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

[Fiasco]

Within Halfast's walls Morgan sat in the Sly Dog tavern, drinking and celebrating with his brothers Pechevary and Kerim. Morgan was in high spirits, the commission from Baron Yorath would set him along the same road as his two brothers; that of being part of a gladiatorial company and fighting in the Halfast Games.

The games were an annual event that attracted competitors from even the most far flung parts of the inhabited world. The tournament pitted teams of gladiators against each other for wealth and glory. The potential rewards were great, and even Fastendians, normally so obsessed with their hopeless war with the Dominion, contested strongly in these events.

Morgan drank deep from his mug and looked with affection at his brothers. Both were significantly older and carried their years and battle scars with dignity. So far away from their homeland, the tension and battle fatigue was not etched so deeply into their faces. The prospect of bloody fighting in the contest next month was nothing compared to what they faced back in Avinal. Though normally irritated by their teasing banter and endless advice, he forced himself to listen intently to what they had to say. On the morrow, they would part ways, and only Thuus knew when they would meet again.

******​

On the other side of the city, Moxadder crouched in a filthy alley. He waited for Largus the Lamprey. The knife gripped in his hand was reassuringly warm, and the hot breeze of All Summers Eve put him in the mood for murder.

He marvelled again at the dramatic turn his fortunes had taken. This morning he had woken to the prospect of starvation and degradation, just as he had every day for ten years. Now, there was food in his belly, the guarantee of more for the foreseeable future and even a pouch full of Devil Weed to make life worth living. Best of all, the dagger he pocketed earlier gave him the chance to settle a score.

Moxadder shivered as the effects of the Devil Weed, taken to bolster his resolve, began to take effect. Holding his skinny arms to his ribs, he clenched his teeth and tried to ride through the Big Fear. Through an effort of will he maintained his silence despite the horror and tension that washed through his limbs. He crested the terrible wave of emotion and was rewarded with a feeling of strength and purpose radiating through his being. Eyes dilated, he scanned the darkness, trying to penetrate it to his target.

At last! Footsteps; the familiar, dreadful tread of the Lamprey about his unpleasant business. Moxadder shrank backwards, lest he be seen and his ambush undone. His caution proved unnecessary. Supreme in his confidence, Largus trod heavily through the noisome alley, mind fixed on his vile plans for celebrating the night.

The dagger ripped downwards like a fallen star biting deep into the Lamprey’s fleshy neck. Somehow, Largus managed to turn and grab Moxadder's rotten tunic but it tore in his grasp. He tried to recover his balance but was driven back by a slash to his face. He tried to yell, either in rage or desperation, but his wounds overcame him and he fell to the ground. Moxadder stepped forward and kicked the body viciously. A soundless gasp heralded the end of Largus, dead and unmourned in a filthy alley.

Moxadder listened intently for any sound of alarm. Reassured by the unbroken sounds of revelry in the distance, he reached forwards and liberated the Lamprey of his possessions. They did not amount to much; a knife, some coins and a good pair of boots. Next, his questing fingers found a fine leather pouch concealed under a broad girdle. He swiftly jerked it clear and fumbled it open.

Even in the moonlight, Moxadder could make out the precious wonders it contained; Mordayn Vapour, Baccaran, Sannish and Vodaire. Oh sweet, sweet ecstasy, oh joyous dreamful ambrosia! Moxadder trembled to taste of their dark nectar immediately, but despite the urgings of the Big Fear that twangled recklessly in his mind, he chose restraint. This night marked a new beginning, the pleasures of his beguiling cornucopia must wait for at dawn he would leave Halfast with the others.

 

[Fiasco]

...


And so ends the first chapter of this sorry saga.

The Book of Vile Darkness (BoVD) proved invaluable when it came to Moxadder. The DM made each player roll for a bane (some sort of flaw or disadvantage) and Moxadder's was addiction to a substance. Just as we were wondering how to handle this in game, we remembered that not only did the BoVD have a list of really cool drugs, it also had detailed rules on how to handle the effects of addiction. This proved a much more interesting prospect than the standard fall back of alcoholism.

Ultimately, we had to tone the rules down a little, as if played BTB, having an addiction is VERY debilitative!

 

[Shadow at the Edge]

So, are we all ready to commit to a new story hour? The long nights waiting for the next post...the suspence as the blasted author leaves the heroes hanging from a clifftop by one arm covered in 'dust of itching'....

Maybe you would like to know more about the story you have been plunged into by Fiasco.

Let me introduce myself. I am the creator of Anka-Seth, and run the game. I have some amazing players, and some chaotic ones. Without them the story I seek to build wouldn't be possible.

The world and story was built from the beginning to take the players and plot right from being young, snotty-nosed kids all the way through to epic levels.

