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Post by Rigil Kent on Feb 8, 2005 18:56:54 GMT -6
LIGHTNING CRACKED THE SKY, spearing its frigid expanse with jagged forks of azure brilliance that crawled over the horizon. Booming out of the dark clouds, thunder rolled over the Howling Hills, echoing ominously as the sun fled the coming storm. The landscape, illuminated in brief flashes, was stark and bleak, bearing an almost unreal quality about it, a vista stolen from the darkest dreams of a madman. Great gaping wounds in the hills could be seen, as if some horrific force had once sought to claw free from an earthy embrace, and what few trees could be seen were skeletal, even for so late in the winter, with weeping sores and rotted limbs. A heavy stench of decay hung over the land, bringing to mind the reek of week-old carrion and the stench of the grave. No movement stirred the harsh realm – not wind, nor promised rain, or even the hint of woodland creatures. To the sane, it truly appeared to be hell on Oerth.
Another nightfall in the growing blight that was the Empire of Iuz.
The sun had already long vanished beyond the horizon when the war host appeared. Twelve hundred strong – or near enough – they raced over the new-fallen snow, booted feet and hoof stamping out a cruel cadence. A misshapen horde of beasts that ran upright like a man, they wore the arms of war and carried with them the white skull standard that named them as Iuz’s troops had anyone doubted. At a distance, they could be taken for men, if exceedingly large specimens, but upon closer reflection, the differences were too vast, too sinister to make such a mistake. A hideous mixture of man and beast had taken place, leaving behind feral creatures that snarled at one another as often as not. Fights threatened to break out among them as they ran and jostled one another, but the wild rage flowed like quicksilver, gone as quickly as it came.
Six figures rode behind them, mounted upon vicious-looking destriers. Cloaked in shadow, the six moved in eerie unison with a tangible aura of fear surrounding them, a sense of despair that stilled the heart and slowed the blood. Garbed from head to toe in the darkest of hues, each rode with the supreme confidence of master horsemen and the grace of lethal swordsmen. Despite their size, no one could mistake that they were in command of the warhost.
The final rider in this sinister band seemed far out of place. Though he bore an ill-favored look about him, few men would willingly ride in such company yet he did so easily, ignoring those that preceded him with cold self-assurance. His own clothes, dark in color but not black as the six, were stained with travel and hard use yet bore no symbol or crest. The hood of his travel cloak was pulled up sharply, concealing his features under a veil of darkness, yet in the brief moments when lightning flashed or moonlight revealed his jaw, he could be seen smiling. It could not be amusement, though, for that had long since been seared from him at the behest of his master.
Night and distance passed equally quickly. The man-beasts set a hard pace and kept to it without pause or slowing, matching the seven horses for stride and endurance. As dawn neared, a hazy twilight grew, yet no sign of the sun could be seen. This was, after all, the domain of Iuz – Pelor held no sway here.
A massive edifice, carved from living rock, loomed up before the host and they slowed. The beast-men dropped into kneeling obeisance at once before the stone, their howls and grunts ringing out in a crude cacophony that could only be chants of worship. Reining their mounts to a stop, the six ebon-clad horsemen bowed their heads before adding their own voices to the song of worship. Low-pitched and eerily unnatural-sounding, their speech brought to mind steel rasping along leather, or perhaps the slide of a snake over rock.
The seventh rider pushed forward without pause, his lips still quirked in what could not be amusement but was perhaps contempt for his escort. Sliding from the saddle in an easy motion, he strode forward, abandoning his steed to its fate as he entered the black cavern. Under a great slab of volcanic rock he walked, barely noticing that it was inscribed with infernal runes and blasphemous symbols. Down the path led, through blackness so absolute it could not be natural. Time passed as he walked, following a path unseen, and heat washed over him. Flickers of hellish light broke apart the darkness and played across his face, etching freakish shadows upon him.
Onward he walked, past the still squirming bodies of creatures that had offended his lord. Men and elves, orcs and dwarves, they were each impaled upon the living rock and each cried out to him as he passed, some pleading for aid while others begged to be slain, but he paid them no mind. Compassion had long been burned from him. It had, in many ways, been his first true lesson following his rebirth.
The path opened up into an immense cavern that stretched out as far as he could see. Lava swirled and churned here, spitting up large gouts of the molten rock that sprayed some of the shackled offenders with its scorching caress. Six great crystalline structures hung from the pitted ceiling, each like a massive chrysalis and taller than a man by half. If one looked closely, the vague image of a man-shaped being could be seen within each.
An old man sat beside the great pit of fire, seated atop a throne of skulls and staring coldly at the six crystals. If despair had shrouded the six dark-clad riders, it had fled the wizened figure in terror and, as the seventh rider approached, he felt a flicker of…something within him. Looking up at his approach, the old man frowned and, for less than a heartbeat, his eyes were engulfed in flame.
“MY SLAYER RETURNS,” the old man stated in an echoing voice, a smile upon his ancient face that held no trace of humanity in it. Dropping to a kneeling position, the slayer waited. He expected punishment at his failure and could almost sense it in his master’s voice yet felt no fear for it had long been seared from him.
“THIS HAS BEEN A BLACK DAY,” his master declared, absently drumming his talons along the skull of a child’s head. “MY SERVANT ALTHEA IS FALLEN TO THE INVADERS IN THE EAST AND MASKALEYNE IS PERISHED, SLAIN BY THE THRICEBORN IN THE PRESENCE OF THE GLOORIN KORDOF.” Fury boiled off of the old man and in his anger, the lake of fire churned and twisted, reflecting the dark mood. Recognizing his master’s mood, the slayer spoke.
“I had the Once-Elven under my knife, master, and shall do so again. He shall not escape again.” The old man frowned at him and the fiery eyes reappeared for a heartbeat; waves of heat rolled off of him.
“YOU STINK OF SOMETHING,” the old man declared with a growl. Images swelled up within him and he felt his master study his memories as a mortal would study a book. They flashed by quickly: impressions of the biting cold, the feel of a man’s once-elven blood upon his fingers, the taste of anger at a failed mission. “THIS,” his master spoke after an eternity that lasted mere heartbeats.
A singular image appeared before them, an aspect of a memory plucked from his mind: the Keoish swordsman standing at the broken wall, his greatsword dripping with ichor and blood. His exposed flesh was rough, dark azure scales that brought to mind a dragon. A sense of raw power yet unleashed hung about him like a cloak and fear, so long forgotten, trickled through the slayer as his master studied the image with burning eyes. The expression upon his master’s face was terrible to behold.
“SO, THE ARANLHÛG ARE REBORN…” His master’s voice was low, almost hushed, and filled with something indefinable. Images flooded into the slayer, impressions of beings with impossible power striding through vistas that could barely be comprehended. “YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD, LÔKË ONYAMÔR!” the old man snarled with a furious expression, his eyes ablaze with light. The image of the swordsman faded and his master turned back to him.
“THE THRICEBORN IS OF NO IMPORTANCE TO YOU, MY SLAYER. YOU WILL SEEK OUT AND DESTROY THIS SCION OF A DEAD PEOPLES…” Stretching out with his finger, the old man opened a vein upon the slayer’s arm. Blood gushed forth and the man studied it with detached interest; it should have hurt but pain, alongside so much other human weakness, had long been seared from him. With the same talon, his master pierced his own flesh, drawing forth what appeared to be blood.
“I GRANT YOU THE MIGHT TO KILL A DREAM OF TIMES LONG PAST, MY SLAYER. YOU SHALL BREAK THIS MEMORY OF YESTERDAY AND FEAST UPON HIS SOUL.” The talon, dripping with divine blood, touched the slayer’s vein and the creature that had once been human began to scream.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Feb 13, 2005 8:40:38 GMT -6
A scream swelled up within him as he looked over the field and beheld the ruin of nations but he pushed it down. Though still covered by unmelted snow and ice, the corpses of the fallen were unmistakably recent and Marance of Talendar felt hope die within him.
He walked through the charnel ground slowly, concealed from view by a warding that shunted away unfriendly eyes, and noted with growing despair the tally of slain. It was a royal fellowship of dead, with princelings and commons heaped upon the ground in equal measure. Banners, at once colorful and somber, had long been trampled underfoot or thrust into the earth and left to stay, hanging limply in the chilly early spring morning. Sword and axe were plentiful, some yet clutched in the hands of dead warriors both stalwart and foolish. Everywhere he looked, he saw death.
Had it merely been the result of a single poorly-fought or planned battle, he would have thought little of it, for Nyrond and the Pale had long been fixed within the eye of Iuz the Old, but what he saw disturbed him far more than anything he had seen. He had strode the dark places of the universe, stood were only the Lords of the Nine would stand, faced horrors spawned by the countless layers of the Abyss, yet here, on the outer fringes of a single battle, he felt the weight of impending doom push down upon him.
A circle of corpses captured his attention and he paused to study it. Thirty had fallen here, pierced by lance or hewn by sword or scorched by dragonfire, and he wondered at the threat that had seen soldiers of Nyrond fall alongside orcs of Iuz and fanatics of the Pale. It was impossible that such a thing could happen and yet…
And yet…
Hours had passed since he had come here, hours in which he had seen the impossible. The count of Mowbrenn, Lord Blackmar, said to hate orcs more than he loved living, fallen behind a ring of the creatures who had clearly been defending him. A Theocrat paladin and Iuzian cleric side-by-side, their wounds clearly not inflicted by one another. The headless corpse of a tall man he suspected to have been Lynwerd, king of Nyrond, crucified alongside the body that he knew to be Althea, high priest of Iuz. And yet, for all of his searching, despite his divination magicks, regardless of where he sought, he could find no trace of the Enemy.
And that troubled him the most.
That dragons were involved was without a doubt, for too many of the huddled fallen had been slain by dragonfire, roasted by that living flame that sought and hunted. He had found several scales in the course of his search, each clearly from different beasts and all a dark crimson in color. In a way, that both eased his mind and troubled him more: part of the mystery surrounding the dragonflight six months past had been solved, but he was no closer to understanding the reason that Reds would willingly aid soldiers or even cooperate. They were too proud, too territorial, too…chaotic, so that could only mean that they were enslaved, a concept that staggered the imagination. There were simply too many Reds to control at once, and keeping them from one another’s throats would require power none short of the gods could wield, and since no Power could directly intervene upon Oerth save Iuz, that left…what?
Topping a slight rise, he came upon four men looting the dead and felt a smile touch his lips. Dropping the invisibility ward, he strode toward them, covered by a second illusion to disguise his true appearance. They bared steel instantly and rushed forward, clearly intent upon his death. Rage swelled up within him then, a white-hot fury that overrode his intentions. Raw magic roared through him and pointed a finger at the foremost of two, speaking a Word of Power; between two steps, the man gasped and collapsed, clearly dead. His companions hesitated.
And died for it.
Marance dropped the veil of illusion, enjoying the sudden gasp from three men, and let his already strained control slip. A second burst of arcane energy surged over one of the three and he shrieked with agony as his body transformed. His companions gazed in horror as he polymorphed into a small lizard. A newt, to be precise; one had to keep up appearances, after all.
The last two men turned to flee, panic overwhelming their earlier confidence, but were too slow. One of them risked a look back over his shoulder, and Marance hurled an orb of sizzling acid at him; it struck the man full in the face and he collapsed, his face melting away as the spell ate through flesh and cloth with equal haste. Hearing his sole surviving companion die in horrible agony only increased the fourth man’s pace but, with a gesture and another Word, Marance froze him in place.
Mere heartbeats had passed. Stepping in front of the magically held man, Marance allowed himself a cold, sinister smile at the fear on the man’s face. He saw his new form reflected in the man’s terror-striken eyes and paused to reflect on the sudden change. Not three days ago, he was nearly bedridden, a victim to a lingering affliction of the body that no amount of healing could reverse, proof that traffic in devils could not leave a man untouched no matter his precautions. Until, that is, he fell at the hands of a single elven archer, unaware that Marance had pulled the strings that led to the very situation. Reborn by his magicks, the wizard had been surprised to discover that he had changed.
Taller than his captive by a hand, he was cadaverously thin with extraordinarily pale skin. His body was wrapped in black leather that could have come from anywhere, though any who studied it at length would quickly deduce that it had originated from the body of a black dragon and an old one at that. What appeared to be a long cloak fell around him, clasped at the neck by a curious claw-like device, and a dragonskin skullcap concealed his hairless pate. He smiled again, allowing his sinister-looking teeth to draw the man’s attention. When he spoke, his voice was cultured and refined, a striking contrast to his devilish appearance.
“Hello there.” The man shivered as Marance crossed his arms over his chest, his red eyes glinting demonically. “My name is unimportant,” the wizard continued, still smiling his terrifying smile. “But my mission here is not. You are from these parts, yes?” At the man’s panicked nod, Marance smiled again. “Excellent. Then you can tell me who fought here.”
The man mumbled something under his breath and, leaning forward, Marance was unsurprised to discover it was a prayer. Anger started to bubble up within him again, but he pushed it down as he spoke. The rage was the most difficult thing to adjust to; it was always there, always lurking and ready to overwhelm him.
“If you cannot aid me, I will leave you here for the crows.” The praying increased. This simply would not do. “Or I can rip your soul from your body and cast it across oblivion.” That got the man’s attention.
“Dread master, I know not who fought. Please, I beg you, release me!” The man was truly a pitiful sight.
