The Ballad of Hal Whitewyrm

Player:​

The sight of Brother Vhelt dying in a pool of his own blood combined with the sudden appearance of the troll completely throws me for a loop and shuts me down. My mind is screaming to act, but my body just does not respond as it tramples me to the ground.

As I see the monster snatch up Nasharel like as if only a rag doll and stuff her into a sack, my muscles finally come under my control in a surge of rage. This troll is mine or I die here, tonight.

Engage Test: Speed B3 + 2D weapon length = 1,5,6,6,6 [insert Iron Maiden’s song here] – 4 successes
The Troll is at a +2 Ob disadvantage against me (431).

Fight Script:
Get up (yelling “TROLL!!!”) – Get up (yelling once again “TROLL!!!”) – Strike

GM:​

Strike – Strike – Avoid (its claws are fast weapons, it can strike every round)

Despite being on the ground, you stay close to the beast as it tries to break from the combat. Each time you yell, it strikes at you, trying to get past the point of your sword as you keep the tip right on the beast, daring it to make its way past the blade in order to use its claws.

1 success.

It flails at you while you get up to no effect, in a great back-hand rake and before you are fully on your feet, it attempts to strike you again, that hand making it back across its body in the other direction.

Again, it misses as the camp begins to stir.

Someone bellows, “ARMS! Troll in camp!”

It attempts to jump out of the way of your sword as you attack.

Avoid, 1 success, taking 1 away from your successes, defensive actions are not penalized by advantage!

Nasharel’s dagger pokes through the bag as she attempts to cut her way out, the camp is grabbing its weapons and coming to your aid.

Your roll.

Player:​

I’m reading the Anatomy of Injury section to learn how to take damage but it’s a bit confusing as I have not read in-depth the entire Fight section. From what I gather I have taken 1 hit from the troll’s claws but I’m not sure where to mark it on the PTGS. I will roll my attack and if there’s any adjustment to be made from damage, you let me know and we fix it.

I feel the slashing pain of the troll’s claws as they tear into my flesh but I ignore it as best I can. Dimly, somewhere in the back, I hear the stirrings of the camp: help is on the way. As I weave and dodge to stay close to the beast, I see a flash of steel from the sack—Nasharel’s dagger!

You are mine, troll.

Sword Test: 4,6,5,3 – 1 success from the troll’s avoid = 2 successes.

GM:​

The troll never hit you because of the +2 ob of that initial positioning test you won. No hits.

The troll is offering its most heavily armored spot, its chest. You could bump up that hit to a Mark hit (B7) and take your chances with its armor roll or move the hit to the head, either arm or either leg and only do an Inconsequential (B4) hit.

Player:​

Ah, ok, now I understand the flow of text above. It only got 1 success.

Tell me/give me a page # how to bump up a hit. For this one, I’ll go with moving the hit to an arm, the one holding the sack.

Simply, deftly, almost ungracefully, like so many back-alley scuffles in Raven’s Bluff began and ended, I thrust my sword forward after a miniscule feint, going right for the arm. They never expect to be hit in the arm.

GM:​

Check out 463-466 for more on landing a blow.

2D on the armor check to the arm. 1 success. No damage.

The tip of the blade only scratches the troll’s thick hide.

Nasharel is sawing her knife down the thick, goat-hide bag, trying to get her way out but will need more time to do so.

With all of your focus on the troll, you only have a vague sense of The Hunt gathering around you but they are there. Most are not up yet but a few have joined you in their small-clothes, weapons in hand.

The members of the Hunt around you give you a bonus die on this Positioning test. The troll is trying to disengage and get the hell outta dodge = 1 success. Roll your Speed vs that 1 success and take a bonus die from your comrades.

Player:​

Positioning Test: Speed B3 + 2D weapon advantage (436) + 1D comrades = 6,2,3,5,4,5 – 4 successes

I can tell the troll is trying to escape with its prey, but by Corellon, this beast will not elude me tonight. I prepare to swing my sword at its putrid green hide again.

I’m scripted for the next exchange.

GM:​

Charge – Strike – Block

Now that the time for stealth is over, the creature bellows, sprinting at you, down a corridor of spear-points, leveled axe-hands and sword-points of the Hunt’s readied weapons.

Shasslan is standing on top of the cart, surveying the scene, calling for crossbows to be strung.

“Stand, strong, Hal!”

Take +1D as a bonus helping die from those around you and another +1D helping die from Shasslan’s Command skill. The other members of the Hunt are trying to get the troll to engage with you, as you are armored.

Player:​

Strike – Avoid – Strike

The rush of dozens of moonlit bladefights come to me immediately as I brandish my sword at the beast. I feel my blood pumping—my human blood—feeding rage into every fiber of my being. I bare my teeth and prepare to meet the troll head on.

Strike
Sword Test: B4 + 2D helping dice = 5,6,6,1,1,4
Aiming for the chest.

GM:​

The hit to the chest will be a Mark hit, if you open those two sixes with Fate artha, you could knock it up to Superior…. or it could be nullified by a successful armor roll…just sayin’. I’ll wait for your response before making the armor roll.

4 success, 2 go away to your advantage, 2 successes remaining. You are still on your feet but whatever you do for the NEXT volley will be at a +1 ob.

Player:​

I’m opening both. Spend 2 Fate artha = 4,4 – 2 successes!

I take it the 4 successes you speak of are the troll’s Charge, right?

GM:​

Yes, those success are for the charge. You only have to spend 1 fate to explode all sixes in a roll. Take one back.

2 successes on the troll’s armor roll. No effect.

The Troll charges as you scratch it with your sword. You can hear the crossbows lining up behind you but know that if they are forced to fire, a stray bolt could puncture the bag and Nasharel. Your beloved lady is sawing her way out of the bag but that could take a while yet.

The troll swings again with its claws but it can’t find its way past your sword to cut you.

2 successes but its +2 ob due to the advantage takes those successes away, no need to roll for the Avoid.

The troll grins, holding up the bag as its defensive action, blocking with the sack containing Nasharel.

1 success on the block (the positioning +2 ob does not pertain to defensive actions). I’m going to say that if you beat that, you don’t strike her and deftly attack the troll around the bag. If you fail, we’ll roll the Die of Fate and if it comes up, you’ll wound her.

Player:​

“BASTARD!”

Strike:
Sword Test: B4 + 2D helping dice = 4,2,6,5,3,6 → spend 1 Fate artha = 6,4 → 5 – 7 successes
Once again at the chest.

GM:​

2 successes again on the armor roll! Now you learn the efficacy of a weapon with VA.

Your skill is too great for the beast and you maneuver your blade around your love. Again you put your steel on the monster’s flesh but this is no Ravens Bluff duelist and its scaly skin repels your blade.

Shasslan calls for the crossbows. “FIRE!”

The beast is riddled with 3 bolts, dying a grizzly death. It is impossible to tell if any bolts went through the bag; for half of a minute, it is impossible to tell if Nasharel has been harmed by the bolts.

I think you should roll the Die of Fate. On a 1, Nasharel is hit. Roll again to see how badly she is hit. If the first roll is a 1, let me know what the second roll is.

Player:​

Die of Fate: 1 → 2
You know when I said that I would pay for all those awesome rolls earlier? Here it is.

“Nasharel!” I drop my sword and run immediately to the sack, tearing it open. My heart sinks as I see that there is a perfect round hole in the sack where a crossbow bolt went right through…

GM:​

You find her in the sack, along with a few smooth rocks about the size of a helm and a dead raccoon.

She smiles and grimaces at the bleeding hole in her shoulder. There is bleed in her hair and on her face. “I need to sharpen my damned knife more often. Troll or ogre?”

Father Crommlar kneels next to her and begins to inspect the wound. Shasslan puts a hand on your shoulder. “It is best if you let him work; let others who know the mending arts aid him.”

“I’ll be fine,” Nasharel croaks.

Player:​

I kiss her hand as I step back to let the priest do his work. I take a moment to survey the scene: I look at the body of young Brother Vhelt, now in formation next to Tempus; I see the blood which once gave him life now pooled on the earth; I see the green beast lie lifeless, three crossbow shafts protruding from its body.

I walk back to pick up my sword, and with a determined stride I walk up to the body of the beast. I raise my sword in an arc and bring it down upon the troll’s neck. I do it again. And again. And again. Hacking away at the tough leathery skin. Hacking away at the fibrous muscle beneath. Hacking away at the rigid bone at the core. Hacking and hacking until I am covered in the splashing blood and the head rolls off. I then grab it by the hair, drag it across the ground and toss it right into the campfire, there to be consumed by the flames as the folktales say it should be done with such a beast. Frankly, as far as I care, I would’ve burned the beast anyway, folktales be damned.

This gory business done, I walk over to the body of Brother Vhelt, pick him up and carry him off to a place where we can later clean him up and offer him the last rites he deserves.

GM:​

The priests come over to where you’ve laid out Brother Vhelt, on a slab under the broken, moss-covered monument and begin to ready him. In the rites of Tempus, they prepare him for battle, making sure his armor is secure, tying a weapon to his hand so that he will have it with him in the afterlife.

Battle-father Crommlar Muriel comes to you, stern, red hair in braids to keep it out of his face. “You were the last one to speak to Brother Vhelt. I will send him to the eternal battlefield but if you could say a few words or sing a song, that would be proper. There are other responsibilities that come to the last person who spoke to a follower of Tempus before they died in battle but we can discuss that another time, when the gore is washed from you.”

He puts his hands on your shoulders. “Would you do that, brother?”

Crommlar continues, “Nasharel will ride in the cart with Brother Szellim. I did not call on Tempus’ miracles because He already gave us a miracle when he placed that crossbow bolt. But she will likely sleep most of the day.”

Player:​

I nod to the grave Battle-father and walk over to the body of Brother Vhelt, now washed, in his armor, well-oiled sword in hand.

“Tempus is not one for many words. Tempus is one for action. Young as he was, Brother Vhelt knew this and embraced it. As we stood guard last night, what would be his last words were all about the glories of battle, the blessings bestowed on him by the Foehammer, the offerings of singing steel he would offer the Lord of Battles in times to come. He only lies here today because he faced a cowardly foe, a lowly beast that knows not of the honor of war. Brother Vhelt would have made Tempus proud had the creature faced him in combat, of that let there be no doubt today or ever. Now, Brother Vhelt Marrim fares better than all of us, for he now stands in formation in the armies of Tempus, where he will reap honor in holy battle for his lord for all eternity. That is how we should remember Brother Vhelt. Tempus be praised.”

I then pull out my mother’s flute and play a short tune. It is a marching song I once learned from a drunken sergeant in Raven’s Bluff, a tune that starts slow and dirge-like, recalling the end of a battle as a soldier stands and sees all his comrades dead around him. But the pace picks up as the soldier walks across the field, picks up his banner and holds it aloft in the wind, showing their deaths were not in vain. The song staccatos as it picks up the mood, keeping the marching pace to the beat of a beating heart that has lived to carry on the memory of those fallen in war. It ends in a solitary note which rises in pitch and dissipates into thin air, carrying the souls of the departed to the glory halls of Tempus Foehammer.

The song done, I tuck the flute away and walk the back of the camp, looking for one of the barrels of water so I can wash the gore away.

GM:​

Battle-father Crommlar Muriel nods at your words and your music, crying. “Well said and well played, Hal. I’m pleased the Powers brought you to us.”

While you wash the troll gore off of you, Brother Vhelt Marrim is buried beneath a forgotten monument to a forgotten empire in the Dun Hills.

The Hunt continues.

Shasslan’s announcement cuts the morning gloom. “We’re running behind schedule, Hunters. We’ve said our words over our fallen comrade and he has a fine resting place to mark his passing and march with Tempus. Camp is broken and we’re on our way before the sun comes over the hills.” The company’s grief is interrupted by duty and work.

“I’m glad you got to say something about Vhelt and play that marching tune; he’d have liked that. Your blade kept the troll at bay well, Master Whitewyrm but I’m sure you noticed that is all it did,” Vorass says to you as gently as she can, saddling her horse.

Player:​

I look at Vorass from head to toe, intently, trying to peek into her soul. Dammit, is she or is she not a Zhent spy? She has little time left for me to figure it out.

“I noticed. I just couldn’t penetrate its hide. My sword was hitting true but damned if I could find a chink. I now understand why you would be so fond of that hammer of yours. I need to dedicate some time to practicing my martial skills more. A year in Highmoon has left me a little rusty, it seems.”

I am rewriting one of my instincts to “When I have down time, I always practice my Two Fisted Fighting Training skill.”

As we ride off I take one last glance at the broken obelisk before heading over to the cart where Nasharel lies sleeping. I gaze at her, knowing that it was only Tymora’s whim that saved her last night from going far beyond the western shores. I need to be more effective to protect her. Making sure she’s sleeping well, I then steer my steed next to Shasslan’s.

“The chronicle now bears the tale of Brother Vhelt. I wonder,” I say, dropping my voice, “how soon before it bears the tale of the Maul?”

GM:​

As if summoned, Shasslan the Huntress clicks at her horse, bringing it up to you while you ride besides the cart, looking at Nasharel. “She’ll be fine. If we’d needed to take our stand on that hill, she would have been a bleeding mess but she would have been fighting right beside us. I’m glad Lady Luck has granted us time so that she can heal.”

