Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)

[Fiasco]

When the followers of the god of justice condemned sinners to living death in catacombs deep in the earth, the followers of the earth spirit rebelled. The chaos that ensued tore apart the world, releasing generations of undead murderers, vandals and thieves onto the world. The convocation of clerics are slaughtered overnight and the great society fragments. Some turn to war, some to vice to delay their impending doom as the wave of undead and mutated creatures spread indefatigably.

This is a story hour based on this home brewed 3.5 D&D campaign world. It has been running for one and a half years.



Prologue

There were few tears in Vronburg; they had all been shed decades ago. Fear, too, was difficult to find. The soul could become numbed to even the most wrenching tragedies. Determination, fatalism, a terrible pride, and yes, always, steadfastness; these bound the fortress city together. The people and the city had closed in on themselves as the setbacks, and the betrayals, and the disappointments heaped upon them.

Vronburg clung mightily to the surrounding land, as though forged directly from the elements themselves. The fortress had been built for one purpose, to endure. It was encircled on three sides by a moat whose deeps froze those with blood to chill and burned the unliving with its holy fire. Each night the prayers of the priests and the faithful charged the waters anew with this divine wrath. The walls were mighty, densely built and cunningly contrived. From a distance the city appeared an invulnerable bastion, even closer scrutiny revealed little to make one think otherwise. Unfortunately, the hungry eyes of the Dominion could look close indeed, and they saw the truth that lay beyond walls and water. While the dead stones of the fortress endured, the living inhabitants were being bled from it, slowly, remorselessly and irrevocably. Behind the unbowed walls, many times rebuilt with the lives of its defenders, the life beat of the city diminished. More buildings were empty than full and children were scarce. The women had long ago joined their men on the walls, and few remained fruitful while defending those barren expanses of stone.

The Dominion saw this and rejoiced. It crashed its abominations, both living and dead against the steadfast towers, heedless of loss. Each attack sapped a little more vitality from the people within. The Fastendians in their barren city knew this and the knowledge was crushing. They were a heroic people who lived without hope. Time and again they repelled the ravening hordes, each time diminished just a little more, and at night their dreams were stillborn, washed out by the blood and the slaughter and the numbing loss.

*****​

Jehurre was tapping a rock gently against the parapet when he noticed the loathsome mists seep up to the wall. He coughed in anticipation of calling out a warning when he was pre-empted by others around the walls. Shouts of “Mist coming!” and “Dead Walking!", echoed flatly around thick stones and still waters, the claustrophobic fog making the direction of sound indistinct. An evil by product of the presence of the undead, the deathly vapours masked their approach and baffled defenders. Sammus raced passed Jehurre’s position, bundles of arrows clattering against his back as he ran his errand. A lean boy of ten, he was already a two year veteran of the defence works. Nimbly he skipped across the cobbles in the shadowy light, mind focussed solely on his appointed task.

Jehurre loosened his blade in its scabbard, reached into a pouch and rubbed a bit of lime rind into his palms. He bent down and retrieved his bow from where it leaned against the wall nearby. With a grunt, he braced one end against his instep and straining, stretched a string between the ends. He briefly massaged his aching back and then tested the pull of the bow, taking care not to let go of the taught string. With equal care, he checked the arrows in the compartmented sections of his quiver, straightening bent fletching and arranging the arrows just so. With his fingers, he ran through the oft practiced routine of assuring himself that he could discern the various types of arrows by touch alone. Firstly the ordinaries, well made, but with some minor imperfections. Good enough when loosing into a horde of foes or into the concealing mists. Then the quality arrows, those which were particularly straight and whose fletching was finely formed. These were best used when the target was sure. Finally, the three ‘specials’. These were of exemplary workmanship, silver tipped and engraved with magic sigils to make them strike true and deep. There were those amongst the attacking armies who scorned the bite of honest wood or steel, and these precious shafts were intended for them.

The mists thickened and visibility dropped to the point where he could barely make out the shape of Graffen, some fifteen paces to his right. He nodded to his companion despite the unlikelihood it being seen, satisfied that he too stood ready. A soft scrape was the only indication that Edita had taken up her position some distance to his left. Jehurre rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders. When he looked around again, his companions were gone, swallowed by the fog that covered the approach of the nightmare armies. The minutes passed and lengthened into hours. Jehurre felt profoundly alone as he strained his ears for any hint of enemy movement near his position. All the while, the sounds of battle dinned from some distant part of the fortress. They were catching hell, wherever it was. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he realised that his section would be unmolested. Vronburg might be doomed to fall but not this night. Jehurre did not have the strength or courage to think beyond that.

