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Softwind's Tale: Companions of the Valley (upd 04/01/04) - REALLY!
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<blockquote data-quote="Softwind" data-source="post: 1215303" data-attributes="member: 13893"><p><strong><span style="font-size: 10px">Tenth Session (Nov 02)</span></strong></p><p> </p><p> Having cleared the woods of bandits, and run off bands of orcs, goblins, and other forest denizens, the journey back to Merikest is uneventful for the group of adventurers. By the next day, they reach the outskirts of town, and even the ranger Brynn is relieved to see “civilization”. Dropping off their unneeded gear in the Dancing Pony inn, they head out to report their findings and success to Reg, the town sheriff. They are quickly ushered into his office. He is pleased to hear that Brightstone Keep has been cleared of its “infestation” of monsters, and thanks the party proficiently. With their newfound wealth, both from rewards and from loot gathered from the Keep, the party separates to do some shopping in town.</p><p> </p><p> A small town, Merikest’s recent history of occupation from forces of the Argent Legion yet provides many of the things the party is looking for – masterwork weaponry, armor, healing potions, and traveling gear. And although many people actively avoid meeting the gaze of the party’s Halfling “storyteller”, for fear of hearing ALL about the recent adventures, and what he found in the alley, and what he had for breakfast, and second breakfast, and… (You get the picture), the party is greeted with genuine warmth and friendship. Some of the regular tavern-goers even stand the group a round on occasion.</p><p> </p><p> It is on one of the lazy days after the party’s return that they hear the alarm bell ringing in the temple tower, interrupting their drinking, and halting Tombit in mid sentence, much to the barkeeps relief. Buckling on weapons laid aside, they rush out onto the streets, looking for the reason behind the alert. As they look to the north, they see a band of slow moving travelers upon the road leading towards Brightstone Keep. It takes a moment to realize that the mob’s movement is very disjointed and clumsy – almost as if there was no real intelligence behind the motion. Several town guards are already in formation, watching the advancing mob.</p><p> </p><p> As one, the group moves cautiously up the street, towards this odd but innocuous band. When the distance is halved, the reason for the peculiarity is discovered; only one of the band shows any form of life! Beneath the hood of his cloak, the orc necromancer hisses his displeasure at the party, and vows that they shall join his ranks of the walking dead. The town guards take umbrage to this affront to their new local heroes, and they begin the attack.</p><p> </p><p> Even the alarm bell does not drown out the laughter of Brynn as he gleefully unsheathes his weapons, a feral grin on his face. “Been too quiet round here anyhow” he is heard to say. His sentiment is echoed by all, as the quiet sound of metal being drawn is heard. Grimnyr takes a few test swings of his dwarven waraxe, and squints at the on-coming opponents, as if to determine which ones he would take down first. Skylar, allowing action to speak louder than words, fires several arrows in rapid succession, the shafts missing a guard, burying themselves in the chest of a zombie in the front row, staggering it but not stopping the creature.</p><p> </p><p> Genoa and Tombit move to one side of the road, advancing forward. Athena pulls his mace, and grips her holy symbol tightly in her hand, both anticipating combat, and repulsed by the stench, both physical and spiritual, of the creatures before her. Grimnyr abandons caution, and races forward to engage the enemy. A scarce moment later, he is gripped with fear as his orc opponent casts upon him. As much as it nauseates him to be gripped by fear in the face of his enemy, he cannot help but be cowed by the force of the magic. </p><p> </p><p> The elven archer, indifferent to all but her target, launches more shafts, her aim true and steady. Under the hail, one of the skeletons in the group crumbles into bone chips, fractured femurs, and dust. A sly grin crosses her face, and she growls in pleasure, startling Grimnyr. “Durn fool elf. Sissy weapon anyway” He speeds up, hoping to engage before the “durn elf” kills (or rekills) ‘em all. His speed doubles as he witnesses a town defender fall beneath repeated strikes.</p><p> </p><p> Athena hurries forward, and stops to concentrate upon her holy symbol, and the advancing abominations. They halt their movements forward, and several of them turn away from her upraised hand, radiant light shining from it. “Back, ye creatures! Lay thyselves once more into the soil, bother the living no longer!” she cries, in strenuous tones unlike her soft-spoken voice. Some but not all of the gathering heeds her words; those so affected move as quickly as they can away from her, back towards the hooded orc in the back. The necromancer, not to be outdone, raises his clawed hands in a manner almost like supplication, but the words from his mouth show nothing but strength. “Be strong, my children. Let not the lies of the weak goad you to fear. Return, return I say, and wreak havoc upon the unbelievers! Go, now!”