Menu
News
All News
Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
Pathfinder
Starfinder
Warhammer
2d20 System
Year Zero Engine
Industry News
Reviews
Dragon Reflections
Columns
Weekly Digests
Weekly News Digest
Freebies, Sales & Bundles
RPG Print News
RPG Crowdfunding News
Game Content
ENterplanetary DimENsions
Mythological Figures
Opinion
Worlds of Design
Peregrine's Next
RPG Evolution
Other Columns
From the Freelancing Frontline
Monster ENcyclopedia
WotC/TSR Alumni Look Back
4 Hours w/RSD (Ryan Dancey)
The Road to 3E (Jonathan Tweet)
Greenwood's Realms (Ed Greenwood)
Drawmij's TSR (Jim Ward)
Community
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Resources
Wiki
Pages
Latest activity
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Downloads
Latest reviews
Search resources
EN Publishing
Store
EN5ider
Adventures in ZEITGEIST
Awfully Cheerful Engine
What's OLD is NEW
Judge Dredd & The Worlds Of 2000AD
War of the Burning Sky
Level Up: Advanced 5E
Events & Releases
Upcoming Events
Private Events
Featured Events
Socials!
Twitch
YouTube
Facebook (EN Publishing)
Facebook (EN World)
Twitter
Instagram
TikTok
Podcast
Features
Top 5 RPGs Compiled Charts 2004-Present
Adventure Game Industry Market Research Summary (RPGs) V1.0
Ryan Dancey: Acquiring TSR
Q&A With Gary Gygax
D&D Rules FAQs
TSR, WotC, & Paizo: A Comparative History
D&D Pronunciation Guide
Million Dollar TTRPG Kickstarters
Tabletop RPG Podcast Hall of Fame
Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D 3rd Edition News
D&D in the Mainstream
D&D & RPG History
About Morrus
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Destan" data-source="post: 911907" data-attributes="member: 12157"><p><strong>The Battle Joined</strong></p><p></p><p>Brother Vath the Pious opened and closed his fists. Unlike his companions, he fought with tooth and nail, knee and elbow. The tattered gray robes which barely covered his scarred skin were his only armor, save the grace of his god. Ilmater favored those who anguished in His Name, and Vath was <em>the Pious</em> not because he lit more incense than other priests, but because he knew suffering in all its forms.</p><p></p><p>The product of rape, his childhood spent in a slaving pen, Vath understood the cruelty of the world. Yet the monks of Kesh had exited their monastery to claim him from the slavers, for they saw the mark of their god upon him. His life within the monastery was brutal, regimented, and unforgiving. But it was not the slave pens, and for that reason alone he learned to love Ilmater and his somber-faced worshippers.</p><p></p><p>His companions were behind him, still above on the ridge, when he disappeared into the thicket. The Larren ranger was shouting a battle cry and the elf was muttering arcane phrases. Vath, however, simply moved forward. One of his fellow monks back at Kesh had once told him he spoke less than a pile of manure and smelled just as badly. Vath never was one for words, even less so when there was suffering to be had. </p><p></p><p>And suffering to be delivered. Praise be to Ilmater.</p><p></p><p>The red cords that dug into his wrists were purposefully tight. He would wake many nights, draped in his hairshirt, taloned hands twisting in agony from the loss of circulation. They only tingled now. He continued to flex his fingers as he loped forward, his stride eating away at the distance toward the sounds of combat.</p><p></p><p>And then, he was there. He burst from the clearing and let his gaze scan the combatants. It was over. That much was plain. Even as he watched, the last rûcken fell. The gray-skinned humanoid clutched feebly at the sword in its belly before collapsing.</p><p></p><p>Vath heard his companions’ arrive behind him, all thundering hooves and scattering rock. They pulled up short, next to him, and an odd silence suddenly blanketed the glade.</p><p></p><p>Each group took one another’s measure. Vath counted the newcomers. Six of them. Two more were down in the weeds, one moaning piteously. To a man they wore the green robes of Gond. Emblazoned upon their tabards was a golden tower – the Prince’s Tower of Tarn Cal. The closest rank held swords, points low, as they studied Vath and his comrades. Behind those four were two more, great horned bows at hand, arrows nocked.</p><p></p><p>One of the swordsmen stepped forward and removed a nasal-bar helm. “I am Edric, sworn liegeman to the Crown Prince, yet my first allegiance rests in the bosom of the Smith-Father Gond. I have men down, and would tend to their hurts.”</p><p></p><p>John of Pell urged his mount forward but a pace. “Tend to them as you will. We shall await matters.”</p><p></p><p>The man nodded, sheathed his sword, and walked briskly toward his two fallen companions. He knelt at the side of one only long enough to close his eyes and give a quiet benediction. He pressed his hand onto the wound of another and prayed softly. The man’s moaning ceased, though he did not rise.