doghead
thotd
Wow. That is one hell of an ending. I am looking forward to see what you have in store for for the players next - and finding out who the mysterious allies of the Arawai are.
doghead
aka thotd
-
The VOIDRUNNER'S CODEX is coming! Explore new worlds, fight oppressive empires, fend off fearsome aliens, and wield deadly psionics with this comprehensive boxed set expansion for 5E and A5E!
The Talismans of Aerdrim
- Thread starter havenstone
- Start date
Wow. That is one hell of an ending. I am looking forward to see what you have in store for for the players next - and finding out who the mysterious allies of the Arawai are.
doghead
aka thotd
havenstone
First Post
Much appreciated, doghead. I'm really looking forward to writing up the next section -- and in particular, to another long excerpt from the Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline. (Thanks to the brilliant Feir Fireb).
Ori - will explain a bit more on the noble blood test later in the narrative.
havenstone
First Post
Part Two: City of Dragons
The Rules of the Cage
THE MORNING LIGHT filters dimly through the smoke billowing from the ruins of Guardwatch. Mud and ash cover the thousands of stunned prisoners who sit mutely in the non-noble corral; their captors’ display of brutality and arcane power has broken any will to resistance. Shortly after sunrise, screams rise from the entrance to the thorn ring as dozens of armored strangers run in and begin pulling the captives to their feet. The moment of hysteria subsides as it becomes clear that the soldiers are not marshaling the surviving Northerners for execution, but splitting them into groups and shepherding them south toward the great wheeled cages.
As the soldiers draw closer, Carwyn notices with a sharp twinge of dread that they are systematically dividing any individual prisoners who try to stick together. “Don’t touch me,” she whispers to Lune, edging away from him. Atrix looks up from where he has cradled the exhausted Kay through the night, not comprehending until it’s too late. The brusque soldiers pull Kay away from him, beating him half unconscious as he tries desperately to pull her back.
Nina notices almost too late that Agerain d’Aramant has drifted away from the rest of the group, allowing the soldiers to pull him into the same cluster as Kay. “No!” Nina gasps, running toward Agerain. He is met by gauntleted fists and dragged off alone into a third group. Agerain’s eyes follow him with poisonous malevolence, then drift back to Kay.
Each group is marched to one of the huge cages. The bars of the cages are made of a segmented, hollow wood, flexible but tremendously strong, which the Northerners have never seen before; the wheels are reinforced with smooth bands of iron. Atrix curses helplessly as Kay and Agerain are lost to sight in the center of another cage, while Nina is ushered away to a third. The rest of the group – Ash, Atrix, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, Lucian, Lune, Meeshak, and Ontaya – are confined together.
There are 26 other captives in the cage with them. It is clear they will have no real privacy while they are locked up together; if all of the prisoners wanted to sleep at the same time, there would be barely enough floor space for everyone to lie packed closely together. Most of their fellow prisoners are wounded soldiers; there are also several captured servant girls and merchants from various countries. One of the captives is a young man with the small stature and light brown skin of the Jendae -- a nomadic race, like the Sufza, who travel throughout the barbarian plains and the southern reaches of the civilized realms. The Jendae are a deeply reverent people, renowned for their gifts of prophecy as well as their more prosaic skills as tinkers. This young man is silent and has a haunted look about him.
Staring dully out through the bars, Kyla notes that most of the Arawai host do not seem to be talking to or even acknowledging the presence of the alien armored warriors any more than absolutely necessary. At mid-morning, the northern Arawai tribes strike camp and ride off to their respective home territories. Baby T’harai begins to wail hungrily, but when the strangers ignore her entreaties, there’s nothing Kyla can do but rock him until he whimpers himself to sleep.
Around noon, a silent golden-skinned warrior slides three buckets of millet porridge and some skins of water between the bars of their cage. A beefy, dangerous-looking Caragond soldier grabs one of the pails and begin wolfing down the food with four of his friends. Lucian and Ontaya get to the other food buckets first, and ensure that a fair division between the weaker captives gets underway. Then Ontaya walks over to where the five soldiers are devouring the contents of the first bucket.
“Curago,” mutters one of them, elbowing the Caragond ringleader.
Curago scowls up at Ontaya. “What are you looking at?”
“If we turn on each other, we’re not going to get through this alive,” Ontaya says simply.
Some of the soldiers look guilty, but Curago bursts into a short, harsh laugh. “Little girl, have you ever been in a war before? The winning side takes prisoners. We’ll be held until our country decides to ransom us back -- and until then, we have to make our own rules.” He wipes the millet from his stubble and stands, casting a voracious stare around the cage. “Now, I see this as a lucky break. The Arawai aren’t the ones holding us. The strangers have taken too many of us to kill, but the domineering nobles have all gotten the chop. Those of us who remain get a big cage, with plenty of women and food for the strong.”
Ontaya reaches out and grabs his wrists. Curago tries to pull away, then lashes out toward her knee with his boot, but Ontaya dodges and keeps her grip with ease. Ash, Lucian, Darren, and Atrix move quickly over to deter the other soldiers from joining the fight. “That’s not how it’s going to work,” Ontaya states in a calm, loud voice. “Here’s what the rules are going to be. Until we get out of this, everyone gets an equal share of the food. The women sleep alone, in their own quarter of the cage, unless they choose otherwise. No one gets violent, and no one gets hurt. Understood?”
Curago utters a vile curse and jabs at her eyes. Ontaya sighs and knocks his legs out from under him, bearing him to the floor of the cage and twisting one arm behind his back. “Understood?”
“Gnnnn... just let go of me,” the Caragond veteran snarls.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ontaya says. “By the power of Ain, be healed.” Curago’s wounds close, and he gasps in shock. “We have ten thousand enemies outside this cage. We don’t need any more.”
