“Aye! And we weren’t more ‘an one naut from Norsae when the sky caught fire! Ach! Don’t laugh, boys! I tell ye’ a truth. I swear it on Cahsa herself. The clouds burst into flames an’ the sea screamed.
“Dammit, stop laughing! Norsae was ripperd right out ‘e ocean! I could ‘ear Phoee cryin’. A painful wail it was.
“Then. Then, Cahsa turned on us an smashed ‘e ship. If’n the mage hadn’t teleported me out…I’d have…the rest of me boys…we’d all…
“Cahsa ate ‘em alive.”
-Danbury Smalls, Former Captain of the Lost Cahsa’s Wave and current drunk
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What follows is a story set on the homebrewed continent of Norum da Salaex....
Prelude: Ana
She shifted quietly in the shadows of the manor, her presence unknown except to her employer. His hired men had not noticed her for the past fortnight, so quietly she moved. For all they knew, they were alone. Their crude jokes and mannerisms just proved their lack of awareness.
For hours and hours she sat in silence in the dark having to endure their stories about the most recent wenches they had the pleasure of having. Anastrianna knew better. These guards suffered from overactive imaginations. These men, and she used the term loosely, would not be able to pleasure a woman if given verbal, step-by-step instructions from a master of the trade.
In the shadows she remained, waiting for her benefactor to leave. Master Crawson was one of the more important merchants in the city of Nordaa Saam. And by important, Ana meant wealthy. He had hundreds of contracts at any one time, whether they be the production of arms and armor for the Empire or individual deals to hunt down antiques or relics. The word on the street was if it could be found, Master Crawson would be the one to find it.
Ana was a little more skeptical than most. She needed proof of his abilities, of his importance. Her skepticism was what caused this indentured servitude. Using the tools of her trade, she had broken into the manor she was now forced to guard. Easily she had bypassed his traps and tricks, seeking out his main vault.
When she found Crawson’s inner sanctum, she had been astounded. Gold and silver lied heaped in piles along with rubies and other gems of exquisite cut. On a pedestal in the center of the vault was a unique adamantine box. The box was perhaps a half-foot long by a half-foot wide and just as deep. Engraved on the top of the box were symbols the likes of which she had never seen. There was no edge to the box, almost as if it was a pure piece of adamantine. But, when lifted, the box felt light as if hollow.
That was when Ana’s astonishment doubled. The door to the vault slammed shut behind her. She spun, dropped the box and she heard the sound of its locking mechanism close. A quick examination showed no way to unlock the door from the inside, so she sat down on a pile of gold defeated.
Mere moments later, a metal slat opened on the door and two old blue eyes peered into the vault. Master Crawson had caught her in the act. Instead of informing the guard though, he offered her a way to pay off her debt. Now she was stuck indefinitely as a guard for the very fortune she had come to claim.
A soft click broke Ana from her recollections. The old oak door had closed, signaling Crawson’s leave. Quietly, the rogue slipped through the shadows to the lone guard left in the office. With a quick thrust of her hand, the guard dropped to the floor unconscious.
Anastrianna moved to the only window in the office and slid it open. She then secured a grappling hook to Crawson’s massive and heavy wooden desk. Next, she tossed a length of rope out the third story room.
She whistled and then turned from the window, heading to the vault. Using her lock picks, Ana managed to open the vault door just as three noisome half-orcs climbed through the window. She dashed for the box and slid it into her satchel, placing a steel replica in its place on the pedestal.
A sickly sound marked the death of the guard she had knocked out. The three half-ors plodded toward her.
“Shhhh,” she warned, motioning with her finger for quiet. “Grab what you can from the vault then get out.” The half-orcs started filling their satchels hand over fist with gold.
Ana reeled in the climbing rope and shut the heavy glass window. She checked to make sure the half-orcs were distracted. Ana smashed the window open and flung the rope outside. Three confused half-orc heads turned in her direction.
“GUARDS!!!” Ana wailed.
The half-orcs faces went crimson as they charged their ex-partner. As they reached her, the doors burst open and armored guards filed into the office. Crossbows rose toward the three crooks.
The lead half-orc smashed Ana’s face with his large, grimy hand before he leapt out the window. The second followed his leader out the window but the third was hit by a volley of bolts. He struggled for only a moment before his life flowed out of the many wounds.
Master Crawson strode into the room to find one dead guard, one dead thief, and Ana picking herself up off the floor.
“What happened?!” The old merchant demanded.
“Thieves, sir,” Ana replied. She wiped blood from her quickly bruising face. “I called for the guards as you instructed. I think they only managed to get some of the gold. I’m going after them.” She stalked toward the now shattered window.
“Wait just one minute.” Crawson peeked into the vault to assure the safety of his most precious treasure. Then the merchant turned back to the indentured rogue. “I’m not sure that’s entirely necessary, Ana. The box is still there. The other trinkets mean nothing to me.”
“That’s not what you pay me for, sir.” Ana grabbed a hold of the rope and flung herself out the window.
“I don’t pay you at all.” Crawson mumbled as he entered his vault.
The King of Norum da Salaex, Toq Arma Dunn (Toq is pronounced Tock...and the rest is phoenetic), has been in rule for 576 years. He's human. He's also the first 'disciple' of Ara'kull, the current God of Men and has been blessed with immortality...or so the religious teachings say.
Toq was alive before the continent was ripped out of the ocean. He had been a great adventurer who was nearing the edge of his prime. Practically undefeatable in battle, again according to religious teachings. As age and as the amount of death he'd seen increased, he gradually became quite jaded. He turned from adventuring to wasting the wealth he had acquired in his youth on women and copious amounts of addictive substances. Slowly, his body wasted away just as his mind.
One night, Ara'kull appeared to the once hero. The Deity promised Toq power and fame. Toq had already had those however. It was the promise of purpose that stirred the warrior from his self inflicted decline. Ara'kull ordered Toq to gather a force to conquer the current Emperor. Then, Toq could rule over a peaceful Utopia built in the image of Ara'kull.
The ruler at this time upon Norum da Salaex was quite the dictator. It was known only as the Dark Lord and was said to hail from The Devil's Bog, a swamp in the southeast of the continent. I realize that the title Dark Lord is cliche...but eh. Perhaps the Dark Lord had a name..but if It did, it wasn't about to let that secret out. It is harder to fight that which you don't know or understand. Thus the ambiguity.
So, Toq built an army (human) and led them toward the capital city, Midloth. The path he travelled became known as The Path of Legends and is currently a major travelway. Along the route, Toq attempted to recruit the elven and dwarven races to his cause. They agreed to rally their forces and meet at Midloth.
Once at Midloth, the elves and dwarves never showed. Toq's army (a mere 5,000 men) were faced against an army of Orcs and Trolls more than ten times that size. Swearing a curse upon the other races, Toq charged into battle.
By the hand of Ara'kull, his men managed to survive long enough for Toq to challenge the Dark Lord. Both the Dark Lord and Toq were mortally wounded when the Dark Spire exploded in a surge of divine energy. They fell and their bodies broke upon ground below the tower along with rubble.
Ara'kull brought his full divine energy into the world in front of the hordes of men, orcs, and trolls that stood watching the climax of the battle. It is said his rage at the loss of his first disciple destroyed all the rest of the world. Although, many heretical religious teachings say Norum da Salaex was just removed from the world.
Then Ara'kull touched Toq, blessing the human with immortality. Allowing Toq to rule for...well forever. The Trolls and Orcs swore allegiance to both Toq and Ara'kull (preventing their extermination).
Elves and dwarves (and half-breeds containing either racial characteristic) are hunted down to this day and slaughtered after being tortured into declaring Ara'kull their sole God. Halflings and Gnomes are also mistrusted and usually forced into slave labor camps. In these camps, they are forced to breed like cattle. And like cattle, they become a source of sustenance for Trolls and Orcs. Humans typically refrain from eating any of the tainted races, despite their status as a delicacy.
Obviously, 576 years after that battle the kingdom is hardly a Utopia and more on par with a hell. Repression, slavery, rape, random and not-so-random murders abound. Humans are the gods of the land.
The continent has been divided into 13 territories (14 if you count the capital where Toq rules), each with its own Baron. The Barons answer directly to the King, but are permitted the power and ability to fight amongst themselves (be it for land, slaves, or whatnot). This keeps borders ever-changing and prevents the Barons (typically) from joining to try to take the Empire.
Additionally, there are two unclaimed portions of territory. One is a small island north of the continent and the other is the peninsula in the southeast. This peninsula contains the Devil's Bog, another swamp, and a small mountain range that are considered untouchable by most.
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Toren tapped his fingers rapidly against the hard oak table. Ana, having known Toren for over seven years, easily recognized the worried quirk for what it was. She slipped backward into her chair, sipping from the crystal wine glass.
The entire room was furnished with the most expensive and finest of everything. Exquisitely crafted furniture, padded with the softest down wrapped in silk cases, circled the magnificently carved table. Dwarven runes inlaid the oak table in a spiraling pattern. Ana could not read the Dwarven script but Toren had taught her to distinguish between the written languages. A table as finely crafted as Toren’s centerpiece was easily worth a fortune by itself if only for the script. Items created by the older races, considered contraband, always priced higher on the market.
Contraband seemed to be Toren’s favorite means of decoration. Items practically littered his shelves and desks, all from other cultures. Elven script, Halfling script, even the writing of a race of snake-descended people reflected the candlelight. The Elven writing was by far the most beautiful in the flickering light, Ana thought.
Her mind drifted back to the glass in her hand. She shifted to empty the remains of the decanter into the crystal. Toren’s drumming cadence filled the edge of her perception again as she swallowed another burst of flavor. Her mentor leapt out of his chair and moved to refill his own glass.
Unlike Ana, who reveled in the delightful zest of a fine Elven wine, Toren had long ago grown to cherish a Dwarven brew. Unfortunately his stocks were slowly depleting. The Empire had recently stepped up the holy war against the older races. Dwarven ale was becoming increasingly rare and thus increasingly costly. If Toren could ever adapt to the foul drink of the Orcs, Trolls, or even the sludge the Goblins drank, it would save him a fortune. He smirked in distaste as he refilled his mug.
“So, are you going to show it to me, Ana?” Toren queried.
The rogue lifted her sack and removed the adamantine box. Carefully, despite its invulnerability, she placed the engraved box on the table. Toren returned to the table, ponderously examining the work of art. His eyes darted over the symbols and runes, memorizing every detail, every edge.
“What language is that?”
“That is Phoeeic, the writing of the druids.” Toren glanced upward, “You won’t see it much. They voraciously guard their relics. And to find the writing on metal is quite a rarity. They abhor metallurgy even while respecting the necessity of the art.”
“So it is worth a lot then?”
“Worth more money then I’ll ever see,” Toren responded. “It is definitely unique, to say the least.”
“What does it say?”
The older rogue chuckled. “If I knew that dear, I’d probably be dead. Druids don’t share their secrets. And the Empire executes them just as often as they do elves and dwarves.” Toren leaned back up, taking a deep swallow of the ale.
“How much can you give me for it?” Ana tapped her boot-sole with impatience.
“I cannot buy it from you, dear. You can’t sell it in Nordaa Saam.” Her mouth dropped open in protest but Toren interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “By now, Crawson probably already knows that the box in his treasury is a fake. This means, he knows you were in on the heist and that you probably have this artifact. Selling the item in this city, would only bring you a swift death.
“Your life is in jeopardy just by staying here. As is mine,” he added with an ironic grin. “What I suggest is that you take the box and leave. At least, for awhile go somewhere safe. When everything calms down, I can send for your return. You do have somewhere you can go, right?”
Ana thought for a moment; dreading her decision, dreading her destination. “Yes.”
“Good. Where?”
She cocked her eyebrow and reluctantly said, “The Town of Green Hills. It’s to the west some distance. It should be small enough that I’ll be safe.”
“Good, good. Does anyone else know about your theft?” Toren finished his glass with a gulp.
“Only Argot, I needed someone to craft a replica. I paid him well and I trust him. He won’t turn on me.” Ana slid the box back into her pack and readjusted the straps.
“A little extra silver will help keep his silence,” Toren claimed. “Go now, Ana. Take my horse. It should help you gain a lead on Crawson’s lackeys.”
“Thank you, Toren. I appreciate…everything you’ve done for me.” Ana took a step toward the back door. Toren grabbed her shoulder and gave a quick peck on her forehead.
“Safe journey, Ana.” Anastrianna silently exited the room. Removing the empty crystal from the table, Toren waited for the departing sound of hooves.
Once sure she had left, the rogue removed his robe and donned his work outfit. Silently he packed the gear he would need and picked up his trusty dagger.
“A little extra silver could never hurt.” He smirked as he left to clean up Ana’s mess.
===========================
Prelude: Cassock
This is the first part of Cassock's (a.k.a. Hendric Balsoon's) prelude. Enjoy.
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Hendrick Balsoon stormed down the stairs, tossing his father’s worn backpack carelessly by the door. He paused for a quick breath and opened the door. A hooded figure darted in quickly, motioning for the door to the cottage be closed. Hendrick acquiesced to the somatic request and turned to greet the guest.
The visitor tossed the hood back revealing silvered hair and a worn face. The man’s eyes were bright blue and lacked the age shown upon his brow.
“Baron Tyne,” Hendrick stammered, dropping to his knees.
“Oh come now, Master Hendrick. You know I consider your family my own family. Stand up and address me as Dragos.” Hendrick stood, head still slightly bent in respect. “And here,” Dragos removed his traveler’s cloak and tossed it to Hendrick.
Hendrick quickly hung the cloak upon a hook, turning to speak with the visitor. “Is my father expecting you, Dragos?”
“Yes he knows I was coming tonight. Please, let’s move into the parlor, shall we? My old bones need a warm up and your father’s whiskey should do the trick.” The old Baron smiled a pearly grin and paced toward the interior room.
Hendrick went to a cupboard to procure three glasses and once in the parlor, filled all three with a potent whiskey. Dragos quietly sipped for a moment, allowing the warmth to flood back in his cheeks.
“Winter seems to come earlier and earlier each year,” Baron Tyne remarked to no one in particular. “My body can’t take much more of this.” The politician burst into a hacking cough as if to emphasize his point.
“I’m sure you’ll outlive us all, Baron.” Hendrick downed a healthy bit of the whiskey, a smile covering the burn of the aged drink.
“I truly doubt that.” Dragos peered down the hallway, toward the door, his eyes focusing on the rugged pack heaped carelessly. “Going somewhere, Hendrick?”
“Yes. My life here in your great city is coming to an end, I think. I’m setting off to find my own way in the world.” Hendrick smiled again, although not to cover the effect of the alcohol.
“I remember my own adventures, long ago. The world’s not changed much since then, I’m afraid.” A shadow crossed Dragos’ worn, leathery face before passing into nothingness. “I wish you luck on your journey.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I will ask one thing of you now, though. A promise I expect you to keep. You are a man of your word, like your father?” Dragos’ expression now reflected a stern look; still lurking behind his eyes was a kindness incomparable.
“Of course, sir. My father and mother have taught me well. They are virtuous.”
“That they are, that they are. Your promise is this: you must swear to never enter into politics,” the stern gaze was immediately replaced with a friendly grin. “Whatever horrors you may experience upon your travels, nothing compares to the atrocities of the political arena.” The Baron’s grin only grew larger as he awaited a response.
“I have no desire to rule, sir,” Hendrick was quick to reply.
“Ah, but neither did I when I was your age. The things I saw though,” his eyes drifted back through time as he spoke, “made me want to change the world. I warn you now: it’s a futile effort in this damnable Empire. With a ruler as old as the Empire, I fear things will never change.”
“There is always hope for change, sir.”
“Bah. Only if the King were to die could anything ever change. Perhaps that is a lesson you will have to learn yourself. I still need your oath, Hendrick.” Dragos leaned in to pour another glass of fire-water.
“You have my word, Baron Tyne. Never will I enter into the political arena, as you so labeled it.” Hendrick smiled, refilling his own empty mug.
The front door opened again, this time a good-sized man stepping through. His pitch black hair was cropped close to his head. Two white jets of color stained the man’s temples. The light from a fire, barely reflected from the deep-set black eyes.
“Dragos, my friend.” The Baron stood, clasping hands with Hendrick’s father.
“Morgan, I hope all is well with you.”
Morgan leaned downward to grasp the unclaimed glass of fire-water and decanter. “All is as well as ever, Dragos. If you’d like, we can retire to the library.”
“Of course, of course. Hendrick, when do you leave?”
“At dawn, sir.”
“Well, boy, you should get some sleep. I’m sure you have a long day of travel ahead of you. Besides, you father and I have some business to discuss.” The old man grasped Hendrick’s shoulder. “Remember your oath. And safe journey to you.”
“Good night, Baron. Father.” With an informal bow, Hendrick returned to his room for a long night’s rest.
“You have a good son, Morgan.” Dragos smiled.
“Yes. His fate is upon him now, though. It is good for him to leave and find his own path. Come, old friend.” Morgan led Dragos into the small, comfortable library. Within a few moments, a fire blazed within the confines of the small, stone chimney. Both the fire and the fire-water warmed the veins of the men. Morgan quietly closed the door and settled in a chair opposite the Baron.
“Dark times are upon us, Morgan. A war is coming and I don’t just mean with the Elves and Dwarves. Rumors abound that the Orcs and Trolls are going to make a play for power. If the Trolls overrun the Goblin territory, Port Divi’sad will likely fall again. I can only assume the Orcs would push further into the Troll territory when they’re distracted.”
“It would be a logical attack. Maybe too logical for those beasts.” Morgan pulled a large map, rough with age. Marks in various colors adorned the map, showing the various boundary changes throughout the years.
“My thoughts exactly. It’s whispered that the Orcs are going to turn against the Empire. But how is not known. If I have heard these whispers, then I guarantee so has the King.”
Morgan filled both glasses again, settling into his chair. “I have a feeling you did not come just to discuss a possible war or rumors that may or may not be true, Baron.”
Dragos sighed, another dry coughing fit welling up through his body. “No, Morgan, I did not. I am old. I can feel Cael’s <1> icy grip on my body. Soon, I fear, I will pass on. And I’ve no heir to leave control of this territory.
“You’ve been my faithful advisor for years and years. Never have I found better advice than your own words. I wish for you to take my place when I die.” Morgan looked down to the floor, weighing the Baron’s words.
“Dragos, I cannot serve the King. You know this. I cannot and will not. If you leave me in charge, I will secede.”
“I know that. As I said, dark times are upon us. You’re the only one with enough strength and experience to pull Legend <2> through the coming wars. I do not ask you to take up this role as Morgan, the secret advisor of Baron Tyne. I ask you to take the role as Morrick, the Hand of Cael.” Dragos paused, to gauge the effect of his words.
“On those terms, I will accept the position, although I am no ruler.”
“No, my friend, you are no ruler. But, you are a leader and a damn fine tactician.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Morrick smiled as he downed another shot of the whiskey.
“You did save Port Divi’sad thirty years ago, not to mention my life.” Again, the Baron’s eyes clouded over, consumed by memory.
“You were a damn fine sergeant, Tyne. If not for you and the men that sacrificed their lives, the battle would not have been won. Besides, Cael was with us.”
“And how is the old God of Death, Morrick?” Dragos refilled his own glass.
“I’ve not heard him since that battle. For thirty years I’ve had silence <3>. I think things may change soon though. Very soon. That’s what I pray for at least.” Morrick stirred from his reverie and looked downward at the map. “Shall we plan some strategy for the wars?”
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<1> - Cael (rhymes with Pail) is one of the old gods (half of the first child of Phoee); specifically the God of Death.
<2> - Legend is the name of one of the thirteen territories in Norum da Salaex. It is named Legend because the majority of the Path of Legends runs across it.
<3> - In case the allusion isn’t very clear, Morrick was a cleric of Cael. But I didn’t want to just come out and say he was a cleric.
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Hendrick lifted the satchel from the floor and secured it tightly to his back. He turned for his final farewell and absorbed the comfort of home one last time.
Gwenyth, his mother, and Morgan stood side-by-side, arms entangled on each other’s shoulders and bodies. A lingering scent of alcohol wafted from his father. Morgan’s eyes were red-rimmed, either from exhaustion, sadness, or a combination thereof.
“Are you sure there is nothing else you need, son?” A flash of concern lingered momentarily in his father’s voice.
“No. I think I will be alright.” Hendrick turned longingly for the door, for the road.
