The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08) - Page 3




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  1. #21
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    Prelude: Aramil and Gabrielle

    The first update of the last prelude. At least, for the moment. Apparently I just might be getting another victim...err..I mean player Enjoy.

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    The forest streamed by.

    Greens and browns coupled with the yellows and reds of the sun glinting from the leaves. Branches reached out, razor thin edges scratching ravenously. A deeper, thicker red melted into the dense foliage.

    Lungs heaved. Muscles tired, then ached. Fresh wounds bled openly. The viscous, congealing fluid left black stains upon leather. Still, muscles pushed on. Lungs burned from overexertion.

    A rough blow exploded from the side. Bone-jarring force resonated through his skull. The world spun and twisted. Limb over limb, colors merged and mated. Confusion was its progeny.

    The world stilled. Dusk had come, bringing the twilight of the day, the twilight of youth. Cascading silver rained upon the landscape as daylight faded.

    A shrill cry split the air. His body twitched but would not stand. Muscles ached, ceaselessly complaining for rest. Lungs still throbbed from their struggle. Another scream filled with utter and complete pain. This time though, it was coupled with resignation. Roughly, he tugged at the foliage. Still, his body denied the command to stand.

    Night, a raptor, swooped from above and chased the light. One final, piercing screech shattered the darkness. Death dripped from the shrill notes. Hopelessness flooded the skies. Night devoured its prey.


    Aramil bolted upright. Half-dreaming confusion wracked his mind as his eyes darted about. The nightmare had returned again in the dark of night. The burning sun hadn’t yet risen above the eastern mountain range. Within an hour, the fiery orb would begin its daily trek across the blue sky. Pinks and light reds were already clawing their way into the heavens.

    The tiny mountain range in the east barely blocked the orb’s rays. The range was at least a week’s walk away. And from this distance, he could already tell they were nothing more than oversized hills. They were nothing but ants compared to the dark, brooding peaks splitting the skies to the south.

    Aramil stifled a shudder. He was glad to be traveling away from the southern peaks that marked the edge of Midloth, the King’s royal territory. But the ant-sized peaks were not his destination either.

    Slowly, he turned north to look into his future. Months of journeying remained, at the very least, to cross the hellish terrain. The next major terrain feature would be an old forest perched above a series of canyons. After that marker, the last range of mountains danced along the coast and hiding a treacherous sea. In that sea was his destination: Aedil, the Thirteenth Territory of the King. The only territory rumored to be just and fair to any of all races. Aedil gave the King its allegiance and yet, managed to disobey the racial laws. At least, that had been what he was told just like his companion.

    Aramil shifted his gaze back to his right side. Gabrielle lied, curled upon a bed of dry leaves and moss. Draped over her small form was Aramil’s tattered blanket. Gabrielle stirred; her dark, curly hair flopped from side to side. Quietly, Aramil waited for the halfling’s shifting to end. Our destination, he corrected.

    With a dirty, travel-worn hand, Aramil wiped the thick layer of sweat from his brow. Summer was fading and the nights were already beginning to chill. Because of the nightmare, because of his memories, he still awoke drenched in sweat. Since Aramil’s personal demons and devils couldn’t bleed him dry, they tortured the sweat from his body. The constant running through his dreamscape coupled with the monotonous never-ending traveling left his body sore each and every day.

    Gabrielle’s half-waking twitches slowed as she lulled back into her own dreams. Aramil stood and pulled his dark hair back. A delicate gesture confined the straight hair in a leather tie, exposing his slightly pointed ears. Once Gabrielle woke and they continued their journey, his hair would have to be released again. With delicate, angular bones Aramil ran too much a risk of discovery without displaying his half-elven ears.

    Traveling north had been a difficult trek alone. It had only complicated matters, when the half-elf had crossed paths with Gabrielle. She, too, was running from her past and her heritage. She had been directed to head north to Aedil. Learning that Aramil was on the same path, the halfling practically became attached at the hip to the half-elf.

    She slowed his progress. She also ate more food and made more noise than a rabid band of goblins. Her stature alone caused problems in the few towns they dared enter. Passing her off as a child didn’t even ease the situation. Her mouth usually negated any clever disguises Aramil could create. As such, they had been forced to circle around several of the more recent towns. Once stopped for the night, Aramil had to backtrack in the dark and pilfer what food he could. His nights seemed to never end.

