Watch For Falling Meteors [4E KotS] Updated Weekdays!

I've decided to try my hand at a story to follow the adventures of my primary campaign, which we play weekly, and has just begun two weeks ago. I've actually been swaying on the writing style though--I'm sitting on the fence between straight third person description or a narrative prose (more like a traditional fantasy story). I'm going to drop in the first adventure they completed, then see what opinions are.

Watch For Falling Meteors

Omar snorted derisively as the soft summer breeze pulled an odor out of the descending stone staircase they had found amidst the ruins. “Aye,” he grunted, “if’nae I have a beard, that’s tha smell of kobolds, the miserable, scaled bastards they be.” With a casual, practiced motion, the dwarf hefted the angular head of his maul off of his shoulder, leveraging the long handle in his other hand, ready to bring the mighty weapon down on his foes. Omar was tall for a dwarf, standing a good deal taller than four heads, and his blocky torso and limbs weighed more than most humans, though that wasn’t uncommon among dwarves. Omar’s scalp was bare, the thin crop of hair he was born with having long since been worn away from wearing a helmet most of his life, and his beard, normally a full, braided, and decorated aspect of a dwarf, was disheveled and chopped off erratically only inches from his jaw. The dark, course hair had a healthy shine, but was matted and uncared for leaving him looking a bit wild. Opportunity had not presented itself for the rest of those traveling with Omar to ask about it.

That’s what Daichot was thinking as he stood beside Omar, curiously enough he realized. While the rest of the soon-to-be delvers were preparing for battle, he was wondering why the dwarven fighter he had recently met had such a travesty (by dwarven standards) of a beard. For Daichot however, being born with devilish horns sprouting from his forehead, deep red skin, and a bony, ridged brow and tail, the word ‘curious’ did not mean the same to him as it did others. His sinister tiefling frame towered over the dwarf if height was the measure used, but the squat humanoid was probably heavier than him, or close to it. They were both wearing battered suits of scale armor, made of small, overlapping plates of metal sewn into leather, affording excellent joint mobility, once you got accustomed to the weight, and learning what ways you couldn’t twist. While Omar had swung about the maul that was nearly his height earlier in the day with obvious practice and skill, the warlord Daichot took comfort in the reassuring power of his greataxe, which he now brandished in a similar fashion to the dwarf, ready to chop mightily into whatever waited for them down stairs they had found, deep in the earth.

“What are we waiting for, then?” quarried a halfling crouching behind the dwarf, who deftly placed a small bolt in the hand crossbow he was holding, cocking the string in the same motion. “The lord warden said any spoils we found in the lair are ours for the keeping!” He had introduced himself as “Percy” when the band agreed to the request for anyone brave enough to enter the kobold’s lair to step forward, though he had included a broad sweep of his feathered hat and a low, flamboyant bow for the crowd, who actually started to applaud the halfling, apparently not noticing there was nothing to applaud, really. Since leaving the city walls of Fallcrest and setting out for the ruins of the old guard keep, Percy had changed from his dramatic attire to a more practical, form fitting leather shirt and britches, with a long (well, long by halfling standards), hooded cloak which draped over his loaded down frame. No taller than four heads, including the hood, Percy was as slim and wiry as Omar was stocky and broad. A bandolier of leather straps secured several sheathed daggers about the rogue’s body, ready for easy access, and a small hand crossbow, actually rather large for halfling hands, was the only thing protruding out of his cloak, presently, except an eager glint of teeth showing through his excited smile, framed by curly, dark brown locks of hair threatening to escape his hood.

Omar looked back at the halfling, trying to decide if the displayed bravado was genuine, or overcompensation. Having witnessed the halfling fighting on the road to Fallcrest during his journey from Hammerfall, the dwarf decided the rogue was not in the least bit timid, though whether from the natural boldness of the halfing race, or just not having enough sense to be cautious, he wasn’t sure. But his back cast glance at the halfling left his gaze settling on the last person to volunteer to help enter the lair.

The elven ranger had not spoken since they left the walls of Fallcrest, only nodding or shaking her head when asked a question. Even before they had left, she only spoke twice that he’d noticed, once to say her name, “Oleaf”, and the other time to indicate she was from Harkenwold Forest, which most likely meant she was from the Woodsinger clan of elves. She had three quivers, filled with arrows, strapped across her back with tight leather straps, which crossed and accented the lithe curves of her elven features, despite the heavy hides she wore as armor. Angled opposite the quivers across her back, two straight edged short swords protruded over her opposite shoulder, their ornately shaped, leather-wrapped hilts visible to Omar. While the other three were holding their weapons at ready, she had not drawn an arrow from her quiver yet, and calmly stood at the ready. From a quick glance, one might think she wasn’t paying attention, but her wide, green eyes resting on her high cheeks of earthy tone skin were searching the dwarf’s expression, as her long, pointed ears poked out of her tightly braided auburn hair twitched slightly. She nodded to Omar, to let him know she was ready.