The world began with about 20 detailed cities, weather systems, over 40 religious orders, 6 countries, and more plot lines and layers than I can remember, even with 3D charts and post it notes to help me.

This is both good and bad. The good is that hopefully the world feels more realistic (if an imaginary world can be realistic), and it offers the players many plots to follow, at their whim. I didn't want to railroad the characters into any particular sequence of events. The history of the world would progress irrespective of whether the players interfere or not. The bad side of a complex world is the characters (and readers?) sometimes don't remember which way is up!

Two players were motivated enough to write their version of events as a story, which impresses me greatly.

The world is politically fractured, each country having it's own solution to the impending doom reaching towards it. This gave the characters huge scope for how they wanted to play. Did they want to be Evil, and help the oncoming hoards? Did they want to shine light in dark places and lead the forces of good against near certain doom?

Nope! dead neutral is what they wanted to be as a group...none gave a flying toss about the fate of the world, either way.

This was the greatest headache i have ever had as a GM. What plots and motivation can i provide for a group who simply doesn't care?

I think in chapter one you can see some strong indications of what i came up with. Fame, and possibly fortune.

Certainly in a world where great events are all around you, and everyone has an opinion, the characters were going to be influenced to take a side in the political scheme of things eventually, but I really left all the choices to the players (at least i attempted to).

What really baffled them when initially exploring my world is that most groups and religions they met defied easy categorisation.

Let me ask you about one issue that has come up in furious debate over some time.

In the ancient past, one faith (Gerech) overcame all others. (I will post the saga of how this occured some time). Gerech is the God of Justice and Retribution. Gerechians consider themselves to be lawful and good.

They organised a theocracy, which spanned the world. They ran it flawlessly. Roads were maintained, wild beasts were controlled, disease was cured in all...Nirvana?

Depends.

If you fell on the wrong side of the clergy, by blaspheming, worshipping other gods, using arcane magic, or commiting any typical crime, the punishment was somewhat 'harsh'.

'Criminals' were granted the 'gift' of being able to contemplate their crimes for eternity. The Clergy effectively made the criminal into an undead version of themselves then locked them underground in huge barrows with thousands of their fellow criminals, without light, food or water (not that they needed food or water, but they did crave it). When a barrow filled, they sealed it and began on another.

Is this good? Is it the ultimate evil?

I consider this faith can still be called 'good' in that the punishment is harsh, but is only imposed for serious breaches of what are quite fair and just laws.

My various players don't necessarily agree....

Sometimes this 'good' god is hated more by the players than some of the evil ones

What do you think?

 

[Fiasco]

Chapter 2


Morgan straightened his back in an attempt to ease the pain of the straps cutting into his shoulders. The road before him rose dishearteningly up a long incline, promising more grief for his aching calves. Behind him Argonne’s irritating chatter, unabated by two days of hard travel, continued to nag at his nerves.

“And then t’lass told me, that ah could take mah boots off afore we ‘ad at it again! Aye twas a grand night.”
Morgan’s temper flared, along with feelings of envy. While he had endured the good natured baiting of his brothers, the young woodsman had been cavorting in a brothel! On comparing the two alternatives for spending their last evening in Halfast, he saw much to recommend the second course of action. To make matters worse, the march seemed to have no effect on Argonne at all. Late in the afternoon, while the others struggled painfully, his stride was still as enthusiastic as at the break of day. Were it not for Morgan’s stoicism, a characteristic bred into most Fastendians, he would surely have snarled his tormentor to silence; instead, he endured.

A glance to the side afforded him his only consolation. As hard as he found the going, there were others who suffered more. Gerard was marching with the fixed expression of one whose misery had completely imposed itself on his awareness. Fastidious to the point of mania, the nobleman had found it impossible to come to terms with the dirt and hardship of the trail. He had tied an expensive silk kerchief about his face in an attempt to keep it free of dust but this had only temporarily alleviated his suffering. The material was now heavily impregnated with material and black grimed rings had formed on the silk where nose and mouth exhaled moistly. The affect was quite comical, but the amusement of the others did not deter the young nobleman from his futile attempts to alleviate his discomfort.

Trailing along at the back of the party, Moxadder’s condition was even worse. The Irudeshian’s bare scalp streamed with sweat as his near skeletal body struggled to keep pace with the others. His guts roiled painfully and with a groan he dropped his pack and squatted to the side of the road, rags hiked up to his hips. As welcome as regular food was, it was playing hell with his long neglected digestion.

Mortec and Stravarius averted their eyes from the unpleasant sight as they passed but made no move to offer assistance. Bastien had made it clear that no allowances would be made for anyone seeking a place in the Baron’s service. Besides, none of them truly believed that the vagrant could possibly be accepted. The sooner he abandoned his crazed fantasy of becoming a gladiator, the less he would suffer.