Heaving a sigh of disgust, Marance casually backhanded the man. To his surprise, the blow lifted the looter from the ground and sent him backward into the snow where he sprawled, dazed from the force of the slap. Marance smiled once more; clearly, his new form was stronger than he was accustomed to.
“’Twas demons, master!” the man shrieked with panic. “With yellow skin and water swords!”
Water swords? Marance frowned, unaware of the ominous aspect it lent him as he thought hard. He had trafficked with devils for nearly seventy years and had slain thousands of demons but none wielded water swords. The very concept was ludicrous. A thought occurred to him then as he regarded the cowering simpleton before him; what if the man saw something his slow brain registered as water? He gestured, crafting an image out of raw magic.
“Is this what you saw?” he asked as the illusion took shape. The man’s terrified shriek was answer enough and Marance watched him flee across the battlefield. A sense of impending dread began growing within him, for he now knew the Enemy.
Around him, snow began to fall.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Feb 18, 2005 15:02:20 GMT -6
The snow had finally begun to melt when the hooded man entered the inn. Nothing about him was memorable, not his face nor his voice nor even his clothes, and that was, in of itself, a memorable thing. He passed a purse heavy with coins into the meaty hands of the innkeeper and received a single gesture in return. The two locked eyes for the briefest of moments, one making a silent threat of dark revenge should his business be thwarted this night and the other assuring him that the night’s business would be good. They parted, each to their own devices, each to their own intrigues.
Not a word had passed between them.
Packed to the rafters with cold travelers and ne’er-do-wells, the Jolly Potboy was a raucous place, especially for so early in the day. Winter had been hard and cold, and with rumors of war in the east now many months old, those that could afford it came here to piss away their fortunes.
Or earn them, as the circumstances warranted. A tall man, broad in chest and face, wearing the arms of a warrior and the bearing of an adventurer, loudly boasted of his recent exploits, completely oblivious to the fact that the whore he entertained was robbing him blind with her talented hands. Another man, this one wearing the plate-and-mail so common in nearby Furyondy frowned hard at the louder man, never noticing the cutpurse at his side. For many, tonight would be a good night.
The hooded man found his table and smiled under his hood. It was exactly as he had requested it, situated with a wall to his back and a view of the tavern floor. Dark shadows draped the table which would allow him to remain mostly unobserved as he did the observing. Yes. It was perfect.
He slid into the darkness and set his back to the wall, gesturing briefly for an ale before lighting his pipe and savoring the smell of the tabac. Concealed under the hood, his eyes scanned the tavern, ever moving. Though few would know it, he was hunting.
The bartender brought his ale and, as he set it down, let his eyes drift to the left. With the slightest of nods, the hooded man indicated his understanding and accepted the ale. He waited until the bartender was long gone before allowing his own eyes, seemingly of their own accord, to slide to the side indicated.
Three prospects drew his attention at once and he studied each of them with a coolly professional eye. One was a band of halflings, country folk by their attire, and two had furtive looks about them, as if they were looking for knives in the dark, but he recognized them as un-Guilded thieves and wondered if they would survive the night. A second was single man with a wild look in his eyes and purple tattoos upon his bald head; the hooded man narrowed his eyes as he realized the prospect had a small rodent with him and his eyes passed on: he knew this ranger.
The third prospect was exactly what he sought. A nondescript man wearing unremarkable clothes sitting quietly in the middle of the bar. Like the hooded man himself, nothing about this man drew attention and it was this very fact that attracted notice for those well trained. Once identified, other small things stood out. A full mug of ale was at hand and, no matter how many times the man lifted it, it never emptied. The plate before him was still full though the food upon it had been moved around to simulate being eaten. His eyes were never still. He ignored the whores around him with the casual indifference of a eunuch.
Faking a yawn, the hooded man finished his ale and signalled for another, quietly thumbing the magical ring that made him impervious to poisons. He let his head lean back to simulate dozing off and, through narrowed eyes, studied his prey. Something wasn’t entirely right about the man…
An hour passed, or perhaps two, before action took place. A second man, as easily forgettable as the first, entered the tavern and took a seat with his comrade. They sat together for perhaps a full turn of the glass, nodding as if in conversation. At no time did they speak.
One of them glanced in his direction and the hooded man felt a sudden spike of concern – was he made? – but the man’s eyes did not pause. I’ve tarried too long, he thought to himself, and rose from the table. Both of the men glanced at him, but neither’s eyes lingered too long, and he did not react. As he drew near them, the amulet he wore against his chest went icy cold and he stumbled in surprise.
As the two looked up at him, the hooded man glanced back at the floor with a glare on his face; with exceptional ease, he faked a slightly drunken man and staggered out of the tavern on unsteady feet. The shadows caressed him and his stance immediately straightened; he darted into the overhang of a nearby building, paying no mind to the nearby mugging taking place. The Guild had learned to walk clear of him and he of them.
An hour or perhaps two passed as he waited but he was rewarded for his patience. The two men departed the Potboy and, without exchanging a look, walked away from one another in opposite directions. One of them, the first one it turned out, was the nearest to the hooded man and, as he approached, took no notice of him. Cloaked by the shadows and concealed by cover, the hooded man waited, easing his longsword free of its scabbard. Closer…closer…closer…now.
He struck without warning, lunging out of the darkness to thrust the blade into the approaching man’s belly. With a gasp, his victim staggered back and began to gesture; as a door-like shape began to materialize, the hooded man thrust again. This time, his blade found his victim’s throat and he fell, blood bubbling from the mangled mess that was his neck. Grabbing the corpse, the hooded man pulled him deeper into the shadows, his eyes moving. Did the man’s comrade hear? Was he rushing to aid now? Long heartbeats passed as he crouched there waiting, moments in which the man’s gurgle faded to silence. He had hoped to take the man alive for questioning but dead was just as good. Dead men could be made to tell tales, after all, and his Princess had many questions she wanted answered.
Convinced that he was alone in the alley, he turned his attention to the dead man before him. His fingers played across the man’s body, searching for anything out of place, and he found it. A hat came free and the magic that cloaked the dead man’s features faded, revealing his true form. Had the man’s comrade returned at that moment, he would have found the hooded man an easy target as he stared at the body before him in surprise.
And under his own hat of disguise, Gilwë, son of Glorthoron, could not help but to smile.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Feb 18, 2005 15:07:24 GMT -6
The smile on his face was gruesome to behold in the hour of Mordenkainen’s death.
Lightning and fire crashed against his arcane wardings, breaking like water against rock, and he drew more power into him, tapping the very essence of his mastery. Blood ran down his leg but he ignored the pain, pushing it away as if it were nothing more than a scratch. It was a source of grim pride that a lesser man would have fallen already and yet he struggled on; even the mightiest of warriors would have found it hard to not topple with the brace of arrows that sprouted from his back. But he struggled on.
Another explosion of fire raced through the night toward him and he bent his will against it, deflecting it away and into a massed rank of the Enemy. It detonated with horrific force, hurling the bodies of men and creatures that walked upright like men through the air like broken puppets. Through his grimace of pain, Mordenkainen smiled and summoned more power unto him. Greyhawk City – his city – would not fall.
So he struggled on.
Already, three of his Circle had fallen in the day-long defense against the invaders. His old apprentice, Bigby, had died at an assassin’s hand this very day, even as he crushed the Enemy’s forces with his own arcane might. Two others had been slain not an hour ago, and the deaths of Nystul and Warnes Starcoat had left Mordenkainen alone with Otto.
Who had fled.
The anger he felt at Otto’s betrayal kept him alive now, bubbling deep within him like the power of the sun itself. Only once before had Mordenkainen felt such anger and, like Otto, the traitor Rary had fled his wrath so many years ago. For now, both were beyond his touch and this city – his city – was endangered.
So he struggled on.
A great drake, its scales a dark crimson, dived out of the sky, living fire exploding from its mouth, but Mordenkainen was unhurt, untouched by the seeking flame, and he turned his attention to it. It was immense, easily the largest such creature he had ever seen, and the fury in its eyes could be seen even at this distance. Age had not slowed the beast down in the slightest.
Drawing deeper of Boccob’s Gift than he ever had before, Mordenkainen wove ice to meet the fire, freezing the very air solid around the dragon. It tried to shriek once it realized the danger it faced, tried to alter its trajectory, but, by then, it was far too late. Each heartbeat that passed, the air around it grew colder, colder than night, colder than the deepest layers of the Nine Hells, colder than Iuz’s black heart, until its very skin cracked and splintered. Thousands of pounds of frozen dragonflesh thudded to Oerth and broke apart like fragile porcelin.
He could sense the renewed courage of the defenders at the ramparts, those manning the crossbows against the attackers, for was he not Mordenkainen, the Master of the Obsidian Citadel, the greatest wizard since the time of the Invoked Devastation?
But he was dying and there was no chance of returning this time.
His Obsidian Citadel was a smoldering ruin, smashed by a concentrated dragonstrike some weeks ago, and his armies were crushed completely. The carefully concealed clones of the Circle had somehow been discovered and destroyed. He had discerned the attacks on him but not the origin; too late he discovered that this was not a gambit of the Old One nor of Rary the Traitor. But, by then, it was already too late.
So he struggled on.
The Enemy had great flying warships, machines that, for all of his travels, he had never seen the like. They were at once sleek and beautiful yet retained a sinister appearance that reminded him of sharks. Massive arbalests were mounted at their prows, hurling great bolts that smashed through stone and flesh alike. Powerful wizards manned the ships and spun lightning and fire and acid into the city. Mordenkainen would have given much to study these ships.
Instead, he bent his might into destroying them.
Four of the immense craft had already fallen, two swatted from the sky by crushing hands that would have done Bigby proud, a third disjoined by a spell of his own devising, and a fourth simply smashed by a swarm of meteors that had broken the stern. Only three yet remained and, of these, he focused entirely upon the largest.
Focusing his mind to the task at hand, he pushed everything else away; fear, pain, anger, it was all extraneous and unhelpful so he sealed it away and drew upon Aspects of the Art that no mortal since the Rain of Colorless Fire had touched. Gesturing with his staff, he sent a sun-bright, fist-sized globe of energy racing through the night. It exploded atop the war machine, splattering the armored figures with deadly acid, or searing fire, or living lightning, or even raw force itself. A ball of concentrated hell. But it was not enough.
So he struggled on.
Another raw surge of magick flowed through him and he sent a second raging torrent of winter at the great machine, a gale of absolute zero that shattered men and equipment alike. The machine began to slide away from the city and, pushing past the utter exhaustion that sought to overwhelm him, Mordenkainen struck again, sending a ball of fiery death into the ice. It exploded, sending fragments of material – both living and inanimate – flying through the air.
The ship fell from the sky.
It struck a great host of the Enemy, crushing them under its mighty weight, and another cheer went up among the defenders. But it was not enough, for Mordenkainen could see a second of the great machines now, many leagues distant but slowly approaching. He reached for his power and found it dwindling, almost completely spent. Clinging to the staff, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, he knew his death was imminent. Already, he could feel his vision dimming and the wound in his side would not stop bleeding. All seemed lost. The city – his city – would fall…<br> An explosion of fire raced from the city’s walls and exploded among the Enemy, and then another, and another, until it seemed that the entire city was hurling flame or lightning or acid. Comprehension came slowly as Otto tottered into view, thinning red hair plastered to his head with sweat. For the span of a moment, anger warred with surprise; that this…coward had returned seemed impossible, but then Drawmij, called Kingmaker in Keoland, stepped into view, his cold face backlit by the storm of lightning he sent into the Enemy.
Otto had not fled. He had summoned the rest of the Eight. Mordenkainen smiled, angry at himself for ever doubting his rotund friend. The city – his city – would not fall.
So he struggled on.
The great ship lumbered ever closer to the city – his city – and Mordenkainen realized what he had to do. He wove a small spell, nothing more than a message to relate his last orders to the broken Circle, and then seized the small flicker of power within him. Tearing a hole in reality, he stepped through it. It seemed that he stepped through a sheet of brilliant white light, infinitely bright, infinitely thick. For a moment that lasted forever, he was blind; a roaring filled his ears, all the sounds of the world gathered together at once. For just the length of one measureless step.
As the light vanished, he found himself kneeling aboard the deck of the great ship, his wounds nearly too much for even him to bear. Alien faces, contorted with surprise or concealed behind helmets, surrounded him. He could hear weapons being pulled, orders being shouted, but none of this concerned him. In that moment, he Knew the Enemy but it was already too late. With calm ease and a grim smile, he shattered his staff.
His death lit the sky and, in the heartbeat before he was consumed by raw magick, he knew that it would be worthy of song.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Feb 18, 2005 15:10:57 GMT -6
The song ended as the man entered the tavern.
Though he was not particularly tall or broad, he nonetheless radiated death like a fire emits heat. His stride was smooth, almost pantherish, as he crossed the tavern floor and, upon closer inspection, his skin bore a strange hue that appeared metallic. Strange tattoos decorated his exposed skin and seemed to pulse with untapped power. What was taken for metal gloves at first glance was quickly revealed to be his actual hands, covered by a metal that moved with his muscles, as if he had thrust his arms into a vat of molten silver or iron and only just pulled them free. Insanity danced in his eyes and Arithon s’Ffalenn, Masterbard of Oerth, realized who he looked upon.
For the crimes of Eldacar, son of Sideric, were well known this close to Furyondy.
With that dangerous grace, the criminal stalked across the floor and stopped before a table. Words were exchanged and Arithon silently cursed that he could not hear them; the end result was clear, however, as the three men, veteran warriors all, rose to their feet, anger on their faces and hands on their swords. It was over before they even knew it.