“You will remember all that we have taught you?” Gwenyth questioned. Her flowing blonde hair quivered slightly against her face. Despite her age, no wrinkles had dared to crease her brow. No silver had dared taint her perfect sunlight-colored hair.
“I could never forget my home or my teaching. I will remember it often. It will form a comparative basis against the education I receive upon my travels. I will not forget. And I will return.” Hendrick opened the door. The first rays of the dying summer son flooded into the entryway. Its warmth was slightly retarded by a brief, brisk breeze.
“Tell me of the Gods, Hendrick. The True Gods.” Hendrick spun toward his father’s voice. An edge had crept into the old soldier’s tone, the demanding and forceful voice of an educator. The edge mated with a near-crazy manic glint in his piercing black eyes.
“The first was Phoee the Savior, the mother. She came upon our world and purged the taint of hatred and evil. She adopted one member of each of the races to bear the new bloodlines.
“But the world was devoid of life because of the purge. The world was without light. Phoee birthed a child, Myrcael, to journey into the heavens and restore light to the world. Myrcael traveled to a dead star and breathed life into the red twilight. The star burst with raw power and fed Norum da Salaex with its living rays.
“Myrcael did not return from the star as one. Without Darkness there could be no Light. Two beings returned from the sun: Myr, the Goddess of light and life, and Cael, the Lord of Darkness and Death.
“Myr and Cael created the pantheon under which the world has thrived. The Mother chose to slumber within the planet, restoring the natural order. The Embraced children began to replenish their own races, except for one.
“Guymardt refused to shape humanity in his image. It is said humanity had been responsible for the darkness that had destroyed the world. As such, he refused to birth our race.
“The world flourished for a time, until the War in Heaven began. Myr and Cael had birthed four younger deities. These gods then reproduced again, although only to create two more. The Kin Gods, those of direct relation to Phoee, ruled over the Embraced.
“But the Embraced fought amongst themselves. Their races also warred across the world. And then Nar’sra, the God of the Snake-Race, slew Guymardt. Guymardt’s corpse fell onto the world, shattering. The Kin Gods were unable to prevent the death.
“From his bones and skin sprung the humanity he had died. Also from his dust rose a dark form: Ara’kull, the Fallen God, the destroyer. The War that began with the death of a God and the birth of mankind, still continues to this day.” Hendrick swallowed, his mouth dry from the well-instructed story.
“You are ready.” Morgan released his wife and embraced Hendrick. “May the old Gods protect you, son.”
“And you, father.” Gwenyth moved to grasp her son one last time. The three stood huddled for several minutes before Hendrick broke away. He walked into the street and toward the edge of the city.
Gwenyth turned to her husband. “He will be alright, won’t he?”
“His fate is beyond us now, love. Cael will watch and the darkness shall protect him.”
“If you offer your blessing, then so shall I, Morrick,” Gwenyth replied. “Let the lights of Myr guide the path of my son. May her rays bless and refresh him in his times of need.” With a quick kiss, the clerics of opposing churches returned into their home.
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Two hours later, Hendrick stopped upon a hillock and turned back toward his home. The capital city Legend spiraled upward into the heavens and yet, from this distance seemed quite miniscule. He smiled and turned back to the Path of Legends. Slowly he journeyed away from his home, his old life, and toward destiny.
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Hendrick Balsoon had been traveling for nearly a fortnight non-stop southward. Each day of walking brought the dying days of Kullyc <1> closer. The scrub brush along the Path of Legends was steadily disappearing. He had noted the slow shifting of the colorful foliage beginning.
When Hendrick had been just a child, the leaves would not turn until the end of the first month of the season. That month, Brenn, was still a week from beginning. With each year, it seemed as if winter came earlier and lasted longer. And so, the leaves started to change now at the end of the summer months.
Two hundred miles now separated Hendrick from his birthplace. Still each day at dawn he packed his gear and started a march we wouldn’t stop until late in the night. The flowing hills surrounding Legend originally stretching upward toward the sun had sloped downward for days. As the Draeul Wood closed on Hendrick’s right, the Coastal Spine appeared out of mist guarding his left. The path was incredibly wide and worn from ages of travel. Hendrick held closer to the forest preferring to keep the massive pillars of stone at a safe distance.
Soon after the appearance of the forest and mountains, Hendrick found himself standing on the edge of a great chasm. He had finally reached the boundary separating Legend and Nordaa Saam. An immense bridge crafted of the strongest steels arched over the depth. The bridge itself was nearly a mile long. At its center, Hendrick looked into the ravine. His eyes strained, focusing on a faint blue line etching its way across the land. The Draeul River, Hendrick had guessed before comparing reality to the old hand-drawn map in his satchel. The Draeul River was birthed in the Coastal Spine Mountains and flowed westward, through the Great Chasm before veering north and flowing into the Norden Ocean. At the coast, the great river actually divided Port Divi’sad in half. A port shared by the Goblin Territory of Maatz and Hendrick’s own Legend.
Hendrick’s thoughts were broken by a deep rumbling to the south. His eyes peered heavenward catching sight of a massive black storm swiftly swelling northward. Quickly stuffing the parchment back into a ceramic tube, he picked up his pace. Hopefully, he would be off the bridge before Hell rained from above.
One hundred paces from the bridge, another booming roar shook the air around Hendrick. He bowed his head, preparing for pelting rains and accelerated into a run. As soon as the first thunder subsided, another split the air directly above Hendrick’s head. An ocean of crackling filled his ears; the hair on his arms and head began to stand straight up.
Two hundred paces from the bridge, fire cascaded from the heavens. The bolts of energy poured into the large bridge and charged the very molecules of air. Hendrick refused to lower his speed, bowing his head more and charging along the path. A few big globs of water foreshadowed the torrent of rain, suddenly exploding from the dark clouds. Within mere seconds Hendrick was soaked to the bone.
Fully under the thunder clouds, the setting sun’s rays were completely obscured by shadow. Hendrick glanced up every few moments to check his direction. With the darkening sky, his human eyes quickly registered less and less. A random root broke the surface of the trail and snagged Hendrick’s foot. Unable to slow, Hendrick’s momentum carried him straight down. With a bone jarring force, his head slammed into the packed dirt of the trail.
A warmth spreading through his face alerted Hendrick to the vitae pouring from his nose. A slight searing pain also stretched across his face. He moved his hands to lift himself back up and another series of lightning bolts pounded into the dirt inches from his skull.
“By Caevari’s <2> will!” Hendrick cried as residual electricity straightened his jet-black hair yet again. Quickly, he pushed himself from the earth and broke into another run. Two steps from his prone position, lightning crackled into the earth flash-boiling his blood and the rain.
The strobe lightning revealed Draeul Forest growing ever closer as Hendrick charged forward. The lightning continued to attack along with the large and ceaseless raindrops. Hendrick always seemed to be just to the left or right of the individual bolts and suffered nothing but a slight static charge.
Another bolt crackled to the left, Hendrick twisted his foot and shifted direction to the right toward the forest. The huge, ancient trees were only three paces from him now. Suddenly, a horrific epiphany crossed his mind. I’m being herded by the lightning, Hendrick thought.
Lightning burst earthward again but smashed into the large oak above Hendrick. He ducked instinctually and looked upward. With a crack, a huge branch plummeted. Hendrick tried to dodge but the branch smacked him in the back of his skull. He fell forward, a jeering pain lurching through his head. He blinked twice, wiping mud and blood from his eyes.
A thunderous roar and the sound of the tree being zapped again by the heavenly fire filled Hendrick’s ears. His eyes noticed nothing but darkness.
“By the Gods,” he murmured groping blindly. Still his eyes would not function despite the continued lightening he could only guess to be more electricity. He could feel warmth spreading quickly above him, the terrible swift hunger of fire. A splintering sound boomed above him.
With a quick lurch, Hendrick pushed into a roll and somersaulted down a steep hill. The sound of another branch smacked into the earth behind him. His body contorted; legs over head and arms then vice-versa for a blind eternity. Slowly the ground evened out and his speed declined.
Abruptly, his roll came to an end against a rock face. Hendrick lied in a fetal position, unconscious.
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Slowly, sounds started echoing through the young man’s mind. There was a roar of flames, definitive by the warmth on his body. Sometimes, there was a sound akin to whistling or whispering. It was light, hollow and only tugged at the edge of his consciousness. Often, the whispers were accompanied with a light summer breeze.
Raindrops could still be heard; heavy, steady and monotonous and at a slight distance. Aside from the dampness of his clothing, Hendrick felt no added moisture. I must’ve stumbled into a cave, he thought. The fire would mean I am not alone. Hendrick reached for his satchel but it was nowhere near his body.
“I wondered when you would wake.” The voice was old but filled with joy. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the fire.
“Who are you?” Hendrick demanded as he sat up. The throbbing in his head had passed. As his hands glanced across his face, he felt no swelling or cuts of any kind.
“I tended your wounds, young master.” The voice replied somewhat bemused. “Your question cannot be answered quickly or simply. Who I am is quite a long story and I’m afraid we haven’t the time for such digressions or niceties. But while you are here, you may call me Master.” Hendrick could almost hear the man laugh.
“I don’t have time for any games. Where is my pack?” Hendrick stood, his sore body crying out for him to stop. Throbbing began again as he bumped his head on a stone ceiling. He barely muffled his cry with his hand.
“I think, my young master that you have quite a bit of time on your hands. Unless you think you can continue your journey blind. Personally, I think a day out in that rainstorm and you’ll be in a worse position than you are now.” Hendrick frowned as he sat back down.
“You’ve healed my wounds. Can you heal my sight?”
“If you let me, I can help you to see clearer than you’ve ever seen before. I will help you see through the shadow. I can show you the truth of the world.”
Hendrick pondered the man’s words for just a second. “I will accept your help. I am…”
“You,” the old man broke in, “are Cassock. Cael has brought you here for your training. Your life as Hendrick Balsoon has ended. From this day forward you are Cassock, the bringer of Cael.” Before Hendrick now Cassock had a moment to wonder how the old man had known his name his training as a priest began.
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Time was unfathomable to Cassock’s blindness. According to his Master, roughly a month had passed; a true eternity in Cassock’s unwavering shadow world.
All of the rites of Cael had been firmly memorized by hours of verbal study. Theology had been pounded into Cassock’s head. All the stories originally told by his parents as bed-time tales of the Old Gods were revisited and expounded upon.
Suddenly, Cassock could feel the old man staring at him. His hackles rose for a moment and the shadowy veil began to lift from his eyes.
“Will you accept the path Cael has chosen for you, Cassock?” The young man nodded mutely. “You will be a bringer of Death and Destruction. Use your gifts in Cael’s name and you will be rewarded at his side. Forever more, you will only be known as Cassock, the Bringer of Cael. Hendrick Balsoon does not and never did exist.”
“I understand, Master.”
“I am no longer your Master, Cassock. You answer only to Cael himself, now. Once your vision returns, you will find a mace, a holy symbol, and some armor here in the cavern. Take it. Return to the world and bring glory to Cael’s name.”
“Where are you going, Teacher?” A soft summer breeze was Cassock’s only answer.
Suddenly, Cassock could make out the details of the room. He turned to the entrance and the darkness revealed it was night. He turned toward the fire but there was none. Nothing cast light inside the cavern but the priest could still see.
Raising his gaze from where the fire should have been, Cassock saw two statues standing across from each other. One statue was carved of black marble; a man holding a sword in its right arm pointing toward a sun. The other was of a woman, white marble, touching her own blade to the same sun. The half of the sun touched by the woman was bright white, almost as if it could cast light. The other half was a molted black and red, true shadow.
Cassock instantly recognized the statues as Cael and Myr. Below Cael, rested the gear the old man had promised. His torn satchel sat beside the mace, mended. The old man was nowhere to be seen. Cassock hastily donned the armor and gathered his gear. He knelt before the statues, the mace across his lap.
“Cael watch over and bless me. Let the darkness guide my path. Let Your darkness protect me.” Cassock quickly bowed then stood. He turned and left the cave.
Once outside, he realized he was no longer near the Path of Legends. He spun back toward the cave but it was gone. Turning around again, Cassock saw the flickering of lights. He headed toward the village.
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<1> Kullyc (Kul-ick) is the name for Autumn. Originally it was called Caelyn (Kel-in) but was renamed by Ara’kull’s church.
<2> Caevari is the God of Luck. He’s also known as the God of Plenty and Traveling. He is one of the Kin Gods and thus is Cael’s and Myr’s Grandson.
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Prelude: Aramil and Gabrielle
The first update of the last prelude. At least, for the moment. Apparently I just might be getting another victim...err..I mean player
Enjoy.
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The forest streamed by.
Greens and browns coupled with the yellows and reds of the sun glinting from the leaves. Branches reached out, razor thin edges scratching ravenously. A deeper, thicker red melted into the dense foliage.
Lungs heaved. Muscles tired, then ached. Fresh wounds bled openly. The viscous, congealing fluid left black stains upon leather. Still, muscles pushed on. Lungs burned from overexertion.
A rough blow exploded from the side. Bone-jarring force resonated through his skull. The world spun and twisted. Limb over limb, colors merged and mated. Confusion was its progeny.
The world stilled. Dusk had come, bringing the twilight of the day, the twilight of youth. Cascading silver rained upon the landscape as daylight faded.
A shrill cry split the air. His body twitched but would not stand. Muscles ached, ceaselessly complaining for rest. Lungs still throbbed from their struggle. Another scream filled with utter and complete pain. This time though, it was coupled with resignation. Roughly, he tugged at the foliage. Still, his body denied the command to stand.
Night, a raptor, swooped from above and chased the light. One final, piercing screech shattered the darkness. Death dripped from the shrill notes. Hopelessness flooded the skies. Night devoured its prey.
Aramil bolted upright. Half-dreaming confusion wracked his mind as his eyes darted about. The nightmare had returned again in the dark of night. The burning sun hadn’t yet risen above the eastern mountain range. Within an hour, the fiery orb would begin its daily trek across the blue sky. Pinks and light reds were already clawing their way into the heavens.
The tiny mountain range in the east barely blocked the orb’s rays. The range was at least a week’s walk away. And from this distance, he could already tell they were nothing more than oversized hills. They were nothing but ants compared to the dark, brooding peaks splitting the skies to the south.
Aramil stifled a shudder. He was glad to be traveling away from the southern peaks that marked the edge of Midloth, the King’s royal territory. But the ant-sized peaks were not his destination either.
Slowly, he turned north to look into his future. Months of journeying remained, at the very least, to cross the hellish terrain. The next major terrain feature would be an old forest perched above a series of canyons. After that marker, the last range of mountains danced along the coast and hiding a treacherous sea. In that sea was his destination: Aedil, the Thirteenth Territory of the King. The only territory rumored to be just and fair to any of all races. Aedil gave the King its allegiance and yet, managed to disobey the racial laws. At least, that had been what he was told just like his companion.
Aramil shifted his gaze back to his right side. Gabrielle lied, curled upon a bed of dry leaves and moss. Draped over her small form was Aramil’s tattered blanket. Gabrielle stirred; her dark, curly hair flopped from side to side. Quietly, Aramil waited for the halfling’s shifting to end. Our destination, he corrected.
With a dirty, travel-worn hand, Aramil wiped the thick layer of sweat from his brow. Summer was fading and the nights were already beginning to chill. Because of the nightmare, because of his memories, he still awoke drenched in sweat. Since Aramil’s personal demons and devils couldn’t bleed him dry, they tortured the sweat from his body. The constant running through his dreamscape coupled with the monotonous never-ending traveling left his body sore each and every day.
Gabrielle’s half-waking twitches slowed as she lulled back into her own dreams. Aramil stood and pulled his dark hair back. A delicate gesture confined the straight hair in a leather tie, exposing his slightly pointed ears. Once Gabrielle woke and they continued their journey, his hair would have to be released again. With delicate, angular bones Aramil ran too much a risk of discovery without displaying his half-elven ears.
Traveling north had been a difficult trek alone. It had only complicated matters, when the half-elf had crossed paths with Gabrielle. She, too, was running from her past and her heritage. She had been directed to head north to Aedil. Learning that Aramil was on the same path, the halfling practically became attached at the hip to the half-elf.
She slowed his progress. She also ate more food and made more noise than a rabid band of goblins. Her stature alone caused problems in the few towns they dared enter. Passing her off as a child didn’t even ease the situation. Her mouth usually negated any clever disguises Aramil could create. As such, they had been forced to circle around several of the more recent towns. Once stopped for the night, Aramil had to backtrack in the dark and pilfer what food he could. His nights seemed to never end.
Aramil sighed as he stared at Gabrielle. Despite the grief she caused him, she was like a sister. She was another outcast to share the brunt of this journey. Before the journey ended, he was sure more than just a brunt would be borne by the both of them. Blood and tears awaited their travels. Hopefully, they would survive. But the half-elf had serious doubts.
Removing a hardened loaf of bread from his pack, Aramil sat back down beside Gabrielle. He greedily tore a hand-sized chunk and devoured it quickly. As soon as he had swallowed his piece, he waved the bread under the halfling’s nose. Gabrielle’s nostrils twitched and her eyes opened swiftly. Her hands lurched toward the bread but he snatched it just out of her reach.
“Not just yet. Get up. We have to get going.” Aramil stood again, waving the bread tantalizingly in front of his face. “Get up.”
“Fine! I’m awake.” Gabrielle sat up on the makeshift bed and gathered her things. “I didn’t get enough sleep, you know.”
“Neither did I.” Aramil retorted. “But, we need to keep going. Rest just enough so you can keep going, that’s what my father used to say.” The half-elf grimaced as a memory of his father surfaced. He shrugged it off as best as possible.
“Your father must’ve been a stupid man.” Gabrielle threw a hand over her mouth but couldn’t stop the words. Aramil’s face contorted with anger. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
The halfling’s apology was silenced by a hunk of bread hurtling toward her head. She dodged it nimbly and the bread collided with the soil. “Let’s get going!” Aramil commanded. The half-elf stalked off, all of his gear already packed.
Gabrielle quickly threw her things and Aramil’s blanket into her satchel. Then she snatched her lute and grabbed the bread off the ground. She dusted the dirt off and screamed, “Hey! Wait up!!”
WARNING: Norum da Salaex can be a very gritty world. Rape, murder, thievery all happen. If you don't want to experience any of these events, turn away now. In the famous words of Monty Python: Run Away! Run Away! I will attempt to keep it as clean as is possible, but I make no guarantees. You may find subject material that you disagree with. Sorry, I'm about realism in my games. That's just the way I am. But I will try to keep it in a slightly toned-down manner so as to be publishable to this free website. I in no way condone this sort of behavior, but I do sadly acknowledge that it does and did happen (in the real world and the fantasy world). Thank you and consider yourself warned.
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The shoulder high field of wheat was a curtain of blindness. Aramil couldn’t see more than fifty feet ahead of his position. The sloping hills he and Gabrielle were trekking across rose steeply in front, blocking his view. The half-elf wasn’t at all happy.
Gabrielle plodded, not-so-silently, behind him. She had taken to plucking on the infernal instrument she carried. She had practically no ability with the lute and her voice was a horrible accompaniment. Always, her tone registered flat compared to the voice of the instrument. Her cacophonous chords did nothing to alleviate the strain on his sensitive half-elven ears. Aramil grumbled quietly.
“Would you knock that off?!”
“No. I am going to be the best singer on the island of Aedil. And right now, I need my practice.” The halfling returned to her prodding of the horse-hair strings.
“Stop!” Aramil spun and knocked the lute out of her hands. “I need to be able to hear. And I can’t do it with the racket you’re making.” Gabrielle’s face welled up with tears. Aramil released his anger with a hoarse breath. “Look, if you don’t want to be captured by the Tyrant’s men, I’d suggest you be silent. I need to think.” Aramil pulled a worn map out of his satchel and tried to calculate their location.
Gabrielle plopped down beside Aramil and tried to peer at the map. Quickly, she became impatient and turned away. Within moments, she was strumming the lute again albeit at a quieter volume.
“I don’t understand it. This map must be old. Clearly, we’re nearing a town but it doesn’t appear on this,” he shook the parchment roughly. “It must be. Why else would we be traveling through a field of wheat?”
“Oh, do you think we could maybe stop in and get some food?” Gabrielle beamed. “I’m so hungry.” Her stomach rumbled loudly in emphasis.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, the town isn’t on my map. So, we’ll be lucky to even see it. It must be quite tiny.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being tiny,” she shot back. “We should try to find it anyway. I’m quite hungry.”
