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

[Fiasco]

The walk to the abbey was a pleasant one. The weather remained clear and the gentling sea breeze was a pleasing balm to the mild sweat raised while ascending to the holy retreat. Gerard set an uncharacteristically brisk pace in his eagerness to assail the buildings secrets. Leith’s Abbey was renowned as a great repository of religious and secular knowledge and as a keen student of history, he could not wait to taste of its esoteric richness. Poor Mortec was forced to adopt a skipping half run just to keep up. His cheeks flushed rosy red from the exertion as he strove to stay close to the young nobleman’s heels. He too had heard about the monastery and was no less keen to explore it.

The stone walls surrounding the abbey leant it an imposing air, though the building itself was artistically rendered. Many statues twined in erotic elegance and deep carved bass reliefs depicting religious acts pleasing to Laster. The ancient wooden gates barring entry to the abbey’s grounds looked to have been recently sundered. Fresh splinters littering the path leading to the monastery’s doors, which had also suffered the same violent fate.

Gerard’s hailed greeting emerged half choked from his throat when he noticed the bloodshed in the courtyard. Whatever forbearance had been shown the villagers during the raid had most graphically not been exercised here. The bodies of three men, dressed in the brownish red robes of monks of Laster, lay on the ground. What should have been pristine grass was churned into a bloody mire by the death-throws of the clergymen, their hands still outstretched in vain supplication to their killers.

From within the abbey, a feeble cry emerged in response to Gerard’s call. Bastien repeated the scion’s greeting in a stronger voice and managed to coax forth an enfeebled, middle aged monk. He had barely registered the party when he saw the pathetic remains of his colleagues and collapsed weeping to the ground. His thin shoulders shook in spasms of grief as he tried to encompass the dreadful loss of his brothers in faith. Bastien and Morgan attempted to succour the bereaved monk while the others moved grimly past and entered the abbey.

As they moved through the silent rooms, it quickly became apparent that the attack on the monastery had not been guided by a more sinister purpose than mere pillage. Those chambers which served the everyday life of the monks were completely untouched, while the rooms which housed the ancient religious art of Laster seemed to have been only cursorily examined. The focus of the desecration lay in the heart of the abbey, a magnificent library. This ancient chamber had been the focus of the monastery for centuries. The stone floor was carpeted in silken rugs of exquisite design and the walls were completely concealed by massive shelves of ancient oak. These furnishings might almost have remained as trees for they climbed all the way to the top of the ceiling some twelve feet above their heads. In the centre of the room a narrow stone stairway wound its way downwards, a dark chasm in the heart of the library. The entire chamber was illuminated by eight gilt sconces mounted symmetrically around the room, each contained a flickering torch that cast forth its light without any smell, nor smoking accompaniment.

These items and the large stone work tables were largely intact, but those works which gave the room its purpose had been rudely treated. To Mortec, the sight of the ripped scrolls and broken tomes strewn carelessly about was even more upsetting than the slaughter outside. The abbey’s carefully maintained and catalogued lore had been cast down into awful chaos. As he struggled to take in the scope of the loss he was filled with awe at the thought that centuries of care could be so comprehensively undone in the space of a few brutal minutes. Such an act as he now witnessed was complete anathema to both he and the goddess he venerated.

He stumbled weak kneed to the stairway and allowed the weight of his spirits to drag him down to the next level. Dimly he registered Gerard’s furious curses in the background. A horrified glance was sufficient to show that the library on this floor had been violated as well, but he barely paused to examine it for the stairwell continued downward and he must follow.

The next level had also suffered the same hurt, as had the next, and the next. Five rooms in all, each mercilessly plundered. The sixth level down was a cellar which appeared unharmed. Mortec looked back upwards at the sundered tiers of the library above and shook in fury. His world view could not accept that such wilful damage could be done at random so it fell to him to fathom the purpose behind this affront. Carefully he began to search through the wreckage. If he could determine what had been taken, he would be a good deal closer to knowing why. Perhaps Gerard, who had appeared surprisingly moved by the destruction would could help him.

Once the monk’s initial wave of grief receded, Bastien and Morgan tried to coax what had happened from him. With his senses recovered, thanks in no small part to the brandy Bastien plied him with, the small fellow attempted to answer their questions. He introduced himself as Brother Jessop and with trembling fingers brushed repeatedly through his thinning grey brown hair, he related the incidents of the attack on the abbey.

He had been awake when the raiders came, struggling on one of the lower levels with the translation of an ancient Gerechian book detailing the punishment of perversions. The raiders had taken the upper floors of the abbey without any resistance from his elderly and unarmed brethren who had been easily overcome as they struggled sleep mazed from their beds.

Warned by their screams, Jessop had quickly fled to the cellar beneath the lowest level of the library and concealed himself amongst the materials stored there. Crouched shivering in the semi darkness, he heard the clash and clatter of what seemed a veritable army of barbarians as they overturned the rooms above.

After a few minutes, he heard some of the monks being brutally kicked down the stairs to the level above his. Horrified, he had listened to the brutal interrogation of Brothers Goethra and Thom. The method of questioning was vicious and efficient, and the monks gave up what they knew with little resistance. Curiously the captors were posing scholarly questions, as if they sought some of the library’s texts. There began renewed sounds of destruction as they vandals tore through the shelves in search of their objective.

Eventually, his brethren were loudly herded upstairs and he heard nothing more. Jessop reckoned that he had lost possession of his senses, for the next thing he was aware of was finding himself rocking on his knees on one of the upper levels when he heard the party call.

Jessop had been telling his story as he accompanied Bastien and Morgan on their perambulations around the ground level of the monastery. The inspection did not turn up any other survivors. Their trembling companion had identified the three bodies as fellow monks, leaving only two of the brothers unaccounted for; Goethra and Thom.

To Bastien, Jessop’s tale confirmed his intuition there was something very suspicious about the attack on Ravenswood and its environs. This had not been an ordinary raid, but rather a specific mission to gather information. The burning question was no longer who had carried out the raid, but rather, what had they sought, and who had sent them?