The first lunged forward, a knife in his hand, but had barely moved when Eldacar’s metallic hand crushed his throat in a lightning quick movement; the dying man fell with a startled gasp even as the fallen monk flowed into another fighting stance, the deadly motions so beautiful that it was nearly heartbreaking. Swords sprang free but Eldacar seemed unconcerned. One of the swordsmen swung his weapon in a wide decapitating arc but the monk’s metallic hand was faster, darting up to intercept the blade with a loud ring of metal.
The blade snapped cleanly off.
Laughing, the monk sprang forward once more, his hand punching through the man’s breastplate as if it were not even there and exploding out the other side. Blood running down the silvered arm, Eldacar turned his insane eyes to the third man and smiled a terrible smile that promised death.
And then, his hands burst into flame.
Wreathed in fire, they were a blur of motion, too fast for even Arithon to see, as Eldacar struck his opponent in a rapid flurry of blows that shattered armor, crushed bone, and pierced flesh. What was left of the man struck the floor in a lifeless lump but the mad monk kept up his attack. Blow after blow struck the corpse, until his fists pounded upon the floor. Only then did he stop. From where he sat, Arithon saw the mad monk stand and brush chunks of torn flesh from his metallic hands before taking the table recently vacated by the three. His face a mask of serene unconcern, he looked around for the nearest tavern maid to take his order.
Unsurprisingly, there were none and the Masterbard of Oerth realized with no small amount of concern that he was the only other person in the tavern. The rest had fled into the night, abandoning the roadside tavern without hesitation. A tactic that, in the face of a clearly insane man who could (and would) kill with his bare hands, Arithon wished he had followed as well. As the monk realized that everyone had fled, anger darkened his face. I’m dead, Arithon thought to himself.
Instead, Eldacar helped himself to an abandoned plate of food. As he chewed, he glanced at Arithon. His voice, when he spoke, did not sound mad at all.
“Do you play?” he asked, gesturing with the wooden fork at the instrument in Arithorn’s hand. Without hesitation, the Masterbard hefted it and began to play.
His selection was completely random as it always was and he found himself playing the Thriceborn’s Call. It was a nonsensical song, three-quarters farce but with a subtle theme of hope and faith underlying the entire piece. He had never met the composer but was greatly impressed by it nonetheless. True, there were parts that could use refinement, and some of the actual word selection was odd, but the overall effect was quite good. And coming from the Masterbard of Oerth, that was a rare compliment indeed.
As he played and sang, his eyes never wavered from the monk before him and his curiousity began to grow. It was his greatest failing and had gotten him into so much trouble before – what other human was foolish enough to consume a golden apple from a gloorin kordof or get involved in a game of riddles with a pit fiend over a silly ring? Yet it was, in a strange way, also his greatest strength for what was a bard if not a true seeker of knowedge? The song came to a close and Arithon spoke without thinking.
“Was killing them necessary?” he asked, glancing at the three still bodies. The mad monk looked up from his meal and frowned but the madness did not come again.
“I defended myself,” he replied calmly and, in a strange way, that was true: he had not attacked first.
“But you provoked them,” Arithon insisted. A part of him was screaming: shut up, you fool! Sometimes, quite a lot of times actually, he wished he could listen to that part more often.
“Did I?” The man’s face was completely guileless, innocent, but Arithon could see the wild madness lurking there, threatening to resurface. The Masterbard’s eyes flickered to the living metal that encased the man’s arms and something of his thoughts must have been in his face. “You know who I am.” It was not a question but Arithon nodded anyway.
“Eldacar, son of Sideric.” A faraway look came into the monk’s eyes as he smiled. It was completely devoid of all emotion.
“I’m looking for someone…” He stared at the wall. The west wall, Arithon realized.
“Cyrus, son of Foote,” the Masterbard supplied, his tongue, as usual, moving half a heartbeat before his brain.
With a roar, Eldacar came to his feet, the metallic hands once more bursting into flames. He covered the distance between them in two steps, a flowing jump that carried him farther than a half-dozen steps would carry Arithon. One hand smashed completely through the thick wall above the Masterbard’s head, sending dozens of small splinters into the air, while the other was frozen in place, ready to crush Arithon’s head with a single mighty blow.
“You know where he is?” the monk rasped, his voice hollow and dead. Fear thudded through Arithon, fear unlike any he had felt in many years. He nodded ever so slightly. “Where?”<br> “He fought in the north, along Iuz’s border, some weeks ago but his Company of Free Swords sold their allegiance to the Master of the Vale.” Sweat trickled down Arithon’s back and his eyes could not leave the dancing flame that swirled around the monk’s fist.
“Free Swords?” Eldacar sounded confused.
“Men call them that,” Arithon replied. Why should he care? But his curse forced to natter on. “They called themselves the Company of Free Men but few trust them now. Not since they went into the Vale.”<br> “What Vale?” the mad monk asked, his voice still dead. “The Valley of the Mage,” Arithon supplied. “West of Bissel.” A cruel smile touched the monk’s lips then and he turned to the door, the flames encircling his hands dying. He started for the door, hesitating only once he reached. Glancing back, his face was once more the serene mask it had been earlier. He spoke softly, his words polite.
“Thank you for the song, bard. You play masterfully.” He dug into a small pouch and produced a coin, tossing it across the tavern hall. The coin hit the floor and rolled to a stop before Arithon’s foot.
And then, Eldacar, son of Sideric, was gone.
The gold coin stayed where it lay, glittering in the flickering torchlight.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Feb 18, 2005 15:17:37 GMT -6
The torchlight flickered, casting dark shadows as the man wrote. His hand was neat and precise, with flowing words that flowed perfectly into one another. Had another been present to observe, it would have seemed that he was copying down the words of another, so little did he look at the parchment before him. As he wrote, his mind drifted – this was not a new exercise for him.
His pen paused and he studied the words. Were they enough? He fingered the hilt of his blade, felt the reassuring leather-wrapped handle. The curse touched him once more and he began writing again.
I trained with Ghaerig under Lewwon Cantorsson, Master at Arms of Orrin Keep. Ghaerig was at the time better than I, but the sword was not my only calling. The Spark had shown itself in me, and Master Jhaerin’s lessons rang in my ears, resonating through my mind. I trained with the sword, seeking to use the disciplines of the blade to aid in wielding magic.
Strangely enough, it seemed to work. I don’t know how, but it seems I’ve found a way to weave magic into the sword forms. It’s easy enough for me… for a few years I hired myself out as a sellsword, accepting money for jobs ranging from simple caravan guard to exterminator of kobold tribes. In every land I've visited, I've met wizards who marvelled at my use of magic. Some dubbed me sorcerer, but those wise in the ways of sorcery know the difference.
Again his pen bade him pause, and he looked around the room. Two men sat in a quiet corner playing at stones, faces pinched in concentration. The man with the crooked nose would lose to the old man, and they would play again. Again, Crooked-nose would lose, but he would not erupt into violence. They would shake hands, have one more round, and retire. Ten years had passed since the old man had lost, and another ten would pass before he did so again. But for them, the common room was empty.
The fire cracked to his left. Taking a sip of chilled white wine, he held his glass there for a time, observing the dance of flames in his glass. The fire brought back the visions – visions of another fire, raging through a great city. Visions of fire thrown through the air, sounds of screaming, shouting, the clash of war – a stark contrast to the empty peace of the tavern. He set his glass down and his pen began to move across the parchment again.
I've found a new Way of Magic. I know, from the Sight that I have been granted, that I must pass it on, but the right apprentice has not yet presented itself. I cannot see who it will be, for my Sight never reveals my own future.
But at times, it can be disturbing. I met a sorceress, or wizard (I know not which, and as you shall see it is… inconsequential) once. Her name was as equally unimportant for I knew upon meeting her that she would perish by fire and water alike, and that she would be humbled before her demise. This was after I had met the Magister Prime – but more on that later.[/i]
He remembered Canon Hazen, the look of surprise mixed with suspicion as the words came from him unbidden, and then wonder, and then resolve. The Curse bade him reveal the hour of his death, and so he did. He remembered Else Carden, the midwife, as he told her of the child she would deliver. She was incredulous at first, so he told her of the buckle that would break on the morrow on her midwife's pack, and how it wouldn't be necessary because the child she would deliver that day would be stillborn. The next day she returned, sobbing. He had no words to comfort her.
There are more serious matters to attend to, now. I wish this could be over-stated, but it cannot be. The rushing tide is upon us, and we must stand as resolute as the bastion of granite lest we fall. This is my Calling. This is my Charge.[/i]
He frowned at the words. They sounded too much like those belonging to a madman, an apocalyptic prophet who spent too much time in the company of the divine. A chuckle threatened to explode from him then for what was he, if not a mad prophet?
I know not from whence it comes, but it started when I met Nival Thriceborn, the Once-Elven who would become the Magister Prime.
Know ye, Reader, that I ramble on. But so be it. This is my Journal, and no more honest history of the time before the Scion will you read.
Never shall I read my own fate in the patterns of the future – nothing that affects me directly is revealed to my Sight. However, I simply… know things. Sometimes I see visions. Sometimes I have dreams. Most of the time, I will simply be aware of things to come in ways that others aren't – almost as if I'd read it in a manuscript, such as The Grand History of the Pomarj or somesuch.
But no manuscript has been written of the things I've seen. I simply know what will be, and I get a sense of how things will affect the world at large when these revelations strike. It's humbling. I did not desire this knowledge, yet it came to me unbidden. The Once-Elven… I cannot explain it. Like myself, he is peerless, but his understanding of the nature of magic far outstrips my own, as does the sheer power at his command. He will be numbered among the greatest users of magic on Oerth, of that I'm certain. Yet, whether he lives or dies matters not. I don't know how I know this, but I'm certain of it.
The blood of the Magister Prime will deliver us from annihilation, else all are doomed.[/i]
He shuddered, sipped, and paused. Two children, a girl not yet twelve and a boy several years her junior, raced down the stairs that led to the inn upstairs, angrily pursued by an old woman he knew to be the Cook. He Knew them at a glance and, not for the first time, wished that he did not. The girl, daughter of a local whore, would one day be hailed as a heroine and be a great leader of men. The cook would die of strangulation three days hence. And the boy had a dark destiny, for he would betray the whore's daughter to her death. Their laughter belied their fates. They passed from the common room and he lifted his pen once more.
After meeting Nival Once-Elven and his Company of Free Men, the knowledge began to come unbidden. I’ve witnessed many things, and I know what is coming...
The Once-Elven will meet a man who will be one of the greatest war captains ever to walk the face of Oerth – the past lives within him. He will lead the Magister to the Doom that awaits him. Whether he lives or dies, I do not know. His other companion, the elf, will be named by his kin Orcrist – a double-edge blade. There is another with him, one long lost... his father. They will meet, and before the end, soft tears will mingle with blood in new fallen snow.
I've seen an angel of the Light, caught as we of the Balance all are – though she serves the greater Good – between Order and Chaos, Good and Evil. I know not what she choses, only that the choice will determine the manner in which Oerth is Broken.[/i]
A sigh escaped his lips. He remembered her – she had been in the company of the Magister. Shaking his head, his pen moved again.
I've seen one who was once of the Light pass into Darkness, of a will not his own. He shall not be redeemed, and if he lives we are doomed – though should he die, Oerth itself will be Broken. He is a blade of Darkness recast in flesh, though the flesh itself knows not. I know that that which is broken and must be forged anew, must not be.
When I visited the funeral of my father, Vhays – this was the first time that my Sight manifested itself for what it was. I saw Ghaerig, healthy but with suffering eyes. His sword barred that path of someone I could not see…[/i]
Once more, he paused and frowned at his words: they were rambling, unfocused. He could feel the Call building within him, knew it would summon him elsewhere and sighed, setting pen to paper once more.
For he knew what was coming.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Oct 25, 2007 19:19:37 GMT -6
I guess I should include some sort of synopsis for the things that have happened. Don't expect an abundance of prose ... Adventure One: Into the Maelstrom Scene One: The Fall of Fortress Arcanis- 8 Wealsun, CY 593.
- We resume with the Company aboard a river skiff as it races down the river, away from the Fortress. Cue flashback...
- Several hours earlier, Gilthoron Orcrist is walking the ramparts of the Fortress when he sees several distant shapes. To his horror, he realizes that they are dragons!
- Kheldane Dragonslayer emerges from where he has been sleeping, with a great hue and cry.
- With the 5 dragons are two Githyanki Planar Raiders, and the two skyships unleash broadsides with explosive ballista bolts.
- Much damage and havoc is wrought, with the Company quickly realizing that they are outclassed.
- Nival Thriceborn secures his newborn son, Galen, while his young apprentice, Tarrant attempts to retrieve the magister's spellbook - but is unable to do so due to the githyanki bombardment.
- Aislyn Willowblade is slain by a red dragon.
- Sir Karick witnesses Kheldane smite a red and take gruesome blows in return; though the mighty Kheldane falls, a silver dragon streaks from the sky to clutch the falling warrior.
- The Company retreat to a ground-level dock as the overwhelming force smashes the defenses.
- They race down the river, frustrated at the loss and unsure why they have been attacked...
Scene Two: A Fated Meeting- 10 Wealsun, CY 593.
- The Company, fatigued and frustrated, have abandoned their skiff as the githyanki yet pursue them.
