Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
Is Beetle a Rogue or a Fighter? He could go either way, with the info we have on him.
Lazybones, I've noticed that sometimes you use character classes and PrCs hand in hand with character development. With the Paragon classes in 4e, will you be doing that as well?
Is Beetle a Rogue or a Fighter? He could go either way, with the info we have on him.
Lazybones, I've noticed that sometimes you use character classes and PrCs hand in hand with character development. With the Paragon classes in 4e, will you be doing that as well?
He's a rogue. I know that makes him rather similar to Jayse (the pregen), but I'm going to try to take his character in some different directions.
Regarding the Paragon paths, I'm not sure yet. I don't have the 4e books yet and my understanding of how the paths works in the new edition is a bit sketchy, just from reading ENWorld. That assumes that this story continues for long enough to make it an issue, of course.
Thanks, carborundum! I appreciate the interest that everyone has shown in this new story.
My set of books arrived yesterday, though I haven't had much chance to do more than skim them. I'll create a character stats thread once I have a chance to review the rules in more depth.
I only have a few more chapters drafted, and I want to focus on finishing up my Rappan Athuk story before I dedicate my full attention to this one. But I'll continue to post periodic updates as I have them ready.
Today, we meet two more characters.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
Callen’s whip cracked in the air over his draft horse, which plodded along methodically down the King’s Road. The whip was theater both for the trader and for the horse alike; Jaron guessed that Callen would have accepted a whipping himself before letting a crop actually touch the skin of his animal. The old halfling trader had spent twenty years riding his cart between the isolated communities of the west, and he was set in his ways. The only concession he made to the increased danger on the road these days was a battered crossbow, which looked as old as he was, strapped to the edge of the cart’s seat along with a quiver of bolts.
Thus far, however, there had been no sign of bandits or other trouble. If there were kobolds molesting travelers, they were staying close to Winterhaven. Jaron glanced back into the back of the cart. Nestled amidst the casks and bales crowded into the bed, Beetle was sleeping improbably against the constant jolts and jars of the road. Thus far his cousin had presented no troubles on the road, and he’d even turned up a brace of rabbits for the stewpot one night. He got along well with Callen, who said little and judged even less. But Jaron was more worried about what would happen when they reached Winterhaven, with its population of nearly a thousand people, mostly humans, living in and around its walls.
Callen kept his cart in good shape, and they’d made decent time despite the poor condition of the road. Once the King’s Road had been a smooth artery of travel, maintained by engineers who would sometimes stay at the inn in Fairhollow. Jaron could not remember now the last time he’d seen road workers passing through the village. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the west, and the populations in the scattered villages across the region had drifted inside themselves, tending their walls and keeping a sharp eye out for threats. The villages were too scattered to provide much in the way of mutual assistance, so it fell to men like Callen to maintain the links between them, risking the roads to make a living in trade and commerce.
“We’ll make it by nightfall,” Callen ventured, cracking his whip in the air again. The horse tossed its head, as if appreciating the joke.
Jaron scratched his side. His simple farmer’s garb had been replaced by a broad vest of thick leather worn over a tunic of double-stitched wool, with leather bracers at his wrists. He’d still had the armor he’d worn as a soldier, crafted of boiled leather reinforced with metal studs, gear fashioned specifically for war. But he’d ultimately chosen this suit instead. While it was durable enough to offer protection against the dangers they might find on the road, it was also decorated with neatly stitched designs in swirls of blue and gold thread, forming images of waves and fishes, trees and animals. It had been crafted by his mother, and while the garment showed signs of wear, the seams were as stout as they’d been when she first made them.
The halfling had likewise armed himself, with a long dirk in a leather scabbard stuck through his belt, and a quiver full of broadpoints slung across his back. His bow was tucked against the wagon board behind him, within easy reach. Two full packs were nestled among the supplies in the wagon.
After four days on the road, he was looking forward to a bath, and a nice bed in an inn. But then he remembered the purpose for this trip, and even that expectation soured. And there was the problem in the back of the cart. He didn’t really expect Beetle to do anything bad out of malice, but the fact remained that his cousin had an odd perception of traditional things like morals and social boundaries. He hoped that Yarine would be able to smooth things over with Dale before he returned. For all of her talk about finding a place for Belden outside of Fairhollow, he could not really conceive of his cousin settling outside of the village where he’d spent his entire life. If the people of his home could not accept the damaged halfling, how could anyone expect the denizens of the harsher world of the Big Folk to do the same?
The noise of the cart and his private musings distracted Jaron, so that he did not notice the disturbance until they were almost atop it. As the cart rounded a bend, they could see that the road passed between several clusters of boulders ahead, which rose up out of the ground like a giant’s knuckles.
Two travelers had been backed up against one of those knobs, fighting for their lives against a pack of bandits. Jaron recognized the little creatures at once: kobolds. One of the small reptilian humanoids was lying in the road in a slowly spreading pool of blood, while a second had fallen between the road and the nearby boulders. That left four more pressing the pair of travelers. Two of the kobolds, clad in ragged tunics of dirty leather, poked warily with short spears from the flanks, wary of getting too close to their enemies, but the two in the center wore heavy armor and shields, and fought side-by-side with small swords that darted in and out like snakes.
Dragonshields, Jaron thought, recognizing the type.
The travelers were as mismatched a pair as Jaron had ever seen. The one in the front was a human woman, fighting with a pair of narrow-bladed swords that she wove into a blur before her, forcing the kobolds to keep a respectful distance back. Jaron had spent enough time with humans to know something of them, but the woman seemed barely old enough to be considered an adult. She was clad in a long wool surcoat, unadorned with any sigil or other marking, that had been torn in several places to reveal the familiar glint of metal armor underneath.
Her companion was an elf—or so it seemed at first glance; as he stared Jaron realized that he was taller than the human woman. He was clad in a light-colored suit of flowing linens, covered by a long vest of bleached leather that came down almost to his knees. His skin seemed almost to sparkle in the early afternoon sunlight, and his hair was a pale gold, trailing out behind him as he moved. His only weapon was a slender staff that he was using to try to keep the kobold spearmen at bay. He was injured, Jaron realized, with wisps of smoke still trailing from a smear of ugly black char that ran down his left arm from the shoulder to his elbow. None of the kobolds appeared to have torches, so Jaron made a mental note to keep an eye out for an enemy wizard.
