The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)

[Funeris]

Several days prior…

Spinum Machaera [1] pulled the long, black hair backward from his face. With a motion, quick from years of practice, he tied it with a looped band of dragon hair. He wasn’t a foolish man; he knew the hair was probably just some thick horse or yeti hair from the north. Still, the claim of actually having a bit of dragon’s hair actually inflated his pride. And he could always test the hair in one of his experiments to prove the validity. And if the merchant had lied, which was most likely, Spinum would gladly add the bastard’s name to his list.

The fifteen year old glanced over his most recent experiment. He pulled out his own handwritten tome and poured through the calculations scrawled in archaic script. Everything was exactly in accordance with his machinations. The young man smiled.

He lifted the elegant, silver dagger he had purchased from that same vendor back in Leuwel, just south of the supposed Dragon Boneyard. The handle, a perfect thickness and weight for the mage, ended in a perfectly rounded skull. He drew the blade across his smallest finger, popping the protective organic covering of his skin. Blood formed a quick bubble and he shook his hand briskly, the viscous fluid splattering upon the small pile of bones.

Spinum glanced again at the tome, searching for the correct words when yelling erupted in the distance. He sighed and tried to focus. His father and twin brother were sparring yet again. The shriek of metal kissing metal and the grunting of voices carried loudly toward the Myriam Range.

His mind slipped briefly into theory and history. It was said that the Myriam Range, the low mountain range that climbed to join the Midloth Range was crafted by the hands of the gods themselves. Spinum did not believe in gods, unlike his father and sibling, both paladins of the goddess Myr, the Lady of Light and Life. But the myth surrounding the mountains involved the Dark Lord, the original ruler of all of Norum da Salaex not the false prophet now placed upon the throne, and the god of the dwarves, Rorgard. Apparently, the myths said that the Dark Lord had enslaved the dwarven god, forcing him to craft the mountain ranges that now surrounded the capital.

Spinum imagined gleefully the power he could attain if he could enslave a god to do his bidding. But gods were just myths. It was more likely that the Dark Lord had enslaved the entire dwarven race to craft the mountain ranges.

The problem with a world full of myth, Spinum decided, was the inherent loss of history involved once myth enforced its superiority. Spinum had had to search for months along the journey for the spells he now carried. He had purchased dozens of spells, all to no effect. They were frauds; myths wrapped nicely in a neat, arcane package and unable to assist his own development.

Another screech of metal against metal brought Spinum back to the task at hand. He flipped through the tome again, searching for the words.

“Exanimus,” the mage whispered. “Excio.” The young wizard felt a drain, arcane energy passing through his body. Spinum nearly jumped for joy as the small skeleton shuddered and stood. A faint red light glowed within the squirrel’s skull. Its eye-less head searched around for a moment, before locating the arcane power which had raised it to near-life.

“Now that I have the spell, all things will become possible,” Spinum stated smugly. As soon as the words left his mouth, the squirrel skeleton shuddered and became a useless pile of bone again. He growled. Then he grabbed his material and blade, dropping them all into his backpack.

The sounds of battle again raged not near off. The mage stormed toward where he had left his family upon the road. As he approached, he realized something was wrong. The metallic clanking was too rapid for just his brother’s sparring. They must be under attack! Spinum prepared another spell and sped up, trying to remain as silent as possible. He loosened the halberd he had strapped across his back, just in case it would be necessary.

The mage stopped behind a large maple, and glanced around. There were at least fifty guards surrounding his family.

“Oh sh*t,” the mage grumbled. He was competent, but not that competent. His father and brother whirled within the circle of black-clad soldiers, defending as much as they could. Still, bloody bastard swords pierced their defenses and then flesh. His brother was clearly weakening fastest. For no apparent reason the circle of guards suddenly widened, drawing to attention.

Spinum watched carefully, anticipating a possible opening for his attack. Out of nowhere, a creature stepped into existence. Spinum had no other word for the being. It was easily between seven and eight feet tall and dressed in flowing black robes, hemmed with a thick crimson line. Where a human head should have been, an obsidian mask twisted in a visage of agony perched upon its shoulders.

It was not there and then it was, as if it had thought itself into existence. Spinum felt his prepared spell flicker and vanish in its presence. The creature paced a circle around his family before stopping with its back toward the maple.

“You worshippers of Myr, drop you weapons,” it hissed. “You shall be arraigned for your misplaced faith and then executed in accordance of our Lord Ara’Kull’s wishes.” The creature stretched upward for a split second and the sound of a thousand bones cracking echoed across the road. Spinum noted the silver eyes, emblazoned across the black armor. Inquisitors, the mage thought. Must be from Nordus Post. But I’ve never seen a force this large.