- Forced to take shelter in a swampy area, they are surprised to discover the shattered remnants of a millenia-old city, now broken.
- Sensing someone's eyes upon him, Cyrus Wingfoot sees his hated enemy, Eldacar Ironskin, and rushes to face him. To the rest of the Company, the monk simply vanishes.
- Moments later, githyanki attack!
- Even as the Company put the githyanki to the sword, Cyrus faces his hated foe in a battle of martial prowess. Though Cyrus slays Eldacar, he is horrified to see the unusual metallic coloring creep onto his own skin. His vision fades...
- As the battle goes ill for the githyanki, Sir Gabriel Nichodemus summons his pegasus warmount and carries the battle to the nearby Githyanki Brig, slaying the "pilot" with a single mighty blow. The Brig topples...
- As the Company attempts to recover, Celebdraug makes an appearance along with several dozen elven rangers. They are here to take the Company before the Elf Queen, Iolandil...
- Unwilling to spill allied blood, the Company stands down...
Scene Three: A Dream to Some...- 13 Wealsun, CY 593.
- The going is tough as the githyanki seem intent on finding and capturing the Company.
- Orolonwe and Miyatar join the band, having been "rescued" near the shattered lake castle.
- A half-dragon by the name of Jiro Horii is among the elven rangers, and appears to have an interest in the Company, though he does not reveal why.
- During the night, Sir Karick dreams of flying through the sky and entering a dark cavern to discover the corpse of Kheldane. A cry of grief that is, at once, Karick's and not his wakes the Knight.
- Jiro notices that the Knight's eyes have become violet...
- Gabriel too has a nocturnal visitation, though it is by an Aspect of Mayaheine, the Shield-Maiden whom he follows.
- To her, he reveals that he is from the future, dispatched to this time for a task. She orders him to obey the elves in all things, and he wakes...
Scene Four: Death from Above...- 16 Wealsun, CY 593.
- Celebdraug's band and the Company draw closer to their destination: a teleportation circle that will take them to Caras Enstahd.
- Abruptly, the githyanki begin materializing around them, and another Brig lumbers out of the clouds.
- The Company, bereft of their mightier equipment, still throw down their foes with abandon.
- This time, it is Gilthoron who takes to the air aboard his hippogriff animal companion, and his wicked accuracy causes the "captain" of the brig to retreat lest he be slain.
- Seeing githwarriors rushing toward the teleportation circle, the Company gives chase...
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Post by Rigil Kent on Oct 27, 2007 13:47:25 GMT -6
Scene Five: The Heart of Elven Dominion- 16 Wealsun, CY 593.
- As the Company race up the narrow mountain pass toward the teleportation circle, they observe four half-dragon githyanki materialize behind the beleaguered elven defenders and begin putting the overmatched elves to the sword.
- Drawing upon his arcane might, the Once-Elven hastes the Company, and they surge forward to smite their foes.
- For Gabriel, it goes ill, as he is unaccustomed to the githyanki greatsword he has acquired.
- Of the four githyanki, two are slain, one is dismissed, and a fourth escaped through the circle.
- The circle leads the Company to Caras Enstahd, where they find the githyanki has slain several elves before "disappearing". To Nival's surprise, the circle collapses entirely.
- The Company - sans Jiro - are taken to a comfortable cell where they await judgment.
- Taken before the elven queen, Iolandil, they find her in a killing mood, but Princess Aradil steps forth and claims that the Company was acting upon her behalf.
- Returned to their cell, the Company are visited by the princess who tasks to seek out an errant spy of hers in return for her assistance in clearing their names. This spy is none other than Gilwe, son of Glorthoron.
- With no other options, they agree.
Scene Six: Preparing for War- 17 Wealsun, CY 593.
- From the cell, the Company splits up so as to gear up for their coming quest.
- Gilthoron goes to his wife, Undomiel, whom he convinces of his innocence. She is not entirely happy with his deception, but he is convinced that she yet loves him.
- He discovers, to his sadness, that his son Gilrond was among Celebdraug's band who did not make it through the circle before it collapsed.
- Nival encounters a polite and almost friendly, Marance of Talendar, whom the Thriceborn knows as "Shiner."
- Marance returns the Once-Elven's spellbook, retrieved from the destruction of Fortress Arcanis, and claims that it is repayment of a debt.
- They depart, not as friends, but with wary respect, and Nival wonders what his old enemy's angle is now.
- Gabriel, Jiro and Karick tour the city, encountering Karick's old mentor, the legenday Sir Talamar (whom Gabriel knows will perish within the year at the siege of Chendl). Talamar is accompanied by Cailas, Karick's surviving son, and both are ill-disposed toward the knight for the taint upon his reputation. The matter is cleared up somewhat, and Talamar, ignorant of the antipathy Cailas has toward his father, urges the young man to accompany the knight.
- During this conversation, Jiro sees his mother in her "Lady Athsil" elven guise and attends her. She is here for a status report on his task, and he tells her what he has learned before mentioning the half-dragon githyanki. She then mentions a legend concerning a binding deal between Gith, the progenitor of the githyanki species, and the first Red Dragon. She instructs him to stay with the Company.
- Gabriel encounters two women at a Corellon shrine to the sun, a beautiful elven maid named Thoronwen (whom he learns is Gilthoron's daughter) and a half-elven woman named Alahandra. To his surprise, the latter unfurls angelic wings and takes to the sky. Thoronwen asks that he keep this from the husband of her mother.
- That evening, the Company have a meal at Gilthoron's home where Princess Aradil attends to present them with a magical compass that will allow them to track Gilwe. They leave upon the morrow...
Scene Seven: Voyage of the Golden Dolphin- 18 Wealsun, CY 593 to 13 Reaping, CY 593.
- Under cover of darkness, the Company departs Caras Enstahd aboard an elven wingship under the command of Valanthe, a half-elf with aquatic elven blood.
- For six days, they travel down the Handmaiden River, before reaching the Jewel River on 23 Wealsun.
28 Wealsun, CY 593.Knowing what was to come, Owein, son of Lluth, called the Ill-Fated by too many of his royal subjects, felt his pulse quicken with anticipation and clasped his hands together. He had dreaded this hour for many days now and had sought to find a way to push it back but it had finally arrived as he feared. A man banished by Owein's decree was returning to Hochoch. And there was nothing that could be done about it. It was something of a subtle challenge that the Gran March appointed Bodwell, son of Bodwin, as the spokesman for their desires. Months had passed since Owein had ordered the Knights of the Watch from Gyruff, months in which he had felt confident that no attempt would be made to make war. But his nephew, the Lord Sciath, was in Sterich, and Bodwell had grown bold. When word reached Owein that the Gran March wished to discuss a settlement, to arrange an accord between the two nations regarding their current disagreements, he had gladly agreed to hold the meeting here in Hochoch but was now beginning to regret the decision. Too many within the city, he grudgingly admitted to himself, saw the knights of the Gran March as liberators and wished to see them as overlords. It was a thing that Wulfric had pointed out mere weeks after Owein had issued the decree banishing the Watch from Gyruff borders; the son of his half-brother had urged him to reconsider, to ban only Bodwell. But Owein had not listened. The distant sound of metal ringing on metal warned him that Bodwell approached and Owein glanced at his nephew's wife. Ffiona Ebontress held herself straight and calm, with no hint of the nervous concern she had to be feeling. Already recovered from the difficult birthing of Lord Wulfric's son, she seemed older than her bare score of years. Her straight black hair, so unique here in Gyruff, fell to her waist, and she wore a green dress. A dress, Owein realized with a sad smile, that clearly bore Wulfric's coat-of-arms upon it. With a creak of old hinges, the door to the hall opened, revealing two of his Griffin Guards. One of them, the oldest of the two spoke, his voice ringing out ceremonially. “His Lordship, the Resolute Griffon, Bodwell, son of Bodwin, Defender of the March.” Resolute Griffon indeed, Owein thought darkly to himself as the two guards stepped aside. Bodwell strode forward, his pace perfectly measured and every line of his body screaming triumph. His plate-and-mail gleamed brightly and his hair, raven-black - so like Ffiona's or Wulfric's - was cut short. The great scar that marred the left side of his face ruined his once handsome features and lent him a sinister air, an air that he cultivated with his cold smile. He stopped before the table and bowed, his one good eye meeting those of Owein with the confidence of a man assured of total victory. The calm vanished when he took in Ffiona and her choice of dress and was momentarily replaced by a simmering rage that was barely held in check. Behind him, the two guards waited for Owein's signal before exiting the hall and closing the door. “We welcome you to our halls, Sir Bodwell,” Owein began, his voice even and flat. “But know that you are welcome only as the representative of the March, for whom we owe much.” Bodwell's smile returned, colder than ever. “This hall and everything it represents,” the knight said coldly, his gaze taking in Ffiona. Owein felt an unaccountable sense of fear as Bodwell continued. “Will be mine.” The knight struck without further warning, drawing and throwing a dagger in a single, fluid motion that was impossibly fast. It struck Owein in the upper shoulder and, as he opened his mouth to scream for aid, he felt fire race through his veins at once. Poison!It worked quickly. At once, he felt his limbs numb and struggled - how he struggled! - to call out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark-featured man behind Ffiona, holding a dagger to her throat; how the man got there so quickly he could not comprehend. Anger came quickly but would not wash away the living flame that seemed to pound through him. His breath began to come in short gasps. “Take word to the camp,” Bodwell was instructing the newcomer. “Tell them I am taken by treachery, that the brenin thinks to mount my head upon the wall.” His companion smiled remorselessly. “Their honor will not allow that,” the man commented with approval, not noting the frown Bodwell gave him. “I will make it believable. What of him?” His eyes were locked on Owein and there was a…hunger there that was terrifying. “Let him die. He wronged me and now I am avenged.” Bodwell's voice was inhuman. “But I'm so hungry…” the other man whined. “You can feed later, Deskryn. In fact…” The Knight of the Watch hesitated, glancing at the closed doorway with a frown. “There are two guards there. Be quick about it.” A tone of disapproval was strong in his words. “And this one?” The dark man gestured to Ffiona, still held tightly to him. Trickles of blood dripped down her throat. “She's mine,” Bodwell replied, his tone bleak. “To the victor go the spoils, my Lady Sciath, and your husband has lost.” He reached for her, his intentions writ in his face. “Long have I desired this moment,” he whispered as his gauntleted hand covered her mouth. With a hideous chuckle, the knife-wielding vanished in a cloud of vapor. Heartbeats later, Owein could hear the thump of two bodies hitting the floor outside the hall. His eyesight began to dim and, for that, he was thankful, but his hearing remained. Ffiona Ebontress began to scream. Her screams had died when he heard the distant battle horns sound and his last sight was that of the sun as it climbed into the sky. [/img][/td] [td]His Lordship, the Resolute Griffon, Bodwell, son of Bodwin, Defender of the March (opp:Wulfric)[/td] [/tr] [/table]
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Post by Rigil Kent on Nov 3, 2007 0:35:35 GMT -6
[/img][/td] [td] www.drlgraphics.com/images/Thumbnail Pics/D&D-Timmy.jpg[/img][/td] [td] www.drlgraphics.com/images/Thumbnail Pics/D&D-Malevoy.jpg[/img][/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Wulfric, Lord Sciath[/td] [td]Sir Tymragh ("Timmy"), Knight of Gyruff[/td] [td]Sir Malevoy, Sorceror-Knight of Gyruff[/td] [/tr] [/table] 2 Richfest, CY 593. The sun was high in the mid-morning sun when Conor ap Douglin entered Istivin. He was on foot, three horses having died to bring him this far into Sterich, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest with each step he took. Hunger gnawed at his belly and, try as he might, he could not recall when last he slept. His tabard, once spotless and proudly bearing the seal of Gyruff's Griffin Guards, was torn and ragged, stained with hard travel and harder use. As he staggered toward the high walls of Istivin on clumsy feet, Conor felt the eyes of many upon him and found that he could not muster the energy to care. His mind reeling with exhaustion, he stood at the gates of the walled city at stared at the standards that flew from the keep. Men called out to him but he did not respond so focused was he upon the Angry Wolf banner that snapped in the strong wind. The standard that he had traveled so far to see: a wolf rampant, bearing a ducal crown, upon a field of green. How long he stared he could not say. Two men came to stand at his side and finally drew his attention away from the keep. One was rail-thin and taller than he by a hand with sharp features and cold eyes, and the other...the other was not entirely human. Of a height with his companion, he was an axe-handle wide at the shoulders and had the light greenish tint to his skin that spoke of orcish ancestry. Two more disparate men one could not expect to travel together yet Conor recognized them at once. Sir Malavoiy, the knight-sorceror, and Sir Tymragh, the half-orc axeman; both were liege-bound to the man he sought and the relief that rushed through Conor was so intense his knees buckled. Sir Tymragh grabbed his arm, steadied him, as Sir Malavoiy spoke. “You are far from home, Conor ap Douglin,” he said, his eyes taking in the younger man's bedraggled appearance. “And you bear the countenance of one who has traveled hard. Have you come with news?” “My lord,” Conor whispered through a parched throat, his voice raspy and harsh. “I bear missives for Lord Sciath.” The sorceror nodded as if he expected this response. “Then give them over and I shall take them to him.” “I cannot,” Conor replied without hesitation, his voice firming. “An oath I swore to my captain binds me: into Lord Sciath's hand alone.” As he spoke Conor realized that the half-orc had not yet removed his grip. Sir Malevoiy studied him quietly, eyes betraying nothing, and Conor wondered if he could win free of the two should circumstances require it. Doubt filled him. “Then we shall see that you fulfill your oath, Sir Conor.” With a smile, the sorceror-knight glanced at his companion. “I'll see him to Wulfric, Tymragh." The massive half-breed released his crushing grip and returned the smile with