The Huntress looks across the company, slowly winding its way through the Dun Hills. Her eyes lock on Vorass the Maul who is riding up front, riding with the Battle-father, arguing about where in the valley ahead would be the best spot to hide an army. Shasslan’s face grows cold.

“You have 3 days left. Or should I say, she has 3 days left. Deal’s a deal, chronicler.

“Nasharel is a fine officer of this company. I need to know that if she’s in danger and I give you an order, that you’ll allow her to fend for herself with her brothers and sisters in The Hunt while you follow my command.”

Before you can answer, Laelin Blackhand rides up from his scouting. “I found the troll’s lair, an old broken down bridge over a stream. It collected things from its victims and the Powers granted us this.”

The Blackhand pulls out a piece of paper with Zhent-code on it.

“Looks like the troll found a messenger from Zhentil Keep and didn’t like what he had to say. We’ll reach the shepherd’s barn a few hours after mid-day, captain.”

“Good, a short day will do well for us right now. Hal, you could do worse than asking Orlin for help. As a wizard, he knows his words and his symbols.”

Symbology, ob 4 to break the code. It won’t take you days this time.

Player:​

I nod silently at all of Shasslan’s words, especially those about Nasharel. I need to remember that she is no girl, that she is a 140-something-year old Elf woman who has seen her share of troubles and survived even before she met me as a child.

I thank Laelin for his help, take a quick look at the scroll and decide to heed Shasslan’s advice to ask Orlin for help. I ride up to him and ask to have a moment of his time.

In as quiet a voice as can be mustered in the din of travel, I speak to Orlin. “Blackhand has recovered something from the troll’s den, something that could help me decipher the code I was working on. I was wondering if you could take a quick look at it as well and tell me if there’s anything there you recognize. Perhaps with your knowledge and my partial understanding of the previous one we might finally break this code.”

I’m assuming that Orlin will grant me a helping die. In that case…
Symbology Test: B3 + 1D Slavery-wise FoRK + 1D Orlin helping die = 3,4,4,4,5 – 4 successes.

GM:​

By reading the code, you catch a glimpse of what it must be like to work with nothing but the most heartless of mercenaries, priests of Bane, gnolls, orc and goblins. Xerez of Zhentil Keep has put out the word that he is looking for artifacts from the Whitewyrm clan. But saying that is not enough. He is asking for any elven artifacts that are white, that have a dragon on them or engraved into them, for any artifacts that are of elven make that have emblems having to do with snow or winter. Xerez is casting a wide net.

For those who can offer him such treasures, he offers the finest slaves of Zhentil Keep and the exchange will occur in the Dead God’s Glade, north of Myth Drannor, just before the first snows. He warns that any who spill blood in the Glade or around it, interfering with his business, will earn the ire of Zhentil Keep.

But that is just your initial parchment.

The second parchment, the one found on the troll’s bridge, is older but not by much. this missive is from Manshoon and is calling for the heads of the Knights of the North. The parchment offers a 50 gold piece bounty for every body brought in that holds a tattoo or heraldry of the Raven of the North. The message warns against fake claims.

Player:​

After working with Orlin to decipher the two scrolls for most of the day, I take the first opportunity to go up to Shasslan and Hel (especially one when Vorass is not nearby, just in case) to update them on this new development.

“Tymora seems to be in a happy mood for that’s twice in one day she smiles on me. Orlin and I have cracked this code and deciphered the message. The first scrolls is a message by Xerez the Madd; he seems to be hunting for anything at all that could be related to the elven clan Whitewyrm, which explains why those gnolls had the tapestry I bought from you. He’s cast a wide net and will exchange slaves for loot at the Dead God’s Glade right before winter begins.

“The new scroll is from none other than Lord Manshoon of the Keep offering a bounty for the heads of any and all Knights of the North. The Knights have a mission much like ours, which means we stand to lose allies if his message is heeded, and we stand to be the next targets if our mission is learned.

“I personally would hate to see allies in arms against the… against our foes be cut down for mere gold. But that message’s lead is far too vague. We don’t know where the bounties are to be claimed, or when. We would do well to keep a very open ear in case we can learn something as we travel. The Knights move in the Moonsea area to the north primarily, but if they are on the run perhaps some have moved south into the forest.

“However, this message by Xerez gives us a very clear mission to sink our teeth into, and it matches your intelligence about something happening at the Dead God’s Glade.

“These messages may give us a way to test our mercenary soldier over there a well. What if we should mention we are heading in one direction to pursue one of these leads, say Manshoon’s bounty, while we actually head in a different one, towards Xerez? If she is leaving messages behind she would misdirect whoever is following us and we would find out by the lack of a welcoming committee upon our arrival.”

GM:​

Shasslan and you walk away from the barn where the company is taking items off of the cart and stowing items that would get in the way of fast movement. Nasharel is up, helping the hirelings with the horses.

Once you are out of easy ear-shot, the captain begins speaking in short, clipped words.

“Your proposal is that we let everyone, including a possible spy, know where we’re headed. If you’re right, then we won’t be ambushed. If you’re wrong, than we’ll walk into a deathtrap. Is that really your proposal? We risk the lives of everyone on your hunch, naye, your forlorn hope that she’s good? Because otherwise, if we misdirect, of course there will be no one waiting for us.”

“Furthermore, what if we are ambushed but she is not the spy? What if we are ambushed because you are wrong and we are all dead? What if we just wander in to a patrol?”

“It seems to me that the days are drawing nigh and you are having a real difficulty doing what needs doing.”

The company is staying away, knowing that there is an argument going on, but you see Battle-father Crommlar Muriel shoulder his way past Heldorm Umbrav.

“Is this tussle about the troll? Half the company thinks Shasslan is angry because it happened on Hal’s first watch. The other half thinks Hal is angry because of the way the camp was set up. There is nothing to it. These trolls can be cunning; I’ve broken bread with dwarves who swear upon anvils and axe-heads that a mine-haunt can move by your in a tunnel and you’d never know it. I’m sure the bridge-haunt’s like the one we dispatched are not so different.”

Shasslan shakes her head. “We’re fine, Cromm. We’re settled here.” Shasslan begins to walk away and Crommlar looks puzzled.

Player:​

“The Nine Hells we are,” I say as I walk past Cromlar and Heldorm to stand right in front of Shasslan’s way.

In hushed-yet-angry whispers I say, “You have no more proof of her supposed treason than I have of her innocence, and I’ll be damned to Bane if I will let cold murder happen on a hunch. That is not the cause I joined, that is not the group I want to be a part of. I’ve now proven my worth to you as I’m sure she has over other battles and for far longer than I have been around. You speak of hunches and soldier’s instincts and I do not discount them, but this is not the outlaw hinterlands and we are not barbarians of the icy north. We do not need to misdirect with actual plans, but it could be the way to test her loyalty. Make up a destination, invent a mission, feed her—and just her—that. We then send our best scout to survey the results. Dammit, Captain, this is not the way of honorable people and if we do what you insist on doing I am telling you here right now with all the gods as our witnesses that we will be no better than the Black Network.”

My piece said, I storm off outside the camp.

GM:​

Shasslan calls you, Father Cromm and Vorass to a private meeting, well away from the others.

“We have found proof that the Zhentarim are meeting with some bounty hunters who have live, battered members of the Knights of the North and will barter them to Zhentil Keep. We can’t let that be. We will be headed to a spring, southeast of Myth Drannor called Drowned Hope.

She manages to smile, "The Fall of Myth Drannor birthed such happy names. Vorass, Cromm, you are he two best heads for battle. I want you to cook up an ambush that get’s us the drop on our enemies and get’s the Knights of the North out alive. I don’t want anyone else in the camp to know what you two are up to; we might have a spy in our midst.

“Hal, you found the information, I thought you should sit in on the meet.”

As Vorass and Cromm walk away and begin talking, Shasslan whispers to you, “You’ll take the Blackhand and discreetly split from the group, leaving a day before the rest of us. That would be tonight, no farmers meal for you two. It will be up to the two of you if you watch the farm or watch the spring but I don’t want you seen. We’ll meet you just north of Myth Drannor. For the love of Lady Luck, go around the Myth. Happy, Hal?”

Yeah, it technically goes in the face of what we agreed in the DoW but it spawns adventure, so I’m happy with that.

Player:​

I’d like to think that I pushed one of her buttons in return.

I nod to Shasslan and head to meet with Crommlar and Vorass. “So, what’s the plan, then?”

I listen to the soldiers’ plan for the ambush with the intent of determining which would be the best location to watch them, the farm as anyone leaves, along the way or at the spring. Though ultimately, it would be at the spring, the final destination, that the truth of the matter could be perceived. I consult my mental map of the dales and realize I know very little about the area with this spring, so I must look at my map as soon as possible to determine the best way to approach it and what to await.

Once the meeting is done and plans laid down, I head over to Nasharel to see how she’s doing and consult my map. Maybe she knows something about this area that I do not.

GM:​

Nasharel looks pale, having been attacked by a troll and hit with a crossbow bolt just this morning but she’s well, though her shoulder is still tender. She sings the Song of Path and Ways, eyes closed, feeling the wind on the edge of the shepherd’s grazing grounds, the song sounds like tree branches blowing in a restless wind. When she opens her eyes, she gives some pointers on getting to the spring and in meeting them in the north. You make your good-byes, tender and heart-felt and she walks away.

Laelin Blackhand walks past her, a horse bridle in each hand and hands one to you. “I hear we’re taking a little ride. I have a bit of food and can find enough to eat in the forest once we’re gone…if we’re to be gone. The captain was vague. Care to clue me in?”

He smiles, watching you watch her walk away and gives you a moment.

Let’s consider her song a helping die to any Orienteering you are called on to make (Laelin has the skill) and if you want to write anything about how you say good-bye to her, that’s cool.

Player:​

I smile at Laelin and excuse myself, trotting over to Nasharel. Being as careful as I can, I sweep her into an embrace and kiss her fully. “Tenna’ ento lye omenta, mela en’ coiamin.”

I run back to Laelin and grab the bridle, and together we grab the horses and set off quietly into the chilly night.

GM:​

Totally forgot, but take a Fate point of artha for standing up to that troll and having your instinct get you into trouble. Also, another Fate for the Love and Family belief leading into adventure (which is a stretch, artha-wise but I think its kosher). Let me know if you see any artha that I’ve missed. Artha doesn’t come from on high but from the table, its consensus-driven.

You and Laelin are leading the horses into the night, about a mile from the shepherd’s fields when he breaks the silence. “Are you going to tell me why we’re going to a cursed grove southeast of the Myth, Officer of the Chronicle Elven Love-Demon?”

Player:​

I’m still very much getting used to the various types of artha and how they can be gained, but yes, I’ll keep an eye out and ask if I think something qualifies.

“Elven Love-what?” I ask Laelin, a smirk on my face, as we ride deeper into the Cormanthor. I motion to Laelin to wait and we ride in silence for about an hour in the direction of the spring.

I have never liked this part of the forest. I don’t know if regular humans can feel it, but I have enough Tel’Quessir blood in me to be aware of the tinge in the air. It permeates everything, from trees to rocks to earth; the wind is heavy with it and the water carries its taste. I speak of the fallen Mythal, of the leftover magic of a bygone age. Everyone in the Dalelands knows to stay away from this part of the forest if they know what’s good for them, and with good reason. The stories of demons haunting the woods, of restless elven spirits wandering the once thriving lands of one of the greatest Elf empires in Faerun, these are more than scary tales told to misbehaving children. These are real, and even if I have never faced any of the dangers sung about in song, I can feel their darkness mixed in the fumes of the Mythal. I have never liked this part of the forest.

Once we are sufficiently into our journey and I am fairly certain that we are the only riders around, I speak to Laelin in low tones.

“Our mission tonight—a secret one, if that wasn’t clear enough by now—is to scout the glade from a distance. We are to observe and report what we see, nothing more ideally. I don’t know all the details as to why this needs to be done, but I do know it might involve the business of The Hunt. Based on Nasharel’s guidance and my map, we should be arriving soon. I need you to use your best roguish skills to find us an ideal location from where to spy the glade and not be seen. I defer to your abilities in this matter.

“Perhaps after tonight we will have a chance to talk you and I about our common enemy. But for now, let us to the task at hand.”

End of Chapter II

Continued in Chapter III

Chapter III: 11th of Eleint, Year of the Prince, 1357, Dale Reckoning

GM​

The Cormanthor is an ancient forest. It has seen dragons rule the continent and watched them become shadows of their former selves, hoarding in their lairs. The Cormanthor’s roots reach into the Underdark’s spite and its leaves have kept shade and shelter over elven grief.

Laelin leads you through the Cormanthor for a few days. He digs up delicious tubers and takes no chances with fires at night. Keeping watch between the two of you is exhausting work.