The air echoed a howling protest as the holes in the skull-shaped boulder whistled and the heavy rope which the stone secured to the ceiling with creaked. The north end of the chamber had been carved out of the rock, with two ledges ten feet off the floor looking out over the expansive chamber that looked to have once been a crypt. Piles of bones topped with skulls of various species sat on four coffins in the center of the chamber, at perfect height for the stone-and-rope device to strike them, if sent with the right trajectory from the ledges. A kobold on the right ledge had just sent the stone, which was carved to look like a giant skull itself, whistling out into the chamber, narrowly missing one pile of bones and careening through the top of its arc before crossing the chamber again to be caught by a kobold on the opposite ledge, separated by a solid wall set with two huge, iron-bound double doors. The missed swing was met with simultaneous barks of elation and scolding by the opposing kobold groups.

“Can you understand what in the world they are saying, Daichot?” whispered the halfling, peeking carefully into the chamber from the southern passage entering the room, at least fifty feet from the kobolds, and half that from the coffins. A huge pit separated the north and south half of the chamber, and the coffins, half as wide as the chamber and glowing with the same greenish luminescence of the last pit they came across. “What’s with kobolds and all that slime, anyway?” puzzled the rogue.

Daichot shrugged at the second question, still trying to answer the first. “There are two many shouting right now to make it out, but before that they were chanting ‘skull skull’ over and over, then started shouting, mostly curse words.” He looked at the dwarf and elf, pressed against the wall beside him, who were wondering if the tiefling really understood Draconic or if he was just making this up. “I’m telling you, that’s what I heard—what the hell are they doing in there, Percy?”

The halfing risked another peek as the chanting began again, and another kobold readied to cast the stone out into the chamber. “Um… I think they’re playing a game, actually!” he pulled his head back from around the corner as the rock smashed into a pile of bones with a heavy crack, followed by the clatter of bones scattering over the floor. Jabbing a thumb in the direction of the kobolds over his shoulder he grinned, “I think those guys are winning.”

Omar moved as quietly as he could to the corner, as Percy slid down the wall to make room for him, shooshing the blocky dwarf. As Omar got to the corner he waited for another outburst after the stone whistled through the chamber, and risked a glance out into the chamber. The dwarf quickly leaned back and faced the rest of the party, the halfling right before him, and the elf and tiefling crouching low as they huddled together at the end of the tunnel that brought them this far.

“Looks like at least half a dozen kobolds up on the ledges,” said Omar. “Half of them are here,” he motioned his hand to the northwest as if there was no wall before him and they were in the chamber already, “and the other half, here” he indicated to the northeast as Percy nodded in agreement. “There’s a set’o double doors innae middle o that wall,” he motioned straight north, “but one athose damned pits we saw up abov’n the middle of the room, like Percy said. Runnin’ aroun’ll take seconds we cannae afford so I think I should jump it an’ draw ‘em in while Oleaf finds some cover t’attack from. You two” Omar motioned to the rogue and warlord, “stay on ma flank and I’ll have tha door open afore ye get there.”

Daichot nodded, “I agree, let’s charge out together, and hit the door together.”

“You expect me to jump over that pit!? It’s like ten feet!” Percy expressed his problems with the plan plainly.

“Nae, I dinnae think ya have tha muscles fer that, so ye’ll hafta run around, lad.” Omar agreed with the halfling.

Oleaf shattered the conversation with her soft, whispery voice, so unaccustomed were they to hearing her talk. “I will cover you, Percy.”

As they lined up at the opening into the chamber, ready to charge, Daichot looked down to Omar one more time. “Are you sure you’re up for that jump? That dart that hit you in the crypt back there took the stride out of your step. I didn’t want to say anything while it didn’t matter, but your gait has been a little awkward since then.”

Omar started to protest without thought to the comment, and then thought better of it. “Yer right. That toxin hadda whallup on it, but I’ve had worse buzzes from elven wine!” he grinned mischievously. With one more nod they ran out from the chamber, Omar leading the way with a roaring battlecry, “Moradin’s beard protect us!” and they sprinted towards the pit.

To their credit, the kobolds reacted quicker than expected, as one on the left, currently holding the stone, deftly heaved it out to the side, arcing it expertly into the path of the charging humanoids in scale armor. With a heavy thud, the stone caught Daichot across the shoulder before creaking audibly against the rope and arcing back over to the opposite ledge, where it was caught. The warlord was sent flailing off of his feet, sliding back at least five feet and finding himself flat on his back gasping for a breath as his shoulder and back were exploding with pain.