He returned outside and looked at the bodies again in the hope they might give a clue. Sadly, they offered no fresh perspective but merely lay staring back at him with their death frozen expressions of terror. Directing his gaze away from the distressed remains of the dead, he looked out across the nearby cliffs and the azure serenity of the uncaring ocean. Despite the beauty of the scene something seemed out of place. He scanned the area before him, seeking the source of this perception and became aware of the lighthouse that perched solitarily on the edge of a bluff some half mile away.

The top of this structure glittered in a rhythmic way that could not be explained by the dapple of sunlight across it’s walls. With a start, he realised the light was burning, a thing unheard of to occur during the day. Oil was expensive and there was none to waste on such redundancies as making light during daylight hours. Something peculiar was going on and he meant to find out what.

Calling his young charges together took several minutes due to the reluctance of Mortec and Gerard to tear themselves away from trying to set the library to rights. When they did arrive, Bastien passed on an adumbrated version of Jessop’s story to the pair and instructed them to try and determine what had been the objective of the raid. The diminutive monk would remain with them to render assistance. Meanwhile, he Morgan and Stravarius would walk out to the lighthouse and see if it offered yet another dimension to mystery of the sack of Ravenswood. Gerard and Mortec barely took the time to nod acknowledgement of the instructions before they re-entered the abbey, Jessop tottering wearily in their wake. With a snort, Bastien turned on his heels and left for the beacon, Morgan walking anxiously by his side while Stravarius trailed aloofly to the rear.

 

[Fiasco]

*****​

As their companions explored the gruesome attack on the monastery, Argonne and Moxadder had followed Maron Devlis to the edge of the village where he began to track the bandits. The marks of passage were not difficult for the experienced forester to follow, particularly as the bandits had been travelling in numbers. Their quarry led them into the soothing cool of the woods. The bandits had not troubled to conceal their path, their progress having largely tramped through whatever stood in their way. Only the salt stained trunks of the mightier trees had proved to be a sufficient impediment to force them to turn aside.

Presently, they emerged in a small clearing where the remains of a large fire expelled curling wisps of smoke. Maron poked through the embers with a stick but found nothing of interest. The three cast about the clearing, trying to determine the direction the bandits had taken. Maron was quick to find the blundering tracks that led deeper into the forest and for the next half hour the trio made good progress.

Abruptly, the tracks which had led them so surely through the foliage vanished at the foot of a large tree, whose thick branches arched gracefully over the surrounding greenery. Its smooth brown trunk had recently been scored in many places, and a thick sap weeped slowly from some of the deeper cuts. The sharp tang of the trees ichor overpowered the more subtle aromas of earthy soil and old leaves. Suspecting that the bandits had climbed the tree, Argonne began to cast about the area, trying to find where their quarry had climbed down and resumed their journey. Moxadder was content to rest and watch Maron. The woodsman absently rubbed a scratch on his arm and pondered the meaning of the vanished trail. With a harumph to clear his throat he spoke.

“Leave off your search, you won’t find anything. I’ve seen this ruse before. You lay an obvious trail to a tree, mark up the trunk and then backtrack the way you came. Anyone following gets to the tree and assumes that you climbed it to hide your tracks. It’s a good trick too, but I guarantee you that a dozen men carrying slaves and booty could not have pulled it off. Come lads, lets backtrack and try to find where the real trail splits off.”

The young men did not see fit to contradict Maron’s analysis and they began to painstakingly retrace their steps. Their progress was much slower now as not only were they trying to find where the concealed tracks diverged from the original path, they also had to contend with the obscurement their own passage had left. The afternoon was well advanced by the time they once more attained the clearing containing the remains of the fire. By now the grey ashes had expelled the last of their smoky breath and all that remained was a fading warmth.

The aged woodsman began a close examination of the clearing but it was Argonne who’s keen eyesight picked out an anomaly concealed behind a thick stand of shrubs. The three trackers crouched close to the discovery and looked it over. Maron nodded appreciatively when he read the clues hidden amongst the detritus of the forest floor. There could be no question, this was where the raiders had truly gone, and it was a tribute to their skill that their marks had been so hard to find. Also noteworthy was that the tracks were no longer those of heavy booted brigands, but rather the more subtle imprints of soft shod or bare feet. Wordlessly the trio began to follow the new trail they had discovered.

The tracks barely deviated at all, and soon exited the woods and headed through the hardy seaside grasses for the coastline. Here the way was much harder to follow, but with Maron and Argonne assiduously looking for even the smallest clue, and even the occasional contribution from Moxadder, they never lost the trail. Their anticipation grew steadily as they keenly read the minute signals in the unhelpful terrain. At last real progress was being made in unmasking the assailants.

They passed Leith’s Abbey a long way to their left and eventually arrived at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. An ancient path led down to the shore, and presently they stood on a small, secluded beach that was hidden from the view of village, abbey or lighthouse. A long groove etched in the sand was the only unnatural feature of the cove. Moxadder gazed out at the ocean but whatever vessel had traced the furrow was long gone. Maron walked up next to him with a scrap of red dyed canvas in his hand. “Sailcloth”, he growled, “and of a like made infamous by the Blood Sails. Found it caught in those bushes by the trail.”

The tattooed man shrugged his thin shoulders, “I knew it was pirates. There’s some tough years ahead for them girls”

“Aye”

The climb back up the cliff and subsequent journey back to Ravenswood felt much more arduous than it should. Maron declined to return to the village. The unpleasantness of the days events had left him with no taste for human company. Despite the lateness of the hour, he began the long trek back to his home.

*****​

 

[Fiasco]

As the trackers were nearing the end of their pursuit, Bastien, Morgan and Stravarius were standing outside the lighthouse. A reddish glow limned the edges of the tower as the setting sun shed the last of its strength against its back. The simple door at its base stood carelessly ajar, allowing easy access within. Stravarius was the first to enter, followed closely by the others. The red tinged gloom of the interior made detail indistinct for the humans, but Stravarius was not at all inconvenienced.