Spinum’s father lashed out with his blade but a living chain exploded from within the creature’s robes. The chain latched onto the sword and ripped it easily from the paladin’s hands. Several other chains exploded from the false image of robes and grasped the blade, easily snapping it into slivers.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.” The creature almost bowed in mock respect as one arm lashed outward in the direction of Albus, Spinum’s brother. A brief wreath of fire encircled Albus and then the young paladin was naught but ash. The monster laughed as Albus scattered to the four winds.

Spinum’s father bellowed in rage and charged the demon[2], but the creature merely sidestepped and caught the paladin by his long hair. Before the mage’s very eyes, thousands of wounds opened across his father’s body, blood pouring upon the greedy ground. Spinum stifled a scream as his father, the only parent he had ever known, collapsed unconscious to the ground.

“Collect the child’s ashes,” the beast hissed. “I will resurrect him for punishment in the Town of Green Hills.” Just as suddenly as the creature had appeared, it vanished.

As soon as the guards began to move, Spinum did the only thing a young man could do in the face of such adversity, he fled south.

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[1] Spinum Machaera [pronounced: Spin-um Mock-air-uh] is an NPC within the campaign. Apparently four players weren’t enough at this point.

[2] Demon is just used for vivid expression. I will not state that this Inquisitor is or is not a demon for certain one way or the other. I’m a bastard like that.

[TheYeti1775]

[2] Demon is just used for vivid expression. I will not state that this Inquisitor is or is not a demon for certain one way or the other. I’m a bastard like that.

Yes you are.

Once again another good one.

[OaxacanWarrior]

Nothing like a good inquisition to get the pulse going in the morning.

I really like the realistic gritty flavor of your campaign here, Funeris. The hatred exhibited by the main church to those not of their religion and race is classic.

[Funeris]

Thanks I appreciate the praise. Unfortunately, sometimes racism and religion goes hand in hand....so I take it to the extreme here. Not that I'm trying to make any political/religious points (I don't want to be banned )...but roleplaying does seem to be a bit of a social experiment sometimes. And while I play the role of Dr. Frankenstein, my poor players are subject to my chaotic (and sometimes lawful) whims so that I can create the best monster (whilst in the pursuit of truth, naturally).

I didn't want my world to be some bubble-gum, lollipop, sweet and gentle world. What fun would that be anyway?

Glad you're still reading.

P.S. We broke one thousand views!!!! WOOT!!!!

[Funeris]

I had a request from a friend to post the pantheon. So, attached is the pdf.

For further clarification:

Phoee : pronounced Fee, the mother of the pantheon. Supposedly found the world in peril and cleansed it allowing life to once again survive.

Myrcael : pronounced Meer-kail, the first child of her blood. Represented only with a circular symbol (the sun). Myrcael's task was to light the sun so that life could thrive. To light the sun, Myrcael had to divide itself in two, Light and Darkness.

Cael: pronounced Kail, the male aspect of Myrcael. The God of Darkness and Death(among many other things).

Myr: pronounced Meer, the female aspect of Myrcael. The Goddess of Light and Life (among many other things).

Pyrin: pronounced Peer-in, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Pyrin is the God of Fire.

Arel: pronounced Ar-EL, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Arel is the Goddess of Wind.

Cahsa: pronounced Kuh-Sah, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Cahsa is the Goddess of Water.

Gumcha: pronounced Gum-Kah, one of the four children of Myr and Cael. Gumcha is the God of Earth.

Caevari: pronounced Suh-var-ee, the only child of Pyrin and Arel. Caevari is the God of Luck and to a lesser extent Chaos.

Kaeruna: pronounced Kuh-rune-uh, the only child of Cahsa and Gumcha. Kaeruna is the God of Law and to a lesser extent Protection.

Those are the Kin gods and goddesses. These are the divine beings born of Phoee. The gods/goddesses along the outer circle are the Embraced. These were once normal mortals and were elevated to divine status by Phoee herself. Each is the creator of a race or races.

Mialon: pronounced My-a-lon, the elven mother. Also Goddess of the Woodlands.

Rorgard: pronounced Roar-guard, the dwarven father. Rorgard is also the God of Tunnels and Mountains.

Aryilough: pronounced Ar-ih-low, the mother of halflings and gnomes. Aryilough was said to be of both halfling and gnome descent. Therefore, she created both races. She is also the Goddess of the Plains.