Callen had spotted the danger as soon as he had, and the old trader was already yanking on his horse’s reins. As the wagon clattered to a stop, he reflexively set the brake and reached for his crossbow.
Jaron turned and grabbed his own bow. “Beetle, stay...” But he never finished his command, for his cousin was no longer lying in the bed of the wagon. Jaron felt a thrill of fear— gods, not now!—as he scanned the ground along the road behind them. The ground here was irregular, with numerous twists and bends in the terrain; Beetle could have fallen out of the wagon, or jumped, in any of a hundred places back along their path.
A cry of pain drew his attention back around. Another of the kobolds, one of the spearmen, had gotten too close to the human woman’s blades. It staggered back and fell to the ground, trembling as blood spurted from the deep puncture in its chest. But she paid for it a moment later as one of the dragonshields stabbed her in the side. By the look of it her armor had kept the thrust from penetrating deep, but Jaron could see that the strike had hurt her by the way that she favored that side as she pivoted back to face the kobold warriors. Jaron’s initial suspicions about the elf were confirmed as he lifted a hand and pointed at the kobold that had injured his companion. There was a white flash from the elf’s eyes, a flare of magic that was echoed by sudden bursts of searing fire that erupted from the kobold warrior’s eyes, mouth, and hands. The kobold shrieked and fell back a step, but Jaron had fought dragonshields before, and knew how tough the bastards were. And the kobold, while bloodied, clearly had a lot more fight left in it, as it shook its head and recovered its position next to its companion, still dazed from the searing flames.
Jaron’s hands moved of their own volition, unwinding the string wrapped around the shaft of his bow, and fitting it into the notches at the ends of the weapon with a speed that was obviously born of long practice. But even as he reached for an arrow, he saw that a fifth kobold had appeared, clambering up onto the rocks behind the beleaguered travelers. The two travelers seemed oblivious to the danger as the little creature lifted its spear, and crept forward to where it could stab the distracted elf mage in the back.
Sorry for the long delay between posts; the Rappan Athuk story is taking a bit longer than I'd initially planned to finish.
I'm almost finished statting up the main characters (at least the initial group), and will try to get a Rogues' Gallery thread up soon.
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Jaron did not hesitate. He drew an arrow from the quiver across his back and fitted it to the taut string. Perched precariously on the end of the wagon seat, the halfling lifted his bow, drew, and fired in a single smooth motion.
The shaft flew true, and caught the kobold solidly in the chest even as it lunged forward to strike. The reptilian warrior let out a small screech and toppled over, vanishing out of sight behind the mound of boulders. Its spear clattered harmlessly away.
Both sides in the melee suddenly realized that they were not alone. The elf lifted his staff and pointed, saying something to his companion, who did not respond, instead slashing at a kobold who tried to get inside her guard. The kobolds, other than glancing back at the new arrivals, kept their focus on their current prey. If they were distressed by the sudden change in odds against them, they did not show it.
Jaron thought that strange, and paused in reaching for a second arrow, scanning the cluster of rocks and brush on the far side of the road, ahead to the right. That allowed him to spot the danger a moment before it became too late.
“Take cover!” he yelled, grabbing Callen by the arm and dragging him off the wagon. The trader cursed and dropped his crossbow, throwing his arms out to stop his fall as he toppled over into the packed dirt of the road. Jaron landed more smoothly, keeping his feet, and spun just in time to see the blazing arc of fire that fell down out of the sky, right into the bed of their wagon.
The firepot exploded in a crackle of roaring flames, sending out eager tongues over the packed casks and crates. Callen yelled in protest, and ran back, not toward his goods, but toward his horse, which had already started to panic as the fire spread quickly behind it. The horse pulled against its harness, but with the wagon brake set, it only succeeded in dragging the wagon half off the road. Behind it the straps of its harness were tangled well before the trader could start to work them free; instead Callen drew his belt knife and started hacking at them, trying to stay clear of the wild kicks of his panicked horse.
Jaron ran forward, trying to see where the kobold sniper had taken cover. The far side of the road offered numerous places for concealment, and he was all too aware that the protection on his own side was scant by comparison. He could have remained behind the wagon, but knew that Callen would have then become an excellent target, distracted as he was by the threat to his horse. He had to make himself the more dangerous prey.
He fired again, and scored another hit that crumpled the last of the kobold spearmen. The dragonshields were now left alone, but if anything they pressed their attack with greater vigor, lunging forward and stabbing at the human woman with their small swords. She parried the first thrust but the second stabbed its blade into her gut, knocking the wind out of her. She fell to one knee, and the kobold stepped forward to finish her. Jaron tried to grab another arrow, but knew he would be too late even as the sunlight flashed upon the descending sword in the kobold’s hand.
But the blow never landed. The elf loomed over the human woman as he stepped forward to support her from behind, his stare fixed upon the kobold warrior. Jaron felt a sudden chill, and for a moment, it was as if a black cloud had fallen around the pair. Then he blinked, and all was as it had been. Except that the kobold warrior was staggering backwards, clutching at its head, a terrible keening coming from its jaws. It fell to its knees, still moaning, and then pitched forward onto its face.
The other kobold tried to stab the elf, but the human woman recovered quickly, thrusting her longer blade up through its guard, driving half of the length of the steel through its armor and into its chest. The kobold died in a flutter of its limbs, its sword clattering on the ground beside it as it slid off her sword.
Even as the last kobold warrior died, Jaron was looking again for the sniper. The elf helped the human woman to her feet; she looked somewhat pale, but she’d gotten her second wind, and evidently the kobold warrior’s last thrust hadn’t penetrated too deeply, for she was able to stand unassisted. They too were obviously aware of the sniper, for their attention was also on the far side of the road, as they warily swept around to the left.
“Show yourself, creature!” the woman shouted. “Surrender, and you may yet live!” She gestured to her companion, who continued to circle around to the left. She caught Jaron’s eye, and he nodded in acknowledgement as she started forward, toward the cover on the far side of the road.