The Rules of the Cage
THE MORNING LIGHT filters dimly through the smoke billowing from the ruins of Guardwatch. Mud and ash cover the thousands of stunned prisoners who sit mutely in the non-noble corral; their captors’ display of brutality and arcane power has broken any will to resistance. Shortly after sunrise, screams rise from the entrance to the thorn ring as dozens of armored strangers run in and begin pulling the captives to their feet. The moment of hysteria subsides as it becomes clear that the soldiers are not marshaling the surviving Northerners for execution, but splitting them into groups and shepherding them south toward the great wheeled cages.
As the soldiers draw closer, Carwyn notices with a sharp twinge of dread that they are systematically dividing any individual prisoners who try to stick together. “Don’t touch me,” she whispers to Lune, edging away from him. Atrix looks up from where he has cradled the exhausted Kay through the night, not comprehending until it’s too late. The brusque soldiers pull Kay away from him, beating him half unconscious as he tries desperately to pull her back.
Nina notices almost too late that Agerain d’Aramant has drifted away from the rest of the group, allowing the soldiers to pull him into the same cluster as Kay. “No!” Nina gasps, running toward Agerain. He is met by gauntleted fists and dragged off alone into a third group. Agerain’s eyes follow him with poisonous malevolence, then drift back to Kay.
Each group is marched to one of the huge cages. The bars of the cages are made of a segmented, hollow wood, flexible but tremendously strong, which the Northerners have never seen before; the wheels are reinforced with smooth bands of iron. Atrix curses helplessly as Kay and Agerain are lost to sight in the center of another cage, while Nina is ushered away to a third. The rest of the group – Ash, Atrix, Carwyn, Darren, Kyla, Lucian, Lune, Meeshak, and Ontaya – are confined together.
There are 26 other captives in the cage with them. It is clear they will have no real privacy while they are locked up together; if all of the prisoners wanted to sleep at the same time, there would be barely enough floor space for everyone to lie packed closely together. Most of their fellow prisoners are wounded soldiers; there are also several captured servant girls and merchants from various countries. One of the captives is a young man with the small stature and light brown skin of the Jendae -- a nomadic race, like the Sufza, who travel throughout the barbarian plains and the southern reaches of the civilized realms. The Jendae are a deeply reverent people, renowned for their gifts of prophecy as well as their more prosaic skills as tinkers. This young man is silent and has a haunted look about him.
Staring dully out through the bars, Kyla notes that most of the Arawai host do not seem to be talking to or even acknowledging the presence of the alien armored warriors any more than absolutely necessary. At mid-morning, the northern Arawai tribes strike camp and ride off to their respective home territories. Baby T’harai begins to wail hungrily, but when the strangers ignore her entreaties, there’s nothing Kyla can do but rock him until he whimpers himself to sleep.
Around noon, a silent golden-skinned warrior slides three buckets of millet porridge and some skins of water between the bars of their cage. A beefy, dangerous-looking Caragond soldier grabs one of the pails and begin wolfing down the food with four of his friends. Lucian and Ontaya get to the other food buckets first, and ensure that a fair division between the weaker captives gets underway. Then Ontaya walks over to where the five soldiers are devouring the contents of the first bucket.
“Curago,” mutters one of them, elbowing the Caragond ringleader.
Curago scowls up at Ontaya. “What are you looking at?”
“If we turn on each other, we’re not going to get through this alive,” Ontaya says simply.
Some of the soldiers look guilty, but Curago bursts into a short, harsh laugh. “Little girl, have you ever been in a war before? The winning side takes prisoners. We’ll be held until our country decides to ransom us back -- and until then, we have to make our own rules.” He wipes the millet from his stubble and stands, casting a voracious stare around the cage. “Now, I see this as a lucky break. The Arawai aren’t the ones holding us. The strangers have taken too many of us to kill, but the domineering nobles have all gotten the chop. Those of us who remain get a big cage, with plenty of women and food for the strong.”
Ontaya reaches out and grabs his wrists. Curago tries to pull away, then lashes out toward her knee with his boot, but Ontaya dodges and keeps her grip with ease. Ash, Lucian, Darren, and Atrix move quickly over to deter the other soldiers from joining the fight. “That’s not how it’s going to work,” Ontaya states in a calm, loud voice. “Here’s what the rules are going to be. Until we get out of this, everyone gets an equal share of the food. The women sleep alone, in their own quarter of the cage, unless they choose otherwise. No one gets violent, and no one gets hurt. Understood?”
Curago utters a vile curse and jabs at her eyes. Ontaya sighs and knocks his legs out from under him, bearing him to the floor of the cage and twisting one arm behind his back. “Understood?”
“Gnnnn... just let go of me,” the Caragond veteran snarls.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ontaya says. “By the power of Ain, be healed.” Curago’s wounds close, and he gasps in shock. “We have ten thousand enemies outside this cage. We don’t need any more.”
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doghead
thotd
Indeed they do not. I really like this story hour. Not so sure how fond of it I would be if I was a player
Things are looking pretty bleak at the moment.doghead
aka thotd
havenstone
First Post
Out of the Ashes
THAT NIGHT, THE camp is filled with the cries of the wounded, the sounds of men being beaten, coarse laughter, choked-off screams. Atrix stands at the bars, his face ashen, trying vainly to seek out through the smoky darkness the cage with Kay and Agerain. Eventually he sinks to the cage floor, looking more miserable than any of his friends have ever seen him. One of Curago’s comrades, a one-eyed Kedrisman, regards Ash balefully from two feet away. “You were a scout, weren’t you? I think it was the scouts as betrayed us.”
“Shut your face,” Curago barks. “One of... them is coming.”
A tall, golden-skinned soldier with blue ribbons on his helmet strides up to the cage, carrying a torch and staring at all the prisoners inside. Kyla is startled when he speaks in fluent Arawai. “Does anyone in this group speak both Arawai and the tongue of the kherasi?”
“I do,” Kyla offers guardedly.
“Some new captives have been brought in. Women. One is about to give birth. We need a translator, and another female captive to assist.” The alien soldier considers. “Also, if you have priests among you, you may wish to bring one. The birth is not going well.”