    Aramil sighed as he stared at Gabrielle. Despite the grief she caused him, she was like a sister. She was another outcast to share the brunt of this journey. Before the journey ended, he was sure more than just a brunt would be borne by the both of them. Blood and tears awaited their travels. Hopefully, they would survive. But the half-elf had serious doubts.

    Removing a hardened loaf of bread from his pack, Aramil sat back down beside Gabrielle. He greedily tore a hand-sized chunk and devoured it quickly. As soon as he had swallowed his piece, he waved the bread under the halfling’s nose. Gabrielle’s nostrils twitched and her eyes opened swiftly. Her hands lurched toward the bread but he snatched it just out of her reach.

    “Not just yet. Get up. We have to get going.” Aramil stood again, waving the bread tantalizingly in front of his face. “Get up.”

    “Fine! I’m awake.” Gabrielle sat up on the makeshift bed and gathered her things. “I didn’t get enough sleep, you know.”

    “Neither did I.” Aramil retorted. “But, we need to keep going. Rest just enough so you can keep going, that’s what my father used to say.” The half-elf grimaced as a memory of his father surfaced. He shrugged it off as best as possible.

    “Your father must’ve been a stupid man.” Gabrielle threw a hand over her mouth but couldn’t stop the words. Aramil’s face contorted with anger. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

    The halfling’s apology was silenced by a hunk of bread hurtling toward her head. She dodged it nimbly and the bread collided with the soil. “Let’s get going!” Aramil commanded. The half-elf stalked off, all of his gear already packed.

    Gabrielle quickly threw her things and Aramil’s blanket into her satchel. Then she snatched her lute and grabbed the bread off the ground. She dusted the dirt off and screamed, “Hey! Wait up!!”
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    Non Omnis Moriar.


    First Writing Credit

 

  • #22
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    Prelude: Aramil and Gabrielle Concluded

    Okay, last post for this prelude. I realize its shorter than the others...but a couple of factors led to this. First, the players of Aramil and Gabrielle didn't give me much to work with. Also, I kinda want to move along to the first actual 'chapter' of the adventure. So...there you go.

    WARNING: Norum da Salaex can be a very gritty world. Rape, murder, thievery all happen. If you don't want to experience any of these events, turn away now. In the famous words of Monty Python: Run Away! Run Away! I will attempt to keep it as clean as is possible, but I make no guarantees. You may find subject material that you disagree with. Sorry, I'm about realism in my games. That's just the way I am. But I will try to keep it in a slightly toned-down manner so as to be publishable to this free website. I in no way condone this sort of behavior, but I do sadly acknowledge that it does and did happen (in the real world and the fantasy world). Thank you and consider yourself warned.

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    The shoulder high field of wheat was a curtain of blindness. Aramil couldn’t see more than fifty feet ahead of his position. The sloping hills he and Gabrielle were trekking across rose steeply in front, blocking his view. The half-elf wasn’t at all happy.

    Gabrielle plodded, not-so-silently, behind him. She had taken to plucking on the infernal instrument she carried. She had practically no ability with the lute and her voice was a horrible accompaniment. Always, her tone registered flat compared to the voice of the instrument. Her cacophonous chords did nothing to alleviate the strain on his sensitive half-elven ears. Aramil grumbled quietly.

    “Would you knock that off?!”

    “No. I am going to be the best singer on the island of Aedil. And right now, I need my practice.” The halfling returned to her prodding of the horse-hair strings.

    “Stop!” Aramil spun and knocked the lute out of her hands. “I need to be able to hear. And I can’t do it with the racket you’re making.” Gabrielle’s face welled up with tears. Aramil released his anger with a hoarse breath. “Look, if you don’t want to be captured by the Tyrant’s men, I’d suggest you be silent. I need to think.” Aramil pulled a worn map out of his satchel and tried to calculate their location.

    Gabrielle plopped down beside Aramil and tried to peer at the map. Quickly, she became impatient and turned away. Within moments, she was strumming the lute again albeit at a quieter volume.

    “I don’t understand it. This map must be old. Clearly, we’re nearing a town but it doesn’t appear on this,” he shook the parchment roughly. “It must be. Why else would we be traveling through a field of wheat?”

    “Oh, do you think we could maybe stop in and get some food?” Gabrielle beamed. “I’m so hungry.” Her stomach rumbled loudly in emphasis.

    “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, the town isn’t on my map. So, we’ll be lucky to even see it. It must be quite tiny.”