Jaron caught a hint of movement within the brush. He lifted his bow, at the same time that the elf raised a hand, flashes of energy flickering between his fingers. He nearly loosed when a head popped into view, but with a cry he caught himself, sending the arrow flying harmlessly away to the right.
“Wait!” he yelled, hoping that the wizard had equally fast reflexes. Jaron ran forward, passing the human woman, who lowered her swords warily.
“All done, Jayse?” Beetle said as he stepped out of the undergrowth, a broad grin on his face.
“Are you all right, Beetle?” Jaron asked, quickly checking to see if his cousin bore any wounds. The other halfling merely shrugged; he was looking at the travelers, and seemed particularly interested in the elven wizard.
The woman walked past the halflings and peered down into the brush. “Got the bastard,” she said. Jaron left Beetle and ran over to her, to find the kobold slinger lying on the ground, blood still oozing from the deep puncture wound in the side of its neck.
Jaron looked up, his eyes wide, and looked at Beetle, who was chattering at the elf, as though they’d just met by accident on a casual stroll.
Just like with any other Lazybones update, I approve, it's awesome
One thing that bugs me, but that's just me and my immersion-need: in 4e we've got a new healing mechanic, second wind, which works well mechanically, but it can be tough to explain in-game.
My humble recommendation to you, Lazybones, would be to describe second wind's without actually saying its name, but rather by describing solely how the character "pulls him/herself together and keeps fighting"
My humble recommendation to you, Lazybones, would be to describe second wind's without actually saying its name, but rather by describing solely how the character "pulls him/herself together and keeps fighting"
I'll probably mix it up as I use the term in future encounters. I'm definitely not going to use it the way that I typically use "power" terms (i.e. set off with italics). In fact, since 4e uses powers in a decidedly different way than 3.xe, I may have to rethink how I refer to powers in general in this story.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Leinart
So any chance of some sort of dragonborn melee character?
I didn't want to venture a dragonborn until I had a chance to learn more about their default culture in the game. Maybe at some point, but there won't be one in the initial set of characters.
We do have one major character left to meet, however.
Almost done with the RA story, so I'll soon be able to shift my full attention to this one. I am going to be away from my computer for most of next week, so it may be a while until my usual daily updates start.
I did finally start a Rogues Gal--ah, "Plots and Places" thread, located here. Comments on my builds are welcome.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
The sun had vanished below the western horizon, and night had nearly fallen by the time they reached Winterhaven. Both groups of travelers were grateful for the shelter of the town’s sturdy walls. They had not encountered any more dangers on the road, but the kobold ambush had made them keenly aware that this region was wild and dangerous.
The two groups parted ways once inside the walls, with Mara and Elevaren heading toward Wrafton’s Inn, not far from the gate. The human fighter and the eladrin warlock—not an elf at all, Jaron had been surprised to learn—had been friendly enough once the last of the kobolds had fallen, but they had their own urgent business in Winterhaven that could not brook delay. Apparently a friend of theirs, a man named Douven Staul, had gone missing somewhere in the vicinity. From what Elevaren had said, this Staul sounded like something of a scholar, and he’d been in the area looking for a dragon’s lost horde that was reputed to be somewhere in the vicinity. Jaron had heard enough rumors and legends about lost treasure to think the search somewhat foolish at best, but he kept his own feelings to himself to avoid offending the eladrin.
Jaron and Beetle parted with Callen shortly thereafter. The trader led his tired horse to the stables adjoining the inn. He was despondent at the loss of his livelihood, but it could have been a good deal worse for him, as Beetle had thoughtlessly interjected. The wagon had been a total loss, and Jaron and Beetle had been confronted with the loss of their packs, with all of the supplies, clean clothes, and other gear that they’d carried. At least the attack had come near the end of their journey, where they could hopefully acquire new possessions in the human town.
Jaron kept a close eye on his cousin as the two halflings made their way into the town, to the temple of Avandra. Beetle seemed to be entranced with the place, and he drew a few askance looks from the few human townsfolk who were out and about in the street. Jaron noted a pair of guards, outfitted similarly to those who’d kept watch at the gate. The men had been alert, and their weapons were kept in good condition, both signs of solid leadership. Winterhaven was even deeper in the wilds than Fairhollow, and Jaron recognized the signs of a town where the inhabitants had to deal with the constant threats of the frontier.
Jaron was quiet, and did not respond even when his cousin called him by his brother’s name. He was concerned, and not just about how they would get Jayse’s body back to Fairhollow, with Callen’s wagon no longer available. Even since he’d seen the dead kobold slinger, slain without apparent difficulty by his cousin, he wondered just how much he really knew about Beetle. The other halfling had always seemed to have a gift for getting into trouble. Jaron knew that his cousin’s mind was not like that of other halflings; Beetle seemed to lack the sense of self-restraint that guided most folks. He’d long thought that his cousin was simply feeble-minded, but as they’d grown older, he’d realized that the truth was more complicated than that. But they were blood, he thought, as he glanced back to see Beetle talking with an elven woman selling flowers along the edge of the town’s central square. And he’d made a promise to his aunt, a promise that he could not break. He’d broken too many promises already, in his life.
Jaron had only been to Winterhaven once before, many years ago, but the temple of Avandra was just as he’d remembered it. The place had the look of an old keep, squat and solid, permanent in a way that none of the buildings in Fairhollow could ever have managed.
Beetle came up beside him. It seemed that some of the gravity of the situation had gotten into the younger halfling; at least he was quiet and still as he accompanied Jaron toward the human-sized front door of the building. Thus united, they went to pay their respects to the dead.
delurklurklurk..okay now I actually know what my password is.
Looking good LB!
As always thoroughly enjoyed the RA story thread.
I haven't got the 4e edition, nor really have any intention yet as the PC games are my usual angle. But being an old D&D red box kid where you could only be a cleric, fighter or crazy multiclass elf or whatnot; all sounds pretty funky.
Looking forward to the new thread.
Last edited by jonnytheshirt; 28th July 2008 at 01:52 AM..
Heh, I recently started reading Dr. Midnight's take on Shadowfell, and saw that he had the kobold slinger burn a wagon as well! Great minds think alike, I suppose...