Another toilsome hour passed before Bastien finally signaled a halt. The road had finally attained the hill’s summit and this vantage afforded them a view of a village lying a half mile away. Thornwood, for so it was called, was a small community which boasted some thirty dwellings. The simple huts were clustered in a rough circle with partitioned fields all around. Around the perimeter of this arrangement was a thick barrier of hedges, grown to offer some shelter from the elements and marauders. The locale had once been situated inside the surrounding forest, but generations of tree felling had cleared a sizeable tract of land around the encircling wall of greenery.

If there were truth to the rumours of plague they had heard in Halfast on the morning of their departure, Bastien suspected the verdant fortification would have been little help against the calamity that had reportedly stricken the village.

The young travellers stood next to their leader and contemplated the hamlet below. It was silent, giving no indication of what it might harbour. The odious rasp of Moxadder’s breath announced his arrival, bringing the company to it’s full complement.

“We have two choices”, Bastien announced. “We can risk passing through the village, hoping that there is no substance to the stories of plague, or we can skirt Thornwood and regain the road on the other side”. Bastien looked to his charges for their opinions, all the while assessing their reactions and weighing their worth. Although the aspirants ostensibly travelled to Yorath in order to be tested for suitability, in actuality their trial had begun the moment they accepted the Baron’s coin.

“Ah think summat’s wrong with yonder village”, Argonne offered. “Tis ower quiet to mah mind”. The others nodded or grunted in agreement. No-one was keen on the idea of risking contact with the invisible threat. “Ah can scout ahead for t’best trail, if tha pleases”, Argonne continued, “tis nobbut a short way round”.

Bastien nodded his assent and everyone but Argonne settled themselves gratefully by the side of the road. With a touch of finger to broad brimmed hat by way of salute, the young woodsman made his way a little further down the trail before selecting a route through the scrub that paralleled it.

Gerard found himself seated next to Morgan and Mortec. The three of them leaned against an ancient tree stump that had passed the young fop’s fussy inspection. Almost involuntarily, they found their gaze drawn to the hunched figure of Stravarius resting some distance away. Mortec caught the other’s gaze and quirked an eyebrow. “He’s a strange one isn’t he” confided the gnome in a whisper. “Three days we’ve known him and we don’t know any more about him than when we first met!

“He certainly is mysterious, the way he creeps around and covers himself from head to toe in those robes; I haven’t seen so much as the tip of his nose. Why, he even sh*ts in secret!” Morgan exclaimed. Gerard snickered despite himself. “No! Its true!” Morgan insisted. “This morning I saw him slip off into the woods, I was suspicious, so I followed him.”

“What, he just…” the gnome began.

“Aye” Morgan affirmed in a piercing whisper, “While he was going about his business, the cloak stayed on the whole time! I don’t trust him”, he concluded.

Mortec stroked his goatee, entwining the darker and lighter hairs. “He was staunch when we fought the lepers wasn’t he?”

“To stand with someone in a trial of arms is no trivial thing”, Gerard agreed. “Certainly I cannot blame him for covering his body from this damnable trail dust!” Having said his piece, he dispelled Stravarius from his mind and concentrated instead on the pleasing feel of the sun on his aching limbs. Let the others puzzle the enigma’s secrets, Time enough for that once they reached more civilised areas. His companions also subsided after a few minutes of desultory speculation, content to worry at the matter when they were less tired.

Some ten minutes later, a faint rustle of undergrowth announced Argonne’s return. The woodsman knelt next to Bastien and made his report.

“Ah found a trail we can foller and ah also ‘ad a brief sniff around t’ edge of village. I heard nowt but ah did find some tracks, troeel tracks.”

“Trolls…”, Bastien mused, translating Argonne’s dialect for the others. “That decides it. Argonne, you will lead us to this trail you found and we’ll try and skirt Thornwood. Plague and trolls are perils that bring us no closer to our destination, and we still have a long way to go.”

 

[Fiasco]

Reluctantly, the party rose and shouldered their burdens once more. Bastien’s gesture to move silently was largely unnecessary. Everyone knew the terrible danger that trolls represented. Any snap of twig or slap of branch made the offender wince. Hands strayed near to sheathed weapons and ears strained to detect any threat hidden in the ordinary calling of birds and rustle of foliage.

Glancing back, Argonne was amused by the carryings on of his companions. Several of them were clearly ill suited for stealthy travel, their overly tentative movements reminding him of the actors in a travelling bawd show he had once seen. Despite their clumsiness, the company successfully skirted Thornwood without mishap and gained the relative safety of the road on the other side. Bastien immediately increased the pace of the march, determined to put a good many miles between them and the doom struck village.

