to fulfill your will. We will return for the undead, I swear it upon my own soul. But we needed to rest. Magnus and Tobias surely would have led us to our deaths in that pit of decay. Fitz could not be sure his prayers were even heard anymore. Tobias had been enigmatic about the realm of the dead. The paladin actually seemed afraid, although for himself or for his friends, Fitz could not discern.
Tobias was probably still angry with the priest. Tobias, like any good paladin would, charged into the shadowy tunnels after the undead. This was after Magnus had foolishly, no carelessly, read the words carved above the doorway. The priest had only been halfway down the ladder at that point. If he was on the ground with the others, he may have prevented it.
Such is life, though. Magnus read the foreign inscription. The door opened. The foul creatures attacked. And Tobias plunged into battle. Why does my life seem like a constant, vicious cycle?
The priest sighed again. Only through sheer force of will or the lack of divine healing, he really wasn’t sure which, Fitz had persuaded the warrior and mage to leave the undead for another day. Magnus closed the door, sealing the undead within their crypts, and the Heroes had left.
Now, the party was slogging through the rough, heat-blasted terrain to return to Dun Moor. Fitz turned his eyes to the scenery, hoping the barren landscape would erase his feeling of ill content.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega pulled up and stared, intently, at the sky. A thin wisp of white smoke was gently falling toward the party, almost as if it was a feather of mist. No wind blew across the barren fields or the distant forests, and the few clouds dotting the sky moved in an unparallel manner. During the split-second moment the Rornman spotted the descending fog, his bow was drawn. The Rorn barked for the rest of the company to ready weapons.
Magnus slipped behind a rock and readied a spell as Fitz hefted his scythe and Tobias moved forward to stand near Motega. All eyes focused on the mist as it dropped into the field, just off the path. The fog shifted and coalesced into a humanoid form. Motega released an arrow that impotently passed through without harm.
The mist solidified, slowly and suddenly - to the party’s utter astonishment – into a diminutive form. The figure stepped forward.
A halfling. A woman.
She is dressed in a white cloak with baggy, gray pantaloons. Her face is emotionless, her eyes intent. She scans each of Hero, noting the amazed expressions, then gracefully bows.
"You have made an enemy, men."
Tobias scowled. "You are our enemy, then?" The paladin dropped his bow and drew the greatsword in the blink of an eye.
"Not I, no. Put away your weapons; I am beyond your power to harm."
Something in her voice caused the Heroes to believe her. They relaxed their weapons, if not their guard. Fitz stepped cautiously forward. "What is it you want from us, halfling?"
"You killed a Culite brother. This much is known. While he did not hold much power, he did hold much promise. Other stronger members of his black order favored him. They have marked you as their enemies."
Magnus listened intently, and the spoke, "What order to you speak of? His church?"
"Yes," she nodded. "The Church of Cula Vak. You should be wary, now, for their reach is great and their determination steadfast. They will answer blood for blood, as they already have."
The Cerian priest frowned. "Say what you mean."
"Your druid friend - she is dead, burnt in Rhelm. You might have saved her, but you did not. You made a hard choice, and we are in a time where hard choices must be made. You have garnered the interest of my own order."
"And what is your order?"
"That is not for me to answer, at this time. Suffice to say that enemies of the Culties are friends of ours. And we mark you as our friends, for now."
Motega spit. "Friends do not deal in riddles with other friends. If you wished to warn us, you have done so, and may go. You have told us nothing we did not already know."
The halfling studied the Rornman for a silent moment. "Then I will offer you something that, perhaps, you do not know. The Culite you killed was based in Minetown, west of here, on the coast. The black brothers are very, very interested in that small village - and we do not know why. Yet."
"Good luck finding out," Tobias mumbled. "We have other matters to attend."
"Perhaps," she responded. "But your lives are already at risk. I think it would be...prudent...to learn all you can of your enemy."
Fitz rubbed his chin in thought. "You just floated down here like a cloud - a windwalk spell, I believe. That is a powerful divine boon. Surely you have the capability to discover the secrets in Minetown on your own."
"I do, but I have other matters to attend. There are many threats to my order that we know about, and we are few. We cannot chase after mysteries - not at this time."
"How do we know you do not work for the Culties?"
The halfling’s eyes flickered with anger. "Never would I work with them. You can trust me, or not. It is of no matter to me. I was told to warn you, and deliver the message that I have spoken. My task is done."
"Ah..." Magnus moved forward. "What is to be our reward?"
The halfling glared at the young spellcaster. "Information. It is more valuable than gold or magic, now. It may well save your life."
Tobias nodded, a smug grin on his face, "Then begin with a down payment. You have told us nothing important-"
"I have told you what may save your life. Do you not count that as important?"
"Not really, no." The paladin laughed a little.
"Then go to Minetown. Find why the Culites are interested in the place. Do this, and you will be rewarded."
"With more...information?" Motega barely hid his disdain.
"Yes, and more, perhaps."
"Who do we seek in Minetown? Where do we go? I am not in favor of blindly walking into a village infested by Culites without any more information than you have provided." Magnus too, grew irritated with the prospective of being paid with information.
"There is a tavern there - the Whore's Nag. The owner is Wembly Burrfoot, a halfling like myself. He may have more information for you, or he may not. It is, if nothing else, a start."
"And little else," Tobias added. "When will we see you again?"
"You may not. I do not know the minds of my superiors."
"What is your name?" Fitz questioned.
"I am a messenger; my name is unimportant."
Motega grinned. "We have ways of finding information."
"I am not a cur to be hanged form the battlements of Castle Llyndofare, gentlemen – if I may call you such. And yes, I know about that. And even more I know about the lot of you. I must confess I questioned my superiors when they stated they thought you may be important to our cause."
"Go then," Fitz uttered, "and we shall discuss what you have said."
The halfling nodded and, instantly, melted and reformed into a shapeless cloud. Within minutes, the cloud rose above the party and flew southward, disappearing amidst the other patches of whiteness in the azure skies.
============================
Gentle, calming wisps of fire leapt upward. A light smoke drifted into the warm summer sunset carrying the scrumptious scent of roasted meat into the southeastern breeze. A small copse of trees sighed in the minimal gusts, its leaves fluttering briskly.
High above, the white fluff of clouds departed across the heavens toward their eventual destination beyond the horizon. Their interplay among the rapidly shifting hues of the sky mimicked a lackadaisical battle. Large, slow palls gobbled the swifter yet immensely smaller clouds. Predators and prey warred upon the background of a chameleon azure vault.
Beneath this battle, more wars were fought. Winged predators dive-bombed their eternal nemeses, their food-sources. Some rested on branches, watching their prey with wary and hungry eyes. Other’s focused their sight downward, into the hypnotizing dance of fire and the four large creatures stretched out around its light. The voracious beasts sang in the emerging twilight, welcoming darkness and the end to another natural day.
The four large beasts lying idly upon the ground were on the lowest warring plane of the natural world. The wars in heaven were slow, grueling and never-ending. But as the layers of turmoil were peeled away the amount of battles increased and death occurred more rapidly. The final, lowest plane of war was the most brutal of all. Lives were lost everyday, quickly and without warning. Sometimes, the lives were tossed away, pointless wastes in a pointless and unending war.
Pinpricks of light burst through the deep blue shaded vault, chasing the martial clouds to the horizon. The eyes of the four beasts upon the ground watched the war, not even realizing the cosmic metaphor that played out before their eyes. Understanding was present in their minds, but danced at the edges just beyond an imaginary line of comprehension. And so, they interpreted beauty and felt wonder; cheap and imaginary facades that covered harsh reality.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega sat up, twilight had fallen complete. Above in the heavens, the distant light of stars fell toward the Valus faintly lighting the area. Overbearingly, the campfire cast its angry shades of red toward the twilight. Wherever the light of stars fell upon the foliage, the fiery reds devoured the silver sheen.
“We need to talk,” the Rornman grunted quietly. His eyes stared now through the light foliage, beyond which lay the solid walls of Dun Moor. “About what happened in the Abbey,” he added for clarification.
When none of the others spoke, Motega continued. “I have welcomed you all into my family. Every family even our own needs a strong leader. Back home, this was my father. Here, my father holds no claim. This leader must be one of us. Otherwise, all that will happen is more of what we experienced in the Abbey.
“We will go at each other’s throats, no better than animals in the wild. I cannot hold this place of leadership. I am an Outsider. I will always be treated as such within Rhelm. A leader must be chosen.” The Rornman stood, fire and shadow casting strange shadows across his face. “It is the only way we will live. Dark times are coming. If one of us does not hold the power, for good or naught, to declare a final decision, we will all fall.”
Fitz coughed. “I agree with Rorn. And although I am a Rhelmsman, I hail from the Weedsea. I am practically from an outsider as well. I could never fulfill the role.” The priest turned his attention back toward the sun-baked grass, his hands twirling the blades aimlessly.
“Well, uh,” Magnus now spoke up, “I’d be more comfortable in an advisory capacity. I don’t think I’d be taken seriously. I am after all nearly the youngest here. Warriors are listened to in Rhelm, not mages.” Magnus turned his attention toward Tobias. “That leaves you, Paladin.”
Tobias shifted to a crouch in front of the fire. “If I accept this position of leadership, my commands will need to be followed exactly.” The paladin turned his eye toward the cleric. Fitz did not match the gaze. “I may be the youngest, but as the mage said, Rhelmsmen respect warriors. I will have no problems representing our group. When we’re in battle however, if and when I give an order, it will be followed. If I chase a foe, that foe must be taken. I cannot afford, we cannot afford, to have any dissension.
“Are we agreed?” The paladin had stood, righteousness again flaring behind his eyes.
A terse nod or mumble from each member noted acceptance of the terms. Fitz’s face flushed slightly but the devouring light of the campfire hid the hue. Tobias walked a short distance from the campfire to bed down for the night.
============================================
The dimming sky fled past the riders, their horses bent hard to the west riding against a foul wind. Soon enough, they were gone from the lands they easily recognized, the verdant—if recently desolate from draught—hills of Dun Moor, Dun Beric, Llyndofare and even Marchford passed away to the east, vanishing from sight. The more recent locale of Andoric’s Steps, the home of Tobias Abel’s raped childhood, also disappeared into the hazy horizon behind the heroes.
The sparse vegetation that blossomed from the hills around the Steps quickly receded to the domination of the softly shifting wheat upon the Traitor’s Plains. With the sun setting, the Heroes decided to slow; soon would be the time to set camp and the horses were tiring from the long ride.
Motega pulled up short, the small Rorn yanking hard against the reins. His steed kicked up, balancing on its powerful hind legs. Not five paces away, a creature rose from the wheat. It barked a command from its loose jowls, dog-like cheeks. Nearby, four other of the beasts rose and stood, bows trained upon the Heroes of Marchford.
“You stop trespassers!” It barked toward the Rorn. Motega slowed his horse to a halt with Magnus drawing up close beside. Tobias and Fitz, placed their hands upon their weapons, trotting their horses farther forward. “STOP or DIE! YOU TRESPASS UPON OUR LAND!!!” the gnollish creature bellowed in broken Valusian. Fitz and Tobias disobeyed again, horses strutting ever farther from the party. The beast roared; its companions unleashed a volley of arrows.
Motega sighed in resignation, rolling backward off his horse while readying his bow. Hitting the dirt, the Rornman crouched low, letting fly two arrows. Both struck true, dropping the roven leader to the earth, his body lurching in its death throes.
Tobias leapt from his horse, running to engage two of the creatures in steel-against-steel combat. Fitz slowly slid from his horse, shifting a wand to the ready while preparing his scythe. An arrow ricocheted off his full plate, shattering into bits of splintered wood.
Magnus nearly fell from his steed, yanking the horse’s long mane to keep upright. Two of the roven rushed the seemingly unarmed child, only to be pummeled back by the Rorn’s arrows. They glanced to the side as Tobias’ blade hacked hungrily through one of their kin and dove into the second. Both dropped to the earth, blood feeding the thirsty earth.
As they wavered between choices, Magnus finished his incantation. An orb of fire leapt from his hand, sailed across the air and detonated in-between the two. Both were engulfed in a mass of fire. They turned to flee, their already dead bodies falling not far from the scorched earth.
Motega shouldered his bow, grabbed the horse and swung up to the top. “That was a foolish mistake,” the Rornman hissed at the paladin. “They were not our enemies. They may have desired knowledge on why we passed, may have even requested some form of payment for traveling their lands. But they were not enemies.”
“They were nothing but petty bandits,” the paladin growled his rationalization.
“No. They were, are a tribe. And now you have committed slaughter against their people. We will find no rest here tonight. We ride for another day.” The Rorn glared ahead, spurring the exhausted animal into motion. The other heroes groaned, climbing onto their horses to follow.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The campfire slowly dwindled, casting an ever smaller radius of light around the sleeping heroes. Motega had waited for the rest to fall asleep before approaching Tobias cautiously.
“I am sorry I was so coarse with you before,” the Rorn half-apologized. “I once traveled with a band of Roven and they are not so different from my own people.”
Tobias grunted, continuing to sharpen his great sword.
“In the future, though, if you are to lead us, you will need to use a little more thought. We should not battle if it is not necessary.” The Rornman turned quietly to return to his bed but the paladin’s arm shot out and caught him.
“I value your wisdom and your friendship,” Tobias replied.
“And I yours, angel-blessed. Who has next watch?”
“Magnus.”
“Perhaps I should remain awake then,” the Rorn added. “He has been...distracted of late.”
“Yes, the damned child has been doing nothing but scribbling on his papers for the entire journey.” Tobias sighed, unsure of what the crafty mage was up to.
“True, it has been quieter,” Motega grinned. “It’s a bad moon tonight, friend.” The Rorn stared upward into the clear sky. There hung an engorged, red orb. “Keep your eyes open.” With those last words, the Rorn returned to his bed and lie down to a restless sleep.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Motega’s eyes flitted open and shut–the light from the bloodied moon above tearing at the edges of his consciousness. For a moment, the Rorn drifted back into memories of his homeland; to the memories of his exile.
The cool ground had felt good beneath his bare feet. Above, a full moon had danced halfway across the night sky. But the illumination from the orb was silenced by the flickering torches encircling the battlefield. Motega stared at his brother, waiting at the other edge of the ring, waiting for the trial of blood.
A low horn echoed across the valley and both brothers raised the ceremonial spears, charging to battle. Meeting in the center, the two danced together with a flurry of harsh blows, constantly circling. The wooden shafts clattered off each other, deflecting blows that could kill and turning the crude blade just enough to inflict jagged scratches.
But Motega knew his brother’s heavy-handed style well, too well. And he was shorter, faster, and more fluid with his motions. Motega cut the haft of the spear downward, blocking a low blow, and spun the shaft in a quick arc, smashing his brother’s fingers. The sound of bone cracking retorted within the slim valley’s earthen walls.
Motega stepped in, spinning the blade down, tearing a bloody rent through his brother’s wrist and causing the slower, but stronger man to fall away without his weapon. He lifted his spear for the killing blow but was stopped by surprise as his brother, his blood convulsed. His brother’s flesh contorted and stretched like water under duress.
Motega’s brother was neither human nor beast but some creature between.
A wicked baying erupted around the circle as the beast leapt with preternatural speed from its prone position. Motega brought the spear up to block but the beast’s claws snapped the wood in half. After splintering the wood, the claw dug upward, rending flesh. Motega was in the air, falling backward into unconsciousness.
When he awoke, Motega found himself bandaged and still lying within the circle. The daylight had revealed the valley’s emptiness. The battle had been lost. Motega was alone.
The Rorn snapped his eyes opened. A familiar baying drifted upon the wind. As he leapt upward, already reaching for the blade, a man-sized beast burst into the clearing. Magnus yelped as the monster closed an impossible distance, its large snout clamping shut around the mage’s arm.
“ATTACK!!!” Motega roared, charging toward the beast. Three large, wolf-like animals dove into the clearing, one tearing toward the Rorn, the other two heading toward the other companions.
Magnus’ screams awoke Fitz and Tobias, both scrambling to grab their weapons. Tobias brought his sword around, managing to deflect one of the wolf-creatures. Fitz, at far end of the camp was left unmolested, giving him a chance to gather his usual gear.
Motega jumped over the first of the wolf-like animals, his sword arcing downward and lacerating the beast’s back. “Don’t let them bite you!” he shrieked as he pivoted toward the largest of the beasts, still attached to the mage’s arm.
The smaller wolf had different plans as it spun and charged, fangs bared. Motega was forced to pivot and defend, his sword keeping the infectious teeth at bay.
Magnus reached out, a burst of flame scorching the creature clamped tightly about his wrist. It yelped, backing away. Magnus immediately recognized the above average intelligence burning within its hairy face. He quickly prepared another spell.
Tobias’ blade lobbed off the head of the small beast. The paladin charged toward Magnus, inserting his body between the mage and beast.
Motega’s sword gouged a deep, bubbling hole through the ribcage of the wolf. It collapsed to earth with a yelp. He turned to the side, preparing to charge the creature he knew as a lycanthrope when another of the wolves blocked his path. He screamed in fury, hacking back and forth with the sword, keeping the wolf on the defensive.
The intelligent beast regarded its unarmored opponent for only a split second before running forward, claws slashing and maw clamping. Tobias ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding its powerful jaws. The paladin swung the great sword up and around, and brought it down through the limb. The severed paw fell to the ground, twitching. The beast yelped, leaping back and Tobias strode forward powerfully. His sword darted out, high and low, too fast for a weapon so unwieldy. The beast avoided the bluffed attacks, not noting the subtle changes in the warrior’s body. Tobias steadied his form and as his blade danced in and low again, he twisted his torso. The great sword whistled as he pivoted, digging clean through the monster’s neck. The obvious surprise was etched in the beast’s face as its detached head fell to the ground.
The Rornman bellowed, dropping the final wolf.
“I hope it was okay that we killed these,” Tobias haughtily stated as we moved to wipe the blood from his blade.
“Perfectly acceptable,” the Rorn replied. “I have no problem with killing a lycanthrope, especially one that attacks us.”
Tobias stared increduously at the Rorn before turning to the beast’s detached head. In its place sat the horrified visage of a human, scraggily of beard but no more animal than Fitz. Magnus’ eyes fell toward the ground. “Oh sh*t.”
==============================
Magnus twisted his head, vomit splattering onto the ground. He had narrowly avoided the piece of parchment he had been scribbling upon all day. The mage grabbed his stomach and moaned.
“Don’t worry,” Motega joyfully replied. “The nausea will pass. Belladonna always has that effect. You’re lucky you survived mage.” The Rornman smiled wickedly.
“And why do you carry it with you?” The young wizard groaned in between another surge of bile and vomit.
“It always pays to be prepared,” Motega quietly replied, his grin fading.
The road along Raider’s Bay had carried the Heroes safely southward, toward Minetown. Surprisingly after the battle with the lycanthrope and the slaughter of the Roven, they had traveled unmolested. Aside from the occasional forest, the view had been open and gracious. There was even a pleasant breeze rolling over the crags blocking the bay. The green grasses confining the road swayed gently in the soft air.
Soon enough, the outskirts of buildings began to pop up. Most were small, wooden framed structures with thatched roofs. A few townsfolk were milling about their homes, but as the Heroes approached they scowled scuttling toward their doors. While the behavior was curious, it was not entirely unexpected. If the Culites were using Minetown as a base of operation, all outsiders would have been distrusted.
The party collectively sighed, trotting their horses deeper into the village. As they drew up to a fork, they slowed and stopped. All signs of life had vanished; people disappearing into their homes with a slam of a door and not even a second glance.
“Ideas?” Fitz questioned.
“The tavern,” the paladin replied, sure and confident about the decision.
“That flying halfling did mention something about a tavern and its halfling owner,” Motega agreed.
“I hate taverns,” Magnus complained. “You always meet the strangest people in them.” With a teasing glance at his compatriots, the mage trotted forward, searching for the tavern.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“This is it,” Motega grunted. He brushed his dark hair back from his eyes, wiping a bit of travel-dirt from his face.
“You’re the cleanest Rorn in existence, Mo,” Magnus prodded. “A little dirt won’t hurt. So,” the mage shoved the parchment he had been glancing over into his satchel, “I suppose we just walk in to this tavern—owned by a halfling—in a Culite-infested town and hope that we can discern some information. And more importantly, not get poisoned for our curiousity.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Tobias replied. “What was the owner’s name again?”
“Whembly Burrfoot,” answered the priest. “At least, that’s what that flying halfling said.”
“Are we sure about we’re at the right tavern?” Tobias questioned. He glanced at the rickety sign, swaying slightly in the breeze. The indecipherable, at least to his level of intelligence, symbols were black and coarse, inscribed below a finer set of symbols with a dark ‘X’ across.
Motega glanced at the mage, waiting for an assurance. Tobias mimicked the look while Magnus smiled condescendingly.
“Yes this is—or at least was—the Whore’s Nag. But as you’ll note, the Whore’s Nag has been scratched out. Below it, well, it looks like some uneducated fool tried to write: Abe’s Bar and Inn. Of course, he spelled Inn wrong, and the ‘a’ in bar is backward, and …”
The Rornman interjected, “we get it, mage. The man doesn’t know how to spell or write—he’s so inferior to you.” Magnus’ face flushed crimson. “Let’s just go in and get this over with.” Tobias reached into his haversack, checking to assure the placement of something that might become vital and smiled. A plan, indeed.
Suddenly, a child popped his shaggy brown hair around the corner of the tavern, his beady eyes measuring the company. Tobias nodded his head, a gesture of acknowledgement, and the child hopped out to stand before the party. The youth bowed, low and awkwardly, rising to puff his chest out to twice its normal girth.
“Ello’ good sirs and welcome to Honest Abe’s Bar and Inn. If you’d like, we ‘ave stables in the rear where I can house yer steeds, for a normal rate.” He grinned, proud of his recitation.
“Don’t you mean nominal rate?” Magnus questioned and the child guffawed, insecurity upon his face. “And how much is this fee?”
“Greed is a path that leads to evil,” Tobias hissed. The paladin glanced at the child and smiled warmly. “Here you go. I believe this should cover it.” He tossed a small bag of coin—which the child caught deftly. His eyes opened wide in shock when he peered at the contents. “And of course,” Tobias stated cheerfully, “a well-earned tip for one so adept at his job.”
“Thank you very much, kind sirs.” The stableboy moved to gather the reins and stuck his tongue out at the mage. The party dismounted and steeled their selves for whatever they would find within ‘Honest’ Abe’s Bar and Inn.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Welcome, Welcome, Welcome!” bellowed a thin, balding man. He pushed a few strands of silvering hair from his eyes while hurrying toward the Heroes. “Have a seat,” he commanded as much as suggested, taking a dirt-clad rag and scrubbing down the largest table within the inn. Along the walls hung all manner of paraphernalia from broken swords to the heads of a variety of animals preserved perfectly after death and even ancient candelabras. A thick dust clung upon many of the tables speaking tales about neglect and a constant lack of patrons.
Tobias grunted, taking the center chair with a clear view toward the bar that stretched along the far wall. The Rornman and the mage both chose chairs with clear views through the dingy windows while Fitz chose the chair closest the aged man. The priest beamed at him.
“Now, what can I get for you folks?”
“Infor—” Motega started before Fitz cut him off, “We have traveled a long distance.” The priest shot a glare to silence the ranger. “What foods do you have readily available?”
“Ah, well I have the most delicious stew on this side of Raider’s Bay. And make no doubt,” he emphasized his statements by punctuating the air with his index finger, “it’s sure to cure what’ ails ya—‘specially if it’s exhaustion. I used to travel a bit back in my younger days…” the man rambled on for the better part of ten minutes, all in describing how he had been forced to create a powerful stew to keep one warm on cool winter days and awake on those tiring, endless nights and filled with energy for the near-endless wandering between adventures. Fitz nodded politely. Tobias cautiously watched the old man. Motega rubbed his brow and Magnus yawned, both of their attentions glued once again to the windows and the outside town. Not a soul passed in front of the windows.
“Well, that sounds positively delicious. I’ll have some of your stew,” the priest said. “And ale?” He tossed two golden coins toward the server.
“Yes, sir. The finest ale yer likely to find—if I may be so bold—in the entirety of Valusia.”
“Not likely,” grunted the Rorn.
“Well give me a mug then!” shouted Fitz to cover the derogatory comment.
“Of course—and your friends?” He turned to each member individually.
“The same,” stated Magnus.
“The same,” Motega grunted.
“I’m fine,” said Tobias coldly.
“Nothing at all, sir?” The old man’s eyebrows arched.
“I said, I’m fine,” repeated the paladin. Tobias grabbed a trail ration from his pack as well as his water-skin. He tore into the trail ration, without giving the man another glance.
“Well—that’ll be,” the old man began but Fitz silenced him by tossing a few more golden coins into his hand. The geezer coughed and sputtered before saying, “That should cover it.” He rushed back behind the bar and through an opening into the kitchen.
“What was all that about?” the priest demanded from Tobias.
The holy warrior shrugged, mumbling, “We’re in enemy territory. I’ll be twice damned if I’m going to eat anything that may be poisoned. Enjoy your meal, though.” He returned to finishing the ration.
“Are we even going to try to garner any information from this native?” Magnus queried.
“Sometimes, mage,” Fitz educated, “you have to soften them up first with pleasantries.” The Rorn grunted, the mage shook his head.
“I’d rather beat it out of him…” murmured Magnus.
“I have no doubt you would but that’s not always the most effective way,” the cleric admonished.
“We’re here to meet with a halfling, aren’t we?” asked Tobias. “He looks a little tall to be a halfling, let alone a halfling named Wembly. And this is the only tavern we’ve seen in the entire town. Which means, this must be the Whore’s Nag, or whatever the name of it was. I suspect foul play.”
The old man darted toward the table, steaming dishes of stew perched upon an old wooden tray. “Dinner is served,” he half-sang as he smiled at the group.
=======================================
“Are you sure,” Honest Abe queried again, “that I can’t offer you anything to eat or drink?”
Tobias slammed his waterskin onto the table, shaking his head very slowly.
“Ah fine.” The old man coughed to fill the awkward silence. Tobias’ eyes burned slowly through his flesh and into his soul. Abe’s hands pulled aimlessly at each other—nervously. Only the sound of clinking silverware and Motega’s slurping echoed within the empty tavern.
The paladin removed his eyes from the owner, confident that Abe had no more taint than any average man. “Not much of a business you have here.”
“What?!” Abe’s mouth dropped open.
“Well, I can’t testify for your food or drink,” the paladin admitted. He rubbed a finger along the back of his chair, lifting a layer of dust from its dark surface. “But, it doesn’t seem to me as if you have many customers. So, as I said, not much of a business you have here.”
Abe’s face flushed red, his lip trembling. “Now, look here. I’ve got a good business, an honest business here and I don’t need your disrespect.”
“No disrespect from me, ‘Honest’ Abe. I was just making a casual observation.”
“Times used to be different around here. Yeah, I’ve fallen on some hard times recently—not many travelers coming through. I still survive.”
“No doubt you do, Abe. But I was under the impression that there have been quite a number of visitors to this quaint sea-side town.” Tobias’ eyes flared again, peering through the barkeep’s soul. Abe flushed, taking a step back.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“And I think you’re lying.” Tobias shot a knowing glance toward Fitz, whose head was slowly falling into his hands; a look of exasperation marring his usually peaceful countenance.
“Fine,” whispered the cleric. His next words, pure and true, were quietly spoken. Fitz’s divine connection flared; a ring of light coalesced in the center of the table and expanded out past Abe before fading into nothing. The barkeep shook his balding head which had become suddenly, very dizzy.
Tobias glanced at Fitz, his thoughts confirmed by the priest’s downcast eyes. The spell had failed.
“Look here. I don’t need no traveling fools coming in here and casting spells left and right. You don’t need to cast a spell to see if I’m speaking the truth. For Morduk’s sake, I’m ‘Honest’ Abe. That’s not a title you earn by lying!”
“We don’t know you. We have to make sure,” spit Magnus.
“Not in my tavern you don’t! You can just get out now.”
“NO,” commanded the paladin. Tobias stood, his bulk dwarfing the barkeep. “We need information and you are going to give it to us. Where is Wembly?”
Abe stepped backward, a look of shock upon his face. Fitz slapped his own forehead in frustration.
================================
“You can close your mouth, ‘Honest’ Abe.” Cynicism dripped from the paladin’s words as Abe reluctantly complied. “Now, where is Wembly? And what happened to the Whore’s Nag?”
“I…I…” the old man, looking as if he had just aged an additional decade, stuttered. He grasped a pitcher of water and sat amongst the heroes. Quickly he poured a drink, his hands aquiver. “I haven’t seen Wembly in nearly ten years…”
“What happened?” Tobias gripped the hilt of his sword, intimidating the barkeep just a little more.
“Wembly disappeared ten years ago…well, about ten years ago. I don’t know where to or why. She just vanished. And, after a time, when she didn’t return I just…just…”
“Stole her business?”
“No!” Abe cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I was just holding it for her…in the event she ever returned.”
“And we should believe you because you’re ‘Honest’ Abe?” Tobias removed his hand from his hilt, crossing his arms over his chest to glare at the barkeep as an angry parent would a child.
“I swear…I don’t know anything else.”
“Fine. What can you tell us about the Culites that are here now?” Fitz’s hand reverberated again off his forehead. Shaking his head slightly, the priest rested it upon the table. His meal would remain unfinished. Motega and Magnus grinned slightly behind their drinks.
“Culites? I dunno…”
“DON’T LIE TO ME!!!” Tobias shoved the table, sliding it easily toward Abe and pressing him back, slightly. The Rorn and the mage set down their drinks, each drawing a dagger.
“I don’t know anything about the Culites! They come into town every now and then for supplies…that’s all. They take what they want—without paying. They’ve even taken people! And the Baronet won’t leave his manor…they’re the reason my business…I…I mean Wembly’s business is failing. They scare away the customers…the travelers.” The old man lowered his head, sobbing into his hands.
“Where are they now?” questioned Magnus, spinning the dagger on his palm.
Abe sighed as he looked up. “They spend most of their time in the mines to the north of the town.” Tobias sat again, a new tactic quickly forming in his mind. The paladin winked at Motega; the Rorn furrowed his brow. Reaching into his satchel, Tobias pulled out a medallion, which he then placed around his neck—Thyvron’s medallion; a Culite priests’ medallion.[1]
Abe’s eyes crossed in fear; Tobias just glared. “You…you…,” Abe stammered. “You work for them!”
Motega grinned as he turned on the barkeep. His quick Rorn reflexes snapped his hand out to grasp Abe hard on the shoulder. The dagger edged closer to the barkeep. “That’s right. Learn to hold your tongue Abe, or we might just have to remove it.” The Rorn grinned maliciously but then sheathed the blade. “Should we let him live?”
“He’s been warned, I think that’s enough,” Tobias decided. Motega sighed and grumbled, “Fine.”
“But…but…the questions…Wembly and…”
“Look, barkeep. We have contacts; we have information. Do not cross us.” Tobias stood. “Gentlemen, I believe its time to join our compatriots to the north.” The paladin led the party from the tavern.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
===================================
“Would you gentle sirs like your horses?” The stable boy bowed low, emanating respect for the wealthy travelers.
“Yes, yes my good chap,” Fitz replied, patting the boy on the back as he rushed off to gather the steeds.
“Do we believe Honest Abe?” the mage asked.
“Not completely,” Tobias acknowledged. “I think he told us the truth about the location of the Culites.”
“I’d agree with that assessment as well,” the priest murmured. “But, I still hold reservations about his involvement with Wembly’s disappearance.”
“I don’t believe him wholly about that either.” The paladin shifted uncomfortably, placing the Culite medallion back within his satchel. “With the Culites so close, however, we’ll have to worry about that mystery at another time. This town’s safety is most important.” Tobias tossed a small satchel of gold to the stable boy.
“Thank you sirs!”
The paladin nodded, pulling himself up and onto the horse. He waited for his companions to mount and turned his steed north, toward the mines. The beasts broke into a slow trot, slow enough for the heroes to speak and plan.
“Ideas?” questioned Tobias.
“It depends on their numbers,” grunted the Rorn. “If their force is too large, it will require more planning. And odds are, we’ll die anyway.”
“It will be a righteous death,” the paladin stated, a content grin on his lips.
“We won’t die,” Magnus boasted. “I just need to get the layout of this town; then I’ll protect you all.”
Motega chuckled. “Sure you will, Magnus, the Great. And we will be forever indebted to your powerful magics.” Everyone except Magnus broke into laughter. The mage grumbled, pulling out one of his scrolls, triple checking the wording. Once the laughing died down, the Rorn spoke again, “We need to watch the north road.”
“Are we going to the mines?” Fitz queried.
“No, that would be fighting them on their own terms,” Motega advised. “We just need information. We will wait there, count the numbers entering town. If there are few enough, we’ll make sure they don’t return.”
“Agreed, then. It’ll be nice to be off this horse for a few solid hours,” spoke Tobias.
“No doubt the horse needs the rest more,” Magnus hissed, unheard over the trotting steeds.
================================
The deepening dark shadowed three prone forms, nestled between a few dry leaves and nettles. One form, one body slid between the shadows of branches and limbs, climbing higher and moving ever closer to the dying yellowish hues of a well-trodden road.
A deep snore gave the moving shadow pause. Motega grimaced as once again, his companions showed their inability to hold to the rules regarding stealth. The Rorn’s blood-pressure shot up, beads of sweat percolated across his flesh. A hot flash gripped the ranger, his knuckles tightened upon the branch, whitening with stress. Above, the nearly full moon peeked behind a cloud, baring its cold face through the last rays of daylight.
The moment passed and the rage subsided. Aware of the full scene now, the Rorn shook his head. He was ashamed; ashamed to toss blame toward his companions. It was not their fault they had fallen asleep. Here, upon the edge of town, there was naught that they could do but wait. The long weariness of the road had eventually pulled upon each of them, drowning them in the calm sea of sleep. Even Magnus, ever scribbling upon his parchments, had succumbed. All except for the Rorn.
Motega had kept the watch all afternoon and would keep the watch all night, if need be. Here, with the moon shining nearly full, the Rornman was at his best. Without his companions, who slept restfully below, the ranger could dance from branch to branch without so much as a whisper. His movements were fluid, natural, an ancient dance that had no modern equal in beauty or function. His eyes pierced the deepening dark.
But it was all fruitless. Not a single traveler had stumbled down the road. Nothing. No one. The only noises aside from the quiet grazing of the distant horses were the occasional snores of a companion or two.
He released his grip on the branch, embracing the fall. Before descending from the canopy, the ranger latched onto another branch. Holding tight, his trajectory adjusted immediately. He flew into a mid-air barrel roll, spinning until he landed gracefully betwixt his friends.