Seeing the stone strike the tiefling, Percy snapped a quick shot with his crossbow, catching a kobold loading a sling on the left ledge in the leg as it howled in pain, then dashed into the chamber, somersaulting the last ten feet to the closest coffin, twisting mid-roll to end with his back flush against the intervening cover. A javelin skittered across the floor where he had been a second ago, and Percy looked back to see Oleaf calmly kneel at the opening to the chamber and loose her arrow in one motion, then draw and release three more times as she briskly sidestepped into the chamber with a fluidity that seemed impossible if not for the halfling witnessing it. Two arrows found purchase in the slinger, both through the chest, and he toppled to the floor from the ledge, as the two kobolds next to him, heaving javelins were both struck in the chest and fell as well.

Before he realized it, Oleaf had walked over to him with long, confident strides, pulling out two more arrows and placing them on the humming bow string with a practiced grace. “Ready?” she asked confidently, and Percy nodded, thankful to have Oleaf protecting his back.

Percy quickly placed another bolt into his hand crossbow and cocked it as he dashed out from behind his cover, skirting the edge of the slime pit as more kobolds appeared on the ledges, hurling javelins accurately down into the main chamber, but narrowly missing the charging adventurers. Catching the silhouette of the dwarf ahead of him, the rogue focused on him just in time to see him land on the other side of the pit with a heavy crash, skidding on the dusty stone as one of the kobolds on the right sent the stone for their game careening down at him. Omar was ready for the projectile though, and swung his maul around, connecting with a mighty crack that split the air in the room as the cascade of rock shards and dust exploded away from the impact, leaving only a shower of broken stone falling in the dwarf’s wake as he raced for the door, his lowering his shoulder.

The warlord was back on his feet as Percy agilely leapt over the last corner of the pit and slid to a stop behind a coffin on the north side of the room, loosing another bolt towards the right side of the room, where the familiar sound of a sling whirling through the air caught is attention. The bolt struck the kobold squarely and caused him to release the shot too early, sending a smoldering clay pot crashing into the coffin, igniting viscous putty contained in the pot across the north side, opposite the halfling.

Daichot landed heavily on the other side of the pit in the same moment, and he too barreled for the double doors, but several steps behind the dwarf. The zip of arrows cutting through the air overhead was a reminder of Oleaf’s presence in the back of the chamber, and the kobolds falling from the ledges was the overt display of her prowess at archery.

Omar crashed into the door first, visibly jarring him as the door didn’t give, just as the tiefling crashed into the door to his left, bouncing off the iron-banded planks as the door shook but did not give. Omar crashed his shoulder into the door again, rocking away from the second failed drive, and screamed, “MORADIN!” bringing his maul around in a hurtling path for the door. The wood splintered around the depression of the impact and rivets popped free of the iron bands as the wood broke and buckled, but the door was still standing. Two more arrows and another bolt from the rogue and ranger sailed overhead up to the ledges, and the kobolds ducked away from the ranged onslaught, throwing their javelins down hastily, missing their marks.

“As one, dwarf!” cried out the warlord, and with a nod he and Omar slammed into the door as one force, as the hinges bent against their frame with a protesting squeal, leaving the doors with nothing to support them as they crashed down into the corridor beyond. A pair of scaly brown guard drakes leapt back from the falling timbers with barking squawks, then following the barking command of the kobolds flooding down a staircase from the ledge above, they charged into the pair of combatants.

Bravely blockading the corridor to keep the beasts from getting around them, Omar received their charge headlong. He caught one of the ferocious creature’s maws with the haft of his weapon, but the second lunged in and viciously bit him across the thigh, nearly pulling him off his feet and into the corridor with them. With a mighty below of power, Daichot brought his axe crashing into the beast upon Omar, and his blow was answered with a spray of gore from the beast as it shrieked in pain.

Seeing an opening, Percy dashed out from the cover of the coffin he was behind, dropping his crossbow as he pulled free a dagger from his harnesses with each hand. Before Daichot realized what was happening, the nimble rogue ran up the tiefling’s body, still rising from his attack, and leapt over the ferocious drakes! As one followed the halfling’s leap, it neglected to watch the dwarf that quickly torqued the shaft of his weapon around, bringing the solid iron head crashing into the drakes skull with an audibly wet thud, and it rolled over with the force of the blow, howling.

