Concerning Celene: Scyld's Story Hour (updated 2/27)

[ScyldSceafing]

"Come on in here, Tankar," the gruff voice of the Forge Tender barked. Tankar twitched, startled by the impatience in his mentor's voice. "Tankar! Get in here!"

Tankar rose and, composing himself, strode as confidently as possible into the Tender's office. "Sir?" he offered, quietly. "How can I be of service?"

"Close the door, there's a good lad. We need to talk."

So it came out, from mentor to acolyte, and so began Tankar's journey away from the everyday: There was a human by the name of Eladkot. He had turned up word of a dwarven holy place, one that was not referenced in the standard texts. Obviously, the church of Moradin couldn't let him investigate alone. Equally obviously, they couldn't let anyone go with him whose absence would be noticed.

Tankar, then, was chosen for his invisibility. "Now, just follow him around. Listen to what he says. Get the names of people he talks about. And in the name of the All-Father, if there's anything to this, don't let a bunch of humans get there before we do. Got it, Tankar?"

"Yes. I have it."

They can send me on this task, but they can't raise me above acolyte, he thought to himself. Well, I must go. It is duty. But I don't have to like it.

Maybe I won't even tell them my name.


*-*-*


Eladkot showed up for the first day of his first expedition full of nervous energy and bonhomie. The fact that he had barely slept the night before slowed him for a few minutes after awaking, but his excitement soon burned the fatigue away like a summer dawn scouring the mist from a hilltop glade.

Anything is possible today, he thought. Keep your eyes open, keep looking for answers, and anything's possible today.

The raspy, sardonic voice of the head of the stables broke his reverie. "Look, junior proctor, I don't have a requisition for any horses," he said. Jerzes, that's his name, Eladkot thought. Whew. Has he been drinking already?

"Listen - Jarzes, right?" Eladkot began. "You've been here a while. You understand that papers get lost, cross-marked, sent to the wrong department ... that's clearly what hap --"

"What I know is that without papers you ain't getting horses. Nor no mules either, so just save yer breath. And don't think you can cozy up to me an' get what you want, or threaten me and get it neither. I know these horses like my kin. And you ain't gettin' 'em for any fool errand that you got from the stars or somethin'. Nuh-uh."

"I just think that--"

"You should think about gettin' some good shoes afore you go - 'cause yer gonna be walkin'."

Just a few heartbeats ago, Eladkot would have laughed at the idea of being afraid of Jarzes. But now, the horseman's bloodshot eyes were mere inches away, and Eladkot, junior proctor of libram and pen (untenured), felt he could taste the alcoholic haze that leaked from the man's whistling nostrils. Taking a step back, he made a desultory farewell and left.


*-*-*


"Junior Proctor, I wish you to meet -- what was your name again, Master Dwarf?"

Every fiber of Tankar's being cried out that he was being piteously misused. He, who had been raised to the Mysteries of the Forge almost since birth, being sent - still as an acolyte! - out into the mountains as guide and footman to this ... this human. His posture betrayed some of this feeling - a certain tightness around the mouth, perhaps, and a special fastidiousness in his sacramental braidings spoke of faithful but bitter submission. And now, to sit here, meeting this human. Supposed to act happy about it. Supposed to act friendly.

He'd go. He didn't have to provide cheer.

"My name, honored Fellow of the Institute, is not truly important," he answered, gravely. He felt a bit guilty at putting on more of a dwarvish accent than was typical, but the idea struck him and it was too late now. "I'm the dwarf. You may call me ... dwarf is fine."

See what they do with that, he thought with some delight. His face, of course, betrayed nothing.

"Oh. Ah. Mr. ... Dwarf, then," stammered the slim, nondescript human with the Fellow. "I am Eladkot, junior proctor at the Institute. I've got some information that concerns an ancient --"

"I've been briefed," Tankar interrupted, affecting some gruffness. It really was hard to be angry with this human. He was so ...

"Wonderful!" Eladkot exclaimed, his face breaking into a smile of honest relief. Not the word I was looking for, Tankar thought. By the Forge, he was afraid I was going to turn him down. Doesn't he know I'm under orders?