</p><p> </p><p> To the amazement of the cleric, and others near her, the fleeing undead halt, and move again towards the heroes, and re-engage the guardsmen. Another brave fighter succumbs to his injuries, thinning again the ranks of the already small force. A palatable haze seems to settle upon the group, their spirits flagging in the depressive atmosphere. A grin spreads across the orc’s face. A mistake. Grimnyr, seeing a most hated enemy happy, shakes off the effects of the haze, and shouting, races ahead, through the horde of undead, intent in allowing his axe to taste orc-flesh. Adding to the original mistake, as he is slowed to a crawl by the reaching, rotting hands that surround him.</p><p> </p><p> Brynn leaps ahead, and with dual swords, lops off grasping hands, working his way to his compatriot. Genoa sends in Timber, her wolf companion, to provide a distraction as she readies her sling and bullets. Skylar continues to slowly advance and launch her arrows, watching as her targets sprout like obscene trees. Athena once again calls upon divine might, and forces back many of the skeletons, to give her companions time to deal with the array of zombies, and more troublesome, the orc necromancer. She despairs as she witnesses the townsfolk struggling to defend their town against the unnatural foes.</p><p> </p><p> Surrounded by the undead, Brynn and Grimnyr hack and hew in abandon, detaching hands from arms, heads from torso, and shattering ribcages, getting scratched up badly in the process. The nauseating odor of rotting flesh, bad from a distance, is magnified ten fold as their blades open up the rotting carcasses like watermelons under a mallet. Breathing through their mouths, they continue, their wounds streaming with the very fluid the undead envy. It is as though they strive together in a contest – who is the stoutest dwarf?</p><p> </p><p> Growling in frustration, anger, and hatred, the orc thrusts his hands to the grey skies above, and shouts out the commands to once again strengthen his forces, goading them back at the heros arrayed before him. To his satisfaction, they once more turn upon the group. Tombit, having slowly working his way towards the orc, and witnessing this serve-return-return between the two casters, decides to put an end to the byplay. His short legs pumping, he leaps at the orc, hands clenched in the manner of his monkish fighting style. The impact stuns the necro a moment, taking him off guard. He grimaces at the Cheshire-grinning Halfling as he attempts to open his air-deprived lungs in a breath. Tombit just continues to grin at the orc’s discomfort.</p><p> </p><p> Athena advances, reasoning that closing the distance will make her efforts more successful. She glances worriedly around, wondering where the rest of the town defenders are, namely the temple clerics. These, she reasons, are the ones most fit to take up the defense against the undead. Her heart aches every time she watches a guard go down, perhaps never to rise again. This steels her resolve and her commanding nature flairs as Garl’s name is invoked in defiance against the unnatural abominations of the walking dead. Several of her opponents crumble before the holy onslaught, others turn away from friend and foe alike, and unfortunately, others remain unaffected. </p><p> </p><p> The orc pulls a wand from within the folds of his cloak, brandishing it against the heroes. Or at least tries to. His concentration is broken by the shattering blows of his diminutive opponent. Tombit hands, small as they are, still deal enough hurt upon the necromancer to prevent successful completion of the command word. Frustration is joined by fear, as the eyes of the orc take in just how little real effect his minions have had upon the group of adventurers, and how few remain.</p><p> </p><p> “Old man, yer slowing down” Brynn taunts Grimnyr. “Yeargh!” comes the angry reply, as the dwarves continue to wield their weapons in a proficient manner. Even the mindless undead still surrounding them seems to pause at this, before resuming their assault. Grimnyr indeed does begin to slow down, as the multitude of wounds on his body bleed freely. He does not admit weakness though, and ramps up his efforts, frustrated by the slipperiness of his axe handle, and the misses that keep compounding. Brynn, secretly worried by his elder’s flagging efforts, snaps his blades at the skeletons facing Grimnyr. Outwardly upset, “Keep yer blades off’n my kills!”, Grimnyr is relieved at the respite as his target goes down. Both of them are upset at the felling of the townsfolk guards, many of them downy faced lads, and redouble their efforts, their weapons blurring.