The circular room encompassed the entire diameter of the lighthouse. It was simply furnished with a wooden bench, chairs and a large cupboard. A sturdy ladder was fixed to the eastern arc of the chamber, allowing access to the level above. A pool of dark liquid had collected at the base of the ladder, and even as Stravarius looked, another heavy drop fell to augment the puddle. The light shining through the west facing window gave the liquid a deep burgundy colour. Fearing the worst, he ran to the ladder and climbed to the next level. This was a bedroom, furnished in the same style as below. Stravarius climbed on, a cursory glance having revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

The first thing he noticed as his head cleared the floor of the top level was a large oil flask lying on its side. A thick residue swelled against its slightly elevated lip, slowly evolving a tiny droplet that would eventually detach itself and plummet to the ground floor. The relief he felt at this mundane explanation was immediately quashed by the sight of the dead body lying against the southern wall. It was that of a man, sturdily built and clothed in garb similar to that of the villagers he had seen. His arms lay carelessly outstretched, and his head lay at an unnatural angle close to the white painted wall. A pool of blood had congealed around his head like an unholy halo, and what had once been a rich blonde beard was now dark and crumbly from having been steeped in the vital fluid.

Even before he had fully assimilated the full portent of the corpse his attention was diverted to the smell of burnt flesh and the second body. A brigand by the look of him, he wore thick boots, black trousers and battered leather armour. He was sprawled in embrace of wondrous device of iron and crystal that was mounted on a low stone pedestal. A bright light played out from the crystal lenses, the refracted image of the steady flame burned in its heart. Some great force must have thrown him into the centre of the room and against the bright shining device. Through some ingenious mechanism, (the green glow emitted from Stravarius’ rapier made him suspect magic) caused the light to spin slowly in circles, trailing its radiance across the windows which lined the walls of the lighthouse. A goodly portion of this path was obscured by the bandit’s head, right side cheek burnt to charcoal against the hot glass. The ladder behind Stravarius shivered violently as Bastien and Morgan climbed in haste to join him.

Stravarius’ hood concealed his features but in this instance there was little emotion to betray on the face beneath. Once, this loss of life would have deeply saddened him, especially that of the lighthouse keeper cut down while in the execution of his honest duty. He was different now, and the site of death left him largely unmoved. In the barrows he had been broken, altered, tortured, remade, changed, not just once but countless times. Death seemed a trivial thing in comparison and he could no longer bridge the gap between his own experiences and the relatively quick end this poor man had suffered.

He turned to face his companions who now crowded into the room. Both were accustomed to life’s harsh truths and neither betrayed a great deal more emotion than Stravarius. Morgan stepped forward and pulled the bandit back from the light. The body sprawled backwards onto the floor, revealing the handle of a knife jutting between the ribs. Curiously, the left hand of the vanquished assailant was tightly clenched. Stravarius pried the hand open, revealing a red tinged gold coin. The soft glow from his sword shifted towards blue as he picked up the coin. As soon as it left the bandits hand, the corpse’s appearance wavered and transformed. Where once there had been thick boots and armour there now was light canvas shoes, thin white trousers and a badly frayed red shirt.

“What have we here, a pirate by the look of him. And disguised by a sorcerer’s coin it seems.” Bastien shook his head in perplexion. “Now who would go to such lengths to hide their identity for a simple village raid?” Morgan and Stravarius shrugged. A search of the pirate’s body unearthed a few silver sickles but nothing else of interest. Every few seconds, the light from the mechanism played eerily across their features as cast forth its piercing radiance without interference once again. Morgan absently righted the overturned oil flask as he made his descent down the ladder. The others followed and the three began the walk back to the monastery.

Gerard and Mortec had been working diligently to try and fathom the reason behind the library’s desecration. Initially, the scale of the destruction had daunted them and they were unable to perceive any pattern to what had been taken. It was only on closely questioning Jessop that they gained a vital insight into their task. The little monk had settled himself against a worktable leg, clutching a large and precious volume to his chest and watching with wild, unsettled eyes as the gnome and nobleman tried to set things to rights. He meekly repeated the details of his harrowing experience in a weak, atonal voice.

When his story reached the point where he overheard the interrogation of his brother monks, Mortec interjected and demanded specific details on what they had been asked. Jessop frowned in concentration and then hesitantly suggested that the questioner had seemed very interested in lore on unnatural creatures and also specific events of local history. Appreciating the gnomes line of reasoning he shook off his lassitude and mentioned that these were the areas of knowledge that the kidnapped Brothers Thom and Goethra had specialised in.

Working with greater purpose, Gerard and Mortec resumed their catalogue of the library’s scattered contents. By scanning the titles of the tomes and scrolls and making use of Jessop’s own knowledge of the works, they quickly confirmed that the room had been denuded of all its works relating to the two subjects in question. Unfortunately, Jessop was not well acquainted with the contents of the missing volumes so they were no closer to guessing the significance of the purloined lore.

The sight of the two visitors trying to bring order to the library acted as something of a tonic to the bereaved monk and his ancient calling stirred him to pull himself together and offer his assistance. The work of restoration took on an atmosphere of companionable silence as each attended to his own section of the library. Occasionally, a particularly interesting work would slow the work of one of them as they felt compelled to peruse the contents. At other times the silence was punctuated by draw out sighs or curses as a scholarly treasure was found to be badly damaged. By the time Stravarius and the others returned they had finished with the first level and made a start on the second.

The two parties exchanged information and then Bastien suggested returning to the village to see what Argonne had found. Gerard exchanged a glance with Mortec and then politely demurred. The pair had decided to stay spend the evening working in the monastery and would rejoin the others in the village in the morning. Bastien offered to see to the burial of the murdered brethren, but Jessop assured him that this melancholy task would be performed by him in accordance with Laster’s funerary rites. As Stravarius and Morgan were not inclined to spend the night in the abbey, they accompanied their leader back to Ravenswood.

Full night had descended by the time Bastien and his two companions were reunited with Argonne and Moxadder. The latter pair had reached the village only shortly before them. They discussed their varied findings and between them they composed a detailed picture of the true events of the raid. Pirates had landed in a secluded cove in the early hours of the morning and made their way overland to Leith’s Abbey, Ravenswood, and the lighthouse. Disguised as bandits through either mundane or sorcerous means, they attacked quickly and efficiently, kidnapping people knowledgeable in local history and mystical beasts and taking some care to cover their tracks by also seizing some young women and ordinary valuables.

Only two things had gone wrong in this well executed raid. The pirate assigned to murder the lighthouse keeper died even as he killed his victim and Brother Jessop had avoided detection in the abbey. Had it not been for the latter, it would have been extremely unlikely that they could have guessed the true purpose of the raid.