As you get closer to the spring, the oppressive, haunted pressure of the Cormanthyr increases. Laelin seems oblivious but the horses are skittish. "I reckon its the 14th by now. We’ll be coming up on the spring soon. It has a reputation for clear, cold, cursed waters. I should lead us in; Shasslan sent me because I can find my way in wild places, keep us fed and keep us from being noticed. The spring is a series of small waterfalls that feed a pool. There is an old fortified fallen tower, sealed up since the Fall. In the middle of the pool is a broken stone that gnolls and other unsavory folk use for fell rituals. There is a cliff face rising above it to the east with a nice wooded glade.

“I reckon that is our cover where we can keep an eye out and if there’s trouble below, we can see it and be gone in short order…I hope.

“Sound right, Chronicler?”

If his play is adequate, Inconspicuous is being unseen in a crowd, so, its not usable in this instance. I don’t see anything you could use to help him with his Stealth roll, so I’m just going to make the roll and add +1 to his ob because he has to cover for you.

Player​

I eye the area and accept Laelin’s word. The more time I spend in the forest, the more I realize that all my travels and travails, as much as they taught and shaped me, left me woefully underprepared to deal with the neccessities of wilderness adventuring. Give me a crowded street in a bustling city; give me a rowdy taproom with drunken mercenaries; give me a foppish noble with a dull blade – these I know, these I can handle. Dark trees in a demon-infested forest? Well… one never stops learning.

Beginner’s Luck Stealthy Test (Speed): B3 = 6,1,4 – 2 successes.

I follow Laelin to the wooded glade overlooking Drowned Hope. We tie and hide our horses a short distance away and skulk into the glade, hoping to any deity, woodland spirit and benevolent force that the path we picked, the steps we took, and the hiding spot we chose as we moved in will give us the cover we need to perform our mission.

GM​

Another day goes by before the orc ride into the glade. It is a trio, eaching riding a giant wolf with matted fur and black teeth. They do not notice either of you. The wolves begin lapping up water and the smallest of the orc stakes out tar-soaked heads around the glade, a warning and an announcement of their arrival and encampment. They unfurl a banner that you instantly recognize, these are King Obould ’s riders, from the Citadel of Many Arrows, a captured dwarven keep now held by the self-proclaimed orc king.

The leader of this pack or wolfriders has an elven longsword across his back, a fine blade, like the kind a swordswinger might wear.

They speak the Black Tongue among themselves, wolves included, without a word of the common tongue spoken until they take bundle off from the back of their leader’s saddle. They unwrap a gagged and bound elf boy and warn him with teeth and claws before they remove the rope gag.

“No singing, elf. Drink.”

The leader dunks the elf’s head into the glade, part drowning, part drinking. The boy comes up from the glade sputtering and choking, breathing hard. They put the gag back on and toss him to the ground.

The young looking elf is in a simple tunic, without symbol or ornament, short white-blond hair that must just be growing back from a shaved head. His eyes are a familiar shade of orange.

Player​

“Dammit, Tymora,” I mutter to myself. “And you had been smiling on me so well. I’m sorry, Laelin. Change of plans,” I say as I start to move away in the direction of the spring. “If you can rescue the elf-boy do so. If not, mark our direction and pray we meet safely again.”

I walk down the forested path to the spring, emerging a stone’s throw away from the riders. I do not make any extraneous noise but I am not hiding as I walk to the water to drink.

“By Bane’s balls, where is this damned meeting place supposed to be?” I say somewhat loudly to myself, hoping that catches their attention.

Conspicuous Test: B2 = 4,5 – 2 successes.

GM​

The orcs look confused, and so they look to their leader. He steps right up into your face. You can smell his poisonous breath as his fanged maw makes the common tongue. His eyes glow like coals and are filled with cunning earned through a brutal life among the orc legions.

“Meeting place? Here, is it? Are you lost, little half-elf?”

One of his riders laughs, “He’s only half an elf, in an old elf-forest like this, maybe he can only find half his way there.” The wolves join in, snorting laughter.

The wolves and the orc begin making a circle around you. Between you and the elf-boy is their leader, who introduces himself.

“I am He Who Cleaves the Heads of King Obould’s Enemies from their shoulders and puts them Upon Stakes for all to See.” Head-Taker takes out his elven longsword. Its handle is a white dragon’s head and you can see that as the sunlight hits it, etched snowflakes dance up and down the length of the blade.

“Who are you claiming to be, little half-elf?”

I think we’re lookin’ at a Falsehood check at double ob…so, ob 4 becomes ob 8. We don’t have to roll it just yet. Let’s role-play a little bit but I want you to know that they do not trust you and that this roll is likely coming.

Player​

Mother, help me.

I stand as tall and proud as I can in front of Head-Taker, using every ounce of willpower I have to remain steadfast in his presence.

“I am Hal Stephaln, vagrant duelist to some, bane of freedom to others. I am a seeker of the lost, whom I deliver to those who pay well for the servitude of the weak. I sell my services to those who pay well, and then again to those who pay better. And I seek the meeting place marked by the wizard from the Zhentarim for the exchange of elven goods for slaves and gold. I greet you, He Who Cleaves The Heads of King Obould’s Enemies From Their Shoulders and Puts Them Upon Stakes For All To See.”

And without looking away from Head-Taker, I say to the one who made the quip, “I am Half-Elf, you Nameless, and you will remember that lest I make you not forget it.”

GM​

Laelin Blackhand comes out of the shadows, loaded crossbow tossed over his shoulder with a sneer on his face that looks natural. The angle he chose to walk out of the forest puts him outside of the semi-circle formed by the pack. “Crew’s all set, Master Stephaln. As soon as I give the word, they’ll meet us ahead, as ordered. I just wanted to see if you needed any help with these lot. The Orc King’s wolfriders are nothing to face down alone.”

“You don’t have anyone with you,” the Head-Taker says, looking over Laelin’s shoulder into the forest.

“You didn’t know I was here a moment ago, didja? You wouldn’t have known any of us was here if our valiant vagrant duelist leader hadn’t decided to walk into your camp and introduce his damned self.”

Two of the wolves stare out into the forest and their tails go between their legs. The other orc with the Head-Taker are looking out into the trees with panic in their eyes.

The Head-Taker points at Laelin with his sword. “Something’s wrong with you bastards; I don’t like you showing up at our watering hole one bit.”

Laelin’s crossbow isn’t aimed at anyone specifically, but its out and ready.

It might be time to roll the dice soon. If and when that is, Laelin offers you a helping die from this little performance.

Player​

“Head-Taker of Obould’s Enemies, there is no need for alarm. My men and I seek to deliver our goods, not to tangle with mighty orcs of the Broken Arrow. The spring of Drowned Hope is on our way north to Zhentil Keep, skirting the elven ruins. The way is arduous on our slaves, but not impossible, and it allows us to travel from the Dalelands with our merchandise without pesky interruptions. Meeting your band here this night is pure luck.”

As I say this, somewhere in the back of my mind, it suddenly becomes horribly clear that the knowledge of the Dalelands-Zhentil Keep forest route is something I picked up during my time in Xerzes’s dungeons. Worse, quite probably this is the very same route traveled by my pregnant mother when she was captured and sold to the mad wizard.

“I wonder, however,” I continue, trying to clear my head from such thoughts and concentrate on the dangerous task at hand, “why King Obould’s troops would wander so far from his Citadel? Then again I see you bear a captive and a ransom at your back. Perhaps we seek the same person, someone procuring elven artifacts in exchange for slaves and gold? What you bear there strapped to your back certainly seems like a valuable treasure and matches the description given out by the wizard. Is the elf-boy part of the transaction as well?”

Beginner’s Luck Falsehood (Will): B4 + 1D Laelin = 6,4,6,6,1 + 1 Fate artha → 1,4,5 – 6 successes.
So close…

GM​

“Only a fortnight or less journey from where your elven highfather and the One Who Never Sleeps did battle, leaving a gorge in their wake and here we are, half an elf and an orc matching wits.”

“Know what I think, Hal?” the Head-Taker spits out your name like a curse, not respecting any name that was not earned through proper orc ritual before Grummsh’s cruel eye.

“I think you are two scouts for the Knights of the North. I think if we were to examine your corpses, we’d find raven tattoos on your asses. I think you have no back-up. You broke enough of the Zhent-code or have a spy with good enough information and it led you here and when this turned out to be the wrong place, you did your best with lies and failed.”

The rest of his pack are noticing a familiar tone in the Head-Taker’s voice and are becoming nervous, ready for blood to be spilled at any moment.

“So, we’ll settle it like this. You’ll throw down your weapons and your gear and we’ll lead you to Xerez and see what’s what. If my suspicions are correct, we’ll sell you to the wizard along with our elf boy. If I’m wrong, you’ll have my sincere apologies and everything that belongs to you returned. Keep in mind that we only need one of you alive, so if one of you tries to run between here and the meeting-place, we’ll catch that one on wolf-back and kill the other slowly in front of the would-be escapist. Deal?”

He holds the elven sword on his shoulder, casually but ready to strike.

Laelin Blackhand, for the first time, looks nervous. His crossbow is on his hip, still making a pretense at being casual but ready to fire at the Head-taker.

Player​

Tymora, you bitch…

I look at Head-Taker in the eyes. Whatever happens, whatever I think, I keep looking at the orc in the eyes. I am aware of the other two orc, of their great wolves, of the running water which right now at this very moment takes its name from my own feelings. I sense Laelin behind me, nervous. Dammit, Laelin, why couldn’t you heed my words and stay in the forest? Now I have your life to think about as well.

Mother, it has come to this, I think. If you have any way to catch the ear of Lady Luck, I pray you beseech her to watch over me as I take this next step. Let Nasharel know that I love her.

Three orc, three wolves. One rogue with a crossbow, one would-be hero with a sword and a song. One Abyss-cursed, worm-ridden, rotten-hearted Zhent slaver whom both of us have a debt to repay.

Tymora, you bitch…

“Deal,” I say as I take off my scabbard and dagger and let it fall at Head-Taker’s feet. “Let’s go see Xerez.”

GM​

Laelin looks like he is about to vomit in fear as he puts down his crossbow. The Head-Taker sneers at him.

“You thought you could put a bolt in me and perhaps the rest might run in fear, hm? You’ve heard that orcs run, that they are tough in the first volleys but are easy to rout, hm?”

Laelin doesn’t respond.

“You don’t know this breed of orc; you don’t know the monsters who gather under the Many Arrows banner and end the knee to the first true orc king in history. Hal, here, just saved your life…for now.”

He Who Cleaves Heads of King Obould’s Enemies from their shoulders and puts them Upon Stakes for all to See signals to the least of his two orcs to retrieve your weapons and then barks at the other in Black Tongue to look at the elf boy, who had nearly gotten his gag from his mouth. For a few minutes, he argues with his wolf-mount, a gray bitch the size of a pony.

“Sorry if we’re being rude, half-elf. Stormcloud thinks that you are only waiting for a moment of weakness on the road so that you can ambush us. I argue that perhaps you are speaking true and then we can show such mercy and let Xerez of Zhentil Keep know full well that he is not dealing with common orc from the some broken tribe in the hills.

“I think the two of you are an opportunity for us to show how very civilized we are under Obould’s rule.

“We’ll rest here for the day and set out at dusk, traveling by starlight. The water is said to be from an elf warrior-maid’s tears after she drowned her own children rather than let demons have her family when Myth Drannor fell. Have yourself a drink; its delicious.”

Player​

After we have set up camp for the coming day, I ponder these orc from King Obould’s band. By all that I know about orc, I should be dead the moment he smelled that I was not being entirely truthful. And yet here I am, alive for the moment—in dire straits, but alive. Head-Taker speaks of orc civility, of a new type of orc, not a “common orc” but civilized under Obould’s rule. This is marvelous, confusing and terrifying all at once; a kingdom of such orc could very well spell doom for a large part of the land.

Moving my thoughts to more pressing matters, I find a moment when I can sit by Laelin and speak with him out of earshot of the orc and wolves, or at least as possible as that is given our situation. “Be strong and steadfast. Above all, be strong and steadfast. And do not do anything foolish that can get us killed. Doing foolish things,” I add with a small smile, “seems to be my job.”

Every time I drink water from the spring I consciously call to mind the source of the name as told mockingly by Head-Taker. To me, that sorrow is strength, and I hope to draw some of it into my being. I think of Nasharel and wonder if I will see her again; with Sune’s and Hanali Celanil’s blessings I know I will. I know the orc think it funny to have the elves drink from these waters of sorrow, but I drink them proudly to elevate the sacrifice of that elf-maid to the heavens.

At every opportunity I can, I sneak looks at the gagged elf boy and his eyes of an orange known all-too-well to me—a connection I am extremely glad these orc have not noticed between their gagged captive and myself—and at the sword Head-Taker carries with him. The blade, the handle, it all screams Whitewyrm to me.

Patience…

I also hope the Hunt can figure out what happened, though I doubt that very much. We are on our own, and we will face Xerez, and possibly our deaths, alone. And soon.

GM​

The weather is crisp autumn cold and clear nights; the ancient trees hide the stars.

You walk through the night with the orc pack and they adjust their pace so that you can keep up. One of the Black Hunters suggests you keep your hands on his saddle because traveling by night in the Cormanthor is walking in total darkness that only the orc’s eyes that burn like coal can pierce. Head-Taker checks the hunter’s saddle carefully, making certain that no weapons are available to you. The elf boy is trundled up like a pig, set on the front of the Head-Taker’s saddle.