 

[Fiasco]

Chapter 1



Many hundreds of miles South and West of Vronburg, the sun rose over the sweat damped brows of peasants as they trundled their produce along the final miles to Halfast. The port city had a ravenous appetite, daily consuming the bounty that was brought to its markets from the surrounding lands. Accompanying the farmers on their trek were hundreds of pilgrims, eager to celebrate All Summers Eve within Halfast's walls. Throughout the city, carousers made their weary way home or collapsed where they were. Taverns kicked out the last of the revelers, welcoming the few hours of peace allowed them before fresh drinkers came pounding on their doors. Near the docks, sailors staggered green faced towards their berths, memories of the previous night blazed away in a frenzy of drinking and whoring that left their emotions and purses deflated. For residents and visitors alike, Halfast was a city of excess, a place beloved of Laster, god of vice. The numerous alehouses, whorehouses, drug havens and gambling dens were as living prayers to the licentious divinity, working day and night to bring temporary surcease to the worries of the world.

It was to this city that Bastien of Yorath came looking for recruits in early low summer. The sprawling city saw visitors from all that remained of the old Convocation; natives of Guerney rubbed shoulders with gaunt faced visitors from the Fastness, who in turn bartered furiously with merchants, infrequently seen elves and whoever else might have what they sought on behalf of their beleaguered homeland. Halfast was rife with mercenaries and bravos, penniless nobles and sly dweomercrafters. Bastien's visit was timed to coincide with All Summers Eve, Laster’s most holy day. The city's populace was swelled by a great pilgrimage of the god's faithful, who yearly swarmed to the lusty port to partake in its fevered revels. This diversity of people had ensured an excellent selection of applicants for Bastien in previous years, during which he had recruited two very successful gladiatorial companies for his liege Baron Yorath. He hoped that by day's end he would find the seeds of a third.

Bastien carefully negotiated his way through the filthy streets. Accompanying him was Kurul, a massive hound sent to accompany him at the whim of his lord. Seemingly indifferent to its surroundings, the beast was at his heels as they made their wending way to the Green Arms. This worthy establishment was a popular tavern famous for the pair of massive scrag arms displayed above its doorway. The knotted green limbs exuded power, their awesome girth inspired a feeling of frailty in even seasoned warriors. Magically preserved from decay, they were a decades old legacy of a brutal sea troll raid. Despite his fatigue, Bastien paused to admire the primitive majesty of the display before passing beneath them. To his travel worn spirits, the rough but honest hospitality and hearty provender of the inn was a welcome destination. Kurul followed, sniffing disdainfully at the threshold before shambling within. Baron Yorath had been generous with his coin, and Bastien didn't stint in availing himself of refreshment before setting to his important task.

Midday had passed by the time Bastien arrived in Cassavary Square and was overwhelmed once more by the power of the stench that invaded his nostrils. Halfast's largest market thronged with near a thousand ill washed people as they sweated about their business. Adding to the miasma were livestock of every type, combining unpleasantly with the sharp scents of spices and herbs and the deep stink of ordure of uncertain origin. The catch of the day also added its ripe blend to the mix, as did, more noxiously, the catch of last week. Bastien dropped a copper common into the grasping hands of an avaricious stall holder and stepped up onto an empty wooden platform. Sweeping his calculating eyes across the crowd, he straightened his clothing and cleared his throat. He must work hard to make himself heard above the clamouring throng.

"I TELL A TALE SO BEND YOUR EAR, THE TALE I TELL YOU MUST NEEDS HEAR!” Bastien bellowed the ancient formula for opening a public address. Several heads turned his way, giving him encouragement to continue. "I require STOUT men of COURAGE and ENTERPRISE. Training and upkeep for the successful applicants, as well as the chance to take part in the GLORY of the gladiatorial games. I seek the best, so only the STRONG and the BRAVE need apply. Who seeks ADVENTURE? Who seeks WEALTH and FAME? Join with me for the chance to realise your DREAMS!"

Passers by paused to listen to Bastien's missive before moving on. The market had upwards of a dozen such podiums and most were in use. Speakers recruited men for mercantile or mercenary causes, advertised goods or sought converts for various gods. One grizzled and spit flecked old man pleaded for volunteers to another Gerechian crusade. A long standing denizen of the markets, the holy fool was largely ignored, miraculously spared the persecution that others of that despised faith might have meted out to them.

Bastien racked his voice in competition with the ruckus of the rival speakers and the madding crowds. Gradually his proclamations began to bear fruit. Amongst the merchants, peasants and riff raff who paused to hear his words, people of greater potential also gave ear to his broadcast. By the time his voice gave out, more than a dozen had registered interest, including a brace of petty nobles, some burly woodsmen and rarest of rare creatures, a gnome. These worthies were joined by less desirable elements such as beggars, ne'er' do wells and those types of mysteriously cloaked strangers who always seemed to haunt the formation of a new company. Each was given the same instruction; to report to the Green Arms that evening to listen to the terms in detail.