Guymardt: pronounced Guy-Mart, he was supposed to be the God of the Human Race. He declined to create the human race citing their fault in the prior destruction of the world. Guymardt was the God of Magic and Knowledge. He was the deciding vote of the Embraced council for governing the world. When he died, his body fell and broke upon the world creating Ara'Kull and the human race.

Grukblud: pronounced Growk-blud, the father of the Orcs. Grukblud is also the God of Madness and Destruction.

Fangtut: pronounced Fang-tut, the father or Giants and Trolls. Fangtut is also a God of Strength and Mountains.

Nar'sra: pronounced Nar-sur-ah, the mother of Reptiles and the Yuan'ti. Nar'sra is also a Goddess of Fire and Trickery.

So that is the pantheon. Obviously, not noted is Ara'Kull (except in Guymardt's entry). Ara'Kull claimed the title of the creator of humanity (even though he is technically just a powerful brother). Nar'sra was the killer of Guymardt (The God just didn't vote her way enough), so she slaughtered him. Guymardt didn't even raise a hand in protest. Pacifist to the end.

There are other gods as well...demigods and lower level gods that just didn't make it onto my pantheon image. All of the smaller gods were in one way or another raised into divinity by the other gods. I may post some of their myths eventually...assuming I need a brief respite from writing up the campaign.

A note on naming conventions...you'll note that as you get farther from Phoee within the circle (the Kin pantheon), syllables and thus complexities of names increase. This translates roughly to the gods or goddesses themselves becoming simpler. Cael is a god of many things (one half of the domain list). Myr makes up the other half of that list. Phoee has access to all the domains. Caevari only has access to Luck, Trickery, Travel and Chaos. As you move further from Phoee, the god's/goddess' Divine Rank also decreases.

On the ring of the Embraced pantheon, the mortals that were raised into divinity kept their original names. However, first name and surname were eventually combined to form just one name for the gods/goddesses. All of those elevated into godhood began at a certain divine rank, and it possibly has changed since the beginning.

The Embraced gods/goddesses are the only divine beings with an Alignment as per DnD rules. The Kin gods/goddesses (including Phoee) are beyond Alignment, having never been mortal themselves. They're truly alien. As such, their clerics may be of any alignment.

Hope that helps depict a clearer image of my world.

~Fune

[Funeris]

Okay, HappyCat managed to distract me with her devilish ways for several hours...during which I had planned to write. So, here are the fruits of my labor...at nearly 4 am (yawn). Its over three thousand words so I'll break it into two parts (back to back) and if there are any notes...you'll have to wait to the very end to read 'em.

Enjoy

INCOMING!!!

[Funeris]

“You said the other writing was the druid’s script?” Cassock stared questioningly at Lady Rowen. “Can you read it? What does it say?”

“Do I look like a druid, priest?” Ana wryly retorted. “I know what it looks like, I’ve seen the writing before,” her thoughts momentarily flickered to the strange adamantine box wrapped tightly within her backpack. “I don’t know how to read it though, only druids know the language.”

“That’s too bad,” the priest mumbled. He turned toward the doorway, his enhanced vision passing into the deep shadows beyond. The white marble path extended beyond and he could just make out a few departing doorways opening along the sidewalls. The main path extended beyond the reaches of his sight, however. “We should get moving.”

“The sun has almost set,” Aramil blurted. “We won’t be able to see in the depths of those shadows; we’re not you. I doubt any outside light could penetrate that hedge; it has to be at least five feet thick. I think we should camp here for the night.” The half-elf had tried to peer through the doorway, but the setting sun interfered with his sight.

“If we camp for the night, we’ll lose our advantage,” the Priest of Cael calmly claimed.

“And what advantage is that?” Aramil shot back, slightly infuriated. No one had ever taken his opinions to heart.

“The element of surprise,” Ana answered, already drawing her bow.

From deep within the heart of the hedged temple, a low tone sounded. The note, a long sonorous pitch, escaped the marble doorway and fled into the dying day.

“Four Orcs at least,” Cassock sighed preparing his warmace. “So much for the element of surprise,” he mumbled. Louder he added, “Don’t let them out of the corridor!” Cassock moved to close, Aramil somewhat reluctantly followed suit with his sword drawn.

Ana fired over both their heads, low grunts marking her success. Unleashing a few projectiles, Gabrielle added more cover to her companions’ maneuvers. Cassock headed straight into the corridor to join with the first attacker.