Bastien informed the villagers of the broad facts, confirming that it was indeed pirates who had wrought this great hurt upon them and telling them of the outrages committed against the abbey and lighthouse. As this news upset the villagers even further, he omitted mentioning the true reason for the attack. He judged it too complex a matter for the simple folk to fully comprehend and saw little advantage in broadcasting the fact they had divined the true nature of events. Soon after, the companions availed themselves of the hospitality the villagers extended despite their losses and sought the solace of sleep. The night passed uncomfortably to the accompaniment of the occasion sob or cry in the night.

The following morning, joined by a bleary eyed Mortec and Gerard, the travellers began the last leg of their journey to Yorathton. Kurul appeared from behind a cottage at the last minute and the company was at full strength again. Despite the unpleasant night they had endured, their spirits were high. Bastien, was buoyed at the prospect of successfully completing the important task his liege had charged him with. Additionally, he was eager to report the tragic and sinister events that had befallen Ravenswood.

For the aspirants, the prospect of an end to the arduous journey was reward enough. They were also excited by and apprehensive of the welcome they would receive from their as yet unseen benefactor. Speculation on the nature of the tests that Bastien had alluded to began to occupy their minds. Finally, they knew Yorathton to be a moderately developed town, and though not in any way comparable to the decadent attractions offered by Halfast, they were eager to taste of the little comforts offered by this thin slice of civilisation.

*****​

 

[Shadow at the Edge]

I believe it was at this point the DM sat back and realised it had taken months of real time to get the players to what he considered 'the beginning'.

I wanted the group to really have something in common, and to hopefully actually work together and for common cause.

To do this I had them start at -2 level, basically with virtually no skills, endurance or abilities, and made them live in abject terror for the first 8 game sessions or so as even a large mosquito was a dire threat to them.

It seemed to work. They worked hard together, and even got really excited when they finally reached first level and were given a feat and a couple of extra skills. It was like a feast!

Even though this entry to Yorathton is where many of the plots start to reveal themselves, the journey up to this point had not been wasted time. It was intended as a chance for the group to meet a few of the factions and groups who crawled over the surface of Anka Seth, so as to better be able to take sides or chose enemies later.

 

[Fiasco]

Well, the '06 crash has wiped out most of this story hour. Fortunately, I still have the word documents that I copied and pasted from. Hopefully over the next week I will be able to restore this thread to within 95% of how it was.

 

[Fiasco]

Chapter 3​

The company’s safe arrival in Yorathton was a great relief to all of its members. Here at last was the end to arduous travel and endless speculation on what the Baron had in mind for them. A hard days march had seen them reach Yorathton by mid afternoon. Perched atop brilliant white cliffs, the town had grown from an old fishing village that still lay at its centre.
Bastien quickly lead them through the winding main street, eager to report to his liege.

The houses they passed were braced unevenly against each other, cramped for room by the narrow bluff like a mouth too full of teeth. The air was redolent of dried fish and despite the new prosperity come to the town, as evidenced by the cry of merchants and much evidence of new construction, the people seemed hard faced and grim. Yorathton was a fragile scrap of civilisation caught twixt the Cursed Sea and untamed wilderness, twin facts that could never be forgotten by its inhabitants.

Having passed through the town, the road inclined towards the highest point of the cliffs. Here loomed an old keep surrounded by a stagnant moat fed only by a small stream. Though well maintained, some parts of the fortress clearly showed the heavy weight of their years. Seeing how his Baron's castle dominated the skyline, Bastien's back straightened with pride. As always, he felt his arduous travels had been well worth the hardship if only for the pleasure of returning home having successfully fulfilled his mission.

On entering the modest castle, Bastien passed his charges over to the care of a fussy chamberlain. This worthy spent the best part of an hour trying to make them look presentable before escorting them to Yorath’s study. The chamber was finely decorated and furnished, indicating he was a man of taste. The two dozen books arranged on his shelves indicated he was also a man of learning, or at least had pretensions in that direction.

The Baron was of average build, with thick curling brown hair and steady green eyes. His brow wore the furrows of heavy thinking but the rest of his features had the firmness and vigor of a man considerably younger. Though run a little to fat through years of sedentary occupation, he still commanded a presence that was felt by all when he subjected them to his examination. His dress was formal and expensive, if a little subdued in style. He had been perusing a scroll when they entered, which he put aside decisively, honouring them with his immediate attention rather than have them bide at his whim.

The words of welcome by which he addressed them were rich and cultured, almost overly so, as though each syllable was chosen with meticulous care and enunciated with full emphasis of its individual character. The effect of this precision slowed his speech a little from the ordinary, but the meaning of what was said was thereby conveyed without ambiguity.

Gerard, who waited eagerly for the opportunity to introduce himself, could only admire his would be liege’s measured poise. As when he was addressed by Prince Brand, he had the uncomfortable impression that he was in the presence of someone who possessed an effortless air of commanded that he himself could only dream of. The telling difference between the two men was that Brand inspired jealously and resentment, whereas the Baron only excited respect and admiration in him.

After greetings and introductions, the Baron intimated he knew they bore news of strange happenings in Ravenswood. Gerard was quick to seize his opportunity and executing an oft practiced flourish, he set about regaling his lordship with the tale. For all his foppish ways, the young man was a gifted story teller. If he played a more decisive and commanding role in the events than the others remembered, the epic flair he imparted on all their deeds more than compensated them for it.

Yorath remained largely impassive throughout the rendition of the tale, though when the mysterious absence of the mayor was mentioned, a small frown did crease his brow. The change was only fleeting though, and seemed to be forgotten as Gerard continued with his accounting of the events. By the end, the Baron was deep in thought as he mulled over the extraordinary events that had overwhelmed this quiet part of his fief. Almost as an afterthought, he asked if anything else of interest happened on their journey.

It was here that Gerard truly exceeded himself. The entire encounter with the leprous assassins was recounted in such detail that his companions felt as though they were reliving the fight again. Even the Baron’s studied detachment was betrayed by his open interest as the young fop’s carefully choreographed words built to a climax.