Motega grasped Tobias’ shoulder, giving a gentle but firm shake. The paladin stirred, eyes opening slowly. The warrior wiped the sleep from his eyes before whispering, “What is it?”
“No one has strayed down the path. I think it is time we break camp.”
Tobias sat up, stretching his arms and chest. “What then?”
“I think it is time to see the Baron’s estate. Maybe if we circle the town and re-enter to the south we can gather more information.”
“A good idea. Plus, it will content the mage. And we can then know what is at our backs when we fight. Let us wake the others.” The pair quickly and silently roused the others.
“The horses?” asked Fitz.
“They can stay. They will be safe and they won’t compromise our stealth,” claimed the Rornman. “If we move quietly and slowly enough, none will know of our presence.”
“Good enough. Let’s go,” decided Magnus. He slung his sack of parchment over his shoulder. The paper rubbed together, creating an unnatural noise. Motega shot the mage a glare. “What?” Magnus shrugged his shoulders annoyingly.
“Nothing,” grunted the Rorn. “Follow me.” He stalked out ahead of the others. High above, the last rays of sun disappeared behind the horizon revealing the full fury of the moon. Motega twitched, his blood-pressure rocketing upward, his muscles clenching. Taking a deep breath, the Rorn started again to lead the party into the deepening dark.
=====================
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 15:00:26 GMT -5
Tobias smirked. His armor was drenched in the blood of foes—six, pointy-eared, stuck up Horadrel had accosted the Heroes and paid the price. Culite scouts, each and every one, calling for the adventurers to surrender, firing their bows, and hiding beneath the moonlight and tree branches in fear.
The paladin had no tolerance for the cowardly tactics. Each and every one had died, falling to the Heroes, just as the entire Culite force would. Righteousness would prevail.
The party gathered near the southernmost building in Minetown—a home, it seemed. From inside, bellows filled with pain and suffering resounded. Tobias smirked. Righteousness was about to prevail.
“Do you think it’s locked?” Magnus questioned quietly.
“Doubt it,” Motega grunted. “Tobias can break it down if it is.”
“Alright, let’s go,” Tobias hissed.
“Wait!” shouted Fitz. The other three turned to glare at the priest but from the unpaused wailing, his voice hadn’t been heard. The cleric dug through his sack, pulling out a long wand. “Do you want to be healed during battle or not?” Fitz asked with a note of annoyance in his voice. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Right. Let’s go,” Tobias restated as he charged the door. The door had not been locked—but the force of the paladin made sure it could never be again. The old wood slammed open, spiraling off its hinges.
Pivoting to the left, Tobias saw the biggest, ugliest beast he had ever seen. His eyes quickly picked out two other Culites which he deemed as lesser threats. The beast—the ogre—held a man down, bent over a table. Its big, meaty fingers bruised the human’s flesh as its hairy, nude hips gyrated painfully against the victim’s bare buttocks.
The man—just a resident of Minetown—wept, screams and blood burst from his raw, wounded throat.
Tobias screamed in rage; righteous fury fueled his arms.
The other two Culites were completely surprised. They fell from their chairs, one of Motega’s arrows embedded in each.
The ogre shifted, withdrawing from inside the human. His head pivoted around and his body tensed. Tobias had caught him with his pants down.
The steel greatsword cleaved downward, into the niche between the ogre’s neck and shoulder then down through its back. The ogre’s eyes glazed over as the blade quickly changed position—and devoured the flesh in the opposite direction.
The rapist fell forward as life fled its body, but not before the blade leapt hungrily into its back for a third time—piercing several organs before bursting through his chest.
The paladin screamed in fury and pulled back, allowing the corpse to kiss the ground. He spun—and realized the party had already neutralized the other two Culites. Tobias spit on the corpse.
Still bent over the table, the human wept silently, his body trembling from shock. Tobias looked to his companions—each looked away, ashamed at the sight. The paladin grimaced as he ripped the clothing from one of the Culites. He moved toward the human and laid the cloth over his nude body.
“What’s your name?” Tobias asked.
“N—N—Netto.”
“It’s okay now, Netto. You’re safe.” Tobias patted his shoulder gently, careful to avoid the ogre’s bruises. “How would you like to help serve justice to these fiends?”
The man, Netto, swallowed and stifled his tears. “How can I help?”
========================
Magnus brushed the shaggy hair dangling over his eyes. He leaned back slowly, allowing a light breeze to cool the beads of sweat that had gathered across his brow. The mage stared at the pile of scrolls—nearly twenty haphazardly stacked—which sat on the makeshift desk.
The breeze silenced the light of the candle eliciting a hoarse grumble from the mage. He grasped about in the darkness for a tinderbox. Within a few moments the stubby candle flickered to life, casting its chaotic rays against the dilapidated boards of the old church. The light was inconstant; it was a pain. The mage could have produced a better light by drawing upon the fabric of reality, by pulling forth magic. But, he would probably need every spell for the battle ahead. Even then, he had his doubts about survival.
Magnus glanced down at his most recent work…
…and was interrupted as Tobias stomped into the room. The mage frowned and looked up as the paladin set a noisy bag gently upon the floor.
“The Oil?” the mage questioned, returning his eyes to the writ.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Just twelve pints.”
“Any barrels?”
“Two nearly full barrels,” Tobias sighed.
“Good. Here,” Magnus thrust a piece of parchment in the holy warrior’s direction. His eyes were again focused upon the parchment. Distractedly he murmured, “These are your instructions,” and so he did not see Tobias grimace of annoyance. Angrily, the paladin sighed and snatched the illustration—a hastily sketched diagram. Then he lifted the bag off the floor and plodded from the church.
Magnus scanned the letter one more time.
Satisfied with the hasty work, he quickly added his signature and sealed the writ. As he finished, the young man named Netto moved quietly into the church foyer.
“You requested my presence, Magnus?”
“Yes, Netto.” Magnus replied. “I have an errand I’d like you to handle.” The mage pushed the sealed letter into the man’s hand.
“I…I cannot read,” he whispered, his face reddened by shame.
“You do not need to. That was not my intent. And do not be ashamed. Any man can learn to read. In fact, right now I’m teaching Tobias.”
“Lord Tobias does not know how to read?”
“He is not proficient, no. But in his line of work it is not necessary; just as it is not necessary this task. You have to take this writ and deliver it to the King in Rhelm.”
“Sir…but…”
“I will not take no for an answer,” Magnus reprimanded coldly.
“It is not that I do not wish to serve. But I was promised my vengeance…”
“And you will have it unless you fall in battle. This writ needs delivered; the King needs to know of what is occurring. If the word is not passed along and our lives are lost on the morrow, will you have your vengeance?” Before allowing Netto to answer, Magnus spun with a flourish and spoke again, “of course not. But this is not about vengeance alone either. This is about justice. We do not want you to go; we need you to go.”
“This..is an important mission.”
“It is the most important. If we fail—it will be up to the King as well as you to complete the task. And it will not be without its perils. Rhelm lies to the north here. You will have to ride east, skirting the Culite force, before turning north to your destination. Netto,” Magnus rested his hand on the youth’s shoulders, “you will have to travel fast. The sooner you return, the sooner you can be assured that justice has been served.
“Now, take this parchment and get saddled up. Motega was rounding up our steeds—take mine.” The mage opened his mouth but before he could speak, a mournful sound filled the air.
“That…that was a horn,” Netto mutter.
“Aye. You must leave now. The Culites draw close. Go!” Magnus pushed Netto from the church. He turned to gather his scrolls, tucking them neatly into their scroll tubes. Finally, the mage grasped the shield and stepped from the church.
The mage slid through the door into the pre-dawn heat. A harsh sun was only beginning to cast its violent rays skyward in the west, highlighting the shimmering cobalt of Raider’s Bay. Rain had yet to break the unending summer draught. The cloudless sky promised no relief for Rhelm.
“Wizard!” barked Motega as he strode quickly across the dusty road. “Where is Netto going?”
“I’ve sent him to Rhelm.”
“What’s that now?” queried Tobias as both the paladin and Fitz closed their distance to the brewing spectacle.
“I’ve sent Netto to Rhelm,” the mage patiently repeated. He glanced around, noting four Minetown patriots waiting for their own orders.
“Are you a fool?!” bellowed the Rornman. “We could’ve used another sword here.” The mage’s face was beginning to flush. Hopefully, the four natives wouldn’t notice the blossoming color in the dim light.
“I’m no fool,” he interjected. Quieter, he added, “Do not speak down to me in front of the villagers.” The mage paused, allowing Motega to stare with incredulity at the sudden backbone he had grown. Raising his voice, the mage continued, “Netto was sent to deliver a missive to the King himself. It is an important mission.”
“We are unsure of the size of their force, mage.”
“I have it covered, ranger.” Magnus’ tone was full of bitterness and exhaustion. Each member of the Heroes showed wear and tear from a night without much rest. Tobias seemed the worse; his muscles trembling with exhaustion from readying the defenses and searching the town.
Motega stepped in toward Magnus but before the distance betwixt them dwindled to nothingness, Tobias popped in between. His arms kept them both at a safe distance. “We are all tired here,” the paladin hissed between his teeth. Turning to Motega he stated as calmly as possible, “let the mage give us his reasons before judgment is passed.” All turned to Magnus, eliciting another stir of embarrassment in his cheeks.
“The King must be warned of these events. Netto was the best choice. And he has already suffered enough.” Magnus searched the paladin’s eyes, hoping he had played the correct sympathy card. “Besides, if Netto’s sword was really necessary—that would mean that all three of you had already fallen. If it came down to Netto’s sword than this town’s fate had been decided.
“No, it was better for Netto to ride to Rhelm. At least there, he may beg the King’s aid. With any luck, a royal contingent can be drawn the forty miles to this town. We may need the help.” Out of the corner of his eye, Magnus noted Fitz nodding his head in agreement.
“Bah,” Motega snorted. “I doubt we could hold out long enough for some army to reach us.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tobias decided. “Magnus has good reasoning this time.” A cocky grin stretched the mage’s face but Tobias glowered at him. “You had a good idea mage, but we are a group. Ultimately, I have final say on our course. Next time you have an idea, discuss it with the rest of us. I grow weary of your secrecy.” Without a final glance back, the paladin marched from the group, back to his tasks. Fitz followed quietly.
Magnus simmered. Motega looked deflated. Turning, he too left the mage, standing alone amongst the natives.
The mage swallowed his anger, realizing it as a byproduct of exhaustion. “Are you all we have?” he asked the six that had watched the drama unfold.
“No,” responded a young man in yellow garb. “How much are you offering?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How much are you going to pay me for my services, mage? They don’t come cheap—especially if there is an element of danger.” The other human watchers nodded in acquiescence.
“Wait,” the mage demanded, rubbing his temples where a headache was quickly blossoming. “You want money to defend your own town?”
“For a mage, you’re not too smart are you?” The man questioned with a haughty grin. Before the insult sank completely in, he jabbered again, “This isn’t my town. I’m just a traveler that happened to be in the right place at the, well, wrong time. And quite simply, I have no problems with the Culites personally. So, I’ll need money to sway my loyalty to your favor.”
“Feh,” snorted the only inhuman remaining, a dwarf. He stepped forward, already dressed in a fine suit of mail and hefting a beautifully crafted axe. “Yer jus’ another greedy priest of Galar,” he accused. The young man in yellow finery shrugged carelessly. “Look mage, I’ll fight fer yeh, and fer the town. If yeh wanna toss a little of the loot my way, fine. I’d like ter get rid of those damned, dirty Culites.”
“Well, ser dwarf, I will be more than happy to pass some of the spoils of war your way. As well as to the others of you,” Magnus added. The others nodded happily.
“Good ‘nuff fer me then.” The dwarf, a craftsman named Cochly, said. Hefting his axe up onto his shoulder he paced away toward Tobias and Fitz. Before passing the mage he spun and glared at the other Minetown patriots. “Arad, Byk, and Cargyle! Get your asses in gear. Don’ make me tell yer womenfolk what cowards ye be,” he ordered. Reluctantly, three of the others bowed their heads and followed the dwarf.
That left only the Galar priest and another in front of the mage.
“And what do you want?” sighed Magnus as he pointed toward the other man.
“Me?” He asked innocently, with a hand pressed to his chest. “Oh, well I’d enjoy a bit of the spoils, too.”
“But?”
The man flashed a bright smile and brushed a perfect curl of black hair from his forehead. “Well, your tales will be recited far and wide across all of Rhelm?”
“They usually are,” Magnus answered sardonically.
“Then, I’d like to be mentioned in the story.” The man flashed another perfect smile. “I’d like it to tell,” he lifted his arms into the air, gesturing wildly, “of how Devon the Handsome—that’s my name—fought valiantly at the Battle of Minetown. How he single-handedly slaughtered several of the Culite followers, restoring peace, order and justice to the terrorized citizens of Minetown.” Devon smiled.
“Right. Consider it done.” Magnus gave him a slight push toward the gathering around Tobias.
“Can we talk about my payment now?” the Galar priest asked.
“How much are you asking?”
“Fifty kings.”
“Fifty kings!?!?”
“That’s my price.”
“How about twenty?”
“Twenty? You’re kidding.”
“Look—uh, what’s your name?”
“Timmons.”
“Right. Look Timmons, we don't have fifty Kings to give you. If you want to be remember in this historical battle as nothing but a gold sucking mercenary, by what the bards write, then there is nothing we can do to stop that. Right now we have pressing business of planning this battle and I don't have time to haggle with you over the cost of your support.
“Or you could—as Galar would want, no doubt—become part of a tale that will last through the ages. You could be remembered as one of the many hands that decided the fate of this town.
“If we live through this day, know that all goes in my report to the King; favorable or unfavorable." Magnus added. He pulled out another piece of parchment and scribbled a few letters across its face. “So, what is your answer? Lord Tobias will need to know if you will be included in our planning."
Timmons smirked. "You drive a hard bargain, mage. I could just as easily, of course, set myself up in some attic and peer through a crack in the wood to watch the battle. Then I can pen whatever song I want, showering whoever wins with couplets and rhymes.
“But...but I think you may just be able to do this. So be it - twenty kings, and I'll do what I can to heal and aid you and your allies. Fifty kings, of course, gets me into the thick of things. But, I guess I know your decision." With a sad sigh, the cleric stepped past the mage.
“Fine,” Magnus grunted, a frown etched deeply into his face. “Fifty kings.” The mage withdrew a bag and tossed it to the priest. Timmons smiled and bowed as he turned away. Instead of heading toward Tobias, he walked into the church.
“Greedy bastard,” Magnus murmured.
“Reminds me of someone else,” a voice retorted, causing the mage to jump. Motega grinned wickedly. He had been busy; a fresh Rorn symbol was painted upon his face in what appeared to be blood. With a quick glance, Motega found a fresh but shallow wound stretching down the length of the ranger’s forearm.
“I’m really not that greedy.”
“I know.” The Rorn reached for the shield resting near Magnus’ feet. Magnus leaned back slightly. Motega painted a similar symbol across the face of the shield. Standing, he admired his quick work. “Tonight, we are all Culi-kun. Brothers in this slaughter.” He placed a flask in the mage’s hand. “Take a drink now; it will steady your nerves.”
Magnus complied and Motega patted him on his shoulder. “Come, there is one other thing we need to discuss with our brothers.” The Rorn passed the mage, veering for Tobias and Fitz who now stood alone.
The mage paused, coughing a bit of the harsh whiskey up. As he lifted his foot, the warhorn sounded again.
-----------------
The Heroes were gathered outside the old church, soaking up the early morning rays. The Minetown Patriots, those six that could be gathered, were already moving toward their initial positions. Two climbed atop the old church roof; one with eyes to the North, the other with his eyes to the East. Devon the Handsome had climbed to his position on the top of a worn down carriage house, just within the stone casing of the holy temple. The deluded youth with the perfect smile watched the southern road. Meanwhile, Timmons and Cochly stood inside the church proper, allowing the Heroes one final, brief assembly.
Magnus sighed as the last of the buffs were cast. Tobias had swelled, his muscles fueled by the arcane arts. Each Hero also carried the blessings of Ceria to aid in the defense of Minetown.
“I see now why my father always said to enjoy each sunrise as if it were your last,” Magnus said. The bright rays were dancing across his face, diminishing the exhaustion and reinstating the mage’s youth.
With a half-hearted chuckle, Magnus lifted his shield and snatched a few potions from Motega’s haversack. “Hopefully there is some whiskey still left in the tavern. We’ll need it after this.”
Silently, the mage added his own prayer: Ammol, grant us the knowledge to win this day, so that we all may enjoy your next winter’s kiss.
The Rornman lifted his flask once again, draining the fiery liquid in a single gulp. He tossed the empty flagon to the ground, following it with a contented sigh. Knowing time drew short, he had to give his warning to his brothers in arms.
“I told Magnus earlier that we are all Culi-kun. We will survive; the Culites will fall. But on the field of battle you will see something I have yet to reveal to you.” The Rorn paused, allowing his words to sink in and making sure he had the group’s attention. Inside, Motega felt a bestial fury grasping the edges of consciousness, demanding its freedom.
“In my lands, I was the son of our leader—his youngest son. To rule, you must be strong and fearless but most important, you must carry the mark of the beast. I did not carry the mark and was defeated in battle by older brother. He did carry the mark.
“That is why I walk now with you. But in that battle, the mark was gifted to me by my brother’s claws and maw. Today, the beast screams for its freedom. You will see my demon first-hand. I will appear to you as both animal and man—just like the beast we battle before we reached this village.[1]” Motega looked at his friends, his brothers. “If I am unable to control the beast…”
“We will do what is necessary,” Tobias interjected. The paladin grasped the hilt of his blade to accentuate the point. Motega nodded in reply. The Rorn opened his mouth…
…but was interrupted as Devon the Handsome barked, “Archers to the south!” Tobias and Motega spun on their heels, each drawing their bows and sped toward the southern wall.
“You know what to do, Fitz,” Magnus stated. The mage popped a cork, drowning the contents. Before Fitz’s eyes, Magnus vanished. Only the archaic chanting of the mage alerted the cleric to his continued presence. But then the words stopped and Magnus’ body spiraled invisibly into the air, high above the deathly silent city.
Above, the mage narrowed his eyes, looking for clear foes. Motega and Tobias were engaged with the archers, a steady stream of arrows flew between the Heroes and a few buildings—the obvious hiding places of the Culites. Even Devon released a few shots but his untrained eye had problems guiding the arrow through the thick cover.
The mage lifted higher, rotating slowly, eyes continually scanning. He held the first of his innumerable scrolls, prepared to finish the incantation with just a moment’s notice.
At the north-western edge of the town, the war-horn sounded again. The sound seemed to come from a cropping of trees. The mage uttered the final word, centering its focus upon the vegetation.
The Culite scouts were perched upon the thick boughs of an oak tree, dozens of feet above the ground. There they had waited, sounding the war-horn and keeping their bows trained on the northern pass. One blew the horn again in salute of the small contingent which now came south.
They turned to look at the village as the tree limbs and parched leaves erupted spontaneously into a fiery deathtrap. Their charred bodies fell the dozens of feet to impact the ground with a final, lifeless thump.
From his spot above the city, Magnus admired his handiwork. A cocky smile stretched across his face.
-----------------------------------------
Magnus made a mental note to collect the scouts’ bodies and gear after the battle was over while swallowing a second potion of invisibility.
One of the horadrel archers ducked away from the window of an abandoned home. His movement, belying training if not raw speed, saved his life. Three arrows slid through the window and lodged in the far wall of the room. Unfortunately the archer had not managed to avoid all of the projectiles. Two shafts—both from that blasted Rorn—were lodged in his left shoulder. He had broken the shafts; the arrowheads still send twinges of pain through his arm.
His companions, the two other archers, had not faired nearly so well, he feared. Both the paladin and the Rorn had concentrated their fire on his window. Either they were fools or—more likely—his companions were dead.
In the end it would not matter. The archer had his orders and they were only to cover the real first wave. Motion on his left drew his attention from the new barrage of missiles that poured through the window. Three shadows charged past the door, running full tilt toward the church’s old stone wall.
“Time’s up,” the archer murmured. He nocked a fresh arrow and pivoted to the right, taking a cursory aim.
Two slender arrows pummeled the horadrel in his gut causing the archer to release his shot early. As the arrow leapt high into the air and flew harmlessly over Tobias’ and Motega’s heads, the archer crumpled to the floor. Twin stains of red spread across the belly of his leather armor.
A painful cough rattled his lungs. Fluid, blood was filling his lungs. With a quick and painful movement, he snapped the shafts. Then he crawled toward the door, toward escape and freedom.
“MORE!” bellowed Devon as three gruesome forms scrambled atop the wall. The young man released an arrow. It sped with deadly accuracy toward one of the three brutes but at the last moment spiraled and clattered against the wall, just missing its target.
That man, however, was forced to slide his hand away from the impact, bending his shoulder to avoid the bouncing projectile. He grunted as he lost his footing and slammed heavily into the barrier. He grasped the ledge with one hand, fingers bleached white with strain.
Tobias glanced at Motega and gave a curt nod. The paladin tossed his bow over the shoulder. With a long stride he charged toward the church and the only entrance into the courtyard where the new threat would arrive. Motega nocked another arrow and slipped into the shadows, edging closer to the archer’s last position.
Magnus had heard Devon’s cry as he circled above the city. To the east, the mage had just picked out a fresh target: a lone shadow creeping through the brush toward the stone wall. His scroll was at that ready but he mentally changed targets. Culites breaching the southern wall would be the worse threat.
The mage shimmered into existence as another bead of energy rocketed from his hand, toward the three brigands.
The Culite warrior finally released his grasp upon the edge. His fingers could only support his entire weight for a scant few moments. With a thud, the brigand landed on the dusty road. Above him, he could make out the laughing forms of the other two mercenaries. Cursing, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.
That was when he noted the bright red bead speed toward his allies.
Devon saw the bead as well. While not a smart man, Devon recognized the bead for what it was: witchery. Quickly the handsome—not courageous—fool spun like a top and raced toward the edge of the carriage house. He was not quite fast enough.
Magnus smiled as the bead exploded outward, a cruelly blossoming flower of flame. The two Culites on top of the wall were flung into the air by the heat and force. Even Devon the Handsome felt the burn as the roiling wave of death blackened the back of his leather armor and gave him an extra boost into the air from the carriage house roof.
The brigand on the ground through himself flat and managed to avoid the main blast of the fireball. Still, his hair burst into flame and his face blistered as the heat above him dissipated. The brigand shut his eyes and prayed through the pain.
Magnus whirled in the air, and kicked toward his soon-to-be-victim in the east.
Tobias barged into the courtyard, the dwarf Cochly close on his heels. They watched as the fireball expanded in slow motion, flinging its three victims—intentional or not—harshly into the air.
Cochly let out a low whistle.
The carriage house seemed to tremble as the arcane flames winked out of existence. A moment later a flash of flame and a puff of black smoke reminded Tobias of the unending drought that had gripped Rhelm. “Damn. He just had to choose fire,” he murmured.
“One’s on the ground,” Cochly spit, gesturing toward a brigand.
“Yeah, but where’s the other?” As if in response, a charred form lurched upward. It wobbled for a second, ash and dust falling in a continuous stream. It reached around, patting out a few smoldering wisps of flame on its back. Abruptly, it screamed a high, crazy wail. Then it surged into motion toward the paladin and dwarf.
Cochly lifted his axe, his small but solid arms and shoulders bunching to prepare a powerful two-handed swing. Tobias grasped the dwarf’s shoulders and shook his head. “That’s one of ours,” the paladin sighed.
The smoldering shadow, Devon the Once-Handsome, sped past the two warriors screaming like a girl. Cochly sighed and turned back to the bonfire.
The brigand on the ground twitched, drawing himself up just as his compatriot, who also somehow managed to survive the devastating blast flipped off the burning roof of the carriage house.
“Now its time for justice!” Tobias shouted, his blade flashing into a ready stance.
The horadrel archer pulled his crawl to an abrupt stop in front of a hoof. The hoof lifted up and stamped down hard twice, an inch from the elf’s nose. Shaking with fear, the elf lifted his head to glare into the eyes of the monstrous Rorn centaur, Al’baku.
“You are a coward,” his deep voice boomed.
“No,” the archer hissed. “I will live to fight another day. That is not cowardice.”
The centaur snorted, tossing his braided hair about in anger. The archer cowered. “Where and who?” the half-man-half-horse demanded. It reared up onto its hind legs, pawing the air and then the ground as gravity pulled it forward. The inch between horadrel face and hoof quickly thinned.
“Th-th-the Rorn archer and the paladin. And the mage is around, too. Near the southern wall,” the horadrel sputtered.
“Good. I will crush them all.” Al’baku snorted and stomped the ground. Then he sidestepped his massive bulk to the right of the kneeling archer. “Your role in this battle is over.”
The archer lowered his head in thanks and rapidly snapped it upward in agony as Al’baku brought his considerable weight down into the center of his spinal column. Blackness filled the horadrel’s vision as a sick sinking feeling expanded within his stomach. Through the permanent icy grip of death, the archer could hear the centaur chuckling as he trotted away.
* * *
Cochly grunted as the Culite’s sword pierced his chain shirt and bit deep into his flesh. The old dwarf cursed and spit and wrenched back, feeling the warm—still painfully warm from that damned fireball!—metal release a torrent of blood.
He stumbled back, gripping his axe more firmly. A cold tingle erupted across his back and spread to his ample belly, a stomach that had grown fat and ripe with age. The deep gash was quickly knitted back together, spurred on by the Galafar priest’s wand.
Cochly grinned as he stepped back into the fray, swinging.
“I was worth every King, wasn’t I?!” the cocksure priest barked as he moved to where he was needed.
* * *
Motega growled with rage. He slung his bow across his shoulder, aggravated that the last archer had escaped.
The Rorn turned to the window and grasped the ledge. A sudden jolt shot down his body, arching his back. He tumbled backward, locked in agony as his body stretched and twisted.
LET ME OUT! boomed a feral voice in his head. Motega ran his fingers—no, now claws—across the wooden floor, digging shallow trenches in the oak.
The Rorn’s back arched again as several of his rips snapped unnaturally.
* * *
Magnus descended into the topmost boughs of a large tree. Not sixty feet below, a lone orc stomped through the brush. The mage silently set his scroll in a crook in the tree branch. His hands began the intricate patterns of summoning one of the many spells he had prepared for the battle.
Another fireball would have been overkill for just a single orc, he knew. A better choice was something classic, something precise that could remove the threat quickly and simply.
It was at that moment Magnus realized he was mistaken.
Three boar-like beasts charged out of the brush, pounding their oversized tusks into the trunk of the tree. The mage twisted as the tremors rippled into his branch and then he was airborne.
Thankfully his spell for flight had not expired. Magnus scowled as his scroll was shaken lose and began its fall toward the earth.
With a near-growl, the wizard released his spell. Several bolts of bright energy fled from his extended fingertips, striking the orc squarely in the chest. Those bolts caused an arrow from the orc to shoot harmlessly into the dense copse of trees.
In that same instant, Magnus lurched downward, throwing himself toward his falling scroll and the fenboars[1] that grunted hungrily below.
* * *
Tobias bellowed as he charged after one of the charred brigands. The bastard had danced nimbly around the heavily armored paladin, ignoring the real threat to speed toward the church.
At first, Tobias had thought the Culite would move to aid his fellow against Cochly. He never would have sloughed off the guilt if the honorable dwarf had fallen because he, a paladin, a protector of the weak was too ungodly slow. But the Culite had shown no desire to help his compatriot. No, the bastard was charging for the church and possibly his freedom.
Tobias would have none of it.
His speed increased as Cochly’s foe fell. The dwarf would be quick to give chase as well. Tobias had to get there first.
And then Timmons stepped into the doorway, his back toward the brigand. Tobias screamed.
But Timmons did not have enough time to spin. His simple robes gave no protection as the Culite’s rapier drove into his back and exploded out of his chest. The cleric’s heart was instantly split in twain before the cocksure cleric slumped lifeless to the floor.
The dead body did nothing to hinder the Culite’s speed. He wrenched his blade back as he simultaneously kicked the body out of his path.
Tobias and Cochly pushed even harder to close the gap but neither could move quite so fast.
A sound of metal on metal suddenly echoed out the open doorway of the church.
* * *
Fitz had been standing in the street, the only member of the ragtag bunch waiting at the front of the church. Timmons had been there, but he had wandered off toward the sound of battle within the courtyard. Crazy Cargyle was around, too. But Fitz wasn’t quite sure where exactly he had wandered.
And so he stood alone, faith his main bulwark. An extreme amount of patience kept him rooted to the spot. The plan had to go through as discussed. He could not move from his position. One hand held a torch, the light flickering and dim in the early morning rays. With his other hand, Fitz rested the scythe, symbol of his goddess, against his body. He drummed a finger on its blade, trying to take his mind from the sounds of death that filled the air.
Timmons shrieked. Or maybe it was Tobias. Fitz was not entirely sure. The bellow had grabbed his attention and he turned toward the church to see the priest of Galar fall.
Instinct pushed him toward the church. The torch he flung aside, careful to keep it away from the oil-soaked earth. The scythe almost snaked into his hands as he plodded toward the door.
A Culite materialized there in the dark hollow, his rapier danced in a complicated routine. Ceria protected her followers, though. The blade missed the priest, instead slamming hard against the curving metal of the scythe.
-----
Motega stretched out of the fetal position he had assumed on the floor. His claws, the claws of the beast had retracted. A faint red hue was all that remained; a scar on his flesh—the mark of the beast.
The Rorn quickly and skillfully checked his bow. No damage had been done it while he had fought the beast despite his violent convulsions. Shouldering the weapon, he drew his blade and leapt through the open window.
The street was empty. To the right, a smoking body laid upon the earth—no doubt one of the brigands that had tried to climb the stone fence. Motega smirked, considering a quick jaunt over to check the body and assure death.
He would have—but Fitz was no longer waiting in the street. The Rorn cursed as he charged forward. The din of battle sounded in his ears as he ran north.
* * *
Halvar glanced to his left. The Rorn archer had been there a moment before but was now gone. Playing dead had worked. Thanking Cula Vak, Halvar awkwardly sat up. He pulled a small vial from his satchel and popped the cork.
The cool contents tingled as they spilled down his throat. Immediately some of his pain subsided. He could feel the burned skin of his forehead and nose peel away. Pink, fresh flesh was beneath; it eagerly replaced the damage.
His hair and eyebrows were another story. Only time would heal that damage. In the meantime, someone was going to f*cking pay. Why not start with that bastard archer? Then—well, then Halivar would move on to the mage.
The Culite stood and drew his sword. Quietly he edged along the edge of the stone barrier, moving closer to his prey.
* * *
Magnus’ hand closed around the scroll.
Each of the fenboars reared up on their hind legs, stabbing the air futilely with their jagged tusks.
Magnus nearly vomited from their stench.
A quick thought adjusted his direction; he shot upward into the tree’s branches. An arrow sliced through the air, nipping at the wizard’s cloak. A thin line of red appeared on his arm, but the mage didn’t care.
He unraveled the scroll as he sped upward, calling a ravenous ring of fire down upon his foes.
* * *
Tobias and Cochly scrambled into the church, each with their weapons at the ready. The Culite had made it to the door but was stumbling back toward them. Fitz was on the offensive, his scythe humming as he cleaved through the air.
Tobias’ greatsword lifted, shining as a holy smite, the wrath of Reddel, filled the blade. Likewise, Cochly pulled his axe out wide to the right and then snapped the heavy weapon left in a low and powerful arc.
Tobias’ sword cleaved down.
Fitz feinted left, causing the Culite to bring his blade to bear at the wrong angle. Quickly, too quickly for an armored priest, Fitz twisted and twirled the scythe in the opposite direction.
The brigand’s eyes opened wide as he felt his fate descending upon him. Out of the corner of his eyes he could sense more than see the tell-tale flicker of light playing across other weapons. And then he could see nothing.
Cochly’s axe shattered through bone and muscle, severing the Culite’s leg at the knee before digging hungrily into the next. Tobias blade sliced out and down, tearing through the man’s shoulder and torso, before becoming lodged in his hip. Fitz’s scythe created a clean cut, a farmer’s cut. It simply slid through the brigand’s neck, removing his head.
The head bounced against the wall of the church, splattering a line of blood along the floor and wall before settling to the ground. The Culite’s body fell as well, a deep red stain coating the hardwood floor slickly.
“Enjoy the darkness,” Fitz stated coldly. “Enjoy your God.”
“The torch?” Tobias asked. They turned as one toward the door. With a few steps they managed to circumnavigate the slick puddle safely and exit the church to see Motega charging.
* * *
Bvarki screamed as the fireball exploded directly before his eyes, centered on his precious fenboars. He was blasted backward, his eyebrows vanishing along with the coruscating waves of fire. To tell the truth though, Bvarki’s lack of eyebrows could do nothing to worsen the half-orc’s scarred face. He was a hardened mercenary, his body tough and his reflexes sharp.
His fenboars on the other hand, squealed like common pigs as the spell flash-fried their flesh and hair.
Bvarki reached into his satchel, pulling three healing draughts. He rushed over to the devastating scene; all of his precious, precious pets were strewn on the ground. They cried and whimpered pitifully.
He had half a mind to smack them about for their weakness. But they were still fresh, still young; their training still incomplete. Perhaps that was why they had survived the flash-inferno. If Bvarki succumbed to his rage and beat them to death, it would not aid his situation. It would also be bad for business. Fenboars were dumb but strong animals. They took forever to train.
With a disgruntled sigh, the half-orc administered the potions to his pets. The change across their bodies was immediately. Growling, they climbed onto their hooves. Just as a reminder, Bvarki smacked them hard, fast.
“Let tha’ be a lesson ter yah,” he growled.
He took the lead, herding them north toward the edge of the church’s western wall. Soon, they would have their vengeance.
* * *
Magnus had left what he thought were his dead foes behind. He had returned to a great distance above the city, taking it all in. The sun had not edged much higher in the intervening moments of battle. Its warm rays tingled across his face and body, allowing him to forget the slight burn of the scratch upon his arm.
A force was moving south, he noted. The mage prepared to unleash another of the potent fireball scrolls.
Beneath him and over the howling of the wind, Magnus heard Arad or Byk shout a warning. The two Minetown patriots had remained on top of the church, surveying the area despite the roaming battle in the courtyard. One screamed of the force to the north.
But the other patriot unleashed a flaming arrow. Magnus had been waiting for the sign.
He followed the arc of the arrow with his eyes. Striking the stone wall, it ended its travel prematurely. Magnus’ eyes scanned in the direction the arrow was heading…
Motega was charging up the street. Behind, one of the Culite brigands was trying to catch up, a vengeful blade trembling in his hands.
But the fool had run right into one of the mage’s traps. He just didn’t know it.