The orc, of slightly more intelligence than the average beast, noted Arami’s smaller shadow near the wall and lashed out at him first. Smaller opponents fall faster. Aramil lifted his saber in defense. The weak attack barely scratched the beast and the half-elf received a shattering blast against his face for the effort. Lifted off the ground by the beast’s sheer strength, Aramil tumbled through the first doorway and into a hedge-walled alcove.

Cassock bared his weapon downward, relying upon his enemy’s sluggishness. The warmace bit passionately into the orc, shattering bone. The orc fell; Cassock on top of it. Another volley of arrows flew above Cassock, into the three charging foes.

Aramil stood woozily, his eyes trying to adjust to the absence of light. He searched the ground for his sword and then stumbled toward the faint halo of light pouring through the doorway. The half-elf stepped back into the hallway. An orc appeared out of nowhere, preventing Aramil from tripping over his own companion. A blade lashed outward, opening the rogue’s stomach and he stumbled backward, once again into the hedged-alcove.

Cassock leapt upward, his warmace stalling the two other orcs as it danced and weaved in front of his body. One had already slipped past, but he knew he had to prevent the last two from reaching the girls. Arrows impacted just to his right, that orc seeming to sprout wooden branches from his gullet. The corpse collapsed to the ground.

Aramil fell against the hedge and rolled left, trying to place as much distance between himself and his attacker as possible. The brute stepped into the room; its eyes aflame with rage. It raised its arm to finish the job and shuddered mid-attack. It spun, something drawing it from its prey. Aramil frantically searched for an exit, his eyes not finding any. “I hope you’re not very thick,” he hoarsely whispered spinning to the hedge behind. He grasped his gut, hindering the blood while he hacked the vibrant hedge.

Gabrielle slid her bow to the right, taking aim on the beast exiting the first alcove. She freed a barrage of arrows, only one finding purchase. But the barrage was enough of a warning for the priest, she noted, as he ducked the first attack from behind. The orc’s blade instead of finding its original target, slid gently through his companion. The brute watched in contempt as his own mate collapsed. The diversion allowed Cassock to bring his warmace virtually straight up. The blow connected under the beast’s jaw and his head snapped backward. The nearly four-hundred pound monstrosity lifted nearly a foot upward and his eyes dulled. He joined his three dead friends upon the floor, eyes now glazed over.

The horn blast sounded again from the end of the hallway. Another orc charged; his horn dropping in his haste as he raised a spear into the air.

Aramil bust through the hedge and his eyes widened in horror [1]. Staring dumbly at him, four more orcs had their weapons drawn. Pure reflex, the rogue’s saber darted outward, slicing a thick and heavy line vertically through the first orc. Its eyes rolled backward in its head and its body fell apart, as its companions retaliated. Their blades dug deeply sending Aramil once again into the alcove determined to become his tomb. He stumbled toward the doorway and collapsed in a heap all blood, open wounds and unconsciousness. Coming to a rest, his blade vibrated softly against the marble.

The spear hurtled through the air and punctured Cassock’s arm. He would have charged forward, the beast was already drawing a vicious weapon, but he heard the commotion from the alcove. So, the priest spun to his right, dislodging the shaft and charging into the three unwounded orcs.

Ana and Gabrielle swiftly dropped the charging spearman. Ana threw her bow over her shoulder and drew her blade. “Fire into the alcove. Don’t worry about Cassock or me. If anything moves, shoot it,” she commanded. She sped into the corridor and through the first doorway, slamming bodily into an orc.

Knowing he was flanked, the Priest of Cael did all he could. The terrible weapons of his enemies were constantly finding purchase in his tattered chain mail. He risked another attack, pumping divine energy through his veins. He felt the wounds knit, but to no avail as new blade-thrusts merely reopened the healing lacerations.

Suddenly the orc behind stumbled forward, pushing into Cassock. The priest glanced back and saw Ana had apparently charged the monster. He spun his warmace outward clipping the beast in the kidneys. He laughed as blood erupted from its mouth. A low thump turned his attention back to the beast in front; now, an arrow pierced its right breast. He laid into the foul creature.

Ana’s blade cut low as the orc she had bumped into spit vitae. Easily the longsword dug through muscle, vein and bone. Its detached leg dropped to the marble with an arterial spurt. The beast followed its severed limb.

Gabrielled pumped arrows toward the moving shadows. Her own vision lacked clarity in the dim light, she prayed the volleys were true. Another shadow moved along the side of the hedge, toward a pile of something. She pumped several arrows toward it.