*-*-*


The first three days of the trip were uneventful, even pleasant. Westward and slightly south they travelled, toward Eladkot's conjectured site for the Hidden Valley Ranch - a most unlikely name, Tankar thought. And this mess about it being a holy site - how could that be? He was trained in the Hidden mysteries, even as an acolyte. How could there be a holy site, lost barely five generations ago, the name of which was not even mentioned in the standard texts?

Chasing shadow rats, he thought. We're chasing shadow rats.

 

[ScyldSceafing]

OOC: Introductions all 'round

This story hour follows a group which began with a 'Gamers Seeking Gamers' post here on the ENWorld boards. Since that first email (from Eladkot's player), we've built a weekly group of five PCs. Everybody started at 0 xp.

The PCs are:

Eladkot - a skinny, bookish lad trying to make the tough transition from junior faculty to tenured professor of magical studies in the rough-and-tumble (sic) world of City of Greyhawk academics. Eladkot's player is the man whose email started the group - for that we all owe him a little debt of gratitude, although it's likely the man will take payment in the form of a drinkable malt of hops and grain. Male human, Rog1/Wiz1.

Tankar Lostson - known throughout the first session as 'the dwarf' because his player didn't know if the game was actually going to come off, and was a bit unprepared. Since then, Tankar has actually revealed his name following a little confidence-building exercise he and Eladkot went through involving orc slavers, a priest of Hextor, and an ambush. He's an orphan who was raised in the care of the priests of Moradin, and has followed that path to this point in his life. Male dwarf, Clr2 of Moradin.

Wyn A'rienh - As daughter of the youngest sister of the Queen of Celene, one might have expected Wyn to be subtle, conniving, suspicious and enthralled by Fae mystery. She isn't. Wyn's mother has found life in and around the court to be one of petty jealousy and thwarted hope for nearly every woman she's known, including the Queen - so she set Wyn on another path. When Wyn showed interest in martial studies, her mother used her position to insure her tutors were skilled and scrupulous. Female elf, Ftr2.

Foop Bodkins - Foop was the apprentice to an entertaining and fairly well-known alchemist who sold his wares as a sort of travelling road-show. Recently, though, Foop returned from a reagent-gathering sojurn to find his master missing and an unfamilar rune scribed on a scrap of parchment. Male gnome, Rog1/Wiz1.

Kerrick - Kerrick was also apprenticed, but he to a transmuter. He is quite gifted but a bit impulsive. He was taken by orc slavers in the foothills of the Lortmil Mountains, and then rescued by the party. Since he had no idea where he was, and the group seemed to be having some fun, he stayed with them. Male human, Wiz1.

Hope everyone enjoys the low-level follies as our heroes stumble into the maw of ancient forces. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

 

[ScyldSceafing]

A young elf's first assignment

Done well, swordfighting in the elven style results in a sort of brutal, sinuous worship of power; positions and movements learned as a child are incorporated seamlessly and without thought, and the result is a destruction of those very forms, replaced instead by a singular expression of beauty, confidence and danger.

Done poorly, it looks something like this:

The Master stands, poised, his thin, wooden training blade loosed and held - but held loosely - near his hip. The Student, her expression creased with concentration, runs at him. As she approaches, she raises her sword high with her right hand. The sword swings in a wide oval as she runs, then slashes down diagonally as she reaches him.

He parries it lazily, offering a grunted, "You showed it again" as she follows up with another blow - parried - and a chop at the legs - blocked. She steps back, then lunges back in. A twist of his wrist flips the sword from her grasp, and she slumps dejectedly as his wooden blade ticks her under the chin.

Sighing, he abruptly drops into a cross-legged sitting posture on the floor. "Sit," he says, and she does.

"Wyn," he says, still sighing, looking about the room for suggestions on how to start. "Your father, ehh, he would want you to work harder on the--"

"I'm not my father, you know."

"Yes. I know. But you've got ability with more than just the bow. You want to be one of those archers who dies the first time they get overrun? It happens more than we like to talk about. And your father ...

