When the followers of the god of justice condemned sinners to living death in catacombs deep in the earth, the followers of the earth spirit rebelled. The chaos that ensued tore apart the world, releasing generations of undead murderers, vandals and thieves onto the world. The convocation of clerics are slaughtered overnight and the great society fragments. Some turn to war, some to vice to delay their impending doom as the wave of undead and mutated creatures spread indefatigably.
This is a story hour based on this home brewed 3.5 D&D campaign world. It has been running for one and a half years.
Prologue
There were few tears in Vronburg; they had all been shed decades ago. Fear, too, was difficult to find. The soul could become numbed to even the most wrenching tragedies. Determination, fatalism, a terrible pride, and yes, always, steadfastness; these bound the fortress city together. The people and the city had closed in on themselves as the setbacks, and the betrayals, and the disappointments heaped upon them.
Vronburg clung mightily to the surrounding land, as though forged directly from the elements themselves. The fortress had been built for one purpose, to endure. It was encircled on three sides by a moat whose deeps froze those with blood to chill and burned the unliving with its holy fire. Each night the prayers of the priests and the faithful charged the waters anew with this divine wrath. The walls were mighty, densely built and cunningly contrived. From a distance the city appeared an invulnerable bastion, even closer scrutiny revealed little to make one think otherwise. Unfortunately, the hungry eyes of the Dominion could look close indeed, and they saw the truth that lay beyond walls and water. While the dead stones of the fortress endured, the living inhabitants were being bled from it, slowly, remorselessly and irrevocably. Behind the unbowed walls, many times rebuilt with the lives of its defenders, the life beat of the city diminished. More buildings were empty than full and children were scarce. The women had long ago joined their men on the walls, and few remained fruitful while defending those barren expanses of stone.
The Dominion saw this and rejoiced. It crashed its abominations, both living and dead against the steadfast towers, heedless of loss. Each attack sapped a little more vitality from the people within. The Fastendians in their barren city knew this and the knowledge was crushing. They were a heroic people who lived without hope. Time and again they repelled the ravening hordes, each time diminished just a little more, and at night their dreams were stillborn, washed out by the blood and the slaughter and the numbing loss.
Jehurre was tapping a rock gently against the parapet when he noticed the loathsome mists seep up to the wall. He coughed in anticipation of calling out a warning when he was pre-empted by others around the walls. Shouts of “Mist coming!” and “Dead Walking!", echoed flatly around thick stones and still waters, the claustrophobic fog making the direction of sound indistinct. An evil by product of the presence of the undead, the deathly vapours masked their approach and baffled defenders. Sammus raced passed Jehurre’s position, bundles of arrows clattering against his back as he ran his errand. A lean boy of ten, he was already a two year veteran of the defence works. Nimbly he skipped across the cobbles in the shadowy light, mind focussed solely on his appointed task.
Jehurre loosened his blade in its scabbard, reached into a pouch and rubbed a bit of lime rind into his palms. He bent down and retrieved his bow from where it leaned against the wall nearby. With a grunt, he braced one end against his instep and straining, stretched a string between the ends. He briefly massaged his aching back and then tested the pull of the bow, taking care not to let go of the taught string. With equal care, he checked the arrows in the compartmented sections of his quiver, straightening bent fletching and arranging the arrows just so. With his fingers, he ran through the oft practiced routine of assuring himself that he could discern the various types of arrows by touch alone. Firstly the ordinaries, well made, but with some minor imperfections. Good enough when loosing into a horde of foes or into the concealing mists. Then the quality arrows, those which were particularly straight and whose fletching was finely formed. These were best used when the target was sure. Finally, the three ‘specials’. These were of exemplary workmanship, silver tipped and engraved with magic sigils to make them strike true and deep. There were those amongst the attacking armies who scorned the bite of honest wood or steel, and these precious shafts were intended for them.
The mists thickened and visibility dropped to the point where he could barely make out the shape of Graffen, some fifteen paces to his right. He nodded to his companion despite the unlikelihood it being seen, satisfied that he too stood ready. A soft scrape was the only indication that Edita had taken up her position some distance to his left. Jehurre rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders. When he looked around again, his companions were gone, swallowed by the fog that covered the approach of the nightmare armies. The minutes passed and lengthened into hours. Jehurre felt profoundly alone as he strained his ears for any hint of enemy movement near his position. All the while, the sounds of battle dinned from some distant part of the fortress. They were catching hell, wherever it was. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he realised that his section would be unmolested. Vronburg might be doomed to fall but not this night. Jehurre did not have the strength or courage to think beyond that.