“I heard you the first time. Either way, you’re not entering the town. I’ll get us food. Let’s get moving again.” Aramil began the arduous task of plowing through the field and leaving a path for his pint-sized friend.
Suddenly, the half-elf tensed. His ears had picked up a strange noise that raised the hairs upon his neck. He tried peering through the blind wheat again, but to no avail. “Run!” he hissed.
“What is it?” Gabrielle asked.
“Horses. Now, run!” The half-elf shoved the halfling before turning to charge after her. They fled as quickly as they could back down their obvious trail. The galloping noise of hooves began to grow louder and louder.
Aramil chanced a glance back and spotted two riders coming on strongly. Both were decked in black half-plate armor and were waving weapons in the air. Swiftly, the gap between the groups closed revealing more detail. Aramil spotted the symbol of Ara’kull emblazoned on the armor, a broken bastard sword nearly arranged into a cross. The rider on the left was waving a mace in the air, while the rider on the right twirled a net.
At the last possible second, Aramil shoved Gabrielle off the path and darted the other direction. The net had already been released and easily caught the halfling. As Aramil plunged headlong into the crop, the horses changed direction and ploughed toward him. He moved as quickly as possible but the stems of the wheat clung like greedy hands, slowing and pulling him down.
A shrill cry pierced the air from behind him. He could hear another rider coming down the hill, although he dared not look.
His pace increased but his vision was shrouded with memory. Reds and yellows glinted off of the wheat. Terrified he charged along even faster.
An arrow sailed over his head but he kept going. The wheat left welts on his skin, but he wouldn’t stop. More arrows danced above his skull, just barely missing their mark.
Gabrielle shrieked again from behind, a dull thud chasing her fading voice. Sweat beaded across Aramil’s brow as his lungs began to burn. Out of my head, he demanded mentally of his memories. But the weight of his father’s death effectively crushed him.
The Orcs were behind him again as he ran with his father through the forest. They had been heading to Aedil when the Orcs came out of nowhere. Aramil’s father shoved him off the trail, where the child had tumbled down an embankment and into the cover of dense foliage. When the half-elf had awoken at dusk, he heard the shrill cries of his father being tortured. When Aramil found the body several days later, he realized his human father hadn’t been tortured but devoured alive. The half-elf’s rebellious body had saved him from the same fate.
Aramil burst out of the forest of wheat and into a clearing at the base of a hill. A small stream cut through the trench. A traitorous rock, piercing the water, snagged on his boot. The half-elf tripped and plummeted to the ground.
A rough blow exploded from the side. Bone-jarring force resonated through his skull. The world spun and twisted.
He struggled to roll over. He reached for his father’s crossbow and clumsily loaded a bolt. The soldiers burst through the edge of the crop and into the clearing.
Aramil raised the crossbow and pulled on the trigger. An arrow shaft pierced his arm, sending his shot wide. The rider with the mace charged forward, swinging low. The half-elf scrambled away but the forged metal connected solidly with his head.
Colors merged and mated creating confusion as the sky disappeared and the ground darted upward. Darkness swallowed Aramil’s consciousness.
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“Did you kill the child?!” A gruff voice pierced Aramil’s veil of unconsciousness. The half-elf shifted slightly, sentience and pain flooding back into his mind.
“No, I didn’t kill it. I should though. The bitch is a halfling.” This voice was slightly higher in tone but leering and condescending.
“You are not to kill it,” a third voice commanded. This one was older, laden with discipline and demanding respect. Aramil struggled to open his eyes until he realized a torn cloth was tied tightly about his head. Similarly, his arms and feet were bound as well, although in heavy metal clasps. He tried to rotate his head against the cold earth to try to hear more.
“I won’t kill it then. But I am going to have some fun with her.” Aramil heard the sound of hands working against leather. He struggled against his bonds.
“Heh. Do you think they’re skilled whores?” The gruff voice questioned.
“Dunno,” the condescending soldier answered, “but they can’t be too bad. They’re the same height as children, after all. I’m sure her stubby fingers can work wonders.” Laughter broke out between the two men. Aramil struggled loudly against his bonds.
“Now look what you’ve done!” The commanding voice shouted. Aramil felt the man coming closer and then felt a solid piece of oak crack against his skull. Aramil tasted the metallic flavor of blood in his mouth as darkness swallowed him again.
“Heh. I bet the elf would benefit from you as well,” the gruff voice replied.
“Rufus, shut the hell up! You’re just encouraging him. Neither of you will touch these prisoners in anyway unbefitting of your stations.” Captain Lockhart glared at both of the men. He pushed his sweaty gray hair out of his eyes. Before either of his men could speak he stated, “If however, they need to be helped along with their…confessions, you may turn toward your particular methods. But not one hand will be laid upon them until we return to the keep, unless that hand is mine.”
The Captain threw a set of manacles to his men. “Chain her up and then blind-fold her. Once we’ve gathered their gear, we’ll leave.” The aged soldier grabbed Aramil by his nape and threw him onto a warhorse. Then the Captain leapt onto the horse and adjusted the half-elf.
“Sometime today if you ever expect to receive your transfer!” The Captain cursed the Royal Army silently for sending him the worst recruits to train. Lockhart watched as the recruits carefully chained the halfling, making sure their hands wouldn’t stray too far. Once everything was collected, the group rode toward the Town of Green Hills.
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Interlude: The Battle at Port Divi'sad
Well, my intent tonight was to begin work on Chapter 1. However, all of my notes were of roleplaying through email. And I, being the horrible employee that I am, did it over my work email. So, I didn't have the notes here at home. Instead of beginning Chapter 1, I decided to take all you history buffs back in time about 30 years. This is the story of a battle that is pertinent not just to the PC Cassock but to a later PC and quite obviously, a few NPCs.
So, I hope you enjoy the "update". Its somewhere in the vicinity of 3,000 words and will hopefully quench your thirsts.
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Nearly Thirty years prior…
The rising sun glinted dully off the steel edging of the greatsword. Ancient runes carved in the language of the Gods were barely visible through the dried blood and gore accumulated on the metal. The battle-hardened warrior-priest raised the blade into the air, pressing the cool steel against his dirty brow. He dropped to his knees in silent prayer on the field of battle.
Strewn around the praying warrior’s body was thousands of quietly smoldering bodies. Severed appendages littered the once green grass of the park. More than a hundred thousand gallons of blood had stained the grass deep red.
For your honor my Lord…
The warrior-priest bowed forward, touching his face and the blade to the earth. Silently, his lips murmured his prayers. The gore of the field clung to his unshaven face. He seemed not to notice or care as he continued his prayers.
This was the third day of the battle; the third day he had held his position, the third day without any rest. Four days ago, he had been outside of the city, Port Divi’sad, preparing to lead his soldiers in the defense of the city. They had marched from Legend, the territory that had claimed dominion over Port Divi’sad.
Borders in the Kingdom of Norum da Salaex were as ever-changing as the seasons. The Troll-ruled territory of Draat had been expanding their territory relentlessly for the last twenty or more years. The Trolls had already devoured much of the Goblin state, Matz and were now pushing into the territory of Legend.
One week ago, the warrior-priest had sworn to take back the city. He had made this oath to the Baron, Dragos Tyne. The men he led were not an official army and as such, were not subject to the chaotic whims of the individual Barons or the ruthless agendas of the King. These were men dedicated to his personal causes; men that had rallied to the calls of courage, self-defense and the betterment of their own stations in life. These men had learned the arts of war only for defense of their own families not to obtain land or riches. These were nearly one thousand good men, and now he would have to bury and bless all but maybe ten of them. The warrior-priest sighed as he shifted his weight slightly raising his head and allowing his tears to cleanse the blood from his face and then the earth.
He had led nearly every single one of his own men to their deaths. They would have willingly followed him into the deepest, darkest depths of the Hells if it would guarantee the safety of their families. If the Trolls were to maintain their foothold in Legend, the regenerating beasts would likely take the entire territory. His sorrow creased and formed a solid grimace as he stood, muscles straining wearily.
Give me strength, my Lord. In this, my final hour, bless this blade and bless my body. They are but weak vessels for your holy might, your holy wrath. And with them, I may send more of these fiends into your eternal embrace.
Reserve a spot at your side for me, my Lord. Know that I died in your name, doing your will. I died honorably and in defense of those unable to defend themselves from the wrath and hatred of Ara’kull and his minions.
Bless me, my Lord.
The warrior-priest kissed his blade once more, basking in the warmth of Cael’s wife Myr. The sun was now above the eastern horizon by quite a distance. He turned away from his homeland to stare toward the Troll camps in the west.
It had been nearly five years since he had actually received the words of his Lord, Cael. But always steadfast in his devotion, the warrior-priest prayed every night to his God. Often, he would even pray again in the morning, hoping his words were being carried to the ears of his God. Several times, he had felt the divine power that coursed through his veins falter. At those moments, the spells he had been concentrating upon would fly from his mind and he would be left powerless except for the blade he carried. Still, his devotion held and he stayed on the path he had been set upon so long ago.
He noticed movement on the western horizon. The Trolls were moving forward again. The beasts were not fond of battling in the day’s light. They had found that the warrior-priest actually preferred the nights as well, his power waning during the daylight hours. It was a calculating move on their part similar to their overused tactic of throwing as many goblin slaves at him as possible before attacking with their trained soldiers. Both tactics had failed horribly over the preceding days. However, the Trolls had to know they would eventually wear him down. The warrior-priest was, after all, outnumbered especially with the loss of his troops.
Calmly, the warrior-priest roused the remains of his men. He allowed them time to eat and prepare themselves as much as was necessary. This would be their final fight together. He was not afraid of death but he did not relish the thought of sending his few remaining soldiers to their afterlives as well.
“Men,” he screamed his voice harsh and raspy from days of misuse, “You are free to go. You have honorably served me and my God.” He turned to look the ten, ragged men in their eyes. “I will not bind you to my own fate. You must each choose your own path. Each of you has a family to watch over. Your place is with them and not at my side. I suggest you leave while you can. The Trolls will be here in a matter of hours.” The warrior-priest pushed the two bleached locks of white hair back behind his ears. In that position, the long, white curls clashed with the short black hair that was cropped closely to his head. He smiled grimly, realizing that in battle they must look like gleaming horns spinning and attacking his victims. “You’re dismissed!” He turned away from their nearly empty camp and looked to the horizon, to his own death.
“Sir.” A young sergeant tried to pull him from his reverie. He was unsure of the sergeant’s name. The soldier was one of his quieter men.
“Yes.”
“I think, sir, I speak for all of us. Our place is at your side. This is the best way for us to take care of our families. And not just our own families, but those left fatherless and brotherless by this war. If we do not stop the Trolls, sir, then who will?” The sergeant stepped back, respectfully and returned to the breakfast fires. The warrior-priest smiled.
Cael, do not fail us now.
The warrior-priest spun on his heel. “Men. Today we die. Let our deaths not be in vain. There is nothing to fear from an honorable death. Cael will embrace each and every one of us into his arms. And he will devour the souls of our enemies! Into your positions!” The soldiers formed up alongside and behind the war-priest; five to each side creating an inverted vee pattern.
The Trolls had stopped two hundred feet away. The warrior-priest noted the prominence of the diminutive Goblin slaves making the first rank. In the middle of the front rank was a line, maybe ten Trolls wide. "This is a new tactic," the warrior-priest grunted silently. “Ready your arrows!” Each of his ten soldiers lit the arrows they held and then proceeded to nock the arrows in their bows.
A dark speck darted from the Troll ranks, running as fast as it could. The Goblin’s short legs weren’t built for distance as he seemed to sputter and trip at numerous points in his journey.
“Extinguish arrows, men! I believe they wish to parley.” Cheers exploded behind him as the arrows were carefully extinguished.
The Goblin toppled over as he reached the humans’ positions. His breath was hoarse and rasping, from his full-speed run. The warrior-priest lowered his weapon, resting the point of the blade only inches from the Goblin’s long, twisted nose. The runt scrambled backward onto his knees, not even daring to raise his eyes.
“What message do you bring, slave?”
The gobber scratched his head for a moment, trying to release the memories of his orders. Then he stood, carefully and slowly taking great pains to not look up. “Dey sen me.” Its common was broken and scratchy. It motioned back toward the Trolls to get the point across. “Dey speak: Fierce, war-yer o’ black night, be coward. Go to dem. Dey let not-men go.” The Goblin bowed his head, his transmission complete.
The warrior-priest grimaced. He looked toward the enemies’ ranks and saw the line of Trolls part. In the center of the massive army, he could make out the distant shapes of women and children, cowering with fear. The Trolls alongside the prisoners rose gigantic axes into the air.
“And if I don’t?”
The Goblin raised his head and stared directly in the warrior-priest’s eyes. “Dey speak: Den you see dem die. Den you die.”
The warrior-priest gritted his teeth. “Fine.” He sheathed his weapon and turned once again to his men. “I am going to turn myself over to the Trolls.” Grunts and moans arose but he cut them off with a swift gesture of his hand. “Prepare your arrows. If they do not release the prisoners, make them regret their dishonor.” He turned stoically toward the enemy encampment and began the walk over with the Goblin.
Twenty feet from the Trolls, the prisoners were clearly in view. Most of the prisoners were women and children but there were a few elderly chained down as well. One of the prisoners stood tall and straight, long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes showed no mark of violation, unlike her body and clothing. The bruises, welts and lacerations that covered her naked torso dimmed in the serenity of her eyes. She cocked her head backward, allowing the warmth of the sun to brighten her face.
He raised his eyes toward the sky as well. One last moment of peace, he thought. The sun had moved to its zenith and basked the gore of the field in its warm rays. A shimmer suddenly appeared just below the sun. A blood-red moon was speeding toward the fiery orb.
Morrick, the Hand of Cael, hear my words now. Let my power guide and stay your hand. Gather your strength from my own. Your fate is upon you, the last of your adventures. But your life is not forfeit as of yet.
This woman before you is your just reward for a life of service. She is a follower of Myr and will produce an heir for you. She is your salvation. She will be your love and your confidant. Protect her for your own future. Protect her for my future. And do as she requests. This is your future.
I bless you Morrick.
The crimson moon hovered in front of the sun, casting the battlefield into darkness. Worried murmurs arose from the Trolls. Morrick stared downward at his blade as he crossed the remaining twenty feet. Warmth trickled slowly down the scabbard and through his bones. He whipped the blade out of its covering, the ancient runes glowed an unearthly blue which quickly shifted into a bright, searing red hue.
The Trolls leapt backward as Morrick’s blade danced above his head, in a fast arc. As the blade slid through the beasts, their bodies erupted into flame. The flaming corpses stumbled backward allowing the flames to spread rapidly through the ranks.
The army surged forward to close the ranks and pin the cleric. Morrick’s men unleashed a barrage of flaming arrows into the army. They then dropped their bows, drawing their own melee weapons and began a charge.
The flaming arrows did nothing to slow the progress of the hordes of Trolls and Goblins. Morrick grabbed the woman in white and pressed her downward onto the ground. He spun left and right, setting more of the creatures ablaze with the glowing sword.
The warrior-priest screamed in rage as the tides kept pouring toward him. He saw his men trying to hack their way through the ranks to join their leader. Claws and blades hacked into his body as he fell forward, over the young woman. Blood poured from the multiple lacerations, his eyes were dulling.
The woman stared up at Morrick’s face. She raised her hands, gently caressing his face. A bright light gushed from her hands. Morrick felt his wounds close and his vitality return. He stood straight and glared at the ranks surrounding him.
The horde broke momentarily as Morrick raised the greatsword toward the sky. A fluid black energy poured from his body, engulfing the sword. Morrick felt divine energy coursing through his veins. He brought the blade down and pointed it at his enemies. A divine radius of black energy sped outward decimating the rival army.
Morrick collapsed to the ground.
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When Morrick opened his eyes, he was staring into the face of the woman he had been protecting. He jumped upward, a pain in his back keeping him earthbound. Quickly he glanced to each side.
A devastating scene spread around his prone form. All of the Trolls and Goblin slaves lie in burning heaps. The grass itself was stained and charred. He struggled to search the wreckage for his men, but her gentle hand pulled his gaze upward.
“Your men are fine, as are the prisoners. The bolt of energy destroyed your enemies and passed harmlessly through your allies. My Goddess was impressed.”
“You speak of Myr, do you not?”
“Yes. She has asked me to accompany you to back to Legend. Our union is foretold in the stars Morrick, Hand of Cael.”
Morrick grunted. He sat up to better take her beautiful countenance. “I know of this prophecy as well. I thank you for your aide on the field. Without you…”
“Without me, dear Morrick, there is no future for you or any of us. Come,” she extended a hand and lifted him to his feet. “Let us leave this place of death and begin our lives anew.”
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Chapter 1: Fate's Weave
Okay...so hopefully I'll have more than just this update this weekend...but I do have a lot of writing to get to. Enjoy.
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Cassock of Cael stood at the precipice of a hill. To his left, a worn tower stretched fifty feet into the cool night air. The tower consisted of nothing but a spiraling staircase that crept upward to an open platform. The wooden platform had been devoured by time. Still stretching across the open gap, a few braces lent contrast to the rusting bell of the tower. Both Enoch and Styg’s early evening rays caressed each mud-red fleck of rust adorning the warning bell <1>.
Cassock had shifted through the rubble although the post had been uninhabited for years if not decades. A paltry handful of coins and a few vials of holy water were the only scraps he found. Confident that his search had produced all to be found, the priest moved outside to glare downward at the bustling town.
Flickering fires danced through the open windows of the tiny cottages. The tiny lights would not have shown normal eyes the detail revealed to Cassock. Cael’s Blessing had already proved its usefulness <2>. Cassock saw at least twenty individuals milling about an open field in the center of the town. They all moved slowly, stirring or searching the ground at their feet. A fine mist clung to the feet of the mob, clambering upward whenever given a chance.
Two distinct natural sensations arose within Cassock at that moment. The first was a fine red glow emanating from the ground beneath the crowd. The second, a scent of charred flesh brought to his notice by the chill kullyc wind. The cleric winced in realization. The field that the townsfolk shifted through was no field; it had been more homes, burnt to the ground.
“I see you have sent me to where I am needed, My Lord! My path becomes clearer.” The priest stood and descended toward the town.
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Cassock slid from shadow to shadow into the town, passing like a ghost amongst the living. His crimson and black chain mail was silent as if in respect granted toward the lost souls.
In the center of the village, the small crowd was shifting through ashes. Burnt remains of wood still held the glowing warmth of dying flames. The crackling wood erupted upward at odd angles from a sea of useless roofing. Next to these cinders, lied the remains of the dead. Their faces were contorted in ashen visages of horror. Lips melted together with gums, teeth cleansed pearly white by the fire. The teeth were beacons to the searchers and with each new body discovered another round of sobbing and wails pierced the air.
Most of the crowd continued with the hopeless search, unknowing of the new presence. One man did spot the priest. He moved warily toward the well armored visitor, bastard sword weighing heavily in his left hand. The guard’s armor was only worn leather with scraps dangling uselessly. Despite his middle-age, the man looked ancient and gaunt.
A few steps behind the guard, a group of townsfolk dumped a wooden pail of water upon some smoldering embers. A soft hiss and gout of smoke plumed upward. Nine corpses lie under gray death shrouds beside the group. The rescuers dragged three rigid cadavers from the embers they had quieted. A father, mother and small child were pulled toward the sheeted bodies; all of their faces frozen in agony. Caged within the child’s arms, a small pet rested eternally.
“Hail there! What happened here?”
The guard stopped only a few paces from the cleric. Soot and dirt did nothing to hide the anger and sorrow etched into the creases of the man’s brow. Neither did the grime conceal the wary glances at Cassock’s armor and weaponry. Meticulously, the guard seemed to inventory all of the gear, piece by piece. Once finished measuring the priest, the guard pulls out a flask and takes a long swig. The sweet odor of a dark rum mixes with the heavy scent of rot from the guard’s mouth.
“They came for the Mayor’s half-breed!” he spits out. “But were ‘ey content wit’ jus’ that?” The guard swallowed another draught. “Nah. Burned ‘ese other homes, killin’ dose inside.” With the last grunt, the guard clumsily waves a hand toward the crisp cadavers behind.