 

[Fiasco]

******​

Bastien sat at a large table in the centre of the common room of the Green Arms and gestured for the six strangers to do likewise. The recruits regarded each other and their host with guarded interest. They saw a moderately handsome man with a straightforward demeanour. Green eyes sparkled keenly as he looked them over. His brown hair, so dark it was nearly black was swept back to reveal a high forehead, and he affected a dark beard, cut fashionably short. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, a man favoured with both the wisdom of experience and a vigorous body. With an assured gesture he signalled for drinks to be poured for the assembled men. At his feet crouched Kurul, the muscular hound massive in its ugliness. The jug headed beast seemed asleep, blissfully ignorant of the raucous banter of the crowded tavern. Bastien frowned inwardly as he watched his guests being served. His first impression was not favourable, the best that could be said was that they were a diverse group.

Over a hearty meal of Irudesh stew and braised lamb shanks, Bastien outlined the terms of service offered by his liege. Questions were posed and answers given, eventually to the satisfaction of all involved. Eyebrows were raised when he stipulated that Kurul would be part of their company but no objections were raised. With a clasp of hands, the deal was struck and moneys paid over. Each man accepted the Baron's silver to make a ten day journey to his lands. There they would submit to sundry tests to assess their suitability to form a gladiatorial company for the Halfast Games. Success would see them form such a company, failure would see them given ten silver sickles for their efforts and hearty wishes for a safe journey back to Halfast. Assuming they survived. As he passed out the freshly stamped coins, Bastien greatly doubted that all six would finish the journey let alone be accepted for training as gladiators.

Each man gave his name when he received his pay; Gerard de Mowbray, a minor scion of a noble lord; the gnome Mortec (a creature almost unheard of this far south); Morgan, a young warrior from the Fastness; the woodsman Argonne, who wore a broad brimmed hat low over his face; the heavily cloaked yet strangely compelling Stravarius; and lastly Moxadder, a tattooed and bald headed beggar. They were a motley collection of highborn and low, human, barely human and non human. Only time and the wisdom of his baron would determine the mettle of these ambitious youths.

Once the young men had accepted the commission, the talk became strained. Mostly unskilled in conversation or uncomfortable in their surroundings, they toyed with the remains of the meal with downcast eyes. Fearing a dreary night ahead, Bastien proposed a carouse at the Baron's expense. Hopefully drink and women would loosen tongues and lower inhibitions, and what more fitting occasion than All Summers Eve? The proposal was readily accepted, and they left the easy hospitality of the Green Arms, stepping forth into the hurly burly of the city.

Bastien thought to slake the youths lust with an early visit to whores of Nightingale street before the opportunity to do so was lost to the fevered masses of hot blooded revellers. The choice proved unfortunate. Gerard's refined manners and fastidious nature forbade contact with common street walkers while the gnome Mortec was repulsed by the very thought of making such an intimate acquaintance of a human. The others seemed to be shy of expressing their desires in front of their peers. Only Moxadder accepted a coin and without a qualm, slipped down an alley way, rejoining the others a few minutes later. Recognising his error, Bastien dryly suggested that perhaps they should make a survey of the dockside taverns. He barely troubled to conceal his smile at the mixture of relief and enthusiasm which greeted his proposal.

The light was descending into gloom when the party emerged from Arrel Way to see the raucous docks spread before them. Fellow revellers rambled through the streets while on the pier, longshoremen, cheeks glowing with drink, strove to finish unloading a coaster before the light failed completely. Several wooden cranes arched against skyline, raising and lowering their cargo. Mortec, only half the height of his companions, struggled to maintain sight of his comrades. So focussed was he on his efforts that failed to notice the approach of a noble cavalcade as it made its promenade along the dock.

"The Duchess Servessa", Bastien informed his charges as they craned to see the procession. Proceeded by four richly attired guards, the Duchess cut an impeccably regal figure on her splendid black stallion. Her escorts were somewhat less orderly as they struggled to keep the crowd at a suitable distance. Excessive drink and high spirits had made some of the subjects careless of the proprieties that were expected between subject and ruler. In contrast to this rowdy press, the crowds of people on the opposite side of the dock began to leave the walkway with unnerving haste. Marching slowly to the dolorous clank of bells was a procession of eight black robed figures. Dressed in the universal clothing of the leprous and diseased, the walkers inspired the horror of sickness in the drunken and sober alike. Almost as one they fled in terror from this fearsome portent of their mortality.

From the safety of Arrel Way, Gerard watched with idle curiosity as the lepers neared the Duchess’ guards. The intervening crowds blew away as dust and an unnerved silence replaced the clatter of the docks. Even the hardy dock workers backed away to their storehouses, unwilling to risk the dreaded taint of leprosy. As the two parties moved towards each other, the guards slowed their steps and tightened fingers on the hafts of their pikes. The contradictory impulses of fear and duty warred on their faces as they held grimly to their march, compelled by their responsibility to uphold the Duchess' dignity.

In ominous contrast to the guards, the lepers' pace increased, transforming Gerard’s curiosity into deep unease. An awful tension gripped the docks as both parties remorselessly approached each other, neither showing any sign of turning aside. A chill gripped him as he realised that the lepers’ movements were too smooth for people debilitated by disease. “Duchess! Ware the lepers” he shouted as the pariahs drew clubs and knives from the concealment of their black robes. Their lethal intent was unmistakable.