As Percy flew over the drakes he twisted in the air till he was nearly upside down, flying backwards down the tunnel, till one of his daggers plunged deeply into the chest of a kobold that brandished a spear behind the drakes, and held tightly to the weapon, snagging himself out of the air and bringing him down behind the creature. As he pulled the dagger free from the already dead kobold, he lunged to the side with the other, catching another kobold through the spine as it turned to flee from the sudden appearance of flashing knives amidst a line they thought was secure. The remaining kobolds ran quickly back up the steps to the ledges they came from, deciding their chances with the ranger were better than the rogue.

Oleaf had turned her attention to the drakes now, and two arrows, arcing in less than a foot over the dwarf’s head, slammed into the maw of the drake before Omar, seconds before his maul crashed down into the beast, finishing it off. As the other beast lunged at Daichot, Omar managed to catch the beast with a jab from the haft of his weapon as the warlord stumbled backwards, out of room to move, as he saw two kobolds on the ledge above him ready to throw more javelins down. The tiefling roared in defiance at the kobolds, bolstering his comrades and chopping his axe into the drake, as a javelin struck the warlord high in the left shoulder.

The kobolds throwing the javelins both crashed down from the ledge, arrows protruding from their chests, as Oleaf continued to loose one arrow after the next with impossible precision and flawless motion. Percy, sliding deftly behind the drake, pounced on top of the beast and jammed a dagger into each side of the beast, piercing its lungs and diaphragm. The drake shrieked one more time as the halfling rode the thrashing creature to the ground, rolling away from the landing, and then the room was still.

With a steady hand, Daichot reached up and pulled the spear protruding out of his collar. The head of the weapon made sucking noise as it let go of his flesh, and half of the point was glistening with fresh blood. “Armor stopped the worst of it. The ‘skull-skull’ rock was worse than this. How is your leg, Omar?”

Omar grunted. “Not as bad as I thought, but had you nae been here, that other beastie mighta had me.”

Daichot smiled. While he might have walked with a stoic air and commanding presence, he looked positively devilish when he smiled. “I was thinking something similar when that one got your leg—if Omar wasn’t here, that thing would be biting my leg!” Omar shook his head at the humor as Oleaf was calmly watching down the corridor beyond the doors.

“See anything, lass?”

Oleaf turned to look at the dwarf, quietly. “No,” she whispered, “but I can hear talking, kobolds, I think.”

Both of the heavy set warriors cocked their heads. “Don’t hear anything.” They both said together.

“I know,” she stated flatly, “but there are more kobolds,” she pointed down the corridor, “that way. I can hear at least three different voices, and they know we’re here.”

“How do you know that?” called Percy from up on the ledge, eagerly volunteering to search the bodies for valuables, and collect the thumbs from each one for the bounty they intended to collect.

Oleaf looked up to the halfling and considered his question, then back to the others. “Because they stopped moving a moment ago, and haven’t started again. They must be waiting for us.”

Percy nodded at the explanation, not for a moment impressed by the range of the elf’s hearing, and resumed perusing the freshly killed with a mechanical thoroughness. Omar wrapped a wide strip of cloth around his thigh, which was seeping a little bit of blood, and Daichot adjusted his armor roughly before hefting his axe back onto his bruised shoulder.

“Well,” noted Omar, “if’n they be ready fer us, I guess that’ll mean they’ll put up a better fight than’a last few chambers did.”

“Hey guys,” Percy added as they started to move into the dim corridor, having returned from the ledge with decent bag of coins, “I’ll bet I end up with more kills than anyone else before we’re done—any takers?”

“I really think she should count for more than one kill!” protested Percy, as Omar and Daichot slumped against the rocks of the chilly cave, breathing heavily from their ordeal. “I mean she was a lot more ferocious than a kobold!”

Oleaf was walking softly across the chamber, which was a huge, natural cavern that was much cooler than the rest of the hall. They had found a hidden portcullis behind a false wall after killing the wyrmpriest who appeared to be leading the kobolds in the old ruins, and a key he had carried opened the lock. She walked gracefully across the icy floors, still covered in frost from the battle with the dead behemoth before her, which Percy was standing atop pleading his case.

A white dragon. As dragons go, a small dragon, but none-the-less, the beast was easily twice the size of a horse, and taller. It was slumped against the rock in a broken pile, terrible gaping wounds across its torso from the warlord’s axe, swollen flesh and upturned scales from Omar’s maul, and no less than a dozen arrows protruded from the beasts head and torso. But most prominent at the moment was a gleaming, jeweled dagger, shoved through one of the beasts eyes—a dagger that Percy had found on the wyrmpriest.

“This should be like… five kills. At least.” Percy argued.

Omar was busy catching his breath. The dragon had been ferocious, and he had been badly battered, and was still feeling the warmth come back into his fingers from her icy breath attack. “It jus’ counts as one, lad—had I not broken her wing, we might have nae been as lucky.”