    “There’s nothing wrong with being tiny,” she shot back. “We should try to find it anyway. I’m quite hungry.”

    “I heard you the first time. Either way, you’re not entering the town. I’ll get us food. Let’s get moving again.” Aramil began the arduous task of plowing through the field and leaving a path for his pint-sized friend.

    Suddenly, the half-elf tensed. His ears had picked up a strange noise that raised the hairs upon his neck. He tried peering through the blind wheat again, but to no avail. “Run!” he hissed.

    “What is it?” Gabrielle asked.

    “Horses. Now, run!” The half-elf shoved the halfling before turning to charge after her. They fled as quickly as they could back down their obvious trail. The galloping noise of hooves began to grow louder and louder.

    Aramil chanced a glance back and spotted two riders coming on strongly. Both were decked in black half-plate armor and were waving weapons in the air. Swiftly, the gap between the groups closed revealing more detail. Aramil spotted the symbol of Ara’kull emblazoned on the armor, a broken bastard sword nearly arranged into a cross. The rider on the left was waving a mace in the air, while the rider on the right twirled a net.

    At the last possible second, Aramil shoved Gabrielle off the path and darted the other direction. The net had already been released and easily caught the halfling. As Aramil plunged headlong into the crop, the horses changed direction and ploughed toward him. He moved as quickly as possible but the stems of the wheat clung like greedy hands, slowing and pulling him down.

    A shrill cry pierced the air from behind him. He could hear another rider coming down the hill, although he dared not look.

    His pace increased but his vision was shrouded with memory. Reds and yellows glinted off of the wheat. Terrified he charged along even faster.

    An arrow sailed over his head but he kept going. The wheat left welts on his skin, but he wouldn’t stop. More arrows danced above his skull, just barely missing their mark.

    Gabrielle shrieked again from behind, a dull thud chasing her fading voice. Sweat beaded across Aramil’s brow as his lungs began to burn. Out of my head, he demanded mentally of his memories. But the weight of his father’s death effectively crushed him.

    The Orcs were behind him again as he ran with his father through the forest. They had been heading to Aedil when the Orcs came out of nowhere. Aramil’s father shoved him off the trail, where the child had tumbled down an embankment and into the cover of dense foliage. When the half-elf had awoken at dusk, he heard the shrill cries of his father being tortured. When Aramil found the body several days later, he realized his human father hadn’t been tortured but devoured alive. The half-elf’s rebellious body had saved him from the same fate.

    Aramil burst out of the forest of wheat and into a clearing at the base of a hill. A small stream cut through the trench. A traitorous rock, piercing the water, snagged on his boot. The half-elf tripped and plummeted to the ground.

    A rough blow exploded from the side. Bone-jarring force resonated through his skull. The world spun and twisted.

    He struggled to roll over. He reached for his father’s crossbow and clumsily loaded a bolt. The soldiers burst through the edge of the crop and into the clearing.

    Aramil raised the crossbow and pulled on the trigger. An arrow shaft pierced his arm, sending his shot wide. The rider with the mace charged forward, swinging low. The half-elf scrambled away but the forged metal connected solidly with his head.

    Colors merged and mated creating confusion as the sky disappeared and the ground darted upward. Darkness swallowed Aramil’s consciousness.

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    “Did you kill the child?!” A gruff voice pierced Aramil’s veil of unconsciousness. The half-elf shifted slightly, sentience and pain flooding back into his mind.

    “No, I didn’t kill it. I should though. The bitch is a halfling.” This voice was slightly higher in tone but leering and condescending.

    “You are not to kill it,” a third voice commanded. This one was older, laden with discipline and demanding respect. Aramil struggled to open his eyes until he realized a torn cloth was tied tightly about his head. Similarly, his arms and feet were bound as well, although in heavy metal clasps. He tried to rotate his head against the cold earth to try to hear more.

    “I won’t kill it then. But I am going to have some fun with her.” Aramil heard the sound of hands working against leather. He struggled against his bonds.

    “Heh. Do you think they’re skilled whores?” The gruff voice questioned.

    “Dunno,” the condescending soldier answered, “but they can’t be too bad. They’re the same height as children, after all. I’m sure her stubby fingers can work wonders.” Laughter broke out between the two men. Aramil struggled loudly against his bonds.

    “Now look what you’ve done!” The commanding voice shouted. Aramil felt the man coming closer and then felt a solid piece of oak crack against his skull. Aramil tasted the metallic flavor of blood in his mouth as darkness swallowed him again.