Magnus released the arcane energies of the scroll.
* * *
Halvar was nearing his prey. Nothing, nothing could stop the pain he would deliver unto the Rorn’s body. And then, then the mage would be next.
A strange scent ticked the Culite’s nostrils. It was something familiar, something out-of-place in the street.
Oil.
He stutter stepped. He tried to pull to a hard stop. His momentum would not allow it. Instead, his feet slipped on an oil stone.
The sky was all Halvar saw in that instant. The cobalt was beginning to shift to azure; no doubt another rainless day lied ahead of Rhelm. Halivar noted the red bead that danced—slowly it seemed—toward him.
He was powerless to do anything. Gravity was pulling him and the bead toward the earth. He reached for a healing draught in his satchel but even his arm moved in slow motion. If only his mind could. If only he did not have to face his death knowingly.
Landing with a thud, the Culite knew it was over. The bead gathered itself up, right in front of his eyes. It expanded, ever so slowly, with a tremendous amount of heat and pressure. Sparks leapt out of its center; out of the fiery beast’s heart. The sparks impacted the road. Tiny flames and then larger sheets of fire rose from the earth toward the heavens.
And the bead continued to expand. Fire lanced into his eyes, burning straight through his sockets to massage his brain as the oil under his body—now all over his armor—ignited. The pain was dazzling. His flesh, instantly turned to fluid fell from his bones. His muscles baked; his bones charred.
The mouth of Hell opened around Halivar and drowned him in its eternal embrace.
* * *
Motega fell into a tumbling crouch as a wave of fire nearly touched his body. The Rornman reserved a particularly nasty curse to use against that damned mage later.
But as soon as he went down, he was up again. He had no problems pulling himself to a stop just a little farther than his intended target.
Tobias, Cochly and Fitz rushed out of the church. The priest grabbed the torch, an intentional igniter for the oil slicked roads. They all felt the sudden heat of the firestorm as a wall of flame[1] fifteen feet in height flared into existence to the left. Solid black smoke billowed up into the heavens, an offering for the gods.
Motega stepped toward the fire, his eyes trained on the wall of fire.
He did not see the sudden appearance of a reptilian creature, hovering above the statue of Morduk on his side of the road. The creature had light green scales, tinted red which showed wherever its black robes did not cover. Its beady, black and yellow eyes swiveled menacingly on the sides of its thin, long snout.
It, the kobold, had just winked into existence as a bead of red energy sped from its extended talon.
Motega was quick; he heard the mad cackling of the sorcerer. But even he did not have enough time to take one final step, away from the oil drenched road.
The fireball blossomed around the Rornman, igniting the oil just as it had around Halivar. The flames leapt up, another sacrifice to the gods, as Motega was swallowed alive.
Tobias, Fitz and Cochly screamed as the burst of heat hit them, tossing them like rag dolls against the church.
Yapper cackled as he popped another potion. His reptilian form faded into nothingness.
------------------------------------------
The mage felt a surge of adrenaline tear through his body. He had no sooner released his most recent fireball before he was spinning again, marking the new targets charging toward the fray.
Movement along the northern wall drew his attention. There he spotted what seemed to be a man sitting atop a mount. The horse—Magnus assumed—was moving slowly, showing complete control despite the fiery carnage below. More control than a horse so close to flame should have, he thought.
The mage drew another scroll but more motion caught his eyes. He could just make out the form of a blackened body, darting north and then west around an empty home. Three smaller beasts followed in its wake. The fenboars, Magnus realized with displeasure.
“Dammit,” he cursed.
And then a bright flash of red and yellow and orange stole the mage’s train of thought. His head swiveled left to watch as Motega was swallowed alive by flames. Magnus howled in rage. Tobias, Fitz and the dwarf had been tossed haphazardly against the church, leaving the sorcerer unmolested.
The lizard-thing cackled.
Magnus triggered the scroll’s completion, unleashing another bead of flame toward his new target. But before the fireball could near its target, the sorcerer vanished.
“No one steals my tactics,” he swore while leaping into a steep dive that would place him betwixt the two roaring walls of fire.
* * *
Tobias lifted his head, a sudden jarring pain exploded down the length of his spinal column. He was slouched against the church wall, his blade lying inches from his limp hand. The metal was white hot; it released a steady stream of steam.
Ignoring the pain in his back, he stretched forward and grasped the hilt. The paladin could feel and smell his flesh boiling against the blade. Grunting, he stood and glanced toward the roaring fires.
Motega—Tobias could just see that outline of the Rornman’s silhouette within the flame—was trembling in agony. The shadow seemed to bend and twist within the flickering hell.
And then the dark shape crouched. Even crouching, it was larger than Motega. It could have been a trick of the light or off the constant shimmer caused from so much fire. That was Tobias’ thought just before the silhouette leapt upward and pierced the veil of flame.
It was enormous; almost twice the size of the Rornman. Black, shaggy hair smoldered across its flesh. With a head of a wolf—not to mention the eyes, ears, and oversized teeth—it was more beast than man. But its outline still held some similarity to a man’s. Flaps of skin, charred and dead, slid from the beast’s hide.
The beast’s nostrils flared, its arm darting out. But it found nothing but air where its claws landed.
And then another bead, Magnus’ latest casting, ignited above the creature’s head.
The werewolf twisted with impossible precision; it was almost a dance. The expanding fireball grasped futilely at the beast. But Motega—the werewolf—flipped unscathed through the fire. Even his smoking fur managed to touch the deadly flames.
He landed with a thud on all fours. The Heroes’ haversack dangled yet from his shoulder, smoking but unharmed. Motega’s bow was gone, probably still in the fire along with his sword.
Rearing up, he stretched his arms, his jagged claws toward the sky and howled.
Tobias stumbled back a step. He knew that thing was the Rorn. But he could not help his instant reaction. His sixth sense stretched outward, trying to fathom whether Motega was a force for good.
The werewolf pivoted toward the paladin, black eyes flashing red as Tobias’ sense tickled its own supernaturally augmented abilities.
Neutrality, cold and hard was all what Tobias observed. Neutrality as well as a hint of the feral, raging nature of the beast. It spun to the north, its hackles rose and it growled in fury.
* * *
A ball of flame slammed into the abandoned home; Bvarki darted to the right and dropped into a roll. His pets came up beside his prone form, growling at the flickering flames. They nuzzled his face, leaving fat lines of thick, fetid drool across the half-orc’s face.
Cautiously, he pulled himself into a crouch. He began hissing and barking in no real language, motioning with his arms.
The fenboars nodded. They spun and fled toward the road leaving their master alone near the flames.
Bvarki grasped another healing draught, slurping the cool contents. He stood warily, eyes scanning the sky for that damned mage. The half-orc nocked an arrow.
Several bolts of pure white energy pounded into his chest as Magnus popped into view.
Swearing, Bvarki released the arrow. But it flew harmlessly through the sky as the mage darted away. The mercenary drew another arrow and plodded off after him.
* * *
Motega darted toward the fire. The Heroes had been careful in laying the fiery trap. To the south, the road was filled with a blazing wall, impenetrable except by the suicidal. To the north, however, they left a short space in between the two sides of flame; a harsh tunnel that could funnel the combatants down.
The Rorn saw what lay at the end of that tunnel. A huge creature, half-man and half-horse stepped into his path. It had a bow drawn and a jagged, double-headed axe which had to weigh at least fifteen pounds hung from its side. The centaur—Rorn centaur, Motega noted—released two arrows before the werewolf could react. The shafts flew true slipping through Motega’s ribs and into his chest.
The werewolf howled in rage but refused to move. Something was triggering his senses—something reptilian. His ears perked, his nostrils flared. A few almost inaudible words drifted through the air.
Motega leapt upward, jaws slamming together as they snapped on the kobold’s invisible ankle. Still the reptile released its spell.
Several magic missiles leapt from its claw and pounded into the Rorn.
Motega did not even notice as his hands darted up to tear the now visible foe in twain.
* * *
Tobias had walked toward Motega. Fitz and Cochly were also up and nearing. They all watched as the werewolf leapt and clamped down on nothing; he looked as if he were levitating. But the Rornman’s actions were followed by a torrent of cold-blood and the appearance of the enemy mage.
The three troops had no extra time to think about it as war cries erupted from the nearby flames. Their eyes swiveled, observing first the hulking form of the centaur. As he stepped back, the centaur smirked. Three orcs and a dwarf exploded into movement around Al’baku’s horse body. The orcs carried jagged falchions and bore a standard across their chest: a black hand. The dwarf wore a simple symbol—a black circle, the symbol of Cula Vak—and carried his own razor-sharp axe. He moved slower, as if savoring the carnage like a fine wine.
Just as the three orcs raised their swords to charge, three porcine beasts rounded the stone wall. They trembled as they spotted the flames, but their fear was drowned quickly by their training. They lowered their heads and charged through the legs of the orcs.
The beasts’ short legs worked viciously back and forth to propel their stout bodies forward. With their heads down, the fenboars promised pain and death upon the ends of their tusks.
Cochly cursed—his swearing increasing in speed, tone and strength like an erupting volcano—as a curving tusk tore through his chain shirt and into his gut. “Damned son of an orc!” he swore, the tusk piercing another two inches with a sickly gurgle. Blood lined his lips, dribbled down and coated his beard.
With a grunt and another two inch plunge, he brought the head of his axe down. The blade pierced the thick hide of the fenboar’s head easily. Unfortunately, it only chipped the solid bone which housed its brain.
The dwarf sighed and shuddered.
Tobias was faring better. His greatsword was humming as the air passed over the keen-edged steel. The sword spun left and right, powerful strokes that hacked and sliced through another of the fenboars. After a few well placed blows, the beast dropped. One of its legs was separated at its knee and it breathed its last breaths heavily, blood filling its lungs.
But that left the third beast which came at the paladin from another angle. Tobias turned his attention while lifting his blade to deliver more justice.
Fitz rushed past Motega. The werewolf had disregarded the charging fenboars. Instead, he seemed focused more on tearing the kobold sorcerer into two.
Ceria’s cleric could not afford to delay. Gripping his scythe with one hand, Fitz charged forward and drew a healing wand. Cochly’s eyes were drooping; if the priest did not do something fast—and by something he meant offer some healing—Tobias would have to share the front lines with a dwarf-corpse.
The remaining Minetown patriots—Arad, Byk, and Cargyle—were plunking away at the enemies with their bows. It made little noticeable difference though. The centaur stood patiently at the end of the flames, waiting his chance and dodging the clumsy shafts. The arrows reflected easily off of the advancing armored Culite dwarf. And the patriots could not fire at the fenboars. Their limited skill could have been disastrous if they hit Tobias or Cochly.
Damn, Fitz’s mind screamed. Where is Devon? Another distraction could serve the greater good.
A blue discharge seeped into Cochly’s skin, spreading over his body. He swelled with a breath and muttered as his wounds sealed around the fenboar’s tusk, locking the two in a battle to the death. That one tap was all Fitz could manage as the Culite dwarf stepped in to engage the Heroes.
The cleric slid his wand into a pouch and gripped his scythe with two hands as the first axe swipe descended.
* * *
Magnus lobbed another fireball at the half-orc on the ground. By now the mage knew Motega had survived the assault by the kobold sorcerer. He also knew his friends were hard-pressed and that he, the archmage[1], was needed to take down the sorcerer and assure victory.
He turned toward the battle, noting that the mounted man he had seen was actually a centaur. Magnus couldn’t resist.
A fireball blossomed around the creature as the mage puttered through the air, nearing Motega.
The werewolf’s head was inclined, his claws scratching at the visible sorcerer. The kobold was unleashing blast after blast of magic missile into the werewolf, but it seemed Motega’s rage would prevent its escape.
Magnus unleashed his own batch of magic missiles and smiled as each pounded into the sorcerer. Simultaneously, Motega snapped his head, tearing the reptile-man’s foot from its leg. The werewolf and the severed foot fell to the earth; the kobold snapped upward as if propelled by some elastic force.
* * *
Cochly dropped his fenboar, turning the swing and clattering it heavily against the other dwarf’s armor. The armor dented slightly, a fresh scratch stretching across the Culite’s shoulder.
Tobias edged in next to Cochly. Together, they formed a solid wall of protection for Fitz, who quickly withdrew a step.
The two warriors slammed the dwarf with their attacks, their weaponry creating a war cadence in the early morning air.
* * *
Magnus reeled backward. Black marks, from the kobold’s sorcery, had scorched the fibers of the mage’s robe. The kobold cackled madly as he swam upward through the air.
Magnus kicked off, accelerating upward to not be outdone. Ahead, the kobold veered suddenly, one reptilian talon grasping his head. A steady stream of blood was pouring from its leg, obviously a grievous wound.
Yapper, the sorcerer, slid his other talon into his pouch. His consciousness seemed to be slipping like sand through spread fingers. He needed the healing draught he now brought to his lips. Without it, he may not survive against these men. And that was saying something. Yapper was one of the preeminent members of the Blackhand Company which was one of the hardest bands of mercenaries on the face of the Valus.
He popped the cork and dropped the potion as three bolts of energy burned into his arm. With a growl, he spun to see the human mage closing. With his mind, Yapper pulled the fabric of reality; it coalesced into a bead of explosive fire.
Magnus realized his own doom. But if he was going, he was taking the enemy caster with him. He quickly unfurled another scroll and read the arcane phrase he had scribed.
Both mage and sorcerer were immediately engulfed in raging explosions of flame.
The three Blackhand orcs swarmed upon Tobias and Cochly, aiding Brother Wulffa, the Culite dwarf. Outnumbered, the warriors were forced to go on the defensive.
* * *
Magnus hurtled away from Yapper’s fireball, the flames hungrily devouring the edges of his cloak. Aside from singed eyebrows, the mage was in one piece.
Yapper was not so fortunate.
The kobold sorcerer had taken the full brunt of Magnus’ fireball. While the flames had cauterized the dangerous wound on his leg, they had also roasted the poor lizard-man.
Without a living soul to guide the body, the corpse levitated in the air, waiting for the fly spell to wear off.
Magnus smiled his cocky grin. Then he turned to survey the battle below. Immediately, he focused his eyes on the four combatants that were wearing down Tobias and Cochly. If he adjusted his target just right, the mage’s thoughts trailed off.
A fireball slammed down amidst the brawl, setting the Blackhand members aflame. Because of his careful adjustment, the centaur was forced to backpedal but could not avoid having his face roasted.
Magnus whooped as he circled around to the east.
* * *
Nearly broiled alive by the flames, a Blackhand orc darted around Tobias and charged Fitz. Tobias’ arm and blade—working as one—snapped out reflexively; it drew a red line across the orc’s charred flesh but did not stop him.
The paladin quickly reversed the blade’s motion, pivoting the hilt against his palms and darted toward another of the orcs. The barbarian fell back, not expecting the feint, as Tobias spun on his heel and chased after the other orc.
Brother Wulffa cursed under his breath as one of Cochly’s axe swings slid between the plates of his armor. “Finish this one!” he bellowed as he scurried after Tobias.
Fitz watched the raging orc pound toward him. He held his scythe in a defensive position, readied to attack at the last possible moment. As the orc closed, the Cerian priest stepped to the right and brought his blade in low. He was rewarded with a crack as the scythe bit deeply through flesh and bone.
The Blackhand orc pulled to a stop, blood oozing down his dirty boots. He stopped only a few feet from the wall of flames.
Until Tobias plowed into his back, the paladin’s greatsword stretched out to impale the foe. The orc coughed a fat glob of blood as the gigantic blade shred his spine and pierced through his chest. The paladin’s momentum carried him forward in a kick that thrust the Blackhand into the fire, to crumple.
“Tobias!” Fitz screamed.
The paladin whirled around, just in time to see Brother Wulffa close the distance. The dwarf impacted the paladin with the force of a dozen horses. With his solid arms wrapped around Tobias’ knees, they both plunged into the flames.
* * *
Three darts of energy smacked into Bvarki. He was flung to the ground, rage filling his eyes. Enough is enough, he thought. Painfully scrambling to his feet, the half-orc drew his bow and nocked an arrow.
The mage had to die.
He stepped out of the brush he had fallen into only to see another red bead of light detonate right in front of his face.
* * *
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 15:01:20 GMT -5
Al’baku stomped his horse hooves into the ground. His face, normally serene even if devoid of emotion, was blistered and scorched. The Rorn centaur had grown bored, and now desired the end of this battle. He reached for his bow and drew an arrow. The centaur turned toward the humans, the small, weak creatures that had been trying to strike him all night with their small, weak arrows. He nocked and pulled back, relishing the tremor in the mighty bow, the strength of his arms. He exhaled. The arrow whistled. A human, Al’baku did not particularly care which, crumpled as the shaft drove into his chest. He watched with glee as that human fell backward, off his perch and into the courtyard. Al’baku drew another arrow, nocking it and pulling back on the string again. A roar drew his attention from the snipers toward the battlefield ahead. The dwarf dropped one of the two remaining orcs. Bellowing, the dwarf raised his axe to chop into the next. Al’baku sighed. He readjusted his aim and realized that the remaining orc was in his line of sight. “No matter,” he hissed as he released his hold on the tense string. The bow twanged, launching its projectile. The arrow grazed the orc, drawing a painful line of blood but continued onward to pound into Cochly’s stomach. The dwarf shuddered, falling back a pace. * * * Motega howled. His focus on the kobold mage had been total, complete. Now the creature dangled in the air, out of his reach. The primal part of his mind—now the dominant aspect—roared. His nose caught the scent of death though, and knew it was no longer a threat. The beast turned toward the battle. Tobias was gone but the dwarf was still holding the line. One orc remained but more importantly the horse-man beyond that. Motega’s lips pulled up in a ferocious growl as he snapped into motion. Within a half-second, he pushed against the ground, hurtling into the air. The orc attacking Cochly stopped in fear as the werewolf came up behind the dwarf. Cochly thanked the gods as his axe bit into the orc’s side. Still in awe, that orc showed no reaction to the devastating blow. He was focused on the claw that sped toward his face. By the time Motega landed, the orcs head was tumbling lifelessly—and still with a frozen look of shock upon its visage—across the burning ground. The werewolf leaned back, howling at the dying night, the dawning light. Al’baku dropped his bow and drew his axe. He reared up, pawing at the air and crashed down with a heavy, determined thud. Fitz screamed at the flames. Tobias had vanished inside along with that dwarf Culite. Inside the roaring fire, birthed by Magnus’ spell and his carefully designed oil slicks, the Cerian priest could hear metal against metal. Inside that hellish environment, Tobias fought on. Fitz could not charge in, so he screamed. He had lost sight of the rest of the battle but he knew Motega could hold his own. And then the sounds of battle mixed with crackling fire died. Tobias fell. The paladin crumpled to the ground, his feet and half of his legs still in the flames. Smoke billowed from the holy warrior’s blistered body. The metal of his armor and his sword—still gripped tightly in his hand—was white hot with rage. Fitz leaned down and grabbed the paladin. His hands screamed at his brain in protest but the priest ignored them. He pulled; with all his strength, he pulled. Fitz moved the heavy body two inches. His palms were beginning to blister. The priest released and fell back onto his ass. Determined, he stood. He grasped the body again and tugged. His eyes and mind were focused on the paladin. Fitz did not see the smoldering dwarf step from the flames, his double-headed axe practically bonded to his hands. He did not see the flesh-less skull swivel in his direction. Fitz did not sense the axe raise up high above the few stray, burned beard hairs and begin its deadly assault downward. * * * Cochly dodged around the werewolf and the centaur, adding his axe to the fray. The two beasts—and to the dwarf, they were both beasts—were locked in a titanic struggle. The werewolf was clawing at the centaur’s throat and torso, tearing long strips of flesh and muscle from its body. Al’baku swung his axe and reared onto his hind legs to kick at the werewolf like some common dog. The centaur was landing solid hits, too. Several times, Cochly could hear Motega’s ribs shatter under the brutal assault. The Rorn needed his help, though. Minetown needed Cochly. And so his blade bit into the centaur’s side. Al’baku shrieked. Suddenly, the equine body pounded Cochly. The dwarf, though stout and strong, could not fight the surging strength and sheer mass of the centaur. He tried to duck, but the centaur pushed him into the flames and against the wall. Cochly’s head slammed into the rough stone, fire licking at his beard and tasting his flesh. Then the centaur’s body was gone and Cochly hit the ground rolling. His eyes snapped open to see the centaur’s hoof snapping toward his face. The world went black. * * * Magnus screamed in joy. The persistent—and stupid, he thought—half-orc had somehow struggled to his feet after the second—or was it third?—fireball exploded in his face. Somehow, the bastard had stood back up. And reached into his pouch; he allowed his bow to fall uselessly to the ground. But Magnus would not let him drink another healing elixir—not again. One final ball of flame had sealed the half-orc’s fate. Magnus screamed in joy[1]. * * * Fitz felt a sudden breeze. He stepped back just as the dwarf’s axe snagged the metal of his banded armor. Falling backward, Fitz could feel the blood pouring from the wound. The damned dwarf was strong; he had ripped right through his armor! The Cerian priest attempted to grasp for his scythe, it had fallen uselessly to the ground. His entire right side was stunned; his arm useless. Fitz did the only thing he could, he scrambled back as Brother Wulffa stepped forward. The seared skull swiveled back and forth, following Fitz’s jerky movement. The blackened bone still had bits of charred muscle clinging to it, holding it to its stocky body. A few frazzled hairs jabbed angrily at the air; none were more than an inch or two in length. The dwarf’s eyes were burned as well, the irises fading into the sickly yellow-white orbs. It laughed a hoarse, dry, cracked gurgle. It sounded rough. The Cerian priest noticed a brief burst of blood from the fried dwarf’s throat as it passed more air through its ruined esophagus. “And now,” it rasped, “now you will taste the bitter bite of me’ axe. Cula Vak will enjoy the taste of yer soul, harvest priest. Jus’ as he enjoyed the angel worshipper’s.” It cackled again—more blood!—as it lifted its axe up for the final blow. A white hot blade slammed through the dwarf’s mouth, destroying the stone-like teeth. Tobias grimaced, blood pouring from his blisters and his burned flesh. He jammed it further through the dwarf’s head. A blast of bloody spittle splashed Fitz’s face. The paladin jerked the blade, severing the top of Wulffa’s skull from its neck. The skull, jawbone, and Tobias collapsed to the ground at the same time. They were followed immediately by the paladin’s blade and Wulffa’s corpse. Fitz crawled toward Tobias, the healing wand now in his hand. * * * Magnus descended toward the main battle. He saw Fitz tending Tobias near the church. Cochly was down—the dwarf’s head was crushed; his brains scattered in a gory streak across the dry earth. The mage shook his head sadly. Motega was locked against the Rorn centaur, his massive talons shredding the horse-man’s back while the horse was trying to pull away. Time to end this, he thought. The mage unleashed a series of magic missiles from his hand. They soared downward, impacting the centaur’s equine body. Al’baku shrieked and reared up as the energy surged into his body. Motega’s used that moment to snap his lupine snout down on the centaur’s neck. Al’baku’s eyes stretched wide in distress as the Rorn lycanthrope grasped tighter and placed his feet solidly against his torso. Motega pushed with his feet, wrenching the centaur’s throat free from its neck and propelling backward into a somersault. As the lycanthrope landed, the centaur’s body crumpled to the earth, lifeless. A quiet descended onto the street except for the crackling flames. That quiet was suddenly shattered as Yapper’s spell wore out and the tiny reptile-man, all of maybe eighty pounds soaking wet, plummeted from his position above the city. The corpse slammed loudly into the overwhelming statue of Morduk, God of justice. Gravity bent Yapper’s body in half, an unnatural bend possible only through gratuitous shattering of vertebrae. The mage made a low whistle. “Ironic,” he whispered, wearing his grin, “and yet fitting.” But even the resounding noise of shattering bones faded quickly. Magnus glanced around, making sure there were no more enemies nearby. When he was sure, he turned to the north. There, he could see movement in the distance. He kicked off, charging forward to search for the remaining enemies. * * * Tobias and Motega sat beside each other along with Arad, Byk, Devon—who had finally come out of hiding—, and Crazy Cargyle. Fitz quickly administered healing to the wounded. “Where is that damned mage?” Tobias spit. His lips had split from the heat and dryness, despite Fitz’s aide. Overall, Tobias looked a mess. His long red hair had been incinerated by the flames; leaving only the charred flesh before and the fresh, pink skin now in its place. Even his eyebrows were gone. “Who knows?” Motega murmured. The Rorn also was not looking too well. Although, most of the damage he had taken was diminished by his disease. He still nursed a broken rib or two while waiting for Fitz’s happy stick. Arad, Byk, Devon, and Cargyle smiled to each other. Cargyle had been the worst off of the patriots—aside from those that were dead. Crazy Cargyle, as he was called or wanted to be called, had taken a direct and devastating hit from the centaur’s bow. As a result, he had missed watching the last moments of the tremendous battle. “Stop smiling like buffoons,” Fitz rebuked. The four patriots jumped. “We did not lose our brothers for nothing. We did it for this town. And now, you’re just going to sit on your butts while your town burns down?! “I don’t think so. Get up! Get up! Get up!!” the priest bellowed as he swept toward them. “Get some water, put out those fires!” he ordered. The patriots quickly dodged out of his way, hurrying to do his bidding. Tobias and Motega chuckled. And then the mage was suddenly among them, his young face pale from exertion. “We have to go!” They all looked at him questionably. “There’s another group,” he huffed, “north. They ducked into the mine. We have to get them before they escape.” “How many?” Tobias questioned even as he stood and sheathed his sword. “I’m not sure. They ducked into the cave. I hurled a fireball after them but didn’t hang around to see the result. Probably, at least, four or five.”
“Not so bad,” quipped Motega.
“And one of ‘em is an ogre.”
Fitz sighed.
“No rest for the wicked,” the Rorn stated as he checked his sword.
“Or the righteous,” added Tobias.
Motega cocked his head, listening closely at the entrance of the mine. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered to his companions. The shadows of the mine, stretched back into a winding passage which obscured their vision.
“They’re waiting for us,” the mage stated coldly, a spell already forming upon the edges of his fingers, the tip of his tongue.
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint,” Tobias intoned sardonically. The paladin had already drawn his greatsword. The blade reflected the morning sun, creating an illusion—was it really an illusion?—of being encased in a shimmer of bright fire. “Mo’ and I will go first. Then the mage. Fitz, bring up the rear.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” quipped Magnus as the party moved into the entrance.
The passage descended quickly. The stone was rough, jagged and seemed to close in the farther they traveled, although this could have been a simple trick of shadow and light. The entrance had consisted of a small area with barely enough room for the four travelers to stand comfortably beside each other. The only exit from the entrance was a passage two men wide that slithered deeper into the earth, back and forth like a great serpent.
Motega and Tobias led the band wearily into the passage. Both knew that if a caster waited beyond, the passage could quickly turn into a death trap. Each moved quietly, eyes and ears open for the ambush they were expecting.
A few paces behind, Fitz and Magnus trailed. The cleric had his blade in hand. Despite moving forward, he continuously threw glances behind. The mage did not seem to care about an attack from the rear. His eyes were forward, an open scroll—no doubt another fireball—clutched in his hand.
Fitz sighed.
A doorway suddenly opened at the end of the winding tunnel. Motega’s arm shot up, silently signaling a halt. Within that gateway, flickering red-orange light cast its rays into the darkened hallway. It seemed a large chamber lie beyond. The exact dimensions were impossible to tell.
Warily, Tobias stepped forward.
Motega cringed, a soft, familiar sound reaching his ears: arcane syllables being woven together. He grabbed for the paladin just as a large form stepped to block the door. The creature was large, ugly, and smelled of death. It was an ogre.
It laughed. Tobias charged.
And then the tunnel was filled with poison.
Tobias struck the double doors which slammed shut after the spell was completed, after the roiling cloud of poison threatened to choke his companions to death. The poison was no different than normal air for the paladin, protected by his nearly inhuman fortitude. Behind though, Tobias could hear Magnus crash against the rock, a hacking cough decimating his lungs. Motega was to his left and slightly behind. The Rorn was holding up better than the mage, but he, too, was beginning to succumb.
Tobias slammed against the door with all his strength. It groaned against the force and shattered inward. As the paladin stepped into the room, a gigantic arm—attached to an equally huge ogre—crunched into his face, breaking his nose.
* * *
Fitz felt Magnus collapse beside him. There was nothing the priest carried that could save the wizard from the poisonous fumes which filled the passage.
There was only one chance.
He lifted his scythe and intoned a prayer to Ceria. Feeling for the divine connection that was forged in the deepest part of his soul, the priest summoned one of Ceria’s blessings[1].
A wind poured into the tunnel, swirling around the priest who stood as still as a statue. The wind continued to cycle around his form, pushing the vapors away.
Fitz stepped toward the prone mage, bringing a gap of fresh air with him.
* * *
Tobias reeled as another arm slammed into his back. He heard something pop—he thought it was a bone; maybe one of his—as he fell back. The poison continued to cloud the air, ruining visibility. But he did not need his eyes to know he faced two ogres. His broken nose and other wounds practically screamed it in his mind.
Slowly, the poison was filling the paladin’s lungs. If he did not escape the cloud, even his stamina would not protect him.
Tobias reached out with his senses, trying to find the ogres with his power. A brief, feral coldness brushed against the paladin’s senses. He ducked, just as the Rorn-wolf hybrid leaped over him.
Another fist pounded into the paladin, staggering him. No second blow landed. The other ogre had to be distracted by Motega.
Closing his eyes, trusting his senses, Tobias took a deep breath and charged through the cloud.
* * *
Fitz let Magnus lean against him as they slowly plodded toward the double doors. The whirlwind continued to circle both, clearing the air. Fitz hoped he could hang on to the blessing long enough to reach clean air.
They passed through the doorway…
-------------------------------------
Tobias felt another attack pound into his back as he dove. The cloud of vapor opened up as the pain exploded through his body and wrenched his eyes open. The ground appeared, filling his vision, and attempted to embrace the paladin’s consciousness in a smothering darkness.
Somehow, Tobias managed to fold his armored body as he fell, allowing the metal to take the brunt of force and shift his momentum into a half-tumble-half-fall forward.
It did not save his battered body from the ogre’s complete attention and full attack.
The other ogre had fallen back, Motega tearing ferociously at its arm. Muscle and flesh were shredded by his razor fangs. Blood gathered in a puddle on the floor.
The ogre shook his arm back and forth, easily—but painfully—flinging the Rorn’s increased weight around. It was rewarded and punished for the act as the lycanthrope hurled through the air, along with all of the fleshy substance of its meaty arm. It bellowed in pain.
Tobias stood as his ogre backed off slightly. A shadow crept across his back. The paladin let nothing distract him as he channeled all of his healing energies into his own body, spending the daily boon from Reddel. He felt the air shudder as another meaty arm pummeled toward his back.
The paladin stepped toward the first ogre, bringing his blade up in an arc that severed its arm at the elbow. Pivoting, the blade was brought back down and into the arm of the largest of the ogres, the one that had crept—if such a word could describe an oversized, lumbering oaf—up behind the holy warrior. It screamed in rage even though the wound was only glancing.
“Fungum!” screeched a nasal voice from along the wall. The yell had issued from a wiry human clad only in a robe. Tobias’ eyes quickly darted back to his new target, the obvious leader of this band. Fungum cringed as if slapped, knowing the mage had just damned him to death first.
“Shut up, Milk!” He barked, spittle foaming from his mouth. “Just do yer’ damn job, mage!” The beast grinned, content in knowing that Milk’s life was now forfeit. And live or die, Fungum would not have to pay the ruthless mercenary.
That grin was wiped from the ogre’s face as Tobias’ blade punched into his stomach.
Fitz and Magnus struggled through the remaining few feet of the poisonous cloud. But the air did clear, leaving the pair to watch as Motega flew through the air. They watched Tobias—surrounded now by three ogres—fight for his life. They even heard the exchange between the largest ogre and the human.
Angrily, their heads darted toward the human. His hands were beginning to weave a familiar arcane pattern.
“Allow me,” Magnus grunted as he extricated himself from against Fitz. The mage rattled off a magic missile spell, his last for the day. The bolts flew true; they always did. With a sickening plop, they singed the flesh of the other mage.
Milk’s eyes crossed as his spell died. A few, faint tendrils of poisonous vapors had stretched from his hand but with the arcane magic shattered along with his consciousness, they drifted aimlessly and faded to nothing. His eyes narrowed on the two newcomers. His fingers and arms began to weave another spell.
“Motega!” Shouted Fitz.
The lycanthrope’s ears perked up, but his head, claws and teeth kept their attention on the ogre he was shredding. Both his claws ripped hungrily into the slow beast’s sides as he tilted his head downward and sunk his fangs into the brute’s knee. It squealed in pain.
The Rorn pushed forward with his claws and jerked away with his snout. The lumbering ogre fell to the ground, a bony piece of its knee tumbled across the floor.
“RORN! THE CASTER!!”
The ogre was not quite dead yet. Disabled, but not dead. Motega started toward it but shuddered as he asserted his will upon his inner demon. The lycanthrope spun, sighted the caster, and charged.
Tobias ducked barely away from Fungum’s swing. Unfortunately the ogre behind him brought its remaining fist into the back of the warrior’s head. Stars erupted in his sight.
Milk was forced to change the aim of his spell, centering it upon the beast that was now hurtling toward him. A beautiful explosion of fire filled Motega’s path, engulfing the lycanthrope in fire. Milk cackled.
Magnus smirked as his own fireball swallowed the other mage. He saw the dark form jerking and twisting in the dancing flames.
Milk rolled around as the flames died. Leaping up onto his feet, he began another spell, centering it again on Magnus. He felt the arcane energies bend to his will, felt them stretching out, forming another cloud of noxious fumes.
Until a lupine snout clenched down around his arm like a steel bear trap. His forearm snapped. His mind shrieked. And then a claw tore into his throat and heaved him backward. Milk felt the cold, stone wall rape the back of his head as life fled his body.
Fitz’s scythe slid into the fallen ogre’s throat, into Motega’s prey. The beast had been flailing about, grasping for the paladin. Well, the cleric ended that weak threat. He turned to watch Tobias spin and gut the one-armed ogre. Fitz smiled.
Then Fungum’s meaty hands closed around Tobias’ throat. The paladin struggled, his legs flailed as his face flushed red. Fitz stepped in…
“You will die puny man,” the ogre spit as the paladin’s heavy blade swung ineffectively at its meaty arms. “Fer killing my brother. Then your friends will die.” Fungum’s grip tightened.
…and Motega slammed into the creature. Tobias fell, crumpling against the earth as the ogre shifted to attack the new threat. The Rorn exploded into motion, a furious storm of pain, a maelstrom of teeth and claws against Fungum’s side and back.