Ji'tun laughed, and the look on his face became that of someone she wished she knew more completely. "I remember how your father fought, there at the end of the Hateful Wars. One time, we were trapped in a little side-room by some orcs, just the three of us - your father, Telmo, and me. He just laughed and sang a drinking song at them! And as he sang he danced to the song, with his feet and his body and his sword. Oh, so many orcs marched into his blade it became like an anthem ..."

On and on. All her life Wyn had heard stories like this. On and on, all her life, all for a man she'd never met and would never meet. Her father danced his beautiful dance until the blood pouring off of his flashing blade had finally made him slip.

"I've got to go to the range," she said, when Ji'tun's reminisences made a brief pause. Then, siezed by a vague guilt: "Festival's coming up. You know. Have to get ready for the contest."

Ji'tun's beatific expression vanished, replaced by his usual carefully neutral inquisitive stare. "Ah," he said. "Yes. Absolutely. So then - same time in two days?"

"Sure."

"Wonderful. Just put the practice sword and the tabard in the equipment room. Oh - and take mine, please. Thank you."

While she was putting the equipment away, Wyn's turbulent thoughts were interrupted by another voice in the dojo: Ly'al, of the royal guard. "Wyn here?" she heard him ask Ji'tun. "Yes," her master replied, then the conversation continued, more quietly.

It's not really eavesdropping if they're talking about me, right? Wyn thought as she moved to hear more clearly. I mean, I can hardly avoid hearing what they're saying.

"... know she's upset at being turned down for that Ministry trip."

"Yes. She was fierce that day. She didn't say anything, but I heard about it later."

"Right. Well. Her mother must be part dwarf. The woman is stubborn. She wants her daughter--"

"Shh. Here. Come out here."

Wyn strained, but only bits and pieces wiggled through.

"... put her on a ranging."

"Not b ... available."

"... safer than ... and the goblins - they're ..."

"... counsel her to listen and learn. Good. It's good."

Realizing they were coming back into the dojo, Wyn dropped the final sword into place and banged the cabinet door shut.

"Ah, Wyn. Yes." Ji'tun gestured at the guardsman. "You know Ly'al, yes?"

Pulling herself into what she hoped was a powerful stance, Wyn said, "Yes. Of course. Hello, sir."

"Wyn. No need to call me sir. I just wanted to tell you I got you a post."

"On the next Ministry trip?"

"Well ... we'll see how this goes. I've asked for you to be placed on the list for a ranging."

So. There it was. A ranging. They wanted her to prove herself. A ranging. Fine.

"That's ... kind of you. I should report ...?"

"Report to the guards stand first thing tomorrow. I'm not having the Queen's niece running around in the woods with three other saplings wearing armor made for a fat boy. Then I'll walk you over. I hope that's acceptable?"

"It is, sir. And thank you."

 

[CoopersPale]

Hi ScyldSceafing,

I like it

You have a great writing style!

Who came up with the name "Foop" anyway?
That's just funny.

How many sessions of this campaign have you played?

cheers

Coop

 

[ScyldSceafing]

Ah, well, thank you.

Foop's player came up with the name Foop. He actually now says it as a cheer when he does something good. I can foresee the day when the chorus of "Foop!" from star-struck onlookers prompts the commentator to pause and point out, "They're not booing - they're saying 'Fooooooop!'"

And I think we've had about five weekly sessions so far. And this is about the first 1/8 of the first one.

I plan to finish this session by the end of the day Sunday. So there will be several posts this weekend.

 

[ScyldSceafing]

Afoul of the slavers

In retrospect, it is hard to blame either Eladkot or The Dwarf for falling afoul of the slavers. Neither had much experience in the world. And up to that point it had just seemed so ... easy.

The journey began with a boat trip down the Velverdyva. The Rhennee boat captain had orders to make certain the two weren't bothered, and he took it literally. Despite sharing a small cabin, the two exchanged fewer than 20 words in the four-day trip from Dyvers to Verbobonc, all of those from Eladkot. The human wondered, at times, if perhaps the dwarf couldn't speak; but of course he heard the priest's prayers in the mornings, so the thought was idle, and he put it away.