Percy lifted up the membrane of the wing, and the bone scraped noisily under the flesh. “Yeah, that was a pretty good shot,” he admitted, “but she was all over you, and if not for me distracting her, she might have finished you!” Daichot shook his head, thinking to argue that he was next to Percy the whole time, but opted to stay out of it.

“I count thirteen arrows in this magical creature, so that would mean I did the most slay her, wouldn’t it?” Oleaf more made a statement than a question, and the halfling took too long to answer.

“Tis jus’ one, lad. Even if’n it were five, the elf still outslew ye.”

“Oh,” Percy said with disappointment, then perked up, “well she said, ‘I will not bet on such gruesome things’” he mimicked, “so that means the bet’s void!” Percy hopped down from the bulk of the dragon, on the far side from the party. “Woah! Hey there’s a chest back here! Lucky find!”

“Pershy the dragonshlayer!” the halfling called out over the assembled crowd as he hoisted his mug into the air, spilling a bit of foam which twirled down to the floor before splashing into the growing puddle on the already stained and worn boards. The people gathered around the halfling answered with a hearty hoorah and joined the rogue in another toast to himself.

In the corner of the room, with a good view of the spectacle, but far enough from the commotion to not be caught up in it, the rest of the group watched Percy celebrating how great he was. “Were we in the same lair?” asked Daichot sardonically.

“Pershy, kobold shcourge of Fallcrest!”
“Hoorah!”

Omar chuckled lightly to himself, tugging on his long pipe with amusement at the halfling. “Well, about two pints ago it sounded like I was a’least helpin’ the lad slay that lizard!” The dwarf turned his chair back to the table and took another draw from his ale, finishing off the mug and romping it back down on the table loudly as he wiped the moisture from his erratic beard with the back of his arm. “I must say ahm glad he’was there, all tha same. For a runt he was good inna fight!”

Oleaf, sitting across from Omar, her back to the corner of the tavern with a good view of the entire establishment, and the concealment of the dim shadows, nodded in agreement as she returned a fancy glass flute filled with clear liquid. Daichot was sipping a cup of ale of his own, though at a much slower pace than the dwarf, who was waving to a server for a third now.

“I’m just trying to figure out was even present on this expedition!” Daichot swept his arm out to illustrate all three of them were at the table. “Ya shoulda sheen Omar crushh thoshe nashty koboldsh with hish maul,” the tiefling mimicked Percy’s drunken accent, “an’ then Oleaves shoddem wid an arrow!” he mockingly pulled an imaginary bowstring back, “But then!” he stood up, wobbling as if he was about to topple over, “I shlew the dragon!” with that the warlord jabbed his thumb at his chest triumphantly and dropped into his chair heavily. He waved a dismissing hand at the halfling as he heard calls to retell the story of their fight with the dragon.

“Ye’ve a fine head fer battle, Daichot,” Omar said reassuringly, “and a presence on the battlefield that’s palpable. Ayd follow ya inta—“ Omar hiccupped and burped simultaneously, making an excruciating noise that seemed to end in a sensation of relief, “Ayd follow ya inta—“ another convulsion and inflated cheeks left Omar waiting to see if he was going to vomit, eventually, he decided he wasn’t. “Whew… that’s fine ale.” He waited another moment before trying to talk again. “Ayd follow ye inta any battle yer leadin’ me… well… inta.”

Daichot held the dwarf’s gaze through his compliment and then for a moment longer before nodding, sincerely. “Thank you. I can’t think of a better person to fight next to, either.” As he finished speaking the clamor of Percy falling off the table as he tried to act out Omar getting hit with a poisoned dart from a trap in the old tombs they explored preceded a roar of laughter and cheering. He drained the last of his cup and shook his head to decline a refill as a barmaid who was giving their table extra attention began to move his way.

Omar noticed and commented, “Aye, this is a strong brew—some of the best I’ll ever have the pleasure of waking up in a pool of! Doesn’t quite taste dwarven though!”

Daichot smiled and pointed to Percy, who climbed up onto the table and leapt off of it, acting out their jump down onto the kobold shaman that was the leader of the tribe. “Halfling.” At Omar’s confusion, Daichot spoke up, leaning closer. “I said that’s a halfling brew! I’ve lived here most of my life, and the brewmaster at this tavern is a halfling—makes the best spirits in the city, maybe the land.”

Omar looked into the depths of the fresh mug that was set before him by their server, as if on cue. He smiled heartily and slurped heavily at the ready-to-spill tankard. “Halfling, ye’say? Amazing.” He noticed Oleaf returning her half empty wine glass to the table—she had not yet had a single glass full, and they had been in the tavern long enough to eat, get the dwarf drunk, and for Percy to be on his fourth telling of their adventure. “I’ve never seen clear wine before, not even elven!”