The matter of Brand’s signet ring was a particular source of fascination, and Yorath demanded to see this item immediately. Gerard duly fetched the trinket and in presenting it, just managed to resist the impulse to sketch a bow as he did so. Yorath frowned as he examined the ring then smiled openly when he was satisfied the ring was genuine. He congratulated the companions on their courage and wit and assured them that if they conducted themselves similarly through his tests they would be sure to gain a commission. He did not offer to return the ring to them, making it clear that he had a use for it. So overwhelmed were the companions by his natural command that not even Moxadder thought to object. Soon after, the meeting was terminated and they were shown from the Baron’s presence by a woman he introduced as Lady Tamandra.

Their new guide showed herself to be a lady of considerable refinement. Both her dress and manners were courtly, and she commanded considerable beauty as well. Her skin was flawless and her high cheekbones offset hazel brown eyes that were alive with intelligence. Her dark straight hair was pulled up in a fashion that drew attention to the gentle curve of her long, graceful neck. When she talked, she had a habit of wrinkling the tip of her nose in a way that seemed to say that though she was high born, she didn’t consider herself beyond them in any way.

Tall and slender, she appeared in her early thirties, though her privileged position had ensured that she bore none of the ravages that robbed lesser born women of their youthful beauty. Gerard was quite enchanted by her and determined then and there to pursue this woman with all his ardour. Unfortunately for him, he was to get precious little opportunity in the following weeks.

The companions were shown to their quarters in a plainly furnished barracks located within the walls of the Baron’s castle. Though unadorned, their rooms performed their most important function in keeping them warm and dry. For Moxadder, born into poverty and eternally a prisoner to it, this was a luxury he had never experienced.

The day after their arrival, they began performing a series of tests to determine their fitness for fighting in a gladiatorial company. Many of the exercises baffled the young aspirants but they attempted them with good will, sometimes surprising themselves with how well they performed. Riding, marksmanship, sword play, even logic and oratory were explored in order to see where their potential lay. The Baron was something of an innovator, and though some of the tests completely defeated his young charges, they still revealed much of their character to him. This, along with Bastien’s testimony on how they conducted themselves on the journey convinced him they had sufficient potential to warrant the cost of training them.

On the 15th day of Low Summer, the new recruits swore oaths of loyalty to Baron Yorath and formally became his vassals. They had decided to name their gladiatorial company the Hydra, a many headed creature that hunted the swamps surrounding Irudesh City. Each member was outfitted in the green and black colours they had chosen for their company. Additionally, they were generously equipped with arms and armour at the Baron’s expense. For all save Mortec and Gerard this was a considerable rise in fortune. Morgan in particular was proud of his new status. His membership of the Hydra set him firmly down the honourable path trod by his father and elder brothers. Through skill at arms he longed to bring fame and glory to his embattled homeland.

Moxadder’s feelings were more complex. Part of him took great pleasure in the simple fact of belonging to something greater than the day to day struggle for survival. Simultaneously, part of him rebelled at the loss of freedom he experienced and the pressures of having others depending on him to pull his weight. At times, the good natured comradeship of his fellows stifled him even as he gave fervent thanks that he was with people with whom he wouldn’t have to constantly watch his back.

Argonne felt largely indifferent to the whole enterprise, though he had to acknowledge that being instructed in the fighting arts and woodscraft was a lot more interesting than chopping wood twelve hours a day. Stravarius, as always, kept his own council. He became more withdrawn just as his fellows started to become more comfortable with each other. Were his eyes visible, the others would have noticed they now burned for lack of sleep.

Nightly he battled demons of the mind as he finally embraced certain potentialities he’d long held latent through hard fought suppression. His dreams became increasingly violent but he forced himself to endure for the sake of the power he felt growing within him.

The others also worked hard to develop their capabilities, though in less sinister ways than Stravarius. The Baron’s other two gladiatorial companies were also present and some of its members devoted considerable time to training the members of the Hydra. This was especially true of the Massive Hand, whose skill at weapons play was of more interest to the companions than strange sorceries practiced by Five Kinds of Death.

The training had a marked effect on the young men. They gained confidence in the use of their weapons and advice from older and wiser heads helped them with their tactics and composure under the stress of battle. More importantly, they were taught how to work together as a team, for the cauldron of the arena was unmerciful to those who failed to look out for their brothers in arms.

So the weeks passed, forging the disparate group of individuals into something approaching a cohesive unit. In what little time they had outside training, the Hydra devoted themselves to their own interests. Gerard pursued lady Tamandra with a passion that sadly went unrequited. The noble woman parried his attempts at courtship with such charm that his feelings were largely spared. When she deigned to reveal small snippets of her past and private feelings, Gerard felt more satisfaction than if he’d tumbled a half dozen wenches.
Denied access to the Baron’s library, Mortec spent his time in communion with his God. After much soul searching he made a difficult choice, and bound himself to its consequences with unbreakable vows. Having seen the helpless suffering of those who chose peaceful contemplation, he dedicated himself to harnessing darker powers, the better to cowe or destroy those who set themselves against his faith.

Morgan had far less weighty concerns on his mind and was content to spend his evenings in the company of the warriors from the Massive Hand, a rough and tumble substitute for the camaraderie his family once provided. Amidst the boasting and pranks of his seniors, he gained much knowledge of the ways of the arena as well as a store of battle wisdom gained by the Hand through deadly experience. Morgan found himself looking forwards to doing battle, hoping to do justice to the time invested in his tutelage.

Moxadder explored the town and found some people of dubious standing who could supply him with Devil Weed. His share of Prince Brand’s reward swiftly disappeared and he was forced to sell his cache of more exotic drugs to ensure an uninterrupted supply. He spent considerable time with a herbalist, learning the arts extracting the secret virtues of plants and turning them to his own ends. When he could, he scoured the country side for the Diabolus plant from which Devil Weed was made. Occasionally, Argonne would help him in this as the young woodsman spent considerable amounts of time in the wild while leaning his craft. His instruction came largely from Maron Devlis, whose wanderings had brought him to the seat of Yorath’s power. At the Baron’s request, he had agreed to train Argonne in the art of rangering.