Leaving Verbobonc was more like a stroll than any dramatic undertaking. After two days on the road, the companions had settled into a peaceable but extremely quiet routine. Eladkot occasionally spoke about his theories on Hidden Valley Ranch, or less often about people he knew in Greyhawk; The Dwarf grunted assent or amusement, as appropriate, but offered little else. Would it kill him to tell me his name? Eladkot thought more than once. It's been two days now. But the human never asked directly, and the dwarf never offered, and so they walked on, west and southwest, through verdant farmlands and tiny hamlets, toward the hills and mountains looming before them. Their passage was not much noticed by those around them.

So on they hiked, their bodies growing stronger and leaner as they went - through the northern edge of the Kron Hills and onto the path suggested to them by a local woodsman. It seemed he was available for hire - but who needs help walking? On their eighth day out of Verbobonc - the day Eladkot successfully set a snare and caught a mountain hare for dinner - the pair settled down to sleep in a sheltered camp site off the path.

They awoke when jostled by something hard. The butt of a spear, it turns out. The butt of a spear, held by an orc. Around them were several orcs - a few had weapons on them, while the others turned out their packs and looked for valuables. The largest stood to the side, arguing with a human who spoke the rough and degraded tongue of orc kind.

It was the human who broke the news. "Sorry about all this," he said, wincing slightly. "The boys are a bit difficult about security sometimes. It seems there's some goblins marauding through these hills. You need to come with us."

"Come with you?" Eladkot asked, his anger growing now that the spear-haft was absent from his ribs. "What is this? Tell them to leave our equipment alone!"

With a curt word in their tongue, the human got the attention of the orcs. They answered angrily, and the human replied in kind. After a brief exchange of obvious animus, the orcs repacked the equipment and left it where it lay.

"There you go. A show of good will, I suppose," the human said, smiling in the moonlight. "I'm sorry. I've started poorly with you gentlemen. My name is Bjorn, and I'm a trader around these parts. These orcs are ... well, they're familiar to me, if they're not friends. At least I know them a bit.

"This doesn't have to go this way. Just come with us, sleep the night through, and we'll all go our ways in the morning. It's the goblins they're worried about."

"Goblins? Surely these can handle goblins?"

"Ah, but the goblins have great numbers, and are increasingly cunning."

With that, he gestured to the orcs, who took the pair in hand. The largest orc - the one who had argued with Bjorn - approached with manacles.

"Wait!" Eladkot said, and The Dwarf jostled with his minders. "You didn't say anything about being bound!"

"Oh. Sorry," Bjorn said. "Grak is adamant about that. He thinks you're agents for the goblins. He wants you to have a hard time fighting." Seeing their obvious disbelief, Bjorn smiled. "Look, I'm telling you the truth. And what choice to you have, really?"

A quick count showed six orcs in the area, and this Bjorn. With a tiny shake of his head, The Dwarf counseled patience to Eladkot, who said, "Very well. We'll go with you. We have your word that you'll loose us?"

"Oh yes," Bjorn replied. "You have my word."

A quick, quiet march further into the mountains led to the orc camp. As they arrived, Bjorn whistled and several more orcs stumbled out of their small, rough shelters to the fire-pit. A long, low lean-to held ... prisoners?

"Ah. Yes," Bjorn said, laughing. "Well, it seems we've had a misunderstanding. You shan't be freed - not now, and not ever. You are mine, lads, until we get where we're going. Then, after a little commerce, you'll be someone else's."

The orcs were already dragging them over to the chain-lines that held the other prisoners - a sturdy but slightly elderly man and two young women.

"We set out tomorrow morning," Bjorn said, his face still glowing with amusement at his little ruse. "I'd get some sleep if I were you."

 

[ScyldSceafing]

And into the wild

Clad in lovingly crafted leather armor decorated in a motif of twining green leaves, armed with a fresh bowstring and straight, shining steel, Wyn marched over toward the mustering bower to meet her companions for her first ranging. The three elves she met there were a bit ... unexpected.