When the first light of dawn spills overhead, a Black Hunter returns and you can see that you had been walking all night with only two orc and their wolves. Head-Taker had sent one of his Black Hunters ahead to scout the Dead God’s Glade. The scout gives his report in the Black Tongue, that to your ears sounds like grunts and snarls and vomiting mixed with nails scratching on slate.

The scout found something to be wrong in the glade, where Xerez was supposed to wait for his treasures.

You have made camp at the base of a cyclopean tree so large that you can’t see the leaves. During the next day, while the wolves and orc take their turns resting and watching you, Laelin approaches. He has gotten ride of the black hand that was over his breastplate, stained it entirely with berries so that the hand is no longer noticeable. You speak in hushed whispers.

“Why do they fear that child, so? What magic could an elven boy know that would threaten them so thoroughly? They check his gag as if their lives depended on it.”

“We’re headed north. Something is wrong; their rider came back with tidings from the Dead God’s Glade and smelled something rotten. We’re about half a day west of the Myth. We’re headed to Zhentil Keep, dammit…into Bane’s own blood-soaked den.”

Player​

“The elf-lad—and I hesitate to call someone older than both of us a lad were he not an Elf—my best guess is that he has the power of Elven Songs at his disposal. They were very clear in their threat to him that first night: no singing. My other guess is that that sword Head-Taker carries about on him all the time belongs to the lad. I have heard stories of Sword Singers, elves whose blades sing the songs of deadly battle, but I would not know how to recognize one. Were that Nasharel could help.

“The lad might be our wild card to get out of this mess. I don’t know how, but getting that gag off and letting him Sing is something we should strive to do if and when the right opportunity presents itself.”

The snows will begin soon, I think to myself as I ponder Laelin’s news. But not before we arrive at our destination.

“We need to find out what is going on at the Glade. The hour of reckoning approaches, Blackhand: the mad wizard or the cursed city—one of them is our destiny, and we will soon know which.

“Remain vigilant of the area. During the day we have a slight advantage. I will return.”

I walk over to where Head-Taker speaks to the orc rider, remaining a few paces away. When they are done conversing in their infernal language, I ask of Head-Taker, “Are there problems up ahead in the Dead God’s Glade? Has Xerez reneged on his promise?”

Can I do a Foreign Languages Beginner’s Luck test to understand the Black Tongue or would I need an instructor for the first lesson? Perhaps I can have the rough basics for an initial test from having heard it on and off during my youth in Xerez’s dungeons?

GM​

I’m fine with you being able to piece that together with a Beginner’s Luck test. Ob 3 doubled to Ob 6.

The Head-Taker squints at you, head obviously hurting at the hour of Highsun. When you approach he is talking in low tones with Stormcloud, clearly his most trusted adviser.

“Apparently, a few different parties showed up and got into a fight in the glade. A company of mercenaries, a murder of gnolls and a band of Red Wizards had a conflict. The Red Wizards starting throwing around arcane fire and the glade is on fire. I want no part of such a conflict, though there is the possiblity of running through and taking that which can no longer be held. Tempting…

“But no, we’ll head north to Zhentil Keep and make our exchange there.

“Unless there’s more you can tell me about this mischief. Any of your raven-knights we should be warned about on the road to the keep? If you tell me the truth, I’ll kill your friend quickly and sell you as a slave at Zhentil Keep. A half-elf with skills like yours might find a good life there in chains. What do you say?”

If you succeed the roll, you’ll get more information on the inner-workings of the pack and what is going on among them. If you fail, you remain in the dark and might catch words out of context that you don’t fully understand.

Player​

Foreign Languages [Black Tongue] Beginner’s Luck Test (Perception): B4 = 4,6,6,5 + 1 Fate artha for Luck → 4,4 – 6 successes! Tymora smiles on me again.

“As I told you, He Who Cleaves Heads of King Obould’s Enemies from their shoulders and puts them Upon Stakes for all to See, I have nothing to do with any Knights, be they of the Raven, the North, Myth Drannor or Bane’s Ass. That sounds like nothing more than petty, power-hungry infighting between short-sighted fools with too much greed and very little wisdom, nothing more.

“It might be a good opportunity to seize some loot… For yourself and the glory of King Obould, of course. It’s what I would do, given the gnats have taken care of each other already. Besides, that IS the meeting point. I doubt Xerez would let a mere fire he can extinguish with mighty sorcery derail his precious quest.”

Persuasion test?

Judd
October 04, 2011 14:49
You pick up words here and there, words in the orc’s language you learned while in slavery and bits and pieces of the elven tongue seem slipped in there, as if the languages were somehow related in ancient times.

It is worse than they are letting on in the common tongue. Xerez lost some scouts and some troops in the conflagrations and was seen leaving the glade, unable to get any intelligence about what is really going on. From what the scout says, you can smell The Hunt all over this. The battle prowess of Battle-father Crommlar Muriel and Vorass the Maul led by Shasslan the Huntress with a touch of Orlin the Illusionist is at work here.

The orcs aren’t sure if this is the Knights of the North, in-fighting among evil folk or some kind of Zhentarim trickery. They are far from Obould’s keep and are not used to dealing with these kinds of delicate situations. The strain is showing and they are clearly not fighting more in an effort to show a united pack in front of you and Laelin.

Stormcloud growls at your suggestion. Head-taker scowls.

Persuasion, ob 4.

Player​

Persuasion Beginner’s Luck Test (Will, Ob 8): 1,1,6,1 – 1 success. Gotta fail to learn. Two more Aptitude tests and I get Persuasion.

My words sound hollow even to myself. But we need to make it by the Glade; we need the Hunt to meet with us. I just don’t see how either of us can outrun a great wolf…

“It is, of course, your choice, Head-Taker.”

GM​

“I know damned well whose choice it is, half-breed.”

There is a moment that night, traveling in the dark, stumbling through the Cormanthor and you come to Myth Drannor marker, a stone plinth with markings from those days when dwarven artisans, elven singers and human sorcerers made magic that has not been seen since. The orc are looking it over, making sure they have not wandered too close to the ruins.

A wolf whose name you do not know, who rides the less respected of the two Black Hunters turns to you and with his snout, struggles to form the awkward, whispered words, “Escape. Please. Us. Please. Escape.”

When the orc mount up, the talking omega wolf won’t even look at you.

From the look on Laelin’s face, he doesn’t like this at all. In the distance, you can smell the Red Wizard’s smoke. You are so close to the ruins of Myth Drannor that you can feel the Mythal, like a distant hum of arcane power in the air.

Daniel, feel free to ask me where things are or to draw a little map if you want to get an idea of how things are situated before doing something reckless and awesome and possibly suicidal.

The lesser hunter is watering the elf-boy at dawn, pressing his face into pond-water so that he doesn’t have the time nor the ability to draw enough breath for a song. The rest of the orc are busy – posting the heads and the banner, removing the harness from the wolves and eating raw deer-meat when the omega approaches you again.

“Escape? Plan? Myth Danno?” it whispers and then walks away before anyone can see.

The camp is at a small pond. There is a marker here, some remnant of Myth Drannor that has lost meaning.

The Foulwing lands on a branch without a sound, emitting some kind of bullfrog croak to announce its rider’s presence. From the letter on the harness, you can tell the beast and its rider are from Zhentil Keep. The rider has a spellbook strapped to her lowerback, attached to her belt be a black chain. Her armor is the black boiled leather common to the Foulwing riders and a sleek helm. She is holding a long barbed spear.

Foulwings are used in aerial raids and also for tracking down escaped slaves.

“What brings you to the forest with hostages, orcs?” she asks.

The Head-taker steps among the rotting heads posted to mark the camp. “We seek Xerez. We have good for him and an offer from King Obould himself. I am ”/campaigns/the-song-of-hal-whitewyrm/characters/head-taker-obould" class=“wiki-content-link”>He Who Cleaves Heads of King Obould’s Enemies from their shoulders and puts them Upon Stakes for all to See. Who are you, beastrider?"

The beast’s slobber rubs color from the bark as it rips a branch off of the tree and begins to digest it. Its smell is otherworldly. Your body has no idea how to process such scents and so it reverts to revulsion and nausea.

The wolves are growling, bristling with anger, teeth bared, hair on their backs standing on end.

The rider responds, “I am Reltav, an apprentice of Xerez. I am prepared to pay you in hard gold or slave vouchers, He Who Cleaves. What do you have of the Whitewyrm Clan?”

“I take Heads for the Orc King and as my station demands, I want to sit down with Xerez at the very least and Manshoon if Zhentil Keep wishes to honor its relationship with the Keep of Many Arrows and make that relationship stronger. I am not a gnoll murder-priest, nor am I a mercenary with an outlaw’s brand on my cheek.

“Surely you know Hal Stephaln,” the Head-Taker says, taking his sword out, “famous bounty hunter…”

“I don’t. Should I?” she asks from atop her Foulwing that is currently defecating on a Cormanthor tree, its otherworldly secretions stripping the bark of all color.

When you were in slavery, Xerez never had an apprentice.

Player​

Enough stratagems; it’s time to duel.

“You wouldn’t know about me,” I tell the witch-rider, "the same way I do not know of any apprentice to Xerez. I bid you greetings, however, as two who have toiled in the Arts and under the wizard’s thumb. I too sought the meeting grounds laid down by Xerez for the seeking and exchange of artifacts from the Whitewyrm Clan of the Tel’Quessir when I encountered the orc of King Obould’s retinue and became their ‘traveling companion.’

“Tell me, witch-rider, what is the wizard offering in exchange? What is sought by the wizard? Would you deal with Men or with Orc?”

Do not let me down, Tymora.

GM​

Reltav flips up the visor on her helmet, looking at your eyes. There is recognition there, though you are sure the two of you have never met. She heard you and is making connections.

Stormcloud turns on you, drool, falling from her curled lip. “Trying to turn us against each other, half-elf? Playing games?”

As always, the Head-Taker has the flat of his elven blade on his shoulder, considering the situation.

“Xerez is looking for artifacts pertaining to the Whitewyrm clan, a family of elves who were among the first to head west when their monarchs called. I dare not guess why but I’d imagine it has something to do with knowing one’s enemies. He offers gifts of slaves and gold.

“Zhentil Keep is not like the Dalelands or the Sword Coast where a creature’s species and religion are held against them. We are a free city and are open to trade with any who can bring goods to the market-place. Zhentil Keep is the true inheritor to Myth Drannor’s poor attempt at a united city.

“Head-Taker, I cannot offer you what you wish. I am a mere apprentice and can offer you nothing but gold or slave vouchers that can be cashed in with any Zhentarim from here to Luskan. I’d like to trade with your prisoners here, unless you wish to claim them as your property.”

The Head-Taker shakes his head. “We made a deal. You may trade with the half-elf and his pet human. As long as they truly have any Whitewyrm artifacts for trade, which I severely doubt. Stormcloud, here, thinks that he is a refugee from the Citadel of the Raven. Time of truth, Hal. If he has something, I will return his weapons and you will tell your master that I am no orc from some backwater hill!”

The witch-rider looks at you, amused at the mess. “What do you have to trade, Master Hal and what do you want in return?”

Player​

I look at Stormcloud, pondering how the mount seems to have as much say as the named orc that rides her… But that is secondary at the moment, a thought for another occasion.

“He Who Cleaves Heads of King Obould’s Enemies from their shoulders and puts them Upon Stakes for all to See speaks truth. Or rather, part truth.

“I have in my ownership an artifact of this clan, a tapestry which tells the story of Sul Whitewyrm. I… rescued it from a band of mercenaries and adventurers who knew nothing of its value to the right buyer. I do not, however, and as you can plainly see, have it with me. The forest is no place for such an ancient piece of history if it is to be of any use to an interested party. The artifact is stored safely in Deepingdale at the moment.

“That is what I offer Xerez: the tapestry of the history of Winter’s Lover, Southron Sword, the Sad Immortal – Sul Whitewyrm.”

I let the words hang in the noxious air of the clearing, fully aware that I have just played the most dangerous hand of cards in my life. As I let the pause lengthen, I take note of everyone’s location around me: Head-Taker, the namesless orcs, the omega wolf, Laelin and the elf-lad.

Perception Test?

I await the witch-rider’s reply, hoping to every single divine being I can think of that this poor excuse for a plan works…

GM​

Reltav nods her head, intrigued.

“Foulwings are stealthy creatures who do well by night. We will fly into Deepingdale, retrieve your prize and fly it back to my master at Zhentil Keep. No Dalelanders will be the wiser.

“He Who Cleaves, we will meet you up north with Master Hal’s manservant.”

“I’d hope so,” the Head-Taker responds. “We have a far greater artifact that some rug. We have the Whitewyrm heir, Second to Lord Whitewyrm himself.” He yanks the elf-boy into view.

“Xerez will be eager to barter for your piece of the Whitewyrm legacy, I’m certain.”

“Master Hal, have you ever flown before?” Reltav asks, bringing the foulwing onto the ground, where the creature moves like some kind of rancid toad.