The sentry slips the flask back into a pouch on his belt as he bends to lift an iron rod from the wreckage. His slightly intoxicated hand rotates the three foot pole in the air. “Wedged ‘ese in e’ doors. Bastards! Trapped ‘em to roast alive. I can still ‘ere the screams!” The rod vibrated as it hit the ground. The flask instantly replaced the iron.
“Damn Mayor! Damn pointers! Damn Orphan! If’n the Mayor ‘ad jus’ killed the bitch, good peoples ‘ud not be dead! Ara’Kull is punishing us!” The guard turns to leave, stumbling over one of the many corpses. The townspeople pulled him from the ash and soot.
A group of plainly clad females were bent over the dead. Dutifully, they pulled the shrouds back and bathed the singed flesh of the dead with clean cloths and water. The crowd’s talking had diminished, replaced only by a few whispers. Cassock stared downward, trying to pick out the important bits of information. A few of the words did stand out, not because of unfamiliarity but due to their constant repetition: Male Half-Elf, Female Halfling, Keep, and Royal Guard all caught his ear. The Priest of Cael turned to find the keep but is stopped suddenly in his tracks.
The crowd parted as an elderly gentleman approaches the dead. He slowly approached; the majority of his weight supported by a twisted staff. A plain white cloak hung over the slim frame increasing his apparent size. Drawn around his face, a white hood with a black, ornately stitched hem hid his features. Long, gray beard hair spilt down the front of the cloak in a haphazard fashion. A metal symbol had snatched Cassock’s attention. It was a simple silver amulet depicting a broken bastard sword: the symbol of Ara’Kull’s clergy.
The cleric bent down over each body, intoning a brief prayer. With withered hands, he drew their charred eyelids down. As the cleric moved from one cadaver to the next, Cassock nearly leapt out of his skin. Each body jerked upward, a white nimbus of light pouring from the corpse. The light quickly fouled though, becoming pitch-black in hue. Out of the bodies the darkness flowed, vaguely humanoid. Cassock could distinguish facial expressions, still twisted in agony as they reached toward him with their ethereal hands. Before the ghostly fingers could brush the priest, the black souls jerked upward into the black sky. Cassock shuddered, suddenly feeling very frigid.
The Priest of Ara’Kull turned to Cassock as the rites of passage were complete. He raised his head enough to let the dying embers reflect from his eyes. Without saying one word, the cleric vanished into the crowd.
Cassock shivered yet again. His mind tried to piece together the unnatural occurrence he witnessed <3>. What he had seen was not just unnatural but inherently wrong in some unspeakable way. But, there were no logical words to describe the agitation. Worried, the Priest of Cael moved toward the bodies of the dead.
“Help me,” he begged the drunken soldier. Cassock lifted a handful of soot and moved in between the once-blessed corpses. Quickly, he drew Cael’s mark on their brows reciting the proper burial words. Once each body had been marked he stepped backward to finish the rites. “Trasumanar significar per verba non si poria <4>.” The priest knelt briefly to sketch the Death God’s symbol into the soot as well. “I only hope I wasn’t too late to save their souls,” he murmured. “What is going on here? What was that atrocity? Damnation. Am I to be your justicar, Cael?”
“Eh,” the guard butted in, “what er ye babblin’ about?”
Cassock glared at the soldier as his mind returned to the present. “Make sure these people get proper burials. And make sure they’re buried in whatever fashion suited their religion…not the religion of that Heretic.” Cassock throws a glare toward the other priest’s last position. A confused expression spread across the guard’s face.
“And I need to see the half-elf and halfling that were captured earlier today. Take me there immediately.”
“I cannae. I'm jus’ a conscript. But if yeh really wanna see those,” the soldier spit onto the ground, “bastards in the keep, yeh need tah find Mayor Rowen. An’ you’ll find that HERETIC in keep.” The man’s sneer deepened.
“Very well, I will find the mayor. Stay with the bodies and do as I instructed you.” Cassock tossed a handful of silvers at the guard as he ran toward the keep. After Cassock departed, the guard turned toward the ladies in white. He had stuffed the silvers into his purse greedily and was finishing the last draught from his flask.
“Take the bodies to Tobus to be buried,” the conscript commanded.
“What of the man’s requests?” questioned a lady.
“F*ck that dumb foreigner. ‘E don’t know our customs nor our peoples.”
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<1> Enoch and Styg are the two moons that circle Norum da Salaex. A copper to anyone that catches the reference to another rpg.
<2> Clerics have been slightly modified from the standard cleric in that each God gifts their clerics with special abilities. One of Cael’s Blessings is darkvision (or an increase if you already have it).
<3> This IS most definitely an unnatural occurrence…not just because Cassock can see the departing souls but for other reasons as well. Hopefully, the group will discover what it means at some point in the future. But I’m not spoiling it.
<4> Trasumanar significar per verba non si poria....is yup, you guessed it, Latin. I by no means know Latin. But I am familiar with some quotes. I'm not sure I spelled it all correctly (its been about five years since I've used this one). But it basically translates to: The passage beyond humanity cannot be set forth in words. I felt it was wholly appropriate to the situation.
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Cassock spun toward the keep. Steps, heavy with distress over the shadowed soul, pulled him toward the castle and deeper into Fate’s Weave.
Not one hundred yards from the double gates, something brushes against the priest’s armor. He barely noticed the motion until a small voice pleaded, “Wait! Wait!” The cleric stopped and turned.
A small half-orc girl, dressed in naught but filthy rags, clenched tightly to his chainmail. Tiny, yellowed tusks broke the jagged surface of her oversized lips. “Please, wait.”
Cassock knelt and stared at the child. “And what I can I do for you child?”
“I…” she stammered. “I knew Ariel. She was nice. She was eleven.” A big twisted grin spread across her craggy lips. The girl leaned in closer and whispered, “We was friends. She did’n care that I was,” her eyes darted toward the ground awkwardly. “Ugly.” The word was harsh; full of steel. She raised her sloping brow and stared the priest down. Small beads of pain filled her eyes; one or two silently darted down her face and to the earth. “I liked her pointy ears. Please, sir. Bring her back.” Before Cassock could even respond, the half-breed twirled into the shadows of a building and disappeared. Cassock of Cael resumed his march into the keep.
As the distance between the priest and the keep disappeared, so to the mass of townsfolk faded in the night. Those without homes moved toward the old tavern for an emotion-numbing drink. Those full of exhaustion moved to the keep, following the priest. An order had been issued immediately following the attack. All townsfolk were to reside within the walls of the keep until such a time as their protection could be assured outside the walls.
Cassock eagerly devoured the details of the stone fortress. The layout would probably serve useful in the future. The towering stone walls reached nearly fifty feet into the air, odd for a town so small in number. The only entrance to the residences and taverns was a set of fifteen foot wide solid oak doors. These doors were easily a foot in thickness and twenty feet in height. The portcullis was only half lowered. Gleaming, black iron reinforced by steel was shaped into that protective skeleton. Not a sign of dirt or mud rested on its limbs. This fortress was quite new.
Along the inner walls, stone buildings grew like jungle vines amongst tree branches. These buildings were squat and gray with few windows for lighting. Not even one of the buildings stretched more than thirty feet from the wall, allowing an open courtyard of near one hundred and forty feet. It was in this courtyard that masses of the townsfolk huddled near small campfires. A heavy scent of alcohol and roasted venison filled the courtyard.
Another wall split the massive courtyard in twain, leaving it in sections of two hundred foot length. This wall seemed at least as thick as the exterior walls, twenty to thirty feet of stone. There was another oversized doorway arcing above the path and into the second half of the courtyard.
Cassock noted a pair of heavily armed militiamen standing against the wall and headed forward for further direction to the mayor. Before Cassock made it to the guards, a man in shining platemail stomped into the courtyard. Strapped to his side, an oversized sword nearly dug a channel in the earth. The sword, like the mail, was extraordinarily polished to a perfect mirror surface. Around the soldier’s neck dangled a black emblem, that of the Captain of the Guard.
“LOOK, old man! I don’t like it anymore than you! But the law is the law. Now people have died. The Royal army needs to be notified of these events.” The Captain’s arms folded condescendingly across the front of his blinding armor.
“Boy, I will not have the Royal Inquisitors stirring up trouble in my town.” An elderly gentleman followed the Captain into the yard. The man’s deep brown hair had grayed and thinned with age. His skin was nearly taut, pulled across his wiry and tall frame. “YOU don’t know what it is you are suggesting. I was here the last time they were here. You weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye. And if he were still among us, he would know better! Have you forgotten the histories? I thought I educated you better.” The gentleman sighed, straightening the ruffled noble cloth that draped from his body. Patches littered the canvas of cloth, leaving the minor noble looking unkempt and exhausted.
The Captain spun at the mayor. “Aye, I remember the tales. Stories to frighten children. Stories that sow discordant seeds between the people and our rightful ruler. Stories and nothing more!”
Cassock stepped diplomatically in between the two men, eliciting glares from each. Under his breath, the elder murmured, “Strange night for so many visitors.”
“Good sirs, mayhaps I can be of some service to you. I will need some details, but…”
The Captain cut the cleric off with a dismissing wave of his hand, “And how exactly do you think you can help?”
Cassock cleared his throat, subduing the anger brewing within. “Inquisitors here would be a terrible move for either of you. If the Royal Army had to be summoned, it could spread rumors of your inability to control your keep and your own lands. I suggest a small group go in search of the child. And I volunteer openly for the task. But, I will require some details as well as access to the prisoners.”
“Ah,” the Captain sighed. “Just another man interested in seeing the freaks.”
Cassock turned his cool glare toward the Captain. “You, good sir, should listen to your elders when they speak. Their wisdom will save you more than your own blade. But you’re right the law is that the Royals should be requested. Within the letter of the law though it does not state a period of time within which this contact should be established. Gather a group, send them for information and then at least you will know what the Royals will have to face. Do NOT waste the King’s money by summoning trained soldiers before all the facts are held.
“You would also do well to remember Captain that they may be stories. But they are also history. They are told so that the children will not forget the past. The children must not make the same mistakes. How many people in this town died with the last arrival of the Inquisition? Thirty? Forty? One hundred? You would risk the lives of your people for a cause you know nothing about?” Cassock clenched his jaw firmly, strangling the remaining bitter words into silence. The Captain’s face flushed as he turned and stormed from the courtyard.
Cassock pivoted toward the Mayor and takes one step backward. “Full of ignorance that one.”
“Captain Leiban has a good heart, stranger. I’m just not sure he recognizes that facet anymore.” The Mayor measured the visitor, watching the light reflect off the alternating black and red mail. “I am Gabe Rowen, the Mayor of this small town. If you wouldn’t mind, join me for a drink and we can discuss your ideas.” The Mayor waved toward the doorway the guards were positioned near and allowed the cleric to follow him indoors.
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Leiban Malabrandt, the Captain of the Guard, stormed out the western gates of the keep. His men had tried to grab his attention, but feeling his seething rage about to explode, the Captain ignored them. In the back of his awareness he heard the clank of the portcullis shutting. The guards were still positioned at that gate in the event of any more travelers.
The Capitan walked westward. The early fall breeze whistled through the wheat, soothing his hatred. He stretched his arms outward, letting the dancing plants tickle his palms. Upward his vision stretched, counting and naming the stars he had forever known in this town, his home.
A snapping twig brought him back to consciousness. His sword flashed outward toward the noise, a robed hand blocked the blade.
“Careful, young Master. You still have use for me and my talents.” The voice was nothing more than a whisper, but Leiban knew it well. He sheathed the blade.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I could ask the same of you, but I think I know. The Mayor has chosen, once again in his infinite wisdom, to disregard the law. This has angered you.” The cloaked figure stalked around the Captain. He pulled directly up to the front of the youth. “I know you well Leiban. I know the Mayor well.”
“You’re right. You’re always right…”
“Shhh.” The man raised a hand to his hidden lips. “Do not speak my name out here please, just in case. I believe we have a visitor, do we not?”
“Yes. Some fool traveler broke into my discussion with the Mayor. Arrogant bastard.”
“He is. But he is more than that. This man follows the Old Faith. He follows an untrue God. And now if the Mayor assists this man…”
“It is further reason for the mayor to be deposed.” Leiban finished. His anger had all but vanished.
“Exactly. I take it you fulfilled my request?” The cloaked man slipped past the Capitan.
“Yes. The messenger was dispatched some time ago with your letter.”
“Good. That is what I like to hear. I will be meeting with T. later tonight. Keep your eyes on the traveler if you can. One way or another, I think I’ll have to take care of him.”
“Of course.” Leiban turned to his friend, but found nothing but the softly shifting blades of wheat.
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Fifteen more minutes of peace passed outside the gates of the town before Leiban was again drawn from his reverie. The steady plodding of hooves drifted toward him. He drew his blade again as a lone traveler rode over the crest of the western hill.
A billowing cloak streamed from behind the traveler as it began the descent down the hill. Leiban waved his sword above his head, reflecting the torchlight into the distance. Surprisingly, the horse slowed its progress and brought its rider slowly toward the Captain.
“Halt. Who approaches?!” Leiban stuck his jaw outward. His body prepared for the worst, inflating itself to intimidate.
“Come now, Leiban.” A soft, melodic voice drifted from the hooded traveler. “Surely, after all these years you have not forgotten me.” The hood was thrown back, revealing a mass of wavy, deep brown hair. From behind the sensual locks, two bright brown eyes stared at the Capitan.
“Lady Rowen.” The Captain moved to his knees and bowed his head in respect. Then he stood and extended a hand, helping the lady dismount.
“Please, Leiban. You know I never enjoyed being addressed in that fashion.” She allowed Malabrandt to assist in her dismount.
“Of course, Lady Anastrianna…I mean Ana.” Leiban smiled awkwardly.
“I see you have taken over as the Captain of the Guard. How is your father?” Ana unlatched her belongings from the steed.
“He passed away last year. The fever took him in the winter months.” A touch of sadness echoed in Leiban’s words.
“I am sorry to hear about your loss, dear Leiban. What of this?” Ana threw her hand haphazardly toward the keep.
“Ah. Mayor Rowen decided the town needed better defenses. He commissioned the building of this fortress. It has been some time since you were here, Ana. Would you like me to show you around? Much has changed in the last several years.”
“No Leiban that won’t be necessary. I do need to see my father, though. Could you take me to him?” Ana smiled, her expression further enhancing the beauty of her face.
“Of course. Follow me, Lady.” Leiban turned a similar grin spreading over his own face. Soon, the Captain would be Mayor. On top of that delicious fact, the unrequited love of his youth just happened to return. This week just can’t get any better, the Captain thought as he ordered the portcullis to be raised.
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Note: Ok, not sure if I mentioned this before. The suffix –iban is attached to males that share the same name as their father. The suffix –anda is attached to females that share the same name as their mother. So, Leiban is the son of Leo Malabrandt.
Only one note this time, wow.
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Gabrielle huddled in the corner of the damp cell she occupied. Outside the barred door, her gear lay unceremoniously next to Aramil’s, along with her clothing. Fresh welts stung painfully, allowing the past hours of torture to be unforgotten. Blood had long congealed along her wounds. She was sure she’d die from some infectious disease.
Thankfully, the violators-dressed-as-guards had unbound her from the heavy wooden barrel after their…administrations. She shuddered uncontrollably. A feeling of nausea swept through her body and she clutched herself closely. Anything to keep warm, she thought as she groped tighter.
Gabrielle had never known such pain. She had been warned. Her protector, the only father she had ever known, had warned her of men. Hargos had rescued Gabrielle from her halfling birthright. Born secretly in a pen somewhere in the orc-blasted territory to the northwest, Gabrielle was shuttled away into the forest by the woodsman. Hargos himself was only half-human, just like Aramil. And Hargos had taken to surviving in the forest by himself with only a lute as company.
Hargos had been her father. At least he was, until a band of human soldiers came along and ruined her life.
Gabrielle could almost remember that day perfectly despite or maybe because of her current pain. She had awoken to the beautiful sounds of birds chirping happily in the woods. Hargos was supposed to give her another lesson with the lute. But the birds erupted from the trees, leaving an eerie silence. The half-elf left Gabrielle in the hut to investigate.
The sound of the birds was soon replaced with the sound of steel carrying soldiers. Gabrielle did as Hargos had instructed her, grabbing all her gear and fleeing. She had taken Hargos’ lute as well, so she could continue the lessons when they met again. That day never came.
After waiting for more than a month for Hargos, Gabrielle left broken-hearted to head toward the free state of Aedil. “It was the only place she would ever be safe,” Hargos had claimed. So Gabrielle fled.
It was a long journey for a long time. The harshness of reality had left the halfling struggling for food and shelter, until she had met Aramil. Then life had been easier again. She could practice on the lute when Aramil wasn’t grumpy. And she could tell him wonderful tales about Hargos, although more often then not they both avoided speaking of their pasts. Now, they were both trapped in an unrelenting hell of abuse.
Captain Lockhart, she thought was his name, had argued with the other guards about their mistreatment. The other guards wouldn’t listen though. Even the mayor had ordered the pair’s clothes given back and abuse ceased. But once he was gone, the guards resumed their fun.
Men are evil.
A resounding thud echoed from the cell next to Gabrielle’s. Aramil was still moaning in pain. She knew that moan well after a day in this hell. His mouth had been gagged, much as her own. She was pretty sure he had his own barrel, his own bonds. Thankfully a thin stone wall separated the cells so she would not have to relive her own experiences.
If only I could reach the lute, she thought. Its not that far…and I could soothe Aramil’s and my own pain. Or maybe a weapon. Aramil’s blade isn’t so far. I should be able to reach it, solidifying her own confidence, the halfing moved toward the edge of her cell. She pressed her face against the cold, iron bars and glanced down the hallway. Still there was only one guard in the dungeon. And he was preoccupied. Gabrielle stretched her arm out.
Another sharp crack split the air. Before Gabrielle could react, the guard stepped out of the adjoining cell and spied the halfling’s arm reaching toward the blade. He grunted, shifting his slimy bulk toward her. He stopped adjusting his belt and uniform.
Gabrielle retracted her arm in a flash and slid backward from the door. The guard grunted again, while slamming Aramil’s cell door. One final half-conscious moan escaped before a painful silence settled in the dungeon.
The evil man fumbled with his keys momentarily. He glanced upward, a malicious gleam in his eyes. “Want som’in hard to hold, do ye? I got som’in for you. Som’in your freak beau coul’nt handle.” The key shifted metallically in the lock until a tiny click signaled the opening of a mechanism.
Gabrielle prayed to every god and goddess she had ever heard named for courage.
The door swung open.
The halfling prayed to Hargos for speed.
The guard stepped in and reached to close the door.
Gabrielle made one last fleeting prayer to Phoee, the mother of all the gods, for strength. She charged the iniquitous fiend.
The cell door slammed shut as the man raised one booted foot to Gabrielle’s face. Gabrielle stumbled backward from the impact, crashing into the stone wall behind. Warm vitae spilled down the bard’s face, from her shattered teeth.
“I likes ‘em frisky. Jus’ like yer boyfriend.” The voice was distant. Unconsciousness stretched reality. Before the halfling entered its cool embrace completely, she felt one fat, grubby hand slide up her nude torso.
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“Thank you for the drink,” Cassock said as he set the mug of ale down. The frothy fluid swirled within the wooden cup, a light scent of cinnamon and some exquisite, roasted bean overpowered the typically rank odor of alcohol. Cassock glanced about the Mayor’s modest room.
A single wooden table with three rickety chairs stood alone in the cramped room. Bearing down upon the furniture, the stone walls stood quiet in judgment, disapproving. Three sketches attempted to brighten the unbending nature of the walls. Each portrait was of a different female, all three beautiful. Slightly pointed ears pierced the shaded hair of the youngest female sketch; angled features emphasized the difference between this portrait and the other two. A definite family resemblance linked the first two canvases.
Cassock’s eyes glanced downward, silently examining the worn fur coverings upon the floor. He lifted the delicious ale to his lips, letting its warmth couple with the rugs and nearly making the coolness bearable.
“I must apologize again for your Captain,” the cleric began. “We young folks can be a bit anxious. I’m sure the Captain only meant the best.”
“You need not apologize for my Captain of the Guard. I knew his personality well when I had him replace his father at the post. Leiban’s a bit quick to rouse. But he is a good man, and a better soldier. With a little more time, hopefully, he’ll become a little wiser to the ways of the world.” Mayor Rowen finished his own mug and returned to the kitchen.