"So who's the new girl?" the shortest one said as she walked through the archway. "You comin' with us?"

"I ... I'm Wyn. Yes. I'm-"

"Like your armor, Wyn," he said, drawing a small guffaw from the largest elf. The third, a young one whose face showed the scars of a battle with spotted fever, didn't laugh, but he smiled a bit. A moment of silence followed ... stretched ...

"It's new," she offered, hopeful.

"Yep," said the largest one. "I'm Laucion. Don't b'lieve we've met." He stood and extended his hand, palm-up, showing a healing cut on his thumb.

"Pleasure to meet you-"

"Look. Let's get something straight here. I'm leading this here rangin', right?"

"R-right."

"And you got new armor."

"Yes."

"So maybe you listen to me a little. I ain't part of no diplomatic corps, but I know a thing or two. And one of the things I know is that I want you to get back to your mama in one piece, new girl. Understand?"

This is the worst of it, Wyn. They're testing you, she thought. All she said was, "Yes. I understand."

*-*-*

If Laucion did little to make her comfortable in the mustering bower, he did less in the field. In their practice at targets, Wyn showed she was the match of any of them - their better, truth be known - but still the ranging leader squinted hard at any suggestion she could hold her own.

What made it worse was the sneaking suspicion he was right. Her first attempt at tracking was a disaster - she not only lost the signs of the owlbear, but she also so muddled the trail that even Laucion couldn't straighten it out. And she learned quickly that it didn't take a master bladesman like Ji'tun to humble her. The first night, Laucion worked with her until full dark, hitting her again and again with the flat of his sword, daring her to call it off. She drifted off into meditation thinking about the relation between pain and wisdom, and hoping her abundance of the former would produce some of the latter.

Still, her mother's most common words kept her trying: You're never beat if you're alive and learning, Wyn. Alive and learning. Stay that way. She was alive, and she was learning. Learning to sleep on the ground. Learning to gobble hot food with her hands. Learning the words to some songs she hadn't heard from any minstrels.

After a few days, Wyn settled into the rhythm of the thing, and she realized that a great portion of ranging was boring. Reports from recent rangings had only talked of a few problems on the boundaries of Celene - some well-organized but seemingly non-aggressive goblins in the Lortmils, an odd concentration of ankhegs just south of the Kron Hills, and a few incidents of orcish predation on peaceful folk. Nothing organized and no incidents of note. Boring.

Ten days into the ranging - with the group west of the Kron Hills in the lower Lortmils and just about to turn for home - that all changed.

 

[ScyldSceafing]

Slave's Progress

All day the orcs had pushed them forward, their legs in light irons, their necks chained together by the coffle. Eladkot had stared at the older man's bald spot for so long he felt he'd see it in his sleep. It was worse for The Dwarf - he was shorter than any of the others except for the little girl, and she was at the end of the coffle. His position in the middle meant his neck-ring pulled up constantly, making him walk with his chin in the air and thereby rendering him prone to stumbling over the slightest obstruction. They were fed, but the food was tasteless and cold. They were told not to talk. They were told not to look around.

And it's worse for the women, Eladkot thought. His reverie was broken by the orcs arguing. As usual, Bjorn settled it.

"But the path is washed out!" Grak said. "We're going to have to pick through there single-file!"

"And what of it?" Bjorn countered. "This is our way. I don't know another, do you?"

"Well-"

"Look. Move out. Sooner we start, sooner we finish."

It didn't take a woodsman to see what the orcs were complaining about. The trail they were following was pounded flat some time before out of the shale and shattered stones which piled up against the hill-face proper. Apparently heavy rains had washed portions of it out - it would be impossible to go more than single file. A false step at the wrong point would mean a slide down a sharp incline composed entirely of fragmented rocks.

"This should be fun," Eladkot muttered.

"Shut it," one of the guards said. Slowly, gingerly, the group worked its way along the path.