Kyla tersely explains, and Carwyn and Meeshak agree to join her. The stranger calls over ten armed guards and unchains the door of the cage. The three Northerners step out past bristling spears and follow the soldier into the darkness. “Tell the priest that if he speaks without permission, not only will he be killed, but everyone in your cage will have their limbs and eyes removed and left for the crows,” their captor says emotionlessly. When Kyla translates, Meeshak’s lips tighten, but he says nothing.
The soldier leads them through the night to a tent littered with wounded and dying prisoners. Many are terribly burned by the fire the strangers called from the air. Others are bleeding from deep sword and spear wounds. Their moans and screams, however, are drowned out by a woman’s cries coming from behind a curtain at the far end of the tent.
Drawing aside the tattered cloth, Kyla and Carwyn see a Senalline noblewoman they recognize at once: Darcian d’Loriad, the young wife of the late General Sarquin, her belly distended under soot-stained silk. Darcian’s chalky face is distorted with agony as another contraction wracks her; blood is pooling thickly on the floor of the little enclosure. A haggard-looking half-Arawai midwife looks up as they enter. “You speak the kherasi tongue, outcast?” she says to Kyla in a sharp tone. “I need to communicate with the woman.”
“Is she of noble blood?” the soldier asks Kyla intently. “The Archmaster is sleeping and will not come to test them before the morning.”
“I don’t know,” Kyla retorts. “Can my friend try to heal her?”
“Let him do his best.”
“If she is noble, it hardly matters,” the midwife says blackly.
Meeshak kneels beside the almost insensible Darcian and uses his invocations to cure her injuries and ease her pain. The midwife hands Carwyn a satchel of rags to mop up blood and sweat, while Kyla tries to get the pregnant woman to understand the Arawai woman’s questions. “It’s no use,” Meeshak says at last. “I don’t know enough to heal her. She is going to die. Tell the midwife to do what she can to save the child.” Despite their best efforts, the baby is born without drawing breath, and Darcian d’Loriad dies clutching Carwyn’s hand.
While Meeshak is grimly murmuring last rites over the mother and child, he notices the seemingly stillborn infant suddenly stir and cough. To cover the sound, he dramatically beats his breast and cries out in a grief-stricken voice, “The baby is alive!” -- then drops a hasty Feign Death charm on the newborn.
“Part of the kherasi death ritual for infants,” Kyla explains to the dubious-looking guards and midwife. “The priest shouts, ‘O the horror of untimely death,’ before saying... uh, a prayer for its soul.”
The golden-skinned soldier pokes suspiciously at the baby, who remains inert. “Barbarians often feel they must make a great noise in order to lay souls to rest.” Kyla feels a mild sense of vertigo at hearing the term barbarians applied to Senallines.
Carwyn snatches up the infant’s body, allowing her tears to flow freely. “Kyla, tell them that I insist on bearing the baby to wherever they are burying the dead.”
“The barbarian dead are being burned, not buried,” the soldier says when Kyla translates. “But if she wishes to carry the child to the pyre...” He checks again to confirm that the infant is dead, then shrugs in assent. The Arawai midwife wipes her hands clean on the noblewoman’s silks, then leaves the tent. Kyla and Meeshak lift Darcian gently from the bloody floor and carry her behind Carwyn.
Her mind racing, Carwyn cradles the motionless baby at her side, just above the satchel of rags she received from the midwife. The little group is enveloped by choking smoke as they approach the massive pyre. Thousands of fallen soldiers and executed nobility are burning, with the fire being fed and kept under control by a hundred soot-stained strangers wearing gray loincloths. Meeshak and Kyla do their best to lay Darcian on the pile of bodies with dignity. Carwyn steps into the billowing smoke and -- with flawless sleight-of-hand -- throws the bundle of rags onto the fire while hiding the baby away in the satchel.
The guards are impatient to get the prisoners back to their cage, and within minutes the three of them are locked away again. Kyla leans through the bars to appeal to the soldier. “I have a baby of my own. He needs milk...” She sags to the floor as the stranger stalks coldly away.
THEIR FRIENDS CROWD around them, asking what happened. Meeshak looks around witheringly to deter their other cage-mates from eavesdropping, then draws his friends close together and speaks in barely audible tones.
“General Sarquin’s wife has died in childbirth. We weren’t able to prevent her death, but we were able to save the child. The strangers think he’s dead and on the pyre, but...” Carwyn opens her satchel to reveal the little Senalline newborn. Kyla’s baby T’harai stops crying for a moment and turns his head as if sensing the other infant’s presence.
Atrix looks into the bag, eyes shining. “Little cousin.” He touches the baby’s damp, sooty head, and for a moment regains something of his usual cheer. “Well, it’s a damned lucky thing he’s got me around to show him how to be a d’Loriad.”
“Atrix, he can’t know he’s a d’Loriad,” Carwyn breathes urgently. “The outsiders would kill him in a second if they knew. He’s got to be mine -- no one’s going to believe he belongs to Kyla or Ontaya. I’m... I’m going to be looking after him.” She glances over at Lune, thinking nervously, We never spoke about children. Her heart sinks at the stunned, unhappy expression on his face.
Reluctantly, Atrix grimaces his assent. “Well, all right then. I don’t suppose his mother told you his name?”
“His name will be Hamber,” Carwyn says. “For my father.”
Atrix looks even more pained. “We can’t call him something a little more, well, d’Loriad? Maybe... um... Ambros? It’s close to your fathe...”
“His name. Is Hamber,” Carwyn insists in a tone that brooks no question.
“It’s a good, solid name,” Ontaya whispers.
“For an innkeeper,” Atrix grumbles inaudibly.
Meeshak holds up a hand, almost smiling, to forestall Carwyn from exploding in stifled indignation. “Let it go, Atrix. The baby’s got to pass as a Meadwater. Hamber’s a good name. Now, for the moment, the guards know we’ve got one baby in here, and might get suspicious if another one shows up; we’re going to have to keep one of them always hidden, and hope the guards aren’t too observant about the differences in pale skin. I can invoke Feign Death on one of them to keep him quiet for most of the day, and we can swaddle the hidden one tightly when he’s awake.”