That night they made camp in the ruins of a temple. The heavily weathered remnants dated over a thousand years, or so the gnome reckoned. Mortec ran his small hands over the milky white stones, sinking into a reverie. The roughness of the rock against his palm felt heavy with history. What tumultuous times these walls must have witnessed, also countless moments of simple routine; events great and small, one after the other, flowing in an unbroken stream through the centuries. Here he stood, the last element in the sequence, but only for a moment, for time would move him onwards yet the stones would remain.

Mortec felt very small as he contemplated this, but paradoxically, he felt that part of him was very great too. Though he was only a tiny spec of being adrift the awesome expanse of time, yet he was a part of it, rooted in it, his thoughts and deeds were delicate tendrils that enmeshed themselves in the past, and moving further back grew ever in stature as the events that formed them took on greater significance. The end of the Convocation, the rise of the Druids, the persecution of the faithful, the God trapped in Stone, the rise of Gerach, other more ancient deeds only glimpsed even further back, all these great events had shaped him, made him what he was, and he in turn was part of them. Todesmagie taught that the world had begun with a single act; if he could but look back far enough, Mortec knew he would be able to see his own small presence in that genesis.

The moment of communion passed and the gnome was once more aware of his surroundings. He looked about the ruins with a more practical eye and tried to determine their provenance. The shape of a half collapsed arch and the general layout of the foundations indicated a strong likelihood that this had once been a temple to Srcan. Likely it had perished during the Convocation’s first great expansion. Driven by their imprisoned God, the Gerechians had shown a fierce intolerance for all other beliefs and governments. The crusading armies had been zealous in their destruction of all rivals to their faith. The ruination of this poor temple, once a symbol of bright enterprise and new beginnings had been but one small gasp of outrage in the centuries long agony of fanatical oppression.

His heart weighed down by his thoughts, Mortec looked to the others, wondering if he might share the poignance of the shelter they had chosen. Moxadder lay in a crumpled heap, a position he had assumed on the moment of their arrival. Stravarius was lost in the shadows while Argonne tramped noisily about as he saw to the making of a fire. Bastien wasn’t in sight and Gerard was fussing over the state of his once fine boots. Mortec’s lips tightened. These humans had settled in a place steeped in history yet they were content to root about as ignorant as a herd of swine. Mortec felt as far removed from his companions as he was from his homeland.

As full darkness covered the land with its concealing mantle, the travelers were drawn towards the fire on the tendrils of its comforting warmth. Steam rose slowly off clothes dampened by a late afternoon squall. Morgan leaned next to Kurul, man and dog taking comfort from the warmth of the other. The hounds ugliness did not concern the Fastendian. In Avinal, hounds of similar bestiality were often kept as an additional defence against the night horrors. So far from home and family, it was comforting to share a companionable silence with something that was almost familiar.

He shifted his rump to ease away from a sharp stone and leaning back, looked up at the night sky. A small blot of darkness on one of the temple walls caught his notice. Straining his eyes, he could just make out the shape of a bat hanging off a small projection of rock. Morgan felt a nagging suspicion grow. He had noticed a bat the previous evening too, and during the day he had thought to see one fluttering in the distance. Argonne had seen it as well and had made the offhand remark that they weren’t native to the area.

As Morgan intensified his attention, the small, shriveled head swiveled around as if it too had suddenly become aware of him. Somewhat unnerved by this unnatural scrutiny, he reached for his bow, thinking a well flighted arrow might rid him of this disturbing omen.

A deep growl raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he set arrow to string. Kurul, who had been the very embodiment of peaceful rest only moments before now regarded him with baleful eyes. They glowed an unpleasant yellow in the firelight as the growl intensified.

Confused, Morgan backed away from the hound as others in the camp were roused to alertness. Thinking that his swift movement in taking up the bow had somehow startled the beast, he let the weapon fall to the ground. In an instant, the tension left the chill night air. Kurul gave a soft grunt and uncharacteristically, his stumpy tail began to wag.

The hound nudged its great head against Morgan’s thigh as if in conciliation and than collapsed with a whuff at his feet. More puzzled than frightened by the incident, Morgan gave a foolish grin to his companions. Gerard sniffed dismissively, while Stravarius gave no indication of having paid any attention at all. The others shared in his mirth and the bat was quickly forgotten.

An easy mood settled on the camp and for several hours the talk rambled on inconsequential topics. It was accompanied by the rhythmic rasp of steel against rock as Moxadder carefully worked a dagger against a whet stone he had scrounged. The lethal edge he brought to the blade was every bit as comforting to him as the hum of companionable chatter around him.

The following three days passed without incident. The region they travelled through was sparsely populated, making encounters with travellers or villages rare. Fortunately, the lands were not fully wild either, and if dangerous beasts laired in the area, they didn’t make their presence known. The companions had settled themselves into the simple routines of travel and even the weakest members became hardened to the toil.