a broad one of his own before walking away; not for the first time, Conor wondered at the sort of man who would have a half-orc in his service and hoped his hard march was not in vain. As Sir Malavoiy led him into Istivin proper, Conor found himself wishing that the older man would hurry yet could not make himself walk any faster. His dulled senses took in sights and sounds as they walked that his mind, trapped in a fog of exhaustion, did not even register. The heads of six drow on pikes outside the keep, days old yet still without stench. A great black stain on cobblestone that was too dark to be paint or blood. The smell of strong ale that could only come from a great party. Distant singing that was joyous and celebratory, so at odds with the news he bore. The guards at the gates to the keep nodded to Sir Malavoiy, respect so clearly in their features that, even in his current state, Conor noticed it. So too it was with the servants within the keep itself, many of whom bowed deeply as they passed them, and Conor felt the first inklings of hope resurface. Mayhap Father was correct about this Lord Wulfric after all, he mused, though the thought quickly turned black at memories of his father. A booming laugh snapped his attention back to the present and he found himself gripping the hilt of his sword, on the verge of drawing it. Sir Malavoiy's eyes were upon him and Conor felt his face flush with embarrassment. He eased his grip on the sword but did not completely release it. The road had been long and perilous, and he had not survived without caution. Adrenalin pushed away the exhaustion that seemed to seep through every pore in his body and, though he knew he would regret it later, Conor silently gave thanks to the laughing man for the moments of clarity he had provided. For what he was about to do, he would need them... Four guards stood at the entranceway to the great hall, two bearing the livery of Sterich and two wearing the Angry Wolf. All four studied their approach with caution in their eyes and, to a man, they visibly relaxed at Sir Malavoiy's discreet gesture, a gesture, Conor supposed, he was not meant to see. Having spent much time in the company of Sterich soldiers, it was instructive; Sterich men trust the worthy, the old saying went, which was to say not at all. Within the great hall were four people and Conor recognized one of them at once. Marchioness Resbin Dren Emondav was unmistakable, a thick woman bigger than many men but bearing not an ounce of fat on her, had an exotic allure about her despite her advancing age. She was not a beautiful woman by any stretch of the imagination but she was a handsome one. The man standing behind her bearing her crest had to be Terpin, the Lord Captain-Commander of Sterich, who had won great renown killing giants. The smallest of the four was barely into his teens and was trying to remain invisible to the attention of the other three with varying results; that he bore the Angry Bear upon his Furyondian-style tabard made him a squire. And that made the last of the four Lord Sciath himself. An immense man, Lord Wulfric was as wide as the half-orc if not as tall and was thick with muscle. His black hair was uncommon for a man of the Sheldomar but his features were unmistakably Gyric. His eyes were filled with mirth as he noticed Conor's entrance and, as he spoke, the young man realized this was the laughing man. “What's this, then?” he asked, smile creasing the well-trimmed beard he wore. “Mal?” “A messenger, my lord,” Sir Malevoiy replied. As the sorceror-knight spoke, Conor could feel his eyes watching him and, had he been anywhere else at any other time, he would have been amused; Sir Malevoiy thought him an assassin! “Your grace,” Conor spoke, hand fumbling at the sealed bag he carried. Lady Resbin's eyes narrowed at his use of the honorific reserved for the highest of ranks of nobility and Conor nearly cursed himself at the gaffe. He was too tired, too slow for this. He offered the bag and felt a weight lift off of his shoulders as Lord Wulfric accepted the bag. I did it, Father.“Mal, get him a chair and some wine,” Lord Wulfric said as he opened the bag and extracted the sealed scrolls. He frowned at the seal of the largest - the seal that Conor knew so well - and tore it open. As he read the missive, Lord Wulfric's face paled. The amusement that had been there moments ago fled, quickly replaced by a cold rage that made him terrible to behold. Conor felt his stomach lurch as the man's face tightened and could sense Sir Malavoiy's sudden tensing. Marchioness Resbin noticed as well and looked at the larger man with surprising concern. “Are you unwell, Lord Wulfric?” she asked, her tone betraying her curiosity at the missive's contents. “Unwell?” Lord Wulfric repeated, his voice flat, hard, and utterly without human emotion. He looked up, meeting her eyes, and she took an involuntary step backward at the fury she saw there. “No, your grace. I am not well at all.” The low rumble of his voice was at odds with the rage on his face. “I have not been angry since I came to Sterich until this very moment.” He looked at Conor. “You know what this says?” Conor nodded. “Sir Duncan made me commit it to memory, your grace.” His face must have betrayed something for the frown on Lord Wulfric's face deepened even more. “He is dead then?” “Aye, your grace. He remained behind to delay the Enemy. Four of us set out from Hochoch. Two were lost in the first day, the third fell the second day so that I could win free.” Thunder pounded in Conor's head, memories of screams and falling arrows. “Their loss shall not be in vain,” Lord Wulfric promised and, in that moment, Conor believed him with every fiber of his being. Angry eyes jumped to Sir Malavoiy. “I want the men ready to march within the hour. We make for Gyruff.” “Wait.” Lady Resbin's voice stopped the sorceror's retreat and drew Wulfric's burning gaze. “I know not of what this missive speaks, my lord Wulfric, but would offer Sterich's aid.” “It speaks of war, your grace.” His voice was colder than Iuz's heart as he spoke. “The Gran March has mobilized against Gyruff,” Lord Wulfric nearly snarled, quivering in anger. “Hochoch is taken, the brenin slain, and I mean to throw these dogs back to Hookhill!” “Then you will need our aid. Our troops will fight alongside you.” Beside her, Captain-Commander Terpin stirred, clearly uncomfortable, but the marchioness ignored him as Lord Wulfric shook his head. “Sterich troops are unnecessary, your grace. We of Gyruff will fight our own battles.” At his words, Conor felt an unexpected surge of pride: Father was right about him. This is a man worth serving. “You march to war but not to victory,” Lady Resbin retorted, her own eyes flashing. “How many men did you bring, Lord Wulfric? Fifty? A hundred? You cannot win through with so few.” “More will come. And we are not so few as you think.” The heavyset woman snapped her fingers at him, smiling a smile that held no humor. “That more will march under you banner I do not doubt, Lord Wulfric, but my offer stands.” She paused for a moment, then spoke as he drew breath to respond. “You have faced giants, and assassins, and undead abominations for Sterich. Were it not for you, I would be dead thrice over this day and I would repay this debt. I offer an alliance between Sterich and you, Lord Wulfric, a pledge of loyalty and allegiance.” Captain-Commander Terpin's strangled gasp drew her attention and she looked at him sharply. “What is it, Terpin?” she demanded coldly. “My lady,” the grizzled veteran spoke, his raspy voice as hard as he was. “Allying yourself with Lord Wulfric, and I mean no disrespect, my lord, would break your oath to King Kimbertos.” “And where was Keoland when our need was great?” Lady Resbin's eyes flashed and her strange accent grew. “Where was Keoland when my husband fell? Where was Keoland when the giants came again? Where was Keoland...” Her words trailed off as she recovered her poise. “If Keoland cannot defend us, we shall look to defending ourselves. What say you, my lord?” She offered her hand to him in the manner of her native country. Lord Wulfric was silent for long heartbeats as he studied her outstretched hand. When he spoke, much of the anger in his face was still there but his voice was tightly controlled and thoughtful. “I would not risk putting your lands at odds with Keoland, your grace. Though your offer is one I would greatly love to accept, I cannot endanger you.” “I have walked the streets of Niole Dra,” Lady Resbin declared suddenly as Conor's eyes danced between the two. “I have heard how Sterich and Gyruff are spoken of in the councils of the king there. We are the provisional territories, income for the crown's purse and nothing more.” Her voice heated as she spoke. “I have dined with the King and sat among the Council of the Land; they speak of defending our borders from raids and yet do nothing! We are better off standing with you, my lord, than with the King! Ten years Gyruff suffered under giant tyranny and you broke them in half a year!" She laughed then, a short bark that revealed how close she was to emotional collapse. “I have ruled this nation in my husband's stead for nigh on four years. In that time, I have learned what is good for Sterich and what is not. You, my lord Sciath, are the future and I would pledge our aid to you!” After a long moment, Lord Wulfric nodded and accepted her hand. She smiled then, a real smile that brought a touch of beauty to her matronly face. Captain-Commander Terpin suddenly cleared his throat and, with their eyes upon him, spoke swiftly. “Your grace, my men will not follow a Gyric duke into battle.” His face was emotionless, betraying none of the anxiety that he felt. To Conor, his words made sense. Like Gyruff, Sterich had been overwhelmed by outsiders who had taken advantage of the giant invasion to stake claims to lands that did not rightfully belong to them. Keoish nobles and landgrabbers had swallowed up many estates here in Sterich much in the same manner that the Gran March knights had done in his native land. As the marchioness glared at her captain-commander and Lord Wulfric glanced at the exit, Malavoiy spoke. “Forgive me, your grace,' the sorceror-knight interrupted, his voice as smooth as honey. “Would it serve Sterich honor if Lord Wulfric held a Sterich title?” His lord frowned at the man who ignored him completely as only an old friend could. Marchioness Resbin glanced at her Captain-Commander. “It has been long,” Terpin rumbled, stroking his beard in thought. 'Since we had a worthy High Marshal...” He glanced at Lady Resbin who smiled once more at Lord Wulfric. “Then it shall be so. Will you accept this honor, your grace?" Her use of the honorific said everything: she knew who would rule in Gyruff after the war was won. “I shall,” Wulfric replied, his voice still cold. He swung his attention to the captain-commander. “How long until your troops are ready to march?” “I can have five hundred men ready to march by dawn without endangering Istivin. Lady Velthundle commands fifty knight-wizards and will need to be informed.” Lord Wulfric nodded, mentally counting numbers. “Then do so. Malevoiy, inform the captains. I want our outriders on the road by noon. At dawn, we march to Hochoch. And war.” He bowed low before Marchioness Resbin and turned from the room, Conor and the silent squire following him slowly. Behind them, Terpin's voice rang out. “Guards! Knights! Squires! Prepare for battle!” War was coming.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Nov 12, 2007 12:36:38 GMT -6
6 Reaping, CY 593.
“War has come!”
The declaration filled the council chambers with an impending sense of doom and the man who was not Baron Anladon nodded as if deep in thought. The Sterich ambassador had a flair for the dramatic that was lost on no one within the Court of the Land, especially the King, who observed with a cool dispassion. Two weeks gone since the beginning of hostilities between the Gran March and Gyruff and only now did they seek adjudication.
Or, more accurately, some of them did so. The ambassador had been sent by the Marchioness to appease the less aggressive members of her court and had not expected to stand before the Council of Niole Dra. He had been turned away too many times in the past to expect anything else and, though it had taken some doing, the man who was not Baron Anladon had arranged it.
It suited his purposes.
The ambassador, a man of middle years who went by the name of Algorthas and was reputed to be something of a sage and seer, spoke well, his words passionate and articulate. His arguments for Keoish intervention into the unexpected invasion of Geoff - Gyruff, the man who was not Baron Anladon reminded himself - were both clever and inventive. Yes, the Gran March was acting without authorization from the Throne of the Lion and the charter that established the March specifically forbade such actions, and yes, Gyruff was technically a vassal state to Keoland and that held certain obligations owed it by the Crown but the man who was not Baron Anladon had little doubt that the arguments would fall on deaf ears.
He had, after all, a sense of these things.
As Algorthas winded down, the man who was not Baron Anladon wondered about the method he should use to prevent the intervention. Glancing over the members of the Court present, he let his mind wander. He had selected Anladon for that very purpose; no one would think it remiss should someone of his apparent age become distracted or forget a key point.
Though the Court ostensibly had over a hundred members, only a handful truly mattered and it was to these men he bent his mind. Many would be easy to sway: most of the Court had an overblown sense of duty to the Crown. Men such as Luschan VIII, the Duke of Gradsul, and Ignas Manz, the Count of Cryllor, held especially archaic ideals regarding the role the King played. That nearly all within the Council chambers held ambitions for the Crown itself made things even easier.
No, it was the lesser men that worried him the most. Men like the Duke of Dorlin. Unsettling rumors of incest had long plagued his house, especially after the years of disease and madness that had damaged their might and put him into power, but young Cedrian the Third was an ambitious lord who had worked hard to hold together his once great house's somewhat flagging fortunes. Many, including the young Duke himself, now saw him as a prime candidate to succeed King Kimbertos. Yes, Cedrian could be dangerous, given that he commanded a surprising amount of respect among the lesser nobles.
And then, the man who was not Baron Anladon realized the angle he would follow. He concealed the sudden cold smile that turned his features bleak and patiently waited for the opportunity to interrupt.
“And so,” Algorthas said, his passionate speech about liberty and duty finally coming to a close. “It is the duty of the Crown to step into this matter, to mete out punishment to the Knights of the Gran March who have led us down this black road.”
“Tell us, ambassador,” the man who was not Baron Anladon spoke up, his false voice cracking with apparent age and false wisdom. “Why should the Crown answer the call to subjects who have not acted as subjects?” Algorthas frowned as he replied and the man who was not Baron Anladon could sense his confusion for was not Lord Anladon, Baron of Axewood, known to be a friend of Sterich?