</p><p></p><p>Edric stood and turned to face the party once again. “These are rûcken, slain by our hand and in accordance with the laws of gods and man. Their possessions are ours, as is fitting. We have no quarrel with you.”</p><p></p><p>John was silent for a moment. “Nor us with you, Tarn Calian. But those beasts may have carried what did not belong to them. And, as such, it does not now belong to you.”</p><p></p><p>Edric’s eyes narrowed. “I can tell by your accent and your manner that you are but a Pellman from the southlands. You apparently do not understand the laws of these lands.”</p><p></p><p>“And I can tell by your manner that you are an ass.” John’s own eyes flashed. “You have slain rûcken and for such should be thanked by all god-fearing and law-abiding men. But would you be robbers, too?”</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan nudged his horse forward next to John’s. Vath listened to the elf, though his eyes never left the green-robed warriors. Amelyssan whispered, “The man made it look as if he prayed to heal the wounds of his comrade, but his beseeching was arcane, not divine. He slew the man with a minor spell. They are not what they appear.”</p><p></p><p>John gave no sign he heard the elf’s words. “We seek one item. It may be upon those rûcken, or it may not. Should it not be here, we will leave you to your booty and to your dead.”</p><p></p><p>“And if it is here?”</p><p></p><p>“Then we will take it.” John’s voice was even.</p><p></p><p>“What is it you seek, Pellman? More gold? Jewels?”</p><p></p><p>“That and more, but not now. There may be an odd item in their gear. A piece of a staff. An antique. Our benefactor wishes it returned to him.”</p><p></p><p>Vath could see that the men knew what John spoke of. It was quickly appearing that Ilmater may yet be gifted with more suffering. Edric shot a glance behind him at his men. “That is unacceptable. Should such an item be here, it is ours by rights. I see you have one dressed in the black robes of the Larren clan. He can tell you of the laws hereabouts.”</p><p></p><p>Raylin shrugged. The ranger sat easily on his horse in casual indifference. “The men of my clan recognize the right of the victor to the spoils. Certainly.”</p><p></p><p>Edric smiled. “So you see, Pellman, it appears-”</p><p></p><p>Raylin cleared his throat. “I am not finished. By that same right, should you deny us this request, then we may lawfully take your own goods from your dead bodies. Along with the staff, of course.”</p><p></p><p>“Brigands,” spat Edric. He replaced the helm upon his head. “We have no horses. You will ride us down.”</p><p></p><p>“If you do not give us the staff,” John answered, “that is a fair assumption to make.”</p><p></p><p>“You threaten eloquently, Pellman.”</p><p></p><p>“More to the point, I do not threaten idly.”</p><p></p><p>“Then come down from your mounts, and know that I, Edric Uldonson of Rhelm, warrior of renown and slayer of the Gulga Beast, do hereby and thus forth name you cowards and thieves. Your bones shall-”</p><p></p><p>The green-robed warrior never finished his sentence. A streak of blue-gray power shot forth from Amelyssan’s manicured fingers, catching the man full in the face. He crumpled with nary a sound.</p><p></p><p>Vath was a blur – he shot down the slope in the blink of an eye before vaulting over the rank of swordsmen to land between the two archers. His fist shot outward and slammed into the closer man’s nose. Blood splattered onto the already gore-strewn weeds. The man’s bow slipped from nerveless fingers. Vath knew the warrior was stunned; he focused on the remaining bowman.</p><p></p><p>Desperately the archer dropped his bow and drew a long-bladed knife. His cut was low and off the mark. Vath shoved an elbow into his windpipe, heard the satisfying pop that marked a slow death by suffocation, and – almost dismissively – slammed a green fist into the stunned archer’s temple. The man fell like an ox at a slaughterhouse. Praise be to Ilmater.</p><p></p><p>The half-troll turned, crouched low and ready to go where needed, but it was over. Amelyssan’s second arcane bolt had killed another swordsman. Vath saw one body, nearly cloven, that could only be from the handiwork of Baden’s crescent axe. Raylin and John had finished the remaining two. Only Kellus, it seemed, did not partake in the fight, though he had called upon his inner powers to bless the party during the outset.</p><p></p><p>Vath surveyed the carnage. It was too cold for flies, thankfully, or they would already have appeared. The weeds were a grisly display of blood and refuse. Rûcken bodies were intermingled with the slain green-robes.