* * * * *
Chapter 6
Outside of the walls of Winterhaven, the deep of night clung like a heavy cloak over the rugged landscape of Nentir Vale. Those folk who lived on the scattered homesteads that scattered the hills and dales around the town remained protected by thick walls of wood or stone, and they always barred their doors and shuttered their windows. Shadows crept through the night, and domesticated animals lowed within their pens, wary of the darkness and the things it hid.
Within the town, most of the buildings were likewise dark and quiet, but Wrafton’s Inn was an oasis of light and noise within the darkness. There were maybe thirty or forty people in the inn’s common room all told, gathered in knots around the bar or at the dozen tables scattered around the room. A space had been cleared against one wall, where several men were playing darts, and a dense fog of tobacco smoke hung above another table, where a group of dicers were engaged in a frenzied flurry of activity, surrounded by onlookers that shouted encouragement with every toss.
Jaron felt almost overwhelmed by all of the noises, sights, and smells. Fortunately for him and Beetle, the inn’s single table sized for halflings was in the corner near the stairs up to the second floor, slid in cleverly under the angled steps. It made for a distraction whenever someone used the stairs, but Jaron felt that the frequent thumping directly over his head a small price to pay for relief from the din closer to the bar. He tried to catch sight of a server through the crowd, but given his vantage it seemed a hopeless endeavor.
“Say here,” he said to Beetle. “I’ll go and order us some food.”
“And ale,” Beetle interjected. He’d taken a hand-carved piece of wood shaped sort of like a top out of his pocket, and was playing with it on the table surface. It was hard to tell which was more lopsided, the toy or the table, but the halfing’s fingers were nimble, and the top danced across and back at his command.
“I’ll share one with you, if you’re good,” Jaron promised. Hesitating for one more look across the room, he finally decided to venture toward the bar, where Salvana Wrafton held court.
He had to dodge a few humans who would have inadvertently trampled him underfoot, but finally came to a clear space near the end of the bar. He glanced back to try to check on Beetle, but there were too many people between there and here. But his eyes lingered on a tall figure standing in the shadows near the foot of the stairs.
He was a big man, clad all in black, with a raised cowl that obscured most of his face. A neatly-trimmed beard covered his jaw. Jaron couldn’t see his eyes, shrouded by the cowl, but for a moment it felt like the other man’s stare had locked onto his, and he felt a sudden chill.
Someone jostled him, and he looked up to see a waitress burdened with a tray of—fortunately empty—mugs. She was already moving on, shouting an apology back at him without breaking stride. She vanished into the kitchen before Jaron could think to ask her for something.
The halfling looked back at the stairs, but the man in black was gone.
He wavered, considering going back to their table, getting Beetle and going back to their room, empty belly be damned. Inwardly he berated himself for the cowardly thought; he’d been out here in the world of the big folk before, but he’d spent too many years alone in Fairhollow since then, it seemed.
“You’re going to get trampled if you stay there,” a familiar voice said to him.
He looked up and saw Mara sitting on a high stool near the end of the bar. The space next to hers had just come vacant, and she gestured to it, holding the place until he could get to her. Climbing up onto the tall seat was a bit of a challenge, but Jaron was used to such adaptations.
“Something to drink?” she asked him. He realized that she was offering to get the innkeeper’s attention for him; the subtle suggestion that he couldn’t manage that himself rankled a bit, and helped the indecision he’d felt earlier fade into the background of his mind.
“I was hoping to get a meal,” actually. “For Beetle and myself. I didn’t expect the inn to be this busy.”
“Not much else to do, in this town,” Mara said. She was wearing her swords, Jaron noted, although she’d left her heavy scale armor back in her room. There was no sign of her companion, the eladrin.
“Did you find out about your friend?” Jaron asked, as Mara sipped from her stein of ale.
The woman fighter nodded. “Some of the locals confirmed the story about him hunting dragon bones near here. Elevaren was able to put together a map, of sorts. We’re going to go investigate tomorrow.”
Jaron nodded to himself. He took a deep breath, then asked, “Would you be willing to make a trade, help each other? Since I’ve been in town, I’ve heard a few things about these bandit attacks, and I intend to investigate. You and Elevaren can clearly handle yourselves. In exchange, I can help you find your friend. I haven’t spent as much time around Winterhaven as Jay—as my brother had, but I’m a good tracker, and I know the region and its hazards better than most.”
Her hesitation told him all he needed to know, but he waited for her to speak. “I’m sure you do,” she finally said. “Look, I’m sympathetic, but I’m not really much for causes, even good ones. I just want to find my friend, and be on my way.”
Jaron nodded. “I understand.”
“What about your... cousin?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s all right. He can take care of himself.”
“Are you sure?”
He realized she was looking to the far side of the bar, and he followed her gaze at the same time that he heard a woman’s voice loudly exclaim, “Get your grubby paws off me, you filthy little halfling!”
Jaron groaned and jumped down from the bar, running toward what he hoped wouldn’t be too bad of a mess.
The noise from below was thankfully muted as Jaron turned from the landing and made his way down the narrow upstairs corridor of the inn. His stomach still grumbled a bit, but at least he’d been able to secure half a loaf of bread, a wedge of white cheese, and an end of bacon, the whole wrapped in a towel he’d borrowed from their room. He was tempted to make a dent in the food right now, but he didn’t want to leave Beetle unattended, even in their small private room close under the eaves of the inn. It was little more than a closet, really, but he was glad for it, especially since it was pretty far from the common room.
He shook his head wryly. He’d been able to extricate himself and Beetle from the awkwardness with the elf woman; he’d had no idea what Beetle had done, but he’d been able to make a few guesses. The woman—dressed as a forest scout, in the deep greens and browns favored by her race—had shot daggers at both of them with her eyes as he’d hastily apologized and all but dragged Beetle away, but at least she hadn’t pressed the issue with the innkeeper. Through it all Beetle’s expression hadn’t changed, a slightly bemused, innocent look that Jaron knew could be infuriating to those who felt affronted by his cousin’s casual disregard for personal boundaries.
He got to their room and opened the door. Beetle was sitting on the floor, playing with several objects spread out on the bedspread. Jaron groaned as he recognized, in addition to his cousin’s top and some other assorted junk, a pair of silver coins, some flints, a fork, and a glove sized for a human.