 

[Fiasco]

Chaos spilled across the stenching stones of the wharf. The lepers swung at the guards with wild vicious blows, forcing them to jerk and evade frantically, fending all the while with their unwieldy weapons. The Duchess’ horse took fright and added to the confusion, nudging a guard off balance as it reared and screamed in equine fear. A distance away, Gerard forced his leaden feet to action and ran to give assistance to the noblewoman.

Morgan’s mouth gaped in surprise at what he saw. An instant later he was running towards the battle, the brawling melee compelling him towards its vortex. In contrast, Moxadder’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. His dreams of an easy living faded as the group’s intention to intervene made itself clear. Unarmed and weak with a decades worth of bad living and worse luck, Moxadder determined not to sell his life for the bowl of soup consumed earlier. He’d fought the heartless charity of the priests of Thuus for too long to give up so easily. Perhaps sensing Moxadder’s reluctance, Bastien called on the group to aid the Duchess as he sprinted forwards. On nearing the battle he angled his run so that he might pass to the left of the action. A relieved Moxadder was at his heels, hoping that he might escape the confrontation unscathed while not showing himself an utter craven.

Gerard was the first to reach the conflict. Thinking swiftly, he shouted and slapped at the horse, seeking to drive it (and the Duchess) clear of danger. Unfortunately, he missed the panicked beast and barely avoided getting clipped over the ear by a flailing hoof. Seeing Gerard out of the corner of her eye, the Duchess cried “Unhand my horse, peasant!” and lashed her whip wildly at the young nobleman. Gerard was furious. Here he was trying gallantly to save the lady and she had the poor manners to mistake him for a common brigand; or worse yet, a crazed leper! Setting his jaw in frustration, he persisted with his attempts.

Slower in their response to the crisis, Stravarius and Argonne ran at their best speed to join the fray. Mortec thought the better of chasing his comrades as the human’s superior speed left him behind. Instead, he unslung his crossbow and hastily began to crank it back. Heart pumping painfully from the tension, he strained the drawstring into its catch and fumbled a bolt into place. As he raised the weapon and tried to sight around running companions, his finger jerked nervously and the bolt was loosed skirling into the glooming sky. Hissing in frustration, Mortec began maneuvering for a better vantage while attempting to reload the crossbow.

The lepers had not been idle and quite indifferent to the unexpected reinforcements, they pressed their attack. Not all of their stabbing thrusts and clubbing blows were effective, but their numbers were telling. A guard fell to the slimy cobbles, head staved in and life cut short. His comrades fought back desperately and a leper fell twitching to a pike thrust deep in his guts. The stallion reared again, pawing with its hooves and menacing guard and leper alike. The Duchess, her face a rictus of concentration fought to bend the crazed steed to her will. The noise of battle was eerie on the deserted wharf, the hoarse shouts of the guards and the shrill whinnying of the horse carried on the still waters of the dock and were reflected back as distorted echoes. More unsettling was the noise the lepers made, or rather its lack. Apart from a small grunt of effort when giving or receiving blows, the only sound they made was the shuffle of their bandaged feet. With their black robes hiding face and body, it was almost as if the guards strove to quell a pack of ghosts, who danced and gimbled away from their probing pikes.

Morgan joined the ranks of the sorely pressed guards and clutched desperately to free dagger from sheath. Gulping great breaths of air, he fought to steady himself amongst a blur of bodies, robes, pikes and clubs. Cooler headed, Bastien stood clear of the melee and waited patiently for an opening. A dagger appeared in his hand and his arm snapped forward with an assured motion. Crouching nearby, Moxadder followed the flight of the blade until it terminated in the throat of a leper. A dark shape above the melee then caught his attention. Looking up, he saw a large packing crate suspended from a crane. His eyes followed the taught supporting line down the arm of the crane to where it was secured at its base and inspiration seethed through his mind. Here was a way that he could prove himself to Bastian without risking his neck. Ignoring his companions in the thick of the fighting, he ran to where the rope was tied off.

The battle around the Duchess reached a fever pitch as Stravarius joined the combatants. He rasped his rapier clear of its scabbard and held the blade in the approximation of a guard position, awaiting an opportunity to strike. A loud twang heralded the passage of a bolt from Mortec's position, and sparks slithered across the cobbles some twenty feet from where the lepers fought. High-pitched curses issued sulphurously from the gnome as he readied his weapon for another attempt.

With a firm plan in mind, Argonne approached the battle from the opposite side to Stravarius. He had witnessed Gerard’s persistent attempts to clap the horse on its behind and shook his head at the ineptitude of the young fop. Moving nimbly around a dagger armed leper who menaced a guard; Argonne approached the head of the horse and attempted to grab it by the bridle. The duchess still wrestled for control of her mount and one of its wild gyrations intersected her head with the path of a club. The crack of wood and bone sounded clearly above the clash of weapons as the lady slewed violently in her saddle. This final impropriety was too much for the horse, who skittered sideways and bolted for freedom, its blundering path dashing both Argonne and a guard to the cobbles. Avoiding a clubbing attack from a leper, Morgan stepped back into the space vacated by the steed. He spotted the Duchess swaying mazily atop her steed and set off in pursuit, hoping to forestall any further mishap.