The ogre backpedaled, trying to gather a little breathing space to rally an attack.
Fitz turned his attention to the fallen paladin. His wand leapt into his hand and he knelt over his friend. A diffuse blue glow spread into the paladin. Tobias still didn’t stir. Fitz concentrated and sent another shock of energy into Tobias. The paladin’s eyes flickered and he sucked in a sharp intake of air.
Immediately, Tobias grabbed his sword and stood.
“Wait, you need more healing,” Fitz commanded.
“Heal me while I move then. This isn’t over yet.”
A flush of red fell across all their faces as another of Magnus’ fireballs burst. He had aimed it carefully, enveloping half of the ogre but avoiding his compatriot.
Motega was beginning to wear. He was holding his position, toe to toe, with Fungum. Despite his supernatural reservoirs of strength, the Rorn still was not a front-line fighter. He was wearing down.
Tobias stepped in to flank, Fitz slightly behind, pumping another charge into the stubborn warrior. His blade bit deep into Fungum’s side, causing the ogre to grumble and curse. Blood flowed in torrents down the side of the blade, covering Tobias’ hands with a fetid scent.
Fungum allowed the paladin only the one swing. His arm jerked and pummeled into the holy warrior’s already broken nose. Tobias staggered back, Fitz catching him.
Motega’s jaws shut down on Fungum’s throat. A jet of blood spurted from between his jagged fangs. Some of the rank blood poured down the werewolf’s throat. He intensified his grip.
Fitz applied another of the wand’s spells into Tobias. The paladin’s eyes snapped open yet again, just in time to watch as Fungum grasped Motega’s throat with his meaty hands.
Each tightened their grips. Both of their eyes opened wide in fury and pain.
Each pulled away.
Fungum’s throat splayed open, spilling the remaining life-fluid into the air and onto the floor.
Motega’s throat also was torn open. Even in his death throes, the ogre would not release his grip.
They both collapsed throat-less and lifeless to the earth, the other’s body part entwined tightly with their hands or claws.
“MOTEGA!!!” Magnus shouted as he rushed to his friend. He was the first there, the first to watch the final processes of the Rorn’s body. The lupine hide fell from the lifeless body, leaving a pile of hair under the cooling corpse. His cold, brown eyes were locked in a ferocious stare that now engulfed the ceiling of the mine. His mouth too, covered with blood and gore, was frozen in a bestial grimace.
Fitz knelt against the body, knowing what he would find. He tried the wand anyway. The blue energy touched the body but seemed to evaporate. He shook his head.
A jarring sound snapped Fitz’s and Magnus’ eyes from the scene. Tobias’ blade pierced Fungum’s skull and several inches of the rock floor beneath. The paladin wore a storm upon his brow, a fury that longed to be released. He shoved against the blade again, impaling it several more inches into the floor.
The ogre’s brain matter leaked from the wound, seeping slowly across the floor.
Without a sound, Tobias moved away from the body of Motega toward a door in the far end of the chamber.
“Motega would want to know what was behind this door,” he murmured as he kicked the locked door open.
* * *
Magnus, Fitz and Tobias quietly set about their work. Each body, except Motega’s, was stripped of its gear and accoutrements. They quickly inventoried the items and stuffed them in their satchels. Even one of the mushrooms from the rear room had been added to the inventory. The mushroom, a strange brown growth with black splotches, had to be what the Culites were after.
There was nothing else in the damned room aside from a small body of water.
Hefting the weight onto their shoulders, they next bent to retrieve their fallen friend. Carefully wrapped and carefully carried, they made their way toward the outside world.
Darkness had claimed the heavens by the time they had finished the ascent. A bright, full moon was accented by the soft twinkle of distant stars. The stagnant heat of the rainless summer was suppressed by a cooling breeze.
They stepped out and were engulfed in the cacophonous howls of a chorus of wolves. A dozen—at least!—werewolves stepped from the brush surrounding the mine. They were hybrids, bordering on nine feet tall and laden with corded muscles covered by dark furs.
Each held their head up, allowing their music to soar up into the heavens.
The last to step forward was the largest at nearly ten and a half feet in height. He moved slowly, purposefully toward the heroes. With each step, the beast receded revealing more of the man beneath. His fur and then hair held a silver sheen—showing both his age and rank among the pack. Even as the beast faded within the human flesh that was its prison, the Heroes thought the man appeared supernaturally large and fit. His sheer girth did not diminish. His fierce eyes demanded a fearful respect.
His face was Motega’s. “Kun,” he stated regally, his head lifted proudly.
“Kun,” Magnus returned. He allowed his shield to turn, revealing Motega’s mark.
The regal man-wolf nodded. “That symbol is not given lightly. You are marked as a Rorn-friend. Remember what that means.” Then, he snapped his fingers.
The two lycanthropes behind him tossed two corpses, horadrel archers, to the earth. “You should be more thorough.” He motioned at Motega’s body. “We will take my son.”
They all nodded as several of the lycanthropes moved to grab the dead body. They set him upon the earth and stripped the leather from his body. With inhuman speed, Motega’s gear was set into neat piles until only a naked, destroyed body rested on the earth.
“Death is birth, birth is death,” Motega’s father spoke enigmatically. “He will have no need of this gear.” One of the werewolves beside Motega slit open his own vein, allowing the fresh blood to mingle with the earth beneath. Using the dirt and blood mixture, a symbol was etched onto Motega’s pallid flesh.
“Your path to the city is clear,” the Rorn’s father spoke. “Do not wander from the trail tonight.”
As the last word faded, the lycanthropes vanished back into the brush, into the shadows silently. They became the night.
Magnus shed a tear.
They all did as they walked slowly, stubbornly south back to Minetown.
Chapter 13: Family, Responsibility, and Voyage
The bodies had rested like slabs of wood in that small church. Heroes, villains, and those that defied an easy category amounted to a pile of organic matter which filled the tiny structure from wall to wall, door to door. One body, the most deserving Hero, did not rest in the heap. It would have been disrespectful to place the remains with the others.
Motega was not some unnamed hero or villain. He had been family. But his body had been taken, sparing it the disregard it would have collected on the wooden floor.
They had rested on the floor of the church until high noon. Until Magnus summoned another burst of flame to fuel a pyre. Friend and foe alike were devoured by the flames; those that had escaped a fiery death the first time around.
Cochly, the honorable dwarf craftsman, was fed to the pyre. His axe was wrapped carefully and sent by messenger toward his homeland. Magnus had written down the valiant details of his death, enclosing it in the package.
Timmons, the demanding priest, was fed to the pyre. His gear—just a wand Fitz had leant him—was returned to the Heroes’ stocks. The money the priest had demanded in rightful payment was found that morning by Magnus under a fresh spot of earth in the church’s rear yard. That too rejoined the Heroes’ gear.
All of the villains were thrown haphazardly into the hungry flames. Tobias had grunted with exertion when he hefted the centaur onto his shoulders. Magnus ordered the paladin to halt. Tobias had grunted again; his shoulders were straining. The mage made a cursory bit of notes regarding the Aradeeti tattoos that covered the Rorn’s body before allowing the paladin to feed the fire.
One by one, the bodies faded to ash leaving only a heavy odor of singed hair and burnt flesh behind.
* * *
Three tankards sat, filled to the brim, untouched on the cluttered table. It was well after noon and the remaining three had sequestered the Inn for their own uses. Unable to find ‘Honest’ Abe, one of the remaining townsfolk—a young girl of maybe thirteen with long, blonde hair—rushed around to serve them.
They had disallowed any interruptions from the townsfolk. This was their Inn now, at least for the day. They had lost enough to convince the people to leave them be. If that had not done it, their heroics that morning should have sufficed.
All of the tables had been pushed to the center of the floor. There, upon the makeshift banquet table, rested all of the spoils of war. The pile was huge with armor and weapons, arrows, a few scrolls, a few potions and others of the miscellaneous items men carried to battle. A crumpled portrait of a homely brunette rested on the side; a picture of a loved one, no doubt.
Death touched everyone.
Motega’s gear was piled around Magnus’ position, next to one of the full tankards; next to two empty glasses previous filled with a strong whiskey. Similar glasses rested next to Fitz and Tobias, all empty. A decanter rested on the center of the table, also empty. Previously it had been the home of the strongest whiskey the town had ever produced—a homebrewed concoction named “Drake’s Breath”. Now, like the Heroes, the decanter was empty.
“We’re not getting rid of any of it,” Magnus blurted. “It’s ours!” He nearly knocked over the full tankard when his arm twitched in agitation. It would have spilt upon the newest writ for the King—describing their victory.
“We can’t carry it all,” Tobias advised. He kicked his head back—still ragged and pink from the devastating flames—destroying the last shot of whiskey.
Fitz, the voice of reason, had remained quiet all morning. He, too, sipped down the last gulp of his whiskey. But without anything meaningful to add to the exchange, the voice of reason rested.
“You’ve got muscles, you can carry it all,” Magnus assured.
“Even with your magically enchanted haversacks, I doubt we could carry it all. We have to leave some of this for the town.”
“We’ve already paid them,” the mage growled.
“What happened the last time we left a town ill-prepared?” Tobias screamed. His fists slammed into the table as he stood. “Do you even remember?! The town was destroyed!”
“They rebuilt.”
“Many lives were lost. I will not see that fate befall another town. Our enemies would fall upon this place once we have left to destroy it—only to spite us.”
“It is just a bunch of weapons,” Fitz murmured. Tobias paused. “Weapons in an untrained hand will do no good; just as a mage cannot wield a blade to harvest wheat.”
“It’s okay,” Magnus said. “You’re right. We have to give them something.” Tobias let his face drain of anger. He was exhausted. The paladin sat down, drawing the tankard across the table. “Motega’s gear is not left behind,” clarified Magnus.
“Agreed,” Fitz and Tobias added in unison.
Magnus’ eyes fell to the gear surrounding him. His eyes watered. Embarrassed, he reached for the tankard and pulled it to his face. “Do we even know where we’re going yet?” His eyes settled again on the gear. Piled next to Motega’s armor was the shield he had wielded, the shield Motega had painted a Rorn symbol onto with his own blood. The mage, although unsure of when exactly after the battle, had taken an adamantine dagger and carved the symbol deeply into the metal disc. It would never fade. The symbol was permanent now, a part of the shield as it was a part of Magnus.
Tobias’s head shook. Magnus did not notice.
“The Baronet’s, I’d suggest,” Fitz said. “I have no love for Rhelmsmen that abandon their people.”
“Justice must be dealt,” Tobias stated grimly. “He has failed his responsibilities. I will aide you in delivering justice, priest.” The familiar flash of holy retribution filled the paladin’s eyes. Fitz merely nodded in acquiescence.
“It is all his fault,” Magnus added. “If he had taken care of the Culites when they arrived Motega would still be alive. If he had sent his guards, when we requested, Motega would still be drawing breath.” Magnus’ eyes darkened with rage. “We can take care of him now.”
All three, as one, stood.
“The gear?” Magnus queried.
“Take just what you need. The rest will wait,” Tobias said as he drew his sword. The paladin lifted the tankard with his left. He tossed it to the table empty and useless.
The young girl had been running about in the kitchen, preparing a simple meal. At least, that is what they had thought. She stood now near the door, peering through a nearby window. Her face was pale as the moon.
“What is it girl?” Tobias demanded. His grip tightened on the blade.
Her mouth moved soundlessly as she stumbled back. Fitz drew his scythe. Magnus reached for a scroll.
The door flung open; Tobias’ blade lifted high.
A silhouette filled the doorway. It stumbled in, naked, bruised, soaked and dirty. Motega grinned as his companions’ faces dropped in surprise[1].
“Y-y-you were dead!” Fitz exclaimed.
“Shut your mouth priest before Tobias thinks you’re one of those Galar child-touchers.” Motega stretched his arm, popping several vertebrae in his back. They could make out all the fresh, pink scars, including the one that covered his entire neck. The Heroes even noticed a few tattoos they wish they had not ever seen. “It’ll take more than that to kill a Rorn.” Quietly he murmured, “Just a right of passage.”
Magnus’ face, previously confused, began to beam.
“You didn’t sell all my sh*t did you, mage?!” Magnus quickly shook his head. “Good, I’ll need it. Where we going?” The Rornman smacked his lips at the young girl, who quickly fell away a pace. Motega strutted past, unfettered. He grabbed his armor and began donning it quickly. “Get me a drink, I’ll not let my family drink without me,” he ordered. The girl scurried off quickly.
Motega’s eyes fell upon the scored shield and he smiled. “Where we going?” he demanded again.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
SO, what I've done is this:
- I have compiled our emails for this next portion.
- I've read through, spaced and edited--changing tense, etc. for the update.
- I changed all of our names with our character names...so that you know who is speaking if there is no text that clarifies.
So, Destan's posts are preceded by: [D]
Magnus' posts are preceded by: [Ma]
Fitz's posts are preceded by: [F]
Motega's posts are preceded by: [Mo]
Tobias' posts are preceded by: [T]
Anything I have purely for this update will be preceded by: [SH]
OoC text is in Italics.
This should give you readers a better feel of:
1. The characters, I admit...I'm a little biased in my translations
2. The players.
3. The difference between the fictionalized SH and OUR games.
I hope you enjoy (and that its not too jarring)!! (I hope none of the players mind that I did it this way...)
-------------------------------------------------------------
[SH]
Magnus’ body hit the floor hard. His head exploded with pain.
“By the Gods,” he swore as he rolled onto his stomach. He turned his head, his stomach violently flipped. He pushed up off the floor, just enough to prevent the vomit from splattering his robes. He smelled—his vomit smelled heavy with whiskey and light on food.
A loud rap sounded in the room, against the door, and then echoed through the mage’s head. The veins in his temples thumped to a tribal rhythm. His stomach lurched again.
No fluid this time, just air and a hoarse sound. The door swung open. Magnus averted his eyes. Tobias was glowing! No, he realized, just light reflecting from that damned armor.
“Are you ready yet?”
“Not…so…loud.” The mage pushed into a sitting position and massaged his temples. The vertigo that clenched his stomach was passing. All he needed was quiet.
“Are you ready yet, mage? Have we not delayed long enough? Justice awaits the Baronet. One night of revelry and joy for a friend lost and found again does not preclude the Righteous from their duties.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll meet you downstairs,” the mage murmured.
“As you wish.” Tobias gave a curt nod and plodded heavily down the hallway.
Magnus’ veins thumped. Rub. Thump. Rub. Thump. He rolled over and dry-heaved onto the wooden floor again.
* * *
[D]
The day following the Battle of Minetown had dawned unseasonably cold. Winds whipped into the village off of Raider's Bay, and the few folk within the town pull cloaks down from pegs as a check against the chill.
If not for the strong salt breeze, however, the smell of blood, sh*t, and ash might be eye-watering. Smoke from a handful of burned buildings rose only a few feet into the air before being tossed and pulled about into a thin haze.
Cargyle had stoked up a large fire in Abraham's Inn and quickly proved to be a decent cook. As the morning fades toward noon, the Heroes gathered within the common room to eat a bread-bowl of stew and share drinks and stories with the survivors.
Suddenly, an ear-grating sound echoed from the east. Magnus darted to the door and peered out. He paused before turning to face the room. "The castle...the gate has been raised. Horsemen, coming this way."
Tobias pushes his cloak to one side and stood. "How many?"
"Two."
Fitz rubbed his forehead wearily and stood, while Motega glided toward a nearby window to study the approaching horsemen. "A woman and...a guard, probably. She's wearing some expensive duds; he's in chain mail."
Byk, one of the patriots, looked through the open doorway. "That'd be Lady Erica, the Baronet's missus. And that man beside her...ahh, that's the Lieutenant. I forget his name."
"Jym," Cargyle answers from between mouthfuls of his stew. "Not a bad guy, played cards with him a bit."
Byk shrugs and looked at the Heroes. "You done a heap o' good for this town, and put yer lives on the line to do it. Don't blow it here, sirs, if ye want me opinion. A noble's a noble is a noble - and you ain't one of 'em. Keep your swords sheathed and your manners sharp, says I. But ye won't be hearing no more from Byk, and I gotcha yer back regardless."
The four Heroes filter out into the cool day.
The Lady Erica pulls to a stop, her escort following suit a few paces in front of her, his eyes hard and his hand on the hilt of his sword as he studies the group. "This be Lady Erica of Minetown, wife of the Baronet, ruler of this place. I am Lieutenant Jym of Prince's Spears battalion, assigned to Minetown last fall. We would know what transpired here, and of your part in it."
[Ma]
Magnus bowed after the Lieutenant's introduction, "My name is Magnus Burn of Victorsburg, and let me introduce you to Lord Tobias Abel of Andorric's Step's, the honorable Harvest Priest Fitz of the Weedsea and Motega of the Rorn. Shall we sit at the inn or discuss this in your abode, my lady."
[T]
Detect Evil as those bitches ride up (and oh how I'm praying they're really, really evil).
[D]
[Tobias - they're not evil]
The guard shared a glance with the woman before turning to face the group once more. He studied Magnus, seems suitably unimpressed, and then looks toward Motega. He frowns, and lets his gaze go to Fitz. "You are welcome here, Cerian."
The Lieutenant then looked toward Tobias. "Lord Tobias Abel, is it? Sir, your friend here...what was it? Magnus Burn...claims you are a Lord. Do you claim nobility of blood, or was the boy using the term incorrectly?"
The woman continued to watch impassively, her face partially hidden by the hood of her ermine-fur cloak.
[Ma]
Magnus will be fuming, as he is tired of being called boy all the time. As more power passes through his fingers than most men witness in their lifetime.
Magnus bristled at the boy comment, holding his anger in check. "Lieutenant, I never use my words incorrectly," as Magnus moves to stand in front of him.
(Please remember Magnus is bigger than the others 6'2" 215" just a youthful face.)
[T]
Tobias gripped the mage’s shoulder and moved beside him. "He did not use the term incorrectly. Compared to most men, I am a LORD. I appear especially noble, when I am compared to cowardly nobles who lock their own people outside of the gates. In turn, those people are forced to flee or are tortured and slaughtered.
"Among men, I am a LORD, both merciful or wrathful and just as the occasion demands."
Tobias bowed low, eyeing the woman harshly. He grinned and once standing erect added, "Of course, I mean no disrespect, my Lady. You probably had your reasons for allowing the Cula Vac worshippers to slaughter your constituents.”
[D]
The Lieutenant, whatever else he may be, does not seem to be a coward. Tobias’ words have clearly hit a nerve. His jaw tightened, just like the grip on his sword; the Heroes have the feeling he was about ready to throw down, and the odds be damned.
But cooler heads prevailed...
The woman spurred her horse forward. "Rest easy, Lieutenant." She eyed each all in turn. "I am the Lady Erica of Minetown. My man means no disrespect; as I am sure you understand, nobility is a rare and honored station within the Kingdom. I, who was born the common daughter of a Gordian chieftain, know this as well as anyone."
She sighed, obviously somewhat uncertain of how to proceed. "So you are a Lord amongst men, and this I will not argue. But you are not a Lord, it appears, within Rhelm - that is, you do not hold a peerage, or lands, or titles. My lieutenant does not slight your capability or your honor; he merely questioned to see if one of the neighboring fiefdoms had responded to our earlier requests for assistance. It appears, alas, that they did not."
Erica threw back her hood, showing the proud face and high cheekbones of a Gordian. "My husband the Baronet is deathly ill. He was fine for a time, but our village priest refused to tend to him after the Culites arrived. We have no love for the Black Brothers, I assure you, and we thank you for their riddance. But I fear we must remain cautious, and so we shall await word from the King or - barring that - a nobleman holding a higher rank than does my husband."
She waved a gloved hand at the town. "Hopefully our people will return to begin to repair what has been lost, though not all can be fixed with spades and hammer. Until such time, we welcome you within Minetown and wish you well. It appears that your hurts have been tended, and you do not lack for food or supplies. Should you have need of us, send word to the gate.”
Erica smiled softly. "If you permit us, good sirs, we beg leave of you. Come, Lieutenent, let us return with these happy tidings; perhaps they will cheer the Baronet."
The two of them moved to depart...
[T]
Tobias' features smoothed over as his average intellect grinds in his head.
"Lady, wait. We are not representatives of the fiefdoms you requested aide from. However, I do have a few questions that need answered."
"First, why were the gates barred? You obviously,” the paladin pointed toward the Lieutenant, "have competent men that could've helped the situation. And, again, no offense to your husband, but the lives of many outweigh the life of one. Even if that one is a noble. If the gates were down because you feared the priest, whom we already dispatched, that was a most cowardly act.
“I need to understand why. What exactly happened here?
“And while we're here, my Cerian friend would be more than willing to offer his help in the aide of your husband."
Tobias turned to glare at Fitz, "Won't you priest?"
[F]
Tobias - you just put Fitz between a rock and a hard place - Fitz as you must know by now, has no care for nobles - not that he has any hatred - but he feels that title should be more than just a name, it should be followed up by deeds of action - the responsibility of a noble is to lead the common man - so the noble in Marchford would be a positive example to Fitz, however this noble is worthless - however, there is always the slim possibilities that the Minetown priest poisoned this man's abilities - most other priests may have no issues, however - if this noble turns out indeed to be a coward, Fitz will not lay a hand)…
Fitz cleared his throat. “Me lady, as my friend mentions, I am but a vassal for our beloved Mother Ceria. I am afraid that she does not have much time for cowards or those who have abandoned their loyalty to whom they served. We will walk with you to where your husband lay and while so doing we will hear fully the story of your husband and the events that led to the abandonment of thy people.
“As for healing him, I will leave judgment in Ceria's capable hands.”
[Ma]
Magnus, knowing his friends and how sometimes their zeal gets the better of their judgment, shifts himself as he talks letting the wands at his belt show. (Intimidate +1 - laughable I know but its there.)
"Good lady what my friend hear is trying to say is, that we have been fighting the Culites for some time. We have learned to be suspicious of all. Please accept my apologies. Perhaps you would be happy to know I have been sending missives to the King on our activities. We have been investigating and engaging in his name, since the beginning of the season.
“My friend the ‘Harvest Priest’ is in his holiest time of the month. If you can allow us a few questions to yourself and the Baronet, we can settle this rather quickly without unnecessary feelings hurt. I would ask one request, and that would be for my friend to cast a Zone of Truth upon all of us to speak freely in. Then perhaps my friend can find it in Ceria's graces to help the Baronet.”
[D]
Nothing on the Sense Motive, Motega, or the Wild Empathy check. Lemme know if I fail to address something here.
Lady Erica listened politely before answering the questions.
"I'm afraid we will not be needing your assistance within the walls, good sirs, as we remain uncertain as to your allegiance. My husband is not well, but neither shall he die within the hek. We shall await matters, if you will be so kind.
"And my husband would be the one to discuss why our gates were closed, for he gave that order during one of his lucid moments, and I am not privy to his thoughts and the information he receives.
"Again, Master Burn, you mention that you have been working in the King's Name. This is an impressive position, and one that commands respect. But I must ask - and please forgive me if this is seen as rude - do you truly work under His Name, and thus carry a Royal Writ? Or do you merely suggest your interests are the King's, just as you claimed your companion was a Lord, without truly being one?"
[Ma]
Magnus grimaced at the obvious disrespect Lady Erica carried. Still, he spoke again, “Lady, we work in the King's name through Sir Eddam, no doubt you have heard of the Siege at Marchford and the reclaiming of her. He has commissioned us to scout out the real intents of this Culite plot.
“You may contact him covertly if you like on your own to verify our identities; Lady Erigal in Dun Moor is aware of us as well. Though she would not be able to confirm or deny our mission through Sir Eddam.
“One of the things that have soured us on 'nobles' in our mission was actions of those Nobles within Dun Beric. Needless to say, they did not want to hear of the plots against the kingdom, almost as if they wouldn't mind it happening. It has raised our suspicions to say the least.
“In our travels, we were warned of the Cula Vak presence in town. At first we wanted to enter covertly, which we did posing as one of them. Upon witnessing their atrocities here, we knew we could not wait for the King or your husband to act. If we had waited longer your walls would have been next, if they haven't been infiltrated from below already.
“I believe you know my words to be true milady, and as I said to the Lieutenant that remains true. I never mistakenly use my words, as words are powerful if used properly. I'm sure the Lieutenant can attest to what he saw from my words during the battle. Don't think I didn't see the heads upon the battlements, watching what befell, even as I took the scouts out in the tree over there. And not one arrow fell upon the Orc and his three war dogs that rushed past this manor.
"We had even sent a message to your walls before the battle that remained unanswered until now."
"I look forward to your continued presence milady. We were about to sit for a meal if you would like to join us. If you need any supplies feel free to send some men down and we can help forage for them while we await word from the King or his emissary."
Magnus turned toward the inn, when suddenly a thought passed through his mind. "Excuse me milady, one more question if I may.
“Have you ever seen this fungus before?" Magnus removed one of the mushrooms cultivated from the quarry. "It seems the Culites were gathering them."
[Mo]
Motega snorted and turned to leave, giving Magnus a dark look as if to shut the hell up about Sir Eddam. "I am going to find our horses. We did what we could here. It’s time to move on."
Destan: I do want to go find the horses, but I also want to scout around outside the town. Possibly find the caves where the refugees were hiding out and specifically look for tracks that may have belonged to the smaller folk--halflings. +15 on survival.
[Ma]
Guess that's what I get for being up late typing that up. O Well what's done is done.
[D]
Motega finds the horses, but no other tracks - other than the old Vakken elves that you guys found with a horse-full of heads. The townsfolk that ran seem to have done a decent job of hiding, and they have not yet returned.
[SH]
The Lady Erica and the Lieutenant Jym turn back to the castle. Their horses trot away slowly, as if waiting for the Heroes to stop the departure again. Once within the walls, the heavy gates slam with a clank of finality.
=========================
[D]
I'm just moving this along so, whenever we next sit down, you guys (and I) will have an idea of what you plan to do next. I'm assuming that you allowed the Lady Erica and her Lt. to head back the castle.
The next day dawned clear and warm, the unseasonable cold having departed. The wind became refreshing, and stole some of the heat from the air.
A handful of peasants returned from the east, asking to speak with whoever it was that defeated the Vakkenfolk. The party found themselves conversing with four stout farmers, each wearing leather armor and carrying swords. Despite the fact that they looked unaccustomed to carrying arms and armor, they seemed proud - even defiant.
After watching the men wolf down huge piles of food at the tavern, the Heroes listened to their tale. It is an epic of bloodshed and woe. It seems that perhaps one hundred villagers had fled east, and no more than sixty now survive. The peasants blamed a few turncoats for most of their problems - it seemed a few villagers attempted to curry favor from the Culites by selling out the hiding places in the eastern woods.
The peasants begged your permission to bring their battered and tired families home.
One of the peasants told a story of how the Baronet's Lieutenant attempted to mount a sally against some Vakkens that had encamped below the castle's walls. The peasant claimed to have seen the fight from the trees to the south. Apparently, the Lt. was doing a damned good job until the horn blew from the castle - forcing him to call off his men and return. The gates closed, and that was the first and last the peasants saw any of the Baronet’s soldiers in the field.
Just as the farmer is finishing his tale, a cry erupted from outside. Byk, at your order, had organized a watch and a townsman was always within the tower of the church to watch the approaching roadways.
Byk cried, “A squad of horsemen wearing the colors of the king are thundering down the north road toward the village.”
With a look at one another, the party gathers their equipment and moved outside to meet them.
There were twenty men in addition to their captain. The captain was a tall, stern-looking man, wearing the emblem of Morduk proudly on his surcoat. He dismounted, handing his reins to one of his soldiers, and marched forward to stand before the group.
"I am Captain Dougal of the Stonetooth Lancers, sworn man of King Gavanor Tyne, and we have received word that trouble is afoot." He looked about at the destroyed homes and the last few traces of rising smoke. "It seems the word was true."
He studied all of you before allowing his gaze to rest squarely on Fitz and Tobias. "You two - you look to be men of good Rhelm stock. Tell me your names, and what part you played in this mess. Also, we seek one who calls himself Magnus Burn - do you know him?"
[F]
Oh - I so want to say, no I don't know anyone by the name of Magnus! 
"Well Captain, good greetings to you, my name is Fitz and I come from the plains. This tale will be a bit in the telling, so why don't we move into the inn and I'll explain the situation..."
Fitz will throw a little diplomacy into the ring (+14) - and proceed to introduce our group (including Magnus) and explain the situation starting from Marchford up to Minetown including the lack of participation from the Baronet. Leave out anything to do with funky mushrooms for now - nor will I state anything about Tobias being a Paladin or our friendly neighborhood werewolf.
I'm curious if he offers any explanation on the Baronet's behaviour during our conversation or his take on the Morduk priest - particularly that he is wearing a symbol of Morduk - I would think he would be very interested in that part of the story.
Also - not knowing the chain of command and the messenger ability in Rhelm – but would the King have received prior notification about the dwem and scorpiots? Does he mention any confirmation of hearing about dwem attacks or the scorpiots or does he seem completely surprised during the telling of our story?
As mentioned - Fitz lays out the story - no need to go into great detail about Calyx either nor really any party member. Each can speak up for themselves if requested. Regards to the Baronet - Fitz remains neutral in that he states the facts - the gates were locked before/during battle and no assistance was had from the Baronet's men (in other words I won't call them a bunch of p*ssies or cowards - but I'll guide him to those conclusions if probed - a noble is a noble after all and I'll let him make judgment).
[D]
You have softened the old boy up. His face doesn't seem nearly as stern, and he commands some of his men to ride about and survey the town, whilst a few others tend to their horses. He is happy to eat with you within the tavern, and plans on visiting the Baronet only after he hears what you have to say on the matter.
[F]
Oh - prior to the captain we were eating with the a few returning peasants. During their story I encourage them to gather the remainder of those hiding and return to their homes and families. Fitz will speak to the innkeeper and arrange a fee for shelter and food for those currently homeless or in need. Up to 50 kings - I would imagine that should be plenty.
[Mo]
Motega will keep his thoughts to himself considering that the Righter here in town was corrupt. He will go and help guide the refugees back to Minetown. During that time he will ask them about halflings, mushrooms in the quarry, and the Whore's Nag.
[Ma]
What would the following modifier be?
Passing a note to someone using Sleight of Hand, so others do not notice?
But the receiver does notice.
Passer - Wearing robes
Receiver - Heavy Armor
Item being past - Folded one page note
When Passed - During a handshake, arm to arm style
Others - Other people are around but not actively looking for it.
[Mo]
Motega’s spot is +8 (with the -5 distracted penalty). If I am there to witness it and see it, I'm telling Fitz on him.
"Ooh, Ooh! Magnus passed a note! Magnus passed a note! Your in trouble now, Magnus!
[Ma]
Magnus is introduced to the Captain.
My reason for the Sleight of Hand question is, for passing a note to the Lt, hastily scribbled "Who gave the order of retreat? ~ Magnus" This would be passed when I apologize for my words and offer my hand in friendship.
Apology something like this, "Good Lt, I must offer my sincerest apologies to you concerning defending the town. I have heard of your battling the Cula Vak's outside the walls."
[Mo]
Motega is not there (so I can't be a tattle tale to Fitz) he is helping the rufugees back to town--what's left of them anyway.
Things he is asking the townsfolk:
1. What do they know of halflings?
2. What do they know of the Whore's Nag?
3. What do they know about the mushrooms?
My gather information sucks (-2 with the racial penalty), but I am hoping that by me helping them back to town, they may open up. My sense motive is good though +8 or something so I probably will know if they are lying. If I do sense somebody is not completely honest I will relate that to the party and mark him for a Heroes of Marchford sit down later on.
Also, I think we wanted to bring up the corrupt Morduk priest that got the commoner beat down.
[D]
Ok, lemme see if I can sum some stuff up. Read this then let me know what I failed to address.
* The Captain does not seem surprised to hear about dwem/scorpiots as you relate that information.
* The Captain remains impassive when hearing/discussing the Baronet's actions (or lack thereof).
* The Captain previously ordered his men to poke about town, and mentioned that he'll meet with the Baronet after first hearing/learning all he can.
* The Captain also remains impassive (he's got a good poker face) when hearing about the Morduk priest's involvement with the Culites.
* In short, you get the feeling the Captain is not going to show his hand or jump to conclusions until he gathers as much information as possible. This includes listening to your tales and, presumably later, listening to the reports his men bring back after poking through the village.
* The Captain does not let Fitz pay for rooms/food for returning peasants; he orders Abraham to put them up free of charge in the name of the King. Abraham does so.
* Motega learns this from the refugees he scares up: (1) Abraham's Inn was once known as the Whore's Nag - about 10 years ago; (2) Abraham was the barkeep, but the owner was a halfling that disappeared about 10 years ago, as well; (3) none of the peasants seem to know anything about "flying halflings".
* The Captain is polite and cordial enough, but you suspect he weights Fitz's words a bit more than anyone else's, perhaps due to his Diplomacy, or perhaps due to his religion. He obviously respects Tobias' size and Rhelmsman blood. He seems a bit uncertain how to view Magnus, but has remained very polite throughout.
Ok...what did I miss? If nothing, we can go from here.
[Ma]
I like the uncertainty about Magnus thing. If his men reported back to him the number of "Scorched Earth" areas and he knows all the reports were signed by "Archmage" it could add to that title, by the sheer firepower I threw down during the battle. Then add in my youthful appearance, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't believe who I say I am.
Magnus is behaving himself, letting Fitz do the talking. I'm going to say Magnus took a "20" on his Wisdom check to let the old man talk. He will answer any direct questions though.
I do have one question Destan, are any of the Villagers in the Common Room with us? Magnus will be curious for their reactions when we tell our tales.
[Mo]
To Destan: Any of the townsfolk know anything about mushrooms?
To the group: I think we need to have another talk with Abe. He told us before he knew nothing of halflings. It seems he was not completely honest.
[D]
You mean it ain't 'Honest Abe'?!? Arrgghhh!
Motega: Um...the townsfolk only know that the Culites were interested in the quarry north of town much more than the town itself. They think the town was only used to quarter Culites until they set up a place in the old mines outside the quarry. Since there's the "weird mushrooms" in the quarry, some of the townsfolk seem to think the Culites were interested primary in them. Who knows?
Magnus: There are a couple townsfolk in the bar (2-4), but they are giving your group and the Captain quite a bit of distance, and none of them appear to be listening - or, at least, let it be seen that they are trying to listen.
[Ma]
Only Motega knows about Abe right now right? Is he with us in the Inn, need a timeline from you, Destan how long til Motega's return? I assume he was on horseback doing it.
Destan, Magnus is interested in if anybody that looked like a caster came with them. If I can discretely excuse myself to the outhouse on my way back use Detect Magic 1 min/level = 7 minutes scanning for the courtyard and common room of the inn. I do not approach anything I notice. Just take note of it. I just have a really weird feeling something is here in the room with us.