“Is it going to be feigned?” Lune cuts in. “Kyla here can’t even get milk for the one. How are we going to keep them alive?”
At that, there is a moment of silence. It is broken when Ontaya sighs deeply. “Blood,” she says in quiet resignation. “Watered-down blood is all we have for them. Meeshak, you can consecrate it, bless it for their drinking -- it won’t give it all the virtues of milk, but it might keep their bodies from rejecting it.” She bites her arm until a trickle of blood is flowing. “And we can try to heal them as they weaken, to keep them from dying.”
“That’s grotesque,” Lune protests.
“But Ontaya’s right -- for now, it’s all we can do,” Meeshak says grimly. “Join me in praying it works.” He blesses the blood running down Ontaya’s arm. After a moment of hesitation, Kyla brings baby T’harai over and encourages him to feed.
THAT NIGHT, THE camp is filled with the cries of the wounded, the sounds of men being beaten, coarse laughter, choked-off screams. Atrix stands at the bars, his face ashen, trying vainly to seek out through the smoky darkness the cage with Kay and Agerain. Eventually he sinks to the cage floor, looking more miserable than any of his friends have ever seen him. One of Curago’s comrades, a one-eyed Kedrisman, regards Ash balefully from two feet away. “You were a scout, weren’t you? I think it was the scouts as betrayed us.”
“Shut your face,” Curago barks. “One of... them is coming.”
A tall, golden-skinned soldier with blue ribbons on his helmet strides up to the cage, carrying a torch and staring at all the prisoners inside. Kyla is startled when he speaks in fluent Arawai. “Does anyone in this group speak both Arawai and the tongue of the kherasi?”
“I do,” Kyla offers guardedly.
“Some new captives have been brought in. Women. One is about to give birth. We need a translator, and another female captive to assist.” The alien soldier considers. “Also, if you have priests among you, you may wish to bring one. The birth is not going well.”
Kyla tersely explains, and Carwyn and Meeshak agree to join her. The stranger calls over ten armed guards and unchains the door of the cage. The three Northerners step out past bristling spears and follow the soldier into the darkness. “Tell the priest that if he speaks without permission, not only will he be killed, but everyone in your cage will have their limbs and eyes removed and left for the crows,” their captor says emotionlessly. When Kyla translates, Meeshak’s lips tighten, but he says nothing.
The soldier leads them through the night to a tent littered with wounded and dying prisoners. Many are terribly burned by the fire the strangers called from the air. Others are bleeding from deep sword and spear wounds. Their moans and screams, however, are drowned out by a woman’s cries coming from behind a curtain at the far end of the tent.
Drawing aside the tattered cloth, Kyla and Carwyn see a Senalline noblewoman they recognize at once: Darcian d’Loriad, the young wife of the late General Sarquin, her belly distended under soot-stained silk. Darcian’s chalky face is distorted with agony as another contraction wracks her; blood is pooling thickly on the floor of the little enclosure. A haggard-looking half-Arawai midwife looks up as they enter. “You speak the kherasi tongue, outcast?” she says to Kyla in a sharp tone. “I need to communicate with the woman.”
“Is she of noble blood?” the soldier asks Kyla intently. “The Archmaster is sleeping and will not come to test them before the morning.”
“I don’t know,” Kyla retorts. “Can my friend try to heal her?”
“Let him do his best.”
“If she is noble, it hardly matters,” the midwife says blackly.
Meeshak kneels beside the almost insensible Darcian and uses his invocations to cure her injuries and ease her pain. The midwife hands Carwyn a satchel of rags to mop up blood and sweat, while Kyla tries to get the pregnant woman to understand the Arawai woman’s questions. “It’s no use,” Meeshak says at last. “I don’t know enough to heal her. She is going to die. Tell the midwife to do what she can to save the child.” Despite their best efforts, the baby is born without drawing breath, and Darcian d’Loriad dies clutching Carwyn’s hand.
While Meeshak is grimly murmuring last rites over the mother and child, he notices the seemingly stillborn infant suddenly stir and cough. To cover the sound, he dramatically beats his breast and cries out in a grief-stricken voice, “The baby is alive!” -- then drops a hasty Feign Death charm on the newborn.
“Part of the kherasi death ritual for infants,” Kyla explains to the dubious-looking guards and midwife. “The priest shouts, ‘O the horror of untimely death,’ before saying... uh, a prayer for its soul.”
The golden-skinned soldier pokes suspiciously at the baby, who remains inert. “Barbarians often feel they must make a great noise in order to lay souls to rest.” Kyla feels a mild sense of vertigo at hearing the term barbarians applied to Senallines.
Carwyn snatches up the infant’s body, allowing her tears to flow freely. “Kyla, tell them that I insist on bearing the baby to wherever they are burying the dead.”
“The barbarian dead are being burned, not buried,” the soldier says when Kyla translates. “But if she wishes to carry the child to the pyre...” He checks again to confirm that the infant is dead, then shrugs in assent. The Arawai midwife wipes her hands clean on the noblewoman’s silks, then leaves the tent. Kyla and Meeshak lift Darcian gently from the bloody floor and carry her behind Carwyn.
Her mind racing, Carwyn cradles the motionless baby at her side, just above the satchel of rags she received from the midwife. The little group is enveloped by choking smoke as they approach the massive pyre. Thousands of fallen soldiers and executed nobility are burning, with the fire being fed and kept under control by a hundred soot-stained strangers wearing gray loincloths. Meeshak and Kyla do their best to lay Darcian on the pile of bodies with dignity. Carwyn steps into the billowing smoke and -- with flawless sleight-of-hand -- throws the bundle of rags onto the fire while hiding the baby away in the satchel.
The guards are impatient to get the prisoners back to their cage, and within minutes the three of them are locked away again. Kyla leans through the bars to appeal to the soldier. “I have a baby of my own. He needs milk...” She sags to the floor as the stranger stalks coldly away.