“You still haven’t,” answered the elf with a coy smile, “this is water.”

“Then I ran up the red guysh back, and shtabbed a pair of koboldsh!” Percy amazingly performed a round-off of the table even while stumbling drunk, landing on the balls of his feet with a crouch and lancing his arms out with a pair of daggers represented by spoons. Oleaf chuckled, a musical sound unlike any noise either Omar or Daichot had ever heard.

“What’s funny?”
“You made it into the story,” she replied with a smile and a glint in her eyes, before taking another sip of her water, as she noticed the spoons go into Percy’s pockets, rather than back to the table.

An enjoyable read so far I really like your writing style.

Is it on purpose that you have an all martial party?

The adventurer's are entirely a creation of the players. Omar is a dwarf fighter (guardian) with a maul, Daichot is a tiefling warlord (inspiring) with a greataxe, Percy is a halfling rogue (trickster) with daggers (primarily, he carries a lot of weapons), and Oleaf is an elf ranger (archer) with a longbow.

They don't have a controller role present--yet, but that will change not too much farther into the story. Daichot (the warlord) provides plenty of surge triggers, but I treat it as such when writing it--his healing is visualized as a pivotal strike that turns a potentially lethal attack into a superficial one, etc. For example, the guard drakes nearly killed Omar in that first charge they made, but between Omar's second wind and the warlord's triggered surge, he went almost up to full health again. A battlecry and well-timed blow to (his tactics and example) pressed the advantage for them.

Daichot also went to bloody from those damned minions throwing javelins at him, but I only had one hit him when he reached bloody, from a descriptive standpoint. The rest of the time they weren't telling strikes. I'm enjoying writing this, so I'm going to continue for now--I was a little concerned that skipping most of the encounters during the delve would lessen the story, because I didn't want to write a dragon fight right off the bat--especially because of how badly they stomped said dragon.

Two days after the celebration, Omar walked out the front door of the smithy wearing a well-fit suit of plate armor, styled in traditional dwarven fashion, which was not exceptional, as the smith was a dwarf. The blacksmith had been so excited when Daichot presented the cured scaled from a green dragon they had found amidst the stolen goods at Kobold Hall, he had refit the plate armor to fit Omar snugly for only a minimal fee; his old armor. The burly fighter was displaying a proud grin as he jabbed a thumb at the chestpiece of his armor—his family crest, the silhouette of a broad foot with a gleaming big toe, was embossed in the center of the breastplate.

Omar’s broad smile was nearly as lopsided as the lay of his beard, since there was now a prominent braid on his left jaw line, standing out in stark contrast to the rest of his wild, matted mane. The dwarf moved with the steady gate of every one of his kind, seemingly unaffected by the weight and restricted movements of his new armor. “How do ay look?” he questioned Daichot, hooking one thumb through his belt while balancing his maul over his shoulder.

“Quite impressive,” he genuinely observed, “though, the helmet is…” Daichot searched for the right words, failing, “well… crooked.”

Omar gasped with indignation as he furrowed his brow, “The helm’s straight! ‘At’s jus’ the lay o’ me head!” The dwarf’s face reddened visibly as his temperament soured.

Daichot held his hands up in surrender, stifling a chuckle, “I’m sorry Omar,” the tiefling grinned broadly, then bowed low in apology for his offense, “you wear that armor with a distinguished presence, that none can imitate.”

“I cannae tell if’n yer still sayin’ me heads crooked, but I’ll say thanks all the same.” Omar held up a declining hand to a woman selling delicious looking red fruit from her cart next to them, and Daichot fell into step with him. “So that’s all me business ‘fore we leave, anything you need ta take care of afore we’re meetin’ tha others?”

Daichot nodded. “I’d like to visit the temple,” he explained, “I don’t think a blessing on our journey would be out of place, and I would like to see if they have a symbol of Bahamut I might acquire.”

Omar glanced at the tiefling as they moved through the crowded streets, heading towards the imposing cliff that separated Fallcrest into “high town” and “low town”. The temple the warlord spoke of was visible even from the market square in low town, where they were walking, perched at the edge of the bluff looking down over them, more than a hundred and a half again feet up. Criss-crossing the face of the steep bluff was a switchback trail they were headed to, and a line of porters, ferrying goods from the low side of the waterfalls in the middle of the city up to the high side, to continue their trip up-river. There was a winch operated elevator as well, but it was built ages ago, and reserved for goods that were too large or heavy to move by porter.