“My lord, the March of Sterich has ever been the most loyal of subjects to the Lion Throne.” Though he addressed the man who was not Baron Anladon, Algorthas' words were clearly meant for the King's ear.
“And yet, Sterich acted without regard to the duties invested in it by His Royal Highness when it marched to war under the banner of this Lord Sciath,” the man who was not Baron Anladon replied.
“Sterich forces march under their own banner, my lord.” Annoyance darkened Algorthas' voice.
“Under the command of this Lord Sciath,” pressured the man who was not Baron Anladon.
“But under their own banners.”
“A distinction without merit, I think. This is the same Lord Sciath who was newcome to Furyondy, yes?”
“It is my understanding that is so.” Now annoyance battled with confusion and the man who was not Baron Anladon smiled ever so slightly.
“Is it also your understanding that, had he not dueled with this Lord Bodwell, this 'Summer War' would not have broken out?”
“It is not in my nature to deal with 'what ifs', my lord.”
“So you concede the point.”
“I do no such-”
“Newcome to Gyruff,” the man who was not Baron Anladon interrupted, his voice clear. “And already wed to one of her most eligible daughters.” He paused again to allow the comment to sink in. Many here had sought the hand of Ffiona Ebontress and their pride was a powerful weapon. “Most impressive for a jumped-up robber knight,” he finally commented dryly.
“You slander him, my lord! His father-”
“We know all about his father, ambassador,” the man who was not Baron Anladon broke in once more, his voice hard. “And the circumstances that led to his…departure from Gyric lands. But we were not speaking of that treason.” The nods of several of the High Lords told him that his words struck true. The crimes of Lord Denewulf of Gyruff were well known.
“Again, you slander him, my lord, and were he here, I have little doubt he would take offense.” The anger in Algorthas' face and voice were quite visible and the confusion in his eyes even more so.
“But he is not here.” With another smile that was surprisingly grandfatherly, the man who was not Baron Anladon coughed slightly before continuing, a subtle reminder that he was an old man. “He is off fighting a war that would never have started if he had stayed in Furyondy. And is this not the same Wulfric who rode with the wizard Nival? The one called Thriceborn and Once-Elven?”
“It is my understanding that is so.” Caution was in the ambassador's voice for this was dangeorus ground.
“The same Nival who entered the Valley of the Mage and turned his coat there? Who sold his allegiance to the evil that rules the Vale?” Algorthas winced ever so slightly and, though he tried to conceal, several of the Lords had noticed; that had been a well-placed shot. The ambassador's words tumbled out before he could think.
“That has little to do with Lord Sciath.”
“Does it not?” The man who was not Baron Anladon paused for a long moment, his eyes guileless and clear. So like an elder statesman or a grandfather. “Curious, that,” he continued, drawing out the moment. “I was under the impression that you Sterich men judged others by the company they keep.” It was a common phrase in the March: “know a man by his deeds, judge him by his brothers.” Hurling it in Algorthas' face was tantamount to a thrown gauntlet.
The ambassador stood, fists clenched at his side, fuming and, for once in his life, at a loss for words. With a false smile, the man who was not Baron Anladon continued.
“But we were speaking of the Marchioness and her decision to swear an oath of allegiance to this Lord Sciath and foreswear the oaths of Sterich to the Lion Throne.”
“She did no such thing!” Algorthas nearly snarled, his frustration and impotent anger turning him purple.
“Did she not? It was my understanding that she appointed him High Marshal, a rank that places one in the direct line of succession to the March of Sterich.” Several of the High Lords blinked at that, and King Kimbertos frowned. For a brief heartbeat, the man who was not Baron Anladon felt a tremor of concern; had he erred in researching Sterich law?
“It is a provisional rank only,” the ambassador replied, his eyes narrowing. Sensing the discomfort in Algorthas eased the mind of the man who was not Baron Anladon; there had been no error in his words, only a fact none of them had considered before. He pressed on. It was almost time…
“So it is deception? That would explain why the Marchioness has sent you in her stead. To answer for the crime of oathbreaking.” Out of the corner of his eye, the man who was not Baron Anladon noticed more nods among the Lords of the Council.
“You twist my words.”
“Do I? They are your words, not mine.” The man who was not Baron Anladon paused, taking in the expressions of the men he was trying to sway. Yes, this was going quite well but men could only be pushed so far; tit was time to end this. “My lords of the Council, it occurs to me that Resbin Dren Emondav, Marchioness of Sterich, has no real argument for the intervention of Keoish forces into this…disagreement.” He paused as the Lords waited. Was it time? Yes... “Particularly in light of the fact that she has never sworn fealty to the Crown.”
His words clearly caught Algorthas off guard and the sudden murmur of conversation among the Lords was suitably subdued yet ominous. In his raised throne, King Kimbertos leaned back and stroked his beard, his frown troubled. At the king's side, standing mostly in the shadows, Archmage Lashton studied the man who was not Baron Anladon with a flat, expressionless face. He could be trouble, the man who was not Baron Anladon decided, and would need to be watched closely. Or removed.
Despite this new concern, another smile came to his face as Algorthas stood in the open well of the Council Hall, his shoulders slumped in defeat. It was clear now that Keoland would not intervene. This war would continue to its bloody end. A sense of victory caused a flutter within the man who was not Baron Anladon.
It was beginning.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Nov 12, 2007 12:46:07 GMT -6
Adventure One: Into the Maelstrom Scene Seven: Voyage of the Golden Dolphin (cont'd)- Another ten days pass before they reach the Azure Sea on 5 Richfest.
- Eleven days pass without event as they cross the Sea.
- On 10 Reaping, the day dawns foggy, and they weigh anchor. Near noon, a pirate ship lumbers from the fog and attacks.
- It goes ill for the pirates, with all of them save one (who manages to escape and hide) being put to the sword.
- The rest of the day is spent repairing the damage to the wingship before they can resume their journey.
- On 13 Reaping, CY 593, they make landfall. The Company is now in Onnwall...
Adventure Two: Prison of the Firebringer Scene One: A Rude Awakening- 14 Reaping, CY 593.
- Following their arrival upon the coast late in the evening of the 13th, the Company set up camp with the plan to depart upon the morrow.
- Near midnight, however, a sinister portal opens, unleashing spyder-fiends from the Abyss!
- A terrible fray erupts, as the demons attempt to slay the Company but fall well short of this task.
- Nival Thriceborn casts a baleful polymorph upon the mightiest of the demons, transforming it into a stalwart rabbit that quickly flees into the night. At this, Gabriel realizes he has seen the birth of the "Blood Coney", an ecological menace in his time period that caused much mayhem and trouble.
- Once the largest demon is down, the smaller ones quickly fall to the might of the Company.
Scene Two: The Killer's Trail- 16 Reaping, CY 593.
- As the Company continues east, they discover signs of the githyanki Incursion, including corpses, seared by dragonfire.
- Near noon on the 16th, they discover a band of wagons and a number of slain whom they take to be refugees. Gilthoron detects the tracks of the attackers, including what he takes to be prisoners.
- Clouds begin to roll in as the Company follow the tracks, with Gabriel aloft upon his pegasus warmount.
- Suddenly, a red dragon - no Larger than a horse - lunges out of hiding and seeks to pursue the paladin.
- As Nival unleashes lightnings upon the creature, it climbs into the sky to hide among the clouds; Gabriel pursues.
- Unwilling to conceal themselves from the dragon, Jiro and Karick continue forward, and are abruptly attacked by a githyanki casting fire! Two burly gith step out of their psionic dimension doors and attack the two warriors.
- Tired of observing his companions burned by the first githyanki, Nival steps forward and disintegrates her as her two companions are put to the sword and arrow.
- Jiro rushes forward and is set upon by a small group of githwarriors who prove to be no difficulty.
- As one, the Company turn their eyes to the sky: there is no sign of Gabriel...
- Pressing forward, the Company attacks the githyanki ambusher's campsite, putting several more of the invaders to the sword.
Scene Three: Selskar Vale- 16-17 Reaping, CY 593.
- Unable to get an accurate augury in regards to Gabriel's fate, the Company presses on, returning to the road and following it until nightfall begins to set in.
- Nival Thriceborn continues to instruct his apprentice and begins to teach the young lad how to create a ray of enfeeblement.
- The following morning dawns foggy, and the Company cautiously advance despite the poor conditions.
- Several hours after they take to the road, they discover a corpse that is shackled to a tree. From visual evidence, it appears that this poor soul was burned alive.
- Onward they press, continuing toward a distant ruined fortress sighted before they stopped the night previous.
- Around noon, they enter an armed githyanki camp and, almost instantly, a fight erupts.
- It is a brutal fray, with the Company wielding arcane power and martial might against a much greater number of foes.
- Sir Karick impresses many captured prisoners when he appears to chase off a juvenile red dragon guarding the prisoners.
- Jiro finds himself facing a half-red dragon foe and terrible are the blows they exchange.
- When the battle ends, none of the Company have fallen, but they have slain all save a cleric of Tharizdun, whom the Once-Elven has fallen with a terrible spell. A single githyanki sergeant - blinded by a lightning strike - utilizes his innate ability to dimension door to safety...
17 Reaping, CY 593.It began and ended in fire. Great siege engines, smuggled into range under cover of darkness and cloaked in black magicks, struck without warning, launching their burning rocks and massive bolts with deadly precision. The missiles slammed into the outer walls with terrible force and scores of men and orcs died before they knew that they were under attack, killed by stone shrapnel or crushed beneath the falling parapets. Even as the second volley was launched, alarms began sounding and defenders leaped from their beds, charging out half-dressed or even nude with swords and bows in hand. A horn sounded, its wail rising over the clamor of a third group of fiery missiles exploding into the ravaged walls. From innocent-looking ships tethered to the docks, hundreds of armored figures appeared, discarding their false disguises and revealing unusual armor that had become, in recent weeks, all too familiar to the harried defenders. As burning death rained from the sky with uncanny accuracy, the battle for Highport began. His axe in hand and already bloodied, Turrosh Mak, Despot of the Pomarj, staggered through the burning keep. An inferno blazed around him, the scarlet flames blackening the stone and stealing away precious oxygen. Gasping for air, he lurched through a burning doorway, barely escaping the total collapse of the roof before dropping to his knees. Steadying himself with the black greataxe he still clutched in one hand, he desperately scanned the courtyard. Bodies littered the ground and he counted only four not of orcish blood. A hollow boom echoed through the keep and he sought its origin. Standing before a swirling vortex of light and energy that Turrosh recognized as a gate, Môgnash the White, his greatest rival and mightiest ally, stood steadfast, sending waves of fire and ice at the Enemy, killing them with indiscriminate force. Across the distance, their eyes met and, not for the first time, Turrosh felt the hatred in the albino's eyes. With an expression that bordered on amused, Môgnash backed through the gate, his allies already moved to safety, and let it collapse, abandoning Turrosh to his fate. A searing rage grew within the Despot of the Pomarj then, an anger that made him want to kill and kill again, and keep killing until the pain would go away. He stood, hefting the greataxe that had carved him an empire and charged into the battle. The invaders had begun to mop up when he vented his wrath upon them. Moving like living quicksilver, he darted among their ranks, the greataxe ravaging their armor and removing limbs. By the expression upon his face, he was already dead with only his hate to keep him alive. Dancing among his foes, he left dozens behind him, their lifeblood mixing with early morning dew and their moans rising up to greet the rising sun. Four more armored figures fell to his blade before he climbed to the tower wall and his intended victim appeared. A monstrous figure wearing foreign armor and wielding a massive two-handed greatsword that seemed to be wrought of liquid silver, braced himself for Turrosh's charge, flanked by two lesser warriors. He sent a wicked overhead smash at the mighty orc but found the way blocked by the hissing ebony axe blade. Knocking aside the strike, Turrosh cut down one of the bodyguards with an almost casual backhand slice before spinning and parrying a second blow from the colossus. His foe backpedaled, readjusting the massive sword in his grip with a sneer on his alien face. *Bow before your master, Orc,* the immense figure ordered. Turrosh heard language but no speech, words but no sounds and tried to speak, to curse his foe to the Nine Hells, but only a wordless scream of primal rage erupted from his lips and he threw himself forward, oblivious to the danger as his greataxe smashed through the parries his foe wove. The second guard died, shrieking as he fell from the parapet to the ground below, and the colossus scrambled backward, unprepared for the sheer onslaught of the Despot's attack. Fear showed plainly on his face and he stumbled, momentarily losing his footing. The black greataxe hissing in triumph, Turrosh rose up before him. And died. A greatspear, wielded by a soldier rushing to aid his immense lord, punched through his chest, showering the fallen colossus with orcish lifeblood. With a hideous cry of pain, the Despot of the Pomarj struggled to push off the spear, to smite his Enemy with all of his hatred and rage, but could not. He coughed up blood and dropped to his knees, the light already dimming in his eyes. The axe slipped from his fingers and tumbled into the courtyard. With a single mighty blow, the colossus took his head. Sparing barely a glance at the newcome soldier, the colossus climbed back down to the courtyard. Sweat still stood prominently on his forehead, and his armor hung in broken fragments, a testament to how dangerously close Turrosh had come to killing him. Three of his captains approached, followed discreetly by a dozen goblins. At his nod, the officers snapped rigidly to attention and saluted, the oldest addressed him. There were words but no sound, speech but no voice. *Lord, we have taken the city. Casualties were higher than expected, but with the aid of these…Goblins, all objectives have been accomplished.* The colossus nodded, his cold eyes surveying the twelve turncoats. *Excellent. Execute these traitors.* He turned away, ignoring the surprised gasp from the archers who had betrayed their lord when their new lords turned upon them. Traitors were, after all, a nuisance to deal with; they had betrayed one master and would do so again without hesitation. And it would not serve to have it discovered that he had used such creatures to accomplish his means. Those that would consider themselves his equals would scoff that he had not simply swept in using the might at his fingertips and crushed the city with force. But then, he thought to himself as he strode to his waiting mount, many of those that had favored that tactic had fallen during the catastrophe at the city of Greyhawk. He said nothing to the Red that awaited him, climbing into the carefully prepared saddle with studious caution. She was barely a hundred years of age and had lived free for that time; little surprise that she was sullen at her newfound captivity. Her baleful eyes followed him as he mounted and he knew that had she the power, he would be dead. With the slightest of nudges, he urged her to take flight. The pleasure he took in these short jaunts was great and he smiled, knowing how unusual it appeared on his rugged face. His pleasure vanished, replaced by cold anger, as he looked back at the broken fortress. The pennant of the slain Despot snapped in the cool breeze and he Spoke to his captains. *Burn the city. Leave none alive. Have the Ships summoned. Our mission here is complete. We make for Stoneheim.* Angrily, he spurred his Red away from the tower that rose yet defiant to pierce the early dawn, refusing to yield. The fire caught quickly and spread like a terrible contagion, growing with an ever-increasing appetite that was dreadful to behold. In minutes, the city and fortress was ablaze and the conflagration consumed everything in its path; the bodies of lord and their ladies, children and their pets, sergeants and their troops. Smoke trailed into the sky, mingling with the clouds of fading night, and carrying the stench of treachery to distant lands. Yet no longer did the clash of metal upon metal fill the air like instruments of music warped and distorted. No longer did the anguished screams of the dying and the triumphant cries of the victorious climb into the sky. Highport was silent. [/img][/td] [td] Mögnash Whiteskin, albino ork shaman-commander[/td] [/tr] [/table]
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Post by Rigil Kent on Nov 17, 2007 1:20:19 GMT -6
Scene Three: Selskar Vale (Cont'd) - 16-17 Reaping, CY 593.