Cassock shoved his warmace directly outward, an attack to throw off balance not wound. A rough exhalation filled his ears as the beast lurched backward, weaponless. Its gigantic hands cupped its groin tenderly. The beast, so focused on the momentary pain, didn’t see the flash of warmace directed at its skull.

The priest bent carefully over Aramil. Rapid breaths still escaped the half-elf. The priest gifted some of his healing magicks upon the rogue. Aramil’s eyes flickered open, spittle and blood ran from his mouth. “Do you think we could rest now, master?”

Cassock grunted and turned toward the ladies. “I’m going to drag him into the passage he cut a passageway to,” he whispered. “One of you, go first. One of you, watch the rear and the hallway. If it is safe enough, we’ll loot the bodies and rest here.” The priest waited for Gabrielle to take her position and Ana to lead him into the next passage.

Once inside he pulled Aramil, as carefully as possible, toward the direction they had entered the temple. Sure enough, he found a thick dead-end of vegetation. He set the rogue down and headed toward the rough half-elf-created doorway for his scouts to return.

Ana and Gabrielle returned to the cleric moments later. “All seems eerily quiet,” Ana stated. “I’d like to know why or what rather that beast was signaling with its horn.”

“As would I,” Cassock agreed. “We’re going to camp here. But I need to move the corpses first. We can’t do anything about the stink of blood, but let’s leave as little evidence as possible.” The priest moved toward the hallway and began dragging corpses into the alcove. He left the ladies with Aramil. Once all the bodies were stuffed into the alcove, he began a thorough search through the gear.

Gabrielle’s bow lifted, her arrow trained on the sudden movement. Cassock moved into her vision and she lowered the weapon.

“Anything of interest?” queried the bard.

“Oh, I think I found something of interest,” the priest confirmed. With a divine gesture, he imbued a coin with light and tossed it upon the ground. Following the coin, Cassock tossed several brown masks upon the ground. Each had a black leaf embroidered upon the brow. “As fate would have it,” the Priest of Cael looked skyward although he couldn’t see through the thick hedge above, “we’ve found our murderers.”

“I’ll take first shift. Get some sleep,” the cleric commanded. He extinguished the light and waited quietly in the shadows for the next battle.

[Funeris]

Several hours later…

Tobus burst through the former mayor’s doors. The heavy oak slammed into stone and trembled violently, angrily. He stormed into the war-room, seeing his destination. Within the stone chimney, a low fire devoured parchment slowly. Sitting at the desk, the obsidian-masked terror thumbed through a stack of papers. Tobus stood obediently, waiting for his entrance to be noticed. The creature, the high-priest, grabbed the stack of papers he had shifted through and flung them into the hungry flames.

“Sit,” the creature hissed in its alien voice. Tobus wondered briefly if the strange voice was due to the strange mask or some painful brand of mutilation.

“My Lord,” Tobus began.

“I am not your Lord, Tobus. Your Lord is Ara’Kull. You, as a priest of the faith, should not need to be reminded of that fact.” Its voice seemed suddenly crisp, still alien and exceedingly cold.

“Of course, my…erm…I just am not sure of how to address you,” Tobus stammered.

“I have no name, priest. A name is nothing more than a simple symbol of individuality. I am not an individual. I am an extension of our Lord’s will.” Tobus frowned, the answer, being neither here or there, did not alleviate his discomfort. “But I have been called many things in my time, many of which have given me some deal of minuscule pleasure. For example, in Port Arelcah I was nicknamed ‘Pain-Bringer’. In Elysia and Cerebus I was labeled ‘End-Bringer’.” The beast chuckled, a shrieking metal-on-metal-on-stone rumble. “The goblins in Rünse, those loyal to the Church, called me ‘Justice’; those not in favor spoke of me as ‘Death’ or ‘Demon’. If you have need of an appellation, you may choose one of those.”

“Well…ugh….End-Bringer, I have a slight problem,” the priest stuttered.

“Are you trying to dance around the subject? Let me guess, a companion of yours has returned from a venture in the forest. His reports, specifically in reference to a certain band of adventures or would-be-heroes, are not pleasant. Your plans are not coming to fruition as you saw fit.” The obsidian mask’s eyes previously half-closed in agony opened, the expression shifting to one of sadistic anger. The eyes flared red.

Tobus could only stare slack-jawed as he shrunk back in fear.