“I’m surprised ye aren’t a paladin, Daichot. Ye’ve got the discipline and faith fer it, if I was judgin’.”

The warlord smiled again, though it was a reflection to himself, knowing an answer he wasn’t going to share, yet. He was broad shouldered and carried a massive greataxe with little effort, and today he held his weapon with a little hint of pride. He had replaced his old weapon with another axe, a magical one which he plundered from the dragon’s small treasure cache. Between the wicked and ornate shape of his new weapon, and the spiky ridges across his brow and forehead, Daichot looked fairly sinister, as most tieflings do. But it took little time in conversation to find he was very concerned with integrity, honor, and strength.

“I considered devoting my strength to Bahamut,” he confessed, “but there’s a part of me—the part that grew up here,” he waved his arm out, indicating all of low town, “that just isn’t willing to trust everything to divine will.” He thought about it as they walked without comment, then added, “But I did consider it.”

That answer satisfied Omar, or at least he didn’t show otherwise if it didn’t. It was Daichot’s turn for a question. “I apologize for the helmet remark—“

“I’ll not have it, lad,” the fighter interrupted, “me ‘ead’s crooked, ain’t yer fault.”

A reflexive chuckle escaped his lips. “Well good, because I was planning on really prying now.” Omar looked at him, puzzled. “It’s been eating at me for a few days now, and I’m afraid I just have to ask, but I’m not trying to offend—“

“Ye gonna ask er not?”

“Your beard.” Though his words were a statement, the question did not need to be stated. “I’ve only seen one dwarf in my life with a beard like yours. He had been beaten to a pulp in an alley and some thugs cut his beard off. They might as well have killed him, to feel his spirit missing after that day.”
Omar didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem upset. He was just listening, so Daichot continued.

“I had just about let the matter go, then yesterday morning you come down from our rooms with that braid.” The dwarf absently was stroking the finely woven band of his beard, but still didn’t say anything. Trying to read if he had upset Omar, there was no indication of anything on the dwarf’s face.

“So, will you explain?”

“Nope.” Omar replied easily, with a level tone that was conversational, not hostile.

“Oh.” Daichot felt a little ruffled, but managed to not show it for the next fifteen minutes, as they made their way up the railed switchback, watching low town shrink below them slowly. Eventually, his curiosity about the normally very talkative Omar broke him. “Well, will you not tell me, or will you not tell anyone?”

Omar looked at him plainly, and the tiefling half expected to see the dwarf amused at how perplexed he had his red-skinned companion, but there was no emotion either way, just a dwarf, concentrating on walking. “A dwarf does nae feel sorry fer ‘imself.”

They made the rest of the way up the switchback in silence as Daichot thought about whether or not the dwarf had answered his question. By the top, he decided he had.

Percy tried to hide his nervousness as he followed the others through the gates of Fallcrest. His eyes darted among the assembled townsfolk that had gathered to see the Heroes of Kobold Hall off to Winterhaven. With so many people looking at them and cheering them on, it was difficult to tell if any were paying extra attention to him. The halfling couldn’t help thinking of the letter in his vest.

My dearest Percival Padfoot,

I trust this letter is indication enough that your recent appearance in Fallcrest has not gone un-noticed by my sources. You might wonder why I have instructed them to leave this letter in your room, rather than a pool of your blood, and since you are not intelligent enough to answer that question without help, I will simplify the matter for you.

I’m coming Percy, and when I find you, I’m going to slit your throat and watch you bleed out.

Warmest regards,
Loraax Leapfeet

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Percy.”
The tiefling’s voice would have stopped the rogue’s heart if he’d been any more surprised. His face paled and he nearly fell as he stumbled over an uneven rut of crumbled brick in the cobblestone gate path. “N-no,” he stammered, trying to find his voice even though his throat felt thick with anxiety, “I’m fine. J-just… too much to drink last night.”

“’At’s jus’ like a halflin’ fer ya,” bemused Omar, leading them out of the gates and onto the muddy transition from cobble to earth, on the small western road leading out of Fallcrest, “ya ne’er drink more’n ye kin handle, les’ yer drinkin’ away a lost love.”

Percy caught Omar’s eyes for a moment, and stuffed down a renewed sense of alarm without a facial expression. “Whatever you say, Irongut,” he grumbled.

“Mebe ye’re hungover after all,” the dwarf suggested, “cuz ye’re bein’ as cranky as ye were the morn’ afore last, after that night o’ storytellin’.”

“Percy the Dragonslayer.”

Both the warlord and fighter laughed out loud at Oleaf’s quiet statement of Percy’s self-given title, and raised their weapons as they yelled out a “Hoorah!” in the halfling’s honor. The levity was lost on Percy, who had finally relaxed the white-knuckled grip on his dagger, beneath the concealing drape of his cloak.