*******​

 

[Fiasco]

During midmorning of their sixth day’s travel, Bastien, signaled a halt from the head of the company. The road had taken them through a well wooded valley and the tall trees blocked much of the warmth of the mild summers day. Bastien knew that close ahead lay the village of Ortherton, but of more immediate concern to him was the thin tongue of smoke that poked out from the woods to the side of the trail. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh wafted over them as they stood on the road.

“I think that’s man flesh” Morgan murmured, trepidation writ across his countenance.

“Is it the plague?” Gerard asked in a fit of coughing, a white knuckled fist held hard against his nose.

“I see no plague markers”, Bastien said. “I suggest a few of us have a look and see what there is to see.”

“Ah’ll go” the woodsman volunteered and to the surprise of all, Moxadder also stepped forwards. Bastien nodded.

“That should do. You others wait here and be ready to come if we call”. Kurul lay down with a grunt, as if in complete agreement with this instruction.

The trio carefully picked their way through the densely packed vegetation. Argonne, who had assumed the lead felt once again the thrill of the unknown as he carefully probed forwards. Here, surrounded by the natural world he lost those feelings of awkwardness and ignorance that more social environments inflicted on him. Here there was a sense to things, a feeling of fitness, that everything was as it should be, indeed as it had been since time immemorial.

Although the wild places were dangerous, the tense alertness that was second nature to him in these environs was strangely comforting. Focussing his attention on the forest ahead of him, he felt his senses expand to embrace the entirety of his surroundings. The forest floor felt soft under his feet, almost as if his thick travelling boots were the softest of moccasins.

His eyes picked out the nervous scuttle of a hedgehog as it moved from one piece of shadowed safety to another, his ears thrilled to the sound of birds chirruping their mindless twittings amongst the high swaying eaves. The sun glowed a distant green gold through the trees, its burning touch much diffused by the verdant shield above. Wodensense he called it, a name he’d invented to describe the trance like state whereby he achieved a state of complete knowing that brought them in complete harmony with the wild.

In the thrall of his communion, the unpleasant goal of their search was easily discerned. Argonne’s lips tightened in distaste as the odour wound its insidious way up his nostrils. Despite this, he moved with confidence towards its source. Whatever the cause of the fire was it had ceased to bother the wildlife, making him confidant that there was no intrinsic danger. Following behind, Moxadder moved nearly as silently as the woodsman while further back, less stealthy in his progress came Bastien.

After some minutes of easing around massive trunks and forcing through stubborn undergrowth, the forest yielded up its sinister secret. They had come to a small glade some seventy yards from the road and in it, what had once been a great bonfire smoldered under the weight of the human corpses thrown halfheartedly upon it.

Elsewhere, other bodies lay where they had been struck down amongst the moss and leaves, sad punctuation to fleeting life. Bastien’s sympathy for the slaughtered lessened when he noted the simple white cassocks worn by each ruined body.

“Gerechians” he muttered with contempt, “Damned fools” he added more softly when he noticed the youth of one of the victims. Argonne’s throat bobbled convulsively and then he was bent over the bushes, clutched by heaving paroxysms as his stomach squeezed out it’s contents. The combination of the miasma of burning flesh and the visceral evidence of the battlefield was far beyond his wildest experiences. The woodsman coughed and choked, struck by successive waves of nausea.

Moxadder was more composed, the charnel reek and stark ugliness of the killings were nothing new to one who had been mired deep in Halfast’s filthiest dregs, though even he did not feel inclined to search the bodies for loot.

Argonne stepped back from the filth bespattered bushes and tripped over. His startled cry brought the others to his side and it was Bastien who found the cause of the mishap. Argonne had fallen over a broken handle, such as might belong to a farmer’s hoe. Examining the wood, he could clearly see the marks where the iron head had recently been removed. Looking around the clearing he noted the wounds on the corpses; the evidence was clear. The band of crusading fanatics, aggressively recruiting anyone they could to their doomed cause had run afoul of angered villagers. This was not the first such incident he had heard of.

Over a century had passed since Gerech’s mighty Convocation had it’s iron grip catastrophically removed from the world, and still the followers were blamed for either their fiercely oppressive rule or for the horrors let loose as the awful consequence of their fall. Often it was for both. Remarkably, there were those who still adhered to the discredited religion, despite their god being cut off from even their most fervent prayers. Somehow, like a persistent stain they remained to taint the world and their hardships had done nothing to lessen their infamous fanaticism.