</p><p></p><p>John wasted no time in pilfering through the rûcken sacks. They smelled of rotten meat and bad cheese. It was only a moment before the Pellman stood, a foot-long piece of oak clutched within his hands. “Thank Tymora this is here, else I may have felt remorseful.”</p><p></p><p>Vath was unsure, but he thought the bard’s words genuine. He let his companions pick over the bodies, spending the few moments in quiet prayer to Ilmater.</p><p></p><p>Raylin was the first to climb upon his horse. “These plains are home to creatures more deadly than rûcken. They will come to the smell of blood like drunks to a dinner table. We had best gain some distance from this field prior to nightfall.”</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan nodded. “There are no holy symbols of Gond upon them, no priestly accoutrements. These men were parading as priests, but they had no faith.”</p><p></p><p>Kellus smiled solemnly. “One could say the same of me, at least for a time. Nonetheless, I think you are correct. These were Rhelmsmen, of a certainty, but they were mercenaries. Like us.”</p><p></p><p>“Not quite like us,” John corrected. “They lost.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Destan, post: 911907, member: 12157"] [b]The Battle Joined[/b] Brother Vath the Pious opened and closed his fists. Unlike his companions, he fought with tooth and nail, knee and elbow. The tattered gray robes which barely covered his scarred skin were his only armor, save the grace of his god. Ilmater favored those who anguished in His Name, and Vath was [i]the Pious[/i] not because he lit more incense than other priests, but because he knew suffering in all its forms. The product of rape, his childhood spent in a slaving pen, Vath understood the cruelty of the world. Yet the monks of Kesh had exited their monastery to claim him from the slavers, for they saw the mark of their god upon him. His life within the monastery was brutal, regimented, and unforgiving. But it was not the slave pens, and for that reason alone he learned to love Ilmater and his somber-faced worshippers. His companions were behind him, still above on the ridge, when he disappeared into the thicket. The Larren ranger was shouting a battle cry and the elf was muttering arcane phrases. Vath, however, simply moved forward. One of his fellow monks back at Kesh had once told him he spoke less than a pile of manure and smelled just as badly. Vath never was one for words, even less so when there was suffering to be had. And suffering to be delivered. Praise be to Ilmater. The red cords that dug into his wrists were purposefully tight. He would wake many nights, draped in his hairshirt, taloned hands twisting in agony from the loss of circulation. They only tingled now. He continued to flex his fingers as he loped forward, his stride eating away at the distance toward the sounds of combat. And then, he was there. He burst from the clearing and let his gaze scan the combatants. It was over. That much was plain. Even as he watched, the last rûcken fell. The gray-skinned humanoid clutched feebly at the sword in its belly before collapsing. Vath heard his companions’ arrive behind him, all thundering hooves and scattering rock. They pulled up short, next to him, and an odd silence suddenly blanketed the glade. Each group took one another’s measure. Vath counted the newcomers. Six of them. Two more were down in the weeds, one moaning piteously. To a man they wore the green robes of Gond. Emblazoned upon their tabards was a golden tower – the Prince’s Tower of Tarn Cal. The closest rank held swords, points low, as they studied Vath and his comrades. Behind those four were two more, great horned bows at hand, arrows nocked. One of the swordsmen stepped forward and removed a nasal-bar helm. “I am Edric, sworn liegeman to the Crown Prince, yet my first allegiance rests in the bosom of the Smith-Father Gond. I have men down, and would tend to their hurts.” John of Pell urged his mount forward but a pace. “Tend to them as you will. We shall await matters.” The man nodded, sheathed his sword, and walked briskly toward his two fallen companions. He knelt at the side of one only long enough to close his eyes and give a quiet benediction. He pressed his hand onto the wound of another and prayed softly. The man’s moaning ceased, though he did not rise. Edric stood and turned to face the party once again. “These are rûcken, slain by our hand and in accordance with the laws of gods and man. Their possessions are ours, as is fitting. We have no quarrel with you.” John was silent for a moment. “Nor us with you, Tarn Calian. But those beasts may have carried what did not belong to them. And, as such, it does not now belong to you.” Edric’s eyes narrowed. “I can tell by your accent and your manner that you are but a Pellman from the southlands. You apparently do not understand the laws of these lands.” “And I can tell by