    “Heh. I bet the elf would benefit from you as well,” the gruff voice replied.

    Rufus, shut the hell up! You’re just encouraging him. Neither of you will touch these prisoners in anyway unbefitting of your stations.” Captain Lockhart glared at both of the men. He pushed his sweaty gray hair out of his eyes. Before either of his men could speak he stated, “If however, they need to be helped along with their…confessions, you may turn toward your particular methods. But not one hand will be laid upon them until we return to the keep, unless that hand is mine.”

    The Captain threw a set of manacles to his men. “Chain her up and then blind-fold her. Once we’ve gathered their gear, we’ll leave.” The aged soldier grabbed Aramil by his nape and threw him onto a warhorse. Then the Captain leapt onto the horse and adjusted the half-elf.

    Sometime today if you ever expect to receive your transfer!” The Captain cursed the Royal Army silently for sending him the worst recruits to train. Lockhart watched as the recruits carefully chained the halfling, making sure their hands wouldn’t stray too far. Once everything was collected, the group rode toward the Town of Green Hills.
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    Non Omnis Moriar.


    First Writing Credit

  • #23
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    Wow a disclaimer....

    He actually put a disclaimer in it.
    haha
    I guess it did need it, sensible minds and all.
    *Pulls the curtain shut*
    Now that we have privacy from prying eyes, let the midget have it... er I mean halfling...

    Just kidding folks,
    We have a running midget joke going on since almost every halfling encounter in the last few months involved a flying one. The PC halfling is the first I've seen in 2 years that wasn't flying.
    --------------------------
    Another good update Funeris.
    Now let's get into the meat of the story.
    Speaking of meat, half-elf and halfling is almost as tasty as elf. Almost, just need extra hot sauce.
    Bill
    The Yeti aka Magnus the Archmage
    ~"Henry Bowman lives within each and everyone of us, and it's time to start acting like it. "
    A Story Hour set in Valus by Funeris
    http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=97346

    Funeris's Second Story Hour (where he is the DM).
    http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=130328

    My Story Hour Set in Valus 20 years after Funeris's Valus SH.
    http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=133211

    Bryon_Soulweaver - "Stupid nobles, hope Mangus blasts them (and I woundn't doubt if he could)."

  • #24
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    Had to. Didn't want to offend anyone. I've had posts pulled before for questionable material. And then I was joking. I take my SHs a bit more seriously. I don't want a post pulled, so I made a nice little disclaimer.

    And folks, it applies to the rest of the SH as well. Again, consider yourself warned.
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    Non Omnis Moriar.


    First Writing Credit

  • #25
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    Interlude: The Battle at Port Divi'sad

    Well, my intent tonight was to begin work on Chapter 1. However, all of my notes were of roleplaying through email. And I, being the horrible employee that I am, did it over my work email. So, I didn't have the notes here at home. Instead of beginning Chapter 1, I decided to take all you history buffs back in time about 30 years. This is the story of a battle that is pertinent not just to the PC Cassock but to a later PC and quite obviously, a few NPCs.

    So, I hope you enjoy the "update". Its somewhere in the vicinity of 3,000 words and will hopefully quench your thirsts.

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    Nearly Thirty years prior…

    The rising sun glinted dully off the steel edging of the greatsword. Ancient runes carved in the language of the Gods were barely visible through the dried blood and gore accumulated on the metal. The battle-hardened warrior-priest raised the blade into the air, pressing the cool steel against his dirty brow. He dropped to his knees in silent prayer on the field of battle.

    Strewn around the praying warrior’s body was thousands of quietly smoldering bodies. Severed appendages littered the once green grass of the park. More than a hundred thousand gallons of blood had stained the grass deep red.

    For your honor my Lord…

    The warrior-priest bowed forward, touching his face and the blade to the earth. Silently, his lips murmured his prayers. The gore of the field clung to his unshaven face. He seemed not to notice or care as he continued his prayers.

    This was the third day of the battle; the third day he had held his position, the third day without any rest. Four days ago, he had been outside of the city, Port Divi’sad, preparing to lead his soldiers in the defense of the city. They had marched from Legend, the territory that had claimed dominion over Port Divi’sad.

    Borders in the Kingdom of Norum da Salaex were as ever-changing as the seasons. The Troll-ruled territory of Draat had been expanding their territory relentlessly for the last twenty or more years. The Trolls had already devoured much of the Goblin state, Matz and were now pushing into the territory of Legend.