*****​

 

[Fiasco]

One of Yorath’s requirements of his gladiators was that they master a ranged weapon. Combatants in the games could begin as far as one hundred feet apart, and the Baron felt that the team that peppered their foes with missiles while they sought to close for melee had a distinct advantage. It became the habit of the Hydra to gather together in the late afternoon and spend a leisurely hour loosing various missiles at the target butts. The range was located towards the rear of the castle, which overlooked the ocean from the top of a rocky cliff. The cool sea breeze that caressed their weary bodies was a pleasant tonic for the aches and pains of the day’s work. Most of the companions favoured the light style of crossbow used by Mortec with even Moxadder temporarily put aside his obsession with daggers to master this weapon. The only exceptions were Morgan, who used a bow and Stravarius, who had unearthed a crossbow of prodigious size from the bowels of the Baron’s armoury. This nightmare contraption took all of his considerable strength to wind back and the bolts it launched passed right through the target more often than not.

It was thus they were occupied some three weeks after their arrival when Argonne spotted red sails gliding silently towards them across the gently rolling sea. They came straight from the heart of the setting sun as it sank beneath the waves, like the spec of darkness in the centre of a candle’s flame. Argonne blinked the haze from his eyes and counted them; one, two, three… six in all.

“Red sails on t’ ocean!” he cried, “And ah think they ma’ht be pirates”.
The woodsman’s alert galvanised the party to action. The distincitve red sails left no question in their minds that the perpetrators of the sack of Ravenswood had returned. The Hydra had often discussed the evils committed upon the innocent village and each of them was eager to exact a bloody vengeance on the raiders. Grabbing whatever weapons were at hand, they ran at a crouch to the cliff’s edge, trying not to betray their presence to the attackers. They took positions around the narrow fissure that had been carved into stairs that joined the top of the cliff with the small jetty at its foot. Seeing there was still a little time before the ships arrived, Gerard ran to the barracks where the other gladiatorial companies were billeted. In the rooms belonging to Five Kinds of Death, he found several of its members studying their arcane disciplines.

Gasping for air, he informed them of the suspected pirate attack. A cowled head nodded at him in acknowledgement and the mages began to gather up those mystical components which were a vital adjunct to their craft. Moving on, Gerard spied several members of the Massive Hand returning to their quarters and urged them also towards the cliffs. With the hulking bodies of several of these stout warrior at his heels, he ran to rejoin his companions.

In the mean time, the other members of the fledgling gladiatorial company had concealed themselves as best they could along the edge of the precipice. The pirates were headed directly for the dock below them at the base of the cliff. They clutched their weapons nervously and watched the progress of the Blood Sails. The six ships were little more than boats in reality, barely having room for a dozen pirates each. The hulls were clinker built and rigged with a simple square sail. They had moved a little apart as some crews made better use of the evening breeze than others. Rowers augmented the work of the wind. Four to a side, they made only the faintest whisper of noise as they bent their backs to the oars. Their strokes were precise and unhurried, secure in the delusion they were unobserved.

The pirates themselves were difficlut to make out in the gloom. They appeared simply dressed, with only the glint of their weapons providing any highlights. They appeared rough and unruly, though each attended to his task with economical precision. The Hydra looked at each other uncertainly. They had grown accustomed to either Bastien or one of their instructors giving them orders and found the responsibility of determining their own course of action daunting. At present there was little to decide in any case, for the pirates were still out of range of their bows.

The arrival of Gerard with the other gladiatorial companies was a welcome balm to their frayed nerves. The more experienced companies were a composed counterpoint to the young companions. The wizards ranged themselves near the stairs and began to chant arcane phrases to the accompaniment of flexed arms and curled fingers. Their long dark robes flared dramatically behind them, pushed back by the sea breeze. Their vestments were adorned with strange astrological symbols incomprehensible to the untutored eyes of the others, yet conveying a sense of danger to them all the same.

The Massive Hand were more straight forward in their preparation. Zmrat, their leader told the Hydra to hold their position at the top of the cliffs. The narrow stairs cut into the rock face would slow the raiders, allowing the Baron’s men to subject the raiders to a withering hail of missiles if they sought the summit. Carefully sheathing the heavy weapons they’d held in hand, the Massive Hand readied their bows and crossbows in anticipation. The Hydra’s racing emotions settled a little now they had such potent reinforcements. The sharp sighted Argonne murmured to the others that it seemed the pirates had yet to notice the nasty reception that awaited them. Concentrating on maintaining stealth and picking their way through shallow water, they had not seen the scurrying figures of the Baron’s men in the fading light.

Despite exhortations for calm from Zmrat, the composure of the Hydra proved unequal to the task of awaiting the optimum time to strike. Almost as one, they loosed their bolts and arrows as soon as the lead boat fell within range. The undisciplined discharge plunged uselessly into the water or cartwheeled whirring off the side of the vessel. The pirates gave shouts of alarm, but apart from ducking lower in their boats, they did not deviate from their mission.

The wizard Emble glared at the companions before beginning to recite a complex series of syllables in a guttural voice. The Hydra loosed several more volleys, also without success. Though the range closed, the light failed completely as the last of the sun expired beneath the horizon. The sound of chanting filled the darkness as the sorcerers continued their work. Suddenly, the area near the pier was bathed in ethereal light, throwing the boats and crew in stark contrast to the night blackened water. The strain on the pirates faces was clearly visible in the pallor of their faces as they arched their backs to the final strokes that would bring them to the pier. Many died before they got there as the Massive Hand released their shafts to telling effect.

 

[Fiasco]

The two leading boats fetched up against the wharf at the same time. Half of the crew of the northern boat were already dead ere the survivors could leap onto the dock. They others also fell swiftly when the Massive Hand bent their lethal missiles upon them. Things went poorly for the second craft as well. Without warning, five of the pirates slumped motionless to the bottom of the boat. Almost simultaneously, another pirate was pierced through by a massive bolt launched by Stravarius, while a third suddenly wore two feathered shafts in his chest, gifted him by Morgan and Gerard. Moxadder’s bolt mauled the side of another sailor but this worthy kept his feet and scrambled painfully onto land.

The pirates on the remaining boats tried to even the score with the defenders. Several balls of light appeared randomly around the top of the cliffs, illuminating the sorcerers and the Hydra. Moments later, the twang of strings whined in the night and shafts of wood danced and tumbled around their feet, causing them to duck and flinch. One bolt caught Morgan in the shoulder, spinning him backwards to the ground.