THEIR FRIENDS CROWD around them, asking what happened. Meeshak looks around witheringly to deter their other cage-mates from eavesdropping, then draws his friends close together and speaks in barely audible tones.
“General Sarquin’s wife has died in childbirth. We weren’t able to prevent her death, but we were able to save the child. The strangers think he’s dead and on the pyre, but...” Carwyn opens her satchel to reveal the little Senalline newborn. Kyla’s baby T’harai stops crying for a moment and turns his head as if sensing the other infant’s presence.
Atrix looks into the bag, eyes shining. “Little cousin.” He touches the baby’s damp, sooty head, and for a moment regains something of his usual cheer. “Well, it’s a damned lucky thing he’s got me around to show him how to be a d’Loriad.”
“Atrix, he can’t know he’s a d’Loriad,” Carwyn breathes urgently. “The outsiders would kill him in a second if they knew. He’s got to be mine -- no one’s going to believe he belongs to Kyla or Ontaya. I’m... I’m going to be looking after him.” She glances over at Lune, thinking nervously, We never spoke about children. Her heart sinks at the stunned, unhappy expression on his face.
Reluctantly, Atrix grimaces his assent. “Well, all right then. I don’t suppose his mother told you his name?”
“His name will be Hamber,” Carwyn says. “For my father.”
Atrix looks even more pained. “We can’t call him something a little more, well, d’Loriad? Maybe... um... Ambros? It’s close to your fathe...”
“His name. Is Hamber,” Carwyn insists in a tone that brooks no question.
“It’s a good, solid name,” Ontaya whispers.
“For an innkeeper,” Atrix grumbles inaudibly.
Meeshak holds up a hand, almost smiling, to forestall Carwyn from exploding in stifled indignation. “Let it go, Atrix. The baby’s got to pass as a Meadwater. Hamber’s a good name. Now, for the moment, the guards know we’ve got one baby in here, and might get suspicious if another one shows up; we’re going to have to keep one of them always hidden, and hope the guards aren’t too observant about the differences in pale skin. I can invoke Feign Death on one of them to keep him quiet for most of the day, and we can swaddle the hidden one tightly when he’s awake.”
“Is it going to be feigned?” Lune cuts in. “Kyla here can’t even get milk for the one. How are we going to keep them alive?”
At that, there is a moment of silence. It is broken when Ontaya sighs deeply. “Blood,” she says in quiet resignation. “Watered-down blood is all we have for them. Meeshak, you can consecrate it, bless it for their drinking -- it won’t give it all the virtues of milk, but it might keep their bodies from rejecting it.” She bites her arm until a trickle of blood is flowing. “And we can try to heal them as they weaken, to keep them from dying.”
“That’s grotesque,” Lune protests.
“But Ontaya’s right -- for now, it’s all we can do,” Meeshak says grimly. “Join me in praying it works.” He blesses the blood running down Ontaya’s arm. After a moment of hesitation, Kyla brings baby T’harai over and encourages him to feed.
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havenstone
First Post
The Lords of the South
SHORTLY BEFORE SUNRISE, the imprisoned friends wake at the sound of cage doors creaking, prisoners shuffling nervously, and orders being shouted in the strange tongue of the Arawai’s allies. The captives are being led out at lance-point, one cage at a time, and marched in a line back toward Guardwatch. As their cage is opened, Carwyn scans the guards anxiously but judges that none of the guards who marched them to the birth the previous night have returned. She carries out Hamber in her arms; in the chaos of the general emptying of the cage, none of the strangers seem to take notice of the second baby. Curago grimaces as he steps down to the ground. “See? The Velnaryns have ransomed us, as usual. A few months of mercenary service for them, and we’ll be free to return home.”
The prisoners are not led to the smoldering ruins of Guardwatch, but to a huge tent, from which they hear shrieks emerging. Lucian glances over meaningfully at Atrix, clearly not intending to go quietly if this is another round of executions. As the tent flap is opened, they catch a sharp, smoky aroma -- and then see the rank of masked, alien soldiers carrying irons with a complex, glowing symbol on the end. Another set of guards grab the prisoners and tear their tunics across from the neck to expose their shoulders.
Curago bellows in horrified surprise as his shoulder is branded with the strange mark. One by one, all of the captives receive the brand -- even the two newborns, who shriek as a minute iron (clearly designed for the purpose) is applied to their skin. Ontaya lays her hands on them almost instantly to keep them alive, but the mark remains distinct and glaring on their tiny shoulders. They are all returned to their cage, where Meeshak and Ontaya make sure that their wounded fellow prisoners stay alive despite the shock of the branding.
It takes all day to brand the thousands of captives in the camp; meanwhile, the southern Arawai tribes break camp and ride out, grim-faced. Only the thousands of implacable strangers remain. That night, the predominant sound throughout the lightless camp is numb, terrified weeping.
AT DAWN THE next morning, a golden-skinned man cries out in the strangers’ incomprehensible language, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in every corner of the massive prisoner camp. The young Jendae in their cage speaks for the first time since their capture, in a strained, bitter voice. “The Imperial Herald is saying: ‘You are now chattel. You are now chattel. Your lives are spared for devotion to the ones who pay for them. You have no property, no words, no breath, and no soul but what your masters grant you. Praise the One for your place on the slopes of life.’”
“Who are these strangers?” asks Ash.
The young man turns, his eyes dull. “They are the Xaimani -- the Lords of the South.”
“South?” Ontaya asks urgently. “South of Arawai?”
“Nothing is south of the Endless Plains,” Curago cuts in, trying to sound scornful. “That’s what makes them endless.”
The Jendae laughs, his own voice trembling as much as Curago’s. “The barbarians know better, Caragond -- some of us, anyway. For centuries, the Arawai, Chramics, Jendae, and Sufza have known of the Northern and the Southern nations at opposite ends of the plains -- the Caragond Empire that once was, and the Xaimani Empire that remains mighty. But we always hid your existence from each other.”
“Why?” Ash queries.