“I think you may want to allow the Captain to make his report though,” Cassock added when the Mayor disappeared behind a wall.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Ultimately, it is your decision to forward the report along. If you allow Leiban to, at the very least, create this report, then his ego, pride and honor should be satisfied.”
A chuckle preceded the reemergence of the Mayor. “Too bad you weren’t available last year when Leiban’s father passed. You would’ve made a good Captain, possibly even a better mayor than I.” Rowen sat quickly, setting his refilled mug down and sliding Cassock a fresh mug. “Now, if you don’t mind the abrupt segue, why have you come to my town?” The old man’s hazel eyes noiselessly interrogated the seeming warrior.
“Ah. Well, that is quite a long story.” Cassock sipped from the new mug, forcing a respite. “But I would have to ask first, can I trust you?”
Rowen smiled almost knowingly. “If you’re a bandit, then I might have to ask you enjoy the humble furnishings of our cells. At least, until you leave. But fear not, it would be rent free.”
Cassock chuckled. “I’m nothing quite so dastardly, at least in spirit and intent. I am a priest of Cael.” His medallion slid easily from behind the armor.
“Hmmm, a priest of the God of Death. I have townsfolk who believe you should be sleeping in the dungeon.”
“What they don’t know will not hurt them. I’m not here to disturb the peace. Rather, I believe Cael has sent me here to help in your current predicament. You have a young woman in need of rescue. I’m here to do the rescuing.” The last of the new mug of ale was quickly drained. This brew consisted of a sweet flavoring, not unlike a candy Cassock had enjoyed as a child. The priest stood and moved toward the kitchen to refill his own mug. “Of course, I’ll need more information to complete my task. That is, if you’re not going to throw me into the prison.”
The mayor laughed. “No. Religion has no place in politics, in my opinion. You’re welcome to stay here. You may not want to openly display your religion however. Others may not be so tolerant.” Cassock brought to full mugs back to the table. “How much information do you need?”
“Well, I take it no ransom has been asked for.” The mayor shook his head. “Then, what was special about this girl? There must be some reason why she was kidnapped. If not for money then why take her? I need more knowledge about her background.
“Also, I’d like a description of those that attacked the town. I need to know how many and what they looked like so I know what to expect. Give me a full account of the events of today. Did anyone note the direction the attack came from, or the direction the attackers fled?
Taking but a quick breath, the priest continued, “I’d like to know why the prisoners in the dungeon are suspected. If they’re not a part of the kidnapping, then they should be released. Perhaps they can help me track down the true kidnappers, if only to clear their own names.” Cassock lifted the ale, signaling a completion to his requests.
All was quiet for a moment while the mayor collected his own thoughts before beginning. “Ariel was my adopted daughter. That is her face,” he motioned to the portrait of the youngest upon the wall.
“I found her five years ago when she was four. I was out for a walk when I stumbled across a nearly unconscious man in the fields. He was curled oddly upon the ground. I bent down to offer my help and bind any wounds he may have had. He was, after all, resting in a pool of blood.
“But when I touched him, he kicked at me. I fell beside him, but not before seeing the child he was trying to protect. He was elven. It took a lot of convincing for him to allow me to even look at his wounds. The wounds were not deep. The arrows had barely pierced his flesh. Once I removed them, however, I knew the man would not last much longer. The arrows were poisonous, I could tell by the Church’s insignia. The elf had been hunted and wounded.
“He knew his own death was fast approaching. Because of my kindness, he entrusted the child to my care. Her name was Ariel and she was a half-blood. I couldn’t deny him his last wish.” Rowen wiped a rough hand across his eyes seemingly due to tiredness. “So I brought Ariel back to the town. The elf died in the fields and I buried him in an unmarked grave. I’ve raised the child since.”
“What about the other two portraits?” questioned the priest.
“The portrait on the top is…was my wife. She passed away almost ten years ago. The portrait below is Ana, my daughter. She left after her mother’s death.
With a quick clearing of his throat, the mayor continued, “The band that attacked the town was about twenty-strong. All except one wore a mask. The leader, supposedly, was an elven ranger. Varying accounts portray the other members of varying heights. Some were of average height, but others were dwarfish in stature.
“This is what led to the imprisonment of the other two travelers. One is a half-elf, the other a halfling. It is assumed that they fell behind the raiding party. They’re now resting in the dungeon. I don’t believe they have anything to do with the murders and the kidnapping. They were found to the west of the village. The raiding party headed east however. But, until they’re questioned in public, the townsfolk will demand retribution. The tolerance I’ve worked so hard for my entire life has all but fallen apart in the last twenty-four hours.” Weariness spread its fallow claws through Mayor Rowen.
“You said the brigands wore masks,” Cassock interjected. “What did the masks look like?”
“Oh. They were solid brown except for a black leaf embroidered upon the forehead.”
“And was anything taken aside from the girl?”
“No. She was taken then the brigands set fire to several homes in the area.”
“Mayor Rowen, I don’t think the elves would have taken the girl back by force. They’re not as villainous as the Church’s myths paint them. It could be a rogue elf, however. Also, I don’t think the prisoners had anything to do with the murders. However, I won’t be sure unless I can question them. Could you produce a writ giving me access to the prisoners? Maybe allow me to remove them from the prison? They would be easier to question if not in an uncomfortable setting.”
Gabe Rowen stared at the priest for a moment. “They would probably be in better hands with you. Some of the guards had abused them upon their arrival. I have no problem issuing a writ.” He walked into another room and grabbed a sheet of parchment, jotting instructions quickly with a quill.
As the mayor signed his name, the door to his home swung open. Stepping in, a young woman slid the door closed again. The mayor turned his attention to the intruder and fell backward into his seat, one hand clutching his chest.
"Hi father, I’m home.” Ana smiled.
“Ana…” the words were whispered and pained as they escaped the Mayor’s mouth. He attempted to stand, but only managed to feebly wobble while spilling his ale over the rugs.
“Who is your guest, father?”
Cassock grasped the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips as he bowed. A brief and proper kiss leapt from mouth to hand. While still bowing, the priest spoke. “My lady, I am Cassock of Cael. I am just a priest of an old religion.”
Ana nearly backtracked as Cassock’s medallion reflected light. Instantly, she recognized the symbol as one of those carved into the adamantine box she now owned. She shifted her pack awkwardly and smiled.
“I am Anastrianna Rowen, daughter of the Mayor. It is a pleasure, Cassock. I hope I wasn’t interrupting?” She stared at her father. The old man had barely changed in the near ten years. As thin as ever, with only a slight loss of hair, the rogue noted. Gabe stumbled about the room, placing another mug of ale onto the table and pulling out the third chair.
“Please, sit daughter.” He motioned her over with a wave, but before she could sit, the mayor lunged. His arms wrapped tightly around her in an unbreakable embrace. The tears which had been wiped away before now fled freely down the Mayor’s face. “My gods, the fates take one daughter away and return a lost child all within a day.” Cassock turned slightly away in respect.
Ana pulled free of the embrace and carefully slid into the chair. “What do you mean by that? And what the hell happened to the town? And where did this keep come from?”
“All long stories, dear…”
“Do not fear, lady.” Cassock interrupted. “I am going to retrieve your adopted sister.”
“So you have been hired then by my father? What qualifications do you have?”
“Not hired. I have volunteered. And my God has set me upon this path.”
Ana smirked slightly. “I hope for your sake then it is a good path. The divine only seems to lead people astray anymore.”
Cassock bowed stiffly. “I’m sure it is the right path. If you will excuse me, Mayor and Lady Ana, I have some prisoners to collect.” The priest swiped the writ from the table and, bowing once more, exited the room.
“What other daughter?” Ana turned, now curious, toward her father. Gabe Rowen took his seat next to his child and began his tale.
====================
Cassock slid quietly between the commoners. With controlled effort, he silenced his armor, as much as possible. The background was filled with a din of noise; barely controlled terror and anger rippling like a stream upon the voices. He kept moving, forbidding the private discussions access to his mind. His task lay before him. All else was merely distraction.
Two conscripts stood wearily beside the iron door into the dungeon. With eyelids drooping, both appeared exhausted. Cassock moved for the door and the guards snapped to attention. They moved to block the door, shields guarding their torsos and longswords at the ready.
“Wha’ ye doin,” grunted the older and hopefully wiser of the men.
“I’m here to collect the prisoners.” Cassock slowly lifted the parchment.
The guard snatched the paper and unfolded it. “The Cap’n said those whelps don’ leave.”
“That may be. However, I’m sure the word of the mayor overrules your Captain’s orders.” Cassock smiled smugly. The guard was attempting to read the parchment upside down.
The second, younger guard leaned in to look at the parchment. Noticing the position of the writ, he flipped the paper. Quickly he glanced down the orders.
The guard grumbled and fumbled for his keys. He shot worried glances to his companion but opened the heavy door anyway.
“Thank you.” Cassock grabbed the writ as he passed. However, the guard grabbed his shoulder.
“You’ll need a guide.”
“No I won’t. I’ll be fine.”
“Eh…well, you’ll need a torch at least.”
Cassock pivoted a bit, and brought his stare in closely to the conscript. His black iris-less pupils bore into the man’s own eyes.
“No. I won’t.” Cassock slipped into the chamber and pulled the door closed behind, preventing further interruptions.
Quiet murmurs from filled holding cells followed the priest down the hallway. With his gifted vision, he could see prisoners huddled in the cells. They blindly looked for the noise that would give their intruder’s position away. The darkness was too deep. Cassock did not stop for these others. His task waited at the end, near the flickering torchlight.
A gruff, spiteful laugh echoed along the corridor. The last ten holding cells were empty. A buffer between the common vagabonds and the ‘murderers’, Cassock realized. The laugh sounded again but was accompanied by jingling and a voice.
“At’s right, you lil’ fu**ers. I’ma piss on yur graves ‘omorrow morn. Right after ‘e hangin’!” An obese man strolled out of the farthest cell and into the light. Cassock stopped his approach, staying within the shadows. The watchman struggled to adjust his belt forcing the ring of keys to chirp metallically. Once the belt was tightened and somehow managed not to snap in half, the corpulent man stepped up to the nearer of two cells.
“Fu**in’ half-breeds!” A blob of discolored phlegm erupted from his mouth and flew into the cell. The sound of bare feet pressing lightly against stone preceded a half-elf slamming into wrought iron bars. His arms had extended to grasp the overweight fiend. Stepping back, the watchman eluded the grasp. He smiled maliciously as the prisoner crumpled against the floor. Rasping breath was quickly overcome by a female sob in the furthest cell.
Cassock grimaced. With one hand on his warmace and the other on the writ, he stalked out of the darkness like a spectre.
The faint torchlight reflected off the red and black links of Cassock’s mail as he pulled to a stop mere inches from the watchman’s face. Cassock had to look down at the short, obese bully. The light flickered as well off the whites of Cassock’s eyes while the pitch-black pupils devoured the rays.
“Guard! Control yourself. You will not be desecrating any graves on the morrow. AND you’ll be releasing the prisoners into my custody.” The priest shoved the writ into the man’s plump hands along with a hearty shove. Shifting backward, the watchman stumbled slightly barely remaining on his feet.
“Oo’ the ‘ell you think you are, peasant!? They’re prisoners! ‘Ere my prisoners, an’ I’ll treats ‘em ‘ow I want!” The watchman slipped his hand onto his sap, curling his fat fingers around the blood and flesh permanently joined to the rough leather.
“It’s all in the writ.” The watchman grumbled and released his sap, proceeding to read the letter. His face fell in horror or shock, Cassock knew not which. Quickly, a bright red hue flooded the cheeks of the guard as he returned the writ. Mumbling, the watchman reached cautiously for his keys.
The guard skulked toward the cells and quickly unlocked both. The heavy doors swung open, easily and silently. Cassock peered at the prisoners. Both were unclothed, although with a quick glance no one would have noticed. Thick purple and black bruises spread over their entire bodies, crisscrossing muscles and joints. With the dried blood, the prisoners almost seemed to be fully dressed. The halfling was curled in a corner, hands covering her naked torso. When the watchman approached, she shrunk back to near nonexistence.
“Did you do this to them, guard?” Cassock’s voice was cold, hardened steel. He could feel the anger energizing his limbs.
The watchman stifled another malicious laugh, “Course not. They was like this when they came into my charge.” A wholly unbelievable grin crossed his face.
“Liar!!!” The halfling threw propriety to the four winds as she leapt from her position and attacked the watchman. Her nails couldn’t puncture the hardening layer of lard, or the guard’s armor, however. The sudden weight caused the guard to step backward, he grasped for his sap again and raised it in an attack.
As his arm swung, a hollow whir split the air. Cassock’s warmace collided with the watchman’s hand. The guard shrieked as his fingers snapped unnaturally backward, bones splintering through the flesh. The sap landed impotently against the stone wall, covered as always in blood.
“You will not lay one hand on my prisoners. I think its time you learned some manners. I will be giving Mayor Rowen a full report of your behavior and activities. Also, I will take these prisoners directly to the mayor, so he can decide on a proper punishment for your mistreatment.” Cassock slid the warmace quickly back into its leather loop. He stooped downward, picking up the keys and with his other hand ushered the halfling out of the cell.
“Until the mayor has had a chance to decide your punishment, feel free to enjoy your stay in that cell.” Cassock kicked the door close, hearing the lock snap into place. “Grab your gear, child. And tell me if anything is missing.” Cassock moved to the next cell and leaned over the half-elf. With a quick prayer, healing energy flowed through Cassock and into the prisoner. The halfling brought Aramil’s clothing over and both dressed quickly, slightly embarrassed by the priest’s presence.
“Is everything there?”
“Yes. All our gear is here,” the halfling responded.
“Good. Oh, and watchman, next time, be careful who you address as ‘peasant’. If any of their wounds are permanent, I shall see you before the next inquisition.” Abruptly turning on his heel, Cassock led the pair of prisoners into the darkness.
Cassock reached into his sack and withdrew a coin. With a quick word, divine energy fled through his fingertips. The coin erupted into light. He handed the coin to his two companions as they headed toward the heavy door.
Groups of vagabonds, most dressed in rags, hissed and stared at the trio as they passed. Cassock held his head high, not bothering to even give the criminals a glance. The halfling however, couldn’t seem to remove her eyes. The light cast shadows upon the faces, twisting their likenesses into hollow mockeries of humanity. Those that still had teeth did not appear as horrific. Those without teeth laughed and spit at the travelers. Insanity spread from their hollow mouths, threatening to drag the trio into the oblivion of madness.
Cassock broke the silence, the madness and gathered their attentions with his words. “You both will stay with me tonight. Tomorrow, you will help me to track down the true criminals. I believe you have been wrongfully accused. Do not prove me wrong.”
“We’ll help. Anything, to get us out of here,” the halfling’s words rushed out. Her eyes strode downward, memorizing the rhythm of the priest’s gait. “Why did you help us?”
“Why do I help, you ask? This is a challenge given by my God. I have chosen to walk this path and in so doing, have found you in need. The true criminals were led by an elf, which is why you were falsely imprisoned. Racism is, unfortunately, a staple of the Church of Ara’kull.
“Now, I hope you will accompany me to find the true killers, if only to clear your own names. It would be for the best. Of course, if you wish to go your own way, then I will free you. But you won’t have many opportunities of friendship in this world.
“So, what are your names?”
“I’m Gabrielle!” The halfling did a quick curtsy before resuming her pace.
“Pleased to meet you Gabrielle, I am Cassock of Cael. And?” The priest turned toward the silent half-elf. The young man glanced up, holding Cassock’s eyes for but a moment.
“I….I usually go by my father’s name. It is…or...was Thomas. But you may call me by my elven name, Aramil.”
“I am pleased to meet you as well, Aramil. Now, we should go to see the mayor.”
=======================
Chapter 2: Journey into Darkness
Mayor Rowan chuckled warmly, his laugh combining with the jubilant laughter of all except Gabrielle. The halfling’s eyes wavered on the verge of tears. Across her cheek, a slight wound split open. Limply, one of the horsehair, lute strings danced above the floor broken and useless. [1]
Aramil slid across the bench to the girl and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s alright, Gab. The lute’s been through a lot. We can always find new strings.” The half-elf smiled a roguish grin and added, “And trust me, she really is a magnificent player.” Just out of view, Aramil crossed his fingers.
The laughter died out slowly after Cassock healed the halfling’s wounds. He whispered his own encouragement to the bard, as well as a promise to purchase new strings as soon as possible. Sitting once again, the priest reclined in the high-back chair, rubbing an ale-warmed hand across his belly. Cassock motioned to the long wooden table, whereupon rested the emptied food dishes and bottles of beverage. On a large spit, just behind the table, rested the largest deer Cassock had ever seen.
“Mayor Rowan, I must thank you profusely for your hospitality. Truly, I’ve not had such a glorious meal for quite some time.” Cassock grinned like a child.
“Well Master Cassock, I will give the cooks your praise, for they deserve it more than I.”
A slight cough interrupted the merry and idle chatter. Ana leaned forward in her own chair, lying the fabric napkin upon her plate and spoke, “Father, I am going with Cassock in the morning.” The mayor’s mouth opened in response, however Ana interjected again, “It would be for the best. Against a band of nearly twenty thieves and murderers, I’m sure the priest will need some aide.”
“Hey! We’re going too!” Gabrielle shrieked.
“And while I have no doubt that you are qualified for such a task, I still think Cassock needs more help than just the two of you. Twenty men will be hard to overcome with just the three of you. I know this area, know the trails. I did grow up here. My experience would be invaluable, at the least.”
“I had hoped you were going to stay for some time,” the mayor grumbled.
“Speaking of,” Cassock added, “what exactly are your qualifications?” He turned his eyes toward the halfling and half-elf. “Obviously Ana has experience around here. And her blade looks used, I have no doubt she can wield it. But?” He questioningly glanced at the pair.
“Um,” Aramil began, a mischievous smile spreading across his face, “she plays a mean lute.” A quick jab in the ribs from the halfling silenced the rogue’s laughter.
“I know lots of stuff too,” Gabrielle angrily added.
“Of course.” Cassock bowed his head in mock acceptance.
“You won’t stay just a bit longer daughter?”
“Father, we will have more time to speak when I return. Now, I fear it is nearly the witching hour. If we’re going to get an early start, I’d like to go and pay my last respects tonight. If you’ll excuse me,” Anastrianna Rowen stood from her spot and headed toward the door.
“Now, Lady,” Cassock interjected, “A graveyard is no place for a Lady at night. I will be accompanying you.” The priest rose as well, slipping his warmace into its leather strap.
“I’m coming too!” Gabrielle shouted as she slipped the useless lute over her back.
Aramil sighed, “No rest for the wicked.”
“If I can’t dissuade you daughter,” Mayor Rowen began, “I’ll have rooms prepared for when you return from the cemetery.” Each gave their thanks before slipping quietly out the door and into the darkest hour of night.
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“May her soul rest in peace.” Cassock stood slightly behind and to the right of Lady Anastrianna. A single, silent tear raced down Ana’s face in the darkness. She struggled not to sniffle. Gabrielle rested a comforting hand on the Lady’s shoulder.
A slam broke the eerie tranquility in the cemetery. All turned toward the wooden cottage nestled a slight distance from the headstones. Flickering candles inside the structure, cast malevolent and secretive shadows across a man exiting the home. Although the light hid much in the way of detail, the rays emphasized a blade and bow carried by the traveler. He glanced quickly about and turned away toward the forest in the east. The man broke into a run toward the woods.
“Whose home is that Lady?” Cassock questioned in a horse whisper.
“That is the home of the priest and healer, Tobus Matlick. He prefers the company of the dead, rumors used to say.”
“Damned Ara’kull worshippers. Lady, you’ll forgive me, but they’re never up to any good.” He glanced toward the cottage and the fading shadow in the distance then ordered, “Find out what that man was doing in the cottage. Aramil, lets follow him.” The priest and rogue stormed after the stranger, leaving the ladies alone by the grave.
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Gabrielle sighed. Both walked toward the cottage, watching the pursuit from a distance for a moment. Lady Ana pounded lightly upon the oak door. From inside, both could hear rummaging and an elderly voice erupt, “One second!” More shifting could be heard, before the candle in the window was snatched and the door opened. “What is it now? Who? Lady Anastrianna?” A long white beard pierced the doorway, the white curls nearly graying against the pristine white robes of the clergy.