[Mo]
Getting all the townspeople back may take most of the day so don't count on hearing from me until evening.
[D]
Magnus: You casting detect magic inside the inn, outside the inn, or waiting until Motega returns? You casting it "in the open" or trying to hide it?
[Ma]
Begin in the outhouse, keeping it up for the full 7 minutes walking back into the inn with it up. Treat as one round scans, walking slow (Concentration +9 Total). I will keep it up for the full 7 minutes unless I need to drop it for conversation, which I will be 'absent minded' looking. Any thing "suspicious" I will further the concentration on it (i.e. additional rounds of study).
[D]
Magnus detects a couple bits of magic about the Captain – his sword, his boots, a ring. Transmutation, transmutation, and abjuration. Also, Magnus detects an odd "sphere" of magic – about the size of a basketball - floating slightly off-center and about 10-20' above the Captain's head. Whatever it is, it isn't moving, and it's invisible to the naked eye.
[F]
Fitz when finished telling his tale looks at the captain (whose only response during the entire conversation was to acknowledge the dwem and scorpiots) and asks a question (or maybe two)
"I thank thee, good captain, for listening to my news. I have two questions of my own - has the King received reports of dwem and scorpiots on the King's lands in other places…”
[D]
Captain: "Yes, yes, we have received reports. It's not just us. Seems the Carriks are getting hit a bit, too. Most of the worsT news from from up by way of Hammer and Anvil, near Rorim's Gap.
Whatever it was, however, it seems to have died off recently. Not nearly as many reports. Maybe it was just a little mass uprising; them underdark folk can never seem to stay organized together for very long, thank Morduk."
[F]
Fitz says: "...and secondly - we've run into another mercenary group which called themselves the Black Reaver's - we believe that they were or are based out of Tarn Cal and up to no good - have you any experience with this organization?"
[D]
Captain: "Personally, no. But I know the name - and that ain't good. Because if I heard of 'em, it means they're good at what they do. Sounds to me like you merely defended yourself, so they shouldn't be in a tussy to come and get ya. Lots of mercenary companies lounge about up in Tarn Cal; most rich folk head there to hire them...or Truceton, of course - cheap sellswords there.”
The Captain finishes his meal, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stands. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I thank you for your service thus far, and kindly request you remain available and within Minetown for a day or two. I must go outside and speak with my men. We will be billeting in the Church. I trust we can meet tomorrow to break our fast, and then discuss next steps. Is this agreeable, friends?"
[Ma]
Magnus: "Yes Captain, I'm finalizing another report right now would you like to see
it. Please. Just have to add my signature to it," hastily signing SCRYING SPY RIGHT NOW underlining it.
As a Wizard player I recognize the old Wizard Eye spell. I'm assuming between Knowledge Arcana and Spellcraft (+15 each with Synergy of +2) I can get this one. I can only guess Fitz and Tobias understand what I'm doing. They might try to stop me…don't know, its up to them.
[D]
Magnus: Yep - you would know it's a Scry spell.
The Captain sees your note and borrows your quill to add his own line. "I know, Master Burn."
He looks up, smiles, and returns your quill. "It's my back-up in case you and your friends turned out to be...bad guys. Good night, sirs."
[Ma]
Magnus: "Glad to know that Captain, I do strive to know who listens when I speak. Not many ever take me seriously due to my youth." Magnus is smiling now, feeling like the cat that got the canary.
"One last thing Captain, the Lieutenant... he did not call the retreat into the castle. According to the villagers we talked to he was fighting valiant when the order came.
"We look forward to you meeting you again in the morning, let your men know one of ours went out for the other villagers and should be returning by morning."
It feels good being right.
==========================
Chapter 13: Family, Responsibility, and Voyage
A little shorter than usual...but no less enjoyable because of it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The Heroes were gathered once again in ‘Honest’ Abe’s Inn, that establishment that had once been the Whore’s Nag before the owner had disappeared nearly a decade prior. The morning sun was peeking through the windows as the loud din of dozens of refugees feasting—on the King’s dollar by order of Captain Dougal—swelled into a cacophonous noise of metal against bowl against teeth.
Motega had returned the prior night, ragged, dirty and with dozens of “lost” villagers tailing behind him—a living, snake that had stretched into the plains and forests of the east. The villagers had joined their brethren, happy but tired, in the few remaining rooms of the Inn and once those were filled, in the stables with the horses of the Heroes of Minetown and Marchford.
The heroes were sat around their table, their kingdom, among their people. They were saviors, respected and admired by all the folk now feasting. Glances from the people, grins and jokes made their chests swell with pride. Tobias seemed the only unaffected by the joy. A dark shadow was forming behind his eyes.
The door for the Inn swung open, barely denting the noise. A young, clean-shaven man strode inn. His chest was pushed out with pride for his position. Upon his shoulder, the King’s symbol broke the mute brown of his leather armor. His bright eyes locked quickly upon the heroes. His feet pushed him toward their table.
Without pause, the soldier knelt and spoke simultaneously, “Good sirs, the Captain regrets he cannot attend a morning meeting. He has sent word to the Baronet demanding an audience, and now discusses the matter with his advisors. Should the Baronet reply - and we have no reason to think he would not - the Captain will immediately send for you. He wishes you to accompany him at the proposed meeting.” With a nod he stood, both attentive and relaxed.
Fitz turned toward the boy while keeping one eye on the mage. Magnus was swallowing the last gulp of a large mug of beer. Somehow, the talkative, and cocky, and demanding mage managed to utter a few syllables with his mouth and throat still have full with the beer. Fitz opened his own mouth, drowning the garbled words of his compatriots. “Thank you, good sir. Return to your commander and assure him we will be ready when he has need for us.”
The soldier cast a glance at Magnus, whose face was reddening slightly, before pivoting to exit.
“I could’ve handled that,” he murmured.
“Sure you could have,” Fitz chuckled. He drank from his own mug. “Just as you showed your childishness to the Captain last night with your OOH, I’m going to write a message on this note and tell the Captain something he already knows! I’m so smart!”
Magnus coughed. Motega grinned.
“I am smart,” Magnus grumbled. “Why don’t you drink a little more harvest priest? It seems to swell your…pride. We don’t need a coward traveling with us.”
“Shut up, mage,” Motega growled. “Your smart, sure. You did well in the battle. But you’re cocky. Besides, no matter how much Fitz drinks, his balls will never be larger than mine.”
Tobias finally grinned, his focus returning to the playful conversation. “Bah. I’m a paladin and I can’t lie. My balls are bigger than…”
The door to the inn slammed open as a rough gust of wind tore into building. The din, which had quieted slightly for the soldier, fell to complete silence.
She, for it was a woman that strode proudly in, wore fading finery with exquisitely cut jewels sparkling on each long finger. A single strand of blonde uncurled from her brow, from the prison-like bun that trapped the remainder of her hair behind her head. That strand caught the blue in her eyes, amplifying it before falling to her shoulder.
Behind her followed two giant men dressed in chain. Each paused, to try to fit through the door. Magnus recognized them immediately and he murmured, “Gordians…”
The two brutes gave a weary eye to the crowds before moving to flank the lady. A third man then entered. He was slightly shorter and thinner the two brutes, but no the less imposing. Around his torso, a fashionable cloak made from a Gordian panther dangled along with a dozen or more wooden figurines.
The assembly was quiet as the lady took one more step forward. With her voice, resonant but trembling, sultry and noble she stated, “I have come in search of the Heroes of Marchford, and am in need. I shall pay for information pointing me in their direction.”
Magnus grinned as he stood. “How much ye paying there Lady?” A few of the commoners chuckled but not at the mage’s word so much as the fact that the paladin stood up slowly behind him. A soft thud echoed around the common room as Tobias’ hand cracked into the mage’s skull.
“Keep your coins in your purse, Lady.” Tobias glowered at the mage. “We are those that you seek.” Tobias focused, demanding his divine sense stretch outward and toward the arrivals…
=====================
The Lady’s eyes stretched wide in suspicion as they danced from Magnus to Tobias. Motega glanced at the woman, his face devoid of attention and turned his glance to the paladin. Tobias’ head shook, a small shake recognizable only to the party: No evil. Motega gave the appearance of relaxing his guard as he slouched back in the chair a bit; contrary to his appearance, his eyes showed his overly alert nature.
Fitz sighed. Ceria? Have I offended you?, he questioned silently. I am forced to work with an angel-worshipper, a werewolf and a power-greedy mage. Let them never say you do not work in mysterious ways. The priest watched as a serving woman removed his empty tankard, replacing it with a fresh mug. He picked up the mug and with a quick murmur of, “Praise Ceria,” began to drown his confusion.
The Lady smiled, worriedly, to cover her confusion. The appearance of the Heroes was not as she had expected, with the exception of the armor clad man. His armor was bright and polished, as if it were used for courtly duties and not the tales that had spread so far north…
"Sirs, I am Lady Carnelloe,” she began again with her rich, sultry voice, “and I have heard of your exploits. It appears you have engaged in some rather...interesting...activity here, as well. I seek your assistance, and I shall pay you handsomely for your services should you agree.” Her eyes quickly caught the flash of smile in the boy that had spoken to her first. The man behind him, Tobias obviously, grimaced a bit as his eyes darkened.
She coughed, lowering her voice. "I would prefer to speak in private, as the matter I must discuss is personal." With a suspicious glare at the villagers she added, "Perhaps you have a private room in this…place?"
Lady Carnelloe turned to the brutes standing behind her and nodded. The two larger men broke off from their flanking positions. They moved slowly toward the bar, to order food and drink. The few villagers in the way were quick to part. The Gordian in the panther cloak stepped up beside her.
"Forgive me, this man," she gestured to the Gordian, "He is Mikal of the Grove. He is a subject of my husband and an advisor to us both. I would have him offer his insight to our discussion, if you are willing."
[1]
Tobias placed a hand on Magnus’ shoulder, indicating the mage should sit as he did the same. “We are always willing to hear someone out,” the paladin claimed.
“Are you sure we cannot go somewhere more discreet?”
“These people,” Tobias stated, pointing to the crowd, “Are our people. They mean you no threat and the vacancies of this inn are for their benefit, not ours. We can speak here.”
Carnelloe’s lip quivered but she had Mikal move an extra chair to the table. She sat, on edge, and allowed the Gordian to stand just behind and to the right. “My husband owns an estate up Raider’s Bay. Many years ago, during the Civil War, my husband’s ancestors did not throw their lot in with Rhelm.” The mage grimaced, she noticed.
“At least, not fast enough to make any of the rebels happy. Since, we have been shunned—even by the King. I am searching for outside aid…and I came first to Minetown because the Baronet is a distance cousin. It was when we docked in Victorsburg that we heard tale of ‘The Heroes of Marchford’. So, now, I beg you for your aide.”
“Tell us what the problem is already,” Fitz slurred.
“I’ll pay you handsomely…”
“The problem already,” Tobias interrupted.
Mikal grimaced, his hand tightening on the back of the chair. She patted his hand. “We own an old keep atop a rocky promontory, just off the coast of the fiefdom. Harpies have taken to nesting in the keep. Every now and then, they’ll come inland to steal chickens, a goat or two, and occasionally even a shepherd.
“It is not so bad, usually, except my husband decided to play the hero and relive his ‘adventuring days’. With a band of his most loyal and old retainers, he set off to cleanse the foul keep of the harpies. He hasn’t returned,” Lady Carnelloe sniffled, lifting a handkerchief to blot her eyes.
“Then…two weeks ago, I was visited by a hooded figure. They said if I did not produce a key for my husband’s lockbox, my two daughters would be murdered. I’ve been given one month.” The Lady burst solidly into tears, covering her eyes. Mikal grimaced yet again.
Motega’s scrutinizing glare did not relent; neither did the Carnelloe’s tears for several minutes.
“I know my husband is probably dead. He carried the key with him at all times…”
“How long ago did your husband depart?” Magnus queried.
“Several months ago. Look, I am willing to go into debt to save the life of my children. I really, really need your help. No one else will help. The King will not and my husband’s former soldiers will not. The Baronet was my last chance, but he will not even see us.
“I have a galley moored to the docks. We will be leaving in the morning. If you can help, the fee is negotiable. Otherwise I will have to search other towns along the coast…”
“Look,” Motega butted in. “Lady, I do not speak for our ka-tet, but we have pledged service to the Rhelm king,” Motega eyed Magnus hard, "I do not know how that affects us aiding you and I am not in the practice of sh*tting where I eat. If we agree to your terms, we will be at the docks before you set sail. Leave us now as we have other matters to discuss."
The Lady’s jaw dropped. Mikal’s arm rose until Carnelloe’s long fingers wrapped around his arm, delaying the attack. “No, Mikal, perhaps they are not the Heroes we have heard of. Maybe they are though.” Turning to the group, she spoke, “I hope you will consider my proposal. The ship is the ‘Vigilance’.”
Lady Carnelloe stood. With a nod, the other two Gordians detached themselves from the bar and their six empty tankards. They moved to the door, allowing the Lady to step through that door first, and into the lengthening morning.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias flashed Motega a questioning glance but it was Magnus, as was usual, that broke the silence. “I think we should tell the Captain that the Baronet will not even see family." The mage glanced through the Inn’s window as Lady Carnelloe and her entourage strode away. "There is something deeper afoot then just the Culites I think.
"If we can get the situation here straightened out, do you want to accompany the Lady? I see no harm in helping her, and it will allow us to scout the Northern lands. Did not the Captain say they were harder hit in that direction?" Magnus lowered his voice and hissed, "Also, I think we need to tell him about the mushrooms. They will need to be guarded against the Culites."
The mage raised his voice again, and took a long sip from his mug. "I think assisting the Lady will beneficial to both her and us." Fitz rolled his eyes, but Magnus could not see the gesture.
"Mage,” Motega growled, “As far as getting on a ship and helping this woman, you have pledged our services to the King. This is not something to be taken lightly. Then again, I do not like being toyed with.
“I say we talk to this Captain and have him excuse us from this mess once and for all if he truly speaks for the King. Culites be damned. Unlike you, I have no need for titles and care little for the politics here in Rhelm. If this woman's currency is good and she has a just cause, I say we sail out in the morning. If it is not just, we will exact payment by bedding her and her daughters." Tobias nearly spit his drink out. Fitz chortled.
The mage, however, looked almost insulted. "I have sworn none of you to the service of Rhelm; but, yes, I support my King. The Dwem attacks were an attack on our Kingdom, and apparently other countries from what we have heard.
“All I have done is for our own good, as well as Rhelm’s and even the Rorn’s.” The Rornman scoffed. Clearing his throat, Magnus continued, “Currently my goals lie in Rhelm's safety. I do not like what I'm hearing about the Baronet, yet I see this Lady Carnelloe as more than someone to bed like a savage."
The mage stared coldly at the Rorn. "In the Rorn, you have titles you respect just the same as here, like Chief of the Tribe or 'Son' of the Chief. By gaining title, we can lay claim to our own wealth with more than just might of arms. Sometimes one must use their head instead of their brawn.
"As long as we are called 'heroes', people will call for our aid. There lies our advantage. By gaining title now, we can collect more in reward later." He turned to Fitz, "Does not planting the seed in spring, bring a good harvest in the fall? How much more good can you do, if it weren't for the likes of Minor Nobles basically spitting on you in Dun Beric."
“Tobias, Justice could spread under your name.
“And, Motega,” the mage spit, as he lifted his glass with a rueful grin, "with title you can bed even more women as well as drink their husbands cellar's dry."
The ranger sputtered and grinned. He lifted his own mug and smashed it against the mage’s. As the two downed their drinks, Tobias interrupted, “Hear that?”
“Yes, horses,” Fitz replied. The cleric stood from the table, toppling his mug in the process. Hastily, he grabbed his scythe.
The door to the inn swung open again, with the Captain pouring through the doors in a suit of half-plate he had not worn in the first visit. “All right, good sirs,” he bellowed as he stepped twice toward their table. “I've let this damned Baronet stew long enough. Time to taste what's been simmering. Two letters and two messengers haven't got him to open his gates; let's see what we can do.”
The Captain did a precise pivot to leave and called over his shoulder, "You're welcome to come, but don't be provokin' anything. This is a probe, nothing more—I won't have more Rhelm blood spilled if I can help it.” He grinned as he patted his blade, “And I can."
Without waiting for a response, he turned back toward the door. He stepped out of the inn, ignoring the silence he had brought upon its customers.
The mage was the first to stand. “Well I'm going." He slid a wand into each of his bracers. “The Lady doesn't leave till tomorrow. There is plenty of time to both raid the castle and bed the women.” Tobias moved to silently follow. The paladin drew his blade with a barely noticeable shake of his head and a sigh.
“This is going to be interesting,” the priest murmured.
Motega stood and patted Fitz on the shoulder. "I am glad that the talk of bedding women got his interest, I was beginning to wonder about the boy. Thought he might continue where that ogre left off on poor Netto that day.” The two companions burst into laughter as they exited the inn.
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 15:01:28 GMT -5
Al’baku stomped his horse hooves into the ground. His face, normally serene even if devoid of emotion, was blistered and scorched. The Rorn centaur had grown bored, and now desired the end of this battle. He reached for his bow and drew an arrow. The centaur turned toward the humans, the small, weak creatures that had been trying to strike him all night with their small, weak arrows. He nocked and pulled back, relishing the tremor in the mighty bow, the strength of his arms. He exhaled. The arrow whistled. A human, Al’baku did not particularly care which, crumpled as the shaft drove into his chest. He watched with glee as that human fell backward, off his perch and into the courtyard. Al’baku drew another arrow, nocking it and pulling back on the string again. A roar drew his attention from the snipers toward the battlefield ahead. The dwarf dropped one of the two remaining orcs. Bellowing, the dwarf raised his axe to chop into the next. Al’baku sighed. He readjusted his aim and realized that the remaining orc was in his line of sight. “No matter,” he hissed as he released his hold on the tense string. The bow twanged, launching its projectile. The arrow grazed the orc, drawing a painful line of blood but continued onward to pound into Cochly’s stomach. The dwarf shuddered, falling back a pace. * * * Motega howled. His focus on the kobold mage had been total, complete. Now the creature dangled in the air, out of his reach. The primal part of his mind—now the dominant aspect—roared. His nose caught the scent of death though, and knew it was no longer a threat. The beast turned toward the battle. Tobias was gone but the dwarf was still holding the line. One orc remained but more importantly the horse-man beyond that. Motega’s lips pulled up in a ferocious growl as he snapped into motion. Within a half-second, he pushed against the ground, hurtling into the air. The orc attacking Cochly stopped in fear as the werewolf came up behind the dwarf. Cochly thanked the gods as his axe bit into the orc’s side. Still in awe, that orc showed no reaction to the devastating blow. He was focused on the claw that sped toward his face. By the time Motega landed, the orcs head was tumbling lifelessly—and still with a frozen look of shock upon its visage—across the burning ground. The werewolf leaned back, howling at the dying night, the dawning light. Al’baku dropped his bow and drew his axe. He reared up, pawing at the air and crashed down with a heavy, determined thud. Fitz screamed at the flames. Tobias had vanished inside along with that dwarf Culite. Inside the roaring fire, birthed by Magnus’ spell and his carefully designed oil slicks, the Cerian priest could hear metal against metal. Inside that hellish environment, Tobias fought on. Fitz could not charge in, so he screamed. He had lost sight of the rest of the battle but he knew Motega could hold his own. And then the sounds of battle mixed with crackling fire died. Tobias fell. The paladin crumpled to the ground, his feet and half of his legs still in the flames. Smoke billowed from the holy warrior’s blistered body. The metal of his armor and his sword—still gripped tightly in his hand—was white hot with rage. Fitz leaned down and grabbed the paladin. His hands screamed at his brain in protest but the priest ignored them. He pulled; with all his strength, he pulled. Fitz moved the heavy body two inches. His palms were beginning to blister. The priest released and fell back onto his ass. Determined, he stood. He grasped the body again and tugged. His eyes and mind were focused on the paladin. Fitz did not see the smoldering dwarf step from the flames, his double-headed axe practically bonded to his hands. He did not see the flesh-less skull swivel in his direction. Fitz did not sense the axe raise up high above the few stray, burned beard hairs and begin its deadly assault downward. * * * Cochly dodged around the werewolf and the centaur, adding his axe to the fray. The two beasts—and to the dwarf, they were both beasts—were locked in a titanic struggle. The werewolf was clawing at the centaur’s throat and torso, tearing long strips of flesh and muscle from its body. Al’baku swung his axe and reared onto his hind legs to kick at the werewolf like some common dog. The centaur was landing solid hits, too. Several times, Cochly could hear Motega’s ribs shatter under the brutal assault. The Rorn needed his help, though. Minetown needed Cochly. And so his blade bit into the centaur’s side. Al’baku shrieked. Suddenly, the equine body pounded Cochly. The dwarf, though stout and strong, could not fight the surging strength and sheer mass of the centaur. He tried to duck, but the centaur pushed him into the flames and against the wall. Cochly’s head slammed into the rough stone, fire licking at his beard and tasting his flesh. Then the centaur’s body was gone and Cochly hit the ground rolling. His eyes snapped open to see the centaur’s hoof snapping toward his face. The world went black. * * * Magnus screamed in joy. The persistent—and stupid, he thought—half-orc had somehow struggled to his feet after the second—or was it third?—fireball exploded in his face. Somehow, the bastard had stood back up. And reached into his pouch; he allowed his bow to fall uselessly to the ground. But Magnus would not let him drink another healing elixir—not again. One final ball of flame had sealed the half-orc’s fate. Magnus screamed in joy[1]. * * * Fitz felt a sudden breeze. He stepped back just as the dwarf’s axe snagged the metal of his banded armor. Falling backward, Fitz could feel the blood pouring from the wound. The damned dwarf was strong; he had ripped right through his armor! The Cerian priest attempted to grasp for his scythe, it had fallen uselessly to the ground. His entire right side was stunned; his arm useless. Fitz did the only thing he could, he scrambled back as Brother Wulffa stepped forward. The seared skull swiveled back and forth, following Fitz’s jerky movement. The blackened bone still had bits of charred muscle clinging to it, holding it to its stocky body. A few frazzled hairs jabbed angrily at the air; none were more than an inch or two in length. The dwarf’s eyes were burned as well, the irises fading into the sickly yellow-white orbs. It laughed a hoarse, dry, cracked gurgle. It sounded rough. The Cerian priest noticed a brief burst of blood from the fried dwarf’s throat as it passed more air through its ruined esophagus. “And now,” it rasped, “now you will taste the bitter bite of me’ axe. Cula Vak will enjoy the taste of yer soul, harvest priest. Jus’ as he enjoyed the angel worshipper’s.” It cackled again—more blood!—as it lifted its axe up for the final blow. A white hot blade slammed through the dwarf’s mouth, destroying the stone-like teeth. Tobias grimaced, blood pouring from his blisters and his burned flesh. He jammed it further through the dwarf’s head. A blast of bloody spittle splashed Fitz’s face. The paladin jerked the blade, severing the top of Wulffa’s skull from its neck. The skull, jawbone, and Tobias collapsed to the ground at the same time. They were followed immediately by the paladin’s blade and Wulffa’s corpse. Fitz crawled toward Tobias, the healing wand now in his hand. * * * Magnus descended toward the main battle. He saw Fitz tending Tobias near the church. Cochly was down—the dwarf’s head was crushed; his brains scattered in a gory streak across the dry earth. The mage shook his head sadly. Motega was locked against the Rorn centaur, his massive talons shredding the horse-man’s back while the horse was trying to pull away. Time to end this, he thought. The mage unleashed a series of magic missiles from his hand. They soared downward, impacting the centaur’s equine body. Al’baku shrieked and reared up as the energy surged into his body. Motega’s used that moment to snap his lupine snout down on the centaur’s neck. Al’baku’s eyes stretched wide in distress as the Rorn lycanthrope grasped tighter and placed his feet solidly against his torso. Motega pushed with his feet, wrenching the centaur’s throat free from its neck and propelling backward into a somersault. As the lycanthrope landed, the centaur’s body crumpled to the earth, lifeless. A quiet descended onto the street except for the crackling flames. That quiet was suddenly shattered as Yapper’s spell wore out and the tiny reptile-man, all of maybe eighty pounds soaking wet, plummeted from his position above the city. The corpse slammed loudly into the overwhelming statue of Morduk, God of justice. Gravity bent Yapper’s body in half, an unnatural bend possible only through gratuitous shattering of vertebrae. The mage made a low whistle. “Ironic,” he whispered, wearing his grin, “and yet fitting.” But even the resounding noise of shattering bones faded quickly. Magnus glanced around, making sure there were no more enemies nearby. When he was sure, he turned to the north. There, he could see movement in the distance. He kicked off, charging forward to search for the remaining enemies. * * * Tobias and Motega sat beside each other along with Arad, Byk, Devon—who had finally come out of hiding—, and Crazy Cargyle. Fitz quickly administered healing to the wounded. “Where is that damned mage?” Tobias spit. His lips had split from the heat and dryness, despite Fitz’s aide. Overall, Tobias looked a mess. His long red hair had been incinerated by the flames; leaving only the charred flesh before and the fresh, pink skin now in its place. Even his eyebrows were gone. “Who knows?” Motega murmured. The Rorn also was not looking too well. Although, most of the damage he had taken was diminished by his disease. He still nursed a broken rib or two while waiting for Fitz’s happy stick. Arad, Byk, Devon, and Cargyle smiled to each other. Cargyle had been the worst off of the patriots—aside from those that were dead. Crazy Cargyle, as he was called or wanted to be called, had taken a direct and devastating hit from the centaur’s bow. As a result, he had missed watching the last moments of the tremendous battle. “Stop smiling like buffoons,” Fitz rebuked. The four patriots jumped. “We did not lose our brothers for nothing. We did it for this town. And now, you’re just going to sit on your butts while your town burns down?! “I don’t think so. Get up! Get up! Get up!!” the priest bellowed as he swept toward them. “Get some water, put out those fires!” he ordered. The patriots quickly dodged out of his way, hurrying to do his bidding. Tobias and Motega chuckled. And then the mage was suddenly among them, his young face pale from exertion. “We have to go!” They all looked at him questionably. “There’s another group,” he huffed, “north. They ducked into the mine. We have to get them before they escape.” “How many?” Tobias questioned even as he stood and sheathed his sword. “I’m not sure. They ducked into the cave. I hurled a fireball after them but didn’t hang around to see the result. Probably, at least, four or five.”
“Not so bad,” quipped Motega.
“And one of ‘em is an ogre.”
Fitz sighed.
“No rest for the wicked,” the Rorn stated as he checked his sword.
“Or the righteous,” added Tobias.
Motega cocked his head, listening closely at the entrance of the mine. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered to his companions. The shadows of the mine, stretched back into a winding passage which obscured their vision.
“They’re waiting for us,” the mage stated coldly, a spell already forming upon the edges of his fingers, the tip of his tongue.
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint,” Tobias intoned sardonically. The paladin had already drawn his greatsword. The blade reflected the morning sun, creating an illusion—was it really an illusion?—of being encased in a shimmer of bright fire. “Mo’ and I will go first. Then the mage. Fitz, bring up the rear.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” quipped Magnus as the party moved into the entrance.
The passage descended quickly. The stone was rough, jagged and seemed to close in the farther they traveled, although this could have been a simple trick of shadow and light. The entrance had consisted of a small area with barely enough room for the four travelers to stand comfortably beside each other. The only exit from the entrance was a passage two men wide that slithered deeper into the earth, back and forth like a great serpent.
Motega and Tobias led the band wearily into the passage. Both knew that if a caster waited beyond, the passage could quickly turn into a death trap. Each moved quietly, eyes and ears open for the ambush they were expecting.
A few paces behind, Fitz and Magnus trailed. The cleric had his blade in hand. Despite moving forward, he continuously threw glances behind. The mage did not seem to care about an attack from the rear. His eyes were forward, an open scroll—no doubt another fireball—clutched in his hand.
Fitz sighed.
A doorway suddenly opened at the end of the winding tunnel. Motega’s arm shot up, silently signaling a halt. Within that gateway, flickering red-orange light cast its rays into the darkened hallway. It seemed a large chamber lie beyond. The exact dimensions were impossible to tell.
Warily, Tobias stepped forward.
Motega cringed, a soft, familiar sound reaching his ears: arcane syllables being woven together. He grabbed for the paladin just as a large form stepped to block the door. The creature was large, ugly, and smelled of death. It was an ogre.
It laughed. Tobias charged.
And then the tunnel was filled with poison.
Tobias struck the double doors which slammed shut after the spell was completed, after the roiling cloud of poison threatened to choke his companions to death. The poison was no different than normal air for the paladin, protected by his nearly inhuman fortitude. Behind though, Tobias could hear Magnus crash against the rock, a hacking cough decimating his lungs. Motega was to his left and slightly behind. The Rorn was holding up better than the mage, but he, too, was beginning to succumb.
Tobias slammed against the door with all his strength. It groaned against the force and shattered inward. As the paladin stepped into the room, a gigantic arm—attached to an equally huge ogre—crunched into his face, breaking his nose.
* * *
Fitz felt Magnus collapse beside him. There was nothing the priest carried that could save the wizard from the poisonous fumes which filled the passage.
There was only one chance.
He lifted his scythe and intoned a prayer to Ceria. Feeling for the divine connection that was forged in the deepest part of his soul, the priest summoned one of Ceria’s blessings[1].
A wind poured into the tunnel, swirling around the priest who stood as still as a statue. The wind continued to cycle around his form, pushing the vapors away.
Fitz stepped toward the prone mage, bringing a gap of fresh air with him.
* * *
Tobias reeled as another arm slammed into his back. He heard something pop—he thought it was a bone; maybe one of his—as he fell back. The poison continued to cloud the air, ruining visibility. But he did not need his eyes to know he faced two ogres. His broken nose and other wounds practically screamed it in his mind.
Slowly, the poison was filling the paladin’s lungs. If he did not escape the cloud, even his stamina would not protect him.
Tobias reached out with his senses, trying to find the ogres with his power. A brief, feral coldness brushed against the paladin’s senses. He ducked, just as the Rorn-wolf hybrid leaped over him.
Another fist pounded into the paladin, staggering him. No second blow landed. The other ogre had to be distracted by Motega.
Closing his eyes, trusting his senses, Tobias took a deep breath and charged through the cloud.
* * *
Fitz let Magnus lean against him as they slowly plodded toward the double doors. The whirlwind continued to circle both, clearing the air. Fitz hoped he could hang on to the blessing long enough to reach clean air.
They passed through the doorway…
-------------------------------------
Tobias felt another attack pound into his back as he dove. The cloud of vapor opened up as the pain exploded through his body and wrenched his eyes open. The ground appeared, filling his vision, and attempted to embrace the paladin’s consciousness in a smothering darkness.
Somehow, Tobias managed to fold his armored body as he fell, allowing the metal to take the brunt of force and shift his momentum into a half-tumble-half-fall forward.
It did not save his battered body from the ogre’s complete attention and full attack.
The other ogre had fallen back, Motega tearing ferociously at its arm. Muscle and flesh were shredded by his razor fangs. Blood gathered in a puddle on the floor.
The ogre shook his arm back and forth, easily—but painfully—flinging the Rorn’s increased weight around. It was rewarded and punished for the act as the lycanthrope hurled through the air, along with all of the fleshy substance of its meaty arm. It bellowed in pain.
Tobias stood as his ogre backed off slightly. A shadow crept across his back. The paladin let nothing distract him as he channeled all of his healing energies into his own body, spending the daily boon from Reddel. He felt the air shudder as another meaty arm pummeled toward his back.
The paladin stepped toward the first ogre, bringing his blade up in an arc that severed its arm at the elbow. Pivoting, the blade was brought back down and into the arm of the largest of the ogres, the one that had crept—if such a word could describe an oversized, lumbering oaf—up behind the holy warrior. It screamed in rage even though the wound was only glancing.
“Fungum!” screeched a nasal voice from along the wall. The yell had issued from a wiry human clad only in a robe. Tobias’ eyes quickly darted back to his new target, the obvious leader of this band. Fungum cringed as if slapped, knowing the mage had just damned him to death first.
“Shut up, Milk!” He barked, spittle foaming from his mouth. “Just do yer’ damn job, mage!” The beast grinned, content in knowing that Milk’s life was now forfeit. And live or die, Fungum would not have to pay the ruthless mercenary.
That grin was wiped from the ogre’s face as Tobias’ blade punched into his stomach.
Fitz and Magnus struggled through the remaining few feet of the poisonous cloud. But the air did clear, leaving the pair to watch as Motega flew through the air. They watched Tobias—surrounded now by three ogres—fight for his life. They even heard the exchange between the largest ogre and the human.
Angrily, their heads darted toward the human. His hands were beginning to weave a familiar arcane pattern.
“Allow me,” Magnus grunted as he extricated himself from against Fitz. The mage rattled off a magic missile spell, his last for the day. The bolts flew true; they always did. With a sickening plop, they singed the flesh of the other mage.
Milk’s eyes crossed as his spell died. A few, faint tendrils of poisonous vapors had stretched from his hand but with the arcane magic shattered along with his consciousness, they drifted aimlessly and faded to nothing. His eyes narrowed on the two newcomers. His fingers and arms began to weave another spell.
“Motega!” Shouted Fitz.
The lycanthrope’s ears perked up, but his head, claws and teeth kept their attention on the ogre he was shredding. Both his claws ripped hungrily into the slow beast’s sides as he tilted his head downward and sunk his fangs into the brute’s knee. It squealed in pain.
The Rorn pushed forward with his claws and jerked away with his snout. The lumbering ogre fell to the ground, a bony piece of its knee tumbled across the floor.
“RORN! THE CASTER!!”
The ogre was not quite dead yet. Disabled, but not dead. Motega started toward it but shuddered as he asserted his will upon his inner demon. The lycanthrope spun, sighted the caster, and charged.
Tobias ducked barely away from Fungum’s swing. Unfortunately the ogre behind him brought its remaining fist into the back of the warrior’s head. Stars erupted in his sight.
Milk was forced to change the aim of his spell, centering it upon the beast that was now hurtling toward him. A beautiful explosion of fire filled Motega’s path, engulfing the lycanthrope in fire. Milk cackled.
Magnus smirked as his own fireball swallowed the other mage. He saw the dark form jerking and twisting in the dancing flames.
Milk rolled around as the flames died. Leaping up onto his feet, he began another spell, centering it again on Magnus. He felt the arcane energies bend to his will, felt them stretching out, forming another cloud of noxious fumes.
Until a lupine snout clenched down around his arm like a steel bear trap. His forearm snapped. His mind shrieked. And then a claw tore into his throat and heaved him backward. Milk felt the cold, stone wall rape the back of his head as life fled his body.