And something else, which he grabbed before his cousin could snatch it back up. It was a small carving made out of black rock, crudely fashioned into a human shape. Or something close to human, maybe. Tieflings had horns like that. It felt a bit slimy to the touch, but Jaron’s dismay was from recognizing the material from which the thing was made.
“This is obsidian, Beetle! This has to be worth gold, good gold! Gods, someone is going to miss this... you may have gotten us into big trouble here, Beetle!”
He sat down on the end of the bed. Beetle took his bundle and started digging through it, pausing only to jam half of the end of bacon into his mouth. “No ale,” he said through the meat, reproach in his voice.
“Where did you get this?” Jaron asked, holding up the obsidian carving. He felt like he wanted to wash his hands, but he persisted, thrusting it between his cousin and the food.
“Found it, Jayse.”
“Found it.” Jaron felt a headache coming on. Damn it, if he was going to investigate Jayse’s death, he was going to need at least the tacit good-will, if not the active assistance of the townsfolk. And while he’d never seen a case here in Winterhaven, he had a good idea of how thieves were dealt with in these frontier towns. “Who had it before you found it?” he asked. “Beetle, answer me. Who had it when you found it?”
“Nobody. It's Beetle’s. Give back.” He reached for the carving, but Jaron drew it out of his reach.
“Did you get it from the dark stranger? The man in black, by the stairs.”
Beetle shook his head, but Jaron thought he saw recognition there. “Stay away from that man,” he said. “There was something... wrong about him,” he added, almost to himself.
“Okay, Jayse. Give now?” he asked, holding out his hand.
Jaron didn’t want to give it back, but there was nothing to be done for it now; if someone came forward looking for the carving, he had to hope that they hadn’t seen his cousin filch it. If in fact he had; he’d just assumed that Beetle had stolen it, but his cousin hadn’t admitted any theft. With a sigh, he handed it back; it vanished along with the rest of Beetle’s “treasures” into one of the pockets of his coat.
“’ungry?” Beetle said, holding out a piece of cheese, all that was left of the wedge. The bacon, he saw, was gone.
“Yeah, I’m hungry,” Jaron said. He took the cheese and tore off a slab of bread, but for all his hunger, the food tasted like ashes in his mouth.
Having just finished my RA story, I had a burst of productivity and am currently on chapter 26 of this one. Thus next week I'll be moving to my usual daily updates.
LB
* * * * *
Chapter 8
It was a bright autumn morning, one of those days where the sky was so blue that it almost hurt to look at it. The town of Winterhaven was already well awake, and as he stepped out of the side door of Wrafton’s Inn, Jaron could hear the familiar noises of people at work. Noises not all that different from Fairhollow, when it came down to it.
Mara and Elevaren were right where the note had said they would be, standing in the deep shadow cast by the wall around the town’s main gate. Beetle had found it first, of course, and if he hadn’t left it carelessly on the side table near the water basin, then he probably never would have known that the pair had apparently changed their minds about helping them. He found that he was of mixed feelings on that; the impulse that had led him to make his offer to the woman fighter had seemed less sound once he’d had time to sleep on it. Or not sleep, as the case had been. Jaron hadn’t had a really good night’s sleep since Yarine had brought word of Jayse’s death, and tossed the quiet little world he’d made for himself into tumult.
“Good, you’re up,” Mara said, when he and Beetle approached the pair. Both were dressed for traveling. She tossed a small leather purse at him. “Your cut.”
“From what?”
The loot from those dead kobolds, of course. There wasn’t much to be had; apparently brigandage isn’t paying well this season. And the merchants ‘round here are damned stingy with their coin, as though they won’t turn around and sell the blasted weapons I offered at five times what I got for them.”
“Thanks,” Jaron said. He quickly put the purse away, aware that Beetle’s eyes lingered on it. He thought about Callen, and wondered if there was a way to leave some of the money for him. He hadn’t seen the trader since their arrival yesterday, and he didn’t appear to be staying at the inn.
Mara misinterpreted his hesitation. “Do you need time to get some supplies? We’ll wait, but don’t linger, I want to be back within these walls by nightfall.”
“No, we’re okay,” Jaron said. The old pack he’d bought on their way back from the temple last night had been too big and overly dear, but at least the innkeeper had been willing to fill it with leftovers from the night before for a relatively fair price. Jaron had spent nearly all of the money he’d brought with him from Fairhollow, and he felt reassured by the familiar weight of the purse against his thigh.
“What made you change your mind?” he asked them, as they headed through the gate and down the hill to the King’s Road. They would follow it a short ways east, and then strike south cross-country to follow Elevaren’s map.
“There is strength in numbers,” Elevaren said. Jaron looked up the eladrin; there was something just slightly off about the man, as though he didn’t fully belong here in the real world with everyone else. His long golden hair was tied back into a neat braid that ran down the center of his back, and his clothes had been neatly cleaned and repaired, as though he hadn’t fought in a desperate battle for his life the day before.
“So after we help you find your friend, you’ll help us track down those bandits?” Jaron asked.
“We gave our word,” Mara said, a bit testily. Jaron started to apologize, but got distracted as Beetle almost got trampled by a rider heading up toward the town. The nimble halfling was never in real danger, but the rider cursed back at them, only turning back when Mara let her hands drop to the hilt of her swords.
Jaron’s gaze lingered, and for a moment, he thought he saw something dark move in the shadow of the gate. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, but whatever it had been, if it had been anything at all, it was gone now. It could have been the dark stranger...
“Anything wrong?” Mara asked.
“No... no, nothing.”
“Better keep your eyes on the road ahead. This whole area’s wild lands, and there are more than bandits in these woods.”
Jaron knew that, but he felt that Mara had a point; he’d allowed himself to get distracted. He would do what he could to look out for his cousin, but he couldn’t do that without looking out for himself as well.
“I’ll take point,” he offered. “Do you know the standard patrol signals?” he asked Mara.
The fighter nodded, giving up a grudging acknowledgement. It wasn’t respect; both knew that had to be earned.