“Yes, Tobus, it is I.”
“And I’m Gabrielle!” The halfling announced. Her introduction was met with a hateful sneer as the candle was adjusted to cast light only upon Ana.
“It is poor company you keep child,” Tobus reprimanded. “Should I call the guards? Has there been a jailbreak?”
“Nothing of the sort, Tobus. Gabrielle is my…uh…prisoner.”
The light danced back toward the halfling. “I see no bonds, no chains of any type. How is she your prisoner?” Gabrielle’s face flushed in anger.
“It is not your place to question me, Priest. Gabrielle is in my custody, and I will treat her however I wish” Ana authoritatively declared. “I, however, have a question for you.” Tobus murmured something incomprehensible before nodding slightly. “Who was that man that just fled your cottage?”
“What man?” The priest quickly retorted. Lady Ana glared at the cleric. “Oh, I don’t know that man’s name. Just a traveler in need of healing,” he added quickly.
“He needed healing in the middle of the night? And then he headed toward the forest? The same forest the brigands supposedly attacked from and fled to?” Narrowing, her eyes prepared to dash any possible lies.
“It is not my concern from whence he came. He needed healing. And, he paid for the services I rendered.” The priest’s voice was adamant. “Besides,” a cool tone crept into his voice, “he was human and not a wicked, murdering heathen. Ara’kull only serves the righteous, just as the righteous serve Ara’kull. Now, if you don’t mind, Lady, I have services for the fallen to deliver in the morning. I need some sleep.”
The door slammed in both their faces. Before they could even utter a word, a bolt slid into place and the light within was extinguished. They stared at one another and then proceeded to head toward the forest.
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Cassock and Aramil dashed toward the fleeing stranger. Hearing the clattering of metal, the man turned his head, mid-gallop, and caught sight of his loud pursuers. Without any seeming extra effort, his pace increased, his legs carrying him swiftly across the moon-bathed blades of grass.
“Damn!” Cassock blasphemed, as he tried to keep up. Aramil also increased his speed and began to outdistance the Priest of Cael. Cassock stopped, gasping and watched the half-elf race toward the wood and the stranger.
The stranger would not relent as Aramil tried to close the gap. The forest darted ever closer, a predator about to claim its prey. The moonlight from both Styg and Enoch disappeared within its maw of jagged branches, the first victims to its midnight hunger.
The stranger dove into the forest-beast’s mouth, branches whipping past like pulsating teeth. Lips of foliage closed behind his form, covering his path. Aramil skidded to a stop at the edge, the forest looming above and around. His half-elven eyes peered into the darkness, the belly of the beast. Moonlight, faintly pierced spots of the woods, but there was no movement, no motion to point out the stranger’s path.
Cassock jogged up to the half-elf and peered into the gaping maw of woodland. His own vision, enhanced by the darkness also failed to find the stranger. “Dammit!” The priest reasserted, vehemently.
“I don’t see him either.” Aramil added quietly. The half-elf had withdrawn his bow and nocked an arrow. With a careful release, the projectile sailed along the same path as the stranger. It clattered loudly against the many branches until falling uselessly to the ground. No movement erupted from the bush; even the night-birds remained in their perches, watching the activity silently.
“Let’s see if the ladies found anything out.” Cassock turned back toward the cottage and left Aramil to catch up with him.
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Halfway to the cottage, the two pairs met in the field. Cassock and Aramil shook their heads unhappily.
“Tobus claims not to know anything,” Ana started. “I’m not sure I believe him.”
“Priests of Ara’kull are never up to any good,” Cassock claimed again.
“I don’t think he has a hand in the murders and kidnapping, if that is what you’re insinuating. Even if he is a bastard,” Ana quickly added.
“We won’t be likely to get anything out of the priest, anyway. We should pursue the stranger.”
“I’ll concede to that. Follow me,” Ana commanded. “There’s a trail, a little closer to the lake. That’s probably where the stranger was heading. If we follow it, maybe we can catch the brigand before morning.”
As the party found the path into the wood, another shadow slinked away from the cottage.
Leiban Malabrandt stood upon the keep’s battlements. His eyes shifted to the east, then south. He had relieved the guards just after the witching hour allowing them a few hours of sleep. Well-rested heads might prevent some of the tension that was sure to follow in the morning. Once the town learned of the Mayor releasing the prisoners, all hell was likely to break loose. Leiban was sure of it.
He yawned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. No rest for the Wicked, he thought. His father had always called him such. Would Leo Malabrandt, former Captain of the Guard, be proud of his son, now? Leiban doubted it. The old man had never been content. Maybe, maybe the gruff bastard found some peace in the eternal slumber of death. Leiban some how doubted that too.
The Captain adjusted his gaze again, this time turning toward the Lake nestled between the oft farmed hills. The light of Styg and Enoch danced across the watery mirror.
Suddenly, a hand slipped up and around the Captain’s mouth. He whirled about drawing his blade.
“You’re safe here, Captain,” a voice hissed. “How many times must I tell you that.”
Leiban grunted, sheathing his greatsword. “What do you want now? Did the meeting go as planned?”
“Of course.” Leiban could hear the repressed happiness weighing upon the voice. “I need assurances from you, however. And lower your voice.”
“What kind of assurances?” whispered the Captain.
“We may have a slight problem. It seems the Mayor has released the prisoners.”
“I know. The guards have informed me. The prisoners were transferred to the care of that traveler.”
“Not just him,” corrected the robed figure. “Lady Anastrianna’s care as well. And I fear they may have seen our compatriot. They’ve followed him into the eastern forest.”
“T. will have no problems with them. They don’t know where he is heading.”
“That is true, Captain. But, the traveler can see in darkness, as you and I see in daylight. T. will have to be careful. My main concern is of the Lady, however.”
“And she is why you need assurances?” Leiban speculated.
“Of course. I know you once had…feelings for the Lady.”
“Aye, and they’ve not changed.”
“Well, then I definitely need to be convinced of your loyalties. I don’t want to be stabbed in the back over some unrequited pre-pubescent crush.” The figure’s mocking tone was a solid slap to the Captain’s pride.
“She will not come between our goals.”
“Good. She keeps inexcusable company these days. If she does get in the way, she dies.” Again, repressed glee dripped wickedly from the hissed words.
“NO.”
“I’m sorry?” The hooded figure clenched and unclenched his hands.
“I said no.” Leiban reasserted. The robed man’s hand snapped out, fluid water in motion. His hold solidified around the Captain’s neck as powerful energy ebbed between the two. The Captain dropped to his knees, pain blossoming throughout his body.
“I’m sorry, but could you please repeat that?”
Leiban struggled for a moment, his words caught in his shuddering throat. “I said no,” he hoarsely responded. Another tidal wave of pain spread through his body, compressing muscles and causing the Captain to twitch in agony. The Captain’s flesh ripped open and blood cascaded over his armor. The man held the grip for a few seconds more before allowing Leiban to crumple against the bulwarks.
“Don’t openly display your stupidity! I’m going to ask you to restate your response just one more time. And if I have to repeat myself, it will be for the last time you’ll ever hear.” The man crouched above the Captain, one threatening hand wavering above the open wounds. “I’ll also remind you, that Lady Ana travels not only with two monstrous heathens, but with a blasphemous priest of the false-god Cael.” The last, hissed word was nearly absorbed by hatred and malice.
Leiban glared upward, the hood no longer hiding the face of his attacker, his supposed friend. He held the man’s stare for several moments before answering. “The writ to free the prisoners only transferred custody to the traveler. Lady Ana’s part is still unclear. She may yet be drawn to our side and thereby strengthen our position and our claims. Do not judge her worth by the company she may or may not keep.”
The robed figure stifled a laugh.
“When she returns, she will join us, my Lord. I swear it. Her father probably asked her to accompany the heathens. That is why she travels with them, not because of any heretical belief.” Leiban grimaced; anguish still stretched its claws through his body.
“For her sake, I hope you’re wrong, Captain. Our compatriot won’t allow any of them to return if they do intercede in his affairs.” The robed man stood again, backing carefully away from Leiban. “Now, assure me your first task was complete.”
Malabrandt sighed, shifting upon the cool stone. “The runner returned not long before the witching hour. The message was delivered to Nordus Post’s Captain on the sixth day of Brenn. The Inquisition is marching this way now. They should be here tomorrow evening or by the latest on the eleventh of Brenn. And they’re bringing an extra contingent of Royal soldiers with them.”
“Magnificent. That should allow enough time for dissent to be sown amongst the people. The Mayor should easily be removed. You keep up this good work, Leiban, and you’ll be the ruler of this small town in no time.” The man turned to leave and stopped. He looked down at the Captain one last time. “Oh and of course, no one will ever learn what truly happened to your father.” A malicious grin spread beneath the hood.
“TOBUS!!” Leiban screamed. The robed figure shuddered to a stop and turned menacingly.
“What?!” the figure hissed.
“Heal me. If my guards see I’m wounded, they may ask questions.”
“Of course, dear Captain.” The priest bowed with a flourish and tossed a vial at Leiban. When Leiban glanced up again, Tobus had vanished. The Captain popped the cork, prayed that it was a healing draught and not a poison, and downed the fluid.
Cassock stopped. The forest had thinned quite a bit, allowing moonlight to spill across the ground. Several hours of trudging through the dense forest had brought them no closer to the man they pursued.
“Rest for a moment,” the priest ordered. The halfling looked exhausted. Naturally any who had suffered as much as either of the prisoners would be fatigued. Cassock, however, found himself at his prime in the darkness of night, the time of his Lord.
As the would-be heroes quenched their thirsts and snacked, a snapping branch alerted Cassock. He drew his mace and signaled for the others to prepare. As his god-blessed eyes surveyed the darkness, he caught movement behind two bushes. He raised his arm to motion the others around but four creatures charged out of the darkness.
The first orc slammed his body into the priest. Cassock held his ground and brought his warmace down upon the thick skull of the beast. In the blur of motion, he watched as another orc rushed past him. His arm flicked out to smash its skull, but his arm was too slow. He heard the twanging retort of bows releasing their ammunition followed by the sounds of fleshy impacts coupled with groans and the hiss of a wild arrow.
He raised his mace again as his opponent brought a falchion to bear. The immense blade barely missed and threw off the priest’s own attack. To the right, he saw an orc drop, several quills embedded in its chest and throat. But from behind, the priest heard a shriek. With a quick spin he saw Anastrianna fall to the ground. Her bow dropped lazily to the thick forest floor.
In horror, the priest saw the beast rapidly adjust its swing. The blade moved in reverse, cleaving into Gabrielle. The halfling seemed to float upward, lifted by the divine hands of a harsh god. Her body and her blood crumpled and spattered several feet away. Thankfully, Aramil wasn’t within range of the rampaging beast.
Without a thought toward his own well-being, the priest raced toward his fallen companions. The falchion of Cassock’s first opponent sliced through his chain mail, opening a deep gash across the spine. Blood spilled down the priest’s back as he threw his full weight into the other orc. The beast stumbled over Anastrianna’s body, sliding to a halt a distance away.
Aramil released several more quick shots, pummeling Cassock’s original attacker. The beast bellowed and dropped to the forest floor, death glazing over its eyes. Meanwhile, the priest leaned over Lady Ana, pouring divine energies into her broken body. Her eyes flickered open and Cassock clawed his way toward the halfling.
A fourth beast tore out of the underbrush and Aramil turned his attention toward it. The tripped orc was groggily rising. With a quick prayer, Cassock felt and saw Gabrielle’s wounds closing. He stood as the fourth beast slammed its blade into his leg. Cassock watched the arterial spurt leap upward from his own leg. Drowsiness gripped the priest’s mind, but he slammed his mace into the bastard’s face. The solid sound of bone crunching resounded in the priest’s ears.
A blade shredded through muscle and sinew, erupting from Cassock’s chest. The priest glanced downward, a river of blood spilled upon the forest floor. In the midst of the sea of crimson that was his torso, a thick wedge of steel hung in the moonlight. Cassock of Cael fell. [1]
The half-elf’s arrows slammed into the back of the orc Cassock had smashed seconds before, dropping the beast permanently. Ana and Gabrielle had leapt from the ground. The halfling fired arrow after arrow at the creature. Ana drew her blade and charged in.
The beast spun, his back absorbing several of Aramil’s arrows. As Gabrielle’s arrow pierced the thick skin of the beast’s neck, Ana drove her blade into its gut. With a twist, the orc’s entrails plunged to the forest floor. A split second later, the standing corpse plummeted to a rest beside his organs.
The group crouched near the body of Cassock.
“What the fu*k do we do now?!” Screamed Ana into the heavens. Gabrielle cried. [2]
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“Okay…okay….okay,” Anastrianna murmured. All three were slumped over their fallen companion. Cassock’s blood ebbed out of his chest and over the sides of his tattered mail, a cascading crimson waterfall drowning the vibrant blades of grass. “You two…strip that orc of his leather armor. I’ll…um…I’ll,” she pivoted her head around wildly and then refocused her gaze on Aramil and Gabrielle. Both the halfling and half-elf sat idly, eyes firmly attached to the spectacle of death.
“I said NOW! Get up! Get that leather breastplate off that corpse, NOW!” Gabrielle and Aramil stumbled away from the verbal explosion and began hacking at the thick bands holding the armor firmly together. Meanwhile, Ana gently slid Cassock’s chain mail over the wound and off.
Gabrielle and Aramil brought the leather armor over near Cassock. The halfling grimaced and turned her head. She fell to her knees vomit bursting through her hands to join the blood-soaked forest floor. Bits of Cassock’s organs and bone pierced his chest like monstrous claws shredding prey.
“Aramil, I need several strips cut from that breastplate. Keep their widths at least an inch or two thick.” Ana grabbed her waterskin and cautiously cleaned the area around the wound with a rag. Aramil handed her the strips of leather and turned to clean Gabrielle up.
Lady Rowen leaned just next to Cassock’s ear. “I hope the god that set you on this path is watching because I have no idea what I’m doing,” she hissed softly. She looped the leather strips around the priest’s torso, tightening each as she went.
Slowly, Cassock’s blood was staunched. Ana leaned back and watched. The priest’s chest rose in a rough rhythm. His breath was deep and slow. Beads of sweat coalesced upon his brow; a fever was coming.
Ana lit a torch and handed it to Gabrielle. “Watch over him.”
“Where are you going?” Aramil seemed frightened.
“I have to return to town. Cassock needs more than I can provide. If I do not return for a draught of healing, then he will die. Stay here. Stay safe. I’ll move as quickly as I can.” Lady Rowen stood and doffed her pack, keeping only the waterskin, her quiver of arrows, her bow and blade. She caressed Gabrielle’s head for a moment then turned and fled westward through the woods.
Gabrielle and Aramil stared out at the dark. Howls were drifting upon the wind. They scooted closer together, huddling over the almost-corpse of their would-be-savior.
Ana broke free of the shadowed forest as the first rays of dawn broke upon its gluttonous leaves. Her destination in sight, she doubled pace pushing beyond her own limits. Her jerkin rubbed uncomfortably against her skin. Drenched in sweat, the leather was heavy, rough, and shredding flesh. Cassock’s blood had dried early into the journey. Now, dark stains and thick streaks of crust rested across her arms, hands and clothing.
As she reached the closed door, she skidded to a halt and slid her bow across her arm. Ana dug into her sack and pulled out her waterskin. Quickly, she gulped as much as she could and tried to collect some sense of composure. Then she slapped the skin back into the sack and pounded heavily on the door.
Silence was her only answer.
Angrily, she threw her full weight against the door. If not for the heavy bolt, the door would have likely rattled off its frame. She rubbed the tender flesh of her shoulder and kicked the damnable oaken barrier. Amidst the pounding, she heard the sound of stumbling coming from within the cottage. She halted kicking and resumed pounding the barricade with her fist.
The sound of a bolt sliding warned the rogue of the opening door and she halted her attack. Tobus stuck his head out, massaging the sleep from his eyes. Still in the white robes, his black medallion somehow gathered the early morning sunlight and beamed it directly into Ana’s face. Reflexively, her arm shot up to shield her eyes from the harsh rays.
“Damnable Child! Why do you torment me?! Was it not enough to keep me up late last night that you had to awaken me early this morn?”
Ana’s arm lowered. Tobus’ beady eyes followed the dried blood upon her limbs and he examined her clothing. With a harrumph his eyes shot back toward her face. “Well? Don’t awaken a man and stand outside his door mute like the town fool! What in the hells do you want?”
With steel in her voice the Lady answered, “I need some healing draughts. That is your job, is it not Priest?”
“You’re not wounded,” Tobus accused. He hastily slammed the door. Only the Lady’s foot prevented closure.
“Your powers of observation are dazzling,” she retorted. “The draughts are for my companion.”
“I can’t help you then. I don’t serve heathens.” Tobus’ sneer seemed carved in stone. Hatred flared within his eyes.
“They’re not for the halfling or the half-elf, you stubborn dolt. They’re for the man accompanying us. Cassock.”
“I still can’t help you, Lady Rowen.” The priest mockingly bowed as he renewed his attempt to close the aperture. This time her hand slapped against the door, pushing it open wider.
“You will sell me the healing draughts,” she commanded. “If you wish to have a home to preach from in the coming days, you’ll do as I say. If my father learns of your dissension, you will find yourself a homeless beggar!” She cautiously removed her hand, keeping her body wedged between door and frame. “Now, be a good priest and fetch the potions.”
Tobus grumbled as he turned from the door and stalked toward his laboratory. He headed toward a small wooden rack, upon which sat a variety of potions. He thumbed quickly through the selection, staring at the labels. He snatched three vials full of healing draughts and pivoted toward the main room. Before he reached the door, he spun again and returned to the wooden rack. He swapped one of the healing draughts for a specially brewed poison. With a quick motion, he removed all three labels from the vials and walked toward his intruder.
“One hundred and fifty gold pieces,” he demanded, roughly shoving the draughts into her hands.
She slid the vials into her pouch and quickly paid his fee. Turning, she ran back toward the forest.
“Good riddance,” the priest declared as he shut and re-bolted his door.
The sun had risen halfway toward its zenith, casting a blazing ring of light upon the field. The light provided sanctuary from the encroaching edges of the forest. In contrast to the glorious warmth of the field, the forest held a cool, menacing glare directed toward the wounded priest and his guardians. Standing imperiously, the woods seemed to be waiting for the day to end. Its voracious appetite would resume with the setting sun.
Within the shadowed forest, dull orbs reflected the autumn light. It seemed all of the denizens of the dark wood waited along the edges. Their eyes blazed with curiosity or appetite. The tangy scent of spilt blood was heavy in the air.
“She should’ve been back by now,” whimpered Gabrielle.
“She’ll be back any moment. Just keep your bow trained on those…animals.” Aramil had his own bow drawn and nocked. His arrow and sight swept across the edge of the forest. Wearily he continued his watch but his eyelids were growing heavier with each passing moment.
A garbled noise snapped Aramil’s attention from the fateful jaws of sleep. “Gabrielle! Just this once, could you please shut up?! I’m trying to focus.”
“It…it wasn’t me,” the halfling whispered. “It was Cassock.”
Aramil turned his gaze to the near-corpse. Streams of sweat trickled down the cleric’s face. The fever’s grip was draining the priest’s life. Aramil leaned closer; Cassock’s lips trembled slightly. Aramil slid in closer, turning half his head and listening intently to the shallow breaths.
“Father…”
The half-elf waited patiently for Cassock to finish his statement. Suddenly, a snap resounded through the clearing. Aramil scuttled backward from the priest while pivoting toward the sound. A blur of motion hurtled toward the edge of the forest. The arrow leapt toward the forest edge.
Anastrianna burst out of the foliage. The shrill whistle of the arrow forewarned the Lady. She fell to the right causing the arrow to pass harmlessly through air. She rolled to keep pace, returning to her feet and closing the last of the separating distance.
“I’m lucky you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn,” Ana coldly stated. She poured through her sack, removing the three vials. She examined each thoroughly for cracks and leaks. All of the fluids were crystal clear and none had escaped the sealed, cork plungers.
“And you’re lucky these weren’t broken.” She waved the vials importantly in the air. “Quickly, remove the bandaging,” the Lady commanded.
Aramil loosened the tough leather bandages, revealing Cassock’s gaping chest wound. Gabrielled spun and purged again. Her bile once again splattered upon the unforgiving forest earth. Although Anastrianna had managed to slide the important bits back into the priest’s body, blood still seeped slowly from the hole. Ana popped the cork from one of the vials and moved to empty its contents.