Fitz’s scythe slid into the fallen ogre’s throat, into Motega’s prey. The beast had been flailing about, grasping for the paladin. Well, the cleric ended that weak threat. He turned to watch Tobias spin and gut the one-armed ogre. Fitz smiled.
Then Fungum’s meaty hands closed around Tobias’ throat. The paladin struggled, his legs flailed as his face flushed red. Fitz stepped in…
“You will die puny man,” the ogre spit as the paladin’s heavy blade swung ineffectively at its meaty arms. “Fer killing my brother. Then your friends will die.” Fungum’s grip tightened.
…and Motega slammed into the creature. Tobias fell, crumpling against the earth as the ogre shifted to attack the new threat. The Rorn exploded into motion, a furious storm of pain, a maelstrom of teeth and claws against Fungum’s side and back.
The ogre backpedaled, trying to gather a little breathing space to rally an attack.
Fitz turned his attention to the fallen paladin. His wand leapt into his hand and he knelt over his friend. A diffuse blue glow spread into the paladin. Tobias still didn’t stir. Fitz concentrated and sent another shock of energy into Tobias. The paladin’s eyes flickered and he sucked in a sharp intake of air.
Immediately, Tobias grabbed his sword and stood.
“Wait, you need more healing,” Fitz commanded.
“Heal me while I move then. This isn’t over yet.”
A flush of red fell across all their faces as another of Magnus’ fireballs burst. He had aimed it carefully, enveloping half of the ogre but avoiding his compatriot.
Motega was beginning to wear. He was holding his position, toe to toe, with Fungum. Despite his supernatural reservoirs of strength, the Rorn still was not a front-line fighter. He was wearing down.
Tobias stepped in to flank, Fitz slightly behind, pumping another charge into the stubborn warrior. His blade bit deep into Fungum’s side, causing the ogre to grumble and curse. Blood flowed in torrents down the side of the blade, covering Tobias’ hands with a fetid scent.
Fungum allowed the paladin only the one swing. His arm jerked and pummeled into the holy warrior’s already broken nose. Tobias staggered back, Fitz catching him.
Motega’s jaws shut down on Fungum’s throat. A jet of blood spurted from between his jagged fangs. Some of the rank blood poured down the werewolf’s throat. He intensified his grip.
Fitz applied another of the wand’s spells into Tobias. The paladin’s eyes snapped open yet again, just in time to watch as Fungum grasped Motega’s throat with his meaty hands.
Each tightened their grips. Both of their eyes opened wide in fury and pain.
Each pulled away.
Fungum’s throat splayed open, spilling the remaining life-fluid into the air and onto the floor.
Motega’s throat also was torn open. Even in his death throes, the ogre would not release his grip.
They both collapsed throat-less and lifeless to the earth, the other’s body part entwined tightly with their hands or claws.
“MOTEGA!!!” Magnus shouted as he rushed to his friend. He was the first there, the first to watch the final processes of the Rorn’s body. The lupine hide fell from the lifeless body, leaving a pile of hair under the cooling corpse. His cold, brown eyes were locked in a ferocious stare that now engulfed the ceiling of the mine. His mouth too, covered with blood and gore, was frozen in a bestial grimace.
Fitz knelt against the body, knowing what he would find. He tried the wand anyway. The blue energy touched the body but seemed to evaporate. He shook his head.
A jarring sound snapped Fitz’s and Magnus’ eyes from the scene. Tobias’ blade pierced Fungum’s skull and several inches of the rock floor beneath. The paladin wore a storm upon his brow, a fury that longed to be released. He shoved against the blade again, impaling it several more inches into the floor.
The ogre’s brain matter leaked from the wound, seeping slowly across the floor.
Without a sound, Tobias moved away from the body of Motega toward a door in the far end of the chamber.
“Motega would want to know what was behind this door,” he murmured as he kicked the locked door open.
* * *
Magnus, Fitz and Tobias quietly set about their work. Each body, except Motega’s, was stripped of its gear and accoutrements. They quickly inventoried the items and stuffed them in their satchels. Even one of the mushrooms from the rear room had been added to the inventory. The mushroom, a strange brown growth with black splotches, had to be what the Culites were after.
There was nothing else in the damned room aside from a small body of water.
Hefting the weight onto their shoulders, they next bent to retrieve their fallen friend. Carefully wrapped and carefully carried, they made their way toward the outside world.
Darkness had claimed the heavens by the time they had finished the ascent. A bright, full moon was accented by the soft twinkle of distant stars. The stagnant heat of the rainless summer was suppressed by a cooling breeze.
They stepped out and were engulfed in the cacophonous howls of a chorus of wolves. A dozen—at least!—werewolves stepped from the brush surrounding the mine. They were hybrids, bordering on nine feet tall and laden with corded muscles covered by dark furs.
Each held their head up, allowing their music to soar up into the heavens.
The last to step forward was the largest at nearly ten and a half feet in height. He moved slowly, purposefully toward the heroes. With each step, the beast receded revealing more of the man beneath. His fur and then hair held a silver sheen—showing both his age and rank among the pack. Even as the beast faded within the human flesh that was its prison, the Heroes thought the man appeared supernaturally large and fit. His sheer girth did not diminish. His fierce eyes demanded a fearful respect.
His face was Motega’s. “Kun,” he stated regally, his head lifted proudly.
“Kun,” Magnus returned. He allowed his shield to turn, revealing Motega’s mark.
The regal man-wolf nodded. “That symbol is not given lightly. You are marked as a Rorn-friend. Remember what that means.” Then, he snapped his fingers.
The two lycanthropes behind him tossed two corpses, horadrel archers, to the earth. “You should be more thorough.” He motioned at Motega’s body. “We will take my son.”
They all nodded as several of the lycanthropes moved to grab the dead body. They set him upon the earth and stripped the leather from his body. With inhuman speed, Motega’s gear was set into neat piles until only a naked, destroyed body rested on the earth.
“Death is birth, birth is death,” Motega’s father spoke enigmatically. “He will have no need of this gear.” One of the werewolves beside Motega slit open his own vein, allowing the fresh blood to mingle with the earth beneath. Using the dirt and blood mixture, a symbol was etched onto Motega’s pallid flesh.
“Your path to the city is clear,” the Rorn’s father spoke. “Do not wander from the trail tonight.”
As the last word faded, the lycanthropes vanished back into the brush, into the shadows silently. They became the night.
Magnus shed a tear.
They all did as they walked slowly, stubbornly south back to Minetown.
Chapter 13: Family, Responsibility, and Voyage
The bodies had rested like slabs of wood in that small church. Heroes, villains, and those that defied an easy category amounted to a pile of organic matter which filled the tiny structure from wall to wall, door to door. One body, the most deserving Hero, did not rest in the heap. It would have been disrespectful to place the remains with the others.
Motega was not some unnamed hero or villain. He had been family. But his body had been taken, sparing it the disregard it would have collected on the wooden floor.
They had rested on the floor of the church until high noon. Until Magnus summoned another burst of flame to fuel a pyre. Friend and foe alike were devoured by the flames; those that had escaped a fiery death the first time around.
Cochly, the honorable dwarf craftsman, was fed to the pyre. His axe was wrapped carefully and sent by messenger toward his homeland. Magnus had written down the valiant details of his death, enclosing it in the package.
Timmons, the demanding priest, was fed to the pyre. His gear—just a wand Fitz had leant him—was returned to the Heroes’ stocks. The money the priest had demanded in rightful payment was found that morning by Magnus under a fresh spot of earth in the church’s rear yard. That too rejoined the Heroes’ gear.
All of the villains were thrown haphazardly into the hungry flames. Tobias had grunted with exertion when he hefted the centaur onto his shoulders. Magnus ordered the paladin to halt. Tobias had grunted again; his shoulders were straining. The mage made a cursory bit of notes regarding the Aradeeti tattoos that covered the Rorn’s body before allowing the paladin to feed the fire.
One by one, the bodies faded to ash leaving only a heavy odor of singed hair and burnt flesh behind.
* * *
Three tankards sat, filled to the brim, untouched on the cluttered table. It was well after noon and the remaining three had sequestered the Inn for their own uses. Unable to find ‘Honest’ Abe, one of the remaining townsfolk—a young girl of maybe thirteen with long, blonde hair—rushed around to serve them.
They had disallowed any interruptions from the townsfolk. This was their Inn now, at least for the day. They had lost enough to convince the people to leave them be. If that had not done it, their heroics that morning should have sufficed.
All of the tables had been pushed to the center of the floor. There, upon the makeshift banquet table, rested all of the spoils of war. The pile was huge with armor and weapons, arrows, a few scrolls, a few potions and others of the miscellaneous items men carried to battle. A crumpled portrait of a homely brunette rested on the side; a picture of a loved one, no doubt.
Death touched everyone.
Motega’s gear was piled around Magnus’ position, next to one of the full tankards; next to two empty glasses previous filled with a strong whiskey. Similar glasses rested next to Fitz and Tobias, all empty. A decanter rested on the center of the table, also empty. Previously it had been the home of the strongest whiskey the town had ever produced—a homebrewed concoction named “Drake’s Breath”. Now, like the Heroes, the decanter was empty.
“We’re not getting rid of any of it,” Magnus blurted. “It’s ours!” He nearly knocked over the full tankard when his arm twitched in agitation. It would have spilt upon the newest writ for the King—describing their victory.
“We can’t carry it all,” Tobias advised. He kicked his head back—still ragged and pink from the devastating flames—destroying the last shot of whiskey.
Fitz, the voice of reason, had remained quiet all morning. He, too, sipped down the last gulp of his whiskey. But without anything meaningful to add to the exchange, the voice of reason rested.
“You’ve got muscles, you can carry it all,” Magnus assured.
“Even with your magically enchanted haversacks, I doubt we could carry it all. We have to leave some of this for the town.”
“We’ve already paid them,” the mage growled.
“What happened the last time we left a town ill-prepared?” Tobias screamed. His fists slammed into the table as he stood. “Do you even remember?! The town was destroyed!”
“They rebuilt.”
“Many lives were lost. I will not see that fate befall another town. Our enemies would fall upon this place once we have left to destroy it—only to spite us.”
“It is just a bunch of weapons,” Fitz murmured. Tobias paused. “Weapons in an untrained hand will do no good; just as a mage cannot wield a blade to harvest wheat.”
“It’s okay,” Magnus said. “You’re right. We have to give them something.” Tobias let his face drain of anger. He was exhausted. The paladin sat down, drawing the tankard across the table. “Motega’s gear is not left behind,” clarified Magnus.
“Agreed,” Fitz and Tobias added in unison.
Magnus’ eyes fell to the gear surrounding him. His eyes watered. Embarrassed, he reached for the tankard and pulled it to his face. “Do we even know where we’re going yet?” His eyes settled again on the gear. Piled next to Motega’s armor was the shield he had wielded, the shield Motega had painted a Rorn symbol onto with his own blood. The mage, although unsure of when exactly after the battle, had taken an adamantine dagger and carved the symbol deeply into the metal disc. It would never fade. The symbol was permanent now, a part of the shield as it was a part of Magnus.
Tobias’s head shook. Magnus did not notice.
“The Baronet’s, I’d suggest,” Fitz said. “I have no love for Rhelmsmen that abandon their people.”
“Justice must be dealt,” Tobias stated grimly. “He has failed his responsibilities. I will aide you in delivering justice, priest.” The familiar flash of holy retribution filled the paladin’s eyes. Fitz merely nodded in acquiescence.
“It is all his fault,” Magnus added. “If he had taken care of the Culites when they arrived Motega would still be alive. If he had sent his guards, when we requested, Motega would still be drawing breath.” Magnus’ eyes darkened with rage. “We can take care of him now.”
All three, as one, stood.
“The gear?” Magnus queried.
“Take just what you need. The rest will wait,” Tobias said as he drew his sword. The paladin lifted the tankard with his left. He tossed it to the table empty and useless.
The young girl had been running about in the kitchen, preparing a simple meal. At least, that is what they had thought. She stood now near the door, peering through a nearby window. Her face was pale as the moon.
“What is it girl?” Tobias demanded. His grip tightened on the blade.
Her mouth moved soundlessly as she stumbled back. Fitz drew his scythe. Magnus reached for a scroll.
The door flung open; Tobias’ blade lifted high.
A silhouette filled the doorway. It stumbled in, naked, bruised, soaked and dirty. Motega grinned as his companions’ faces dropped in surprise[1].
“Y-y-you were dead!” Fitz exclaimed.
“Shut your mouth priest before Tobias thinks you’re one of those Galar child-touchers.” Motega stretched his arm, popping several vertebrae in his back. They could make out all the fresh, pink scars, including the one that covered his entire neck. The Heroes even noticed a few tattoos they wish they had not ever seen. “It’ll take more than that to kill a Rorn.” Quietly he murmured, “Just a right of passage.”
Magnus’ face, previously confused, began to beam.
“You didn’t sell all my sh*t did you, mage?!” Magnus quickly shook his head. “Good, I’ll need it. Where we going?” The Rornman smacked his lips at the young girl, who quickly fell away a pace. Motega strutted past, unfettered. He grabbed his armor and began donning it quickly. “Get me a drink, I’ll not let my family drink without me,” he ordered. The girl scurried off quickly.
Motega’s eyes fell upon the scored shield and he smiled. “Where we going?” he demanded again.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
SO, what I've done is this:
- I have compiled our emails for this next portion.
- I've read through, spaced and edited--changing tense, etc. for the update.
- I changed all of our names with our character names...so that you know who is speaking if there is no text that clarifies.
So, Destan's posts are preceded by: [D]
Magnus' posts are preceded by: [Ma]
Fitz's posts are preceded by: [F]
Motega's posts are preceded by: [Mo]
Tobias' posts are preceded by: [T]
Anything I have purely for this update will be preceded by: [SH]
OoC text is in Italics.
This should give you readers a better feel of:
1. The characters, I admit...I'm a little biased in my translations
2. The players.
3. The difference between the fictionalized SH and OUR games.
I hope you enjoy (and that its not too jarring)!! (I hope none of the players mind that I did it this way...)
-------------------------------------------------------------
[SH]
Magnus’ body hit the floor hard. His head exploded with pain.
“By the Gods,” he swore as he rolled onto his stomach. He turned his head, his stomach violently flipped. He pushed up off the floor, just enough to prevent the vomit from splattering his robes. He smelled—his vomit smelled heavy with whiskey and light on food.
A loud rap sounded in the room, against the door, and then echoed through the mage’s head. The veins in his temples thumped to a tribal rhythm. His stomach lurched again.
No fluid this time, just air and a hoarse sound. The door swung open. Magnus averted his eyes. Tobias was glowing! No, he realized, just light reflecting from that damned armor.
“Are you ready yet?”
“Not…so…loud.” The mage pushed into a sitting position and massaged his temples. The vertigo that clenched his stomach was passing. All he needed was quiet.
“Are you ready yet, mage? Have we not delayed long enough? Justice awaits the Baronet. One night of revelry and joy for a friend lost and found again does not preclude the Righteous from their duties.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll meet you downstairs,” the mage murmured.
“As you wish.” Tobias gave a curt nod and plodded heavily down the hallway.
Magnus’ veins thumped. Rub. Thump. Rub. Thump. He rolled over and dry-heaved onto the wooden floor again.
* * *
[D]
The day following the Battle of Minetown had dawned unseasonably cold. Winds whipped into the village off of Raider's Bay, and the few folk within the town pull cloaks down from pegs as a check against the chill.
If not for the strong salt breeze, however, the smell of blood, sh*t, and ash might be eye-watering. Smoke from a handful of burned buildings rose only a few feet into the air before being tossed and pulled about into a thin haze.
Cargyle had stoked up a large fire in Abraham's Inn and quickly proved to be a decent cook. As the morning fades toward noon, the Heroes gathered within the common room to eat a bread-bowl of stew and share drinks and stories with the survivors.
Suddenly, an ear-grating sound echoed from the east. Magnus darted to the door and peered out. He paused before turning to face the room. "The castle...the gate has been raised. Horsemen, coming this way."
Tobias pushes his cloak to one side and stood. "How many?"
"Two."
Fitz rubbed his forehead wearily and stood, while Motega glided toward a nearby window to study the approaching horsemen. "A woman and...a guard, probably. She's wearing some expensive duds; he's in chain mail."
Byk, one of the patriots, looked through the open doorway. "That'd be Lady Erica, the Baronet's missus. And that man beside her...ahh, that's the Lieutenant. I forget his name."
"Jym," Cargyle answers from between mouthfuls of his stew. "Not a bad guy, played cards with him a bit."
Byk shrugs and looked at the Heroes. "You done a heap o' good for this town, and put yer lives on the line to do it. Don't blow it here, sirs, if ye want me opinion. A noble's a noble is a noble - and you ain't one of 'em. Keep your swords sheathed and your manners sharp, says I. But ye won't be hearing no more from Byk, and I gotcha yer back regardless."
The four Heroes filter out into the cool day.
The Lady Erica pulls to a stop, her escort following suit a few paces in front of her, his eyes hard and his hand on the hilt of his sword as he studies the group. "This be Lady Erica of Minetown, wife of the Baronet, ruler of this place. I am Lieutenant Jym of Prince's Spears battalion, assigned to Minetown last fall. We would know what transpired here, and of your part in it."
[Ma]
Magnus bowed after the Lieutenant's introduction, "My name is Magnus Burn of Victorsburg, and let me introduce you to Lord Tobias Abel of Andorric's Step's, the honorable Harvest Priest Fitz of the Weedsea and Motega of the Rorn. Shall we sit at the inn or discuss this in your abode, my lady."
[T]
Detect Evil as those bitches ride up (and oh how I'm praying they're really, really evil).
[D]
[Tobias - they're not evil]
The guard shared a glance with the woman before turning to face the group once more. He studied Magnus, seems suitably unimpressed, and then looks toward Motega. He frowns, and lets his gaze go to Fitz. "You are welcome here, Cerian."
The Lieutenant then looked toward Tobias. "Lord Tobias Abel, is it? Sir, your friend here...what was it? Magnus Burn...claims you are a Lord. Do you claim nobility of blood, or was the boy using the term incorrectly?"
The woman continued to watch impassively, her face partially hidden by the hood of her ermine-fur cloak.
[Ma]
Magnus will be fuming, as he is tired of being called boy all the time. As more power passes through his fingers than most men witness in their lifetime.
Magnus bristled at the boy comment, holding his anger in check. "Lieutenant, I never use my words incorrectly," as Magnus moves to stand in front of him.
(Please remember Magnus is bigger than the others 6'2" 215" just a youthful face.)
[T]
Tobias gripped the mage’s shoulder and moved beside him. "He did not use the term incorrectly. Compared to most men, I am a LORD. I appear especially noble, when I am compared to cowardly nobles who lock their own people outside of the gates. In turn, those people are forced to flee or are tortured and slaughtered.
"Among men, I am a LORD, both merciful or wrathful and just as the occasion demands."
Tobias bowed low, eyeing the woman harshly. He grinned and once standing erect added, "Of course, I mean no disrespect, my Lady. You probably had your reasons for allowing the Cula Vac worshippers to slaughter your constituents.”
[D]
The Lieutenant, whatever else he may be, does not seem to be a coward. Tobias’ words have clearly hit a nerve. His jaw tightened, just like the grip on his sword; the Heroes have the feeling he was about ready to throw down, and the odds be damned.
But cooler heads prevailed...
The woman spurred her horse forward. "Rest easy, Lieutenant." She eyed each all in turn. "I am the Lady Erica of Minetown. My man means no disrespect; as I am sure you understand, nobility is a rare and honored station within the Kingdom. I, who was born the common daughter of a Gordian chieftain, know this as well as anyone."
She sighed, obviously somewhat uncertain of how to proceed. "So you are a Lord amongst men, and this I will not argue. But you are not a Lord, it appears, within Rhelm - that is, you do not hold a peerage, or lands, or titles. My lieutenant does not slight your capability or your honor; he merely questioned to see if one of the neighboring fiefdoms had responded to our earlier requests for assistance. It appears, alas, that they did not."
Erica threw back her hood, showing the proud face and high cheekbones of a Gordian. "My husband the Baronet is deathly ill. He was fine for a time, but our village priest refused to tend to him after the Culites arrived. We have no love for the Black Brothers, I assure you, and we thank you for their riddance. But I fear we must remain cautious, and so we shall await word from the King or - barring that - a nobleman holding a higher rank than does my husband."
She waved a gloved hand at the town. "Hopefully our people will return to begin to repair what has been lost, though not all can be fixed with spades and hammer. Until such time, we welcome you within Minetown and wish you well. It appears that your hurts have been tended, and you do not lack for food or supplies. Should you have need of us, send word to the gate.”
Erica smiled softly. "If you permit us, good sirs, we beg leave of you. Come, Lieutenent, let us return with these happy tidings; perhaps they will cheer the Baronet."
The two of them moved to depart...
[T]
Tobias' features smoothed over as his average intellect grinds in his head.
"Lady, wait. We are not representatives of the fiefdoms you requested aide from. However, I do have a few questions that need answered."
"First, why were the gates barred? You obviously,” the paladin pointed toward the Lieutenant, "have competent men that could've helped the situation. And, again, no offense to your husband, but the lives of many outweigh the life of one. Even if that one is a noble. If the gates were down because you feared the priest, whom we already dispatched, that was a most cowardly act.
“I need to understand why. What exactly happened here?
“And while we're here, my Cerian friend would be more than willing to offer his help in the aide of your husband."
Tobias turned to glare at Fitz, "Won't you priest?"
[F]
Tobias - you just put Fitz between a rock and a hard place - Fitz as you must know by now, has no care for nobles - not that he has any hatred - but he feels that title should be more than just a name, it should be followed up by deeds of action - the responsibility of a noble is to lead the common man - so the noble in Marchford would be a positive example to Fitz, however this noble is worthless - however, there is always the slim possibilities that the Minetown priest poisoned this man's abilities - most other priests may have no issues, however - if this noble turns out indeed to be a coward, Fitz will not lay a hand)…
Fitz cleared his throat. “Me lady, as my friend mentions, I am but a vassal for our beloved Mother Ceria. I am afraid that she does not have much time for cowards or those who have abandoned their loyalty to whom they served. We will walk with you to where your husband lay and while so doing we will hear fully the story of your husband and the events that led to the abandonment of thy people.
“As for healing him, I will leave judgment in Ceria's capable hands.”
[Ma]
Magnus, knowing his friends and how sometimes their zeal gets the better of their judgment, shifts himself as he talks letting the wands at his belt show. (Intimidate +1 - laughable I know but its there.)
"Good lady what my friend hear is trying to say is, that we have been fighting the Culites for some time. We have learned to be suspicious of all. Please accept my apologies. Perhaps you would be happy to know I have been sending missives to the King on our activities. We have been investigating and engaging in his name, since the beginning of the season.
“My friend the ‘Harvest Priest’ is in his holiest time of the month. If you can allow us a few questions to yourself and the Baronet, we can settle this rather quickly without unnecessary feelings hurt. I would ask one request, and that would be for my friend to cast a Zone of Truth upon all of us to speak freely in. Then perhaps my friend can find it in Ceria's graces to help the Baronet.”
[D]
Nothing on the Sense Motive, Motega, or the Wild Empathy check. Lemme know if I fail to address something here.
Lady Erica listened politely before answering the questions.
"I'm afraid we will not be needing your assistance within the walls, good sirs, as we remain uncertain as to your allegiance. My husband is not well, but neither shall he die within the hek. We shall await matters, if you will be so kind.
"And my husband would be the one to discuss why our gates were closed, for he gave that order during one of his lucid moments, and I am not privy to his thoughts and the information he receives.
"Again, Master Burn, you mention that you have been working in the King's Name. This is an impressive position, and one that commands respect. But I must ask - and please forgive me if this is seen as rude - do you truly work under His Name, and thus carry a Royal Writ? Or do you merely suggest your interests are the King's, just as you claimed your companion was a Lord, without truly being one?"
[Ma]
Magnus grimaced at the obvious disrespect Lady Erica carried. Still, he spoke again, “Lady, we work in the King's name through Sir Eddam, no doubt you have heard of the Siege at Marchford and the reclaiming of her. He has commissioned us to scout out the real intents of this Culite plot.
“You may contact him covertly if you like on your own to verify our identities; Lady Erigal in Dun Moor is aware of us as well. Though she would not be able to confirm or deny our mission through Sir Eddam.
“One of the things that have soured us on 'nobles' in our mission was actions of those Nobles within Dun Beric. Needless to say, they did not want to hear of the plots against the kingdom, almost as if they wouldn't mind it happening. It has raised our suspicions to say the least.
“In our travels, we were warned of the Cula Vak presence in town. At first we wanted to enter covertly, which we did posing as one of them. Upon witnessing their atrocities here, we knew we could not wait for the King or your husband to act. If we had waited longer your walls would have been next, if they haven't been infiltrated from below already.
“I believe you know my words to be true milady, and as I said to the Lieutenant that remains true. I never mistakenly use my words, as words are powerful if used properly. I'm sure the Lieutenant can attest to what he saw from my words during the battle. Don't think I didn't see the heads upon the battlements, watching what befell, even as I took the scouts out in the tree over there. And not one arrow fell upon the Orc and his three war dogs that rushed past this manor.
"We had even sent a message to your walls before the battle that remained unanswered until now."
"I look forward to your continued presence milady. We were about to sit for a meal if you would like to join us. If you need any supplies feel free to send some men down and we can help forage for them while we await word from the King or his emissary."
Magnus turned toward the inn, when suddenly a thought passed through his mind. "Excuse me milady, one more question if I may.
“Have you ever seen this fungus before?" Magnus removed one of the mushrooms cultivated from the quarry. "It seems the Culites were gathering them."
[Mo]
Motega snorted and turned to leave, giving Magnus a dark look as if to shut the hell up about Sir Eddam. "I am going to find our horses. We did what we could here. It’s time to move on."
Destan: I do want to go find the horses, but I also want to scout around outside the town. Possibly find the caves where the refugees were hiding out and specifically look for tracks that may have belonged to the smaller folk--halflings. +15 on survival.
[Ma]
Guess that's what I get for being up late typing that up. O Well what's done is done.
[D]
Motega finds the horses, but no other tracks - other than the old Vakken elves that you guys found with a horse-full of heads. The townsfolk that ran seem to have done a decent job of hiding, and they have not yet returned.
[SH]
The Lady Erica and the Lieutenant Jym turn back to the castle. Their horses trot away slowly, as if waiting for the Heroes to stop the departure again. Once within the walls, the heavy gates slam with a clank of finality.
=========================
[D]
I'm just moving this along so, whenever we next sit down, you guys (and I) will have an idea of what you plan to do next. I'm assuming that you allowed the Lady Erica and her Lt. to head back the castle.
The next day dawned clear and warm, the unseasonable cold having departed. The wind became refreshing, and stole some of the heat from the air.
A handful of peasants returned from the east, asking to speak with whoever it was that defeated the Vakkenfolk. The party found themselves conversing with four stout farmers, each wearing leather armor and carrying swords. Despite the fact that they looked unaccustomed to carrying arms and armor, they seemed proud - even defiant.
After watching the men wolf down huge piles of food at the tavern, the Heroes listened to their tale. It is an epic of bloodshed and woe. It seems that perhaps one hundred villagers had fled east, and no more than sixty now survive. The peasants blamed a few turncoats for most of their problems - it seemed a few villagers attempted to curry favor from the Culites by selling out the hiding places in the eastern woods.
The peasants begged your permission to bring their battered and tired families home.
One of the peasants told a story of how the Baronet's Lieutenant attempted to mount a sally against some Vakkens that had encamped below the castle's walls. The peasant claimed to have seen the fight from the trees to the south. Apparently, the Lt. was doing a damned good job until the horn blew from the castle - forcing him to call off his men and return. The gates closed, and that was the first and last the peasants saw any of the Baronet’s soldiers in the field.
Just as the farmer is finishing his tale, a cry erupted from outside. Byk, at your order, had organized a watch and a townsman was always within the tower of the church to watch the approaching roadways.
Byk cried, “A squad of horsemen wearing the colors of the king are thundering down the north road toward the village.”
With a look at one another, the party gathers their equipment and moved outside to meet them.
There were twenty men in addition to their captain. The captain was a tall, stern-looking man, wearing the emblem of Morduk proudly on his surcoat. He dismounted, handing his reins to one of his soldiers, and marched forward to stand before the group.
"I am Captain Dougal of the Stonetooth Lancers, sworn man of King Gavanor Tyne, and we have received word that trouble is afoot." He looked about at the destroyed homes and the last few traces of rising smoke. "It seems the word was true."
He studied all of you before allowing his gaze to rest squarely on Fitz and Tobias. "You two - you look to be men of good Rhelm stock. Tell me your names, and what part you played in this mess. Also, we seek one who calls himself Magnus Burn - do you know him?"
[F]
Oh - I so want to say, no I don't know anyone by the name of Magnus!
"Well Captain, good greetings to you, my name is Fitz and I come from the plains. This tale will be a bit in the telling, so why don't we move into the inn and I'll explain the situation..."
Fitz will throw a little diplomacy into the ring (+14) - and proceed to introduce our group (including Magnus) and explain the situation starting from Marchford up to Minetown including the lack of participation from the Baronet. Leave out anything to do with funky mushrooms for now - nor will I state anything about Tobias being a Paladin or our friendly neighborhood werewolf.
I'm curious if he offers any explanation on the Baronet's behaviour during our conversation or his take on the Morduk priest - particularly that he is wearing a symbol of Morduk - I would think he would be very interested in that part of the story.
Also - not knowing the chain of command and the messenger ability in Rhelm – but would the King have received prior notification about the dwem and scorpiots? Does he mention any confirmation of hearing about dwem attacks or the scorpiots or does he seem completely surprised during the telling of our story?
As mentioned - Fitz lays out the story - no need to go into great detail about Calyx either nor really any party member. Each can speak up for themselves if requested. Regards to the Baronet - Fitz remains neutral in that he states the facts - the gates were locked before/during battle and no assistance was had from the Baronet's men (in other words I won't call them a bunch of p*ssies or cowards - but I'll guide him to those conclusions if probed - a noble is a noble after all and I'll let him make judgment).
[D]
You have softened the old boy up. His face doesn't seem nearly as stern, and he commands some of his men to ride about and survey the town, whilst a few others tend to their horses. He is happy to eat with you within the tavern, and plans on visiting the Baronet only after he hears what you have to say on the matter.
[F]
Oh - prior to the captain we were eating with the a few returning peasants. During their story I encourage them to gather the remainder of those hiding and return to their homes and families. Fitz will speak to the innkeeper and arrange a fee for shelter and food for those currently homeless or in need. Up to 50 kings - I would imagine that should be plenty.
[Mo]
Motega will keep his thoughts to himself considering that the Righter here in town was corrupt. He will go and help guide the refugees back to Minetown. During that time he will ask them about halflings, mushrooms in the quarry, and the Whore's Nag.
[Ma]
What would the following modifier be?
Passing a note to someone using Sleight of Hand, so others do not notice?
But the receiver does notice.
Passer - Wearing robes
Receiver - Heavy Armor
Item being past - Folded one page note
When Passed - During a handshake, arm to arm style
Others - Other people are around but not actively looking for it.
[Mo]
Motega’s spot is +8 (with the -5 distracted penalty). If I am there to witness it and see it, I'm telling Fitz on him.
"Ooh, Ooh! Magnus passed a note! Magnus passed a note! Your in trouble now, Magnus!
[Ma]
Magnus is introduced to the Captain.
My reason for the Sleight of Hand question is, for passing a note to the Lt, hastily scribbled "Who gave the order of retreat? ~ Magnus" This would be passed when I apologize for my words and offer my hand in friendship.
Apology something like this, "Good Lt, I must offer my sincerest apologies to you concerning defending the town. I have heard of your battling the Cula Vak's outside the walls."
[Mo]
Motega is not there (so I can't be a tattle tale to Fitz) he is helping the rufugees back to town--what's left of them anyway.
Things he is asking the townsfolk:
1. What do they know of halflings?
2. What do they know of the Whore's Nag?
3. What do they know about the mushrooms?
My gather information sucks (-2 with the racial penalty), but I am hoping that by me helping them back to town, they may open up. My sense motive is good though +8 or something so I probably will know if they are lying. If I do sense somebody is not completely honest I will relate that to the party and mark him for a Heroes of Marchford sit down later on.
Also, I think we wanted to bring up the corrupt Morduk priest that got the commoner beat down.
[D]
Ok, lemme see if I can sum some stuff up. Read this then let me know what I failed to address.
* The Captain does not seem surprised to hear about dwem/scorpiots as you relate that information.
* The Captain remains impassive when hearing/discussing the Baronet's actions (or lack thereof).
* The Captain previously ordered his men to poke about town, and mentioned that he'll meet with the Baronet after first hearing/learning all he can.
* The Captain also remains impassive (he's got a good poker face) when hearing about the Morduk priest's involvement with the Culites.
* In short, you get the feeling the Captain is not going to show his hand or jump to conclusions until he gathers as much information as possible. This includes listening to your tales and, presumably later, listening to the reports his men bring back after poking through the village.
* The Captain does not let Fitz pay for rooms/food for returning peasants; he orders Abraham to put them up free of charge in the name of the King. Abraham does so.
* Motega learns this from the refugees he scares up: (1) Abraham's Inn was once known as the Whore's Nag - about 10 years ago; (2) Abraham was the barkeep, but the owner was a halfling that disappeared about 10 years ago, as well; (3) none of the peasants seem to know anything about "flying halflings".
* The Captain is polite and cordial enough, but you suspect he weights Fitz's words a bit more than anyone else's, perhaps due to his Diplomacy, or perhaps due to his religion. He obviously respects Tobias' size and Rhelmsman blood. He seems a bit uncertain how to view Magnus, but has remained very polite throughout.
Ok...what did I miss? If nothing, we can go from here.
[Ma]
I like the uncertainty about Magnus thing. If his men reported back to him the number of "Scorched Earth" areas and he knows all the reports were signed by "Archmage" it could add to that title, by the sheer firepower I threw down during the battle. Then add in my youthful appearance, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't believe who I say I am.
Magnus is behaving himself, letting Fitz do the talking. I'm going to say Magnus took a "20" on his Wisdom check to let the old man talk. He will answer any direct questions though.
I do have one question Destan, are any of the Villagers in the Common Room with us? Magnus will be curious for their reactions when we tell our tales.
[Mo]
To Destan: Any of the townsfolk know anything about mushrooms?
To the group: I think we need to have another talk with Abe. He told us before he knew nothing of halflings. It seems he was not completely honest.
[D]
You mean it ain't 'Honest Abe'?!? Arrgghhh!