</p><p> </p><p>(continued in part 2, for easier reading, I hope)</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Softwind, post: 1215303, member: 13893"] [b][size=2]Tenth Session (Nov 02)[/size][/b] Having cleared the woods of bandits, and run off bands of orcs, goblins, and other forest denizens, the journey back to Merikest is uneventful for the group of adventurers. By the next day, they reach the outskirts of town, and even the ranger Brynn is relieved to see “civilization”. Dropping off their unneeded gear in the Dancing Pony inn, they head out to report their findings and success to Reg, the town sheriff. They are quickly ushered into his office. He is pleased to hear that Brightstone Keep has been cleared of its “infestation” of monsters, and thanks the party proficiently. With their newfound wealth, both from rewards and from loot gathered from the Keep, the party separates to do some shopping in town. A small town, Merikest’s recent history of occupation from forces of the Argent Legion yet provides many of the things the party is looking for – masterwork weaponry, armor, healing potions, and traveling gear. And although many people actively avoid meeting the gaze of the party’s Halfling “storyteller”, for fear of hearing ALL about the recent adventures, and what he found in the alley, and what he had for breakfast, and second breakfast, and… (You get the picture), the party is greeted with genuine warmth and friendship. Some of the regular tavern-goers even stand the group a round on occasion. It is on one of the lazy days after the party’s return that they hear the alarm bell ringing in the temple tower, interrupting their drinking, and halting Tombit in mid sentence, much to the barkeeps relief. Buckling on weapons laid aside, they rush out onto the streets, looking for the reason behind the alert. As they look to the north, they see a band of slow moving travelers upon the road leading towards Brightstone Keep. It takes a moment to realize that the mob’s movement is very disjointed and clumsy – almost as if there was no real intelligence behind the motion. Several town guards are already in formation, watching the advancing mob. As one, the group moves cautiously up the street, towards this odd but innocuous band. When the distance is halved, the reason for the peculiarity is discovered; only one of the band shows any form of life! Beneath the hood of his cloak, the orc necromancer hisses his displeasure at the party, and vows that they shall join his ranks of the walking dead. The town guards take umbrage to this affront to their new local heroes, and they begin the attack. Even the alarm bell does not drown out the laughter of Brynn as he gleefully unsheathes his weapons, a feral grin on his face. “Been too quiet round here anyhow” he is heard to say. His sentiment is echoed by all, as the quiet sound of metal being drawn is heard. Grimnyr takes a few test swings of his dwarven waraxe, and squints at the on-coming opponents, as if to determine which ones he would take down first. Skylar, allowing action to speak louder than words, fires several arrows in rapid succession, the shafts missing a guard, burying themselves in the chest of a zombie in the front row, staggering it but not stopping the creature. Genoa and Tombit move to one side of the road, advancing forward. Athena pulls his mace, and grips her holy symbol tightly in her hand, both anticipating combat, and repulsed by the stench, both physical and spiritual, of the creatures before her. Grimnyr abandons caution, and races forward to engage the enemy. A scarce moment later, he is gripped with fear as his orc opponent casts upon him. As much as it nauseates him to be gripped by fear in the face of his enemy, he cannot help but be cowed by the force of the magic. The elven archer, indifferent to all but her target, launches more shafts, her aim true and steady. Under the hail, one of the skeletons in the group crumbles into bone chips, fractured femurs, and dust. A sly grin crosses her face, and she growls in pleasure, startling Grimnyr. “Durn fool elf. Sissy weapon anyway” He speeds up, hoping to engage before the “durn elf” kills (or rekills) ‘em all. His speed doubles as he witnesses a town defender fall beneath repeated strikes. Athena hurries forward, and stops to concentrate upon her holy symbol, and the advancing abominations. They halt their movements forward, and several of them turn away from her upraised hand, radiant light shining from it. “Back, ye creatures! Lay thyselves once more into the soil, bother the living no longer!” she cries, in strenuous tones unlike her soft-spoken voice. Some but not all of the gathering heeds her words; those so affected move as quickly as they can away from her, back towards the hooded orc in the back. The necromancer, not to be