The Fastendian gave a scream that was more fury than pain and leapt back to his feet. His vision blurred as a rage of frightening intensity too hold of his body. A small portion of his mind looked on in awe as the rest of him surrendered to the berserk fury. With a broken bellow he yanked at his sheathed sword and hurled himself headlong down the rocky stairs. One of the wizards shouted an unheeded warning to the headstrong young warrior. Morgan’s half vocalised battle roar became a yowl of dismay as the steps beneath his feet showed their treachery. A greasy layer of bilious slime had coated the rocks, denying his booted feet purchase.

The tiny rational part of his consciousness wondered at how the rocks had become so unnaturally slick. Arms flailing wildly, he half slid, half tumbled down the cliff face, ending up motionless near the feet of the pirates who had made landfall. Seeing his companion’s predicament, Argonne snarled a bucolic oath at the slippery stairs and then trusting to luck, attempted to descend them. His feet too began to slip out beneath him when he reached the slick section but miraculously he managed to work his moment forward off the back of his heels. Then the rock offered purchase again and he came into contact with the enemy. With a defiant cry he stood over Morgan’s motionless body, ready to give battle.

Also reacting to his comrade’s peril, Stravarius began to crank his great crossbow, then cast it aside when he realised he hadn’t time. Putting thoughts of the pirates aside he began to focus on his hatred of the Dominion, feeling the strength of this emotions rising like a slow tide in his body.. Remembering the pain and terror of his maiming he growled an ugly word in a depraved tongue. Before his eyes, the power of his fury began to manifest in the form of a shaft of bile green luminescence that pulsated with the force of his antipathy. He jabbed a gloved finger at a pirate who was about to strike Argonne and watched as his bolt of venom darted silently through the night and into the attackers chest. The man cried wordlessly and fell, clutching his chest, the pain of his injury robbing him of all strength in the few seconds that remained him. Seeing the result of his handiwork, Stravarius felt sullied and weary, but also darkly triumphant.

As the remaining boats closed for their own landings, the wizard Kassquok worked a mighty magic. With a resounding crack, one of the boats burst asunder, as though crushed by the fist of a colossus. Its crew, catastrophically removed from the battle, floated in the water like so many dead fish. Meanwhile the Massive Hand had accurately brought their attention to bear on the pirates threatening Argonne. Their sharply whistling projectiles dispatched the handful of pirates ashore. Seeing the tide of battle flowing so strongly against them, the pirates sought to break off the engagement. With the controlled haste only possessed by disciplined crews, the oarsmen dug their blades deep into the water in an effort to reverse their momentum. Despite being harassed by the bolts and arrows loosed by the Hydra, they began to make good their retreat.

Five Kinds of Death had other ideas. A powerful breeze rose up without warning, whipping up powerful waves and driving the boats back to shore. The rearmost boat was at the edge of this minor storm and made good its escape, as did a second ship by dint of mighty effort. The third also made headway until several rowers, slumped bonelessly over their oars. The remaining crewmen were helpless as their craft was washed steadily to shore. One by one they fell to missiles rained down upon them.

Argonne knelt at Morgan’s side, seeking to staunch his wounds caused by sharp stone and bitter arrow. The Baron had insisted that all his fighting vassals learn the rudiments of tending wounds and this training stood the woodsman in good stead. Gregar of the Massive Hand crouched beside him and offered assistance. Between them, they did enough to ensure that Morgan didn’t slip under death’s shadow.

At the top of the cliff, the sorcerers turned back for their chambers as soon as it became clear the battle was over. One of them casually gestured and light shone forth from his palm, illuminating their way. Gazing after them, Mortec suppressed a chill as he watched the complex sigils on their robes dance through the darkness, part illusion, part magic and part the play of the wind. He was fervently grateful that as mere novices, the Hydra would not have to face the deadly wizards in the arena.

The strange slime coating the stairs had disappeared, allowing Mortec, Gerard, Moxadder and Stravarius to descend to the dock. They were joined by the Massive Hand, who looked among the bodies for survivors. Those pirates rendered helpless by the wizard’s magic were securely bound before the dweomers lost their strength. Poltron, a member of the ‘Hand who posessed a keen eye climbed from one of the pirate boats with a fistful of holy symbols. Mortec identified them as belonging to predominantly to Laster and Muhbelung, god of toil. Neither was an unusual choice for those who plied the sea.

A thorough search unearthed little of interest or value save for a crude map that Mortec found in the hands of one of the prisoners. The scrap of parchment held a rough drawing Yorath’s keep and contained directions for finding his bed chamber. The gnome grew worried as he thought through the implications. What interest could the Blood Sails have in his liege? And would this comprehensive defeat discourage them from further raids on the castle?

As he watched Theron leave for the Baron’s castle with map in hand, Mortec was certain he had not heard the last of the incident.

The Hydra did not stay at the battle site for much longer. Yorath’s personal guard had now arrived and holding torches aloft, they saw to the bodies. Mortec determined that it was safe to carry Morgan up to the castle and the companions shouldered this most precious burden. They left him in the care of the Baron’s healers and congregated in the feast hall, certain that they would be called on soon. In the meantime they refreshed themselves with small beer and watered wine, consuming many a plateful of nourishing stew in the process.

Gerard commandeered a small round of cheese from an infatuated kitchen maid and consumed this with dainty slices of a silver knife. He eagerly reviewed the highlights of the battle, roundly embellishing the deeds of his companions and his own most of all. All were in amazement at Morgan’s foolhardy charge. Argonne, volunteered a story about a berserk goat that had marauded his village, drawing unsubtle comparisons between it and the young Fastendian.

*****​

 

[Sir Falke]

Well, the '06 crash has wiped out most of this story hour. Fortunately, I still have the word documents that I copied and pasted from. Hopefully over the next week I will be able to restore this thread to within 95% of how it was.

Excellent! This is a wonderfull SH and it'd be very sad (to say at least) to loose it...
Keep it coming. We, the readers, are anxiously awaiting (at least, I am...)

 

[Fiasco]

The anticipated summons came soon after and Lady Tamandra led them once again to the library. Yorath looked a great deal more tired and careworn than previously. With a visible effort he shook off his fatigue and addressed them.

“I have a mission for you that will supercede your training for the next ten days. The pirates who attacked us tonight are most likely the same as those that struck at Ravenswood. Though we turned back the attack this time, we were certainly not expecting it. I must know who my enemies are and I charge you with the mission to unearth them.”