After about 100 feet of this struggle, the path turned sharply to the right, following the contour of the hill. For several feet on either side of this turn, the path disintegrated entirely, becoming just a general slope of rock. One of the lead orcs nearly fell, and they began helping each other across it. Eladkot, looking ahead, realized that the orcs had divided themselves in a way that could be most useful.

Right. Useful, he thought. Useful if there was anyone else here who wasn't chained up.


*-*-*


Cassa, working point, appeared suddenly out of the trees.

"Laucion," he said, panting slightly. "It's orcs. About 8 of 'em. And they got prisoners, looks like."

 

[Wyn A'rienh]

*tiptoes in and looks around*

*spots Scyld*

*salutes him....then moons him and runs away, giggling*

 

[ScyldSceafing]

Fighting the slavers

Three of the first volley of arrows from Laucion's ranging found a home in one particular orc near the end of the line. At the moment that he squealed briefly, grunted and fell, fully half the orc guards were past the washout and around the turn in the path. The prisoners were stopped, measuring the prospect of crossing the washout while in legirons. One orc was screaming at them to move. Bjorn was behind them, in the midst of the seven orcs who followed the prisoners - what he thought of as his 'rearguard.'

Eladkot took one look over his shoulder, saw the orcs whirling and looking for battle, and pushed. Bunched up and bound as they were, the six prisoners tumbled head over foot down the shale incline. Once at the bottom, some 40 feet from the orcs, they lay there a moment, trying to feel if anything was broken.

The young girl, Lala, had taken a nasty knock on the head and was unconscious. The Dwarf quickly determined that she was not seriously injured, at least not yet; not compared to what awaited her if this battle went poorly.

For battle it was, suddenly. Another rain of arrows came from the treeline, and another orc fell. The remaining orcs were hurriedly readying their weapons, shouting for help and screaming instructions at each other. Two attempted to fire blindly into the trees; three others pulled greataxes out and began moving toward the trees, dodging and weaving.

The shouting had gained the attention of the orcs who had crossed the washout, Eladkot could see, but returning hurriedly cost them. One fell, tumbling down the incline. Suddenly Eladkot realized he wasn't as unarmed as he thought - his hands were free, as were all the prisoners'.

"Rocks!" he shouted. "Use the rocks!"

*-*-*

For Wyn, it was all happening too quickly. All the time spent training hadn't prepared her for the rush of blood she felt as the orcs began screaming instructions and charging at her position. She couldn't think; she couldn't move; she couldn't speak.

She could shoot, though.

After the second volley, Laucion and Cassa leapt out of hiding, drawing their swords and rushing up to meet the axe-wielders. Those crossbowmen will pick them apart, she thought fearfully, and then realized that the human with the orcs - the one who was not bound - was gesturing and speaking, although she could not hear the words. She did see him covered briefly in a reddish glow.

Mother, I love you flitted through her mind before she could shrug off the thought. She wouldn't think about dying. No. Not now. Not yet. Instead, she drew her bow and took aim at the human on the hill, waiting to see if he would try to flee or stay to fight.

He did neither, instead opting to speak and gesture again - the last mistake he ever made. Wyn's arrow hit him in the side, and he staggered back against the cliff-face, his dark robes suddenly darker with his blood. T'lyl put one in his thigh, and Wyn's next found the man's throat. He clutched at the shaft, blood pouring between his fingers, took one small step forward, and then collapsed onto the path, dying.

*-*-*

Serves you right, you craven b------, the Dwarf thought. Die and get your pay, slaver.

But he had little time for revenge. Surviving would be enough. Ridiculously, another orc had fallen trying to hurry past the washout, and now those two orcs were closing in on the slaves, battleaxes drawn. They mean to kill us just for fun now, the Dwarf thought.

The prisoners' rock-throwing was causing the pair some grief, true - both were bleeding from wounds to the head - but for a moment the Dwarf wondered about the wisdom of Eladkot's leadership. Maybe if we'd just laid still, they wouldn't have...

The Dwarf's moment of secret cowardice was interrupted by a scream near the trees.