Laelin asks if he could have a word with you before you go. The greater of the Black Hunters gives you both your weapons back. The tension that has been in the air, the threat of imminent slaughter at the hands of orcs and great wolves has dissipated and turned into something new.

Player​

Our gear restored, I stand to one side with Laelin, so we cam confer for a moment before I fly south on the wings of a fell beast.

“Speak to me, oh Hunter.” As I listen to Laelin I’m keeping an eye of the camp and everyone’s position and body language.

GM​

A steady rain begins.

The camp get’s up and starts moving. Head-taker has decided to push on through the day, as dark clouds are covering the sun and he is eager to push on and reach Zhentil Keep. They are largely ignoring you, assuming that your lies were just the lies of a Zhent bounty hunter and not from the Citadel of the Raven.

The witch-rider is altering her saddle to allow for an extra rider. The foulwing starts to let off a mist as the rain its it and its smell wafts off of it, letting you know why it is named as such.

You and Laelin have a moment.

“I thought I might try to lose them in the rain but no, it will rouse suspicions. I’ll meet you at Zhentil Keep, brother.”

He holds out his hand to grasp wrists and shake, the look in his eye is familiar to you, not only from these past days but from your life in slavery, living while others hold your death over you as a constant threat.

From the sounds around you, you can tell that the pack will be ready to leave soon.

Player​

I shake Laelin’s hand strong, trying to let him know how sorry I am to have dragged him into this, and giving him strength for whatever ordeals he has ahead. “You are a resourceful man; use that and live. Know the omega wolf, the one with the lesser namesless orc, might be an ally to escape, whatever that could mean in the future. We will have our time with destiny soon.”

Our words said, I make my way to the miasmic beast and its witch rider. Before reaching it, however, I make a detour to where the orcs have the elf-lad tied up. I stride purposefully, hoping the strange trust (if it can be called that) that has descended on this motley assembly allows me this liberty, and crouch in front of the tied up Elf. I keep my face emotionless, stoic and perhaps a tad too serious as I study the beaten up young elder in front of me.

Brusquely, I take hold of his ear and pull his head up so I may see his face. I slap him a little too hard on the cheek, the way someone unconcerned with this boy might be, to awaken him. When his eyes open, however slightly, I stare into them hard. I keep my mouth a thin angry line as I look at the only other pair of crystal orange eyes I have ever seen in my life, and I hope to all the Seldarine that he can see past my mask, into my eyes, into that immortal part of my mixed soul and understand that I am giving him all the will to live I can muster in the second or two I dare do this and hope no suspicion is aroused. I roughly let go of his head and stand up, looking down on this scion of Whitewyrm. I realize the turmoil inside me has reached such a point that my feelings have gone numb to protect me, which makes the last part of my act, spitting at the elf-lad’s feet in disgust, possible to accomplish.

As I walk away I look at Head-Taker and nod, “’Till paths meet, Head Cleaver.”

Holding my breath I walk to the foulwing and climb on the saddle with the Zhent witch, not knowing how in the Nine Hells I am going to get out of this mess I am in.

GM​

The smell of the beast is dreadful.

Health check, ob 1. If you fail, you vomit and you are at +1 ob due to nausea until you have some significant time away from the beast.

“Hold on, bounty hunter,” Reltav says with a smirk, putting her visor down. She makes clicking noises at the mount.

The foulwing takes a frog-like jump, lands on the top of a tree and as it begins to awkwardly plunge through the high up branches that cannot hold its weight, its wings beat the air on either side of you. You feel the powerful pull as you and the Zhent rider are launched into the sky.

The otherworldly beast ascends in a circular pattern, allowing you to see Laelin, the heir of Whitewyrm, the orcs and the wolf pack grow small as you rise higher and higher. Before you hit the clouds, you catch a glimpse of Myth Drannor, white walls and crumbling spires slowly choked by Cormanthyr’s green fingers.

Within the cloud it is cold and wet and then the witch-rider clicks, digs in her heels and the flying beast flaps its wings hard again and you are above the clouds. Above you is a stunning sunset and below you lightning flashes at different points of the storm. It should be cold but the foulwing gives off almost as much heat as it does stink.

Reltav points down at the clouds and yells back at you. “Pegasi! Look…”

A heard of winged horses moves in the distance, seeming to run on the tops of the clouds as if they were some kind of holy orange and red steppes above the world. The herd provokes some kind of predator/prey instinct in the foulwing and it inhales air, making itself double its size and emits and unholy croak that seems to reverberate into the horizon. Reltav pulls on the reigns, puts her fingers on particular places on the monster’s skull and it slowly deflates as the pegasi fly away.

“We’ll be Deepingdale tonight as long as my direction sense is good and this storm doesn’t get any of Bane’s fury in it.

“Back in the mud, you implied that you knew Xerez. Care to explain? Seems to me that you were playing a dangerous game with that pack back there.”

Player​

Health Test: 1,6,2,1 – 1 success. Just barely made it!

Precarious situation and noxious beast aside, I can’t help but marvel at the experience of flying over the land. It is truly magical.

I hear Reltav’s question and think on how to answer it. It is certainly a long way down to the ground and I don’t feel like finding out how it feels to fly on my own.

“Indeed I was playing a risky game, but Tymora doesn’t bless the safe bet. I just needed to arrive at the meeting place in one piece. Which I did.

“As for Xerez, I don’t know him that well, but I have certainly heard of him and his prowess. I spent my youth in the lands near the Keep and his name would be spoken of by the campfire by travelers met on the road or told by mothers to keep their children straight. ‘Do as yer told or you’ll end up a slave of Xerez the Mad,’ they would say, no insult to your master intended. But indeed, I do not recall hearing in any tale that the wizard had an apprentice under his tutelage. The stories portrayed a man sure of his power in the Art and wary of anyone close to him.”

GM​

“Pegasi! I’ve been griffon hunting but I’ve never seen the winged horses. Too bad we don’t have time; I hear they’re delicious. Sometimes the Murder and Mayhem pays off with views like that and handsome half-elven company.”

She reaches back and squeezes your knee. “Feeling alright? Toad isn’t making you sick, is he?”

Falsehood check for your lies about Xerez. The consequences are only that she’ll know something is up and will very well act on it later. Ob is her Will, which is 4 but if you don’t have Falsehood, double that to 8.

“Xerez the Mad! Ha! He hates that name but it fits. Yeah, he has two other apprentices – my brother and young Chuz, the wonderkind.

“He’s been getting more ambitious since that slave he was so in love with died and her son ran off. Master’s gotten his tower together and started making more bids for power in the Keep.

“The job’s good, you know? I get to learn magic, got me and my brother off the Zhentil Keep streets and learning a trade that doesn’t involve him holding someone’s legs while I knife them for their coppers. And…I get to fly all over Faerun doing Bane’s trade.

“How about you, what got you into bounty hunting? Is that what you do? Tomb robbing? Plenty of those around, I guess…good work if you don’t mind the delving, or are you more of a steal from the adventurers after their delving’s done fellow?”

Player​

Beginner’s Luck Falsehood (Will): 1,4,5,6 – 3 successes. Three Aptitude tests down, three to go.

“Don’t worry, my stomach seems to be stronger than your beast. I’m sure I will be able to hold my food in.”

It is very hard to keep in mind that I am flying with a Zhentarim witch atop a stench=ridden monster when everywhere I look around the world seems like such a beautiful place from this vantage point. Were I on the wings of a noble creature and with Nasharel at my side, I would not want to touch the solid ground ever again.

I nod noncommittally at the story of Xerez going mad after… I can’t even repeat it to myself; I feel like I want to throw up and the foulwing is already making me feel that way enough. Love; as it that beast knew the meaning.

“As to what I do with my day,” I continue telling Reltav, "it’s complicated. I wouldn’t call myself a tomb robber or a delver, though I have done my fair share of spending time underground. I am a minstrel, or at least that is how I style myself in order to blend in with the crowds. I have been known to ply the trade of the duelist as well, which comes in handy when out on the roads of the world. Above all I am a greedy son-of-a-wyrm who mercenarily is always looking for the bigger pay-day in return.

“What can you tell me of this Elf clan, the Whitewyrms?”

GM​

When the sun goes down, Selune lights the stars across the sky. The air becomes even colder but the beauty is so stark and breathtaking that its hard to notice any discomfort.

“A star for every one of Bane’s most treasured slaves…breathtaking,” she says.

“Whitewyrms are some kind of ice elves who made pacts with dread white dragons. They’re all in the west, maybe one or two still on the Sword Coast from what we hear.”

She lands Toad in the thick forest outside of Highmoon.

“We will stay here for a while, by my star’s reckoning, it isn’t yet the fourth bell. We’ll go then. As you probably noticed, Highmoon is guarded by elven archers and I’m in no mood to risk Toad’s wings. If we’re going to head in, I’d rather leave with elves at the end of their guard shifts, just a little weary. They change guards at dawn, so, fourth bell and we’re in. Where is the tapestry stored?”

“There’s an abandoned barn not far from here. Could be a good place to put Toad while we head into Highmoon. We could find a way to waste time before the fourth bell. Whaddya say, bard? Want to find some simple pleasures with a witch from the big, bad Zhentil Keep?”

Player​

There is something about this witch that I find strangely fascinating; it might be her unapologetic and matter-of-fact acceptance of the ways of the Keep in her life. Confidence can be very appealing. And in all honesty, I find it disturbing that I am not reacting as strongly in opposition as I thought I would.

“Flattered as I am at your offer, (dammit, Hal, you don’t have to be a charmer with every woman) I am spoken for and I take such vows seriously.”

I know well the barn she speaks of; ironically it is just a couple hundred yards away from my own cottage. “Mind if I ask a somewhat personal question?,” I say, though I really don’t wait for her answer before continuing. “I understand a life of rough pragmatism in the face of a tough childhood, as growing up in Zhentil Keep is like—your well-constructed propaganda of the Keep as the inheritor of Myth Drannor notwithstanding, and without presuming any knowledge of your life—but I do not understand the acceptance or continuation of practices held by many, or perhaps even most, as oppressive or downright evil in some cases.”

Realizing that I’m slipping out of character a little, I quickly try to salvage things. “I mean, I myself have been an indirect party to such acts at times; I cannot claim total ignorance. But I do try to navigate the rough waters of life by some sort of moral compass, however skewed to my realities it may be. I do abhor wanton murder and have strong opinions about slavery in the general sense of the practice (Cursed honest tongue!) even if sometimes I have been willing to look the other way for a nice purse of gold.”

Hal, SHUT UP! I scream at myself in my head as we lead the foulwing into the abandoned barn.

GM​

She genuinely looks amazed, takes off her helm and smiles as if she is witnessing something quaint. She takes the tack off of the foulwing, letting it move without its saddle strapped to its back. Toad immediately stretches its wings and makes a croaking sound that is new to you, perhaps a noise showing pleasure.

“Bane’s Unholy Black Hand! Are you a paladin? Are you going to use your True Faith to turn me into ashes? Your moral code is cute, Hal.

“Arcane science tells us that there are planes made up of positive and negative energy and that these energies have an effect on our flesh. Too much positive energy? Causes us to dissolve. ‘Ah,’ the lawful and the good point out, ‘but that is dissolving into the heavens.’ To the hells with them. They can keep their heavens.

“If someone captures me, has the power and can gain more profit in keeping me as their servant than letting me be free – I will be a slave. That isn’t an opinion; that is just fact and its true from here to the farthest demi-plane.

“I have allied myself with those who have power and therefor, I’m not a slave. So be it.

“But tell me this, Hal. How is it that you happen to have the same name as Xerez’s slave that got away all those years ago? How is it that you have the orange eyes the Whitewyrm’s inherited from a dalliance with an ancient White Dragon named Dawn’s Claw for his orange eyes that stood out against his white scales.

“Tell me this, noble bard, how badly do you want to kill Xerez and are you willing to get into bed, so to speak, with an unapologetic Zhentilar witch to do it?”

She stands in front of you, at the doorway of the abandoned barn, hands on her spear, breathless in anticipation of how you will react. The witch is prepared to kill, kiss or conspire.

Player​

“I was beginning to wonder if my eyes had turned a different color over my stay with the orcs. They never seemed to have made the connection.

“I bear the same name because it is me, my dear Zhent witch.” I really need to work on my lying abilities… Oddly enough, I don’t feel threatened, though by now I am quite sure that something has turned me into a reckless fool now that destiny has put me on the path to revenge.

“Fifteen years ago my mother sacrificed herself to allow me to escape Xerez’s dungeons, something for which one day the Mad Wizard must pay. I find the notion of the bastard ‘loving’ anyone laughable, though I will not even attempt to figure out what goes on in his head. So, indeed, I am Hal Stephaln, son of Ariadne Stephaln of Highmoon, free man. As for my Whitewyrm heritage, that is as much a mystery to me as to anyone else, therefore I cannot answer any questions beyond the fact that one of the clan is my father.”

I study the witch-rider in front of me; her armor, her spear, her dark hair, the steely look on her face born from the acceptance of a life under Bane’s eye. I should loathe this woman on principle, but I don’t. And I cannot figure out why…

“Reltav, I am neither Priest nor Paladin, but we obviously see the world differently. I do not know what the ways of Zhentil Keep taught you but I cannot fathom it being any harder a lesson than that taught to me by the lashes of Xerez’s slave-drivers. And yet here we are, you embracing the Zhentarim ways and me reneging them.