They moved on, the cultivated ground near the town giving wall to untamed wilds with a suddenness that would have been surprising to anyone not familiar with life on the frontier. For the first hour they moved east along the King’s Road, then struck out south, leaving behind the last reminder of civilization and heading fully into the hazardous country beyond. All four of the adventurers, even Beetle, grew more serious, knowing that dark things lurked in the territory beyond the tentative sites established by civilized folk. All knew that if they simply vanished into these lands, there would be no one to come looking for them.
“I think we’ve moved a bit too far to the east,” Jaron said, pointing to the map that Elevaren held out for him. The eladrin had knelt to come down to the halfling level, careless of the dirt and crushed weeds underfoot. Jaron suspected that the warlock’s robe would be as spotless when he rose as before; the dirt of the trail seemed to avoid him. Likewise, the eladrin seemed utterly unfazed by their long trek, which was now almost four hours old.
Jaron took out a rag and wiped his face and neck. No such luck for him; the rag was streaked with sweat and dust. They were in a copse of trees which offered shade from the afternoon sun. It wasn’t really hot, not with winter so close, but they’d spent the last hour navigating rows of low, scraggly hills, with little in the way of tree cover to shelter them from the sun high above. It would have been a pleasant hike, had they not been in hostile country, and had they not been burdened with the weight of armor and weapons.
Jaron felt a tinge of guilt as he looked across the copse at Mara. His leathers might be sweat-soaked, but the human woman wore what had to be thirty or forty pounds of metal on her body. She was in good shape, that much was obvious, but she drank deeply of her waterskin, and Jaron could see that she was a little winded.
Beetle had consumed his lunch in the first twenty seconds of their rest break, and was now chasing a butterfly around the copse.
Jaron handed the map back to Elevaren and walked over to Mara. “I’ve known a few rangers who used the two-swords style,” he said. “Had you always wanted to train to be a soldier?”
Mara stoppered her waterskin and wiped her mouth. “We head out again in two minutes. Tell your cousin.” She walked across the clearing, past Jaron, who opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. She went a bit deeper into the copse, clearly looking for a little privacy.
“She doesn’t like to talk about her past,” Elevaren said quietly from behind him.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It was an innocent question,” the eladrin said. “Our fighter is... complicated.”
“And you, Elevaren? I have to admit, I mistook you for an elf, at first.”
“It is a common mistake. My people dwell with the Feywild, and are rare in the lands of mortal men.”
Jaron’s face betrayed his surprise. “You are immortal?”
Elevaren shook his head. “A turn of phrase. No, we eladrin live, and die, much as you do. In the Feywild... it is just... different.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
Something subtle changed in the warlock’s face, and he turned aside. “I wish I had an easy answer. Have you ever been drawn to something that you didn’t fully understand, only to find yourself caught up in events beyond your control?”
“Yeah, I suppose I have.”
“Ah, Mara is returning. Perhaps you had best gather in your cousin.”
Jaron nodded, thinking that Elevaren had evaded his question almost as thoroughly as Mara had. The halfling’s doubts returned, and he hoped that his new companions would prove trustworthy, when it came time for the test that he now believed was inevitable.
A horse made its way up the winding mountain path. The air was cold, almost bracingly so, for all that the first snowfalls were still at least a month off. Pine trees stuck up out of the stony soil at irregular intervals, like sentinels warding the route up into the mountains.
The horse bore two riders, a gray-haired woman and a girl, easy to miss as she clung to the woman’s back. The girl’s golden hair was swallowed inside a fur-lined cowl somewhat too big for her, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. Every now and again she would lean over to try to get a look at the trail ahead, which caused the horse to shift and inevitably drew a rebuke from the woman.
“Are we almost there?”
“I don’t know.”
The finality in those words silenced the girl for several minutes. The horse’s hooves clattered on the trail, and a wind blew up, tugging at the riders’ cloaks.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl finally said.
“You have to,” the woman replied. She clucked her tongue in annoyance. “There is naught to fear. He is your kin, and your mother wrote him, ere she war carried off.”
“Can’t I go home with you?” the girl persisted.
“No. What use would I have for a little child? Now that your parents are dead, there is no coin to keep food in your mouth; I’ve barely enough to support meself.” After a moment’s silence, the woman added, “Nay, you’ll go to your uncle, that I promised your mother. And that is the end of that. Now be silent, Mara, lest some mountain cat hear your chatter and come seeking to make a meal out of both of us.”
The girl desisted, although it was clear from the way she looked around that the woman’s words had not eased her fears. After a time, however, she grew weary, and leaned her head against the back of the old woman’s cloak. She fell into a sort of doze, and shook awake only when the horse came to a halt.
“What...” the girl asked, rubbing her face with a gloved hand.
“We’re here,” the woman announced. She reached back and pulled the girl out of the saddle, jouncing her arm as she lowered her to the ground. She did not herself dismount.
Mara looked around, blinking against the wind. There was a cabin here, a rough construct of heavy logs that was perched in the lee of a stony ridge that ran back as far as she could see. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney, and a faint hint of cooked meat floated on the air that caused her empty stomach to grumble.
“Well, here she is,” the old woman said.
“Aye, so it be,” a voice rumbled.
She hadn’t noticed the man at first, and even after he spoke she couldn’t clearly see him until he stepped out from the shadows under the cabin’s covered porch. He was huge, covered in furs and leathers from head to toe. He had a dense beard, and bore both a long knife in his belt and a bigger weapon, maybe a sword or axe, slung across his back. His eyes were as blue and cold as mountain lakes, and they fixed her with an intensity that made her feel like she wanted to sit down.
“Well? Say hello to your uncle Torvan, girl.”
Mara could not have spoken then if her life had depended on it. Fortunately, the giant didn’t seem to take offense. The old woman recovered a bundle from the horse’s saddlebags and handed it down to Mara; she had to shake it at her several times before the girl recovered enough to take it. Clucking her tongue again, she turned the horse and headed back down the path without so much as a goodbye.
Mara barely noticed her leaving; she was still held captive by her uncle’s big eyes. He seemed to weigh her with a look that felt like the scales she’d seen at the mercantile exchange, back when her father used to take her to his place of business. But now all that was gone. She felt a tremble, and clung desperately to the control that she felt slipping away.