your manner that you are an ass.” John’s own eyes flashed. “You have slain rûcken and for such should be thanked by all god-fearing and law-abiding men. But would you be robbers, too?” Amelyssan nudged his horse forward next to John’s. Vath listened to the elf, though his eyes never left the green-robed warriors. Amelyssan whispered, “The man made it look as if he prayed to heal the wounds of his comrade, but his beseeching was arcane, not divine. He slew the man with a minor spell. They are not what they appear.” John gave no sign he heard the elf’s words. “We seek one item. It may be upon those rûcken, or it may not. Should it not be here, we will leave you to your booty and to your dead.” “And if it is here?” “Then we will take it.” John’s voice was even. “What is it you seek, Pellman? More gold? Jewels?” “That and more, but not now. There may be an odd item in their gear. A piece of a staff. An antique. Our benefactor wishes it returned to him.” Vath could see that the men knew what John spoke of. It was quickly appearing that Ilmater may yet be gifted with more suffering. Edric shot a glance behind him at his men. “That is unacceptable. Should such an item be here, it is ours by rights. I see you have one dressed in the black robes of the Larren clan. He can tell you of the laws hereabouts.” Raylin shrugged. The ranger sat easily on his horse in casual indifference. “The men of my clan recognize the right of the victor to the spoils. Certainly.” Edric smiled. “So you see, Pellman, it appears-” Raylin cleared his throat. “I am not finished. By that same right, should you deny us this request, then we may lawfully take your own goods from your dead bodies. Along with the staff, of course.” “Brigands,” spat Edric. He replaced the helm upon his head. “We have no horses. You will ride us down.” “If you do not give us the staff,” John answered, “that is a fair assumption to make.” “You threaten eloquently, Pellman.” “More to the point, I do not threaten idly.” “Then come down from your mounts, and know that I, Edric Uldonson of Rhelm, warrior of renown and slayer of the Gulga Beast, do hereby and thus forth name you cowards and thieves. Your bones shall-” The green-robed warrior never finished his sentence. A streak of blue-gray power shot forth from Amelyssan’s manicured fingers, catching the man full in the face. He crumpled with nary a sound. Vath was a blur – he shot down the slope in the blink of an eye before vaulting over the rank of swordsmen to land between the two archers. His fist shot outward and slammed into the closer man’s nose. Blood splattered onto the already gore-strewn weeds. The man’s bow slipped from nerveless fingers. Vath knew the warrior was stunned; he focused on the remaining bowman. Desperately the archer dropped his bow and drew a long-bladed knife. His cut was low and off the mark. Vath shoved an elbow into his windpipe, heard the satisfying pop that marked a slow death by suffocation, and – almost dismissively – slammed a green fist into the stunned archer’s temple. The man fell like an ox at a slaughterhouse. Praise be to Ilmater. The half-troll turned, crouched low and ready to go where needed, but it was over. Amelyssan’s second arcane bolt had killed another swordsman. Vath saw one body, nearly cloven, that could only be from the handiwork of Baden’s crescent axe. Raylin and John had finished the remaining two. Only Kellus, it seemed, did not partake in the fight, though he had called upon his inner powers to bless the party during the outset. Vath surveyed the carnage. It was too cold for flies, thankfully, or they would already have appeared. The weeds were a grisly display of blood and refuse. Rûcken bodies were intermingled with the slain green-robes. John wasted no time in pilfering through the rûcken sacks. They smelled of rotten meat and bad cheese. It was only a moment before the Pellman stood, a foot-long piece of oak clutched within his hands. “Thank Tymora this is here, else I may have felt remorseful.” Vath was unsure, but he thought the bard’s words genuine. He let his companions pick over the bodies, spending the few moments in quiet prayer to Ilmater. Raylin was the first to climb upon his horse. “These plains are home to creatures more deadly than rûcken. They will come to the smell of blood like drunks to a dinner table. We had best gain some distance from this field prior to nightfall.” Amelyssan nodded. “There are no holy symbols of Gond upon them, no priestly accoutrements. These men were parading as priests, but they had no faith.” Kellus smiled solemnly. “One could say the same of me, at least for a time. Nonetheless, I think you are correct. These were Rhelmsmen, of a certainty, but they were mercenaries. Like us.” “Not quite like us,” John corrected. “They lost.” [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
Top