    One week ago, the warrior-priest had sworn to take back the city. He had made this oath to the Baron, Dragos Tyne. The men he led were not an official army and as such, were not subject to the chaotic whims of the individual Barons or the ruthless agendas of the King. These were men dedicated to his personal causes; men that had rallied to the calls of courage, self-defense and the betterment of their own stations in life. These men had learned the arts of war only for defense of their own families not to obtain land or riches. These were nearly one thousand good men, and now he would have to bury and bless all but maybe ten of them. The warrior-priest sighed as he shifted his weight slightly raising his head and allowing his tears to cleanse the blood from his face and then the earth.

    He had led nearly every single one of his own men to their deaths. They would have willingly followed him into the deepest, darkest depths of the Hells if it would guarantee the safety of their families. If the Trolls were to maintain their foothold in Legend, the regenerating beasts would likely take the entire territory. His sorrow creased and formed a solid grimace as he stood, muscles straining wearily.

    Give me strength, my Lord. In this, my final hour, bless this blade and bless my body. They are but weak vessels for your holy might, your holy wrath. And with them, I may send more of these fiends into your eternal embrace.

    Reserve a spot at your side for me, my Lord. Know that I died in your name, doing your will. I died honorably and in defense of those unable to defend themselves from the wrath and hatred of Ara’kull and his minions.

    Bless me, my Lord.


    The warrior-priest kissed his blade once more, basking in the warmth of Cael’s wife Myr. The sun was now above the eastern horizon by quite a distance. He turned away from his homeland to stare toward the Troll camps in the west.

    It had been nearly five years since he had actually received the words of his Lord, Cael. But always steadfast in his devotion, the warrior-priest prayed every night to his God. Often, he would even pray again in the morning, hoping his words were being carried to the ears of his God. Several times, he had felt the divine power that coursed through his veins falter. At those moments, the spells he had been concentrating upon would fly from his mind and he would be left powerless except for the blade he carried. Still, his devotion held and he stayed on the path he had been set upon so long ago.

    He noticed movement on the western horizon. The Trolls were moving forward again. The beasts were not fond of battling in the day’s light. They had found that the warrior-priest actually preferred the nights as well, his power waning during the daylight hours. It was a calculating move on their part similar to their overused tactic of throwing as many goblin slaves at him as possible before attacking with their trained soldiers. Both tactics had failed horribly over the preceding days. However, the Trolls had to know they would eventually wear him down. The warrior-priest was, after all, outnumbered especially with the loss of his troops.

    Calmly, the warrior-priest roused the remains of his men. He allowed them time to eat and prepare themselves as much as was necessary. This would be their final fight together. He was not afraid of death but he did not relish the thought of sending his few remaining soldiers to their afterlives as well.

    “Men,” he screamed his voice harsh and raspy from days of misuse, “You are free to go. You have honorably served me and my God.” He turned to look the ten, ragged men in their eyes. “I will not bind you to my own fate. You must each choose your own path. Each of you has a family to watch over. Your place is with them and not at my side. I suggest you leave while you can. The Trolls will be here in a matter of hours.” The warrior-priest pushed the two bleached locks of white hair back behind his ears. In that position, the long, white curls clashed with the short black hair that was cropped closely to his head. He smiled grimly, realizing that in battle they must look like gleaming horns spinning and attacking his victims. “You’re dismissed!” He turned away from their nearly empty camp and looked to the horizon, to his own death.

    “Sir.” A young sergeant tried to pull him from his reverie. He was unsure of the sergeant’s name. The soldier was one of his quieter men.

    “Yes.”

    “I think, sir, I speak for all of us. Our place is at your side. This is the best way for us to take care of our families. And not just our own families, but those left fatherless and brotherless by this war. If we do not stop the Trolls, sir, then who will?” The sergeant stepped back, respectfully and returned to the breakfast fires. The warrior-priest smiled.

    Cael, do not fail us now.

    The warrior-priest spun on his heel. “Men. Today we die. Let our deaths not be in vain. There is nothing to fear from an honorable death. Cael will embrace each and every one of us into his arms. And he will devour the souls of our enemies! Into your positions!” The soldiers formed up alongside and behind the war-priest; five to each side creating an inverted vee pattern.