The young nomad talks rapidly, as if drowning his fear with words. “It has been a precious secret to different peoples for different reasons. The Arawai naturally feared becoming a battlefield between North and South. The Chramics love trade above all else, and have made their wealth by selling in each civilization the goods unique to the other. They don’t actually make silk, you know -- it’s from Xaiman. The Sufza...” The young man almost smiles. “They consider your mutual ignorance of each other the Great Joke, and hold that spoiling it would be unthinkable. And my people, the Jendae, have followed prophecies that speak of doom when the North and South meet. Kingdoms falling; worlds ending.”
“And yet the Arawai called them in as allies,” Darren says, sounding horrified. Jendae prophecies are not lightly ignored.
“The North finally resolved to conquer the plains,” the young man explains sadly. “Faced with such a threat, the Arawai did not heed the Jendae Elders’ counsel. They knew that the Xaimani sorcerers could overwhelm even the greatest Northern horde. So they broke the secret of centuries, and sent an embassy to Imperial Tziwan. The Xaimani have long considered Arawai as a distant protectorate of their vast Empire, and must have been angered and amazed in equal measure to discover that an unknown group of kingdoms were threatening to conquer it.”
“You dirty, lying...” Curago snarls, before falling mutinously silent at a look from Ontaya.
“What will happen to us now?” Carwyn asks.
“The same thing as any other nation or rebel army that loses a battle to a Xaimani legion: we will be taken to Xaiman and sold as slaves.” The young Jendae shivers slightly. “As many of us as survive the road through the plains, anyway. It is a long, long way from here to the legendary city of Tziwan. I thought I would take that road some day, but not like this.”
The haunted-looking Jendae’s name is Korael. He is an apostate from his people -- when asked what this means, he will only say, “I can not follow the prophecies that have been spoken over me. The One is too cruel.” He has never been to the South, and does not know anything about the strange, terrible magic the Southerners used to destroy the Northern armies; he knows only that in Xaiman, there is a powerful caste of sorcerers known as the Radiant Path.
Korael did learn the Xaimani common tongue from the Jendae elders as a child, and offers to teach it to anyone else in the cage. “It will likely be the main language we need to use from now until the day we die.”
SHORTLY BEFORE SUNRISE, the imprisoned friends wake at the sound of cage doors creaking, prisoners shuffling nervously, and orders being shouted in the strange tongue of the Arawai’s allies. The captives are being led out at lance-point, one cage at a time, and marched in a line back toward Guardwatch. As their cage is opened, Carwyn scans the guards anxiously but judges that none of the guards who marched them to the birth the previous night have returned. She carries out Hamber in her arms; in the chaos of the general emptying of the cage, none of the strangers seem to take notice of the second baby. Curago grimaces as he steps down to the ground. “See? The Velnaryns have ransomed us, as usual. A few months of mercenary service for them, and we’ll be free to return home.”
The prisoners are not led to the smoldering ruins of Guardwatch, but to a huge tent, from which they hear shrieks emerging. Lucian glances over meaningfully at Atrix, clearly not intending to go quietly if this is another round of executions. As the tent flap is opened, they catch a sharp, smoky aroma -- and then see the rank of masked, alien soldiers carrying irons with a complex, glowing symbol on the end. Another set of guards grab the prisoners and tear their tunics across from the neck to expose their shoulders.
Curago bellows in horrified surprise as his shoulder is branded with the strange mark. One by one, all of the captives receive the brand -- even the two newborns, who shriek as a minute iron (clearly designed for the purpose) is applied to their skin. Ontaya lays her hands on them almost instantly to keep them alive, but the mark remains distinct and glaring on their tiny shoulders. They are all returned to their cage, where Meeshak and Ontaya make sure that their wounded fellow prisoners stay alive despite the shock of the branding.
It takes all day to brand the thousands of captives in the camp; meanwhile, the southern Arawai tribes break camp and ride out, grim-faced. Only the thousands of implacable strangers remain. That night, the predominant sound throughout the lightless camp is numb, terrified weeping.
AT DAWN THE next morning, a golden-skinned man cries out in the strangers’ incomprehensible language, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in every corner of the massive prisoner camp. The young Jendae in their cage speaks for the first time since their capture, in a strained, bitter voice. “The Imperial Herald is saying: ‘You are now chattel. You are now chattel. Your lives are spared for devotion to the ones who pay for them. You have no property, no words, no breath, and no soul but what your masters grant you. Praise the One for your place on the slopes of life.’”
“Who are these strangers?” asks Ash.
The young man turns, his eyes dull. “They are the Xaimani -- the Lords of the South.”
“South?” Ontaya asks urgently. “South of Arawai?”
“Nothing is south of the Endless Plains,” Curago cuts in, trying to sound scornful. “That’s what makes them endless.”
The Jendae laughs, his own voice trembling as much as Curago’s. “The barbarians know better, Caragond -- some of us, anyway. For centuries, the Arawai, Chramics, Jendae, and Sufza have known of the Northern and the Southern nations at opposite ends of the plains -- the Caragond Empire that once was, and the Xaimani Empire that remains mighty. But we always hid your existence from each other.”
“Why?” Ash queries.
The young nomad talks rapidly, as if drowning his fear with words. “It has been a precious secret to different peoples for different reasons. The Arawai naturally feared becoming a battlefield between North and South. The Chramics love trade above all else, and have made their wealth by selling in each civilization the goods unique to the other. They don’t actually make silk, you know -- it’s from Xaiman. The Sufza...” The young man almost smiles. “They consider your mutual ignorance of each other the Great Joke, and hold that spoiling it would be unthinkable. And my people, the Jendae, have followed prophecies that speak of doom when the North and South meet. Kingdoms falling; worlds ending.”
“And yet the Arawai called them in as allies,” Darren says, sounding horrified. Jendae prophecies are not lightly ignored.