Seeing no point in wasting more time on the slaughter, Bastien turned back to the road, beckoning the other two to follow him. The woodsman was still coughing and retching as he stumbled after his leader, his recently attained state of Wodensense completely lost. Uncharacteristically, Moxadder laid a comforting hand on Argonne’s shoulder. At that moment the tattooed Irudeshian felt a hundred years older than his companion, who was still young and innocent to the world’s old, wicked ways. He thought to find some platitude, some suggestion that it was all for the best somehow, but the lie stuck in his throat. Instead, he grimaced and hustled forwards after their recruiter.

Once the road was regained, Bastien curtly related their findings and then resumed the journey to Yorath. They would pass swiftly through Ortherton, making no mention whatever of the savage doom brought down on the youthful crusade. In their turn, the villagers were unwelcoming and sullen. Whether this was the essential character of their community or a byproduct of their gruesome deeds was impossible to determine. It was to be the last habitation the prospective gladiatorial company would pass for some time.

*****​

 

[HalfOrc HalfBiscuit]

Fiasco,

Just looked at your storyhour for the first time today, and have read up the end of Chapter One. I'm a bit surprised that you haven't had more comments, 'cos I'm enjoying it immensely.

Shadow at the Edge seems to have done a good job in creating a living world, and your account of the party's adventures so far is very good indeed.

I'm looking forward to reading Chapter Two and hopefully many more chapters to come.

Keep up the good work ...

 

[Fiasco]

Fiasco,

Just looked at your storyhour for the first time today, and have read up the end of Chapter One. I'm a bit surprised that you haven't had more comments, 'cos I'm enjoying it immensely.

Shadow at the Edge seems to have done a good job in creating a living world, and your account of the party's adventures so far is very good indeed.

I'm looking forward to reading Chapter Two and hopefully many more chapters to come.

Keep up the good work ...

Thanks!

Shadow at the Edge always keeps us on our toes and there are always things going on in the background that we are barely aware of. As we follow the adventures of the party he will hopefully chip in from time to time and point out some of the things that we missed, forgot to follow up or just plain got wrong!

 

[Fiasco]

The tenth day of Low Summer began inauspiciously with the fevered dreams of Moxadder interrupting the travellers’ sleep. His precious cache of Devil Weed had been exhausted for two days and both his body and psyche were painfully feeling its lack. Argonne had noted the Irudeshians deterioration with concern but there was nothing that anyone could do.

The companions broke camp and marched hard through the cool of days dawning. A thick mist held stubbornly to the grassland they traversed and in the distance, they could hear the deep inrush and outrush of the ocean’s breaths as its waves sawed back and forth over rocky shores.

Gerard shivered in his light traveler’s clothing, the damp chill of the mists robbing him of the warmth of his exertions. Morgan, marching beside the young nobleman was uncomfortable for a different reason. The fog that covered them in its pearly white folds reminded him of grim nights in Avinal when the dead, cloaked in deathly quiet and white vaporous robes, marched against the fortress walls. Every instinct told him to be alert for imminent attack, though reason told him it was unlikely in this distant backwater.

The party crested a steep hill as the fog finally began to disperse. The view was remarkable. They looked down upon a natural harbour with a small village nestled close to shore. The roofs of fishermen’s huts emerged from the mist to greet the sun as though from beneath a white blanket. Dew dazzled brilliantly from the thatched roofs as they caught and refracted the morning light into a thousand scintillas. To either side of the village, proud cliffs thrust up from the ocean, glorious bookends to the peaceful domesticity of the small fishing community.

The Eastern side of the village backed onto the beginnings of a forest, fog still clinging to the trunks of its ancient trees, while to the West, a stone abbey surmounted a small hill. Even from a distance the graceful lines of the architecture gave cheerful life to what would otherwise be dull grey stone. Seemingly directly behind the structure, though in actuality a distance away, there glittered the whitewashed walls of a lighthouse anchored to the top of a cliff on the South-Western most tip of the bay.

As the companions gazed upon this idyllic scene, their appreciation of it was marred by the smouldering remains of two huts standing out like blackened teeth in an otherwise radiantly white smile. Disturbingly, no-one was attempting to quell the flames, nor were there villagers on the commons or fishermen on their boats. Indeed, on closer inspection, the three boats that were tied at the pier appeared to have been scuttled, their bows wallowing just below the surface of the crystal clear waters.

The companions looked at each other in dismay. Had another village been struck down by plague? Unconsciously they clustering closer together as they descended the hill and approached the deserted community. Ravenswood was part of Baron Yorath’s fief and Bastien was determined to find the cause of its distress.

As they made their approach they heard no sound save the gentle crackle of the fires that consumed the last remnants of the burning huts. A sense of mystery and unease rooted itself in the young aspirants as the discordant portents of the ruined cottages and peaceful surrounds assailed their senses. Gerard hailed a greeting as they entered the village proper but received no reply. Fanning out, they looked in various huts as they made their way into the centre of the village. Each told a similar story of a hasty ransacking; pots and utensils up-ended, bedding strewn about and implements ripped off the walls.