Aramil’s quick grasp stopped the Lady. “Why not use all three. He definitely needs them. Look,” he pointed toward an inky, black residue, “is that infection?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a priest.” Ana hissed, exasperatedly. Large, purplish rings encircled her bloodshot eyes. “We’ll only use one, for now. If he needs more we’ll give him more. But we may need these other vials later on.” She twisted her hand, spilling the contents upon Cassock’s torso.
Cassock convulsed, his body gripped by fevered twitching. “Father!!” he screamed as his body bolted upright. Before their eyes, his flesh was knitting itself back together. Bone reset and firmed. Organs regenerated their ragged sections. Cassock stood weakly, his wide-eyes glaring around the circle. His hands felt the tender wounds, trained to examine the wounds of others. He turned his knowledge toward himself.
“How do you feel?” queried Lady Ana.
“I’ll live,” Cassock replied. “Where?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Where did you get the potion?”
“Well, I had to run back to town. Tobus sold them to me.”
“You did what? I would’ve rather died. I will not be indebted to that Ara’Kull worshipper. How many did you purchase? How many did you use on me? Have you poisoned me?!”
Ana’s mouth hung agape. Her body ached in ways it had never before. The leather armor she wore had chapped her entire body. It chapped body parts she had not even known she had. Blood was caked to her armor. Sweat clung to every piece of gear. An unholy smell embraced her sore body. And all of her pain, all of it was for an ungrateful man. She shuddered, her anger barely confined.
“Let’s have them!” Cassock reached out, awaiting the vials. Ana flung the other two toward the priest. Cassock lifted them into the air. “Lesson number one, children. Are you watching? Lesson number one: Never, ever trust a Priest of Ara’Kull.” He slammed the two potions onto a large, flat rock. Liquid bounced from the rock, spilling upon the grass. One section of grass seemed purified by the liquid. Its blades grew upward and became a vibrant green. Another patch blackened, withering quickly.
“Consider yourselves educated. That would have killed me.”
Ana threw her arms up into the air and stalked off. Near the edge of forest, she curled upon the forest floor and sunk into a deep, dark sleep.
Lady Rowen’s eyes flickered open. Her sight and mind were both blurry, one from sleep the other from dream. A quick shake had roused her consciousness from the thick webs of her subconscious. Her vision cleared and she could see Cassock crouched nearby. Vivid streams of fading red backlit the priest.
“What do you want priest?” Ana whined as she rolled over.
“I want to offer you my thanks. If you hadn’t done what you did, I wouldn’t be here now. I thank Cael that you chose the right potion.” Cassock paused, glancing upward and watching the sky shift hues. “We’ll need to leave soon. I let you all rest as long as possible. But if we don’t leave soon, the trail may grow too cold.”
And stood and lifted her traveling pack back over her shoulders. “Fine. Let’s get going then.”
A quarter of an hour later, the party was delving back into the forest.
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As the next day’s sun rose above the low-lying eastern mountain range, the party stood on the edge of a smoothed stone foundation. White marble, aged by time and weather, stretched ahead to a tall white marble wall. A thick, short wall crafted from deep green marble, wrapped around the foundation. The green wall split roughly within its center, allowing a small stream to flow across the stone. From the center of the stream sprouted a large oak.
The wall across the stone courtyard stretched ten feet into the air where it was swallowed by a vibrant green hedge. One carved doorway pierced the thick white wall. The opening was a gaping maw of darkness leading into a corridor overshadowed by the hedge.
As a group, the party moved cautiously in the early morning sun. The hedge stretched away from the wall to either side. The party encircled the hedge, noting its massive domed height. The plants created a gigantic enclosure impenetrable by vision. They finished a walk around half an hour into the morning before sitting down upon the marble courtyard.
“What’s that?” Gabrielle was pointing toward the green marble wall. There, etched in a faint white hue, two sets of script danced upon the deep green. Cassock and Anastrianna moved across the courtyard, bending near the writing.
“I don’t know this writing,” Cassock pointed toward the flowing script upon the right. “This other though is common Saläexum.”
“Yes, I know,” Ana stated. “The other script looks Phoeeum. It makes sense really. You figure a hedge like that must have some link to the druids.”
“True. But see how it was been scored out. Someone was here after the druids.” Cassock turned to interpret the other writing. “Son-of-a…You can read this right?” The priest threw his hands up in frustration.
Ana bent over and read the script.
“Never trust a Priest of Ara’Kull,” sighed Cassock.
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[1]: 20th is the day; Luma is the third month of the summer (there are four) and is generally consider the hottest of the months; Nor is the fourth day of the week (each week having eight days; Arum is the current Ara’Kull-accepted term for the summer season.
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Mayor Gabriel Rowen poured over the paperwork scattered across his desk. He stifled a yawn, the day was early yet. The mayor knew he would have to tour the keep soon. His constituents were growing restless. They were aware of the departure of the only suspects and silently seethed with rage. Something would have to be done.
Gabe glanced over the official report written by Captain Malabrandt. The report overflowed with racism and generalizations. These faults were balanced out with decent rationalizations and excellent ideas.
Well Captain, that was a blatant lie, thought the Mayor. He sighed and pushed the paperwork away. Leaning backward he lifted a mug and had a quick sip.
Unexpectedly, the door to his rooms exploded open. The Captain rushed in, nearly stumbling over the piles of paperwork. Rowen stared at the Captain, his eyes focused on a black welt forming across Leiban’s cheek.
“What happened?” demanded the Mayor.
“Quick…come quick…” hissed the Captain. He clutched his side in pain.
“Are you alright?”
“Quick!” screamed the Captain. Gabe leapt up from his desk and rushed toward the door. He grabbed his own, aged blade and headed for the exit. He pushed through the heavy door and came upon a horrific scene.
Lying in a semicircle around the entrance to his abode, at least a hundred townsfolk lie dead or dying. Behind the corpses stood two dozen, heavily-armed soldiers. The guards stood at attention, black full-plate armor sparkling in the morning sun. Each carried a bastard sword and a variety of other, smaller weapons. Attached to one of arm, large steel shields reflected light from a silver symbol. Rowen immediately recognized the silver eye of the Inquisition.
A short distance after the Inquisition stood the remaining townsfolk. Most hung their heads quietly; a few watched the spectacle warily. Hushed sobs and sniffles created a backdrop of miserable ambience. In the center of the ring, halfway between Rowen and the Inquisition, Tobus Matlik paced briskly.
The priest had changed his white robes, replacing the cloth with pitch-black, silk robes. Upon his chest rested the silver emblem of the Inquisition. In his left hand, the priest held the Tome of Commandments [2]. In his right, a wand crafted of bone rested in an unthreatening position.
“Tobus! What the devil is going on here?” Rowen questioned.
“Mayor Rowen,” the wicked priest began, “for years now, decades, you have subverted the will of Ara’Kull. You have ignored his commandments. You have constantly pushed your renegade agenda. And now, your people, those you are sworn to protect and lead, have been led to slaughter, by the very races you have tried to protect. The inhuman beasts you adopt and allow to go free have brought death to the innocence of this small village.
“The Inquisition has been sent by our all-seeing God, by our divinely-powered King to restore the peace and order of this town. With his grace we will flush out the heretics, the demons and the devils. We will bring them to his attention, and watch them pale in comparison to his glory. We will watch their false truths burn beside their worthless existence upon the pyres.
“And we will begin with this man. This beast-lover. This bringer-of-woe.” Tobus raised his wand toward the Mayor. Rowen raised his own blade, preparing an attack. Before the Mayor could move, a sudden pain spread across the back of his skull like lightning striking the earth. His eyes rolled upward, and he collapsed to the ground, losing hold of his blade.
Captain Leiban stood behind the Mayor’s fallen position, a bloodied sap in his right hand. “I have command of this town, now?” He questioned, staring at the black priest Tobus.
From behind Tobus, a figure stepped seemingly out of thin air. Its face was hidden within an obsidian mask. The mask, a twisted expression of agony, completely covered its head, even hiding any hair. Black robes fell like rain toward the ground, ending in a crimson hem. Around its neck dangled the symbol of the Inquisition.
“You have earned your…honorary position with the Inquisition,” the creature hissed in a voice somewhere between masculine and feminine, somewhere between living and dead. “But you will not assume control of this town until these Outsiders have been dealt with. Once I am assured of their capture, or death, then you will be Mayor.” The creature pivoted its head toward Tobus, a somewhat alien movement. “You know what I expect. You know what to do.” The creature stalked, more of a slither really, across the bloodied earth and into the Mayor’s quarters. As he passed into the hallway, the door slammed shut of its own volition.
“Begin the Inquisition!” Commanded Tobus. Leiban turned away as the first of the townsfolk were tortured.
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[2] – The Tome of Commandments is just one of the myriad of religious texts within the church of Ara’Kull. However, it holds the esteemed position of being the first tome of the church. It is also said to be the exact and unwavering word of Ara’Kull. In all matters, the priests (of the orthodox church**) must hold true to this one book (even if it contradicts any more recent tomes). As part of the clerical training of every priest of Ara’Kull, the initiates are forced to copy this book, in their own hand, word for word. It is whispered that those that screw up are admonished severely, if not painfully executed.
** - There are unorthodox sects within the religion (differing opinions that are found just like in every religion in reality). However these sects are persecuted just like non-believers and non-humans. One would be hard pressed to find an unorthodox clergy member.
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Several days prior…
Spinum Machaera [1] pulled the long, black hair backward from his face. With a motion, quick from years of practice, he tied it with a looped band of dragon hair. He wasn’t a foolish man; he knew the hair was probably just some thick horse or yeti hair from the north. Still, the claim of actually having a bit of dragon’s hair actually inflated his pride. And he could always test the hair in one of his experiments to prove the validity. And if the merchant had lied, which was most likely, Spinum would gladly add the bastard’s name to his list.
The fifteen year old glanced over his most recent experiment. He pulled out his own handwritten tome and poured through the calculations scrawled in archaic script. Everything was exactly in accordance with his machinations. The young man smiled.
He lifted the elegant, silver dagger he had purchased from that same vendor back in Leuwel, just south of the supposed Dragon Boneyard. The handle, a perfect thickness and weight for the mage, ended in a perfectly rounded skull. He drew the blade across his smallest finger, popping the protective organic covering of his skin. Blood formed a quick bubble and he shook his hand briskly, the viscous fluid splattering upon the small pile of bones.
Spinum glanced again at the tome, searching for the correct words when yelling erupted in the distance. He sighed and tried to focus. His father and twin brother were sparring yet again. The shriek of metal kissing metal and the grunting of voices carried loudly toward the Myriam Range.
His mind slipped briefly into theory and history. It was said that the Myriam Range, the low mountain range that climbed to join the Midloth Range was crafted by the hands of the gods themselves. Spinum did not believe in gods, unlike his father and sibling, both paladins of the goddess Myr, the Lady of Light and Life. But the myth surrounding the mountains involved the Dark Lord, the original ruler of all of Norum da Salaex not the false prophet now placed upon the throne, and the god of the dwarves, Rorgard. Apparently, the myths said that the Dark Lord had enslaved the dwarven god, forcing him to craft the mountain ranges that now surrounded the capital.
Spinum imagined gleefully the power he could attain if he could enslave a god to do his bidding. But gods were just myths. It was more likely that the Dark Lord had enslaved the entire dwarven race to craft the mountain ranges.
The problem with a world full of myth, Spinum decided, was the inherent loss of history involved once myth enforced its superiority. Spinum had had to search for months along the journey for the spells he now carried. He had purchased dozens of spells, all to no effect. They were frauds; myths wrapped nicely in a neat, arcane package and unable to assist his own development.
Another screech of metal against metal brought Spinum back to the task at hand. He flipped through the tome again, searching for the words.
“Exanimus,” the mage whispered. “Excio.” The young wizard felt a drain, arcane energy passing through his body. Spinum nearly jumped for joy as the small skeleton shuddered and stood. A faint red light glowed within the squirrel’s skull. Its eye-less head searched around for a moment, before locating the arcane power which had raised it to near-life.
“Now that I have the spell, all things will become possible,” Spinum stated smugly. As soon as the words left his mouth, the squirrel skeleton shuddered and became a useless pile of bone again. He growled. Then he grabbed his material and blade, dropping them all into his backpack.
The sounds of battle again raged not near off. The mage stormed toward where he had left his family upon the road. As he approached, he realized something was wrong. The metallic clanking was too rapid for just his brother’s sparring. They must be under attack! Spinum prepared another spell and sped up, trying to remain as silent as possible. He loosened the halberd he had strapped across his back, just in case it would be necessary.
The mage stopped behind a large maple, and glanced around. There were at least fifty guards surrounding his family.
“Oh sh*t,” the mage grumbled. He was competent, but not that competent. His father and brother whirled within the circle of black-clad soldiers, defending as much as they could. Still, bloody bastard swords pierced their defenses and then flesh. His brother was clearly weakening fastest. For no apparent reason the circle of guards suddenly widened, drawing to attention.
Spinum watched carefully, anticipating a possible opening for his attack. Out of nowhere, a creature stepped into existence. Spinum had no other word for the being. It was easily between seven and eight feet tall and dressed in flowing black robes, hemmed with a thick crimson line. Where a human head should have been, an obsidian mask twisted in a visage of agony perched upon its shoulders.
It was not there and then it was, as if it had thought itself into existence. Spinum felt his prepared spell flicker and vanish in its presence. The creature paced a circle around his family before stopping with its back toward the maple.
“You worshippers of Myr, drop you weapons,” it hissed. “You shall be arraigned for your misplaced faith and then executed in accordance of our Lord Ara’Kull’s wishes.” The creature stretched upward for a split second and the sound of a thousand bones cracking echoed across the road. Spinum noted the silver eyes, emblazoned across the black armor. Inquisitors, the mage thought. Must be from Nordus Post. But I’ve never seen a force this large.
Spinum’s father lashed out with his blade but a living chain exploded from within the creature’s robes. The chain latched onto the sword and ripped it easily from the paladin’s hands. Several other chains exploded from the false image of robes and grasped the blade, easily snapping it into slivers.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way.” The creature almost bowed in mock respect as one arm lashed outward in the direction of Albus, Spinum’s brother. A brief wreath of fire encircled Albus and then the young paladin was naught but ash. The monster laughed as Albus scattered to the four winds.
Spinum’s father bellowed in rage and charged the demon[2], but the creature merely sidestepped and caught the paladin by his long hair. Before the mage’s very eyes, thousands of wounds opened across his father’s body, blood pouring upon the greedy ground. Spinum stifled a scream as his father, the only parent he had ever known, collapsed unconscious to the ground.
“Collect the child’s ashes,” the beast hissed. “I will resurrect him for punishment in the Town of Green Hills.” Just as suddenly as the creature had appeared, it vanished.
As soon as the guards began to move, Spinum did the only thing a young man could do in the face of such adversity, he fled south.
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[1] Spinum Machaera [pronounced: Spin-um Mock-air-uh] is an NPC within the campaign. Apparently four players weren’t enough at this point.
[2] Demon is just used for vivid expression. I will not state that this Inquisitor is or is not a demon for certain one way or the other. I’m a bastard like that.
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I had a request from a friend to post the pantheon. So, attached is the pdf.
For further clarification:
Phoee : pronounced Fee, the mother of the pantheon. Supposedly found the world in peril and cleansed it allowing life to once again survive.
Myrcael : pronounced Meer-kail, the first child of her blood. Represented only with a circular symbol (the sun). Myrcael's task was to light the sun so that life could thrive. To light the sun, Myrcael had to divide itself in two, Light and Darkness.
Cael: pronounced Kail, the male aspect of Myrcael. The God of Darkness and Death(among many other things).
Myr: pronounced Meer, the female aspect of Myrcael. The Goddess of Light and Life (among many other things).
Pyrin: pronounced Peer-in, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Pyrin is the God of Fire.
Arel: pronounced Ar-EL, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Arel is the Goddess of Wind.
Cahsa: pronounced Kuh-Sah, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Cahsa is the Goddess of Water.
Gumcha: pronounced Gum-Kah, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Gumcha is the God of Earth.
Caevari: pronounced Suh-var-ee, the only child of Pyrin and Arel. Caevari is the God of Luck and to a lesser extent Chaos.
Kaeruna: pronounced Kuh-rune-uh, the only child of Cahsa and Gumcha. Kaeruna is the God of Law and to a lesser extent Protection.
Those are the Kin gods and goddesses. These are the divine beings born of Phoee. The gods/goddesses along the outer circle are the Embraced. These were once normal mortals and were elevated to divine status by Phoee herself. Each is the creator of a race or races.
Mialon: pronounced My-a-lon, the elven mother. Also Goddess of the Woodlands.
Rorgard: pronounced Roar-guard, the dwarven father. Rorgard is also the God of Tunnels and Mountains.
Aryilough: pronounced Ar-ih-low, the mother of halflings and gnomes. Aryilough was said to be of both halfling and gnome descent. Therefore, she created both races. She is also the Goddess of the Plains.
Guymardt: pronounced Guy-Mart, he was supposed to be the God of the Human Race. He declined to create the human race citing their fault in the prior destruction of the world. Guymardt was the God of Magic and Knowledge. He was the deciding vote of the Embraced council for governing the world. When he died, his body fell and broke upon the world creating Ara'Kull and the human race.
Grukblud: pronounced Growk-blud, the father of the Orcs. Grukblud is also the God of Madness and Destruction.
Fangtut: pronounced Fang-tut, the father or Giants and Trolls. Fangtut is also a God of Strength and Mountains.
Nar'sra: pronounced Nar-sur-ah, the mother of Reptiles and the Yuan'ti. Nar'sra is also a Goddess of Fire and Trickery.
So that is the pantheon. Obviously, not noted is Ara'Kull (except in Guymardt's entry). Ara'Kull claimed the title of the creator of humanity (even though he is technically just a powerful brother). Nar'sra was the killer of Guymardt (The God just didn't vote her way enough), so she slaughtered him. Guymardt didn't even raise a hand in protest. Pacifist to the end.
There are other gods as well...demigods and lower level gods that just didn't make it onto my pantheon image. All of the smaller gods were in one way or another raised into divinity by the other gods. I may post some of their myths eventually...assuming I need a brief respite from writing up the campaign.
A note on naming conventions...you'll note that as you get farther from Phoee within the circle (the Kin pantheon), syllables and thus complexities of names increase. This translates roughly to the gods or goddesses themselves becoming simpler. Cael is a god of many things (one half of the domain list). Myr makes up the other half of that list. Phoee has access to all the domains. Caevari only has access to Luck, Trickery, Travel and Chaos. As you move further from Phoee, the god's/goddess' Divine Rank also decreases.
On the ring of the Embraced pantheon, the mortals that were raised into divinity kept their original names. However, first name and surname were eventually combined to form just one name for the gods/goddesses. All of those elevated into godhood began at a certain divine rank, and it possibly has changed since the beginning.
The Embraced gods/goddesses are the only divine beings with an Alignment as per DnD rules. The Kin gods/goddesses (including Phoee) are beyond Alignment, having never been mortal themselves. They're truly alien. As such, their clerics may be of any alignment.
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“You said the other writing was the druid’s script?” Cassock stared questioningly at Lady Rowen. “Can you read it? What does it say?”
“Do I look like a druid, priest?” Ana wryly retorted. “I know what it looks like, I’ve seen the writing before,” her thoughts momentarily flickered to the strange adamantine box wrapped tightly within her backpack. “I don’t know how to read it though, only druids know the language.”
“That’s too bad,” the priest mumbled. He turned toward the doorway, his enhanced vision passing into the deep shadows beyond. The white marble path extended beyond and he could just make out a few departing doorways opening along the sidewalls. The main path extended beyond the reaches of his sight, however. “We should get moving.”
“The sun has almost set,” Aramil blurted. “We won’t be able to see in the depths of those shadows; we’re not you. I doubt any outside light could penetrate that hedge; it has to be at least five feet thick. I think we should camp here for the night.” The half-elf had tried to peer through the doorway, but the setting sun interfered with his sight.
“If we camp for the night, we’ll lose our advantage,” the Priest of Cael calmly claimed.
“And what advantage is that?” Aramil shot back, slightly infuriated. No one had ever taken his opinions to heart.
“The element of surprise,” Ana answered, already drawing her bow.