outdone, raises his clawed hands in a manner almost like supplication, but the words from his mouth show nothing but strength. “Be strong, my children. Let not the lies of the weak goad you to fear. Return, return I say, and wreak havoc upon the unbelievers! Go, now!” To the amazement of the cleric, and others near her, the fleeing undead halt, and move again towards the heroes, and re-engage the guardsmen. Another brave fighter succumbs to his injuries, thinning again the ranks of the already small force. A palatable haze seems to settle upon the group, their spirits flagging in the depressive atmosphere. A grin spreads across the orc’s face. A mistake. Grimnyr, seeing a most hated enemy happy, shakes off the effects of the haze, and shouting, races ahead, through the horde of undead, intent in allowing his axe to taste orc-flesh. Adding to the original mistake, as he is slowed to a crawl by the reaching, rotting hands that surround him. Brynn leaps ahead, and with dual swords, lops off grasping hands, working his way to his compatriot. Genoa sends in Timber, her wolf companion, to provide a distraction as she readies her sling and bullets. Skylar continues to slowly advance and launch her arrows, watching as her targets sprout like obscene trees. Athena once again calls upon divine might, and forces back many of the skeletons, to give her companions time to deal with the array of zombies, and more troublesome, the orc necromancer. She despairs as she witnesses the townsfolk struggling to defend their town against the unnatural foes. Surrounded by the undead, Brynn and Grimnyr hack and hew in abandon, detaching hands from arms, heads from torso, and shattering ribcages, getting scratched up badly in the process. The nauseating odor of rotting flesh, bad from a distance, is magnified ten fold as their blades open up the rotting carcasses like watermelons under a mallet. Breathing through their mouths, they continue, their wounds streaming with the very fluid the undead envy. It is as though they strive together in a contest – who is the stoutest dwarf? Growling in frustration, anger, and hatred, the orc thrusts his hands to the grey skies above, and shouts out the commands to once again strengthen his forces, goading them back at the heros arrayed before him. To his satisfaction, they once more turn upon the group. Tombit, having slowly working his way towards the orc, and witnessing this serve-return-return between the two casters, decides to put an end to the byplay. His short legs pumping, he leaps at the orc, hands clenched in the manner of his monkish fighting style. The impact stuns the necro a moment, taking him off guard. He grimaces at the Cheshire-grinning Halfling as he attempts to open his air-deprived lungs in a breath. Tombit just continues to grin at the orc’s discomfort. Athena advances, reasoning that closing the distance will make her efforts more successful. She glances worriedly around, wondering where the rest of the town defenders are, namely the temple clerics. These, she reasons, are the ones most fit to take up the defense against the undead. Her heart aches every time she watches a guard go down, perhaps never to rise again. This steels her resolve and her commanding nature flairs as Garl’s name is invoked in defiance against the unnatural abominations of the walking dead. Several of her opponents crumble before the holy onslaught, others turn away from friend and foe alike, and unfortunately, others remain unaffected. The orc pulls a wand from within the folds of his cloak, brandishing it against the heroes. Or at least tries to. His concentration is broken by the shattering blows of his diminutive opponent. Tombit hands, small as they are, still deal enough hurt upon the necromancer to prevent successful completion of the command word. Frustration is joined by fear, as the eyes of the orc take in just how little real effect his minions have had upon the group of adventurers, and how few remain. “Old man, yer slowing down” Brynn taunts Grimnyr. “Yeargh!” comes the angry reply, as the dwarves continue to wield their weapons in a proficient manner. Even the mindless undead still surrounding them seems to pause at this, before resuming their assault. Grimnyr indeed does begin to slow down, as the multitude of wounds on his body bleed freely. He does not admit weakness though, and ramps up his efforts, frustrated by the slipperiness of his axe handle, and the misses that keep compounding. Brynn, secretly worried by his elder’s flagging efforts, snaps his blades at the skeletons facing Grimnyr. Outwardly upset, “Keep yer blades off’n my kills!”, Grimnyr is relieved at the respite as his target goes down. Both of them are upset at the felling of the townsfolk guards, many of them downy faced lads, and redouble their efforts, their weapons blurring. (continued in part 2, for easier reading, I hope) [/QUOTE]
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