“This doesn’t look like plague”, said Morgan when they had gathered together some minutes later. By now their investigation had taken them to the docks and they looked down on the stove in hulls of the boats.

“Pirates done this”, said Moxadder with grim certainty as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke from between broken and discoloured teeth. He was shivering violently and the tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to ride out the wild emotions that coursed through him. His left hand clenched the smoking remains of a stick of devil weed, part of a small cache Argonne had found for him in one of the huts. “They sail in, loot what they can, take people for slaves and then wreck the boats so’s they can’t be chased. I thi…”. A fit of coughing interrupted his theorising, the hacking spasms reverberating harshly amongst the abandoned dwellings.

The stricken fishing vessels lay bogged in their watery mire, unmoving witnesses to the Fastendian’s words. Mortec gazed at the wrecks and felt his anger slowly build. Their craftsmanship could clearly be perceived even through the refracting surface of the water. So much time and skill had been poured into these wooden contrivances, the livelihood of the entire village had rested on them and they had been crudely undone with a few strokes of a hatchet. What other travesties had these invaders wrought? His eyes strayed in the direction of the abbey they had seen. Even from this distance it exuded the same lack of animus as their overturned hamlet. He shook his head sadly, it appeared that humans had precious little regard for each other.

“Ah can see caves in t’ cliffs yonder”

Bastien turned in the direction Argonne indicated and squinting, just made out some faint shadows against the rock face. The decision to search there for survivors was infinitely preferable to staying where they were. They left Ravenswood behind them and began the trek towards the caves. Periodically, one of the companions would look furtively back over their shoulders, as if to convince themselves that the village had really been as they found it. The only thing out of the ordinary was the sight of Kurul shambling along behind them, his head hanging low to the ground as though the effort to lift is was too great.

The caves were set low in the Southern headland a half mile away and a small trail snaked it’s way up from the village in that direction. As they ascended the bluff they came across a cozy looking cottage that stood to one side of the path. Its sturdy mud brick walls were almost completely hidden under a verdant tangle of grape vines, while the window sills were lined with narrow beds of colourful flowers. The grounds around the domicile were well kept with precisely ordered ranks of herbs and vegetables growing in long lines, seeming to luxuriate in their beds of rich loam. A bee hive droned soothingly in the background and Bastien’s charges found it hard to credit this glorious morning with the mysterious violence they had uncovered.

Gerard savoured the sweet scent that hung thick in the air as he rapped on the cottage door. There was no response to his summons but the door swung open under his clenched fist. Though the interior of the building was a good deal more cluttered than the order of the garden outside there was no signs of the violent pillage that had swept through Ravenswood. A quick glance satisfied the young nobleman that no-one was concealed.

The room was filled with the pleasant scent of lavender. Gerard took a sprig of the aromatic herb from where it lay on a work table and rejoined his companions. Travel was barbarous, and every opportunity had to be taken to achieve a little comfort. Kurul seemed much of the same mind, for he stretched out in the sunlight and began to snore. His participation in the investigation was clearly over.

 

[Fiasco]

Past the cottage the path led directly to the edge of cliffs. When they looked down from this vantage they perceived a steep trail that led down to a secluded patch of beach some fifty yards below. As they carefully negotiated the rocky stairway, Gerard began calling on survivors to come forward, citing the name of Baron Yorath as a guarantee of safety.

At last his cries elicited a response. As the companions reached the sands at the base of the trail, an old man and woman and two young children emerged from a small cave set far back against rocks. All four blinked in the bright sunlight, clearly shaken and bewildered by whatever had befallen them. Frightened tears had left silver trails on the dirt blacked cheeks of the children.

The old man wrung knobbed and weather beaten fingers together in complex patterns as he proved incapable of answering Bastien’s urgent questions on what had befallen Ravenswood. The woman composed herself by smoothing her long white hair into place and brushing the dirt from her simple but durable clothes. Though slight of frame there was a strength to her. It was evident in her bearing, still upright despite her years.

She identified herself as Alice Copthorpe, who along with her husband Perry and their grandchildren Nevin and Anna had fled to the caves at the first sounds of the violent disturbance the previous night. It transpired that the Copthorpes lived in the house the companions had recently explored. Alice was a healer of some skill and the well ordered herb garden they had seen was a vital adjunct to her profession. Now that the threat of physical harm had passed, she proved herself to be remarkably self possessed. Her old eyes had lost none of their sparkle and she showed little sign of unease in the presence of the group of armed strangers who had come to Ravenswood.