From deep within the heart of the hedged temple, a low tone sounded. The note, a long sonorous pitch, escaped the marble doorway and fled into the dying day.
“Four Orcs at least,” Cassock sighed preparing his warmace. “So much for the element of surprise,” he mumbled. Louder he added, “Don’t let them out of the corridor!” Cassock moved to close, Aramil somewhat reluctantly followed suit with his sword drawn.
Ana fired over both their heads, low grunts marking her success. Unleashing a few projectiles, Gabrielle added more cover to her companions’ maneuvers. Cassock headed straight into the corridor to join with the first attacker.
The orc, of slightly more intelligence than the average beast, noted Arami’s smaller shadow near the wall and lashed out at him first. Smaller opponents fall faster. Aramil lifted his saber in defense. The weak attack barely scratched the beast and the half-elf received a shattering blast against his face for the effort. Lifted off the ground by the beast’s sheer strength, Aramil tumbled through the first doorway and into a hedge-walled alcove.
Cassock bared his weapon downward, relying upon his enemy’s sluggishness. The warmace bit passionately into the orc, shattering bone. The orc fell; Cassock on top of it. Another volley of arrows flew above Cassock, into the three charging foes.
Aramil stood woozily, his eyes trying to adjust to the absence of light. He searched the ground for his sword and then stumbled toward the faint halo of light pouring through the doorway. The half-elf stepped back into the hallway. An orc appeared out of nowhere, preventing Aramil from tripping over his own companion. A blade lashed outward, opening the rogue’s stomach and he stumbled backward, once again into the hedged-alcove.
Cassock leapt upward, his warmace stalling the two other orcs as it danced and weaved in front of his body. One had already slipped past, but he knew he had to prevent the last two from reaching the girls. Arrows impacted just to his right, that orc seeming to sprout wooden branches from his gullet. The corpse collapsed to the ground.
Aramil fell against the hedge and rolled left, trying to place as much distance between himself and his attacker as possible. The brute stepped into the room; its eyes aflame with rage. It raised its arm to finish the job and shuddered mid-attack. It spun, something drawing it from its prey. Aramil frantically searched for an exit, his eyes not finding any. “I hope you’re not very thick,” he hoarsely whispered spinning to the hedge behind. He grasped his gut, hindering the blood while he hacked the vibrant hedge.
Gabrielle slid her bow to the right, taking aim on the beast exiting the first alcove. She freed a barrage of arrows, only one finding purchase. But the barrage was enough of a warning for the priest, she noted, as he ducked the first attack from behind. The orc’s blade instead of finding its original target, slid gently through his companion. The brute watched in contempt as his own mate collapsed. The diversion allowed Cassock to bring his warmace virtually straight up. The blow connected under the beast’s jaw and his head snapped backward. The nearly four-hundred pound monstrosity lifted nearly a foot upward and his eyes dulled. He joined his three dead friends upon the floor, eyes now glazed over.
The horn blast sounded again from the end of the hallway. Another orc charged; his horn dropping in his haste as he raised a spear into the air.
Aramil bust through the hedge and his eyes widened in horror [1]. Staring dumbly at him, four more orcs had their weapons drawn. Pure reflex, the rogue’s saber darted outward, slicing a thick and heavy line vertically through the first orc. Its eyes rolled backward in its head and its body fell apart, as its companions retaliated. Their blades dug deeply sending Aramil once again into the alcove determined to become his tomb. He stumbled toward the doorway and collapsed in a heap all blood, open wounds and unconsciousness. Coming to a rest, his blade vibrated softly against the marble.
The spear hurtled through the air and punctured Cassock’s arm. He would have charged forward, the beast was already drawing a vicious weapon, but he heard the commotion from the alcove. So, the priest spun to his right, dislodging the shaft and charging into the three unwounded orcs.
Ana and Gabrielle swiftly dropped the charging spearman. Ana threw her bow over her shoulder and drew her blade. “Fire into the alcove. Don’t worry about Cassock or me. If anything moves, shoot it,” she commanded. She sped into the corridor and through the first doorway, slamming bodily into an orc.
Knowing he was flanked, the Priest of Cael did all he could. The terrible weapons of his enemies were constantly finding purchase in his tattered chain mail. He risked another attack, pumping divine energy through his veins. He felt the wounds knit, but to no avail as new blade-thrusts merely reopened the healing lacerations.
Suddenly the orc behind stumbled forward, pushing into Cassock. The priest glanced back and saw Ana had apparently charged the monster. He spun his warmace outward clipping the beast in the kidneys. He laughed as blood erupted from its mouth. A low thump turned his attention back to the beast in front; now, an arrow pierced its right breast. He laid into the foul creature.
Ana’s blade cut low as the orc she had bumped into spit vitae. Easily the longsword dug through muscle, vein and bone. Its detached leg dropped to the marble with an arterial spurt. The beast followed its severed limb.
Gabrielled pumped arrows toward the moving shadows. Her own vision lacked clarity in the dim light, she prayed the volleys were true. Another shadow moved along the side of the hedge, toward a pile of something. She pumped several arrows toward it.
Cassock shoved his warmace directly outward, an attack to throw off balance not wound. A rough exhalation filled his ears as the beast lurched backward, weaponless. Its gigantic hands cupped its groin tenderly. The beast, so focused on the momentary pain, didn’t see the flash of warmace directed at its skull.
The priest bent carefully over Aramil. Rapid breaths still escaped the half-elf. The priest gifted some of his healing magicks upon the rogue. Aramil’s eyes flickered open, spittle and blood ran from his mouth. “Do you think we could rest now, master?”
Cassock grunted and turned toward the ladies. “I’m going to drag him into the passage he cut a passageway to,” he whispered. “One of you, go first. One of you, watch the rear and the hallway. If it is safe enough, we’ll loot the bodies and rest here.” The priest waited for Gabrielle to take her position and Ana to lead him into the next passage.
Once inside he pulled Aramil, as carefully as possible, toward the direction they had entered the temple. Sure enough, he found a thick dead-end of vegetation. He set the rogue down and headed toward the rough half-elf-created doorway for his scouts to return.
Ana and Gabrielle returned to the cleric moments later. “All seems eerily quiet,” Ana stated. “I’d like to know why or what rather that beast was signaling with its horn.”
“As would I,” Cassock agreed. “We’re going to camp here. But I need to move the corpses first. We can’t do anything about the stink of blood, but let’s leave as little evidence as possible.” The priest moved toward the hallway and began dragging corpses into the alcove. He left the ladies with Aramil. Once all the bodies were stuffed into the alcove, he began a thorough search through the gear.
Gabrielle’s bow lifted, her arrow trained on the sudden movement. Cassock moved into her vision and she lowered the weapon.
“Anything of interest?” queried the bard.
“Oh, I think I found something of interest,” the priest confirmed. With a divine gesture, he imbued a coin with light and tossed it upon the ground. Following the coin, Cassock tossed several brown masks upon the ground. Each had a black leaf embroidered upon the brow. “As fate would have it,” the Priest of Cael looked skyward although he couldn’t see through the thick hedge above, “we’ve found our murderers.”
“I’ll take first shift. Get some sleep,” the cleric commanded. He extinguished the light and waited quietly in the shadows for the next battle.
Several hours later…
Tobus burst through the former mayor’s doors. The heavy oak slammed into stone and trembled violently, angrily. He stormed into the war-room, seeing his destination. Within the stone chimney, a low fire devoured parchment slowly. Sitting at the desk, the obsidian-masked terror thumbed through a stack of papers. Tobus stood obediently, waiting for his entrance to be noticed. The creature, the high-priest, grabbed the stack of papers he had shifted through and flung them into the hungry flames.
“Sit,” the creature hissed in its alien voice. Tobus wondered briefly if the strange voice was due to the strange mask or some painful brand of mutilation.
“My Lord,” Tobus began.
“I am not your Lord, Tobus. Your Lord is Ara’Kull. You, as a priest of the faith, should not need to be reminded of that fact.” Its voice seemed suddenly crisp, still alien and exceedingly cold.
“Of course, my…erm…I just am not sure of how to address you,” Tobus stammered.
“I have no name, priest. A name is nothing more than a simple symbol of individuality. I am not an individual. I am an extension of our Lord’s will.” Tobus frowned, the answer, being neither here or there, did not alleviate his discomfort. “But I have been called many things in my time, many of which have given me some deal of minuscule pleasure. For example, in Port Arelcah I was nicknamed ‘Pain-Bringer’. In Elysia and Cerebus I was labeled ‘End-Bringer’.” The beast chuckled, a shrieking metal-on-metal-on-stone rumble. “The goblins in Rünse, those loyal to the Church, called me ‘Justice’; those not in favor spoke of me as ‘Death’ or ‘Demon’. If you have need of an appellation, you may choose one of those.”
“Well…ugh….End-Bringer, I have a slight problem,” the priest stuttered.
“Are you trying to dance around the subject? Let me guess, a companion of yours has returned from a venture in the forest. His reports, specifically in reference to a certain band of adventures or would-be-heroes, are not pleasant. Your plans are not coming to fruition as you saw fit.” The obsidian mask’s eyes previously half-closed in agony opened, the expression shifting to one of sadistic anger. The eyes flared red.
Tobus could only stare slack-jawed as he shrunk back in fear.
“You can’t tell me, lowly priest, you thought you could keep your machinations secret from our Lord? End-Bringer fluidly stood from the seat and the entire room flared with light. The fires exploded outward momentarily, bathing everything in the hue of the hungry flames. “Our Lord sees all, priest. What he sees, I have been gifted to see. He knows of your plots. He knows of your desires. He knows that Captain Leiban Malabrandt did not poison his own father, purposefully or not. He is aware that you were the force behind that escapade as well. Lord Ara’Kull knows all. Being stuck in this backwater village has been…detrimental to your education. Do not ever forget those facts.
“The only reason your plans have worked so far is because it coincides with His will. It was not luck. It was not fate. The Lord Ara’Kull has gifted you with an opportunity: the opportunity to show your devotion by returning this village to his fold. I am here as your final arbiter as well as Lead Inquisitor. I will not interfere with your attempts to wrestle control of this town. That is not my place.” End-Bringer sat once again, his mask returning to its original, lightless expression. “However, I am not above offering advice, if it is needed. So speak. Tell me of the problem.”
“Uh,” Tobus began, searching through his fear and now awe for the words, “My man has returned from the field. He was preemptively warned of the adventurer’s assault by one of his men. They’ve already eliminated most of the force that had attacked this town[2]. I am worried now that they will succeed in clearing out the temple.” The priest bowed his head in sorrow.
“The girl?”
“Thorne had to leave her. He did not have time to grab her and return.”
“This does not look good for you, priest. Remember that I am the arbiter of your fate.” Standing again, End-Bringer was glowering, Tobus thought. The obsidian expression did not shift, however. “This is what you should do to remedy your mistakes. Give up on the temple. Have Thorne and Leiban lay-in-wait with a contingent of my soldiers. Once the adventurers return, they should be easy prey for our men. I want that child as leverage against the Mayor. I want his real daughter for that reason as well. The rest can die, if need be.[/b][/i]”
“Is Leiban really a good choice?” Tobus quietly questioned.
“His dedication, his loyalty still needs to be determined. That is why both of you will be there.”
Tobus squeaked, “Both of us?”
“You will be there to watch him and gauge his worthiness.” With a rapid motion, End-Bringer tossed Tobus a silver ring. “That will keep you out of their sight, but do not stray too close. You are only to observe. Observe and pray. Pray that your choice of the Captain was correct. If not, your future is forfeit.”
“Of course, End-Bringer,” Tobus replied. He pocketed the ring swiftly and stood to leave. A guard burst entered the room, a young man with white-hair in tow and bound.
“You may go, Tobus.” The demon dismissed the priest with the wave of a taloned hand. “Leave the young paladin here, guard. Then leave.” The soldier removed the youth’s bonds and fled the room. The monster turned to his prey and stated coldly, “I find your lack of faith disturbing[3].” Two living chains lashed out of the void-like robes, piercing the young man’s wrists and lifting him fluidly into the air. A third chain danced out of the darkness and effortlessly severed his genitalia.
From outside the closed doors, the guards shuddered as horrible screaming penetrated the supposedly sound-proof stone. The commoners cowered in fear.
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Hours later, End-Bringer stormed out of the mayor’s rooms. “Have Cassandra resurrect that child again!!” The demon ordered the nearest guard. He moved toward the gates and one of the Inquisitors pulled up beside him.
“Justice, where are you off to?”
“I need to make sure our priest does his duty.” With a flourish, End-Bringer vanished into thin air. The Inquisitor was left, staring only at empty space.
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[1] – I think, for the sake of my readers and my own sanity, I need to go over the actual DM-Player dialog for this event. You see, I (in my ineffable intelligence) created a temple made of…well, an oversized shrubbery. (“I particularly like the laurels” – a cookie to anyone that recognizes that quote). And in my infinite wisdom, for one reason or another, didn’t think that they’d try to just hack their way through it. I didn’t think of it. The most obvious choice f*ing possible and it didn’t occur to me. SO, here’s the dialog:
Aramil’s Player [Boz – and not the Boz well known in the Creature Catalog Forums]: I hack through the hedge.
Me: I’m sorry….what?
Boz: I hack through the hedge. It can’t be that thick, right?
Me: (slaps forehead)
Boz: What?! I need to get away, I’m going through the hedge. I have like one hit point left.
Me: growl
Cassock’s Player (Yeti): (laughs)
So, what we did was this…I didn’t bother to look up the rules..I know it can be done…I didn’t want to figure out the amount of rounds it took…so I allowed him to do it with a full-round action. At which point, he breaks through the hedge and sees the next band of orcs that were waiting for a signal to attack. So (because it was such an obvious, ingenious, and great idea), I gave him a free attack against the first orc, which I think he killed.
I restate, for those of you that don’t know: No plot survives player characters.
[2] They had killed something around 16 or 20 orcs by this point. I was dogging them with beasties. If you’ll remember, the force that attacked the town were only approximately twenty individuals led by an Elf. Also of note, the brown masks that they found, they actually found in the forest among the first batch of orcs (that nearly killed Cassock). I just forgot to mention it then.
[3] I couldn’t resist!!! Please, oh please, George Lucas, don’t sue my pants off. It was only used in respect. I know you tour these forums (probably running searches on quotes from his movies)…and I don’t want a lawsuit. To avoid that, the quote is obviously Darth Vader from A New Hope (I believe…I’m not a Star Wars Nut). But, you know, the more I thought about this character, more and more similarities between his attitude and Darth’s appeared. Eh.
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Aramil sat in the gloomy shadows within the hedged maze. From behind, he could hear the slight breathing of his companions breathing. Ana had awoken him for his shift, the last watch of the night, maybe an hour prior. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his mind alert while the shadows lulled him toward unconsciousness.
The cleric had healed his remaining wounds. Aramil was, by all definitions, healthy again. For some reason, his body still ached from the attacks. Miraculously, the priest’s administrations had left the half-elf’s flesh perfect, without scars. Aramil’s mind would take more than a dose of divine power to heal completely.
Dim tendrils of light were pushing against the shadowy floor. Daylight was spreading and while it would not completely pierce the thick vegetation, it still made its presence known. Aramil tried to focus on the battle between light and shadow, an apt metaphor for his own existence. Racism, fear, and hatred, these were the aspects of humanity that pressed his once hopeful soul toward darkness. Humanity was crafting him into a monster by application of their emotion, their preconceived beliefs, and their sadistic torment. Aramil’s eyelids drooped.
The rogue’s head snapped upward and he slid silently back toward his companions. With a gentle shake he awoke his companions, his captives. “Scuffling, movement in the halls,” he pointed to the exit. “I’m guessing about four opponents.”
Cassock grimaced and stretched. Cassock silently thanked Cael for the ability to pray at night. If he had to pray in the morning, the priest would lose valuable time. The priest stood and whispered an order, “You and I will go around. Ana, Gabrielle use the elf-crafted path. Don’t attack until you hear us engage the murderers. Remain hidden. Come on.” The priest grabbed Aramil by the arm and dragged him down the hedge passageway.
They stopped at the marble hallway, peering carefully around the corner. Four humans crouched along the once virginal white floor. They examined the blood and followed the streaks with their eyes toward the alcove. “On three,” the priest whispered, raising one finger.
“What you thinkin’ mate?” One of the men questioned.
“You mean aside from our associates being dead?” He turned his head cautiously, searching for eavesdroppers. “I think that if we kill these adventurers, we’ll be awarded well. Keep your eyes sharp and your ears open.” The human raised a hand and motioned for his friends to stalk into the alcove.
Cassock raised another finger.
All four of the men cautiously stood. Their weapons slid from their scabbards as silent as an assassin’s blade. One step, the two and they were all slightly closer to the alcove.
The third finger went up, Cassock and Aramil poured from their alcove. The men spun toward their attackers and met fierce weapons. Aramil’s blade struck true and deep, an artery severed, an enemy fallen. Cassock’s mace, not nearly as precise a weapon, sought any target. In its hunger, the warmace refused to distinguish between bone, sinew and blood. It devoured all equally and hungrily.
Two men were down. The other opponents rushed toward their ends. Before they could even bring their blades to bear, arrows pummeled from behind. Shafts of wood, tipped with rough metal, shredded leather armor and flesh. All four opponents died as one, together and silent in the early autumn morning.
Cassock moved to rummage through the corpses even before all the last breaths were extinguished. He shuddered, the shadowed souls of the fallen grasping futilely at his physical body. They lashed outward complete in their hollowness; empty faces, empty expression, and empty attacks. Even their silent pleas for help were empty, lacking voice.
The priest could never forget the tormented expressions. He shifted tack, administering last rites but before his eyes the souls seemed ripped from the bodies upward. Within a second, all four spirits shot heavenward. Cassock merely shuddered.
“What did you find?” Aramil questioned. The half-elf’s left eyebrow arched slightly with suspicion.
“More masks,” the priest grunted. He tossed the brown masks embroidered with a single black leaf upon the ground.
“I think we should keep one of each of these for ourselves,” the half-elf stated. “They may come in handy if we need to move within the same circles as these men.”
“Agreed,” Cassock stated. “So that’s nearly twenty orcs now and a band of four humans. Still no elf and still no half-elf child.” The priest moved to drag the bodies into the hedged alcove with a sigh.
Back to several days ago…
Trees and brush slid past, becoming a blur of solidarity in a world of constant motion. The faint greens and intense browns of the autumn season were speckled with the first kisses of red and auburn as they joined; and now one, they assaulted the already exhausted senses of one Spinum Machaera.
The young mage was hurtling through the forest, leaving the deaths of his family in the past. For a mage, the kid had an exquisite frame of lean muscle built from years of physical training at the hands of his father. That was the only reason he was still running, hours after the executions.
A new color, some variation of gray seeped into his peripheral vision. Turning slightly, Spinum focused on the spot of gray. The unwelcome color had vanished, however, replaced instead by a large ash tree.
Spinum’s vision swung around to the front. He pulled up short, but not quickly enough and slammed face-first into a dense oak branch. The branch, nearly as thick as Spinum’s torso, slammed ably into the mage’s head. A jarring jolt of hurt ebbed through the mage’s face. His feet, freed from the oppressive control of gravity and mind, shot upward becoming parallel to the forest floor.
Time stopped.
The young necromancer hung within that moment of inflated time indefinitely, staring at the reddening canopy above and faint sky beyond. He smiled, from delirium or happiness or some combination thereof.
With a lurch, Time kicked back in and Gravity tugged on the mage’s body. He was sucked onto the ground. The snapping of branches precluded the earth’s intimate embrace. The pain smacked his smile away into oblivion.
A twig snapped near the mage and he tried to focus his eyes, but they blurred with exhaustion. Still, Spinum could make out the color of the movement. A human-shaped blot of gray stood above him, a long and slender staff in its hands.
The mage steeled his mind for a slow and painful death. Minutes passed, death never reared its umbral head. Spinum groaned and tried to slide into a sitting position. The gray shape slid closer, hovering just a slight distance from the wizard’s face. A rough, acrid scent assaulted Spinum’s nose.
“Dark mages are not abided within the confines of my wood.” The staff raised into the air, splitting heaven in twain.
“No, wait!” Spinum screamed. The staff plummeted downward, splitting the young wizard’s head in twain.
“Necromancers are not abided in my forest,” the voice hissed again. Spinum embraced the dark warmth of unconsciousness.
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Enjoy.