    The Trolls had stopped two hundred feet away. The warrior-priest noted the prominence of the diminutive Goblin slaves making the first rank. In the middle of the front rank was a line, maybe ten Trolls wide. "This is a new tactic," the warrior-priest grunted silently. “Ready your arrows!” Each of his ten soldiers lit the arrows they held and then proceeded to nock the arrows in their bows.

    A dark speck darted from the Troll ranks, running as fast as it could. The Goblin’s short legs weren’t built for distance as he seemed to sputter and trip at numerous points in his journey.

    “Extinguish arrows, men! I believe they wish to parley.” Cheers exploded behind him as the arrows were carefully extinguished.

    The Goblin toppled over as he reached the humans’ positions. His breath was hoarse and rasping, from his full-speed run. The warrior-priest lowered his weapon, resting the point of the blade only inches from the Goblin’s long, twisted nose. The runt scrambled backward onto his knees, not even daring to raise his eyes.

    “What message do you bring, slave?”

    The gobber scratched his head for a moment, trying to release the memories of his orders. Then he stood, carefully and slowly taking great pains to not look up. “Dey sen me.” Its common was broken and scratchy. It motioned back toward the Trolls to get the point across. “Dey speak: Fierce, war-yer o’ black night, be coward. Go to dem. Dey let not-men go.” The Goblin bowed his head, his transmission complete.

    The warrior-priest grimaced. He looked toward the enemies’ ranks and saw the line of Trolls part. In the center of the massive army, he could make out the distant shapes of women and children, cowering with fear. The Trolls alongside the prisoners rose gigantic axes into the air.

    “And if I don’t?”

    The Goblin raised his head and stared directly in the warrior-priest’s eyes. “Dey speak: Den you see dem die. Den you die.”

    The warrior-priest gritted his teeth. “Fine.” He sheathed his weapon and turned once again to his men. “I am going to turn myself over to the Trolls.” Grunts and moans arose but he cut them off with a swift gesture of his hand. “Prepare your arrows. If they do not release the prisoners, make them regret their dishonor.” He turned stoically toward the enemy encampment and began the walk over with the Goblin.

    Twenty feet from the Trolls, the prisoners were clearly in view. Most of the prisoners were women and children but there were a few elderly chained down as well. One of the prisoners stood tall and straight, long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes showed no mark of violation, unlike her body and clothing. The bruises, welts and lacerations that covered her naked torso dimmed in the serenity of her eyes. She cocked her head backward, allowing the warmth of the sun to brighten her face.

    He raised his eyes toward the sky as well. One last moment of peace, he thought. The sun had moved to its zenith and basked the gore of the field in its warm rays. A shimmer suddenly appeared just below the sun. A blood-red moon was speeding toward the fiery orb.

    Morrick, the Hand of Cael, hear my words now. Let my power guide and stay your hand. Gather your strength from my own. Your fate is upon you, the last of your adventures. But your life is not forfeit as of yet.

    This woman before you is your just reward for a life of service. She is a follower of Myr and will produce an heir for you. She is your salvation. She will be your love and your confidant. Protect her for your own future. Protect her for my future. And do as she requests. This is your future.

    I bless you Morrick.


    The crimson moon hovered in front of the sun, casting the battlefield into darkness. Worried murmurs arose from the Trolls. Morrick stared downward at his blade as he crossed the remaining twenty feet. Warmth trickled slowly down the scabbard and through his bones. He whipped the blade out of its covering, the ancient runes glowed an unearthly blue which quickly shifted into a bright, searing red hue.

    The Trolls leapt backward as Morrick’s blade danced above his head, in a fast arc. As the blade slid through the beasts, their bodies erupted into flame. The flaming corpses stumbled backward allowing the flames to spread rapidly through the ranks.

    The army surged forward to close the ranks and pin the cleric. Morrick’s men unleashed a barrage of flaming arrows into the army. They then dropped their bows, drawing their own melee weapons and began a charge.

    The flaming arrows did nothing to slow the progress of the hordes of Trolls and Goblins. Morrick grabbed the woman in white and pressed her downward onto the ground. He spun left and right, setting more of the creatures ablaze with the glowing sword.

    The warrior-priest screamed in rage as the tides kept pouring toward him. He saw his men trying to hack their way through the ranks to join their leader. Claws and blades hacked into his body as he fell forward, over the young woman. Blood poured from the multiple lacerations, his eyes were dulling.