“So, you’re Mara, eh?” the big man said, shaking her out of her reverie. She tried to speak, but her voice still betrayed her. Her uncle rubbed his head and muttered something to himself.
“Well, best come inside, then,” he said.
She followed, reluctantly, but ultimately cold, hunger, and curiosity prevailed. The cabin was roomier than it looked out the outside, and most of it seemed to be taken up by a single large room. It was fairly dark, with only a single small window of thick glass set into an iron frame. A low fire burned on the hearth, adding a cheery warmth to the room. The smells she’d detected earlier seemed to be coming from a black iron pot suspended over the flames. She could see a bed through the single door in the far wall that was slightly ajar.
“You’ll sleep there,” her uncle said, and Mara noticed the narrow pallet set up in the corner, behind the hearth. It would be warm there, at least. “Leave your things there. See that bucket? Get that. There’s a stream up the trail a bit, behind the cabin and up along the ridge. Bring water for supper.”
“Outside?” Mara asked, stupidly, she thought once the words were out of her mouth.
Her uncle looked at her as if wondering if she were feeble-minded. “Aye. It’s not far, within sight of the cabin, and the sooner you go, the sooner we can eat.”
He seemed to forget about her at that point, so there was nothing she could do but pick up the bucket and head for the door. Before she could leave, however, he stopped her.
“Hold, girl. I suppose you’re going to need this, sooner or later, might as well give it to you now.”
He gave her a stick that he took off one of the shelves built into the cabin’s walls. Or at least it looked like a stick at first glance; as she took it she realized that it was a sword, only made of wood rather than metal. It was about as long as her leg, and she took it a bit awkwardly, having difficulty with the bucket in her other hand.
“Try putting it through your belt,” her uncle suggested. “But keep it in reach at all times. You must always be ready to defend yourself. I will teach you to use it later, for now you need to learn how to carry it.”
Again he didn’t give her a chance to respond or protest, turning and heading into the back room before she could muster enough courage to ask a question. So she had to do as he said, tucking the wooden sword through her belt, and then taking up the bucket in both hands. She found the trail that her uncle had indicated, and followed it up into a cleft in the ridge. She could hear the noise of the stream before she saw it, a faint trickle that emerged from the rocks. She hurried forward, all too aware of her own growing hunger.
That was when she saw the monster.
She was out of breath when she reached the cabin again. Her uncle was sitting in the big chair by the fire; he looked up from a book as she burst through the door.
“Where is the water, girl? For that matter, where is my bucket?”
“Monster... stream...” she managed. She almost fell, but the wooden sword caught on the floorboards, twisting her legs awkwardly.
“Some creature has taken up residence at my stream, is that what you’re saying, girl? Take a breath, the news will keep.”
She gulped down a breath of air. “Yes... big... monster.”
“And this creature attacked you?”
Mara opened her mouth, but realized that technically, the monster had just laid there, looking at her. But it had been big, that much she hadn’t missed.
Her uncle nodded to himself at her hesitation. “Can you describe this monster? A scout is of little use if it cannot provide specific information to her superiors that is of help in drawing up a plan of action.”
“It was big, and gray... furry... it had four legs, and big teeth, and big yellow eyes. It was...” she screwed up her face in concentration. “It was sitting on a big rock by the stream.”
Torvan nodded. “Well, we can’t have a big gray monster blocking our water supply. You’ll have to go scare it off. And don’t forget the bucket, and the water, when you come back.”
Mara looked at him incredulously. “But I’m just a little girl!”
Her uncle raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I can’t frighten off a big monster!”
Torvan leaned forward in his chair, and looked intently at her. “Listen to me, girl. If you are going to live here, you are going to have to contribute to the operation of this household. I don’t think that fetching water is too much to ask. As for this monster, you’ll learn that most of our neighbors are just as scared of us as we are of them. Some aren’t, but you’ll learn how to deal with those as well. You have a weapon. If the creature is too much for you to handle, gather what information you can, report back, and we’ll devise our plan of action from there.”
He leaned back and picked up his book. Seeing her still standing there, he said, “Well? Was there something else?”
Mara wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner and cry, but there was something in those blue eyes that would not let her. So she went back outside.
Standing there alone in front of the cabin, she felt more alone than she ever had in her life. She looked back at the door to the cabin, turned toward it, hesitated, and then headed—slowly—back down the path.
She drew out the wooden sword. It felt heavy and cumbersome, even held in both hands.
She tried to be as quiet as she could as she made her way back to the stream. At one point she paused to pick up some rocks; she couldn’t easily carry them and the sword at the same time, but she felt better with a few of them in her pocket.
Thinking invisible, I’m invisible, she pushed her way slowly through the bushes that flanked the stream.
The monster was still there. But as she watched it, she realized that it was really a big dog, a mastiff. It was bigger than any dog she’d ever seen in her life, but as she stared at it, she realized that it was old, as well. There were patches along its flanks where its fur was almost gone, and two old scars were visible along its right shoulder, one running up its neck almost to its ear.
The dog lifted its head, and barked at her, not loudly, but enough to let her know that it knew she was there.
Moving very slowly, she stepped forward into view.
The dog lifted its head, and looked at her. One of its eyes was milky, and Mara guessed it was blind in that eye. But the other eye was sharp, and the mastiff’s growl was no less menacing as it looked at her. She realized that it was looking at her sword.
She quickly lowered the weapon. “Nice doggy,” she said. Slowly she moved to the side, toward the bucket she’d dropped before. The dog watched her. It barked again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. “I just want to get some water, okay?”
The dog didn’t respond, but kept watching her. She realized that she was going to have to put down the sword to manage the bucket. Keeping her back to the cliff wall, she slid the sword back through her belt, and then took up the bucket. She shoved it under the stream where it trickled down through the rocks, letting it fill to the point where she could still carry it.
The dog stirred itself, and jumped down from the rock where it had been lying. Mara’s heart thumped in her chest as it came over to her, but she held onto the bucket, trying to look stern. The dog sniffed at her for a moment, and then walked over to the trail. She waited until it was gone, then took a breath and followed it.
It took her longer getting back to the cabin, and she sloshed some of the water onto her leggings and boots. But she made it back, and pushed the door open with her back.