“I have no wish to fight you, strange as that sounds to my ears. And I do stand by my vow, as I told you, so I have no intention to, as you put it, ‘get into bed’ with you.”

I let that hang in the air for a moment, a pause as noxious as the foulwing’s excrement.

“That said, Harper nor Knight am I, so the utter destruction of the Zhentarim is not my ultimate goal: the death of Xerez is. And in this goal, you can be of help. You stand to gain as well by the removal of your master. And after all, is this not Bane’s way?”

Out of the frying pan…

GM​

In a deft, practiced motion she draws a black dagger from her hip, removes her glove and cuts her hand.

“I vow to murder Xerez if you, Hal Whitewyrm, son of Adriane, will swear with your blood and before Seven Powers to take part in the killing of Xerez the Mad because he is too weak to hold on to his power and too mad to be of any use. This blood represents the blood in my veins that gives me the power to take from his weakness. This blood represents the blood we will spill on our way to his demise.”

She squeezes blood onto the ground for each Power she invokes.

“I call on Mask, Lord of Shadows, to make our approach cunning and full of deceit. I call on the Maiden of Pain to help us overcome our wounds so that we might complete our task. I call on Old Lord Skull to come swiftly for Xerez’s soul and take him to a suitable Hell. I call on Bhaal to watch over our murder and see that it is swift and merciless. I call on Tyr, even if I find myself at odds with Him most days, Grimjaws must know that our target has it coming. I call on Tymora, because a little luck never hurts. And I call on Bane, Lord of the Black Hand, to give me all Xerez has, all that is within my power to take from him by force and will.”

She holds a bloody hand out to you, offering you her knife in the other hand.

“Make your cut and choose your Seven Powers, Whitewyrm. Let’s spill some blood and be on our way to spill more.”

As if the surrounding forest has quieted so that the deities might hear you better, the barn is silent.

Yes, this is a big deal and there are mechanics to help. Every Power you announce will be a Call-on for one roll while on this quest. The call-on will be within that deity’s sphere of influence.

Player​

I take the knife from Reltav and, with the same grim determination that once kept me going with the sole purpose of surviving and finding a way to live in order to once reach this day, I slash the palm of my right hand, letting the blood flow to power my vow to the Seven Powers.

“I call on Shevarash, the Night Hunter, to bless this hunt for vengeance. I call on Tyr the Even Handed to grant my right to seek justice by any means. I call on Labelas Enoreth, the Sage at Sunset, to grant me the wisdom of the Elves in my moment of choice as I hunt for Xerez. I call on the Foehammer, god of Brother Vhelt Marrim who now marches at his side, to guide my sword to strike true and deep upon the flesh of my enemy. I call on Tymora because the beautiful bitch owes me and I know she can lead me to victory. I call on Ilmater, The One Who Endures, to grant me the endurance to keep death from completing my righteous goal. And I call on Corellon Larethian, Ruler of the Seldarine, Elf-Father, to bless my hunt for the murderer of my human mother, who was beloved of one of his children, and thus bore me, Tel’Quessir and Man alike.”

My mixed blood spilled on the ground, I shake Reltav’s hand, our bloods mingling, sealing the deal we have just made, empowering the vows to the Seven Powers.

And may I be forgiven at the end of time for my transgression, but as the folk saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend—at least until our mutual enemy is dead.

In the back of my head, a small, beautiful Elven voice asks full of sadness and pain, " A’maelamin, mani naa lle umien?"

End of Chapter III

Continued in Chapter IV

Chapter IV
16th of Eleint, Year of the Prince, 1357, Dale Reckoning

GM​

Reltav the Witch-Rider lands the two of you half a day away from Zhentil Keep.

The foulwing lands through the hole in the ruins of some kind of grand wizard’s tower. If any monsters had been living there, Toad would have sensed their presence. Once some wizard tried to better understand the planes and rule the world. These days it is an owl roost and home to squirrels. Now it is a place to conspire.

“This place should be safe for a few hours. I caught some runaways here.”

She looks at you and realizes that what she said caused discomfort and makes the tangible decision not to apologize.

You ran out of food a day ago and she seems edgy and tired. Both of you need a bath and smell like a rank combination of body odor and otherworldly winged frog steed.

“Here’s the plan, Hal. I am going to cast Mask upon you so that Xerez will not recognize you at first glance. We will meet in private to discuss your Whitewyrm artifact and we will kill him as quickly and quietly as we can.

“But here are the problems: If the orc has talked too much and mentioned your orange eyes or even your name the wizard might already know. If your friend has made a misstep, Xerez might have had him tortured; the wizard might already know. If he has some magical power that I don’t yet know of, something he has kept secret from me that allows him to scry on me the damned wizard might already know.

“He has two dozen guards, mercenaries who have worked with him for years. One of them might recognize you somehow, see through the spell.

“There are Beholders through the city. If one of them were to turn its big anti-magic eye on you the spell could be burned away like a scroll in a hearthfire.

“Thoughts? Are you prepared to do this? Are you ready to fly into Zhentil Keep and kill Xerez the Mad?”

Did you bring the tapestry? I’m assuming you did, as you mentioned it in front of the orcs and Laelin.

Player​

I know things are bad when Toad already doesn’t smell that bad, and frankly, I am starting to smell like the foulwing as well. I let her comment about the runaways slide by; I’m too tired to make any kind of issue out of it at the moment. I look around the place; I recognize this tower fairly well and indeed, it puts us about a half-day’s ride from the city.

“I am ready to do this, Reltav. I have been ready for fifteen years. Help me unfasten the tapestry and move it somewhere where it’ll stay dry. I would also like to point out, just to be clear, that if at all possible I would like to keep this tapestry when all is said and done.”

Between the two of us we easily move the heavy rolled tapestry to what once was probably a pantry or ingredients cabinet which is fairly clean and dry.

“The first thing we need to do to avoid standing out like a paladin in Hell is bathe and eat something. I believe I spied a well not far from the tower as we were landing. One of us should go, see if it hasn’t run dry and if we’re in luck, wash off. The other can see if there is anything to eat in this ruined tower.

“Once we’re in the city, we need to move as quickly as possible to reach Xerez. I am not terribly worried about the guards; I was a scrawny boy of twelve when they last saw me and if your magic can keep my eyes masked, then we should be able to fool them. As for the wizard, the most prudent thing is to assume he already knows we are coming and is letting us fall into his web. We do everything as if he has no idea, though, and proceed as vigilantly as possible.”

I offer to go check on the well as the sun begins to hide behind the Dragonspine Mountains in the distance.

GM​

“Not fitting in to the Keep because we’re not properly bathed? Did you live among the Zhents in some kind of golden age that I am ignorant of. You know, we grew up there at around the same time. I wonder if we ever met?”

The well has some water in it and glyphs to please some long dead deity or powerful spirit who held dominion over wells and towers.

The bucket is attached to a chain and its still stout wood would lead one to believe that someone settled this tower and lived in it for a while since the megalomaniacal mage who raised it from the earth. When the bucket comes up, you struggle to take it off the chain and an extra pair of hands help you.

Brother Vhelt Marrim smiles despite the gash still in his neck. “The Foehammer thought you might need an extra pair of eyes. I wish I could be more help than just that but there are customs and rules that must be respected in such matters. Walking into a battle, are we?”

Player​

“I refuse to adventure smelling worse than the foulwing!” I say as I walk off to check the well.

As my eyes fall on the figure of Brother Vhelt I cannot help but grin fondly. That he is here is obviously a form of miracle, but given the vow I took, I do not find it strange in the least.

“Indeed, young Brother Vhelt, who now marches with Tempus Foehammer. The time has come to repay a debt of blood and I did invoke the help of Tempus in my hour of need. That he has seen it fitting to send you fills my heart with true joy.”

In my excitement I make the motion to clasp the young battle-acolyte on the shoulder, only realizing too late that I do know if this apparition is corporeal or pure spirit.

GM​

You put your hand right through him and Vhelt looks almost embarassed.

“When word of your oath made its way through our ranks, I told my superior officer that I know you…or knew you, that you were the last person I spoke to back in life and told them the things you said over my grave.”

Vhelt smiles and for a moment, the sun’s light shows over the Dragonspine one more time before dusk.

“I have an epic grave marker, though, don’t I? Stuck into the earth by some dragon, sorcerer-king or demi-god. Yes, indeed.

“Anyway, word went up through the ranks and it was decided that among those serving in the Foehammer’s Army who knew you, I would be sent. I’m here, Hunts-brother and I’m watching. From what I hear, Laelin and your brother won’t be in Zhentil Keep; they escaped their orc hosts and made their way into Myth Drannor.”

And as the sun goes down and it grows a bit cold, he’s gone in an eyeblink.

As you make your way up the tower’s broken steps with the water, you can hear Toad making the noises he makes when his tack is put back on him, when he’s becoming excited about jumping into the sky.

It is almost time to go and get your revenge. Powers Above and Powers Below are watching.

Vhelt is just fun color for your call-on, particularly anything having to do with battle (and a way to drop information into your lap).

Player​

The news of Laelin’s and the Whitewyrm boy—my brother?—fill me with joy. Myth Drannor is a perilous place indeed, but I trust that Laelin’s skills and Whitewyrm’s elven heart will be enough to help them navigate that dangerous maze to freedom. As for me, my own dangerous maze awaits me.

I wash briefly, if only just taking off the grime from hands and face, and it rejuvenates me. Food would be great, too, but I’ll take my little blessings as they come. As Reltav prepares Toad for flight anew, morbid curiosity takes hold of me and the question spews out of my mouth before I realize that I may not really want to know the answer. But it is too late.

“What can you tell me about the wizard’s “love” for my mother and what happened surrounding our escape?"

GM​

She continues checking the straps, knowing that if things go poorly your lives might depend on the foulwing for escape.

“I don’t know much, Hal. When you are an apprentice in Zhentil Keep, part of your job is to know about whatever weaknesses your wizard has ever displayed, so that you can either not trip over them or use them for one’s own gain.

“I know he adventured with your mother, his brother-in-law…so, I guess that would have been your uncle and an elven sword-singer of the Whitewyrm clan. Something went very wrong but I don’t know what and they all became separated. Your mother ended up in Zhentil hands, the uncle and the elf were gravely wounded. Somehow Xerez made his way back to the keep and carved out a name for himself, got himself a tower and purchased your mother but refused to free her.

“I can’t tell you much about the break-out attempt, other than Xerez killed your mother during the mess and blames you for her death. Shall we fly into danger and fulfill our oath?”

GM​

Interlude: The Rogue and the Attendant

Laelin Blackhand could not say what it was that had come out of Myth Drannor and walked through their camp. It seemed to be some kind of construct, maybe a golem, maybe some kind of defense the city held but now its magic had become warped or faded or broken and now it patrolled in some lost pattern. It had walked through their camp, the orcs, the wolves, his crossbow bolts as if they were water.

It was only Lady Luck’s own blessing that he and the elf boy had not been killed. The greater of the Black Hunters had run and the Head-taker, refusing to run, had been the first to fall with Stormcloud.

_________ Whitewyrm picked up his sword, Winter’s Kiss and kissed the flat of the blade, saying some words in elvish over it.

“We should make our way, Whitewyrm. Any day now Hal will arrive at Zhentil Keep.”

The boy’s voice was rough after days of mistreatment at the hands of Obould’s orcs. “No, we’re not going to Zhentil Keep; that is a foolish decision when we aren’t even sure Hal and the witch won’t kill each other or become snowed in or some other deviltry. My family had a manor in Myth Drannor, we could hole up there and gather our strength.”

“You want to walk into the Myth, boy? My decision is foolish and you talk of walking into the ruins of Myth Drannor as if they were a quaint village in the Dalelands. Allow me to assure you that they are not.”

Their argument is cut short by a gurgling from a nearby stream-bed. The lesser Black Hunter had been badly wounded, both of its legs broken, its wolf, the omega who had talked to Hal, stood nearby, snarling at its former rider.

Laelin and young Whitewyrm stood over the orc. Laelin took him out of the cold water as gently as he could. The orc cursed in its own language and made some words in the common tongue.

“Thank you. Mercy. Mercy as we showed you. Mercy.”

Laelin began to make conciliatory gestures when Winter’s Kiss struck, taking the orc in the throat, causing a fast death. Laelin jumped, tripping over a rock and cussing as Vorass the Maul had taught him, like a Sword Coast mercenary soldier.

While the elf boy cleaned the poisonous elf blood off of the Laelin began screaming, “What is wrong with you, boy! That was merciless it was…”

“Necessary,” the boy said, interrupting Laelin’s rant. "Did you think you were going to nurse the orc back to health? Were you two going to become brothers and go on adventures? You are naive and young. You call me boy but I likely have a decade or more on you, human. This monster tortured me from the icy north of the Sword Coast to here. I’d had enough.

“Hal will have an easier time getting in and out of Zhentil Keep if he doesn’t have to worry about us and honestly, I’m wondering if the easy power of Zhentil Keep doesn’t appeal to his human blood and lure him in. I’m going to find the halls of my ancestors; I hope to find sanctuary there. Follow me if you wish.”