Observing the frenetic pace of the battle, Bastien cursed his lack of a backup weapon. Glancing to his side he noticed a half opened crate filled with bottles of brandy. It was but a moments thought to stoop towards the box and wing a bottle of booze at the head of a high leaping leper. The bottle missed narrowly but his oath of disappointment changed to a shout of delight as a massive crate fell out of the dusking sky to crush the head of his intended victim. Two other lepers were sent violently sprawling as the force of the impact blasted them from their feet. Bastien sought the cause of this providential stroke and was amazed to observe the raggedly Moxadder as its architect. Shaking his head in surprise, he fumbled for another bottle as he scanned eagerly for another target.

 

[Fiasco]

Gerard gave a triumphant shout when the horse finally quit the field. Fixing his eye on a capering leper, he reached for his sword only to clutch at empty air. His stomach lurched sickeningly as he remembered having left his rapier at his lodgings. Noticing Gerard’s predicament, the leper skipped forward, club raised to deliver a devastating blow. The lumbering crash of the crate delivered the young nobleman from the strike as the shock thundered his opponent to its knees. Gerard leapt back from the impact and nearly tripped over a discarded pike. The abandoned weapon very nearly proved his undoing as it prompted him to improvise an unlikely attack. The inexperienced warrior attempted to retrieve the weapon, avoid the attacks of his recovering opponent, stab said opponent with the pike all the while voicing a quick prayer of thanks to Laster for the fortuitous intervention. The outcome was a haphazard flailing of limbs as Gerard tried to pull his body in three directions at once. It was all he could do to avoid spilling himself to the cobbles. Through some miracle, or perhaps the boundless exuberance of youth, he managed to fumble the pike to hand and assay a moderately successful thrust at his foe. He barely had time to collect himself before a narrow length of steel skewered past the edge of his vision, causing him to flinch reflexively away from Stravarius’ ill directed thrust. His anger at the careless stroke turned to surprise when he noted that the rapier’s blade emitted a pale blue glow.

From his position far removed from the conflict, Mortec felt somewhat impotent in exerting an influence. Trying to control his frustration, he drew a bead on one of the lepers. The poor light and chaotic whirl of the battle daunted him, the many hours spent shooting at motionless target butts had in no way prepared him for this. Mortec tried to follow the motion of his target and then jerked excitedly at the trigger as his victim leapt forward to crash a blow at Gerard. The crossbow kicked at his touch, propelling the bolt whirring above the heads of friend and foe alike. The gnome ground his teeth in fury as he doggedly began to crank his instrument again.

The destruction caused by the falling crate had proved to be a turning point. The confusion it wrought gave Argonne the time to regain his feet and ready his staff. Whirling his weapon with practised familiarity, he crashed its tip into the nose of one of his opponents. A slight shift of position and a dagger thrusting at his belly was turned aside. The hardy woodsman fought in stark contrast to his companions, whose inept strikes betrayed their unfamiliarity with their weapons. Perhaps inspired by Argonne’s cool conduct, the remaining guards renewed their exertions and each slew an opponent. The Duchess’ protectors had gained the ascendancy.

Argonne, Stravarius, Gerard and two guards faced three lepers, two of whom had only just regained their feet. Even as the combatants momentarily paused to collect themselves, another brandy bottle arched in and caught a leper in the ribs. A second bottle spun in on a different trajectory, smashing another assassin in the face and blinding him with brandy and shards of glass. Moxadder had joined Bastien in flinging the volatile spirits.

The lepers wavered, whatever the force that united them so resolutely in their purpose was broken. With ghastly cries they each ran their own way. Gerard and Stravarius lunged eagerly at the fleeing bodies but their excitement ill served their aim and the skins of their foes went unpierced. Argonne proved more able, smashing his staff into a foe and hurling him to the ground.

The guards used this opportunity to disengage from the melee and run towards their liege, who leaned insensible in her saddle some distance away. One of the lepers also ran in that direction while the another weaved blindly towards Moxadder and the water, clawing at its bleeding face all the while. A crossbow bolt passed just over its shoulder as Mortec finally started to find the range of his opponents. Seeing the helpless state of the oncoming leper, Moxadder kept his calm as the distance between them rapidly closed. A judicious nudge sent the fugitive flying on a flat trajectory that ended in the scummy water of the harbour. The cold, black water swallowed its sudden gift and the leper passed from both sight and life.