Her uncle was still sitting in his chair, and he looked up as she came in. The big gray dog was there as well, lying on the floor at Torvan’s feet.
The halfling’s question during their lunch break had affected Mara more than she’d let on. Distracted by thoughts of her youth, and her first encounter with her uncle Torvan, she let her mind wander, and so didn’t see Jaron’s signal until she was almost on top of him.
They’d emerged from a sparse woodlands a few hours after their break into more gently rolling hill country. They were heading more west than south now, trying to find the site indicated on the map that Elevaren had drafted from the comments provided by the townsfolk in Winterhaven. The eladrin’s designs were simple but elegant, evoking variations in the terrain with just a few strokes of ink on the parchment. Mara hadn’t really doubted that they’d find the site that Douven Staul had sought, but she did wonder whether they’d find her friend and former mentor alive.
Still, she reproached herself angrily for letting her attention drift from their task. They’d been heading up a soft rise when Jaron had suddenly stopped, his right hand extended in the signal that she should have caught instantly. She hurried forward just as a familiar lowing sound indicated possible trouble, and her hands reflexively fell to the hilts of her swords, loosening the blades in their scabbards. Elevaren and Beetle hastened to keep up.
They joined Jaron at the lip of a depression that was partly natural, party deliberate excavation. Steep cliffs bordered off the area, save for three rocky, difficult slopes that provided a more reliable route down to the floor of the pit below. A roughly square area had been set off in the middle of the area with small white stones; a few pale bones jutted from the dirt in this separate zone, confirming that this was the burial site that Douven Staul had been seeking.
But she didn’t recognize any of the people that were there now.
The noise she’d heard came from a pair of guard drakes, compact bundles of scales and violence that stood on the side of the excavation facing them, a mere thirty feet or so distant. Beyond them around the edges of the dig were four rough men, the sort of rabble that Mara knew well enough from past encounters. They wore ragged leather tunics and had wooden billets stuck through their belts. They certainly looked menacing enough, but Mara’s eyes were drawn to the last member of the company, a gnome whose face split into a wide smile as he saw them.
“Ah, guests have come to join our dig! Welcome, friends. You can’t fully appreciate what we’ve uncovered from up there. Come down toward the dragon bones, and see what the workers have discovered.”
None of those in the pit had made any threatening moves, but Mara was definitely not interested in moving down into the depression. She deferred slightly to Elevaren, knowing him to be a better speaker. She saw that Jaron had moved slightly to the side, behind a low rampart of tangled roots, and nodded inwardly at his caution. “We come seeking a friend of ours,” the eladrin said. “We do not intend to disturb your activities here.”
“Well, we have not seen anyone else all day,” the gnome said pleasantly. “Your friend, what is his name?” The drakes shifted, hissing softly, but did not change their position.
“His name is Douven Staul,” Elevaren replied. The drakes shifted, hissing softly, but did not change their position.
The gnome’s expression shifted slightly. “Why, we know old Douven quite well! In fact, he has been assisting us with our dig! He went off with another of his team just a short while ago, but we expect him back shortly. In the meantime, why don’t you come down and take your rest. I’ll have a tarp set up to give us some shade from this damnable sun.”
Mara looked at Elevaren; the eladrin shook his head slightly. Jaron held an arrow against his bowstring, but seemed willing to defer to them.
“Kraven, help them with their things,” the gnome said. One of the human men started toward them, but he’d barely made it around the edge of the dig site when Beetle, standing in Elevaren’s shadow, made a quick motion with his hand. There was a flash in the air, and then Kraven screamed and crumpled. Mara caught a quick look at the hilt of the knife jutting from his left eye before he fell to the ground and rolled over.
For a moment, everyone just stood there in shocked surprise.
“Kill them! Kill them all!” the gnome finally yelled, and everything went bad in a big hurry.
All caught up! Great characters, and since I have no interest in 4e, this will be all about the characters and story for me. I do appreciate the way you keep to the ruleset, and it is fun to recognize a spell or flashy feat, I'll be quite satisfied watching these folk develop.
*settles in*
To Battle!
At the gnome’s command, the two guard drakes surged forward. They moved quickly, and only the uneven, stony slope separating the pit from the adventurers kept them from tearing into them in a heartbeat.
The three surviving toughs weren’t far behind. Jaron lifted his bow and fired off his readied arrow in a quick shot that narrowly missed, slicing through the air over the first man’s left shoulder. The man zagged to his left, heading up another of the slopes that led up to the rim of the depression. That angle gave him some modicum of cover from the ranger’s bow, so for his second shot Jaron targeted another of the rabble, a bearded man who’d drawn out his club and held it menacingly above his head while charging straight for them. This time the halfling ranger didn’t miss, and the man went down with an arrow jutting from his chest. He landed almost on top of his dead companion.
“Beetle, here!” Mara yelled, pulling her handaxe out of her belt and tossing it in the general direction of the halfling. With her other hand she drew her longsword, and she stepped forward into a warding stance directly in the path of the onrushing drakes. Elevaren was smart enough to fall back behind her, but she saw that he’d already taken a hit, a small crossbow bolt sticking through a tear in the robe over his right bicep. She could see blood seeping through his robe; it had been a grazing hit, but that was no guarantee that the next one wouldn’t be much worse.
The drakes had negotiated the difficult slope and came at her together, forcing her to split her attention between them. She didn’t have time to draw her second sword, thrusting her long blade before her in an effort to ward off the creatures’ rush. It was a feeble effort, and the tip of the sword glanced off the first drake’s thick scales as it surged forward, snapping at her torso. Her armor gave it no place to find purchase, but it rammed its blunt snout into her gut with enough force to knock the breath out of her. Something popped in her, a rib giving way, maybe.
She tried to shift and recover, but the second drake did not give her a chance. Taking full advantage of the opportunity offered by its comrade, it lunged in and seized Mara’s swordarm in its jaws, crushing the limb in an iron grip. The other one snapped at her again, and got a mouthful of her cloak in its jaws. Between them the drakes thrashed and pulled, drawing the embattled fighter off balance, and threatening to draw her down to the ground, where they could tear her apart at their leisure. Mara cried out, but she couldn’t free herself, and it looked as though her battle, at least, would be over very soon indeed.
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