Motega: Um...the townsfolk only know that the Culites were interested in the quarry north of town much more than the town itself. They think the town was only used to quarter Culites until they set up a place in the old mines outside the quarry. Since there's the "weird mushrooms" in the quarry, some of the townsfolk seem to think the Culites were interested primary in them. Who knows?
Magnus: There are a couple townsfolk in the bar (2-4), but they are giving your group and the Captain quite a bit of distance, and none of them appear to be listening - or, at least, let it be seen that they are trying to listen.
[Ma]
Only Motega knows about Abe right now right? Is he with us in the Inn, need a timeline from you, Destan how long til Motega's return? I assume he was on horseback doing it.
Destan, Magnus is interested in if anybody that looked like a caster came with them. If I can discretely excuse myself to the outhouse on my way back use Detect Magic 1 min/level = 7 minutes scanning for the courtyard and common room of the inn. I do not approach anything I notice. Just take note of it. I just have a really weird feeling something is here in the room with us.
[Mo]
Getting all the townspeople back may take most of the day so don't count on hearing from me until evening.
[D]
Magnus: You casting detect magic inside the inn, outside the inn, or waiting until Motega returns? You casting it "in the open" or trying to hide it?
[Ma]
Begin in the outhouse, keeping it up for the full 7 minutes walking back into the inn with it up. Treat as one round scans, walking slow (Concentration +9 Total). I will keep it up for the full 7 minutes unless I need to drop it for conversation, which I will be 'absent minded' looking. Any thing "suspicious" I will further the concentration on it (i.e. additional rounds of study).
[D]
Magnus detects a couple bits of magic about the Captain – his sword, his boots, a ring. Transmutation, transmutation, and abjuration. Also, Magnus detects an odd "sphere" of magic – about the size of a basketball - floating slightly off-center and about 10-20' above the Captain's head. Whatever it is, it isn't moving, and it's invisible to the naked eye.
[F]
Fitz when finished telling his tale looks at the captain (whose only response during the entire conversation was to acknowledge the dwem and scorpiots) and asks a question (or maybe two)
"I thank thee, good captain, for listening to my news. I have two questions of my own - has the King received reports of dwem and scorpiots on the King's lands in other places…”
[D]
Captain: "Yes, yes, we have received reports. It's not just us. Seems the Carriks are getting hit a bit, too. Most of the worsT news from from up by way of Hammer and Anvil, near Rorim's Gap.
Whatever it was, however, it seems to have died off recently. Not nearly as many reports. Maybe it was just a little mass uprising; them underdark folk can never seem to stay organized together for very long, thank Morduk."
[F]
Fitz says: "...and secondly - we've run into another mercenary group which called themselves the Black Reaver's - we believe that they were or are based out of Tarn Cal and up to no good - have you any experience with this organization?"
[D]
Captain: "Personally, no. But I know the name - and that ain't good. Because if I heard of 'em, it means they're good at what they do. Sounds to me like you merely defended yourself, so they shouldn't be in a tussy to come and get ya. Lots of mercenary companies lounge about up in Tarn Cal; most rich folk head there to hire them...or Truceton, of course - cheap sellswords there.”
The Captain finishes his meal, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stands. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I thank you for your service thus far, and kindly request you remain available and within Minetown for a day or two. I must go outside and speak with my men. We will be billeting in the Church. I trust we can meet tomorrow to break our fast, and then discuss next steps. Is this agreeable, friends?"
[Ma]
Magnus: "Yes Captain, I'm finalizing another report right now would you like to see
it. Please. Just have to add my signature to it," hastily signing SCRYING SPY RIGHT NOW underlining it.
As a Wizard player I recognize the old Wizard Eye spell. I'm assuming between Knowledge Arcana and Spellcraft (+15 each with Synergy of +2) I can get this one. I can only guess Fitz and Tobias understand what I'm doing. They might try to stop me…don't know, its up to them.
[D]
Magnus: Yep - you would know it's a Scry spell.
The Captain sees your note and borrows your quill to add his own line. "I know, Master Burn."
He looks up, smiles, and returns your quill. "It's my back-up in case you and your friends turned out to be...bad guys. Good night, sirs."
[Ma]
Magnus: "Glad to know that Captain, I do strive to know who listens when I speak. Not many ever take me seriously due to my youth." Magnus is smiling now, feeling like the cat that got the canary.
"One last thing Captain, the Lieutenant... he did not call the retreat into the castle. According to the villagers we talked to he was fighting valiant when the order came.
"We look forward to you meeting you again in the morning, let your men know one of ours went out for the other villagers and should be returning by morning."
It feels good being right.
==========================
Chapter 13: Family, Responsibility, and Voyage
A little shorter than usual...but no less enjoyable because of it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The Heroes were gathered once again in ‘Honest’ Abe’s Inn, that establishment that had once been the Whore’s Nag before the owner had disappeared nearly a decade prior. The morning sun was peeking through the windows as the loud din of dozens of refugees feasting—on the King’s dollar by order of Captain Dougal—swelled into a cacophonous noise of metal against bowl against teeth.
Motega had returned the prior night, ragged, dirty and with dozens of “lost” villagers tailing behind him—a living, snake that had stretched into the plains and forests of the east. The villagers had joined their brethren, happy but tired, in the few remaining rooms of the Inn and once those were filled, in the stables with the horses of the Heroes of Minetown and Marchford.
The heroes were sat around their table, their kingdom, among their people. They were saviors, respected and admired by all the folk now feasting. Glances from the people, grins and jokes made their chests swell with pride. Tobias seemed the only unaffected by the joy. A dark shadow was forming behind his eyes.
The door for the Inn swung open, barely denting the noise. A young, clean-shaven man strode inn. His chest was pushed out with pride for his position. Upon his shoulder, the King’s symbol broke the mute brown of his leather armor. His bright eyes locked quickly upon the heroes. His feet pushed him toward their table.
Without pause, the soldier knelt and spoke simultaneously, “Good sirs, the Captain regrets he cannot attend a morning meeting. He has sent word to the Baronet demanding an audience, and now discusses the matter with his advisors. Should the Baronet reply - and we have no reason to think he would not - the Captain will immediately send for you. He wishes you to accompany him at the proposed meeting.” With a nod he stood, both attentive and relaxed.
Fitz turned toward the boy while keeping one eye on the mage. Magnus was swallowing the last gulp of a large mug of beer. Somehow, the talkative, and cocky, and demanding mage managed to utter a few syllables with his mouth and throat still have full with the beer. Fitz opened his own mouth, drowning the garbled words of his compatriots. “Thank you, good sir. Return to your commander and assure him we will be ready when he has need for us.”
The soldier cast a glance at Magnus, whose face was reddening slightly, before pivoting to exit.
“I could’ve handled that,” he murmured.
“Sure you could have,” Fitz chuckled. He drank from his own mug. “Just as you showed your childishness to the Captain last night with your OOH, I’m going to write a message on this note and tell the Captain something he already knows! I’m so smart!”
Magnus coughed. Motega grinned.
“I am smart,” Magnus grumbled. “Why don’t you drink a little more harvest priest? It seems to swell your…pride. We don’t need a coward traveling with us.”
“Shut up, mage,” Motega growled. “Your smart, sure. You did well in the battle. But you’re cocky. Besides, no matter how much Fitz drinks, his balls will never be larger than mine.”
Tobias finally grinned, his focus returning to the playful conversation. “Bah. I’m a paladin and I can’t lie. My balls are bigger than…”
The door to the inn slammed open as a rough gust of wind tore into building. The din, which had quieted slightly for the soldier, fell to complete silence.
She, for it was a woman that strode proudly in, wore fading finery with exquisitely cut jewels sparkling on each long finger. A single strand of blonde uncurled from her brow, from the prison-like bun that trapped the remainder of her hair behind her head. That strand caught the blue in her eyes, amplifying it before falling to her shoulder.
Behind her followed two giant men dressed in chain. Each paused, to try to fit through the door. Magnus recognized them immediately and he murmured, “Gordians…”
The two brutes gave a weary eye to the crowds before moving to flank the lady. A third man then entered. He was slightly shorter and thinner the two brutes, but no the less imposing. Around his torso, a fashionable cloak made from a Gordian panther dangled along with a dozen or more wooden figurines.
The assembly was quiet as the lady took one more step forward. With her voice, resonant but trembling, sultry and noble she stated, “I have come in search of the Heroes of Marchford, and am in need. I shall pay for information pointing me in their direction.”
Magnus grinned as he stood. “How much ye paying there Lady?” A few of the commoners chuckled but not at the mage’s word so much as the fact that the paladin stood up slowly behind him. A soft thud echoed around the common room as Tobias’ hand cracked into the mage’s skull.
“Keep your coins in your purse, Lady.” Tobias glowered at the mage. “We are those that you seek.” Tobias focused, demanding his divine sense stretch outward and toward the arrivals…
=====================
The Lady’s eyes stretched wide in suspicion as they danced from Magnus to Tobias. Motega glanced at the woman, his face devoid of attention and turned his glance to the paladin. Tobias’ head shook, a small shake recognizable only to the party: No evil. Motega gave the appearance of relaxing his guard as he slouched back in the chair a bit; contrary to his appearance, his eyes showed his overly alert nature.
Fitz sighed. Ceria? Have I offended you?, he questioned silently. I am forced to work with an angel-worshipper, a werewolf and a power-greedy mage. Let them never say you do not work in mysterious ways. The priest watched as a serving woman removed his empty tankard, replacing it with a fresh mug. He picked up the mug and with a quick murmur of, “Praise Ceria,” began to drown his confusion.
The Lady smiled, worriedly, to cover her confusion. The appearance of the Heroes was not as she had expected, with the exception of the armor clad man. His armor was bright and polished, as if it were used for courtly duties and not the tales that had spread so far north…
"Sirs, I am Lady Carnelloe,” she began again with her rich, sultry voice, “and I have heard of your exploits. It appears you have engaged in some rather...interesting...activity here, as well. I seek your assistance, and I shall pay you handsomely for your services should you agree.” Her eyes quickly caught the flash of smile in the boy that had spoken to her first. The man behind him, Tobias obviously, grimaced a bit as his eyes darkened.
She coughed, lowering her voice. "I would prefer to speak in private, as the matter I must discuss is personal." With a suspicious glare at the villagers she added, "Perhaps you have a private room in this…place?"
Lady Carnelloe turned to the brutes standing behind her and nodded. The two larger men broke off from their flanking positions. They moved slowly toward the bar, to order food and drink. The few villagers in the way were quick to part. The Gordian in the panther cloak stepped up beside her.
"Forgive me, this man," she gestured to the Gordian, "He is Mikal of the Grove. He is a subject of my husband and an advisor to us both. I would have him offer his insight to our discussion, if you are willing."
[1]
Tobias placed a hand on Magnus’ shoulder, indicating the mage should sit as he did the same. “We are always willing to hear someone out,” the paladin claimed.
“Are you sure we cannot go somewhere more discreet?”
“These people,” Tobias stated, pointing to the crowd, “Are our people. They mean you no threat and the vacancies of this inn are for their benefit, not ours. We can speak here.”
Carnelloe’s lip quivered but she had Mikal move an extra chair to the table. She sat, on edge, and allowed the Gordian to stand just behind and to the right. “My husband owns an estate up Raider’s Bay. Many years ago, during the Civil War, my husband’s ancestors did not throw their lot in with Rhelm.” The mage grimaced, she noticed.
“At least, not fast enough to make any of the rebels happy. Since, we have been shunned—even by the King. I am searching for outside aid…and I came first to Minetown because the Baronet is a distance cousin. It was when we docked in Victorsburg that we heard tale of ‘The Heroes of Marchford’. So, now, I beg you for your aide.”
“Tell us what the problem is already,” Fitz slurred.
“I’ll pay you handsomely…”
“The problem already,” Tobias interrupted.
Mikal grimaced, his hand tightening on the back of the chair. She patted his hand. “We own an old keep atop a rocky promontory, just off the coast of the fiefdom. Harpies have taken to nesting in the keep. Every now and then, they’ll come inland to steal chickens, a goat or two, and occasionally even a shepherd.
“It is not so bad, usually, except my husband decided to play the hero and relive his ‘adventuring days’. With a band of his most loyal and old retainers, he set off to cleanse the foul keep of the harpies. He hasn’t returned,” Lady Carnelloe sniffled, lifting a handkerchief to blot her eyes.
“Then…two weeks ago, I was visited by a hooded figure. They said if I did not produce a key for my husband’s lockbox, my two daughters would be murdered. I’ve been given one month.” The Lady burst solidly into tears, covering her eyes. Mikal grimaced yet again.
Motega’s scrutinizing glare did not relent; neither did the Carnelloe’s tears for several minutes.
“I know my husband is probably dead. He carried the key with him at all times…”
“How long ago did your husband depart?” Magnus queried.
“Several months ago. Look, I am willing to go into debt to save the life of my children. I really, really need your help. No one else will help. The King will not and my husband’s former soldiers will not. The Baronet was my last chance, but he will not even see us.
“I have a galley moored to the docks. We will be leaving in the morning. If you can help, the fee is negotiable. Otherwise I will have to search other towns along the coast…”
“Look,” Motega butted in. “Lady, I do not speak for our ka-tet, but we have pledged service to the Rhelm king,” Motega eyed Magnus hard, "I do not know how that affects us aiding you and I am not in the practice of sh*tting where I eat. If we agree to your terms, we will be at the docks before you set sail. Leave us now as we have other matters to discuss."
The Lady’s jaw dropped. Mikal’s arm rose until Carnelloe’s long fingers wrapped around his arm, delaying the attack. “No, Mikal, perhaps they are not the Heroes we have heard of. Maybe they are though.” Turning to the group, she spoke, “I hope you will consider my proposal. The ship is the ‘Vigilance’.”
Lady Carnelloe stood. With a nod, the other two Gordians detached themselves from the bar and their six empty tankards. They moved to the door, allowing the Lady to step through that door first, and into the lengthening morning.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobias flashed Motega a questioning glance but it was Magnus, as was usual, that broke the silence. “I think we should tell the Captain that the Baronet will not even see family." The mage glanced through the Inn’s window as Lady Carnelloe and her entourage strode away. "There is something deeper afoot then just the Culites I think.
"If we can get the situation here straightened out, do you want to accompany the Lady? I see no harm in helping her, and it will allow us to scout the Northern lands. Did not the Captain say they were harder hit in that direction?" Magnus lowered his voice and hissed, "Also, I think we need to tell him about the mushrooms. They will need to be guarded against the Culites."
The mage raised his voice again, and took a long sip from his mug. "I think assisting the Lady will beneficial to both her and us." Fitz rolled his eyes, but Magnus could not see the gesture.
"Mage,” Motega growled, “As far as getting on a ship and helping this woman, you have pledged our services to the King. This is not something to be taken lightly. Then again, I do not like being toyed with.
“I say we talk to this Captain and have him excuse us from this mess once and for all if he truly speaks for the King. Culites be damned. Unlike you, I have no need for titles and care little for the politics here in Rhelm. If this woman's currency is good and she has a just cause, I say we sail out in the morning. If it is not just, we will exact payment by bedding her and her daughters." Tobias nearly spit his drink out. Fitz chortled.
The mage, however, looked almost insulted. "I have sworn none of you to the service of Rhelm; but, yes, I support my King. The Dwem attacks were an attack on our Kingdom, and apparently other countries from what we have heard.
“All I have done is for our own good, as well as Rhelm’s and even the Rorn’s.” The Rornman scoffed. Clearing his throat, Magnus continued, “Currently my goals lie in Rhelm's safety. I do not like what I'm hearing about the Baronet, yet I see this Lady Carnelloe as more than someone to bed like a savage."
The mage stared coldly at the Rorn. "In the Rorn, you have titles you respect just the same as here, like Chief of the Tribe or 'Son' of the Chief. By gaining title, we can lay claim to our own wealth with more than just might of arms. Sometimes one must use their head instead of their brawn.
"As long as we are called 'heroes', people will call for our aid. There lies our advantage. By gaining title now, we can collect more in reward later." He turned to Fitz, "Does not planting the seed in spring, bring a good harvest in the fall? How much more good can you do, if it weren't for the likes of Minor Nobles basically spitting on you in Dun Beric."
“Tobias, Justice could spread under your name.
“And, Motega,” the mage spit, as he lifted his glass with a rueful grin, "with title you can bed even more women as well as drink their husbands cellar's dry."
The ranger sputtered and grinned. He lifted his own mug and smashed it against the mage’s. As the two downed their drinks, Tobias interrupted, “Hear that?”
“Yes, horses,” Fitz replied. The cleric stood from the table, toppling his mug in the process. Hastily, he grabbed his scythe.
The door to the inn swung open again, with the Captain pouring through the doors in a suit of half-plate he had not worn in the first visit. “All right, good sirs,” he bellowed as he stepped twice toward their table. “I've let this damned Baronet stew long enough. Time to taste what's been simmering. Two letters and two messengers haven't got him to open his gates; let's see what we can do.”
The Captain did a precise pivot to leave and called over his shoulder, "You're welcome to come, but don't be provokin' anything. This is a probe, nothing more—I won't have more Rhelm blood spilled if I can help it.” He grinned as he patted his blade, “And I can."
Without waiting for a response, he turned back toward the door. He stepped out of the inn, ignoring the silence he had brought upon its customers.
The mage was the first to stand. “Well I'm going." He slid a wand into each of his bracers. “The Lady doesn't leave till tomorrow. There is plenty of time to both raid the castle and bed the women.” Tobias moved to silently follow. The paladin drew his blade with a barely noticeable shake of his head and a sigh.
“This is going to be interesting,” the priest murmured.
Motega stood and patted Fitz on the shoulder. "I am glad that the talk of bedding women got his interest, I was beginning to wonder about the boy. Thought he might continue where that ogre left off on poor Netto that day.” The two companions burst into laughter as they exited the inn.
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 15:01:59 GMT -5
* * *
"Master Burn, I presume?” The man was old and dressed only in fine robes. They looked hard worn, probably from recent travel but still held a fine cut with the King’s color embroidered upon the shoulder. “I do apologize, but I cannot scry a location. A person, if they are known to me, but not a location. Come now, and stay close."
"Yes, I am Magnus Burn, and no I didn't make the name up,” the mage blathered. “I was named after my grandfather and father; both were bakers in Victorsburg. Though I guess I did live up to it here, in Minetown." Magnus chuckled a bit. "It's good to see the man behind the 'eye' that was watching me."
“Yes, well. I was actually watching the Captain, not you,” the other wizard replied quickly with a curt grin. “You may call me Ebbem, not that you’ve asked.” He smiled again as they easily fell into a discourse on magic. Magnus was young, probably too young for the power he had amassed so far. Ebbem was quick to judge.
Still, with some training, Magnus could be great. Assuming of course, he lasted past his twentieth year. Ebbem sighed as he refocused the whole of his attention on the conversation…
* * *
Magnus and Ebbem quieted at a look from the Captain as the band of over twenty men approached the Baronet’s portcullis.
The Captain stepped toward the gates. He glanced through the bars and stepped a pace back. "Hail! I am Captain Dougal of the Stonetooth Lancers, sent and traveling under the order of King Gavanor Tyne, the Lord of Rhelm. I ask that you admit our party for discussions pertaining to the events that recently transpired here!" he bellowed. The Captain took another respectable step away, listening intently.
Around the party, only a slight wind whistled. No noises issued from the castle, which seemed deserted. No guardsmen approached the gates.
Dougal cleared his throat with a rough cough. “Baronet, we have word that you are quartered within but are ill. I assure you I mean only to discuss matters, and not pass judgment. That is not place, nor my station. I say again—open the gates!”
Again, no sound but the wind surrounded the group.
“Dammit!” Dougal shouted. “Lady Erica! Can you hear me? I know someone is within, listening. If there is trouble inside those walls, we will do what we can to solve it. I'll ask nicely...one...last...time!"
The Captain waited a minute for some response, any response. “Well, f*ck me red,” he murmured as he turned to look at his men. His eyes glanced through the ranks, focused on the Heroes and finally settled on Ebbem. “Nobody home?”
The wizard fumbled for a moment with his robes and removed out a glass eye. Carefully, he lifted it to his face, murmuring an incantation. His face dropped in color, becoming ashen. “T-trouble sir.”
"What kind of trouble, wizard? Speak!"
Ebbem opened his mouth, but vomited upon the ground. “Bodies in the courtyard,” he spat with a fat glob of phlegm. “Blood. Looks like they’ve been dead for awhile. Both soldiers and peasant folk, it looks like. They’ve been torn up fairly bad.”
"Can you move your sight around in there?"
"No, sir - only can rotate it around. The whole courtyard...it's a mess."
“The keep's gate? How is it?"
The wizard focused, nearly turning his head as his sensor swung about. "Closed. All the doors are closed. I don't see anything else in there. Nothing moving, at any rate."
Dougal cursed. His blade had crept into his hand, where it looked most natural. "Fine, we've got problems. I'm not one who like seeing good Rhelmsfolk lay butchered, and I'm really not one who likes seeing it without knowing who did it, or why. So, it's suggestion time. If you got something you wanna say, say it. Any of you."
“Well,” Fitz stated. “I did say this was going to be interesting…”
Magnus blurted, "With magical aid I can scout the area. Captain, I will allow your mage to scry on me only, I do not trust him or you well enough for anything more. Fitz can provide me with anything else I will need." The priest grumbled at the mention of his name.
“I’ll approve the plan,” Tobias added. “Take Motega, too. I don’t want you alone in there mage.” Dougal nodded.
Quickly, Magnus cast fly and haste on the Rornman. “Over the fence, unlock the gates, and scout ahead but not too far,” he suggested as he began his own spider climb incantation. “Ebbem, were they butchered or slashed with a blade?”
Dougal’s mage sighed as he glanced into the glass eye again. “Looks like…they were shredded. I’m not sure; I’ve never seen anything like it. You’ll wish you hadn’t either,” he spit as he pulled the eye away.
The Rornman half-leapt, half-flew over the wall as the two mages conversed. He landed silently in a crouch and rolled forward. His eyes scanned several of the nearby carcasses. The wounds were jagged tears, deep. Each body had died with fear etched onto its face, permanently. Motega sniffed the air but caught no unusual scents.
The mage was quick to ascend the wall. He dropped, not nearly as quietly but quietly enough, next to the Rorn.
“The pack did not do this,” Motega murmured. “If my nature is discovered, it could be bad for all of us. If there is…incriminating evidence, I’d like to keep that from the Captain.”
“Your secrets are safe with me.” The mage leaned down and lifted a strange feather betwixt his fingers. “"Let us find out what happened here, I have a couple of fireballs to cover your retreat if you need. I will stay about sixty feet behind you or within sight. Hopefully we can find out what happened.
“Let’s get those gates open, first.” The pair moved to a large device around which a length of chain was tightly bonded. Motega did most of the pushing. The chain lurched around the spindle, lifting the portcullis slowly.
Once the gate was high enough, Tobias and Fitz strode into the courtyard. The paladin held his blade in his hands and upon his face was a stern gaze. He turned his head left and right, scanning the distance.
Magnus looked at Fitz and asked, “Will Ceria let you speak with one of them today? Try, if you can. I’m going to assist Motega.”
“I cannot today, mage.” Fitz grumbled.
Dougal and his men flooded into the courtyard to surround Fitz and Tobias as Magnus and Motega stalked deeper within the walls of the castle…
==============================
“Nothing to be done,” Fitz stated coldly. The cleric lifted Motega’s flask, draining the last of the whiskey. In his other hand, he twirled one of the clues to the carnage, a feather.
“Nothing at all,” Captain Dougal agreed. The Captain’s face, previously resolute and stoic, mirrored the Heroes’ looks. All wore tight, drawn expressions devoid of hope or happiness. “How many exactly?”
“Too many,” Magnus replied. “Too many dead.”
From behind the gathering at the gates of the estate, random wailing sounded within the courtyard. A number of townsfolk were attempting to identify the bodies of their fallen brothers, children and lovers. No one within the walls, save for a few missing individuals, were spared from the massacre. Some of the bodies that had been found were mutilated beyond recognition. Strange feathers and gigantic bird-like claw marks had littered the ground and bodies.
Tobias shuddered as a cool breeze clawed its way eastward from the bay. He opened his mouth, but quickly shut it instead of speaking. Words could not describe the scene.
“Birds,” Motega growled.
“Demonic, I think,” Fitz nodded. He lifted the flask, trying to drag a few last drops from its interior.
“The Lady, her Lieutenant, the Baronet, and a few other castle members are missing,” Ebbam spoke as he moved from within the walls. “Everyone else is dead. The treasury has been ransacked, hastily it looks. But whoever did the stealing had a key; none of the chests were broken. It just looked as though they were in a hurry to leave.”
“I claim the remaining treasury for the King,” Dougal stated unenthusiastically. “Were there any signs of…what was the state of the Baronet’s room?”
Ebbem sighed. “The door, like many others, was naught but splinters. However, there was no blood in the room itself.”
“Murder, thievery, and kidnapping,” Dougal growled. “The King will not be pleased.”
“I think…whatever it was that did this was gated in,” Ebbem hypothesized.
The Rornman nodded in acquiescence. “There are no tracks outside of the walls. They appear in the courtyard and vanish in the Baronet’s chambers.”
“Not to get off subject,” Ebbem spoke as he turned to Magnus, “but I’m going to need one of those mushrooms you found.”
“You think they’re linked?”
“Better safe than sorry at this point.” Ebbem held out his hand in anticipation; Magnus quickly complied.
“Captain,” Magnus said, “I believe our plan is to accompany the Lady Carnelloe to her holdings. She reported possible Harpies in an abandoned keep where her husband is being held for ransom.
"We intend to assist her in recovering her husband, but I believe they were a House out of favor with the King, if I'm not mistaken."
“That's a cursed family if there ever was one,” the Captain snorted. “Surprised they still hold land and title, to be honest.”
"Maybe after we help her, we could convince her to send some of her Men-at-arms down here to assist your skeleton garrison in rebuilding the town?"
“Make sure you see their gold before you go tromping off into the northern wilderness, mage. Her husband’s probably just boarded up with a whore or two; it wouldn’t be the first time with that family. But, the King won’t give one pem’s ass whether you help them or not. And, he won’t want their help, either.” Dougal grimaced, clearing his throat, and spitting upon the ground. “But if that’s what you want to do, I won’t stop you.”
Magnus looked at the ground, contemplative for a moment, before glancing back toward Ebbem. The mage pulled out a fresh scroll and a quill, jotting upon it quickly. “My mark, so that you might recognize any letter from me. We will send word if we find out more information that might be of use.
“Captain, I’d like to recommend Netto in helping lead the town, when he returns. He is a good man in a storm of difficulty.”
Tobias’ frown deepened at the mage’s words. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, “I disagree with you mage, which happens a lot less often than you may think. Netto would not be a good choice. He needs time to heal, mentally if not physically, from his ordeals. Entrusting any sort of power in his hands before he has come to terms with his experiences, would be ill-advised. I don't want to return and have to remove him from power at some later point.”
Dougal also smirked. He allowed the paladin to say his piece before he spoke, “This ain't a democracy. I'll be picking who rules this place in the name of the King. I was thinking of grabbing one of those peasants that showed some spine during the resistance. Also, I'll be leaving my Sergeant...to advise as necessary.”
“Well, Netto was,” Magnus interjected.
“Not a part of the battle for the same reasons,” Tobias countered. The paladin looked at the Captain. A storm welled within his eyes, a deep dark shadow against the blue. As it passed, Tobias stood a little taller and spoke a little deeper. “Captain Dougal, I request you leave me in charge of Minetown until the King can send a permanent replacement. After which time I may decide to stay on to work with the nobility.” The Captain’s eyes widened, twitching, but Tobias gave him no time to interject.
“You may think me too young for the request, but what I lack in age, I make up in the experiences I have with my friends, my ka-tet. And with your sergeant to aide me, I truly doubt any other would be better at the task. I have battle experience and leadership experience. Plus, I know there are doubts about where our loyalties lie. We are not common mercenaries, especially since we've only accepted payment for our first mission which was for intelligence. Since then, we have done what we've felt was right, for Marchford, for Minetown, and for the whole of Rhelm. If I were to stay, it could alleviate some of the mistrust we've experienced, for example from the nobles of Dun Moor.” The paladin took a deep breath and turned from the shocked Captain to his friends. Each of their sets of eyes were stretched wide in surprise as well, except Fitz whose slight inebriation kept his eyes from opening fully.
"My ka-tet. I have enjoyed my travels with you. I consider you all family. If I were to leave with you and we returned at a later date to see this town ravaged like Marchford, I could not live with myself knowing I could've been here to avert any sort of disaster. I will NOT see another Marchford event occur. My place is here, one way or the other. It is my responsibility.
"I will always await your return, perhaps later in my life we will meet and we can travel again. But for now, my place is here. So, forgive me my friends if you feel I am abandoning you. I'm sure you all will choose a noble path and if you don't, I'll be seeing you sooner than later." Tobias broke a grin after his threat, probably more to cover the slight watering of his eyes....
=========================
“Mage,” Dougal grunted with a stern look on his face, “Write a report of what you've done here, and what you've seen, if you want. I'll take it to my superiors. May even be some money in it for you, may be just more questions. Your call. I'll leave in the morning, regardless."
The captain shifted his stern gaze to Tobias, letting his frown deepen in the silence. “Men up north say you earn what you spill, and all stories point to the fact that you and your companions have spilled plenty blood hereabouts. I'll not gainsay your offer to be placed in charge. In fact, if the majority of townsfolk agree, you'll have my blessing.
"But, know this: The post is temporary. You won't be paid. My sergeant follows your orders unless he feels lives are at stake, in which case he has my leave to countermand whatever orders you may offer.
“Also, the townsfolk may vote you out of your position, if they so choose, in which case my sergeant will hold the fort until a replacement arrives. If the Baronet returns in the meantime, you be polite, but you do not return his castle to him. And, obviously, if someone bearing the King's writ comes here with different orders, you follow 'em.
“No preaching your paladin sh*t, either.” The Captain scowled and sighed as he waved an older soldier over. “This is Sergeant Suth. He's ugly, but he's good during a fight and better after one. I'm not in the practice of putting my men's lives at stake under some unknown youth, so don't be thinking Suth will follow you blindly wherever you be pointing.” Captain Dougal stood and grabbed Suth by both shoulders.
“Help the lad out, do what you can. If he blows it, you take control. No whoring for a while, eh? We'll send someone down this way soon to straighten things out. Be careful who you open those gates for, but be just as quick to get out of there if the sh*t explodes again.”
Dougal glanced around. "Complaints? Speak 'em if you got 'em. Otherwise I'm heading around to see if the townsfolk are fine with this situation.” Dougal paused a moment to digest the stunned silence. He shook his head and added, “Send a group to start mopping up the guts,” as he moved off toward the town.
Silence.
The Heroes exchanged quiet glances. Ebbem moved away from the group, along with Suth, to aid in cleansing of the courtyard.
Motega spoke first. “I respect your decision. You are an honorable man, my brother. The most honorable man I have met since I left my homeland. I shall miss you.” The Rorn clapped his hands against the paladin’s shoulders and stepped away. He glanced toward his fellows.
“You don’t have to do this,” Magnus uttered. His eyes were red-rimmed.
“I do,” Tobias replied. “I cannot abide another massacre. We rescued them. At least one of us has to remain to make sure everything is order. It will not be forever.”
“I can only mirror Motega’s sentiments,” Fitz stated. The cleric handed the empty flask back to the Rorn. “You are a good man despite your deviant faith.” They exchanged a grin.
“I’ll miss your occasional bouts of wisdom, too, priest.” Tobias sighed. “I will need whatever equipment you cannot take to train the men of the town. And I would like to keep the jeweled dagger.”
“That dagger?” Magnus asked. “It’s just a simple dagger with a few gems!”
“Yes,” Tobias confirmed. “I will pass it on to the new ruler whenever he arrives. It is a symbol of the battle and our hand in it. Whoever holds the dagger will know of our hand in the freeing of this town. Whoever holds the dagger will be held accountable for any ills that befall. Whoever holds the dagger will answer to me.” The paladin relaxed his suddenly tense face and smiled sadly. “I will miss traveling with all of you.”
“I still say you need not do this,” Magnus sighed as he handed the dagger over.
Tobias stepped in close to the mage. He whispered, “Let some sense of right and wrong guide you in your travels, mage. I know you quest for power, but never forget your responsibilities. I will not be there to guide you.” The paladin stepped away.
“Until our travels bring us together again,” Tobias said. With a brief nod, he turned to join the soldiers in the keep.
The remaining three Heroes stood for an extra moment, taking in the scene, before moving toward the Inn.
------------------------------------
The next morning was one of farewells.
Captain Dougal spent the morning in private conversation with his sergeant, until he and most of his horsemen thundered northward toward Rhelm. The town grew quieter, possibly less secure, without their presence.
Tobias walked the three toward the docks. Lady Carnelloe waved from the prow of a large, bulky river barge. Her eyes were alight with hope. If nothing else, it appears one woman was made happy with the decision.
Tobias shook Motega’s, Fitz’s and finally Magnus’ hands in turn. "I'll be fine," he murmured. The paladin’s face held a look he had not worn too often. They all have difficulty accepting the fact he wants to stay in Minetown, but he seems set upon that path.
So be it.
Tobias strode away toward the keep, leaving his friends in a circle of silence.
Fitz sighed. "Three of us, now. Where there used to be eight."
Motega shrugged, grabbing his pack, and makes his way up the barge's gangway. Fitz followed and, then Magnus.
As the young wizard was about to step aboard, a lone horseman comes thundering back. Ebbem, Dougal’s mage, rode onto the wooden planking and hands Magnus a scroll. "Your letter, signed by the Captain. Might help with some nobles, but don't bet on it. Rhelm is far away from some of the fiefs."
Magnus grinned and nodded his thanks.
The Lady Carnelloe showed the three Heroes to their room. The room was a cramped, square den
beneath the barge's topside deck. A thin trail of water seeped through the walls. At least the dampness kept the room at a comfortable temperature. The day promised to be a hot one.
The Heroes turned as one as a retching sound drifted through the other side of the wall followed closely by a gaggle of laughter. A questioning look was shared.
Motega quirked an eyebrow. "Either someone's got the plague, or someone had a rough night."
Almost on cue, the door bursts open. Fitz and Motega leapt up armed, even as Magnus readied a spell. A tall, thin Gordian wobbled into the frame of the doorway. Actually, the man was too large for the doorway to frame him. He ducked, still managed to bump his head on the frame, and stumbled in to collapse on the nearest straw pallet.
"Mind...mind if I sleep some here? Damn bastards won't leave me be,” he slurred.
Fitz frowned. "You are sick?"
"Mmmm, could say that. Too much-"
"Drink." Motega finished. The Rornman shook his head. The smell of alcohol was nearly overpowering. "I think I'm gonna head topside."