While the battle had been raging, Morgan had tried his best to succour the duchess. The task proved difficult for the mount was intractable, and even after it was soothed, the Lady’s concussion proved equally vexing. What the Duchess herself felt about a commoner pawing at her was difficult to ascertain and in any case, she was unable form a coherent response. The booted steps of the guards and the slapping of feet on stone intruded upon Morgan’s concentration and he turned just in time to block the path of an onrushing leper. With a strangled shout Morgan lunged with his dagger and succeeded in pinking the assassin’s shoulder and forcing him back. The leper then lurched unexpectedly forwards as a fast running Gerard scored the point of his pike across its ribs.

In the distance, Mortec crouched on one knee as he deliberately raised his crossbow for another try. Embarrassment was his foremost emotion as he gripped the stock of his weapon. Certain that the others thought him a useless coward, he hoped to make amends with his final shot. With a sighing prayer to his deity, he took careful aim. The din and drang of battle receded and for a brief moment he saw his target silhouetted against the dying rays of the sun. Almost of its own volition, his finger squeezed the trigger and the bolt leapt powerfully forward. One heartbeat, two, the complex tableau froze in his perception, then the shaft of the bolt and the leper’s head became one, joining in a gruesome kiss that transfixed the body and then stretched it out on the ground.

 

[Fiasco]

Moments later the guards belatedly arrived at the Duchess’ side, chests heaving and hands trembling from nerves and battle fatigue. With dull eyes they gazed upon the companions as the last of the light guttered gently into the night.

The clatter of hooves intruded upon them before any words could be exchanged. Steel rasped harshly in the darkness as mounted men moved forwards and bared their weapons at Bastien's charges. Somewhat separate from the others, Moxadder and Argonne remained concealed in the poor light as they rifled through the possessions of the lepers. The new arrivals consisted of well armed and armoured men bearing the livery of Prince Brand, royal scion of the King of Guerney. It was this worthy himself who addressed himself to the young saviours.

"Who are you people that dare molest the Duchess?" His tone of voice was soft and contemptuous, stinging Gerard to the quick with it's arrogance. "You churls had best explain yourselves quickly".

"We have just defended her Grace from an assassination attempt... your Highness". Gerard's pause in delivering the honorific stopped just short of insolence. "Perhaps instead of accusing us of base acts, you might listen to our account of the events. I am Gerard de Mowbray, son of Sir Absquith de Mowbray.

"Mowbray...", mused Prince Brand, turning to one of his companions. Pitching his voice so that it might clearly heard by all, he continued. "That does bring to mind some clod hopping low nobles of little account, still... any dog may jump to the call of its master's name. Show me your signet ring, if you truly are what you claim." The last was drawled as the prince turned once again to face the subject of his musings.

Gerard’s ingratiating smile cost him dearly as he approached the nobleman and proffered his ring with a flourish. The affront to his dignity was profound, and he was grateful that the poor light hid his shame. One of Brand's courtiers reached forward and plucked the ring from Gerard's palm and then passed it disdainfully to his master. Brand barely glanced at the ring before negligently tossing the item back in Gerard's direction. "Hmm, it seems the lordling speaks truth, indeed why would one falsely seek to claim such ancestry.” His expression softened fractionally, “well now, it seems you may have done some good work after all, explain what happened".

With a belated glance to Bastien for approval, Gerard succinctly related the details of the attack. With the Duchess' surviving guards corroborating his tale, the truth of his words were clear to all. Gerard's concluding phrases were punctuated by the blaring of horns of the city watch. Bellowed orders and the stamp of booted feet could be heard approaching from the heart of the city.

"It seems you are to be commended", Brand reluctantly concluded. "It is best, however if I see to the comfort of Her Grace Servessa. You are no longer needed". With that, the prince placed his arm familiarly around the duchess who was only just now shaking off the bewilderment of her head wound. With polished speed, the prince's men turned smartly and formed an escort around the pair. As he rode off, the prince negligently plucked a small purse from his waist and flung it at Gerard’s feet. "Some coin, to reward you for your work" he said over as his shoulder as he rode off into the early night. Gerard did not even look at the fallen object, focussed as he was on his offended sensibilities. To be addressed so slightingly was a new experience for him, and the fact that Brand was socially within his rights to do so made it cut particularly deep.

"He shouldn't speak to me like that, the bastard!" he muttered to himself. Unfortunately, the moment for a clever retort had passed, and all that was left was to look to his companions. He stepped back to join Bastien and those of the others who had born silent witness to the interrogation.

The noise of the approaching watch impinged on their attention again, and Bastien signalled for the party to form into a group and await orders. Moxadder, who had been looting the corpses all the while, had no complaints with seeking anonymity amongst his companions. To his disappointment, the assassins had carried little in coin, but the two daggers he had lifted were a great comfort to him. At least now he was armed.

Apart from these items, they'd had little of value or out of ordinary, barring a strange demonic head tattooed on the back of their necks. To Moxadder’s professional eye there was something disquieting about the work. It looked as if the dye had been driven deep into the flesh with no regard for the pain the subject would have endured. Nowhere in his vagabond journeys had Moxadder seen such work, and the meaning of the design was lost on him. Defeated, he dismissed their disturbing image from consciousness and rejoined the others.