Laelin sat on the ground where he had fallen, regretting haven made such a loud ruckus in these haunted woods. After a few minutes he got up.

“Bane’s balls. Bane’s shriveled poisonous, hate-filled balls indeed. Dammit, Hal, I’m sorry. Good luck, brother. May Tymora put us on the same path before too long.

“C’mon, wolf, let’s go after the boy.”

Together, a great wolf, an elf and a human walked into the Ruins of Myth Drannor towards Everwinter Hall.

GM​

Zhentil Keep assaults your nostrils before anything else. The smells bring back strong, terrible childhood memories.

A full flying wing of foulwing air calvalry swoop by. Reltav gives them the right coded gestures and they fly away, sure that she is not a threat, one of them. The city has grown since you escaped. Areas where there were only shacks and fire-pits are now stone barracks and warehouses. More docks allow for more ships, more shipping, more slaves. The Dark Shrine has grown and soon could be considered a cathedral to Bane.

Beyond the walls are flat drilling grounds for their armies. Eye Tyrants float down the city streets, stalks taking in the world around them, a wide berth given to these evil monsters.

You can plainly see why Lord Manshoon was confident enough to send his proclamation to Sembia, Cormyr, Archendale and Scardale, letting the world know that an attack on any one of Zhentil Keep’s holdings was an attack on all of Zhentarim armies.

Xerez’s tower is still the same but he bought out a shack tavern that leaned against his stone tower and built a proper barracks for his mercenaries. A wall is being built around his manor. Signs of his fortunes are clear.

In front of the tower children are beating a near-dead rodent with a stick. The game seems to involve hitting it as hard as one can, without actually killing it.

Xerez’s mercenaries were black tabards with white trim. Two are at the door with wicked looking barbed spears and more are in a nearby alley, playing dice and cursing loudly. They wear the silver Z over their hearts for the keep and a white X’s on their shoulders for their paymaster, Xerez the Mad.

Reltav is hitching up Toad when the front door of the tower opens and there he is. Xerez the Mad walks out into the yard and right past you, speaking to the witch-rider.

“Where in the hells have you been, apprentice?” In the old days, Xerez had mad moods that would take him into shaking fits of anger. Now he seems to have marshaled these moods but is always on the edge of such an outburst.

She nods towards you. “Located this bounty hunter camping out at Drowned Hope. He had word of a fine Whitewyrm treasure that I thought you would find valuable. We had to take a dangerous trip south but we got it.”

Xerez turns towards you and for the first time since you were a boy, he fixes his gaze on you, without any realization as to who you are.

“You missed us in the Dead Gods’ Grove. No matter. What do you have? I don’t have all damned day and I’ve seen every trinket from here to Westgate that has even the semblance of a damned white dragon on it. So, what is it?”

Player​

I did not think it would assault me this way. Looking down upon Zhentil Keep, upon its filth and squalor, upon its dejected victims and predatory powermongers, upon the misery that passes as daily life here, it makes me want to vomit far more than the smell of the foulwing did the first time. I imagine if Reltav could see my face right now she would delight in my morality and how the simple sight of this city offends it to the core.

My eyes scan the routes in and out of the city from Xerez’s tower. Rarely did I ever see the light of day during my time as a slave, and my escape was via a tunnel, so this is not a mental map I have ever had to call upon. I try to memorize as much as I can: an alley behind the barracks, a long street leading into a—a plaza? a market? a gallows ground?—the avenues being patrolled by the eye tyrants. It’s too much in too little time, but hopefully it will be helpful should there be a need for it.

When the mad wizard emerges from the tower it takes every ounce of willpower in my being to remain calm, to not jump him and wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze with all the hatred in the planes of existence. I feel Reltav tense beside me, sensing my turmoil, and in turn I feel her silent warning to keep my act together, though I am sure she used far more profane words in her mind.

“You missed us in the Dead Gods’ Grove,” he says to me. He has no idea who I am. Perfect. “No matter. What do you have? I don’t have all damned day and I’ve seen every trinket from here to Westgate that has even the semblance of a damned white dragon on it. So, what is it?”

If I were to strike him right now, plunge my dagger right in between his eyes, I am sure my life would be forfeit but my mission accomplished. But I also have a life I want to live, not throw it away on this piece of foulwing excrement that calls himself a person. And given that Reltav’s magic seems to be working, it is better to bide my time until Tymora smiles.

“I bring you a tapestry,” I say without introductions, without any words beyond what is necessary, “one that bears the tale of a young winter elf who would go on to found the Elven dynasty of Whitewyrm.”

GM​

“Dynasty? More like a fallen lineage. My slaves will bring it in to the tower’s ground level parlor. I’ll meet you there once I have cleared up some business and we can discuss price.

“A tapestry would be a fine prize indeed. Let’s see what you have when I get back. We have free craftsman among our masons and they will rob you blind if I’m not there to have a glance over there once in a while.

“I am Xerev. Perhaps you have heard of me. I’m the wizard who orchestrated the fall of the Citadel of the Raven. My star in Zhentil Keep is rising, so if this is a profitable exchange, we can look forward to more deals in the future.”

He offers his hand for shaking.

Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, from the Moonshae Isles pick up the tapestry and take it into the tower.

Reltav is in a conversation with a young man and from the family resemblance, you can safely assume that it is her brother.

When (and if) you shake his hand and introduce yourself, he takes his leave and you are left to your own devices. Reltav is busy arguing with her brother and Zhentil Keep is laid out before you, not having noticed your return.

Player​

I shake his hand, strong and firm, a tad too strong and firm, and nod when he mentions our later meeting to discuss price, still not saying any words. My eyes fall on the foreigner children taking the tapestry and I hold myself back when they seem to struggle lest I appear too concerned or make them appear too weak and make their life more miserable than I already know it is.

I glance around the area, filling in the gaps of the quick mental map I made upon our descent, taking note of how many guards are where, wielding what. I let my gaze fall upon the figure of Xerez as he walks away and quickly look elsewhere when I feel my rage boiling too high.

I spy a tavern two blocks down from the tower, The Hanging Halfling (typical Zhentish sense of humor), and my stomach reminds me that food must be had even when standing in the middle of a rotten den of evil.

“Reltav,” I say at the first break in her conversation with whom appears to be her brother. “I shall be at the tavern yonder, if you need to find me for discussing coin or having a meal.” I walk away without waiting for her answer, switching back to a personality I thought I’d left behind in the streets of Raven’s Bluff.

GM​

The Hanging Halfling serves stew with mysterious meat. The tavern is filled with Thayan sailors, Bane Pilgrims, and Blackguard. True to its name, the servers are all halflings with thick iron slave collars. There is a gallows out front, no doubt they hang a slave when they attempt an escape or spill stew on the wrong patron.

When you are done with your first warm meal since Highmoon, one of Xerez’s guards approachs, a half-orc with silver over one of his tusk/teeth.

“Xerez summons you, bounty hunter.”

Toad snuffles at you from his pen, familiar with you from the days of travel.

The guard leads you past the two guards at he front door, to the ground floor of the tower, where there is a table, a beam of wood for locking the front door, some maps and the stairs going up. There are two doors, the guarded front entrance from which you came and the doorway to the kitchen. Braziers keep the autumn chill off. Reltav is by the door and her brother is in the room, prodding the coal with the end of his staff.

The guard leaves you.

Reltav’s brother says, “Are we really doing this? Really?”

Player​

I glance at Reltav to make sure we’re all talking about the same thing. Seeing her slight nod and the look of fear in her brother’s face I realize we are.

“Yes, indeed we are. And it is now or never. If you’re in, you’re bound by your sister’s blood vow.”

Checking my weapons, loosening the ties on the scabbard, and uttering a silent prayer to Tymora for luck, to Tempus for mettle and to Corellon for immortal guidance, I stride towards Xerez’s private chambers, and toward destiny. Come what may…

GM​

As you begin to walk up the stairs, Xerez walks in the front door with the two slaves, whom he orders to put tapestry on the table, over everything else and begins to conduct business right there in the main room, never intending to invite the likes of you to his private sanctum. He looks over the tapestry and does not hide how impressed he is.

“This is a splendid find, bounty hunter. What did you say your name was again? Anyway, I’m impressed. It is indeed a tapestry about the beginnings of the Whitewyrm clan.

I can give you six hundred gold pieces, minted in Sembia, or I can give you double that in slave vouchers and you can head to the market tomorrow and choose your lot. For tonight, you may spend the night in the barrcks, as you don’t want to be in the streets of Zhentil Keep alone unless you have arcane skills and a hard reputation or else you will find yourself at the mercy of the press gangs. I wouldn’t want a relic finder with a fine eye like yours to be at the oar of a Thayan galley or moving bricks in the Citadel of the Raven."

Reltav has closed the front door but has not yet put the bar over it to lock it, but she is clearly in position to do so. Her brother is in the same position to do so by the kitchen door. There are no guards.

The moment is pregnant with murder and conclusion. Then there is a hard knock on the door and the harsh voice of a messenger states, “Xerez, Lord Manshoon and his retinue approaches; they wish to have words with you concerning construction at the Raven.”

“Of course! Reltav, why is the door closed? Are you catching a chill after your week in the skies?

Well, bounty hunter? I have no time for haggling. My Lord approaches. Take it or leave it."

Player​

Bane’s putrefact balls…

A slight nod, a flick of the wrist, the drawing of breath in anticipation of the lounge. Out comes the sword, out comes the quiet rage that fuels my righteous bladed thrust.

Guide my sword, Tempus!

Fight!

GM​

Xerez eyes grow wide when he sees you approach sword in hand but he marshals his shock and attempts to get into a position enough away from your sword’s reach so that he can cast a spell.

Xerez made his Steel test with tons of successes. Now we roll for engagement (BWG, 429-431). He is trying to cast a spell that has Polearm range, so he get’s a +1D for the roll. After that, we script the first volleys.

Make sense?

Player

Engage Test (B3 Speed): 5,5,5 – 3 successes.

GM​

Engage Test (B4 Speed + 1D for weapon length advantage, his spell counts as a polearm): 4, 4, 3, 5, 5 – 4 Successes.

Advantage: Xerez, +1 ob to all of your attack actions. Aaand, I’m scripting.

GM​

Interlude: The Hunt

Battle-father Crommlar Muriel was taking stock of his comrades. He knew that the ranks, the plans and the discipline of war disintegrated in the chaotic face of Tempus. Pitting the Red-Wizards of Thay with their gnollish shock troops against the trolls and the human mercenaries had been difficult but worth the effort. Vorass the Maul had suggested turning their enemies against one another and picking off what remained.

Still, Tempus sent his trials as a group of Bane-guards came upon them and it wasn’t long before foulwing air cavalry were swooping down on their heads. Using illusions and the cover of the forest, Shasslan had gotten them through it with a minimum of casualties.

“Captain, where’s Vorass? Her plan was impeccable,” Crommlar asked.

Shasslan’s face grew grim. “She didn’t make it, Battle-Father. She was cut down. I must gather the rest. I saw a few head beyond the glade towards the Myth and don’t want them to wander to close to…”

Crommlar cut off her sentence, grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Shasslan, what did you do? You and Vor were together…what happened?”

Shasslan the Huntress bit back tears and put the visor of her helmet up, partly so that her hunts-brother could hear her clearly and partly so that he could see the pain in her face. "What happened, brother? What always happens. There was a terrible deed that needed doing in order for us to keep our oaths, a deed that might be a stain upon my very soul but I did it anyway. Had I done it when I had intended, perhaps Hal and Laelin would be safe and with us rather than Powers-knows-where doing only Bane-knows-what if they are even alive at all. They’ve been gone too long, far too long. Odds are the Zhentarim have them even now and then what, Cromm?

“What happened, Cromm? The Hunt demanded a sacrifice and I made it. What happened? We have a traitor amongst us, someone who told the Black Network that we were here and I thought I knew who it was, so I acted.”

Crommlar’s face grew grim. “When we winter, we will need to call the officers and discuss this, captain.”

Shasslan nodded. “I would expect no less.”

Vorass the Maul was buried in full armor just south of the Dead God’s Glade, as per The Hunt’s charter.

GM​

Volley 1: Cast Spell / Cast Spell

Volley 2: Avoid (Scream: GUARDS! GUARDS!)

Volley 3: Cast Spell

Player​

Volley 1: CHARGE (Scream: LOCK DOWN!)
Volley 2: CHARGE
Volley 3: Strike

Charge Test (B4 Power + 1D): 4,4,5,5,4 – 5 successes!
Shevarash smiles on our hunt.

GM​

Hal runs full tilt at Xerez and the mad wizard begins casting the spell he always leads with, The Fear.

Reltav and her brother are busy barring the doors, unable to help or hinder.

Sorcery 6 = 6, 6, 4, 2, 6, 1 = the sixes explode = 1, 6, 5 = six explodes = 2. 6 successes. The extra successes do him no good with this spell. Make a Steel check, as do his apprentices. The Charge occurs at the exact same moment, so roll that and then roll the Steel check, ob is your hesitation.

He rolls for his tax (to see how physically demanding the spell was) and makes it with 3 successes.