    The woman stared up at Morrick’s face. She raised her hands, gently caressing his face. A bright light gushed from her hands. Morrick felt his wounds close and his vitality return. He stood straight and glared at the ranks surrounding him.

    The horde broke momentarily as Morrick raised the greatsword toward the sky. A fluid black energy poured from his body, engulfing the sword. Morrick felt divine energy coursing through his veins. He brought the blade down and pointed it at his enemies. A divine radius of black energy sped outward decimating the rival army.

    Morrick collapsed to the ground.

    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    When Morrick opened his eyes, he was staring into the face of the woman he had been protecting. He jumped upward, a pain in his back keeping him earthbound. Quickly he glanced to each side.

    A devastating scene spread around his prone form. All of the Trolls and Goblin slaves lie in burning heaps. The grass itself was stained and charred. He struggled to search the wreckage for his men, but her gentle hand pulled his gaze upward.

    “Your men are fine, as are the prisoners. The bolt of energy destroyed your enemies and passed harmlessly through your allies. My Goddess was impressed.”

    “You speak of Myr, do you not?”

    “Yes. She has asked me to accompany you to back to Legend. Our union is foretold in the stars Morrick, Hand of Cael.”

    Morrick grunted. He sat up to better take her beautiful countenance. “I know of this prophecy as well. I thank you for your aide on the field. Without you…”

    “Without me, dear Morrick, there is no future for you or any of us. Come,” she extended a hand and lifted him to his feet. “Let us leave this place of death and begin our lives anew.”
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    Non Omnis Moriar.


    First Writing Credit

  • #26
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    Funeris's Avatar

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    By the way, I'll be going on vacation this week (Hawaii). It means I won't get another update up until June. If you guys want to bump me until then, feel free
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    Non Omnis Moriar.


    First Writing Credit

  • #27
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    Creator of Morrick speaks....

    Funeris,
    That was a great aspect of the battle. Very well-written.
    Bill

    For everyone else,
    Morrick is derived from Cassock's background.
    Funeris had given me a few details of Cael and a climatic battle in the history of Legend.

    I mainly wanted a "famous" father to live up to. So began Morrick's creation. I could never get past the initial stats in his creation, so I basically gave him to Funeris with a brief battle history. Mainly facts, as you can see above he liked the idea and ran with it. It has made for an interesting twist in the campaign itself.

    But this post did answer one question we hadn't played out. *S*
    How many of Morrick's men survived, I remember we had decide it could not be more than 30, else the climatic-ness of the battle wouldn't have been as good.

    O as a note to all you rule-hounds looking for that Cleric spell it doesn't exist. Call it a Divine Aura mixed with Fireball, Flame Strike, Miracle, Destruction, and their shadow spells to create that Epic effect. Just simply a god working through their servant.

    And before you ask, no I don't know everything that happened to Morrick and his men. And I like it that way, as much as I would like to, it is a lot more fun to find out in game through Cassock.

    And have fun in Hawaii my RBDM.
    Again great update.
    Bill
    Bill
    The Yeti aka Magnus the Archmage
    ~"Henry Bowman lives within each and everyone of us, and it's time to start acting like it. "
    A Story Hour set in Valus by Funeris
    http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=97346

    Funeris's Second Story Hour (where he is the DM).
    http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=130328

    My Story Hour Set in Valus 20 years after Funeris's Valus SH.
    http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=133211

    Bryon_Soulweaver - "Stupid nobles, hope Mangus blasts them (and I woundn't doubt if he could)."

  • #28
    Quote Originally Posted by Funeris
    By the way, I'll be going on vacation this week (Hawaii). It means I won't get another update up until June. If you guys want to bump me until then, feel free
    I hope you have a great time in Hawaii, Funeris! I'm leaving for a bit more than a week in Cancun tonight! I look forward to reading any updates that you have when I get back in June.

  • #29
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    Thanks O-W. I'll try. You have fun in Cancun. I hope to update again around the middle of June. So, stay tuned.
    ----------------------------------------------------------
    Non Omnis Moriar.


    First Writing Credit

  • #30
    Bump.

    Great battle sequence. I love all that rallying-the-troops talk. Every story hour should have that at least once. And the interior monologue was well handled. Nice.

    Have a good holiday, and awaiting the next post...

    Spider J
    The CR-never-applies Story Hour A Chronicle of Ice, Luck and Honour continues with Chapter 13: Stairway to Heaven Updated 19th December.

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