“The North finally resolved to conquer the plains,” the young man explains sadly. “Faced with such a threat, the Arawai did not heed the Jendae Elders’ counsel. They knew that the Xaimani sorcerers could overwhelm even the greatest Northern horde. So they broke the secret of centuries, and sent an embassy to Imperial Tziwan. The Xaimani have long considered Arawai as a distant protectorate of their vast Empire, and must have been angered and amazed in equal measure to discover that an unknown group of kingdoms were threatening to conquer it.”
“You dirty, lying...” Curago snarls, before falling mutinously silent at a look from Ontaya.
“What will happen to us now?” Carwyn asks.
“The same thing as any other nation or rebel army that loses a battle to a Xaimani legion: we will be taken to Xaiman and sold as slaves.” The young Jendae shivers slightly. “As many of us as survive the road through the plains, anyway. It is a long, long way from here to the legendary city of Tziwan. I thought I would take that road some day, but not like this.”
The haunted-looking Jendae’s name is Korael. He is an apostate from his people -- when asked what this means, he will only say, “I can not follow the prophecies that have been spoken over me. The One is too cruel.” He has never been to the South, and does not know anything about the strange, terrible magic the Southerners used to destroy the Northern armies; he knows only that in Xaiman, there is a powerful caste of sorcerers known as the Radiant Path.
Korael did learn the Xaimani common tongue from the Jendae elders as a child, and offers to teach it to anyone else in the cage. “It will likely be the main language we need to use from now until the day we die.”
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havenstone
First Post
Across the Plains
AROUND MIDNIGHT, THE silent cage suddenly erupts as Curago and eight or nine of the more predatory soldiers launch themselves at the sleeping Ontaya. They are clearly hoping to kill or incapacitate her. Ash has been discreetly keeping watch, and shouts the alarm just as the thugs reach the young paladin. Ontaya comes up swinging, along with her friends. Lune hesitates for a moment, looking physically pained at the prospect of choosing a side -- especially Ontaya’s -- but then kicks out at the kneecap of one of the soldiers who’s charging Ash. Outside the cage, the Xaimani guards watch in silence, making no attempt to break up the fight.
Meeshak forcefully jabs one of the attackers at a nerve point between two vertebrae, leaving him doubled up with pain. Ash drags another man off Ontaya, and knocks out the one-eyed soldier who accused him of betraying the North. Ontaya manages to control her berserker rage while banging heads together. When her strong right hook renders Curago unconscious, the handful of remaining thugs fall back warily.
“Enough!” Ontaya roars, hurling Curago’s limp bulk across the cage. “If this idiocy ever happens again, I’ll invoke Ain’s justice and break the neck of the fool responsible. There will be peace in this cage, one way or the other.”
She sits back, grimacing. As the cage subsides into an uneasy quiet again, Ontaya looks around wearily at her friends. “And between us: no more secrets, no more working at cross purposes. We need to be able to trust each other, or we’re not going to survive this.”
AT MID-MORNING, the Xaimani strike camp. Hundreds of soldiers shoulder long ropes attached to the slave cages. The wood of the bars flexes and creaks as the great constructions start to roll across the plains. The rest of the legions march or ride alongside, wearing light armor and carrying a single short spear or sword. Ontaya gazes out at their armor, arms, and brightly colored decorations, trying to deduce their ranks and organization.
Lune is staring back at a small pile of bodies which were pulled out of other cages in the morning. Many of the dead are women or children. “If they’re going to sell us as slaves, shouldn’t they be protecting us from each other? I mean, we’re worth money, aren’t we? And we’ve got to be worth a lot, to justify all these cages and soldiers.”
“They’re preparing us to be slaves,” says Meeshak matter-of-factly. “Lock us up, let us treat each other like animals instead of human beings -- in the end, we break our own spirits. The Sistecherns have similar practices. It will save the Xaimani a lot of trouble in the long run.”
Lune shakes his head, looking nauseated and worn down. He spends the evening with his face pressed up against the bars, watching a handful of the guards laying a set of ceramic tiles in intricate patterns. Gold is changing hands, and while the guards rarely speak, they do so in absorbed, urgent tones. Carwyn asks what he’s staring at, and Lune turns to her with eyes shining. “They gamble. They’re human.”
Several days pass without incident; Curago and his friends appear to have been genuinely cowed by their beating. The weather is cooling into late autumn. With his daily casual examinations of the cage locks, Darren has halfway concocted an escape plan that he could put in place during the first major snowstorm. Then a few nights into the journey, they hear a commotion and shouts. Shortly before dawn, a terrible chorus of screams rises from the darkness ahead of them and continues as the sky brightens. When their cage rolls south, the party passes a cage whose wheels have been removed. Around it on all sides, Northern prisoners have been staked alive to the ground. A Xaimani herald stands atop the broken cage, repeating a single phrase; next to him, a sobbing Northerner translates: “This is the fate of all who attempt to deny their state of slavery.”
Korael says, almost inaudibly, “Someone must have escaped. They punish the whole cage when that happens.”
“That was Nina’s cage,” Ash says, bile rising in his throat as he recognizes one of the people he glimpsed being herded into line with their friend. He forces himself to scan the dead and dying closely, but can not see Nina anywhere among them.
“They’ll be hunting hard for the escapee,” Korael declares. “And we’ll know if they catch him -- what they do to him will make this seem merciful.”
THE XAIMANI APPARENTLY don’t find Nina; at any rate, there is no public torture or execution. The party members shelve any plans they had of breaking out, since it would be a death sentence for any who couldn’t make it, and focus instead on daily survival. Employing all her charisma, Carwyn coaxes the guards into teaching Lune how to play their tile games (she herself initially holds back, wary of exposing Hamber to too much scrutiny). The Xaimani pay Lune in pebbles rather than gold. Soon he has a significant stash of rocks, and a relationship with the guards that while far from friendly is at least somewhat human.
The guards relent and begin bringing small quantities of milk to the cage; T’harai and Hamber are weaned off their diet of blessed blood and water. As the weeks pass, the kids discover their toes, then their tongues. The party relaxes its attempts to keep one of them hidden, as it becomes clear that the guards don’t particularly care how many babies there are in the cage, assuming that all of them were borne by one of the slaves.