- The day previous, Sir Gabriel finds himself sorely pressed by the red that he pursued. To his surprise, it displays fierce tactical ability, by turning invisible and attacking from random locations. The foul beast's target is always Gabriel's pegasus, displaying a dangerous cunning.
- Seeking a superior tactical location, Gabriel dives into a canyon and seeks refuge in a cave, hoping to gain the upper hand in the battle. Instead, however, the dragon buries him alive and flees to lick its wounds. The two swear vengeance upon one another.
- The following morn, Gabriel manages to get free of his tomb and goes seeking the Company. He arrives just as the Company finish putting down the githyanki force at the barracks house.
- From the rescued prisoners, the Company learn that the gith are attempting to free some form of foul beast imprisoned within the nearby ruined fortress.
- From the evil cleric of Tharizdun, Nival extracts further information: the beast they seek to free is a slaad lord.
- Knowing of some of the cleric's foul deeds via magic, the Company put her to death. It is quick and painless, far more mercy than she deserves.
- Deciding to retreat for a short span of time to rest and recover before assaulting the ruined fortress, the Company decide to investigate another set of ruins, now accompanied by a small group of followers who are eager to share in their glory.
- Within this building, the Company are set upon by gargoyles, but the battle goes ill for the beasts and they are cast down without too much difficulty.
- Deeper into the shattered observatory the Company presses, and they come across a powerful lich whom Nival engages in a spell duel. Recognizing the honor in such a one-on-one engagement, Jiro, Sir Karick, and Sir Gabriel stand aside. Tarrant, however, is overcome with horror at facing the undead abomination and flees, forcing Jiro to pursue.
- Nival's arcane might - though depleted - is enough to emerge victorious as he unleashes his power and smashes the lich in a lethal display. Much glory is won...
17 Reaping, CY 593.The woman was exhausted. She had been running for what seemed an eternity, fleeing from the horrific monsters she had inadvertently unleashed upon Oerth in a misguided attempt at revenge. Even when she had struck, she had known it was a mistake: she had seen, after all, the carnage that the Thriceborn’s company could unleash. The howl of the spyder-fiends had warned her, and fear had given her legs strength. Without looking back, she had abandoned the Once-Elven to his fate. Whether he lived or fell, she knew not. From the beach, her terrified flight had taken her overland into a land of githyanki and dragons. Thrice in the last week, she had narrowly avoided capture or detection as the mighty warhost made its presence known. Terror had robbed her of willpower as the great reds took to the sky, and she knew not how long she cowered there in the dirt, half hidden and too panicked to do aught but tremble. When the dragonfear faded, she had pressed on, pushing her body beyond endurance as she tried to outrun what she knew pursued. It was always there, haunting her dreams and lurking just outside of her vision, waiting for her to err so it could pounce upon her. Five days she had run, five days without sleep or food or even drink. Five days of terror. Another howl shattered the night sky, and she threw herself forward into a stumbling lurch that vaguely resembled a run. Resistance was not an option: the spells that she knew had never been geared for combat, and four days had passed since she had even looked upon her grimoire. Flight was the only option. So she ran. In the distance, she heard the growl of fearsome beasts as well as the ring of steel. Flashes of light and fiery detonations split the darkness, but she veered away from them, knowing that such displays only drew notice. Terror turned her bowels to water then, and the sound of wings in the night sent her diving to the ground. A roar sounded, mighty and terrifying, and the darkness was sundered once more, this time by fire. Dragonfire. The shrieks of men as the living fire washed over them caused her to press her hands against her ears in a futile attempt to ward away the horrifying sounds, but still she heard them. A second draconic roar joined the first, and then a third and a fourth and a fifth. She could see them circling the source of the disturbance, jets of liquid fire raining down upon the fools who dared to oppose them. And then, silence descended. Victorious, the reds climbed once more into the night sky, vanishing as they silently patrolled the lands now claimed by their masters. Fury would be meted out by the deadly beasts, and the woman knew that men and women would die by the hundreds this night. Moving quietly and carefully, she approached the killing ground. Steam climbed into the sky as what was left of the corpses smoldered. A pair of men – boys, really – were slowly crawling forward, mewling with agony as they tried to get away. One of them was missing both legs, and the woman could tell that they had been seared away by the infernal heat of the dragonfire. The second barely had any flesh still upon his body; an ugly mass of muscle and sinew, he was a horrific sight to behold. Neither even noticed her, so lost to their own pain, and she slew them without hesitation. “You are either very brave,” a sinister voice stated from the darkness, causing her to spin in place to find the source of it. “Or very foolish.” A tall figure seemed to materialize before her, barely three paces away. The man had a hard face, and his eyes glittered with knowledge. His clothes were black, leathered and worn, and a palpable sense of malice seemed to radiate from him. “Putting these men to the blade serves no purpose, girl,” the man continued, gesturing with his staff as he spoke, “Save alerting the invaders that someone survived.” “I killed them,” she snarled in response as she began to back away. “Because I didn’t want them to draw more attention!” Her legs were slabs of lead, and she knew that she could not escape him even if she tried. “Ah,” the man commented. He took a step closer to her, eyes appraising. “You are the fool who set the spyder-fiends upon the Once-Elven,” he stated, a touch of annoyance in his voice. Her eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know this?” He laughed. “I keep an eye on him,” came the reply. “Nival is too dangerous to be allowed free reign, and, for my own protection, I make it a point to know where he travels and with whom.” He spoke as if he knew the Thriceborn personally, and the woman wondered who the man was. “I am Marance,” he said as if in response to her question, and her breath caught in recognition. Few alive would recognize him, but her unique heritage gave her an advantage. “Master,” she whispered in silent awe. This man had stood before the Lord of the Ninth himself, and was said to have been given a night of passion with Asmodeus’ daughter in repayment for a debt. Without a word, the woman knelt before him, bowing her head as she did. “I am Zyntris,” she said. “And my life is yours if you will have it.” A long moment passed in silence as Lord Marance stared at her with hooded eyes. Finally, he spoke, his voice pitched low. “What use have I for a tiefling woman?” he asked, a smile in his voice. His eyes were hard though. “I who have lain with Glasya herself. Compared to her, you are nothing.” “I offer you this, my lord,” Zyntris said, producing the rod she carried. To the trained eye, it burned with Power, and she knew he would recognize it. “You carry a piece of the Rod,” Lord Marance mused. Once more he was silent for a long moment. “You will do well, I think. Rise, apprentice,” he ordered a moment later. “We have much work to do.” Zyntris rose, basking in his dark approval. She felt reborn.
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Post by Mike E. on Nov 17, 2007 10:38:01 GMT -6
“I offer you this, my lord,” Zyntris said, producing the rod she carried. To the trained eye, it burned with Power, and she knew he would recognize it. “You carry a piece of the Rod,” Lord Marance mused. Once more he was silent for a long moment. “You will do well, I think. Rise, apprentice,” he ordered a moment later. “We have much work to do.” Zyntris rose, basking in his dark approval. She felt reborn. Great...
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Post by Rigil Kent on Dec 1, 2007 11:55:18 GMT -6
Scene Four: The Ruined Keep- 17-18 Reaping, CY 593.
- Following the death of the vile lich, the Company settles in for the eve to recover magic and to ease their fatigue. When morning comes, Nival cannot be torn from the many tomes of lore he has discovered in the lich's observatory and convinces the Company to press on without him for the time being.
- Back to the ruined keep the Company goes, and much time is wasted arguing over their course of action. Ultimately, it is decided that they will abandon subtlety in favor of brute force: a frontal assault will be conducted, with both Gabriel and Gilthoron flanking the shattered fortress from the air.
- Almost at once, the Company come under assault by two Fomorians who are defending the Keep. Jiro's steed is badly injured, forcing the Samurai to drop from it and send it to safety.
- Gabriel surges forward, hoping to conduct a spirited charge, but is struck by a third Fomorian who has somehow managed to elude detection. The paladin is smote heavily, and begins to grow mildly concerned at his situation.
- Both Jiro and Karick charge into the fight on foot, and discover that the Fomorians are mighty foes.
- To her disgust, Miyatar discovers that the ruined keep is constructed upon a wild magic zone, and several of her healing spells are lost.
- After much effort, the Company finally throws down the three Fomorians, and retreat slightly to cast healing spells before pressing on.
- Into the upper part of the keep the Company go when suddenly...
- Tarrant discovers a secret door! The Company open it, revealing an octagonal chamber with a circle made of silver inlaid upon the floor. Convinced that there is more to this room, several members of the Company begin searching it when abruptly, Cailas and Gilthoron are teleported away!
- Concern sets in at once and Gabriel, Jiro and Karick begin crawling over the room, seeking a trigger mechanism.
- Cailas and Gil, however, materialize above the nearby lake; the young warrior plunges into it as the elven archer floats slowly downward, protected by his ring of feather fall. Seeing that Cailas is being dragged under due to his armor, Gilthoron removes the ring and swims to assist.
- Just as Karick departs the octagonal room, intent on taking Gabriel's pegasus mount to enlist Nival's aid, two more of the Company vanish: Gabriel and Jiro.
- A comedy of errors ensues as the Company find themselves scattered and soaked with water though none (save Cailas, who is rescued by Gil) come close to drowning.
- Opting to use the stairwell down, the Company returns to the ruined keep and descend into its depths. They discover a rusted iron door and begin bashing it with much force, unconcerned about drawing attention. This is nearly a fatal mistake, as two blue slaad and a huge green one fall upon the Company.
- The light emanating from Gabriel's magical angelhelm is extinguished, plunging the Company into darkness, though Orolonwe casts a spell that allows them to fight in the darkness. Two additional green slaads are summoned by the huge one, and the Company find themselves sorely pressed on multiple sides.
- A pair of red slaads and a half-fiend githyanki mage enter the fray, and the Company finds itself reeling. Jiro totters on the edge of complete ruination, but Miyatar's well-timed healing saves his life. Gabriel also staggers under the aggressive attacks of the githyanki mage as he suffers an empowered enervation spell that seems to drain him!
- In the very moment when utter ruination beckons, the Company push through, with Jiro and Karick felling the huge green slaad. Sensing defeat, the githyanki mage teleports to safety, and the Company, bruised and battered but unbeaten, retreat to lick their wounds...