“You can’t tell me, lowly priest, you thought you could keep your machinations secret from our Lord? End-Bringer fluidly stood from the seat and the entire room flared with light. The fires exploded outward momentarily, bathing everything in the hue of the hungry flames. “Our Lord sees all, priest. What he sees, I have been gifted to see. He knows of your plots. He knows of your desires. He knows that Captain Leiban Malabrandt did not poison his own father, purposefully or not. He is aware that you were the force behind that escapade as well. Lord Ara’Kull knows all. Being stuck in this backwater village has been…detrimental to your education. Do not ever forget those facts.

“The only reason your plans have worked so far is because it coincides with His will. It was not luck. It was not fate. The Lord Ara’Kull has gifted you with an opportunity: the opportunity to show your devotion by returning this village to his fold. I am here as your final arbiter as well as Lead Inquisitor. I will not interfere with your attempts to wrestle control of this town. That is not my place.” End-Bringer sat once again, his mask returning to its original, lightless expression. “However, I am not above offering advice, if it is needed. So speak. Tell me of the problem.”

“Uh,” Tobus began, searching through his fear and now awe for the words, “My man has returned from the field. He was preemptively warned of the adventurer’s assault by one of his men. They’ve already eliminated most of the force that had attacked this town[2]. I am worried now that they will succeed in clearing out the temple.” The priest bowed his head in sorrow.

“The girl?”

“Thorne had to leave her. He did not have time to grab her and return.”

“This does not look good for you, priest. Remember that I am the arbiter of your fate.” Standing again, End-Bringer was glowering, Tobus thought. The obsidian expression did not shift, however. “This is what you should do to remedy your mistakes. Give up on the temple. Have Thorne and Leiban lay-in-wait with a contingent of my soldiers. Once the adventurers return, they should be easy prey for our men. I want that child as leverage against the Mayor. I want his real daughter for that reason as well. The rest can die, if need be.[/b][/i]”

“Is Leiban really a good choice?” Tobus quietly questioned.

“His dedication, his loyalty still needs to be determined. That is why both of you will be there.”

Tobus squeaked, “Both of us?”

“You will be there to watch him and gauge his worthiness.” With a rapid motion, End-Bringer tossed Tobus a silver ring. “That will keep you out of their sight, but do not stray too close. You are only to observe. Observe and pray. Pray that your choice of the Captain was correct. If not, your future is forfeit.”

“Of course, End-Bringer,” Tobus replied. He pocketed the ring swiftly and stood to leave. A guard burst entered the room, a young man with white-hair in tow and bound.

“You may go, Tobus.” The demon dismissed the priest with the wave of a taloned hand. “Leave the young paladin here, guard. Then leave.” The soldier removed the youth’s bonds and fled the room. The monster turned to his prey and stated coldly, “I find your lack of faith disturbing[3].” Two living chains lashed out of the void-like robes, piercing the young man’s wrists and lifting him fluidly into the air. A third chain danced out of the darkness and effortlessly severed his genitalia.

From outside the closed doors, the guards shuddered as horrible screaming penetrated the supposedly sound-proof stone. The commoners cowered in fear.

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Hours later, End-Bringer stormed out of the mayor’s rooms. “Have Cassandra resurrect that child again!!” The demon ordered the nearest guard. He moved toward the gates and one of the Inquisitors pulled up beside him.

“Justice, where are you off to?”

“I need to make sure our priest does his duty.” With a flourish, End-Bringer vanished into thin air. The Inquisitor was left, staring only at empty space.

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[1] – I think, for the sake of my readers and my own sanity, I need to go over the actual DM-Player dialog for this event. You see, I (in my ineffable intelligence) created a temple made of…well, an oversized shrubbery. (“I particularly like the laurels” – a cookie to anyone that recognizes that quote). And in my infinite wisdom, for one reason or another, didn’t think that they’d try to just hack their way through it. I didn’t think of it. The most obvious choice f*ing possible and it didn’t occur to me. SO, here’s the dialog:

Aramil’s Player [Boz – and not the Boz well known in the Creature Catalog Forums]: I hack through the hedge.

Me: I’m sorry….what?

Boz: I hack through the hedge. It can’t be that thick, right?

Me: (slaps forehead)

Boz: What?! I need to get away, I’m going through the hedge. I have like one hit point left.

Me: growl

Cassock’s Player (Yeti): (laughs)

So, what we did was this…I didn’t bother to look up the rules..I know it can be done…I didn’t want to figure out the amount of rounds it took…so I allowed him to do it with a full-round action. At which point, he breaks through the hedge and sees the next band of orcs that were waiting for a signal to attack. So (because it was such an obvious, ingenious, and great idea), I gave him a free attack against the first orc, which I think he killed.