*-*-*

Laucion's battle-cry was a fearsome thing, and he plunged into melee with abandon. He parried the first axe-blow aimed at him easily and answered with a whirling, two-handed riposte that cut just below the orc's ribs. The orc made an oddly gentle sound of surprise - "Oh ..." - and fell immediately.

The second orc arrived a moment later. The ground, suddenly slick with blood, gave Laucion no aid, and as he struck a killing blow, the orc's final axe-strike took him in the shoulder. He screamed in shock and pain, his right hand still holding the sword which was buried hilt-deep in the second orc. The two enemies fell to the ground, their blood mingling, their bodies tangled and languid as lovers on a hot afternoon.

"No!" shouted Wyn and T'lyl in unison.

*-*-*

Whistling rock after rock at the advancing orcs, Eladkot felt a sort of fierce joy surge through him. The first was almost upon him, and he had an idea. All we've got are rocks and chains, he thought. So let's use 'em.

The closest orc tried to grab at the coffle, apparently intending to drag the chain of slaves away from the fight. Eladkot used that moment to push the man in front of him into the orc, then pile forward. The orc seemed surprised to be resisted, oddly, and the three set to grappling.

Just as the second orc arrived at the slaves, the fierce elf - the one whose battle-cry had briefly shamed the Dwarf - was cut down. The Dwarf and the women reacted violently - tugging the small girl a couple of feet, they snatched at the orc, surrounding him. As he aimed an axe-blow at one of the women - who dodged it - the Dwarf kicked his legs out from under him.

The human women had suffered much at the hands of these orcs. Now, one of the orcs was injured, disarmed and prone in front of them. After a few seconds, The Dwarf had to look away, even while holding the slaver pinned. Screaming wordlessly in their rage, the women pounded down, rocks in hand. Blood began to rise into the air like mist.

*-*-*

A few orcs from the vanguard saw the human women howling and killing, saw the elves shooting and slaying, and decided that there was no one left to report them if they simply ran away. So they did.

*-*-*

"Ho there," the serious-looking elf girl said, eyeing the corpses of the orcs. Her voice was accented with the sing-song cadence of native Elvish. Eladkot made his way down the line, unlocking his fellow slaves, while the Dwarf tended briefly to the little girl. "We ... we have lost one. Or perhaps not. Do any of you have healing magics? I'm afraid he cannot swallow."

"I can," the Dwarf said. "Much as I hate to touch an elf, I think he's earned it." Can't have them thinking I was scared, of course. There's the image to uphold, he thought. He rapidly made his way to the fierce elf, who lie very near death. A few prayers and the blessing of Moradin coursed through him, though; within minutes he was up, moving painfully, thanking them.

"I'm Laucion. This here's Cassa, and T'lyl, and Wyn," he said, coughing and wincing slightly.

"Eladkot at your service, sir. And thank you for the help. Don't know what we'd have done without you."

"You'd have been sold at market in the Pomarj. Shipped off somewhere. That's what would've happened."

"Ah. Well then. Thanks are ..."

The elf girl Wyn stepped up and interrupted, and Laucion seemed thankful to get to sit down. "Enough, human. I know you are thankful. Now let's get ready to go. We've got a few days' travel to Enstad."

"Enstad? Our destination is north of here, not south. And we-"

"You're coming with us. What happens after that is up to you. I can't leave people who can't take care of themselves-"

"We can-"

" -- out here with these orcs looking for slaves. So let's go." The other victims seemed to feel the idea was acceptable. After a rest, the group set out south, skirting the hills, using hidden paths that the elves pointed out. It was slow travel, and quiet.

As dusk crept in, the group set up camp, and Laucion came to his healer. "Master dwarf. I understand I owe you thanks, and so I give it. Might I have your name?"

In for iron, out for gold, thought the Dwarf. "Tankar, acolyte of Moradin. Uh, at your service."

Nodding, Laucion gestured at his shoulder. "I thank you for your name, Tankar of Moradin. And your faith." Smiling teasingly, he said, "I am glad you consented to touch me."


Next: We meet a gnome with a lot on his mind, and wonder what in the world we've done.