The muffled scrape and clack of talons on stone echoed softly off the walls of the staircase as a robed humanoid silently passed up the spiraling ascension. The air held a musty, old scent that hinted at a myriad of incenses and oils that had burned in the chambers above and below over the centuries. Everburning torches, casting a soft green light from their magical flames, cast the walls of the staircase into a sharp and eerie tint, and muted shadows followed the robed, hooded figure.

As the robed one reached the top of the steps, he strode out over a flat landing, coming up to an ancient door, which bore glowing runes of warding upon the center, and had no visible handles. A slender arm reached out from the folds of his robes, making a practiced sign of dismissal with his clawed hand. The runes intensified for a moment before dulling again, and the door swung open on easy hinges, with no apparent means of force. A cool breeze flooded into the stairwell from the room beyond, and the clawed hand retracted to shield the figure’s face from a flood of unexpected sunlight.

“Vrax. Thank you for coming so quickly!” exclaimed a very old human, sitting at a desk situated across the room, before an open set of stained windows. The elderly man was wearing a robe similar in design to those draped over the clawed hands, taloned feet, and leathery snout of the one who only now was growing acclimated to the sudden brightness of the chamber.

The figure pulled his hood back, revealing a pale brown ridge of scales and leathery flesh, framing a face that could only be described as ghostly draconic. Vrax was dragonborn, a race of dragonmen with a vague and lost history, to most. A proud, noble, and fierce race, which for the most part looked nothing like Vrax. He was thin and gaunt, and the scales that appeared on his body (much like humans have body hair) were soft and sickly looking. Rather than strong, mighty, and radiating a powerful presence, he looked meek, gaunt, and hunched.

“You summoned me, master,” he rasped in a soft voice, “and I obey.”

The old man looked up from a large book splayed out on the table he was seated before, and smiled warmly at the dragon-wizard, but shook his head in disagreement.

“You really must stop calling me ‘master’ my young friend.” The old man reminded him, though he knew the effort was futile—while Vrax was not like most dragonborn, he had an instinctual need for honoring his teacher that would never pass. Seeing Vrax start to protest, he interrupted him with an upheld finger, “There is nothing more I have to teach you; you’re mastery of the arcane arts has surpassed my own, my little dragon.”

Vrax felt something warm deep in his chest. Master Nimozaran only used that term a few times in his last few years of study at the Emerald Tower, the singular home of the Septarch of Fallcrest, Nimozaran. He only used the term when he was talking to Vrax as a friend, not as his teacher. He subdued the urge to disagree with his master, partly out of embarrassment, because it was true, and mostly from respect, as Master Nimozaran had been practicing magic longer than Vrax had been alive.

The old wizard rose from his stool and walked over to Vrax, who hobbled into the room with the familiar slide and scrape of his leathery, taloned feet that had become a common noise since his acceptance into the tower. There was some pain felt even with this slow gait—even his old master was more able-bodied than the dragonman was, but he had never shown him pity for his weak body, something Vrax respected even more. Nimozaran took his thoughts away from his failing body as he spoke.

“No, my boy, you have a gift for the arcana that I have not witnessed since I was an apprentice myself, before the Bloodspear Wars.” Vrax might have blushed if his sickly flesh were capable of it. “And it’s time you found your place in the world—because it’s not here, cooped up in this tower, with me.” The old master could see he had visibly stunned the young wizard, and explained.

“I’ve gotten a message from your father,” the old man smiled, and Vrax’s mind raced at the prospect of seeing his father again. “He’s in Winterhaven, and he claims he’s found the burial site of a dragon! It would mean very much to him if you could be there, for the find of his life.”

His master waited for what he had said to sink in, patiently watching his ex-student. “My father… I’ve hardly seen him for… over ten years.” Nimozaran nodded, smiling. “He’s very excited to see you, and I’m very excited to see what you’ve become.”

Vrax fumed inside, but it wasn’t a visible expression on the surface, at least not to humans. He was taller than when he last saw his father, a few years ago on his hatching day. Having lived in the Septarch’s Tower for the last decade, Vrax spent most of his life serving, and earning the discipline required to control the underlying fury of the arcane. His father had missed nothing, only a weak and broken body belonging to a runt that wasn’t meant to survive. His own people didn’t even want him.

He stuffed the thoughts back down into the bitter place they lived, and bowed before his master. “I will make arrangements to travel to Winterhaven then, master. I shall return as soon as I am able.”

“I don’t want you to return, Vrax,” the old man was smiling at the look of alarm on Vrax’s face. “Go see your father, and then go see your life.”