He fixed his gaze on each companion in turn as he continued. “You are young and inexperienced, but you must suffice for this task as my other companies have already been dispatched on unrelated and even more important missions. The Blood Sails are known to maraud the entire Eastern and Northern coasts of Guerney and the Fastness. However, the magic coin you found was minted on Soreceror’s isle, and was most likely gotten from there by the pirates. Tomorrow, you will take a boat to this isle and begin your investigation. Find out who is supplying sorcerer’s coins to the pirates and use that as a starting point to find out where the pirates are based, or what their motives are.

Remember, despite your small skirmishes you are not veterans! Seek only to discover who is behind the raids, do not attempt to deal with them yourself unless you are convinced you can overcome them. Be subtle as well. Sorceror’s isle is famous for its dweomercrafters and I do not want to raise their ire, nor warn my enemies that I am seeking them out. You must return here by the tenth of Burn at the latest, for it is vital that you compete in the games. Any questions?”

The baron regarded his charges evenly as they tried to assimilate the long string of instructions given them. No-one spoke, intimidated by Yorath’s commanding manner and the conciseness of the instructions. He nodded in satisfaction. The intelligent looks on most of their faces reassured him that his commands were understood. He could only hope that they would be equal to carrying them out.

Other worries began to press on his mind and he concluded the interview by reaching into a drawer and handing a jeweled circlet to Mortec. “This is magical device for communicating over a great distance. Speak the word ‘dragnuth’ to activate it and picture me in your mind. Briefly speak your missive and then await my reply. The enchantment may only be worked once a day, and the effect is brief. I want you to use this to report your progress. Three hours after sunset is the best time to attempt communication with me.”

The baron leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands underneath his chin. “One last thing. Kuruul will be going with you. It may seem strange that I insist that you take a hound with you but I have my reasons. Understand that I am completely serious when I say that he is a member of the Company of the Hydra. May the blessings of your patron deities go with you and give you the strength and cunning to succeed”.
Recognising their interview was at an end, Gerard bowed and ushered his companions from the room. Yorath was already bent deep in thought over a scroll before the last of them left the room and closed the door. The thick candles on his table would be completely consumed, and their replacements as well ere he took his rest.

Sunrise greeted the companions as they assembled at the pier the following day. A good omen, Morgan thought to himself as he watched its golden warmth spread over the waters towards them. The sunlight limned the form of Maron Devlis who awaited them there. The older man smiled in greeting to the Hydra and began to give them directions to Sorcerer’s Isle. Moored at the pier was a small boat quite similar in design to what the pirates had used.

The craft looked well cared for, and its name, Swift, was written in red letters on its prow. Maron had already taught the rudiments of sailing to Argonne, but he repeated the instructions for the other’s benefit. As they examined the boat they saw it was well provisioned for their journey. Kuruul grinned open jawed at the Hydra and then leapt into the boat, quickly making himself comfortable amongst the stores.

Maron gave precise sailing directions to the isle. The journey would be a short one, around four hours sailing to the North West. Their destination was the Port of Warlock, the principle town on the small island. The port was located in the centre of the stretch of coast where the Hydra were expected to make land fall. He also warned them of the eternal mists that hid the island from passing ships, telling them to trust to their directions and to keep their heading until they sighted land.

In addition to the instruction, he gave them a bag of brilliantly coloured shells. The old ranger explained they were in case they encountered Tritons, an aquatic race that lived in the coastal waters around the island. The shells, he explained, were highly prized by the creatures, who valued them more than anything else save for pearls.

Abruptly, Maron clapped Argonne on his back and wished the Hydra luck on their travels. He became more serious then and exhorted them to do their best in avenging the people of Ravenswood. With a twitch of a sinewy shoulder, he turned and strode away up the stairs. It was as well he did, for the scene that followed his departure would not have contributed to his peace of mind.

Rather than an orderly crew of sailors, the members of the Hydra quickly devolved into a bickering mob who’s main source of grievance was Gerard’s refusal to help row the boat. The young nobleman had taken one look at the ancient bench and dirt blacked oar handle and outright refused to participate. It took the combined threats from all his companions to convince him that bending his back to the task was preferable to being summarily dismissed from the company or simply left behind to explain his errant actions to the Baron.

The barb of this last threat told true, and the scion of Mowbray allowed his better sensibilities to be quelled. Shoulders slumped in resignation, he slouched to one of the seats and carefully laying out an expensive silk kerchief across the wooden bench, took his position. He rebelled again when a grinning Morgan shoved an oar in his direction but by now Argonne had his measure. Vociferously cursing the young fop in his broad, earthy dialect he shamed him into accepting his duty. Daintily putting on a pair of kid skin gloves, Gerard leaned back with the others and set himself to the task. Argonne was well pleased. With the rebellious young fop quelled, there would be no more questioning of his authority as captain.

The weather remained fair throughout the morning and a clement breeze allowed Argonne to raise the simple square sail and ease the burden of rowing. Mortec, stationed at the prow for his diminutive statue precluded him from the morning labour, sighted a large bank of fog exactly according to Maron’s schedule. The mists loomed out of the water like a grey mountain, incongruous with the time of day or weather conditions and clearly of unnatural origin.

Trusting to his instructions, Argonne held them to their course, confident that in less than half an hour they would pass through the fog and sight the Port of Warlock. As the boat entered the mists the winds died and a feeling of cold came over them like a damp sheet. Without prompting, the companions increased the vigour of their rowing, trying to drive off the sudden chill and pass through the gloom as rapidly as possible.

In the damp half light it felt as if they were shut off from the real world, and only the grunt of their exertions and the slap of their oars broke the silence. The passage of time grew indistinct and the companions began to doubt they would ever emerge into sunlight. Then, without warning, from one instance to the next, the dark shrouds of vapour parted before them and they glided out beneath a brilliant blue sky.

The crew’s relief was palpable but they had barely time to take in the blessed sunlight before the water seemed to take on the consistency of treacle as something snagged their oars. They had become entangled in thick strands of seaweed that looked suspiciously like they had been woven into ropes. The Hydra managed to progress a few strokes further before their momentum was completely halted and the oars became locked to the sides of the boat. The crew peered over the sides of their craft, trying to determine how to free themselves of their predicament. What they saw was utterly amazing.