Magnus followed Motega out, a humored smirk on his face. Fitz, accustomed to the smell of
battlefield rot and his own suppression, was less bothered. The priest sat and began to murmur a prayer to Ceria. When the Windword finishes, he looked toward the Gordian. "I am Fitz, a priest of Ceria."
His introduction was greeted only by a low moan.
"You are?"
“Still drunk," the Gordian slurred. “Name’s Drake.”
Fitz considered casting a minor healing spell on the man, then decided against it. He shifted to his feet, grabbed his scythe, and moved to stand with his fellows.
The barge pushed out into Raider's Bay and began a slow journey northward. Five oarsmen worked either side of the vessel, save when the ship skimmed along a sandbar, and they had to break out poles to make better time.
It was going to be a long trip.
=============================
Sleep or death seemed the only choices. Yet, the Gordian Drake maintained some semblance of consciousness beneath his heavy lids, behind the shifting kaleidoscope of memories and thoughts of his alcohol-drowned mind.
His memories, often stirred by the drink, focused again on the defining moments of his life.
Barbarians, mercenaries or worse, others labeled his race. But they had an honor the greedy, finicky Rhelmsmen could never understand.
The Bear. His dreams always returned to that gigantic, black beast.
He had been fourteen, not yet a man, and still a runt among his clan. They had given him a sickle, a simple farming tool, and sent him into the fierce Gordian wilderness. A winter so harsh, no Rhelmsman could have survived. A Rornman could have, but they had thicker blood than those of Rhelm.
He had been fourteen and on his own, traversing the sharp inclines and scavenging for food. Instructed to not return, he traveled until he had conquered the beast that walked both in his soul and upon the lands of men. His ancestors were to guide him in his quest and so he was given neither sustenance nor protection aside from the rusted blade.
Naked, he had stalked the forests until the beast found him.
It found him on the seventh day. The bear had awoken hungry during the middle of its hibernation. Out of the cave it had charged the man-child.
In that moment, Drake had felt the spirits of his ancestors guiding his hand. He had known fear as he slid under a swiping claw. He had tasted blood as the rough sickle rubbed through the fierce hide.
He felt and tasted both again. His inebriated hands struggled to unbind the weapons that were hidden under the cloak he slept in.
The blade had tripped the bear up, allowing the boy to move past, unharmed. The beast’s momentum carried the bear forward and Drake found himself in the air. The sickle plunged down into the base of the beast’s skull.
As one, they fell.
The sickle dug deeper.
And then Drake was alone, atop his kill. The fierce winds, numbing his body, forced him into action. Calling upon his ancestors’ guidance, he peeled the flesh from the creature, wrapping himself. He severed the meaty thighs and cooked them over a fire he had started with naught but flint.
Drake found his strength.
His hands released the sickle and the francisca as he rolled about on the small cot.
His family had crafted a proper cloak from the fur of the bear upon his return. He had been gifted the two magnificent weapons he yet carried: A francisca and a sickle; both handles ended in a fierce bear’s face. And the Gordian had entered manhood as a respected member of his clan.
Those years had faded fast.
Drake shifted painfully in his half-sleep to his side. His stomach twisted and lurched, his lips parting to spill a torrent of warm fluid into his black beard and onto the cot. With a moan, the Gordian rolled onto his back again.
The world was twisting, his memories tearing forward to the present. He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a sudden startled alertness.
Drake knew where he was and knew that the Heroes where on board. For a moment, he felt compelled to pull himself up and introduce himself properly. As he shifted, another bout of vertigo gripped his stomach. His head wrenched to the side.
Hot liquid spilled onto the floor and unconsciousness pulled the giant man into slumber.
==========================
Motega glowered as the wind shifted. The priest, Fitz, was suppressed. His stench, the bane of all clerics for one week a month and one month every year, was a fetid rotting scent. His sensitive nose could not take that punishment.
With his eyes watering, he turned away in the middle of the talk.
Fitz paused and bowed his head. “Er, sorry,” he muttered as he circled downwind of the Rornman.
“As I was saying, I don’t think Tobias should have stayed behind.”
“It was his decision.”
“I don’t disagree. But I worry about our righteous friend.”
“He can handle himself.”
“Not if the Culites attack in full force.”
Motega savored the fantasy of the glorious battle that could occur. In his mind’s eye, Tobias was hurtling into the fray, greatsword cleaving to and fro. Bodies dropped. “It would be a righteous death. He knows the risks.”
“Calyx, Raven, Nimrodel, and Ember,” sighed Fitz.
“You have a long memory,” the Rornman stated. “We do not know their fates. Perhaps, when this trek to Carnelloe is done, we can find out.”
“Carnelloe is far away from our original path.”
“Dammit priest!” Motega pulled out the flask and took a long draw. “You’re the voice of reason, especially now that Tobias has left. If you had concerns, you should’ve voiced ‘em back in Minetown.” The Rorn grumbled as the wind shifted again. His eyes watered as he cursed, “And could you stand downwind? Please?!”
Fitz moved to comply.
The Rorn filled his mouth with the fiery fluid twice more before replacing the flask. “These Carnelloe events may be tied to Minetown.”
“The Harpies?”
“I doubt such a creature would kidnap a Baronet. That doesn’t mean they’re not working with someone. They could be called upon to serve, just as you call your celestial eagles.”
“I think we would have sensed that magic, had it been used.”
“Magic isn’t perfect. Anyway, we could use a break from those damned Culites.” Fitz smiled and nodded.
“Thanks, Mo.”
The Rornman grunted and stalked away from the priest’s stench.
* * *
“Whi’ one are you ‘gain?” The deep, slow voice questioned.
Magnus shuddered. He leaned closer to the parchment, scribbling the arcane writing.
“Whi’ one are you ‘gain?!” The voice bellowed, as if Magnus were deaf, as a gigantic, meaty hand clapped down onto the mage’s shoulder.
Magnus grimaced as the perfect symbol was marred. His hand jerked in annoyance, ruining the scroll, ruining the time he had spent. His mind roared in rage. His face flushed. He threw down the parchment and stood up but was still dwarfed by the Gordian. With vehemence he jabbed the quill at the brute. “Look here, you stupid f*cker! I’ve work to do and I don’t need some retarded, inbred, foreigner ruining this trip for me!” The mage poked the quill at the mercenary, who did not move.
The quill snapped. The mage twitched.
“Huh?” The brute questioned.
“GAH!” The mage bellowed as he threw down the quill. He snatched his haversack, haphazardly jamming his materials into it. Without a glance back at the Gordian, Magnus stormed away from his seat and toward the stairs leading below deck.
The Gordian watched the mage storm off and chuckled. He haughtily strode to his brother and clapped him on the back. “Told you I could f*ck with ‘em.” He held his hand out with a beaming grin.
The other brute sighed and handed over a small purse of coin and a half-filled bottle of wine. “Stupid mages,” he grunted.
* * *
Magnus threw the door of the small room open. It swung rapidly, clattering off the wall and bouncing back at the mage. It pounded into his side; in his rage, he ignored the shock and stepped forward.
He nearly fell back as a wave of stench billowed into his face. Magnus gagged. On a stray bed along the wall of the room, another of the foreign brutes passed wind. Magnus gagged a second time.
The hulking form, larger than even the ones above deck, rolled over. The mage shuddered as a sickle flew from the drunk brute’s sleeping hand. The metal arched over and over before embedding itself up to the hilt in the opposite wall.
Magnus twitched. He spun, shaking, and ripped the door open again. Quickly, he stepped through the door, not bothering to gently close the door. It clattered against the hinge.
Inside the room, the drunk brute chortled.
======================
On the evening of the second day, two impressive citadels rose high into the east and west. The Anvil and the Hammer overshadowed Raider’s Bay and the dozens of trade and war ships that drifted upon the fierce blue sea.
The largest of the Gordians had climbed from the straw bunk as the sun began to set. Merrily, he had joined the Heroes upon the deck. All except for the mage delighted in his tales of the surrounding lands. Magnus cloistered against the rail, preferring the sanctity of his mind over the company of the others and especially the foreigners.
The third day dawned cooler. The ship angled itself east toward a rocky pinnacle. On the top of a crag, a squat ugly stone fortress seemed to glower at the ship. A number of homes and a stone castle were cluttered on the shore, within the keep’s shadow.
The large Gordian gestured toward the village. “Carnelloe.”
Motega squinted. Fitz grunted. Magnus shuddered and suddenly doubted whether Lady Carnelloe had enough coins to purchase his services.
The village of Carnelloe appeared destitute.
"Sirs,” the Lady spoke into the cool morning, “Thank you again for answering us in our time of need. Do not be alarmed. Our treasury is larger than what it may appear. I believe it is time we discussed your requested payment." She glanced at the mage, a glimmer of nervousness in her eyes.
Motega instantly filled the awkward silence with his hoarse Rorn accent. "You can deal with the mage concerning our fee, lady. He handles all of our finances. Magnus, be fair, but don't sell us out like a toothless tavern wench." The Rorn watched the largest of the Gordians move over to a spot halfway between the Lady and halfway between the Heroes.
“Who are you?” the Rorn accused. “Why did we not meet you in Minetown and why do you speak to us when the others of your breeding do not?”
"I speak to you because I will be working with you, Rornman. The Lady has hired me for assistance. Just as she has you. And as for not seeing me in Minetown, I was not in Minetown. Not once did I step foot off the boat even though those bastards were tormenting me." He gulped a long swallow from one of the ship’s bottles of wine. As it drains into his stomach, he hurled the empty bottle into the bay.
"You can call me Drake. It is the closest any Valusian has ever come to pronouncing my name." The Gordian sticks his hands deep into the gigantic cloak of bear fur on his back. He leaned toward Motega.
"Don't worry Rornman," he whispered, "I always have more." Another bottle appeared in the man's long hands.
With a grunt, Drake added, “I have looked forward to fighting beside your clan. Tales have gone northward of your battles. I yearn for the fights you have had. So, let us not start out on the wrong foot, eh?" He passed the open bottle toward Motega. "Let us discuss our fees...and then on with the killing."
Motega arched an eyebrow and took a long pull from the bottle before handing it back. He eyes the Gordian up and down, measuring him with his eyes, and grunted in a way that can't be determined as either approval or disapproval. The Rornman turned away to glance at the shore which was drawing ever more near.
"You have good drink, Gordian, and a fortuitous thing that you never run out. Let us hope you are half as good at fighting as you are at getting drunk. Perhaps we should say farewell to your tormenters before we embark on this venture together?"
"Nah,” Drake grunted with a grin, “They were just teasing me because I was the runt of the litter."
Magnus’ eyes widened. With a cough, and a glance from the town to the Lady, the mage spoke, "No treasury is too large, but we are here at your behest. I would ask of you some questions, it will affect our fee.”
"First, you are Gordian by birth correct? That would make your husband a Rhelmsman by the nature of his nobility. We would need to know how his death affects you past the losing of a husband and father of your children. Would you be forced out of these lands by another 'Noble' Rhelmsman? One perhaps favorable to the King?
"I only ask this because, if it is too late for your husband, then by default the 'King's Men' could lay claim to all of your lands and monies, because you do not have a male heir."
Lady Carnelloe screwed her face up in shock. "I am no Gordian!” She paused, her chest heaving as she wrestled with her emotion. “It has been six months since my husband departed our keep for the old ruins known as Gurnag's Head." She pointed to the dilapidated rocky citadel atop the crag sitting a few hundred yards off of Carnelloe's docks.
"For years our townsfolk have been troubled by harpies that seem to nest within those old ruins. For the most part, the harpies contented themselves to stealing cattle. About seven months ago, however, a small peasant child was spirited away and doubtless eaten. My husband felt it was his duty to protect his people, so he led an expedition into the Head. He never returned, nor did any of the men he took with him. One of those lost men was our court wizard, so we have none now. Our limited spellcasting ability comes from Dekk, the man wearing the fur robes you have already seen, and the Righter Mardred, our town's resident Priest of Morduk. Dekk is a Carrik wizard; I pay him for his continued service.
"My husband is dead. Father Mardred divined the answer. We sent word to King Tyne, but received no response. Until I am told otherwise, I rule Carnelloe. My two daughters are too young to marry, but within a few years we shall hope to find suitable, noble suitors. And then the rule of Carnelloe will pass unto them.
"I have three days, now, with which to find the key to my husband's lockbox. The strange visitor told me he would slay my children if this was not done. I am desperate, and all attempts at sorcery and divine assistance have met with failure. We cannot open the lockbox without the key. I have no idea as to its contents. The visitor has demanded both the lockbox and the key. I am prepared to turn them over to him if you should succeed on your mission. The key was on my husband's belt as he left for Gurnag's Head; I hope it is somewhere within the ruined keep. If it is not, I am without hope.
"Gurnag's Head is an old fortress once held by my husband's line. It was abandoned shortly after the Civil War ended. Its upkeep was too expensive for our meager means. I have told Drake, and I shall tell you, that anything you find within that citadel is yours to keep. I only ask for the key to the lockbox, and the corpses of my husband and his retainers - if such are found.
"I am prepared to pay you each two thousand crowns, in addition to whatever you find. This is a princely sum, I hope you understand, and I cannot afford to pay more. You shall receive the monies when the key is turned over to me, provided you do so within the three days that yet remains. Should one of you perish, his award will be divided amongst the survivors. I hate to speak so morbidly, but Gurnag's Head is not known for its tranquility. I have no doubt you will face many challenges therein.
"Another option for payment is for me to sign the deed to Gurnag's Head over to the survivors. As I do not believe any of you are of true noble blood, the keep and the crag it sits upon would have to be leased from the Carnelloe family. I would happily sign a lease to you for 99 years, the maximum allowed by Rhelm law. The King would need to approve such a deal, but it appears you have assisted the Crown and I hope such would not be a problem. The eight thousand crowns would instead be kept within Carnelloe and used to pay the lease. I believe a rate of 500 crowns monthly is fair, thus your monies would secure you the Head for at least 16 months.” She watched as Magnus’ eyes flitted to and fro in contemplation.
The mage cleared his throat and lifted his hand to hide his face from Drake. “You have hired this, ugh, gentlemen to accompany us.” Magnus looked at the seven-foot Gordian and shuddered. “Is his pay coming out of our fees?”
"Drake,” the Lady stated overly-loud, “Is to be paid an equal share as the rest of you. He has served our house capably over the past six months, and I feel confident his presence can only assist you on your quest."
Magnus grimaced as Drake’s hand clenched onto his shoulder like iron. “Never in the tales that came North did they describe your clan as so greedy. You must be that archmage…ugh, what’s your name again? Was it Magnum?” The large Gordian chortled.
“Lady, you know I need only a deposit of one thousand crowns. Additional funds will only be required if the work is difficult. And,” Drakt added as he bowed low, “the price is always negotiable for you and your beautiful daughters.”
“Heathen!” Magnus cursed. “Do not worry about your daughters,” he spit as he glared at Drake. “They will not have to suffer this filth. I will make sure they find good Rhelmsmen to court.”
"Lady,” Motega interjected, “As far as I am concerned, you offer a fair price and can keep your home. We will find this key. However, we shall open this box upon our return. I am not inclined to readily give up something someone took so much care in securing. Rest assured, we will also hunt down this 'hooded stranger' and ensure he threatens you and your daughters no more.”
The Lady nodded her thanks. Magnus was quick to hurl another question at the Lady, “Has anyone seen these harpies?”
“I have,” Drake grunted. “So have a number of other townsfolk. But I had one swoop down to attack a goatherd I was protecting.” He lifted a curved sickle that glimmered in the soft light. “It did not care for the feel of my blade. After I drew first blood,” the Gordian paused to spit, “It flew off.”
Magnus cringed when Lady Carnelloe nodded in agreement with Drake. “If there is nothing else, I will have a rowboat ready to take you to Gurnag’s Head.” She paused to allow some dissent but she received none. “Very well.”
Lady Carnelloe turned as a ramp was lowered from the ship to the dock. She was the first to stride from the ship and into the misty fog of the north.
[End Chapter]
----------------------------------------------
Chapter 14: Gurnag's Head
An inconstant drizzle spattered against the looming crags of rock groping around the rocky staircase. Far below, two maybe three hundred feet below, the small dinghy smacked against the jagged outcropping that passed as a dock. Above, Gurnag’s Head loomed, a squat creature of stone broken by time and weather and disuse.
Drake ducked low, the monster’s fey song unable to lure him into its razor talons. His first sickle nipped at the yellowed skin of her belly, parting the flesh with its kiss. His right arm leapt down, that sickle carving under and around the ankle before he pulled his arm taut.
The harpy tottered backward, pounding the ground. Drake drove the first blade into her thigh in spite.
Another of the monsters twirled past him.
The Rornman was there, a wall. He was angry silver cutting deep and biting hard. That harpy cried out.
Orbs of whirring light leapt over Drake’s head. He watched their impact against another of the ghastly nude bodies diving toward the crumbling staircase. The mage, Drake knew. He cast a look back and paid a price of blood.
The Rhelmsman mage winked.
Behind Magnus, the priest called down a blessing from the harvest goddess. He was slowly climbing the stairway, heavy armor encumbering every step.
Drake turned back to his bloody work. His first blade cleaved through the harpy’s arm at its wrist; the second drove through the bottom of her jaw and into her skull. As her eyes fluttered lifelessly away, another of her sisters slid by the Gordian. His sickle snapped out, clipping her heel and forcing her to kiss the stairs below.
Motega was quick to straddle the form, driving a dagger into its beating chest. Fetid blood spurted onto the Rornman.
Magnus watched Drake while reaching for more magical artillery. The fire danced across his knuckles, coalescing into a single bead of energy. The bead blossomed, just beyond the Gordian, blasting two of the harpies in the sky. Their broken and charred forms plummeted.
Silence descended upon the group as quickly as the harpy’s song had filled it.
“Almost to the top,” Drake spit as he kicked a body over the ledge.
The priest panted, leaning against a wall of rock.
“You’re not too bad with those sickles,” Magnus commended.
Drake grunted. “You’re witchery seemed to work as well.” With a measuring glance, Drake turned back to the stair. His next step elicited an exhausted sigh from the cleric.
===========
A sidelong gust sent a scatter of rain through the open door. A few small windows allowed the gray outside to seep into the chamber, cooling the already frigid stone.
Motega poked a blade into a nest, shifting the hay and refuse. His sharp eyes caught upon a few small bones. Fingers, from the shape and quantity. He moved to the next nest, stirred its contents.
“What do you know about Dekk?” Magnus posited.
Drake pressed his booted foot down. Mewling gurgles escaped his prey while he sheathed a sickle and withdrew a jagged dagger. “He’s a wizard. I do not trust him.” Magnus grinned while Drake continued, “I do not know if he is more interested in the acquisition of power or in the Lady herself. He appears to serve the Lady faithfully.”
The dagger plunged through sinew and muscle, notching into bone. Muffled shrieks slipped past the Gordian’s booted foot. A twist broke the hollow bone and allowed the knife to shear through the rest of the small wing. He tossed it carelessly to the side. Drake grabbed the next wing.
“Dekk and I have not had much reason to speak. I cannot tell you what flowers or candies he likes if that is your intent, wizard.”
“Hah. A mercenary with a sense of humor, lucky us,” Magnus grumbled. “He is a Carrik mage and so my mind is wary.” Fitz touched the wand to another of Magnus’ wounds. The mage tightened for a moment.
Motega brought an amulet, the only useful item hidden in the nests, to Magnus. The mage glanced over it quickly, tracing the magic auras with his eyes and deposited it in his haversack. He returned to the questioning. “He’s been working for the Lady for how long?”
“He has been at her side as long as I.” Drake released the pin with his boot but snapped his arm below her jaw, his thumb digging into her throat. She thrashed against the Gordian impotently. He had already severed her fingers and toes at the second joint, removing all of her natural weapons except for one.
“It has been six turnings of the moon. I believe I was at the Lady’s side maybe a tenday more than he.” The dagger slipped just under the skin of the harpy’s throat. Blood gurgled behind the dagger’s path.
Motega glowered. Fitz watched curiously.
“What does it matter? We are here to retrieve the key and their bodies.” Drake wiped the blood from the dagger.
“Who is at the center of this plot is important,” Magnus admonished. “These are crimes against the court of Rhelm. Crimes that will be punished.”
Fitz leaned toward Motega. His eyes were locked on last organ Drake had tossed toward his gruesome pile. He whispered, “Is that her…”
“Vocal chords,” Motega affirmed. “That bird will never sing.”
Drake poured a healing draught down the harpy’s throat. Slowly, the streams of blood subsided. He looped a heavy rope around her arms and neck, securing several knots before tying the rope to a solid pillar.
“Seriously, what are you doing with that harpy?”
Drake smiled at Magnus. “Some men have strange tastes. I am going to profit from their desires.”
“She…she is only a child,” Fitz stammered.
“She will provide more years of service that way—and a heftier profit for me.” The Gordian smiled.
Motega shook his head. He brought everyone’s attention back to the task at hand. “We have a choice to make. Up or down?”
“There seemed to be a body impaled on the flagpole on top of the tower,” the priest reminded. He shifted his eyes to the staircase going up.
“Two votes for up,” the Rornman stated.
“Up,” both Magnus and Drake agreed. Blades at the ready, the four moved up the staircase.
=============
|
|
|
|
Post by Yeti on Jan 6, 2014 15:02:20 GMT -5
The stench of the corpse had been scoured away by time. The perfume of the harpies’ nests on the higher level of the fortress had not been. It wafted lazily through the portal as Drake and Motega wrenched the body from the flagpole..
“That is the Lord Pendour,” Drake confirmed. He ran a finger along the fine, silver etchings of the lord’s scabbard.
Motega rummaged through Pendour’s clothing. Desiccated flesh sloughed off beneath the Rornman’s touch. He smirked in disgust.
“So,” Magnus posited, “this is the Lord Pendour Carnelloe and he died as was divined by—”
“Righter Phazwick,” Drake finished.
“Right,” Magnus continued. “He was killed by harpies or that is at least what they want us to believe.”
“He has a few lacerations on his palms, forearms and face,” added the Rornman. “The size is right for harpies.”
“Harpies, at least the ones we’ve crossed, could not have lifted Lord Pendour and dropped him to his death on a flagpole. Not while the man, despite his age, was armed. That is to say nothing of his other missing companions.” Magnus stroked his chin in consideration.
The belt clasp opened easily. With a quick pull, the scabbard fell into Drake’s hand. He weighed it momentarily, then stood and tossed it to Motega. “There were four others. Righter Thairon, the family wizard Maccab, and two veteran man-at-arms, Matlick and Rorinald. These harpies would not have stood long against that force.”
“For once, we agree,” Magnus chirped. “Something else is going on here.”
Fitz lifted his eyes from Pendour’s body. “Maybe there is a connection to Minetown. There were large, clawed and winged infernal beasts in that attack.”
“I don’t like that you may be right,” admitted the mage. “We think we’ve stepped into a pile of dung only to look around and realize we’re stumbling around blindly in a latrine. Can you speak with dead?”
“Not today. Take the head and my Goddess can bless us with the ability to ask in the morning.” Fitz turned from the scene.
Drake hacked through the lord’s neck with ease. Wrapping the head in a bit of cloth, he deposited it in a sack. “We may find the other bodies below.”
Motega stood and nodded in assent. “Hopefully, we’ll find that key, too. It wasn’t on him.”
===============================
Motega had taken point again, but, Drake had followed quite closely.
The staircase wound down beyond the thick foundation of the tower and further still than the tubes that disposed of waste. It crawled downward until the walls became natural and jagged, vicious teeth unable to close on their prey.
The darkness did not hamper Motega’s vision the way it would a normal man. He slinked ahead of the rest, on the edge of Fitz’s divine light. Drake moved cautiously, two steps behind, one hand grazing the natural wall.
The stairs abruptly ended, opening into a natural cavern. A fiery glow and warmth embraced Motega and Drake. The light, though dim, revealed signs of craftsmanship on the walls. Runes in a jagged hand scarred the rock. Their very sight caused Drake’s flesh to crawl. Demonic visages, frozen in stone, watched greedily from the walls.
They had only a moment to absorb the environment as a dagger flashed angrily. Motega and Drake spun away from the small man and his small blade. Dark eyes sunk into his skull just beneath a mop of unkempt, brown hair. Beady eyes raced between the two wearily. His nose twitched; his lip curled into a smirk. The brown rags draped across his wiry body were stained by urine and feces.
Motega caught a familiar but rotten scent. The tiny man smelled of power and carrion. The meaning hit him just as the tiny man pivoted and leapt.
Drake’s sword snapped out, biting a chunk out of the man’s shoulder. Before he was two steps farther away, Drake could swear the wound had vanished from the man’s hide. “Enemy!” The Gordian roared, to alert those still on the staircase. He charged after the foe.
Motega spit, “Lycanthrope!” Drake was already gone, already in pursuit. Possibly, the Gordian was already in the trap. The Rornman shook his head disdainfully as Fitz and Magnus finally descended the stairway.
“By the Gods,” Fitz cursed at the décor.
“Don’t think they had much to do with this, priest,” Magnus quipped. “Where’s our ignorant fool?”
“Hurry,” Motega ordered, already in motion. “He’s chasing a lycanthrope.” Magnus chuckled as he fell into step behind the Rorn.
The natural cavern slowed their pursuit while its unnatural features fought to catch their eyes and attentions. As they rounded a bend, narrow fissures pock-marked the walls. Drake’s sword clattered against the stone lips of a crevasse. The Gordian cursed in his native tongue and took two steps back. Lowering his head, he dove into the hole.
“Idiot!” Motega cursed. “His weapons will do nothing.” A sharp grunt and more metal against stone clattering emphasized his point. The Rorn looked at Magnus, “Do we have any grease?”
Magnus’ lip quirked at a dirty joke, but the Rorn’s shooting up a foot in height wiped the explicit words from his mind. Motega’s eyes yellowed; bones popped inside his body. “I—I believe I’ve got you covered,” the mage confirmed.
“Exactly,” Motega grunted. “Grease me. Then count to ten.” A sharp snapping realigned the Rorn’s spine just as a thick covering of hair sprouted on his face. “Then fire it up.”
Magnus’ brow knitted. A thin sheen of grease covered the wolf-man hybrid that was Motega. The Rorn slid into the crevasse, his new bulk pressing past the lips of stone only thanks to the grease.
“One.”
The light was not as good in the small cave for Drake. Thankfully, the man’s eyes seemed to glow like embers. He brought the sickle up just as two vicious teeth snapped at his face. The man’s teeth clamped shut around the metal. His fingers, claws now, opened wounds across Drake’s arms.
“Move!” The voice was Motega’s, though different. A rough hand, also clawed, the Gordian noted, pushed him toward the wall. Eyes burning with the fires of hell peered out of a face half belonging to the Rorn.
Motega’s arms shot out, raking across the wererat’s chest. The tiny creature backpedalled, unable to avoid the ravaging blows. The scent of blood filled the cramped space.
“Five.”
Drake smiled to himself, taking the new offensive opportunity. He struck low, sickles biting for tendons near the ankle. If the man-rat-thing would fall, Drake would assure the wounds did not heal.
His blades cut too high and he swore.
Motega’s right arm spread open the flesh along the wererat’s left thigh. His teeth clamped around its arm, breaking the bones in the forearms. A taste of rot exploded in his mouth. The wererat squealed in pain.
“Ten.” Magnus grimaced and tossed a bead of energy into the fissure.
Motega’s ear twitched, hearing the count. Drake’s blades flashed out again but did not connect as Motega threw himself bodily into the Gordian.
Light and fire filled the chamber.
==============
A choir of bells surrounded Drake. Reality undulated against the noise, flashing angry reds and vivid oranges.
Drake smelled burning. The heat wrapped around him, a great serpent constricting tightly against his flesh. Suffocating, he gasped.
Vicious air stormed into his lungs, wracking his body with painful sputtering and coughing.
Drake’s head bounced against the stone floor. Large, yellow, animal eyes bore into Drake. A throb echoed inside the back of his skull. Outside his head, words vibrated within the roaring death of the fire.
KEEP STILL.
The Gordian relaxed. He waited for death’s grip.
The fires passed.
Darkness swallowed his sight. The yellow eyes—Motega’s eyes—reappeared.
“Get up, Gordian.” Roughly, Motega gripped him by the shoulder. Drake stood. “That was a damned fool thing to do.”
Drake was shoved out of the crevasse, head still woozy. The mage stood there, smug grin aglow. The priest’s hands probed for wounds.
“No signs of a bite,” Fitz reported. “Just a few minor scrapes.”
“Stupid luck,” Motega rumbled from behind. His hybrid form slid tightly through the gap in the wall. He pulled a handful of herbs from a blackened pouch. “Eat this.”
Drake accepted the herbs with a drink to wash away the bitterness.
“If it doesn’t kill you,” Motega informed, “you will avoid the curse.”
“The other lycanthrope?” Magnus queried.
“Just a carcass.” Motega grinned wolfishly. He opened his hand. A silver key rested in the oversized palm.
The mage eyed the key greedily, fingers twitching. “Is that…”
“The key,” Drake finished. A gilded ‘C’ clashed against the slender silver.
Motega dropped the key into his pouch. “We will finish searching this tower before we head back.” Without waiting for Fitz to heal the Gordian, Motega headed deeper into the caverns.
“Hope it wasn’t too hot in there, for you, Gordian,” Magnus chuckled. He strolled after Motega.
“Not at all,” Drake retorted, “the heat reminded me of the feel of your mother.” Magnus spun but the Gordian didn’t notice. Alcohol spilled from a skin into the warrior’s mouth.
Magnus’ fingers twitched. Reluctantly, he released the arcane threads unconsciously weaving around his hands. There will be a reckoning, he promised silently.
Fitz sagged into the ornate chair. Blood and grime clung to the edges of his armor and nestled amongst the creases of his robes. Magnus described their struggle in the lower levels of Gurnag’s Head. Always long with the talk and, in this specific case, trying to press his importance upon both the Lady and her advisor, Dekk. The young mage fumed and paced. Fitz shifted, resting some of his burden against the high back of the chair.
The chilling rays of the northern moon reached through the large window, slipping its icy fingertips between the heavy black drapes to caress a dozen empty crystal goblets. From lip to stem, the crystal glowed with a blue brilliance that cast the empty dinnerware and even the simple seeming chest into shadow.
Motega’s dark stare held tightly to the chest. The Rornman’s hand was clamped around the key for the chest. Drake towered beside Motega, fists clenched and lip curling into a sneer.
“A chain devil? Are you absolutely sure?” Dekk crossed his arms and glowered.
“Yes, a chain devil,” Magnus solidly replied. “Perhaps mages from your lands are not as well learned in differentiating between the many varieties of fiends but, I assure you, my mentor did not fail in his lessons. I know what we faced.”
“Perhaps.”
“It was a chain devil,” Fitz affirmed. Dekk turned to regard the weary priest. “You may doubt his judgment because of his youth but I have had the additional training and experience afforded to a Cerian priest. That thing in the depths of the tower was a chain devil. There were altars for fiendish worship and sacrifice, as well.”
“This is all very disturbing,” Dekk murmured.
Drake harrumphed. “Yet, you do not sound too surprised.” The Gordian’s hands slipped to the hilts of his sickles.
Dekk stepped back, closer to the Lady. His hand drifted to a leather pouch of components; he fingered the drawstring.
“We all need to take a deep breath and relax,” the Lady asserted. “Perhaps I should fetch some wine to calm our spirits.”
“That,” Magnus replied, “would actually be quite wonderful. It is a grand idea.” She stepped toward the kitchen.
Drake’s arm shot out, snapping shut around the Lady’s arm. He spun her around. “That is not so great an idea. You will wait here, with the rest of us, until this is all figured out.” Magnus’ face turned a violent shade of red. Dekk’s hand clenched some component within the pouch. “Where are your daughters?”
“I have sent them away with my man-at-arms.”
“WHERE?!”
The Lady cowered like a dog accustomed to beatings. “I told him not to tell me or anyone else. I figured that would be safest for my daughters in the event the four of you could not return with the key. But here you are, you have. And I can hand the key and the chest over to be rid of this dreadful nightmare.”
“What is in the chest?” Motega had finally pulled his eyes from the table. He settled his dark, hungry stare on the Lady.
“As I told you before, I do not know,” the Lady whimpered. Drake released her arm. His hand returned to his hilt. “It was my husband’s.” She tugged at a stray strand of hair. “If the tower is as you say, it must be something foul. I never thought him a…he was a good man. I thought. He must have been mixed up in something dark.”
“You have lost much this day. Let us not add to your grief by leaping to that conclusion.” Magnus stepped beside the Lady. He groped her shoulder comfortingly. “Why don’t you fetch us that wine now?”
“She is not going anywhere,” Drake spat.
“That is not for you to decide,” Dekk boomed. “She is the Lady of this manor. You are still her servant!”
“Open the chest,” Motega demanded. He extended the key to her. “We must know what is in the chest. Open it.”
The Lady shook her head profusely. “I will not. I do not care to know what my husband was mixed up with. I only wish my daughters safe. I will fetch the wine now.” She lifted her dress and stepped back.
“You will not leave,” Drake swore. The sickles slid from their sheaths.
“You will NOT COMMAND HER!” Dekk snapped.
Drake ducked low, sickles lashing out against the mage. The first blade bit deeply into Dekk’s wrist. A second slash opened the mage’s gut.
Dekk’s hand fell from the pouch. The Lady screamed. Motega stood dumbfounded. Magnus summoned arcane energies.
Fitz shook his head sadly and reached for his wand.
Drake lashed out again. His sickle dug low. The tendon split easily. Dekk toppled, unconscious.
Drake stopped his last blow a hair’s breadth from Dekk’s throat. Blood spilled across the hardwood floor, reflecting the light of the moon. A shuddering, labored breath heaved itself from the mage’s ribcage.
Drake dropped the sickle and reached for his pack.
“What the f*ck are you doing?!” Motega hissed.
“He moves again, he’s dying,” Magnus answered. Arcane tendrils snaked around his hand.
“Trust me,” Drake begged. He withdrew and opened a vial. Drake dumped the vial into Dekk’s mouth.
“I can’t…I need,” the Lady stuttered, “a drink. I’ll…I’m going to get the wine.” She spun away from the carnage, rushing for the doorway into the kitchen.
Confusion tripled as Dekk’s wounds closed under the potion’s power.
“No!” Drake bellowed as the Lady fled.
“Raise your blade against her and I will not hesitate to kill you,” threatened Magnus. He stepped into Drake’s path.
“Maybe he has a point,” Motega hoped aloud. His keen eyes watched the Lady disappear through the swinging, wooden door.
A scream echoed from the kitchen, followed by the crashing of pans.
“Fools,” muttered Dekk.
================
====================
|
|