All the party members work hard to learn the Xaimani common language from Korael, with varying degrees of success. Meeshak finds the struggle particularly taxing, especially because his sleep has begun to be disturbed by strange, vivid dreams which leave him exhausted when he awakes. It’s a struggle to remember any of the details, but even through the haze of sleep they feel important.
AROUND MIDNIGHT, THE silent cage suddenly erupts as Curago and eight or nine of the more predatory soldiers launch themselves at the sleeping Ontaya. They are clearly hoping to kill or incapacitate her. Ash has been discreetly keeping watch, and shouts the alarm just as the thugs reach the young paladin. Ontaya comes up swinging, along with her friends. Lune hesitates for a moment, looking physically pained at the prospect of choosing a side -- especially Ontaya’s -- but then kicks out at the kneecap of one of the soldiers who’s charging Ash. Outside the cage, the Xaimani guards watch in silence, making no attempt to break up the fight.
Meeshak forcefully jabs one of the attackers at a nerve point between two vertebrae, leaving him doubled up with pain. Ash drags another man off Ontaya, and knocks out the one-eyed soldier who accused him of betraying the North. Ontaya manages to control her berserker rage while banging heads together. When her strong right hook renders Curago unconscious, the handful of remaining thugs fall back warily.
“Enough!” Ontaya roars, hurling Curago’s limp bulk across the cage. “If this idiocy ever happens again, I’ll invoke Ain’s justice and break the neck of the fool responsible. There will be peace in this cage, one way or the other.”
She sits back, grimacing. As the cage subsides into an uneasy quiet again, Ontaya looks around wearily at her friends. “And between us: no more secrets, no more working at cross purposes. We need to be able to trust each other, or we’re not going to survive this.”
AT MID-MORNING, the Xaimani strike camp. Hundreds of soldiers shoulder long ropes attached to the slave cages. The wood of the bars flexes and creaks as the great constructions start to roll across the plains. The rest of the legions march or ride alongside, wearing light armor and carrying a single short spear or sword. Ontaya gazes out at their armor, arms, and brightly colored decorations, trying to deduce their ranks and organization.
Lune is staring back at a small pile of bodies which were pulled out of other cages in the morning. Many of the dead are women or children. “If they’re going to sell us as slaves, shouldn’t they be protecting us from each other? I mean, we’re worth money, aren’t we? And we’ve got to be worth a lot, to justify all these cages and soldiers.”
“They’re preparing us to be slaves,” says Meeshak matter-of-factly. “Lock us up, let us treat each other like animals instead of human beings -- in the end, we break our own spirits. The Sistecherns have similar practices. It will save the Xaimani a lot of trouble in the long run.”
Lune shakes his head, looking nauseated and worn down. He spends the evening with his face pressed up against the bars, watching a handful of the guards laying a set of ceramic tiles in intricate patterns. Gold is changing hands, and while the guards rarely speak, they do so in absorbed, urgent tones. Carwyn asks what he’s staring at, and Lune turns to her with eyes shining. “They gamble. They’re human.”
Several days pass without incident; Curago and his friends appear to have been genuinely cowed by their beating. The weather is cooling into late autumn. With his daily casual examinations of the cage locks, Darren has halfway concocted an escape plan that he could put in place during the first major snowstorm. Then a few nights into the journey, they hear a commotion and shouts. Shortly before dawn, a terrible chorus of screams rises from the darkness ahead of them and continues as the sky brightens. When their cage rolls south, the party passes a cage whose wheels have been removed. Around it on all sides, Northern prisoners have been staked alive to the ground. A Xaimani herald stands atop the broken cage, repeating a single phrase; next to him, a sobbing Northerner translates: “This is the fate of all who attempt to deny their state of slavery.”
Korael says, almost inaudibly, “Someone must have escaped. They punish the whole cage when that happens.”
“That was Nina’s cage,” Ash says, bile rising in his throat as he recognizes one of the people he glimpsed being herded into line with their friend. He forces himself to scan the dead and dying closely, but can not see Nina anywhere among them.
“They’ll be hunting hard for the escapee,” Korael declares. “And we’ll know if they catch him -- what they do to him will make this seem merciful.”
THE XAIMANI APPARENTLY don’t find Nina; at any rate, there is no public torture or execution. The party members shelve any plans they had of breaking out, since it would be a death sentence for any who couldn’t make it, and focus instead on daily survival. Employing all her charisma, Carwyn coaxes the guards into teaching Lune how to play their tile games (she herself initially holds back, wary of exposing Hamber to too much scrutiny). The Xaimani pay Lune in pebbles rather than gold. Soon he has a significant stash of rocks, and a relationship with the guards that while far from friendly is at least somewhat human.
The guards relent and begin bringing small quantities of milk to the cage; T’harai and Hamber are weaned off their diet of blessed blood and water. As the weeks pass, the kids discover their toes, then their tongues. The party relaxes its attempts to keep one of them hidden, as it becomes clear that the guards don’t particularly care how many babies there are in the cage, assuming that all of them were borne by one of the slaves.
All the party members work hard to learn the Xaimani common language from Korael, with varying degrees of success. Meeshak finds the struggle particularly taxing, especially because his sleep has begun to be disturbed by strange, vivid dreams which leave him exhausted when he awakes. It’s a struggle to remember any of the details, but even through the haze of sleep they feel important.
Last edited:
havenstone
First Post
The First Dream
[I started hand-writing Meeshak's dreams on scraps of paper which I would hand to his player, usually at the beginning of a session]
[I started hand-writing Meeshak's dreams on scraps of paper which I would hand to his player, usually at the beginning of a session]
Orichalcum
First Post
Do we ever get Nina's story?
havenstone
First Post
No, I'm afraid I don't know what happened to Nina after his successful escape from the slave cages. It's possible that in a future game, we might see Nina's return, with an explanation of the intervening years. For now, I'll just have to use Michael Ende's classic copout: "That is another story, and will be told another time."
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