As they accompanied her back to her home she explained that they had heard shouts and screams in the early hours before dawn. Convinced that some awful catastrophe was befalling the village, they had not hesitated in fleeing. On hearing that the small community had been completely devoid of inhabitants, Alice suggested that the survivors must have fled into the safety of the woods. There they would have stood an excellent chance of evading capture amongst the trees in the dark of night.

When they reached the top of the bluff they saw a tall weathered man in his late forties approaching them from Ravenswood. The old couple identified him as Ger’Maron Devlis, a woodsman who lived some six miles east of Ravenswood. He was something of a wanderer by nature and was often to be seen rambling about.

The party reached the Copthorpe’s home at the same time as the newcomer. Greetings and questions were exchanged. Maron Devlis was a man without ostentation save for affecting the archaic practice, dating back to convocation times, of not allowing his first name to be used in idle conversation. Hence, the prefix ‘Ger’ stood for the name he chose not to reveal. Despite his mature years he appeared quite hale, with sun browned features and strong sinewy limbs. Once satisfied with the party’s credentials he relayed his findings with complete candour.

He had arrived in the village not long after them and had found things much the same as they had. Being an experienced tracker, he had picked up the signs of many booted feet leaving and entering the woods and also signs that the villagers had fled into the forest. Everything appeared to indicate bandits as being responsible for the raid. The tracks left by Ravenswood’s inhabitants gave hope that at least some had escaped the pillage.

While Maron talked with the party, Alice and Perry served day old bread, fruit and a deliciously spiced tea. With the exception of Moxadder, who was too enmeshed in his battle with the Big Fear to appreciate it, those who drank of the tea felt their spirits lift and their fatigue dissipate. Even Gerard, who had initially regarded the offering with disdain made a surprised moue of appreciation.

All the while, the small children stared goggle eyed at Mortec, small mouths hanging open in unashamed wonder. Despite being of a stature close to them, the gnome’s pronounced nose and vaguely fey features were irresistibly fascinating to the young ones.

As the companions were finishing their improvised repast they noticed some villagers returning in a disorganised straggle from within the woods. With a hasty farewell to the Copthorpes they jogged back towards the little community. Maron accompanied them, the grim set of his features somewhat alleviated by the relief he felt in seeing survivors.

The villagers were disheveled and wild eyed from the terrors they had endured, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Bastien took charge and organised a head count while the others questioned various individuals, trying to find some sense from the hysterical hubbub of each villager relating their personal travails at the top of their voices. The sun had begun its long descent into the West before some semblance of coherence was achieved. By now, the agitated chatter had changed to wails of bereavement at lost relatives or cries of dismay at the sack or destruction of their homes. Not troubling to move out of earshot of the victims, Bastien had his young charges gather around and listen to his summation of the testimony.

“From what I can gather, bandits attacked in the early hours before dawn, firing huts and capturing villagers while the rest fled into the woods.” Bastien paced back and forth, counting each fact off on his fingers. “Six people are unaccounted for: Senjik the Hetman, Olvan the boatwright, old mother Wilima and three young women; Kareena, Leesha and Nadine. Most likely they were captured as there is no sign of bloodshed and they would have returned here by now if they were able. There does seem to be some confusion over Senjik as a couple of them swear that he made it into the woods with them. What is still unclear is why brigands would have attacked here, and of what use an old boatwright or crippled crone would be to them.”

“Pirates, not Brigands”, Moxadder interjected, his eyes blazing with the zeal of his certainty. “It is very clear to me that pirates come here and take what they want. They sink the boats so no one thinks to chase them and they take the old boatwright so make no one can fix ‘em”. He turned to face the tearful villagers. “You are right to be crying as those bastard pirates are raping your women even as I am standing here and talking to you”. Tears of grief and outrage greeted this announcement as Moxadder warmed to his vision, no doubt encouraged by the rare attention he was receiving. “Yes, they’re sailing and raping and pillaging and stealing, and no-one is stopping them because no-one has a boat! It’s a terrible thing” he added as the cries of the villagers built to a new crescendo. “Maybe they turn up in some dirty portside side stew five years from now and maybe not.”

As Moxadder paused to gather the inspiration for more ghoulish insights to offer, Bastien took the opportunity to steer the conversation to more productive ends. With an appeasing glance towards the distraught fisherfolk, he pointed out that pirates would have been unlikely to kidnap an old woman. He suspected that there was more to the calamity than a simple raid, and the obvious next step would be to investigate the nearby abbey. It was worrying that no word had been heard from it despite the upheavals of the night before.

With the daylight hours rapidly fading, Bastian decided to divide his forces in order to get as much done as possible. He directed Argonne to join Ger’Maron Devlis in trying to track the attackers to wherever they had gone. He sent Moxadder with them as well, more to get him away from the villagers than because he would be useful. The rest of the party he proposed to take to Leith’s Abbey, one of the centres of learning for the Lasterian faith.

*****​