I’m honestly not sure if the spell goes off at the exact same moment or if you interrupted it. Hmf. Either way, with your successful Charge, I believe you took the Advantage.

Xerez hits the ground in a lump even as his spell is released into the air, causing cold fear to grip everyone gazing on the wizard. Reltav and her brother check their resolve at the same moment as Hal.

Player​

Steel Test (B3): 4,6,6 + 1 Fate artha → 4,4 = 4 successes. Hesitation is 6, so 2 actions lost while I Stand and Drool.

Darkness overtakes me. Oppressing rock at both sides, rank smell of stagnant air filling my lungs. The sounds of whips scarring living flesh assault my ears. I feel manacles on my wrists, shackles around my ankles. I cannot move, I cannot think. I am alone in the dungeons once more, a child of 10, of 8, of 6, alone in these caves, alone in the world. Where is my mother?

GM​

What does Hal see or what is going through his mind as the Fear takes him? Could you describe that for me? Does he Stand and Drool? Beg for Mercy or Run?

The apprentices begin screaming and crying, clawing at the doors but unable to compose themselves enough to open them. They are in the throes of the Mad Wizard’s magic.

Xerez casts his second spell from the ground. He exerts his willpower on the door and it explodes, leaving grooves in the wood. The shards fly towards the half-elf.

Sorcery 6 = 4, 2, 6, 4, 2, 1. Sixes explode = 5. +1 ob for being on the ground. 3 Successes.

<strike>He makes his tax roll.

Die of Fate for damage = 3. The spell as a VA of 3, so I’m assuming this goes right through your armor. You’d need 3 successes on an armor test to have a prayer. You take a B5 wound. This is a light wound, provoking another Steel test.

All tests from here on out are at -1D.

The wood rips through Hal’s armor, embedding into his flesh.</strike>

GM​

Xerez scurries away on the floor, still anticipating an attack that does not come. He screams, “GUARDS! GUARDS!” and then casts another spell. <strike>Seeing how Shards ripped into Hal, Xerez casts it again.</strike>

Desperate to cut Hal down before his apprentices regain their composure, Xerez casts again.

Sorcerery 6 = 4, 5, 6, 5, 6, 5. Sixes explode = 1, 1. +1 ob for being on the ground. 5 Successes.

Tax test = only 3 successes, so that is 2 dice off his Health. He felt that effort.

<strike>Die of Fate = 4…he uses his 3 extra successes to add 1 to the Die of Fate roll, putting it up to 5. That is a B7 wound, a midi wound. This takes your Speed down to 0, making Hal unconscious.

The spell takes its toll from Xerez, sapping away his body’s constitution but it is all worth it, as Hal falls unconscious. The Wizard gets up off of the floor and looks down at the half-elf he knew as a boy.

“Welcome back to Zhentil Keep, Hal Whitewyrm.”

He turns to his apprentices, hoping to get this violent chore finished before Lord Manshoon arrives.

The shards of wood fail to penetrate Hal’s armor.

And we’re on to the second exchange, let’s script our next volleys. You still have the advantage from the successful Charge.

The fear falls away from the eyes of Reltav and her brother. The tide has turned.</strike>

Player​

Armor Test from exploding wood splints (B3): 6,4,5 – 3 successes. Booyah!

Armor Test from second Shards spell (B3) + 1 Persona artha: 4,2,6,6 + 1 Fate artha → 5,4 – 5 successes.

Steel Test (B3): 4,6,4 → 6 → 4 = 5 successes.

Player​

Exchange Two:
Volley 1: Strike.
Volley 2: Strike!
Volley 3: STRIKE!

GM​

Volley 1: Cast Spell / Cast Spell

Volley 2: Avoid

Volley 3: Cast Spell

GM​

3 Successes for advantage – 2 for being on the floor still. 1 success only..

Player​

Positioning Test (B3 Speed + 1D advantage last exchange + 2D Apprentices): 4,5,6,6,2,5 = 5 successes. Since Xerez’s spell is Weapon Length: Polearm, there is no effect to our actions, so we can move on to the scripting we already did.

Sword Test (B4 + 2D App): 1,2,2,3,1,2. Ack!

I swing my sword at the mad wizard. His magical attack may have failed to damage me directly, but in tensing to withstand the damage that never came, I must’ve pinched a nerve. As my arm draws the sword downward, I feel it wobble slightly. I silently call on Tymora to have her fortune smile on me that this still be a good strike upon the poisonous snake of a man.

I call on Tymora to help me! Re-rolling Sword Test (B4 + 2D App): 4,6,4,5,1,6 + 1 Fate artha → 4,4 = 7 successes! Thank you, Lady of Fortune.

GM​

Xerez begins casting another spell, using only the fastest spells in his arsenal in order to compete with the blades all around him. He casts Shards once again, causing the wood from the front door weaken as the guards begin to smash it with their armored shoulders.

Sorcery 6 = 1, 2, 6, 6, 6, 4. Sixes explode = 4, 1, 4. +1 ob for being on the floor. 5 Successes.

Tax = 3 successes, so a further -1 die, -4 total to his Forte of 5.

Die of Fate = 6, Ouch…B7 damage unless you make an ob 4 armor check.

Xerez looks exhausted. The toll of casting this many spells in rapid succession is coming due.

Your sword strike hits at the exact same moment. Xerez has NO armor. Bring it!

Player​

“FOR MY MOTHER!”

Decency, poise, goodness—all drain away from me. At this moment all that exists is the rage that has built up for fifteen years—fifteen motherless years. There is no tower, no apprentices, no guards, no blackened Zhentish sky, no cursed ground beneath: there is only the mad wizard Xerez and me, Hal Stephaln Whitewyrm. And my sword…

The slashing motion turns into a piercing thrust at the very last second, just like the one-eyed duelist taught me back in the Bluff. It always catches the enemy by surprise. And Xerez is no exception. He tries to kick away my blade but it’s too late; the sword is not where he expected it and instead all he feels is the three feet of cold steel plung into his inner thigh, straight into his abdomen, sharp tip skewering his dark heart. Wizardbane, that shall this sword be called henceforth.

Xerez’s eyes open wide and with his last breath of life I know he can see my orange eyes. He knows who I am. He knows why he dies.

His spell still goes off, sending another explosive volley of wooden missiles from the door onto me.

Armor Test (B3 + 1 Persona artha): 1,1,2,1.

I feel the shards begin to pierce my leather armor in a hundred places. Ilmater, I call in my mind, grant me your immortal endurance!

Call-On re-roll: 6,5,6,5 – 4 successes!

By divine grace of the Enduring One I feel the leather harden momentarily and what could’ve been my final moment is now instead a new opportunity at life. Praised be Ilmater!

Ariadne Stephaln of Highmoon, rest peacefully. You have been avenged.

GM​

Hal and Reltav can feel something tangible leave the air as Xerez dies, the eyes of Powers leaving them, moving on to look on other events of Faerun. But for a time, Powers above and Powers below were watching, moved by their mighty oaths and those they petitioned for aid.

Xerez dies on his back, betrayed by his apprentices, casting petty spells that threw shards of wood at young boy who grew up to be a reckless swordsman. It is a fitting end for a mad wizard.

The soldiers are still attempting to knock down the door that is already diminished by Xerez’s repeated casting of Shards, having used the very wood of the door as his weapon to no avail against Hal’s Power-touched armor.

“We have two choices, Hal. We can run out the kitchen door and pray to whatever deities are left in the sky who we haven’t spent our faith’s coin with already that the guards have not circled to the back of the tower, or we stay right here. If we make it to Toad, we have a chance of getting out of this place alive.

“I could put an arcane mask on you and an arcane mask on Xerez, making it seem like you killed him. Run with hollow prayer or stay and face Lord Manshoon on the back of my meager spellcraft and your silver tongue. If we stay, the rewards could be grand as we pick through this tower at our leisure while you wear Xerez’s face…free his slaves, perhaps. What say you, wizard-slayer?”

Reltav’s brother, whose name you still don’t know asks, “Do I have a say in this?”

She ignores him and looks at you, shaking with excitement. There is the sound of wood splintering under the force of mercenaries’ shoulders.

GM​

Artha:

Persona – for completing your belief.

Fate – for a trait turning the game on its ear.

Fate – for the Freedom, love and family, I think.

Sound good?

GM​

Interlude: Powers Above and Powers Below

They aren’t sitting around a table as we know it but thinking of them sitting around a table is the easiest way to fit it all into our heads. Death, Murder, Tyranny, Luck, War some prominent Elvish deities and still others are there, drawn together by two mortals’ bloody oath. Oaths like that are sworn every day but somehow this one caught their attention. For a variety of reasons as varied as the aspects at the table, they each chose not to delegate the responsibilities of being petitioned and chose to view the oath’s events personally.

Lady Luck has flipped a coin and for a moment, an ancient elvish flavor of Revenge has stopped bickering with Murder about moral issues and there is silence. No breathing, just silence, watching Lady Luck’s coin twirl in the air. On one side of the coin is a Devil, scouling, forked tongue flicking the air. On the other side of the coin is an angel, solemn, following its deities’ commandments.

The Devil’s eyes reflect shards of wood ripping into the half-elf oath-taker’s flesh. You can see him fall to the ground, lose consciousness while thinking about his late mother. The other oath-taker is tortured for information while he regains his strength in a wizard’s stinking dungeon until she is sold to Thay and he is sold into the Underdark. Does he turn to Spite? Does she find freedom among the Red Wizards?

In the Angel’s eyes is simply a dead wizard, his blood staining the parlor’s stone floor, covering it in red. The angel makes no promises beyond that moment, the wizard slain, the oath fulfilled.

The coin lands in her hand and she covers it with her other hand, that isn’t really a hand but you get the idea. She smirks because what you hear is true, Lady Luck has a sense of humor.

“Angel it is,” she says, uncovering the coin for the Powers at hand to see.

The table (let’s call the table, Faerun, shall we?) erupts into talk, heads shake and heads nod as they discuss the matter and begin to take their leave. Chairs would scrape the floor if there were chairs.

Lady Luck whispers to the coin. “Good luck, little bard. Stop refering to me as a bitch. I don’t like it.”

Someone sitting at Faerun laughs. “Is this one personal, Tymora?”

She smiles again. “Its never personal, Bane. You should be careful of your own luck, dear. Prophecies say a Time of Troubles is coming.”

Bane is the last one to leave, cursing at the void his peers have left. “What does that mean, Lady Luck? The Black Hand has no need of your luck!”

Player​

I push aside the sudden emptiness inside, ignore the gaping void where my rage towards Xerez had nested for over half my life, terribly aware that killing the wizard was arguably the easy part.

I take quick stock of the situation—the mercenaries barking at the door, the dead wizard at my feet, the approaching Lord Manshoon of Zhentil Keep—and regardless of how noble and reckless my core being is, there is nothing else for me to do here right now. Another time perhaps.

“Reltav, quick, cast your magic to make me look like Xerez and him like me. We shall leave by the back door while your brother tells the guards that we have gone after the other intruders, Knights of the Raven. Hopefully we can reach Toad in time.

“You,” I point at Reltav’s brother. “Send the guards to seek reinforcements and send them to the ruined tower half-a-day’s ride west of the city, that that is where more are hiding. Command them as if your life depended on it for doubt not it does!”

Once Reltav’s magic is done, we run together out of the parlor, scurrying off like some illicit lovers to a dark randevouz. As we run through the tower I turn to Reltav and tell her matter-of-factly with the face of her deceased master, “Your brother will betray us both.”

GM​

She starts to object but there is no time for duels of wits or even harsh words. She casts the spells deftly and quickly, leaving Xerez’s with your face and putting his likeness upon you, hading you one of his traveling cloaks in a nearby closet. There are guards outside the back door and they take your orders easily. You walk right by them with a casual demeanor that has no reflection on what is happening in your hearts.

And there is Toad, chortling as he does at familiar faces, glad the nearby children are no longer throwing dried dung at him.

That is when the first wrinkle becomes apparent.

Reltav get’s on the back of the saddle, where you had ridden from Highmoon to Zhentil Keep, high above the Cormanthor. Her jaw is tense as she subtly tilts her head for you to get into the sky-rider’s seat.

“Lord Xerez, shall we fly to our rendez-vous? We should take care to keep Toad low, lest we attract unwanted attention and make ourselves targets of our enemies.”

Ride, Flying, unskilled so use your Will stat, so ob 1, a simple take-off becomes ob 2 when it is doubled.

Reltav wraps her arms around your waste and whispers into your ear. “Easy now. Cluck as you’ve heard me do and gently prod him towards the barrack’s roof. He’ll do the rest, dammit all to hell.”

1 Helping Die from Reltav.

Player​

At least having spent a whole week on the back of this beast will pay off in some way, I think as I climb onto the riding harness. Taking hold of the reins the way I saw Reltav do. Clearing my throat, I attempt to make the particular clucking sound Toad responds to.

Riding Beginner’s Luck (Will B4 + 1D helping die): 4,5,3,5,6 – 4 successes.

The noises image must be right as Toad responds and begins to move, heading in the direction laid out by Reltav.

Maybe, just maybe, we can pull this off…​