This is a story hour based on this home brewed 3.5 D&D campaign world. It has been running for one and a half years.
Prologue
There were few tears in Vronburg; they had all been shed decades ago. Fear, too, was difficult to find. The soul could become numbed to even the most wrenching tragedies. Determination, fatalism, a terrible pride, and yes, always, steadfastness; these bound the fortress city together. The people and the city had closed in on themselves as the setbacks, and the betrayals, and the disappointments heaped upon them.
Vronburg clung mightily to the surrounding land, as though forged directly from the elements themselves. The fortress had been built for one purpose, to endure. It was encircled on three sides by a moat whose deeps froze those with blood to chill and burned the unliving with its holy fire. Each night the prayers of the priests and the faithful charged the waters anew with this divine wrath. The walls were mighty, densely built and cunningly contrived. From a distance the city appeared an invulnerable bastion, even closer scrutiny revealed little to make one think otherwise. Unfortunately, the hungry eyes of the Dominion could look close indeed, and they saw the truth that lay beyond walls and water. While the dead stones of the fortress endured, the living inhabitants were being bled from it, slowly, remorselessly and irrevocably. Behind the unbowed walls, many times rebuilt with the lives of its defenders, the life beat of the city diminished. More buildings were empty than full and children were scarce. The women had long ago joined their men on the walls, and few remained fruitful while defending those barren expanses of stone.
The Dominion saw this and rejoiced. It crashed its abominations, both living and dead against the steadfast towers, heedless of loss. Each attack sapped a little more vitality from the people within. The Fastendians in their barren city knew this and the knowledge was crushing. They were a heroic people who lived without hope. Time and again they repelled the ravening hordes, each time diminished just a little more, and at night their dreams were stillborn, washed out by the blood and the slaughter and the numbing loss.
*****
Jehurre was tapping a rock gently against the parapet when he noticed the loathsome mists seep up to the wall. He coughed in anticipation of calling out a warning when he was pre-empted by others around the walls. Shouts of “Mist coming!” and “Dead Walking!", echoed flatly around thick stones and still waters, the claustrophobic fog making the direction of sound indistinct. An evil by product of the presence of the undead, the deathly vapours masked their approach and baffled defenders. Sammus raced passed Jehurre’s position, bundles of arrows clattering against his back as he ran his errand. A lean boy of ten, he was already a two year veteran of the defence works. Nimbly he skipped across the cobbles in the shadowy light, mind focussed solely on his appointed task.
Jehurre loosened his blade in its scabbard, reached into a pouch and rubbed a bit of lime rind into his palms. He bent down and retrieved his bow from where it leaned against the wall nearby. With a grunt, he braced one end against his instep and straining, stretched a string between the ends. He briefly massaged his aching back and then tested the pull of the bow, taking care not to let go of the taught string. With equal care, he checked the arrows in the compartmented sections of his quiver, straightening bent fletching and arranging the arrows just so. With his fingers, he ran through the oft practiced routine of assuring himself that he could discern the various types of arrows by touch alone. Firstly the ordinaries, well made, but with some minor imperfections. Good enough when loosing into a horde of foes or into the concealing mists. Then the quality arrows, those which were particularly straight and whose fletching was finely formed. These were best used when the target was sure. Finally, the three ‘specials’. These were of exemplary workmanship, silver tipped and engraved with magic sigils to make them strike true and deep. There were those amongst the attacking armies who scorned the bite of honest wood or steel, and these precious shafts were intended for them.
The mists thickened and visibility dropped to the point where he could barely make out the shape of Graffen, some fifteen paces to his right. He nodded to his companion despite the unlikelihood it being seen, satisfied that he too stood ready. A soft scrape was the only indication that Edita had taken up her position some distance to his left. Jehurre rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders. When he looked around again, his companions were gone, swallowed by the fog that covered the approach of the nightmare armies. The minutes passed and lengthened into hours. Jehurre felt profoundly alone as he strained his ears for any hint of enemy movement near his position. All the while, the sounds of battle dinned from some distant part of the fortress. They were catching hell, wherever it was. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he realised that his section would be unmolested. Vronburg might be doomed to fall but not this night. Jehurre did not have the strength or courage to think beyond that.
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