I restate, for those of you that don’t know: No plot survives player characters.

[2] They had killed something around 16 or 20 orcs by this point. I was dogging them with beasties. If you’ll remember, the force that attacked the town were only approximately twenty individuals led by an Elf. Also of note, the brown masks that they found, they actually found in the forest among the first batch of orcs (that nearly killed Cassock). I just forgot to mention it then.

[3] I couldn’t resist!!! Please, oh please, George Lucas, don’t sue my pants off. It was only used in respect. I know you tour these forums (probably running searches on quotes from his movies)…and I don’t want a lawsuit. To avoid that, the quote is obviously Darth Vader from A New Hope (I believe…I’m not a Star Wars Nut). But, you know, the more I thought about this character, more and more similarities between his attitude and Darth’s appeared. Eh.

[Funeris]

So..what's this mean for you all? It seems my update rampage isn't over yet. This story just screams (insistently, inside my head, annoying all the other voices) to be written. Don't know if I'll get an update up tomorrow...or later today, but we'll see. Writing really messes with my circadian rhythm. Oh well. I'm gonna go get some shut-eye.

I was going to post pics of the map, for everyone's visual pleasure...but I don't seem to have a copy anymore. If I have time and the inclination, I'll print it off tomorrow while I'm working mandatory overtime.



'Night

~Fune

[Funeris]

Aramil sat in the gloomy shadows within the hedged maze. From behind, he could hear the slight breathing of his companions breathing. Ana had awoken him for his shift, the last watch of the night, maybe an hour prior. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his mind alert while the shadows lulled him toward unconsciousness.

The cleric had healed his remaining wounds. Aramil was, by all definitions, healthy again. For some reason, his body still ached from the attacks. Miraculously, the priest’s administrations had left the half-elf’s flesh perfect, without scars. Aramil’s mind would take more than a dose of divine power to heal completely.

Dim tendrils of light were pushing against the shadowy floor. Daylight was spreading and while it would not completely pierce the thick vegetation, it still made its presence known. Aramil tried to focus on the battle between light and shadow, an apt metaphor for his own existence. Racism, fear, and hatred, these were the aspects of humanity that pressed his once hopeful soul toward darkness. Humanity was crafting him into a monster by application of their emotion, their preconceived beliefs, and their sadistic torment. Aramil’s eyelids drooped.

The rogue’s head snapped upward and he slid silently back toward his companions. With a gentle shake he awoke his companions, his captives. “Scuffling, movement in the halls,” he pointed to the exit. “I’m guessing about four opponents.”

Cassock grimaced and stretched. Cassock silently thanked Cael for the ability to pray at night. If he had to pray in the morning, the priest would lose valuable time. The priest stood and whispered an order, “You and I will go around. Ana, Gabrielle use the elf-crafted path. Don’t attack until you hear us engage the murderers. Remain hidden. Come on.” The priest grabbed Aramil by the arm and dragged him down the hedge passageway.

They stopped at the marble hallway, peering carefully around the corner. Four humans crouched along the once virginal white floor. They examined the blood and followed the streaks with their eyes toward the alcove. “On three,” the priest whispered, raising one finger.

“What you thinkin’ mate?” One of the men questioned.

“You mean aside from our associates being dead?” He turned his head cautiously, searching for eavesdroppers. “I think that if we kill these adventurers, we’ll be awarded well. Keep your eyes sharp and your ears open.” The human raised a hand and motioned for his friends to stalk into the alcove.

Cassock raised another finger.

All four of the men cautiously stood. Their weapons slid from their scabbards as silent as an assassin’s blade. One step, the two and they were all slightly closer to the alcove.

The third finger went up, Cassock and Aramil poured from their alcove. The men spun toward their attackers and met fierce weapons. Aramil’s blade struck true and deep, an artery severed, an enemy fallen. Cassock’s mace, not nearly as precise a weapon, sought any target. In its hunger, the warmace refused to distinguish between bone, sinew and blood. It devoured all equally and hungrily.

Two men were down. The other opponents rushed toward their ends. Before they could even bring their blades to bear, arrows pummeled from behind. Shafts of wood, tipped with rough metal, shredded leather armor and flesh. All four opponents died as one, together and silent in the early autumn morning.

Cassock moved to rummage through the corpses even before all the last breaths were extinguished. He shuddered, the shadowed souls of the fallen grasping futilely at his physical body. They lashed outward complete in their hollowness; empty faces, empty expression, and empty attacks. Even their silent pleas for help were empty, lacking voice.

