Rd 1, Drawmack vs Sniktch
The young druid had traveled far to reach his destination, but he knew that at last he was drawing close to his goal. The forest had grown darker and more forbidding over his last day of travel, until the acolyte felt that he was a very unwelcome guest indeed. Finally he broke through a particularly overgrown stretch of forest and beheld the one he’d been sent to find.
The man stared back at him, crouching upon a broad, flat stone, a wide grin stretching his round, cherubic cheeks even as he reached for the sword scabbarded across his back. Curly brown hair covered his head and most of his body, but the small horns protruding from his forehead were the real giveaway to the man’s true nature. It was Khorr’d the satyr, the champion of the woodlands. (pic 3)
Khorr’d frowned and left his sword sheathed when he realized that the adept before him was no enemy. “Well,” he growled in a thick, deep voice. “What is it ye want, then?”
“Look - just look at what they’ve done,” the druid said as he stretched forth his cupped palms. Within them lay a tiny, delicate reptilian creature who glared at him with one tiny head, legs thrashing about as it struggled against its captor, more legs than such a creature should have, and then, where its tail should be, a second tiny head. (pic 1)
“Please,” he continued. “Please, you must discover what is being done to the wildlife here and end it before this evil taint spreads.” The youth went on to explain that several fortnights ago the druid council had first noticed the spreading taint within the forests and marshes to the south. They had tracked the source of the corruption to an evil cult that made its home in the rocky, mountainous region to the southwest, but the council had proved powerless to halt their vile rituals. Some form of strong protection rendered the druids’ spells completely useless, and the cultists were too numerous to contemplate the use of force.
They needed a champion, one who was skilled with the blade and the art of infiltration, to track the cultists back to their lair, discover within the source of the infection that spread through their beloved wilderness, and to destroy it by any means possible. In short, they needed the help of Khorr’d.
The satyr listened to the story with growing rage, and when the acolyte ended his story with question, “Please, will you help us?” he nodded immediately. It took him less than half an hour to gather his things and prepare himself for the coming journey.
Several days later the satyr found himself upon a rocky slope, leaning against the wind as he picked his way up the mountainside. Before him the mountain curved in upon itself and several small structures had been built of brick within the curve (pic 2). Khorr’d approached the entrance of the nearest building cautiously, wary of a sudden ambush. He had tracked a group of cultists back to this place and it was not inconceivable that they had noticed their tail.
Suddenly a crossbow bolt skipped off the rock near him, sending a spray of gravel flying, andf Khorr’d knew the time for stealth had passed. He leaped up and charged the doorway, leading with his sword. Another bolt flew from the dark aperture and grazed his arm, and he immediately felt an itching, burning sensation from the wound. Luckily the poison was not enough to overcome his tough woodland constitution and the satyr ran on.
He burst in through the opening and saw a pair of cultists before him, their crossbows cast aside as the hastily tried to draw their long knives. Khorr’d brought his sword across in a sweeping arc and cut the throat of the nearest cultist before he could bring his weapon up to defend, simultaneously leveling a vicious kick at the other cultist that knocked the man backwards. The thug recovered quickly and came in swinging his knife, but Khorr’d caught the blade on his own and parried it out to the side, then snapped his head forward and butted his opponent with his horns, stunning the cultist momentarily. The satyr wasted no time disposing of his foe and then went to work examining the interior of the cave.
In the back of the room he found a staircase leading down into the heart of the mountain. The satyr entered the tunnel and heard a faint pounding sound like a drum, and began working his way through the mazelike warren He was forced to double back a couple of times when the passage dead-ended or when it simply became too small for him to continue. At long last he emerged upon a ledge, overlooking a vast underground cavern where a hideous ritual was taking place.
Cultists gathered in a great frenzied throng in this chamber, with painted red skin and wearing bright red robes. Each cultist had a white dove tied to its belt, the birds standing out in stark contrast to their scarlet captors, alive and obviously terrified (pic 4). One by one they approached a great vat upon a raised platform in the center of the room, decapitated their birds, and let its life blood drain into the great bubbling black vat filled with a tarlike substance.
With an outraged cry the satyr leaped down amongst the cultists, his blade flashing right and left as he kicked the vat with all his strength and sent it tumbling down the steps of the platform to disgorge its filthy contents upon the floor of the cavern. A man dressed in the robes of a high priest charged in snarling, an upraised mace within his grasp. Khorr’d caught the downward stroke and pushed the mace back up and away, then snapped his sword downwards and opened the man’s belly. His opponent fell to the ground, howling and trying to hold his guts in until the satyr silenced him forever with a vicious kick to the skull.
The cave began to rumble and shake as if it were starting to collapse, and Khorr’d turned and began making his way toward the exit, cutting down any cultists foolish enough to stand in his way. Luckily the satyr had an innate sense of direction and was able to retrace his steps perfectly, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. He pushed his way through the panicked cultists and finally made his way out of the cave as the tunnels began to collapse behind him.
He was followed from the entry by a cloud of thick dust, but when it finally settled the satyr beheld no living cultists and the structures’ doorways choked with tons of rubble and debris. Khorr’d doubted that any cultists had survived the disaster. Whistling cheerfully, he sheathed his sword and began sprinting down the mountainside toward the forest below.