18 Reaping, CY 593.She felt reborn. With a cry of joy, Kalfyra swooped toward the target, her brothers and sisters behind her. As her sleek body cut through the invigorating warmth of high noon, she surveyed the target eagerly, hungry for challenge. The Mistress had specified the coordinates to be attacked. This assault was to be at close range, surgical, precise. Kalfyra loved combat, exploring her abilities, honing her skills. She had long ago embraced the dizzying delight of movement, the exhilarating leap into the sky, the grace of flexion, the joy of the war cry. She had learned to deliver from her throat great gouts of destructive flame; to calculate the most efficient patterns of attack; to engage and never break off, not until the enemy was utterly destroyed. A troubling memory tickled her brain, a faint recollection of defeat at the hands of a glittering human astride a winged beast. Kalfyra sought the elusive memory, but it vanished like so much smoke. A sharp pain began building at the back of her skull, reminding her to focus only upon the task before her, and she obeyed eagerly. Obedience was her greatest joy. As she wheeled toward the target, Kalfyra could see its defenders fleeing in terror, abandoning their walls in their desperate flight. None would oppose them, but it was of no concern. Her instructions were clear: none could survive. The rocky walls of the fortified town grew closer, taking on definition, detail. Kalfyra narrowed her focus to her assigned target, coordinated her speed with her course. Excitement gathered in her throat. She plunged toward the city and shrieked out her war cry. Her body rushed with an ecstasy of fire. Living flame roared from her mouth in a brilliant torrent. Around her, her brothers and sisters fell upon the city, their mouths screaming destruction. Perfection through victory, the Mistress whispered in her mind, and Kalfyra shuddered with eagerness. Obedience was her greatest joy. Some of the city was not completely destroyed. A fragment remained. Kalfyra pounced on it, eager to shriek again. She targeted it, screamed out chaos and flame. The exhilaration shot through her. The fragment was obliterated, a hole scorched into the surface below. Excited by the activity, her siblings fell upon the vanquished target, shrieking out a cacophony of chaos. Particles of stone and flesh flew up as they blasted a great hole into the earth. Kalfyra drew the flame up into her mouth, screamed it out in blazing red. The greatest excitement is the thrill of the battle, the Mistress whispered. The greatest joy is the ecstasy of victory.Kalfyra’s greatest desire was to feel it once more, but her memory felt wrong. She had tasted defeat, though she could not recall when. Her anger swelled, washing away her joy and tainting this victory. She snarled at one of her smaller sisters, baring her teeth in fury even as the pain in her skull began to grow. More than anything, she wanted to seek out the man who had defeated her. Seek him out and slay him. But she had to obey the Mistress, for obedience was her greatest joy. Soon, she would find a way to align her desires. And then, he would perish in flame and claw. Throwing back her head, Kalfyra shrieked her promise to the sky: the paladin would die.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Dec 15, 2007 13:29:59 GMT -6
Scene Four: The Ruined Keep- 18 to oh-dark-thirty on 19 Reaping, CY 593.
- Returning to the observatory, the Company enter to discover Nival staring at the entrance, a curious expression on his face. He brushes this off, however, and is quickly filled in on their most recent misadventure, as well as the brutal assault that they recently survived.
- He has not been idle since they were gone, and reveals what he has learned from the slain lich's tomes: the ruined keep was once an arcane academy of the Selskar Order. In times long past, this Order found themselves besieged by a brutal warlord and sought aid from a powerful slaad lord named Bazim-Gorag. Once the task was complete, however, the Order sought to renege upon their deal and were forced to bind the slaad lord in a prison below. It is this slaad that the githyanki seem intent on freeing.
- The Company decides to rest until dark (in order to heal) and make a night assault. At dusk, however, Jiro explains that a personal religious ritual requires him to remain behind for a short time and that he will rejoin the Company as soon as it is complete. The Company's followers as well as their mounts are left behind for safekeeping.
- Nival then teleports the Company to a spot above the ruined keep, and the Company make landfall without incident though they are ready for violence to break out at any moment.
- Back into the lower level of the ruined keep they venture.
- A pair of vile mohrgs are discovered lurking some dungeons, and the Company quickly throw them down.
- Into a massive meeting hall they venture, whereupon a ghostly apparition appears, wailing in a forgotten tongue. Nival quickly casts a spell to comprehend languages even as Gabriel detects evil. Ever aggressive, the paladin then seeks to turn the undead creature, and the Company discover that this ghost yet retains his arcane abilities as it quickly casts reverse gravity after giving Gabriel a corrupting stare. Nival drops a force cage upon the ghost, but it quickly disintegrates the prison even as the Thriceborn utilizes a tongues spell to speak its forgotten language. Displaying surprising diplomacy, the magister convinces that ghost that this is all a big misunderstanding and that Gabriel attacked recklessly.
- Only slightly mollified, the ghost reveals that it is trapped here for as long as Bazim-Gorag survives, and Nival quickly promises to destroy the slaad lord.
- The ghost then points out a secret route and vanishes before dispelling his reverse gravity spell.
- Deeper into the ruins the Company venture, pausing with some hesitation when they enter a vast crypt with magicked floors. Nothing happens there, and they venture onward, entering a old underground hall that looks to be of dwarven make.
- Suddenly, a door flies open and three figures rush forward! Most of the Company recognize the githyanki wizard who fled earlier, and he repeats this tactic once again, but not before ordering his compatriots to attack. One of the remaining villains is a troll, but the battle goes ill for the beast and it is dropped without much difficulty.
- The remaining human-looking figure proves to be a dangerous foe, as their weapons inflict minimal damage to him and he unleashes a withering barrage of spell-like abilities, culminating in a word of chaos that leaves the entire Company save Cailas and Tarrant stunned...
Scene Four: The Ruined Keep (Cont'd)- Oh-dark-thirty on 19 Reaping, CY 593.
- As the rest of the Company teleports to the ruined keep, Jiro finds himself feeling fairly bad because he's lied to them. There is no "personal religious ritual" for him to do; instead, he is to contact his mother for a scheduled report. Tossing some magic dust she provided onto the surface of some water, a connection is established and he reports. Lady "Athsil" appears rushed and harried, and relates that events are moving more quickly than the "Council" anticipated. She orders Jiro to keep an eye on the Company.
- Deciding to rejoin the Company, Jiro approaches Gabriel's pegasus and asks it to carry him to the keep where he may keep the paladin out of trouble. Landing outside the keep (to keep the pegasus away from the wild magic zone), he walks up the stairwell as before when they fought the Fomorians.
- To his surprise, he discovers a githyanki Sarth attending a parked Planar Skiff. Jiro orders the gith to stand down, but the outsider flees at once, forcing the samurai to pursue.
- Into the teleport area they race and the githyanki speaks a Word of Power that causes the device to operate! Jiro braces himself for the water...
- ...but it doesn't come! Instead, they have been 'ported somewhere else, and the gith races away from Jiro, bloody and beaten. Pursuing, Jiro chases him into a room that has a great gaping well in the floor and the gith leaps into this well without hesitation. After seeing that the outsider is slowly descending, Jiro jumps in as well.
- They levitate down, moving fairly slowly, and the gith grins maniacally as small motes of light envelop him, quickly healing his wounds. The smile fades, however, as the motes continue to pour positive energy into the outsider, and he explodes in a fine white ash with a horrific scream. To Jiro's fright, the motes begin to envelop him as well!
- The samurai is able to withstand the growing power and sees a door before him as he descends. Thinking quickly, he smashes through the door to get away from the positive energy motes.
- A githyanki wizard is before him, and is visibly startled by his arrival. With fear on his face, the wizard teleports away before Jiro can attack. Moments later, a Word of Chaos shakes the foundations of the keep and Jiro can hear the sounds of battle abruptly cease. He charges forward to discover the rest of the Company confused.
- The human-looking figure continues to be a dangerous foe, shattering Cailas' longsword and using a power word to blind Gabriel. Ultimately, however, the figure is unable to stand too long against the Company, especially once Nival is able to dispel the confusion that has gripped much of them.
- Upon the figure's death, it reverts to a slaad appearance and Nival identifies it as a Death Slaad.
- Back upstairs the Company head to investigate two unopened doors. Beyond one of them, they encounter a vile undead creature that they promptly dispatch. Beyond the other, they discover some treasure and Nival is set upon by a Helmed Horror.
- Returning to the well, they deduce that they must use it to reach Bazim-Gorag. Nival further extrapolates that they must remain in contact with the wall to prevent being overwhelmed by positive energy and thus, burned to ash.
- At the bottom of the well, they emerge in a large hall and investigate the doors. One leads to what appears to be a binding chamber, and the other opens up into an immense natural cavern filled with bubbling lava. To their horror, a hulking, red-scaled monstrosity with nine serpentine heads lurks near the lava...
Scene Five: Prison of the Firebringer- Oh-dark-thirty on 19 Reaping, CY 593.
- Thinking quickly, Sir Karick shuts the door leading to the immense natural cavern so the Company may coordinate. Spells are cast to augment their natural abilities and to protect them from the immense heat of the lava beyond.
- The door is flung open, but the hideous monster appears to be gone. Unconvinced, Nival unleashes a terrible cone of cold that freezes some of the lava and provides them with a steady surface. They venture further into the cavern, expecting an attack at any moment.
- Suddenly, the fiendish pyrohydra leaps up from the lava and attacks both Jiro and Nival with its horrific breath weapon. The magister retaliates with an iceball that freezes even more of the lava, and Jiro strikes a mighty blow upon the foul creature.
- Enraged, the beast unleashes a brutal assault upon Nival, felling the Once-Elven master of magery with gruesome blows. For a moment, it looks as though he has been slain, but Tarrant’s quick thinking carries him from the beast’s hatred.
- Combing their skill, the remaining members of the Company drive the creature back, forcing it to retreat to the lava so it can regenerate the damage they wrought. Miyatar restores Nival to health, and he creates a dimension door to carry many of them across the lava flow.
- Again, the pyrohydra lunges into view, but Nival unleashes an acid storm that ravages it, prompting the other members of the Company to ask why he did not do such in the first place.
- Beyond the lava cavern, the Company enters a magnificent hall that has a black mirror upon the far wall. Through this mirror, a man enters, carrying a sinister looking glaive. The stink of chaos and evil is strong upon him, and the Company knows that this is Bazim-Gorag, the Firebringer. Before he can taint the air with his foul speech, they fall upon him with steel and magick.
- Encircling himself with a wall of fire, the slaad assumes his natural shape, that of a mighty two-headed beast of utter chaos. He lays about with his unholy glaive, striking down Jiro and leaving the samurai near death. With a word of power, he nearly stuns Nival who retaliates with another acid storm even as Gabriel, Gilthoron and Karick lay into the sinister creature.
- Gabriel smites the foul creature fiercely, earning his wrath, and is nearly slain by a horrific incinerating attack. At the same time, Bazim-Gorag attempts a second power word, but Nival quickly deflects it away.
- As the battle rages on, Miyatar darts forward to heal Jiro, and from the floor, the samurai lunges up, slamming his ancestral family katana into the slaad’s stomach. With a howl, Bazim-Gorag falls and is no more. The Company has won.
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Post by Rigil Kent on Jan 5, 2008 15:25:42 GMT -6
Adventure Three: Comes the Storm... Scene One: Beast of Burden- 19-23 Reaping, CY 593.
- Days pass as the Company recovers from their battle with Bazim-Gorag and turns the remnants of the shattered keep to their own ends. Nival begins the long, laborious process of growing clones of the core members of the Company while the rest of them work to seal up the sole remaining ghost of the Order that originally summoned the slaad lord. Though the foul undead abomination needs a magic item the Company has recovered to be laid to rest, the members of the Company determine that being bound forever in such a place is punishment for the destruction the erstwhile mage caused so long ago.
- Nival and Tarrant also spend many hours studying the planar skiff that was captured, and learn how to pilot it ... or rather, Nival learns how to pilot it.
- From the ruins that were once a keep, the Company resumes their journey eastward. On the 22nd of Reaping, they become aware of a distant booming that is only growing closer.
- On dawn of the 23rd, one of Sir Karick's followers wakes him with horror in his eyes. A colossal creature is approaching! It is a beast so huge that a veritable fortress has been constructed upon its back! Gilthoron's keen elf eyes also discerns that three planar skiffs are patrolling the skies around the creature.
- Realizing that this is another githyanki monstrosity unleashed upon Oerth, the Company decides to assault it at once. Nival will create a dimension door for the core members of the Company so they may establish a beach head upon the mobile fortress; once secure, the Once-Elven will ferry the other members of the Company aboard.
- Sir Karick is the first aboard as Nival's dimension door places them atop a catapult platform. Instantly, black tentacles erupt around them, seeking to entangle them as they leap into action. Karick is unaffected, though, and wields Adjratha, his psibane longsword with brutal effectiveness; four githyanki fall before him as the rest of the Company find themselves entangled or, as in the case of Jiro, knocked from the platform.
- Momentarily freed, Nival dispels the tentacle trap and flies to where Jiro has fallen, even as Gabriel uses the catapult against one of the skiffs. Gilthoron unleashes a storm of arrows at that skiff, knocking one of the passengers off. The githyanki plunges to the ground and does not move again.
- Deeper into the "howdahs" Sir Karick and Tarrant press, with the young Magister Apprentice using a wand bequeathed to him by his master to send a fireball into a cluster of archers. More githyanki fall before Karick's weaving sword.
- Casting a fly spell upon Jiro, Nival returns to the catapult deck where he disintegrates the already damaged skiff even as the second passenger dimension doors to within striking distance of the Thriceborn Magister; almost casually, Nival informs the gith "You are next.", but the extraplanar invader is dropped by one of Gil's well-placed arrows before he can flee.
- Now capable of flight, Jiro takes to the air and assaults several githyanki sentries..
- A second skiff begins maneuvering toward the Company and its two passengers dimension door to the catapult deck where they seek to assault Nival; one is staggered instantly as Gabriel rushes forward with a brutal blow. Near death, the githyanki orders his fellow to "Warn the H'Jyord!" in their native tongue. Before anyone can react, the second githyanki takes a step backwards and vanishes through his dimension door.
- Even so, Nival summons a fierce air elemental to suck the pilot of the skiff free and send him tumbling through the vortex of wind.
- The battle goes ill for the githyanki, and Nival dimension doors to where the Company's cohorts wait...
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