His company now gathered together, Bastien signalled them to remain behind him as he turned to face the approaching guards. Noting that the crate of brandy was still unattended, he quickly slipped a couple of flasks into a belt pouch and took a third to hand. The others watched as their recruiter explained matters to the newly arrived watch captain, pointing first to the corpses and then at them as he explained the events. A few commiserated oaths about the daring of the attack, the passing over of first one, then two brandy bottles, and the companions were free to go. By unspoken agreement, they turned their steps towards the comforting familiarity of the Green Arms.

*******​

 

[Fiasco]

The tavern was deep in raucous celebration by the time they arrived. Seeing the futility of trying to secure a table, Bastien led the party to his chambers, pausing only to shout an order for drink at a harassed looking pot boy.

The recruits looked around their host's rooms as Bastien set about arranging things to his taste. The bed chamber was generously proportioned, and well furnished with chairs, foot stools, bed and sturdy table. A collection of wines and ales arrived just as Bastien was satisfied with the arrangements and he bade them all sit as he poured generous libations of drink. Before anyone could speak, Kurul thrust his great fore legs onto table and plunked a heavy purse before them with a thunk.

Seven pairs of eyes regarded the leather pouch for a brief moment before a swarm of hands grabbed at it. Stravarius proved the quickest, and with a grand motion he untied the cord and upended the contents. Dozens of silver sickles clattered heavily onto the table, dazzling the lamplight back into the faces of the observers. Gerard spotted a speck of more valuable material in the pile and leaning forwards, he deftly scooped up a gold ring before one of the others, a glare at Moxadder here, could take the chance to pocket it. A low whistle blew from Gerard's lips when he appraised the item.

"Do you recognise this?" he asked, passing the ring to their leader.

"By the Sisters of the Veil!" swore Bastien, "This is looks very much like Prince Brand's signet ring!". He turned to face the rest of the group, whose faces were a mixture of confusion and understanding. "You can rest assured that whatever reward the prince intended for us, it did not include his ring." Bastien leaned back in his chair with a serious expression and regarded the party.

"Well, detestable as he is, it is clearly our duty to return the ring to his highness as soon as possible", Gerard opinioned.

"It is not!”, objected Stravarius even as Moxadder directed a horrified stare at the fool who suggested giving away their hard won riches. "Intended or not, he gave it to us and it is ours to dispose with as we choose" Stravarius continued. "Here, let me examine that" he said, stretching a gloved hand towards the disputed adornment. Seeing support for this suggestion amongst the faces of most of his companions, Gerard reluctantly passed on the ring.

"That's roight", Argonne said in satisfaction, "ah allus said those that does wrong has nowt to complain if they IS done wrong."

Gerard sighed at the crudity of the dialect and looked to Bastien for support. "Surely you would agree that we should return the prince his property?"

Bastien shook his head in negation, "I find Brand to be an arrogant and unpleasant man. He has insulted my lord, our company, and your family name. I say Geduld take him and his overweening pride". Before Gerard could make a retort to this, a hissed intake of breath from within Stravarius' concealing hood caught everyone's attention.

"The device on the ring just changed!", he cried. The companions mobbed around the ring, obscuring each others view in their eagerness to see. Bastien took the ring and held it up to the light.

"It looks the same to me, three hills with crown rampant".

"I tell you the device changed to that of a broken dagger", Stravarius countered.

Mortec stood up on his chair and demanded the item. "Let me see, we Gnomes have a facility with things that don’t appear as they should." He examined the ring in his small hand and then held it up to eye level, squinting at it. Next he gripped the item tightly in his hand while pointing the ring’s face towards the others. His brow furrowed with effort, making his head appear to shrivel to half its size. To the wonderment of the others, prince Brands device of three hills abruptly transformed into that of dagger sundered into three pieces.

"I told you!" Stravarius exclaimed, his observation vindicated.

“Yes, but what does this mean?" asked Morgan suspiciously.

"It means trouble, is what" Moxadder interjected harshly, "He didn’t want for us to get this ring. Powerful man. People like that who get unhappy, it goes bad for people like us.

"We are leaving in the morning in any case" interjected Bastien before Moxadder could infect the others with his concerns. "We will be long gone before the prince realises his error. In the mean time, All Summers Eve lies before us! You may each go wherever you please, I for one intend to visit of the Convent of the Doves, you are most welcome to join me. Divide the money amongst yourselves and enjoy this night. Our road ahead will be difficult, so take your pleasures whilst you can." The prospective company did not need telling twice. The money was swiftly divided and plans made. Argonne, Mortec and Gerard would accompany their guide to convent, in reality Laster's holy brothel. Stravarius, Morgan and Moxadder would go their own way, meeting the others at dawn.

********​

 

[Palskane]

Fabulous! I just found this SH, and enjoy it greatly thus far! Keep up the good work!