The priest could never forget the tormented expressions. He shifted tack, administering last rites but before his eyes the souls seemed ripped from the bodies upward. Within a second, all four spirits shot heavenward. Cassock merely shuddered.

“What did you find?” Aramil questioned. The half-elf’s left eyebrow arched slightly with suspicion.

“More masks,” the priest grunted. He tossed the brown masks embroidered with a single black leaf upon the ground.

“I think we should keep one of each of these for ourselves,” the half-elf stated. “They may come in handy if we need to move within the same circles as these men.”

“Agreed,” Cassock stated. “So that’s nearly twenty orcs now and a band of four humans. Still no elf and still no half-elf child.” The priest moved to drag the bodies into the hedged alcove with a sigh.

[TheYeti1775]

Yes Cassock likes to keep a running total of those that have been sent to Cael.

Now you all start cheering Funeris on, because I want him worked up for the game coming up in 2 1/2 weeks. I plan on a glorious death, unless of course I ruin his TPK plans once again.

From what he has told me, and you will see if he gets to it anytime soon. There is going to be some more dramatic twists with our characters.

Cassock Notes:
I chose the Warmace (from Complete Warrior), mainly because I wanted the burly Warrior Priest. Events have lead me down a different path with him then first planned, especially after I adopted the alignment thing that Funeris so diligently worked on.
Once it's in print, I plan on buying a copy and trying to get it implemented into another of my groups.
We still haven't decided a true path for Cassock yet, as he knows nothing of what transpired in the town. (Aside from one fact, and knowing Funeris, he will get to us learning that in about 5-6 updates.)

So update already.
Yeti

[Funeris]

I say again, No Rest for the Wicked. Look for an update around 1-ish.

[TheYeti1775]

Originally Posted by Funeris

I say again, No Rest for the Wicked. Look for an update around 1-ish.

If you post the map today from your work files, makes sure you update it where the Weedwacking Elf took it out.

[Funeris]

You're kidding right...you want me to print it whilst I am at work, mark it up, photo it (or scan it) and do this all while avoiding my supervisors???

Yeti, I'm good...but I'm not that good. I offer into evidence this fine (short) four-hundred and thirty word or so update as evidence that I'm good.

Oh and on second thought...if I can dig up the Autocad file, I guess I can just print straight to pdf and upload it. I'll see what I can do

INCOMING!!!

[Funeris]

Back to several days ago…

Trees and brush slid past, becoming a blur of solidarity in a world of constant motion. The faint greens and intense browns of the autumn season were speckled with the first kisses of red and auburn as they joined; and now one, they assaulted the already exhausted senses of one Spinum Machaera.

The young mage was hurtling through the forest, leaving the deaths of his family in the past. For a mage, the kid had an exquisite frame of lean muscle built from years of physical training at the hands of his father. That was the only reason he was still running, hours after the executions.

A new color, some variation of gray seeped into his peripheral vision. Turning slightly, Spinum focused on the spot of gray. The unwelcome color had vanished, however, replaced instead by a large ash tree.

Spinum’s vision swung around to the front. He pulled up short, but not quickly enough and slammed face-first into a dense oak branch. The branch, nearly as thick as Spinum’s torso, slammed ably into the mage’s head. A jarring jolt of hurt ebbed through the mage’s face. His feet, freed from the oppressive control of gravity and mind, shot upward becoming parallel to the forest floor.

Time stopped.

The young necromancer hung within that moment of inflated time indefinitely, staring at the reddening canopy above and faint sky beyond. He smiled, from delirium or happiness or some combination thereof.

With a lurch, Time kicked back in and Gravity tugged on the mage’s body. He was sucked onto the ground. The snapping of branches precluded the earth’s intimate embrace. The pain smacked his smile away into oblivion.

A twig snapped near the mage and he tried to focus his eyes, but they blurred with exhaustion. Still, Spinum could make out the color of the movement. A human-shaped blot of gray stood above him, a long and slender staff in its hands.

The mage steeled his mind for a slow and painful death. Minutes passed, death never reared its umbral head. Spinum groaned and tried to slide into a sitting position. The gray shape slid closer, hovering just a slight distance from the wizard’s face. A rough, acrid scent assaulted Spinum’s nose.

“Dark mages are not abided within the confines of my wood.” The staff raised into the air, splitting heaven in twain.

“No, wait!” Spinum screamed. The staff plummeted downward, splitting the young wizard’s head in twain.

“Necromancers are not abided in my forest,” the voice hissed again. Spinum embraced the dark warmth of unconsciousness.