 

[Fiasco]

Fabulous! I just found this SH, and enjoy it greatly thus far! Keep up the good work!

I'm glad you like it. Feedback like this makes all the hard work well worth while!

Hopefully I'll have the next update ready on Monday.

 

[Fiasco]

Stravarius sighed as he shut and bolted the door to his room. The ever present tension when in the company of others slowly began to ease. He tugged off his sweat damped gloves and threw them across the room. Next, the heavy and restrictive cloak was discarded and his rapier unbuckled and dropped to the floor. A huff of breath and the candle left burning by the landlord was extinguished. He took two long steps to the window and parted the leather covering, allowing the night breeze to ruffle his damp hair. Despite the stink it carried, Stravarius enjoyed the gentle wind on his face. His lambent eyes easily pierced the night's secrets, and he watched the fevered doings of the celebrants in the street below.

Despite his fatigue, he remained leaning on the ledge for hours, fighting sleep. Sleep might bring dreams of the frightful barrow again. And in there, the centre of his terror, the Transmuter would be waiting, and with it the memories of his centuries long torment. In his mind he would never be free of that awful place, or of the horrid transformation that had been worked on his body. Eventually, he forced himself abed and closed eyes burning with weariness. Mercifully, his sleep was peaceful, undisturbed by either his past or the inferno of lust that coursed through the fevered city.

********​

The Convent of Doves was a sumptuous structure located just outside the walls of Halfast. Built in defiance of a city edict that had lapsed centuries ago, the buildings had evolved into a rabbit warren of rooms, halls, galleries and courtyards. Amongst its rug covered floors, silken doorways and scented warmth, the Sisters of the Veil entertained visitors of every stripe and nationality. They were the concubines of Laster, the earthly incarnation of his lust. To be taken by the hand by one of the sisters and led silently into her room was to know ecstasy.

Many came to the convent seeking such a blessed union, but only the fortunate were chosen. For those whom the sisters overlooked, courtesan's and their less refined kin attended the holy bordello in their dozens, providing (for a price) some consolation. It was often said that no-one with coin ever left the convent unsated.

Bastien arrived with his young charges to find a riot of dancing and music as hundreds of revellers sought the holy pinnacle to All Summers Eve. Seeing the crowd that confronted them, the companions immediately abandoned any hope of staying together and went their separate ways.

Gerard wandered delicately through the throngs, seeking a dalliance with one of the famed sisters. His heart thumped painfully in his chest but he somehow managed to look assured and confident. Passing through a kitchen, he appropriated a bottle of wine and two goblets and thus armed, continued with his quest. His wanderings took him far into the building and the lewd acts he saw openly performed by other celebrators fired his blood.

In one chamber, an exquisitely proportioned dancer moved languidly to a sinuous tune piped by boy of startling beauty. He watched entranced as her movements artfully told the tale of a dangerous seduction. The veils covering her head and body were of such delicacy that they barely concealed anything of the splendid form beneath, being just enough to allow the viewer to use their imagination to complete the picture. The dance ended with a trilling crescendo and the crowd erupted in appreciation. As the dancer stepped out amongst the applause, Gerard moved before her and proffered a goblet.

The dancer reached for the goblet and smiled, "I am Adrianne", she said, looking deeply into his eyes. Gerard watched her lift the goblet to her mouth, holding his gaze all the while. Her throat pulsed steadily as she slowly drained the goblet in one long draught. Not daring to speak, Gerard offered his hand and allowed himself to be led away. Magic. Truly he was beloved of Laster this night.

In another part of the convent, Mortec amused himself by watching the lewd religious antics performed by passionate worshippers. Their lustral rites were something completely removed from the mysterious ceremonies performed to honour his goddess. Mortec took care to not stay in any one place too long, as his exotic origin received much interest from both revellers and attendants. He smilingly declined several offers made by those whom the night emboldened to seek out such a bizarre union as a tryst with a gnome.

Elsewhere, Argonne was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The people, the noise and the architecture were completely foreign to his experiences as a woodsman from rural Brellac. His simple clothing, crude manners and coarse features jarred with the well dressed sophisticates who drank, loved and laughed as if in defiance of the very world.

Pulling his broad brimmed hat low over his face, he quietly made his way along the walls of the bordello, seeking a quiet corner where he might pass unnoticed. Spying a darkened alcove, Argonne backed into it with relief. Just as he began to relax, a hot breath caressed the back of his neck.

"Hmm, what is this tender young morsel that Laster has brought to me for comfort," a husky voice murmured in his ear. Argonne let out a startled oath and spun around to find himself facing a veiled priestess. The veil and robes concealed much of her features, but he could see enough to determine that she was short and full figured, much like the women of his village. "I thought it was only the sisters who wore the veil", she teased, reaching up to remove his hat. "Now come here, my sweet young thing and let Giselle teach you some holy truths." For Argonne, not blessed with pleasing features or the amorous attention of women, the night would blaze long in his memory.

*****​